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+{"text":" \n_Praise for_\n\nA Song I Knew by Heart\n\n\"Bret Lott's writings tell us about the value of family, even when those relationships burst at their psychic seams. Mostly, though, Lott's fiction takes us into a world marked by traditional values of lasting love, honor and respect. . . . Lott's majestic prose, with its biblical cadences, further distinguishes this capacious parable of enduring grace and love.\"\n\n_\u2014The Charlotte Observer_\n\n\"Lott's great gift here is the way he elevates the small rituals of everyday life\u2014a child's Thanksgiving drawing, homemade biscuits for breakfast\u2014 into transcendent moments of human connection. . . . This is a radiant, achingly tender portrait of the grieving process.\"\n\n_\u2014Booklist_\n\n\"[A] quiet, tender novel about what it means to go home again . . . The blessing is that readers will find it easy to identify with Naomi and Ruth's tragic loss.\"\n\n_\u2014Publishers Weekly_\n\n\"With a gentle cadence, the story of Ruth floats off the pages of the Bible and is brought to life in the compassionate, charming characters of this timeless story. _A Song I Knew By Heart_ generously brings hope to every modern day Naomi who has suffered an unexplainable loss.\"\n\n_\u2014_ Robin Jones Gunn, author of _Sisterchicks on the Loose_  \nand _Gardenias for Breakfast_\n\n\"Like a lovely, lyrical melody, _A Song I Knew by Heart_ celebrates the loves and lives of two women, proving that 'family' is not so much a matter of blood as it is a byproduct of commitment and love. This beautiful book moved me to tears.\"\n\n_\u2014_ Angela Hunt, author of _Unspoken_\nALSO BY BRET LOTT\n\n_The Man Who Owned Vermont_\n\n_A Stranger's House_\n\n_A Dream of Old Leaves_\n\n_Jewel_\n\n_Reed's Beach_\n\n_How to Get Home_\n\n_Fathers, Sons, and Brothers_\n\n_The Hunt Club_\n\n_Before We Get Started_\nA Song I Knew by Heart\n\n_a novel_\n\nBRET LOTT\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2004 by Bret Lott   \nReading group guide copyright \u00a9 2005 by Random House, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means\u2014electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other\u2014except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.\n\nPublished in Nashville, Tennessee, by WestBow Press, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. Published by arrangement with Random House, an imprint of Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.\n\nWestBow Press books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.\n\nPublisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nLott, Bret.   \nA song I knew by heart : a novel \/ Bret Lott.   \np. cm.   \nISBN 0-345-43775-6   \n1. Traffic accident victims\u2014Family relationships\u2014Fiction. 2. Women\u2014South Carolina\u2014Fiction. 3.Women\u2014Massachusetts\u2014Fiction. 4. Daughters-in-law\u2014 Fiction. 5. Mothers-in-law\u2014Fiction. 6. South Carolina\u2014Fiction. 7. Massachusetts\u2014Fiction. 8.Widows\u2014Fiction. 9. Grief\u2014Fiction. I. Title.   \nPS3562.O784M9 2004   \n813'.54\u2014dc22\n\n2003061630\n\n_Printed in the United States of America_\n\n05 06 07 08 09 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\n_Designed by Cassandra J. Pappas_\n\n_By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept_  \n _when we remembered Zion._\n\n\u2014PSALM 137\n\n_Where can I go from your Spirit?_  \n _Where can I flee from your presence?_\n\n\u2014PSALM 139\n\n_for my home:_  \nMelanie,   \nZebulun,   \nand Jacob\nCONTENTS\n\nIntroduction\n\nPART I: Treasure\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nPART II: Kin\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\nChapter 12\n\nChapter 13\n\nChapter 14\n\nChapter 15\n\nChapter 16\n\nChapter 17\n\nChapter 18\n\nPART III: Redeemer\n\nChapter 19\n\nChapter 20\n\nChapter 21\n\nChapter 22\n\nChapter 23\n\nChapter 24\n\nChapter 25\n\nChapter 26\n\nA Song I Knew by Heart\n\nA Conversation With Bret Lott\n\nReading Group Questions And Topics For Discussion\n\nAcknowledgments\nIntroduction\n\nWHEN IFIRST set out to write the book you are holding in your hands, I thought only to retell, in a contemporary setting, the story of Ruth and Naomi. Easy enough, it seemed, to look at the lives of these two women of faith\u2014Ruth, whose faith never falters, and Naomi, whose faith bottoms out after the giant losses of first her husband and then her two sons, faith she has to find again once God in His mercy provides a new life for her beloved daughter-in-law and for herself. There seemed, when I first set out to write this story, a clear path through the book:my job would be just to see these two women in their sorrow and hardship and triumph, and see it all against a modern backdrop. Simple enough.\n\nAnd certainly the story of these two women is a simple one: four chapters long, the book of Ruth is a compact and beautifully moving account of how these two women, through love for each other and faith in God to take care of them, move their lives from one place to another with only the comfort each can give the other. But the longer I looked at this story, at these few chapters out of the entire Bible, the more I realized that the simplicity of the story didn't mean it was a simplistic story. That is, the longer I thought of how to tell this story, and the longer I tried to imagine the lives they led, the greater the depth I saw in their lives, and the greater the beauty of the faith these two women had, both in God and in each other. Which, I realized as well, is the truth of Salvation itself: the story is a simple one, God becoming a man and giving Himself, in His innocence, to die in our place, but a story so deep as to defy our own understanding, and to give us a peace that passeth understanding.\n\nMy job, I finally saw, in retelling the story of Ruth and Naomi, wasn't just to set the old story in a new place, but to try as best I can to understand the depth of love these two women have for each other, despite the faltering faith of the elder and the stronger faith of the younger. I came to understand that these two women of faith, tied to each other not by blood but by law, is the most mysterious love relationship in the Bible, next to that of God loving us so much as to give His only son to die for us.\n\nMy only hope\u2014and my only prayer\u2014is that you, in reading this book, might come to understand, through my efforts at re-seeing God's word through my own paltry imagination, the importance of forgiveness, of letting go of our sin and holding tight to those we love, and the inescapable and immeasurable depth of God's love and forgiveness. We need only partake of His gift given freely to know Him, and to know peace.\n\nBret Lott   \nBaton Rouge, Louisiana   \nApril 2004\n[PART I\n\nTreasure](Lott_9781418512521_epub_c13_r1.html#Anch00211)\n\nChapter 1\n\nI STOOD OUTSIDE my son Mahlon and his wife Ruth's bedroom door, in my hands two coffee cups, the pain sharp shards in my old fingers looped through the handles. I had on my pale blue bathrobe and slippers, my hair still in a net. I'd had it done just yesterday morning, before the funeral, and though I wore a net every night, funeral or no, there came to me last night as I slipped it on and settled into bed that somehow this was wrong. That worrying over my hair enough to put it in a net might somehow be a sin, this vanity.\n\nBut I put the net on, like every night, because it was what I'd done every night. It was my life, the way I lived it. Who I was.\n\nA widow who lived with her son and daughter-in-law.\n\nEight years I'd been there with Mahlon and Ruth. Eight years since my husband Eli passed, and our old house out on 116 had revealed itself to be too big to live in. Just too big once Eli was gone, though the space he took up was no more than any other a man might take.\n\nBecause it was the love we had for each other filled that house. Love, one for the other. Then he was gone, me left behind to wander through our rooms, the house emptied of love with the last breath my husband gave out.\n\nNow here I was, with coffee for two at Ruth and Mahlon's door. Up and breathing like every morning, but bringing coffee upstairs. Not sitting downstairs to my kitchen table, where until four days ago there'd been three cups poured and waiting, breakfast on the way.\n\nBecause now my son Mahlon was gone, too.\n\nI pushed open the door, and there lay Ruth on the bed, beneath the Wedding Ring quilt I made for her and Mahlon. Cold sunlight fell in through the window, the shade left up last night. She was still asleep, inside the sometime blessing I'd known sleep could be, though half her face was in that light, the other in shadow. Her mouth was open, eyebrows knotted, her chin high like she might be singing some cold and sad song in her dreams, a song so sad she had no choice but to keep her eyes closed to it.\n\nA song I knew by heart.\n\nI looked out that window. Morning sun shone down on the frosted rooftops of the houses in this Massachusetts town, where I'd lived for the last fifty-six years. The air was the thick white veil November air will be, white with itself and that light. Through it, and beyond anything I could ever hope to touch, lay the hills beyond town, gray and empty as my heart this morning.\n\nMy only child had died. Killed four days before in a trick of light itself:my Mahlon, on his way home from visiting Lonny Thompson up to Sunderland, hit a patch of black ice from a cold snap too early.\n\nLonny Thompson. My Eli's best friend since their days at the submarine yards out to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, just after the war. Him the reason we'd moved here in the first place, why Eli brought me here once they were out of the service. He'd been like a father to my Mahlon after Eli was gone, and then'd been diagnosed with the cancer last April, Mahlon on his way home from visiting him.\n\nBlack ice on the roadway home. No way for Mahlon to know it was there, his headlights no help at all. Useless as this sun in through their bedroom window.\n\nAnd it came to me then, a moment as deep as the sorrow I was inside. A moment as unexpected and sharp as the death of my child.\n\nThis: the memory of light.\n\nLight, and the way when I was a girl it fell through the pine and live oak I grew up in a thousand miles south of here, the way it fell through palmetto and magnolia and water oak too. Light sifting down through the woods to spread like scattered diamonds on the ground before me as I walked to the creek. Bright broken pieces of light on the pinestraw at my feet so many perfect gifts of warmth.\n\nAll this came to me, whole and perfect and real. All of it in just the time it took to look out that window to see those empty hills, the rooftops.\n\nMy boy, my Mahlon.\n\nRuth woke, stirred beneath the quilt. Her eyes blinked open, blue-green eyes so clear and crystalline there was never a doubt in my mind why my Mahlon'd loved her from the minute he met her. You could see in her eyes her good heart, constant and certain. It'd been my Mahlon's blessing to find her, to see that good heart, recognize in those eyes a heart worth holding on to. Twenty-three years they would have been married this next February.\n\nRuth's eyes shuddered open to this cold room, and I saw the ugly promise of what was left to her, a promise I'd seen fulfilled every day for the last eight years of my own life: her husband was gone, and wouldn't be back.\n\nShe blinked, blinked again, squinted at the light, her eyebrows still knotted up, her mouth still open. She quick reached from beneath the quilt to beside her, where, if God loved us all as He said He did, Mahlon should have been.\n\nShe still had on the black dress from yesterday. From the funeral. She hadn't taken it off last night.\n\nI knew what she was just then being given, knew the pain of that move, of a hand to the flat quilt, to the pillow gone untouched, to cold sheets. It was a move wouldn't go away, this touching to see if any of what'd happened weren't a dream.\n\nIt was what I'd done every night these last eight years: come awake sometime from inside the forgiveness of sleep, and reach for my Eli.\n\nRuth's hand stopped when she found the empty pillow beside her, on her face the puzzlement that showed she knew it wasn't a dream.\n\n\"Bless your heart,\" I said, and moved toward the bed. Ruth blinked again, her eyes now on me and still with the startled look. Like I was no one she'd ever known.\n\nThen her mouth finally closed, her chin set to trembling, and I knew her now better than I ever would've hoped.\n\nIt was grief she'd been given, the black and empty gift God gives you like it was something you were owed. It was grief she'd been given, and grief we shared.\n\n\"Naomi,\" she whispered, the word only sound. She reached that hand from the quilt out to me, sat up in bed, her full in the light now. Naomi. My name.\n\nNow she was crying, her eyes closed again, her mouth and chin giving in to this morning's discovery. One she'd make brand-new every morning from here to the end.\n\nStill her hand reached for me, her shivering in her black dress. And still that empty whispered word _Naomi_ hung before me, its own black dress. One I had to wear whether I wanted it or not.\n\nThe name of a woman whose husband had died, who knew the feel of cold sheets. The name now too of a woman whose only child was gone.\n\nThe name, I heard in the shattered heart that'd spoken it, of a woman whose life'd been poured out like water on the ground.\n\nRuth still held her hand out to me, and I whispered again, \"Bless your heart,\" though the words were just as empty as my name. Just sound, air out of me.\n\nI went to the dresser, set the coffee cups on Mahlon's side, next to his nametag from work, and the penholder, the spare change, and half-roll of cherry Lifesavers he dumped out of his pockets at the end of a day. What four days ago was only the clutter of a man's daily life, but was now, I saw, bits of the failed history of my own blood.\n\nI turned to Ruth, up on the edge of the bed now, hands in her lap. Her eyes still closed, her heart let out the broken silver sound of grief I'd heard myself give up too many nights and days, and then I was beside her, and I reached to her. I touched her hair, felt the softness of it, felt the deep chestnut beauty of it. Beauty my son'd known and felt and never would again, and in that cold moment of seeing what had been and would never be again, I took my daughter-in-law in my arms, pulled her close to me. I closed my eyes, felt her arms rise to me, move slowly to me, and we held each other.\n\nTwo widows, in each other's arms. Another house emptied of love. God in His heaven, and nothing right with the world.\n\nAnd I had to ask again:Why call me Naomi?\n\nNAOMI WAS A TEENAGE GIRL in a flowered cotton dress, a girl who walked summer afternoons barefoot through that broken perfect light of the woods to the creek. She was a girl who walked the pine-straw littered through the woods, a warm and prickly carpet beneath her, a girl born and raised in that South Carolina light, in a small town on a deepwater creek that led to a harbor that led to the great green sea.\n\nAnd once through those woods, she was a girl who stood at the edge of the marsh that bordered the creek all bathed in unbroken light, colors all around too rich and beautiful and full of the peace of a girl's afternoons to be believed: the greens and browns and reds of the salt-marsh hay and yellowgrass, the shiny solid black of pluff mud at low tide, the soft green and blue of the creek itself. Shattered light banged up off the water those afternoons, the sun on its way down too fast, too fast, even though these were the longest days of the year, days that seemed somehow to stretch long and slow and full of themselves until now, in the afternoon, when the day seemed to hurry itself too fast for how slow and forgetful it'd been all day long.\n\nThat was when the girl, this Naomi, watched the water, and the harbor, and the church spires of Charleston across it all reaching up like they might pierce the sky itself; that was when she watched and watched, and then finally here they came: her daddy, and his shrimp boat, the _Mary Sweet,_ making the long turn in from the harbor and into the creek, the trawler seines pulled high beside her clean white hull like hands up in praise, she always imagined, this girl standing each afternoon on a small bluff on a deepwater creek in a South Carolina town, all of it loved by this sun, warm down on her, perfect and whole and light.\n\nAnd once she saw her daddy's boat head into the creek, she waited, waited, and then, when the _Mary Sweet_ pulled near even with her, she waved to her daddy high in the cabin, there at the wheel, her daddy always putting on surprise she was there\u2014his mouth open, eyebrows high, head quick turned to her like he hadn't seen her from a half mile out\u2014then letting one sharp hoot from the horn, a signal to her he'd seen her, and to her momma a mile away back to the house that they'd made it in, he'd be home before long.\n\nThis was Naomi: a girl blessed with a momma and daddy, a creek to walk to, pinestraw to feel beneath her feet, the pine smell up off it a blessing too, all of it dressed in colors so full there was no need to name them or think on them. Colors it was enough just to look at to have them live in you.\n\nShe was a girl, too, blessed once more and forever, though she could not know it those afternoons in summer light so sweet she could taste it on her tongue: once her daddy'd turned his attention to the docks a quarter mile up creek where he'd raft up the _Mary Sweet_ to the other trawlers, this Naomi was a girl who turned her own eyes to the stern of the boat, and to the boy in blue jeans and black rubber boots on the deck back there, hands on his hips, his shirt off and skin brown for this peaceful sun, his hair a kind of sun-drenched brown made light for that sun, his eyes squinted near shut for that sunlight too, him watching her.\n\nEli. The boy who'd sat behind her three years running at Mount Pleasant Academy. The boy she'd been baptized in the ocean with summer before last, a good twenty or thirty kids saved one night at a revival out to Sullivan's Island.\n\nThe teenage boy her daddy'd had to hire to do the best he could to replace her older brother, off to the war.\n\nEli. The boy she loved.\n\nNaomi was a girl who gave him the smallest of waves, the boy, her Eli, giving one back, a hand up from his hip and waving just once and then smiling before heading to the bow to ready the lines he would cast to raft them up.\n\nAnd though she could not know it then, his was a smile she would carry with her the rest of her days, and though she could not know it too their hands raised to each other was a pact sealed all the way back then, made with no true notion in their hearts they were making it, but making it all the same: _you have my heart._\n\nNaomi. A girl who turned each afternoon from all this, from the whole of her life laid out before her and ready to be lived, and headed back into those woods toward home, where she and Daddy and Momma, and best of all her Eli, would be having supper soon.\n\nThat was Naomi.\n\nRUTH CRIED, AND CRIED. It seemed days, maybe years we two were inside that silver sound she made, the two of us still in each other's arms, nowhere any hint we'd ever let go.\n\nBut I knew that moment'd have to come, and come on us soon. We'd have no choice but to let go each other, pull away, take in that next breath. And the next.\n\nMy cheek on Ruth's shoulder, I didn't want to open my eyes. I didn't want to see the new world we'd both been born again into this morning, or the same faithless sun that couldn't find its way to melt off a patch of black ice.\n\nWhy call me Naomi, I wanted to know. Better to call me empty for all of what God'd given me, then taken away.\n\nI opened my eyes. Here was the same cold sun, the same thin frost on rooftops. Hills still as gray and empty as my heart.\n\nAnd here was my hand, on Ruth's shoulder and holding tight, lit with that sun. My old woman's hand sharp against her black dress, the wrinkled and spotted skin across my bones as thin as the frost on these rooftops, my knuckles a gnarled row of pain.\n\nMy hand. Mine. No choice to it. No way to deny the age upon it, and the pain. But in my hand, the dead white of it on the black of Ruth's dress, I saw what it was I had to do. I saw it.\n\nIt was the light I wanted back, and I believed, in the way an old woman believes and cannot know but believes all the same, that I could go back to that light I'd known when I was a girl. To the peace of it, and the warmth.\n\nAnd then I knew I would leave this place. Where I'd lived the last fifty-six years, this cold Massachusetts town burdened with a light too heavy, too sharp.\n\nMy precious baby, my Mahlon, gone. My Eli's passing on brought back this day as new and strange and cold as it was my own first day after. My own black gift, brand-new and as old as the world.\n\nI would leave, and I knew it. Though Naomi was a girl long dead and gone, I knew I could go back to that place. I would return to those colors it was enough just to look at to have them live in you, and to the water, and that light up off it, and that joy.\n\nThen it was me to cry, those silver sounds out of me now, and I closed my eyes, held Ruth even closer.\n\nWhy call me Naomi?\n\nWho was she?\n\nI let go Ruth, despite the love I had for her and would always have, and I brought my old woman's hands together in my lap, felt fresh the arthritis in them, and I began to leave, my hands in my lap my first gathering together of me for the long way home.\n\nI looked down from the window, said, \"We have to eat something. We have to get up.\"\n\nRuth lay back, slowly, as though she had to think on the possibility of the bed beneath her. Like she was taking into account the empty and cold sheets, and found she had no other choice but to give herself up to the empty of it.\n\nI looked at her out the corner of my eye. She was stretched back in her black dress, one arm across her eyes, the palm of that hand open and up to the room. Her other hand lay flat on the untouched pillow beside her, and I saw that the two of us were alone and together in this room with its windows wide with this light, my son and my daughter-in-law's room filled with the everything of a half-roll of cherry Lifesavers, spare change, and the smell of the coffee I'd brought up.\n\nWe sat there, neither of us moving, neither of us breathing, it felt, until far into the morning. Shadows outside eased and shifted, made way for new shadows, all of this movement only the empty fruit of that faithless sun.\n\nThe world changed.\n\nI stood, though not of my own, but called by the force of whatever mystery the place I'd once called home and would call home again held out to me. I stood, went to that window, and pulled down the blind.\nChapter 2\n\nI LEFT HER THERE, went on downstairs with my one coffee cup, my other hand holding hard the banister. There were things I needed to do.\n\nThere were the girls I'd spent most of my days with all these years and how to say good-bye to them. The five of us quilted four mornings a week, spent every Tuesday night together for cards, and now I was at the bottom of the stairs, here in the foyer, and I let loose the banister, slowly moved my fingers, flexed them far as the pain would let me.\n\nBefore me was the front door, to my left the kitchen, to the right the front room with all my quilting supplies and the sewing machine set up, the TV in there too. Through that room was my bedroom, through the bedroom my bathroom, the bathroom leading into the kitchen, the kitchen back here to the foyer. One big circle of rooms same as Mahlon and Ruth lived in upstairs, and for a moment I looked into that front room for no other reason than that I wanted to stare square in the eye how big the job of moving would be.\n\nHere was the room, same as ever, cluttered with piles of folded material along two walls, baskets full of cut-up material on the sofa, bags of batting heaped on Eli's old recliner. The sewing table in the center of it all spread with the latest effort we girls were after completing, a red and gold and green Star-fly we'd figured on finishing up by Friday this week.\n\nBut that was before what happened four days ago, and now the room, so filled with plans you could hardly make out there was a hardwood floor beneath it all, seemed somebody else's room. Big plans made by someone I didn't even know. Like every year, we were setting up to work a booth out to the Christmas Bazaar on the commons in Deerfield next month. But that was before, a plan made in a world where it seemed work would always get done, and there'd always be someone here to do it.\n\nI would have to say good-bye to them, good-bye to Mary Margaret, and to Phyllis and Carolyn and Hilda. My friends, and I wondered, would they try and talk me into staying? Or would they all understand, all of them women my age whose lives had seen their own miseries enough to believe maybe leaving here was the best anyone could do to find what joy was left?\n\nThey all knew sorrow, the same sorrow any woman our age would have no choice but come to know for the years and loved ones they'd tallied up and marked off like so many days on a calendar. Just this summer Phyllis's girl had a miscarriage five months along; Hilda lost her husband three years ago to pancreatic cancer, Carolyn losing hers fifteen years back to nothing other than a night of sleep he didn't wake from.\n\nMary Margaret, my oldest and dearest friend, lost her parents when she was nine to a train wreck on the New Haven line, her left to two maiden aunts in Greenfield and a house she wasn't allowed to sit down in for fear of marring the Chippendale chairs.\n\nThey knew their own lives, their own histories. Yet still they were here, still hanging on to the work of gathering a few days a week to make quilts, all of us together to talk and to drink coffee and to laugh and to cry. And sometimes just to sit and be silent, before you nothing more to think on than the stitch line you were following around the scrap of material off a dress or a blouse or a tea towel you never thought you'd give another whit's attention to. They were still here _\u2014_ _we_ were still here\u2014but the notion of carrying on this way, even with all the help this company of friends could give, seemed not enough on this day. Not enough, I saw in the clutter of work to be done, to keep me here.\n\nI turned from the room, headed to the kitchen. It was the leaving that mattered, and that moment of the memory of light I'd seen and forgotten and found again, today. That was what mattered.\n\nAir sharp with the smell of coffee left too long in the pot met me in the kitchen. A smell I wasn't used to, Mahlon always certain to finish off the pot before heading out the door for the drive on over to Easthampton, and the food-distribution house he drove truck for.\n\nEach morning we were all three of us down here, a room warm and smelling like home for the fresh coffee and biscuits I made. This was where each day we three laid out plans long before daylight, Mahlon smiling over his cup of coffee and drizzling warm maple syrup over the biscuits in front of him like he'd done most every day of his life, and it occurred to me only now, once inside a kitchen he'd never visit again, that those biscuits were a kind of lifeline back to South Carolina. The recipe was my momma's, but nothing I ever wrote down, simply a way of making something with my hands I'd learned from the hands of my mother: flour in a bowl I kept under the counter draped over with a tea towel, pulled out and set on the counter once the coffee was on; a pinch of baking powder dropped into it, a little dollop of lard and an egg, a little bit of buttermilk tipped in too. Then I'd work it all together right there in the well of flour, until up came first one and then another until I had six biscuits, each dropped into the old iron skillet I'd already warmed up in the oven, in the bottom of it a little dribble of oil, then all of them slipped into the oven to cook for a while, the bowl of flour covered again with the tea towel and settled back under the counter for the next day.\n\nAll of that learned and never learned at all from my momma. My son had eaten of the love of his grandma's hands each morning, and I could not recall his ever asking where I'd learned how to make them, or volunteering such to him of my own.\n\nNow he was gone. Gone, too, the talk of deliveries he'd be making to markets up in Greenfield or sometimes all the way out to Pittsfield, and every Thursday morning to the Super Stop & Shop on upper King Street, where Ruth worked as a cashier. Gone was Ruth filling him in on their rec-league softball game coming up or some doings at the store, and of course me yammering on about the crafts fair over to the commons in Amherst or at the Holyoke Mall or wherever we were getting our quilts ready for. All of that gone.\n\nThose were our mornings, the windows black in winter, gray and lavender in summer, the smell in here of that coffee and the biscuits baking. My Mahlon smiling, winking at Ruth every time he said anything about the Thursday-morning deliveries to her Stop & Shop, and the smile from Ruth he got for it. Then him making fun of one or another of my friends for the petty gossip I passed along: who was seen at State Street Market flirting with Jonathan the butcher; who it was over to the Friendly's on King eating a sundae the size of a breadbox; who bought pre-quilted backing at the piece goods store, and would she be passing it off as the real thing for the Christmas sale?\n\nBut this morning I hadn't even thought of the fact we wouldn't need near as much coffee anymore. It was a habit I'd have to break, my measuring out the five scoops into the filter and enough water for three of us while the two of them got showered and dressed for the day ahead.\n\nAnd I remembered then what I'd come downstairs to do: count up the things needed doing so I could leave this place, and head for home.\n\nI took the pot from the coffeemaker, went to the sink, poured out that coffee gone too burned to drink. The black-brown of it flooded that white for a moment or two, the smell up to me too thick, too dark, and I turned my head from that smell and color too much the smell and color of death this morning.\n\nAnd it was only then that the stillness of the kitchen, this house, the whole world around me pressed its full weight upon me. Or maybe it was just then that I felt for this first moment the weight that was always there, had been since the beginning. Since the first breath I'd taken in as a baby, fresh from the warmth and blood and water that meant I was alive, the first breath we none of us could ever remember but that was real and true for the fact we were alive, here and now. The weight of life, pressed down hard on me, and I had to close my eyes, no choice to it.\n\nIt was a weight my son Mahlon would never know again, and a weight lifted from my Eli eight long and short years ago, and I envied them the lifting of that weight. I envied them the fact the stillness of this world, and all its empty light and melted frost and air thick and white and cold, was something they would never know again.\n\nAnd I wondered after Heaven, and if there really were such a thing as I'd banked on my whole life this far. I wondered if Heaven weren't just the joy of not having to face the rest of the heartaches this world held every breath you had to take in. Of having this weight lifted, finally. I opened my eyes, looked at the ring of brown color there in the bottom of the sink, a kind of halo of burned coffee too real and thin and burned to be argued for or against.\n\n_Things to do,_ I whispered as a kind of instruction to this empty kitchen, and to the world outside the window, and to my hollow heart as well.\n\n_Breathe in,_ I whispered.\n\nI breathed in.\n\nAnd turned from the sink, headed through the bathroom into my bedroom, where lay my bed, already made, ready for whatever might arrive this day.\n\nThere on the hook on the closet door, on its hanger from the dry cleaners, was my own black dress, what I'd worn yesterday. The black dress I could take off at the end of a day.\n\nI went to it, reached to the left breast, where I'd placed it over my heart, and unhooked the gold locket pinned there. Where I'd worn it every day, since a day in 1952.\n\n_Breathe in,_ I whispered again.\n\nI stepped backward to my own bed, settled on the edge of it, and opened my hand.\n\nHere it was: only a locket, no filigree to it, no words engraved. Only a locket, plain as my hand was old.\n\nI opened it, inside what I knew would be there but hadn't the courage to behold yesterday. But the surprise of it still enough to keep me from breathing in all the same.\n\nTwo photos, each no bigger than a quarter. Two faces: Eli, from his Navy portrait, and Mahlon, a baby with his eyes closed in sleep.\n\n_Things to do,_ I whispered, and whispered in answer, _Keep this close._\n\nI breathed in, and closed the locket, felt the gentle snap of it shut in my hand.\n\nFrom above me came the creak and groan of the floorboards. Ruth was awake, and out of bed, and then the shower cut on up there. I thought of her breathing in just then, too, and knew we two were more than blood kin would ever be.\n\nI looked at the locket, then closed tight my hand around it. No matter the pain.\nChapter 3\n\nTHE HOUSE I grew up in sat on the corner of Whilden and Venning in Mount Pleasant. Two bedrooms, a kitchen only big enough to turn around in, a front room with a table and chairs at one end, a sofa and radio at the other. It was a white-plank house up on a redbrick foundation two feet high, and fronted on Whilden, the front porch with a roof over it, out back a smaller porch without one, at the far rear of the yard a low old live oak. Just far enough out from under its canopy so that acorns dropping didn't sound like firecrackers to those inside was the shed where my brother slept before he went off to the war. That was where Eli stayed. A place when my brother lived there that was nothing I'd ever cared about, just a cot and a barebulb light hung from the rafters, tacked to the walls articles and pictures about the war he'd cut out of the _Charleston Post_ and _Life_ magazine.\n\nBut after Eli'd moved down in April of 1944, the room became a genuine mystery to me, a place I wanted to see more than I ever had before just to catch an idea of how this boy spent his time. But it was a place I wasn't allowed for the fact I was a girl of fifteen and he was a boy of sixteen. Once the radio shows we listened to each night were over _\u2014Amos 'n' Andy, The Shadow,_ big-band broadcasts from hotels in New Orleans and Atlanta and sometimes even New York\u2014Eli'd say good night to us all, head back through the dark of a yard shadowed over on even the brightest moonlit nights by the pine and live oak grew everywhere out there. Sometimes, if I was sure Daddy and Momma weren't looking, I'd stand in the kitchen and watch out the window him step off the back porch and into the grass back there, disappearing a second later from the long rectangle of light the open back door cast, and into the dark.\n\nIt was a life we were all living, a routine one the same as anyone's life is routine but seems only after it is over as rare and new as the next sunrise you'll see. And the path we two began started on just one of those evenings, an evening like any of the others, but an evening so sure and sharp in my head even now, these many years later, that I can feel the heat and humid air of that August afternoon, breathe in the smell of the food at the table\u2014cheese grits and fried shrimp and boiled crookneck squash\u2014and I can see too the sun in through the kitchen window just above Eli's left shoulder.\n\nHe wore a clean white shirt buttoned to the neck, ironed this day and all of them by me, part of the job I had of taking care around the house. Momma took in the laundry of the rich people up and down Bennett Street, washing and wringing and hanging dry sheets and shirts, trousers and slips and skirts and the all of it. Our yard and her days back then were filled with the lives of other people, the lines of clean clothes hanging out to the yard like midday ghosts in the thin breezes off the harbor. But it was money she was making, the regular bits of it my brother sent us from somewhere in Italy not enough, Daddy's hauls only as big as one man and a boy named Eli could take in. My ironing of both Daddy's and Eli's clothes, the sweeping clean the floors, dusting and mopping and readying for dinner was my own way, my own contribution to her, and to Daddy.\n\nAnd to Eli.\n\nHere he was across from me at my family's table, here in my life, me squinting at him for the sun in through the windows just above his left shoulder. An August evening, hot and humid.\n\nThat was when he moved, leaned to his left, and now his head blocked out that sun in through the window. He was a silhouette to me for an instant until my eyes adjusted, and here was his smile.\n\nI said, \"Thank you,\" and he nodded, said, \"You're welcome.\"\n\nAnd in this nothing moment of words we'd most likely said to each other a thousand times before, in this lack of anything other than the expected and obliged, it all began.\n\nI knew it in that moment, no matter how young I was, no matter how little of the world I understood, no matter how big my ignorance of matters of the heart and the notion of love was. I knew that this was him. This was the one I would marry, whose life I would stake my own on, our lives traceable from this moment of the sun eclipsed by his face, those needed and nothing words the firm foundation of our lives together, the saying of them a moment somehow so full of the two of us that even my daddy and momma must have felt it, for in this moment Momma dropped her fork, a sound so loud in its own surprise that Eli and I looked directly to her sitting beside me.\n\nHere was Momma and Daddy both, him there at the head of the table, the two of them looking at us two, their eyes open wide, astonished and surprised and faced with the end of my childhood, all in this moment.\n\nThat is what I saw in them both:my childhood, over.\n\nDaddy blinked, quick cut his eyes to Momma, whose hand went to the table, felt for the fork, her eyes still on us. She looked down, but not before meeting Daddy's eyes a second, and found the fork, picked it up, and settled it across her plate. Her hands, I saw, were red as ever for the work of her life, as red as the blush rising up her neck, growing in her cheeks.\n\nShe cleared her throat, said, \"Excuse me,\" as though this might be Sunday dinner with Pastor Stewart. She tried at a smile, and I can recall to this day, here and now, the accomplishment I felt even then, not a minute after I'd fallen in love: I was grown up.\n\nNo surprise, then, when across from me came Eli's words, \"Would it be all right if Naomi and me went for a walk after dinner, Mr. Reilly?\" I looked at Eli, his brown eyes to Daddy, waiting. His smile was gone, in its place the serious look of a man who knew what I knew of who we were.\n\nHe knew.\n\nDaddy was silent a few seconds, looking at Eli, in his hand his own fork, held tight as a seine line hauled in from down deep. He wasn't going to drop his fork for this turn in their lives.\n\nHe pursed his lips, looked a moment at me. \"Naomi, run go get your daddy here another glass of buttermilk,\" he said, and reached to his glass, still half-full, held it out to me.\n\nI knew enough not to ask him what I would have at supper just yesterday evening had he made such a request, a question I knew I would've asked even a minute ago, back before Eli'd blocked the sun, and begun our love:why do you want more, I'd have asked my daddy, when you're not through with what you have?\n\nI only stood, took the glass from his hand. But not before he looked at me a long second, both our hands on the glass, our fingers touching, and I believed I saw in my daddy's eyes a kind of fearful smile, afraid and proud at once.\n\nHe let go, and now Momma was rising beside me. Without word we two were into the kitchen, me bent to the icebox and pulling out of it the pitcher, the handle cold and hot at the same time for the blood through me, rising into a blush, I knew, as certain as the one flowered full on my momma's face.\n\nI turned, saw her looking at me, that piecemeal smile still on her, her trying hard both to let it go and to keep it down. \"What's wrong, Momma?\" I said, as though I wouldn't have an idea.\n\nShe said, \"Naomi,\" and the word had been as full that moment as it would be empty from Ruth so many years later.\n\nIt was full of herself, I could hear, and full of me, too, and full of the joy and the grief of what a mother can only know: someday the lives of our children are no longer our own, and have to be surrendered willingly and with love and fear in the sad and faithful truth we have not given them all they need to know.\n\nAnd still, because I was yet a child, I said again, \"What's wrong, Momma?\"\n\nShe shook her head, touched the back of a hand to her eye, and I smiled myself for this, for my momma about to cry, and I filled Daddy's glass to the brim.\n\n\"These dishes,\" she said, and turned to the stove, pulled the sieve from the row of pots and pans hanging on the row of pegs on the wall behind it. She settled the sieve on the coffee can there on the stovetop, lifted the skillet, and poured off the grease into the can. \"All I'm ever doing,\" she said, her eyes to the work of holding that skillet high and tipping it.\n\nI stood watching her, my momma doing her best not to say what she wanted to say, and heard now from the front room Daddy's voice low but in the certain pitch that meant he was telling Eli precisely what he wanted to. Words I could only figure had to do with me, his baby girl, while now and again Eli wedged in _Yessir,_ and _Yessir,_ and _No sir,_ and _Yessir._\n\nMomma still poured the grease, the thin stream of it into the can like brown molten glass. Here were her hands again, the red of them, and I saw her wrists begin to quiver for the weight of the cast-iron skillet.\n\nI put the glass on the counter, closed the icebox door, went to my momma just as she finished. I put my hands to hers, lifted the skillet from them, settled it back on the stove. She was looking at me, that same rim of near-tears in her eyes, her hands out in front of her as though I'd robbed her of something important.\n\nAnd then I put my arms around her, pulled her to me, me nearly as tall as her by then. She seemed to melt at my touch, her shoulders falling, arms gone loose, and then her arms were up and around me, her head on my shoulder. She took in a deep breath and let it out slow, like this was the end of the long day of work and heat and food and care and living it truly was.\n\n_No sir,_ I heard from the front room, then _Yessir._\n\nELI AND I STEPPED off the back porch and into the grass, the canopy of live oak a kind of cathedral made all the bigger and quieter and fearful for what we were about to do:walk alone for the first time.\n\nDaddy called out from behind us, \"Be back in a half hour, and y'all walk careful. We don't want stories coming back at us from the neighbors.\" \"Yessir,\" we both said at the same time, and looked at each other, smiling for saying it together, only to look away just as quickly. Already my mind was on that half hour, the huge empty of all that time, thirty minutes as wide and deep and too big to swim as Charleston Harbor.\n\nWe passed Eli's shed, the canopy giving way above us to reveal a blue sky going darker blue and even emptier, then we were out on Venning Street, an oyster-shell road like every other road in town, this one heading east and away from the house. A street just like ours, on it none of the big houses where Momma's customers lived, but people like us in houses like ours, all of everyone living in them watching from their front porches and windows, I was sure. No matter what Daddy wanted, we'd be a story even before we made it home.\n\n_Naomi Reilly and that Robinson boy, Eli,_ I could hear from that empty sky above as we walked, the same words echoed in the tender shock of sound the crushed oyster shells gave out with each step we took. _Naomi_ _Reilly and that Robinson boy, Eli,_ I heard from the trees around us, the airy twists of Spanish moss down from the branches a language of whispers: _Eli and Naomi, Naomi and Eli. Eli Robinson and Naomi Reilly._\n\n_Naomi and Eli Robinson._\n\n_Naomi and Eli._\n\n\"Your momma is a good cook,\" Eli said, and I took in a breath for the solid sound of his voice out here, those whispers knocked clear away.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, then, \"She is.\"\n\nWe walked a few more steps, the air silent and awful for it, and those names whispered again around me. _Naomi and Eli. Eli and Naomi._\n\nI looked at the road leading out in front of us. The evening sky and the growing edge of dark made the shells all the whiter somehow, and made too the silence between us all the quieter, the small crunch of our steps lonely and pointless.\n\nIt was my turn. It was supposed to be me to say whatever next words we were going to try and let be the beginning of what might become a conversation.\n\nBut what words were they? What could I say?\n\nAnd in that instant there came up from the trees around us the sudden whirling drone of treefrogs, the sound loud and shiny as it was every night at this moment, as though the frogs\u2014small and pale green and hidden everywhere through the trees\u2014were all of one mind, all tied one to another and waiting for the cue a certain shade of evening sky made.\n\nIt was a sound that came every night all summer long, one that cut on and off throughout the night and sometimes even into early morning. A dance of sounds tree to tree to tree, but so much a part of every night sometimes you had to think on it to hear the sound they made.\n\nBut here it was, brand-new this night, as perfect and puzzling a sound as the words _Thank you_ spoken across the dinner table.\n\n\"It's like I never heard them before,\" I said, the words out of me before I had time to weigh them, and already I was afraid I sounded like some kid with a crush, making schoolgirl romantic here at twilight.\n\nEli said, \"When I listen to them at night out to the shed, it's like I can hear something else. Like they're all telling each other some story they all know the ending to.\"\n\nI turned to him. His eyes were to the trees behind me, the huge live oaks that grew beside the road. The sun was down now, his white shirt even whiter, his tan face even richer.\n\nHe looked at me. Here were his brown eyes, a brown so deep in this slowly failing light I thought I could see the story of both of us. I thought I could see the story we both knew the ending to already.\n\nHe shrugged, looked down, shrugged again. He was smiling, bashful, as embarrassed over his words as I'd been over mine. But there were no other words he could've spoken. Those words right out of his heart were all I needed to hear, and what he needed to speak. What he felt and knew and believed.\n\nIt was a story they were speaking, and we both already knew it was a story about us.\nChapter 4\n\nWE WALKED, and we talked, and the light went right on away from us, the treefrogs kept right on telling their story, and I came to begin to know my husband, though in the hesitant and anxious and nervous way of a boy and girl first finding the words to tell who they are.\n\nHe told me of his daddy, how when he died five years ago he'd thought he wouldn't miss him, thought he was man enough even at eleven to make it through.\n\n\"But I was wrong,\" he said, and I looked at him beside me. We were on McCants Street now, headed toward the harbor. He had his hands behind him, his head down, watching each step he took.\n\nHis daddy had been a shrimper too, and I knew, like everyone in Mount Pleasant and all of the Lowcountry, he'd been lost at sea in a squall that took him and his boat and his crew of three all in fifteen minutes. That year, Eli's third in the seat behind me at Mount Pleasant Academy, he'd changed from the boy who jabbed a pencil now and again into my shoulder just to hear the laugh his pals would give when I jumped, and into the quiet boy I'd known him since to be.\n\nI told him how I missed my brother, though back when he was here to home I did nothing but complain over him, how he picked on me and ribbed me and made demands on a kid sister _\u2014I ain't listening to_ _Little Orphan Annie! You got no choice but to give me your last piece of bacon!_ _You tell Momma you saw me talking to Lula Beauchamp and I'll make sure_ _there's a palmetto bug in your bed every night from now on!\u2014_ so much that it felt like my birthday once he was gone.\n\nEli smiled at this, his hands still behind his back, and slowly shook his head. A hundred yards or so up ahead lay the dead end of McCants, the trees on either side of the road stopped, beyond them lavender light that was the water of Charleston Harbor.\n\n\"Remember when we got baptized?\" he said, and it seemed the words might as well have come from me, for that was what I'd been thinking on too. About the light that evening summer before last.\n\nI wanted to bust out with the words _You read my mind_ and make a fuss, but all I heard was the schoolgirl romance again, and the fact I'd seen a dozen movies down to the Riviera in Charleston of a Saturday afternoon where _You read my mind_ was a line I didn't believe even hearing it from up on the big screen.\n\nBut it was the truth, my thinking about that night we'd been baptized in the ocean out past the dunes on Sullivan's Island in the same instant he was, and instead of remarking on the way our thoughts were already driving toward one, I put it away, held it. A piece of the treasure of our lives together I knew enough to hold close and savor, even all the way back then.\n\n\"I remember,\" I said, and saw that last night of Revival, the tent awning set up on this side of the dunes out back of First Baptist Sullivan's Island, and the white-haired preacher down from Spartanburg who'd set aside this last night for the youth. I'd sat up front with a couple three girlfriends, and we'd all listened sitting on wooden folding chairs set up in rows in the sand. The sky'd grown darker with the sun already set, the heat and the close of all these kids turning the evening into a haze of color and darkness and light and words, all of it coming together to give me a kind of truth that goes beyond trying to capture here in words.\n\nThe preacher, his white hair parted on the side and in a white shirt and black tie and black pants, talked about our lives having a path set up in front of us, a path narrow yet walkable all the same, but walkable only by God's grace. It was the same old story I'd heard my whole life long, but on this night I heard something else, a voice that dug sharp and clean into me, a voice from inside me giving the truth like the knife everybody always said it was, but this knife warm, and kind, and forgiving. Still the preacher talked, him nowheres near in the sweat and pitching a fit like I'd seen some pastors before. He only spoke calm words in truth, and when at last he said what I'd known all along too, that same old story\u2014that the grace we needed to walk that narrow path was named Jesus, the same Jesus as every Sunday since I could remember\u2014 there'd come to me the startling fact of it all, the kind of knowledge you can't get by adding numbers in a certain way, or reading a chapter enough times to memorize it for the test in class.\n\nIt was the fact of Jesus I saw, the fact He was who He said He was, my savior, and now here were my girlfriends, and here were other kids from over to school, and here was that kid who used to sit behind me when we were at Mount Pleasant Academy, the Robinson boy, and here was me, all of us standing and moving up toward the preacher, him making the altar call for all those who wanted their lives to be lived with meaning, and in truth.\n\nThere are no words for this, I am only seeing now, for this truth given to your heart. There is only hearing it, and responding. Like love between a man and woman, but so very much more.\n\nThen we were all walking out from under the awning, the sky this same lavender as now, here with the Robinson boy two years later. We stood at the end of McCants now, before us the harbor, the lights of Charleston coming on, the spires across the water reflected in a quivering way across the lavender water.\n\n\"Two by two,\" Eli said, and I looked at him. The one I'd already claimed, in me the revealed knowledge he was the one. Nothing I could have figured from counting numbers, or reading a book.\n\n\"Everybody walking two by two down to the beach,\" he went on. \"Following that preacher right down to the water and on in.\"\n\nI turned, looked again out at the water. I said, \"I was afraid. I didn't know what it would be like. Baptized.\" I shrugged, smiled. \"I was afraid when I came up out the water I'd turn into a hankie waver, or handle snakes or whatnot.\"\n\nHe gave a small laugh, and I shrugged again, saw us all walking between the dunes toward that lavender ocean, sea oats on the dunes bending in the evening breeze up off the water, the small cool of the air moving welcome, and frightening too. We were headed for a baptizing, headed for being born again, and I was filled with fear of what exactly this might mean. Of how my life would change, and then we were through the dunes, each of us pausing a moment to take off our shoes and drop them in a pile just where the sand sloped flat and away from the dune, all of us moving barefoot in the warm sand, moving together to our next new lives.\n\nSomeone started singing, someone far and away behind us, back where all the parents followed, all of them through the service standing off in the dunes and out from under the awning, so we children could listen, and hear.\n\n_Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine_  \n _Oh what a foretaste of glory divine_\n\nIt was a haunted feel the words gave to me, their rising from all around behind us, ahead of us the darker sky to the east, above the water. The white-haired preacher was down to the water now, the harmless white lace of the foam around his ankles, then his knees, and now I heard the kids behind me picking up the song:\n\n_Heir of salvation, purchase of God,_  \n _Born of his spirit, washed in His blood_\n\nThen it was me too to be singing, carrying up the tune like it was a gift, everything I owned, a song given out with no music to help it but the breeze off the water, and the water itself, and this lavender sky, and I sang:\n\n_This is my story, this is my song,_  \n _Praising my savior all the day long,_  \n _This is my story, this is my song,_  \n _Praising my savior all the day long._\n\nHere I was, next in line, the girl who'd walked beside me all the way down here rising up out of the water, lifted by the preacher, it seemed, her mouth open wide for air, her hands together at her chest, her moving toward me and past me back toward the sand, and then the preacher took my hand, us waist deep in the warm water, around my legs the slow swirl of my skirt dancing with the tide.\n\nHe turned me so that I stood sideways to him, and now I could see what was happening behind us all, saw the string of kids who'd come to the call trailing off through the surf to the beach, all their faces lost to me for the twilight sky behind them to the west, that sky a dark and sweet orange. Families were up on the beach, a mass of dark figures standing together, somewhere in them my momma and daddy, all of them singing now that same couple of lines again and again, _This is my_ _story, this is my song . . ._\n\nThe preacher put a hand to my back, took both my hands with his other hand and brought them to my chest. \"Child,\" he said, \"do you accept Christ as your Lord and Savior?\"\n\nHis eyes were on mine in the dying light, and I saw in them that the truth he'd been talking about and the voice inside me were the same, speaking the same words _\u2014Christ is my savior\u2014_ and I nodded, whispered, \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then be baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,\" he said, the words slow and solemn, his eyes turned up now to the sky, and I fell back into the warmth of the water, and then I was up again in an instant, the salt water bitter in my eyes as I tried to open them, me fearful still but filled suddenly with a sort of courage to try and see exactly what this next new world would be like.\n\nAnd then my foot in the sand gave way beneath me. The pastor, one hand still to my back, the other still holding tight to my hands, seemed to tip forward with my weight going down, and the courage and fear and all else I'd been filled with disappeared for the shock of embarrassment, of how in this next second I'd end up back in the water, pulling this good man after me and under, all of this night's news of truth and grace lost on me and everyone watching for the pitiful fact of me falling down.\n\nAll of this in an instant, even before I was an inch closer to the water, even before my foot in the sand beneath me had failed fully to catch me.\n\nThen there came another hand at my arm, there at my elbow, and I felt myself lifted by that hand and the preacher's all at once and all in that instant. I heard the preacher give a small laugh, say, \"Now go in grace, child,\" and heard whoever it was belonged to this other set of hands\u2014the next one in line to get his dunking, I guessed\u2014give a laugh, my hand to my eyes and wiping away the salt water, me laughing too though for the nervous of it, and for the embarrassment.\n\nI moved back along the line of kids, my black skirt and white blouse heavy for the water, and tried to see in the growing dark any smiles or laughs or shaking heads at me and my clumsy coming into the fold. I knew they'd all seen me falter, even everyone up on the beach, that dark cloud of people spread along the sand watching every move every one of us entering God's kingdom made.\n\nBut I saw nothing. Only kids, like me, some of them with hands together at their chests and crying, some of them with eyes to the water, some with their arms crossed. All of them alone, and thinking. Just alone with themselves, and with God.\n\nNobody'd seen.\n\nThen I was up on the beach, and here was Momma holding up a big towel and crying, moving toward me from the crowd, Daddy behind her and smiling at me. He held my shoes up in one hand, his other arm around my momma. \"Easy to find which ones was yours, clodhoppers big as these,\" he said, his voice soft and low, and I couldn't help but smile.\n\n\"Now hush,\" Momma whispered to him, her eyes on me. \"Brought this towel just in case,\" she went on, \"so let's take care and dry you off now,\" her whispered words broken and filled up, all at once.\n\nI looked at him, and Momma. They were the same people they always were. My momma and my daddy. But this night, somehow, the love they were showing me, the same they'd always given, was deeper, carried somehow more fact to it. There was a point to it I was supposed to understand, and now understood. This was a towel to dry me off, these were their hands to hold me, these were their words, to carry me through.\n\nHere was the next new world: the one I'd been blessed, I finally saw, with being in from the very beginning.\n\nMomma's arms were on my shoulder, rubbing soft and careful through the towel, and we'd made our way back toward the dunes.\n\n\"But there was nothing to be afraid of,\" I said to Eli, the lavender on the water before us gone a royal purple by then, the sky above the church spires across the water no different, like the two were one: water, sky. \"Haven't started to handling snakes yet, nor waving hankies.\" I shrugged. \"There wasn't anything different. Just I knew my momma and daddy loved me was all.\"\n\nI'd never talked like this to any boy before, told what was on my heart clear and plain. I'd never.\n\n\"I figured the whole world was going to change on me, too,\" Eli said, his eyes out to the water. \"But that was what I was hoping for. That the whole world would change.\" He looked down, glanced an instant at me, cut his eyes to the water again. \"My daddy'd died. My momma was about to go on and marry somebody else, like he'd never lived. Like my daddy'd never even lived.\"\n\nHe took in a breath, a quick and hollow one, and I looked away, like there was something out on the water I wanted to see too.\n\nHe said, \"I was hoping I'd come up out the water and see the whole world'd changed, and maybe some kind of sense'd come into my momma's head. That maybe the world'd right itself because of me giving up to being born again.\" He stopped, gave out a short _tss,_ a silent whistle of air for the silliness, I figured, of what he'd believed. Of what we'd both believed: the world changed when you were saved.\n\n\"But then you nearly took your spill there in front of me,\" he said, and I turned to him.\n\nHe was smiling at me.\n\n\"Almost yanked that preacher in with you, too,\" he said.\n\nHe'd seen me nearly fall, when I'd thought always nobody'd noticed. And it was nobody seeing me and my embarrassing entry into Grace that had let me know Grace was there.\n\nBut he'd seen me. Eli had seen me.\n\nHe was still looking at me, and me at him, and I felt the blood rushing up to my face.\n\n\"And it was your nearly pulling him in after you that got me to see nothing was going to change,\" he said, his words suddenly quieter, that smile gone. \"I knew it then, because of you. Wasn't the world was going to change on me, but it was me had to change.\" He paused. \"I knew it just as soon as I put my hands out and took hold of you, helped the preacher up with you.\"\n\n\"That was you?\" I said.\n\nHe turned once more to the water, him a profile now, dark against that purple sky. \"So in a way it was you had a hand in me getting saved.\" He paused again. \"And in me starting to get ahold of the fact that my momma's marrying Mister Gordon Stackhouse didn't mean my daddy was gone.\"\n\n\"I always thought,\" I began, and stopped. \"I figured nobody,\" I tried again, but there the words stopped, the empty sound of them trailing off into this night.\n\nBecause it was then the all of what'd happened two years before came to me, and I discovered how our lives'd already been put together without our even knowing it. Only then did I understand how our lives'd intersected in the twin misunderstandings of how a life could be saved: I'd been afraid the world would be different, and it wasn't. He'd been afraid it would stay the same, and it did.\n\nThe way you wanted your life to change, I saw, didn't matter. Grace would come to you in the way it would come, and with it would come a change in you. Here had been God's hand, unseen and unknown in our lives, but holding us as close together as two children at a beach-side revival might get.\n\nI looked at him, still a profile to me. There were words I wanted to give to him, words I wanted to try and surrender to him about this discovery, about how God'd already put us together to live our lives changed in an unchanged world. There were words I wanted to get, words just out of reach, a language of God's will as clear yet as foreign as the story those treefrogs sang of the two of us.\n\n\"Then they got married,\" he went on. \"And we moved, like they'd told me would happen.\" He stopped, turned full to me, his white shirt crisp in the twilight on us. I looked up to his eyes, saw by the last breath of light out here that he was looking at me, and he was smiling. \"Then Miss Naomi Reilly's daddy calls up Mister Gordon Stackhouse and asks can he spare his stepson for a while to work the boat, seeing as how his boy is off fighting the good fight. Room and board plus five dollars a week.\" He shrugged. \"Wasn't never a second thought. Not because living up to Georgetown was bad, or that God sent me an evil stepdaddy and an annoying little Stackhouse stepbrother. Nope.\"\n\nHe put his hands together in front of him, laced his fingers together like he might be thinking to start on a prayer. He shrugged again, and I could still see the smile.\n\n\"It was you,\" he said. \"I saw you nearly fall, and I helped keep you from falling. For that little second it seemed you needed me. And it was good to be needed, when it felt like nobody on God's green earth needed me anymore.\"\n\nI reached to him then, and though I knew it was wrong, knew a fifteen-year-old girl ought never be so forward, so bold, I put my hands on his, felt him unlace his fingers, felt him take both mine in both of his, and hold my hands.\n\nIt was the calluses I felt first, already there for the work he knew. But then I felt the warmth of his hands, and it was that warmth I kept, and have kept, all the days of my life.\n\n\"Eli,\" I said, and it seemed now the right words were taking shape, lining up in my heart to tell him all I wanted to tell him: that I knew he was the one.\n\n\"Eli,\" I said again, and took in a breath, ready to speak.\n\nAnd heard a car horn start to honking off in the distance, behind us somewheres a couple blocks away. It was a strange sound, there in the silence between us where room'd already been made for words to come. A car horn honking, three long calls in a row, then a pause, then three more.\n\nThen just as far off, just as odd, my name, called out long and hard: \"Naomi!\"\n\nDaddy.\n\nWe both turned to it, heard again \"Naomi!\" and looked at each other.\n\n\"Hasn't been but twenty minutes,\" I said. \"We're not late getting back.\"\n\n\"Don't matter,\" Eli said, and turned again toward where the word came from. \"Sounds like he means business,\" he said, and now he let go one hand, held tighter to the other, and we were off at a quick walk, headed back up McCants and away from the water, away from the end of this day's light.\n\nWe let go each other's hand before we passed the first house back off the water, the porch light there already on, and though I didn't like the empty of my hand and the cool left where his warmth had been, we both of us knew why we couldn't run and hold hands at the same time: somebody'd see us, if they hadn't already, and give back to Daddy the news, and things would go from there. So we'd let go, and we ran.\n\nHere were more houses with porch lights on already, some with lights just cutting on as we passed. Daddy hadn't called or honked again, but people stood on some of the porches, mommas mostly, arms crossed and watching us and wondering, no doubt, what Daddy's carrying on and the sight of us two running was all about. Then we were on Venning again, what'd been a whispered crush of sound as we walked the shell road a few minutes before now a reckless noise, the two of us running.\n\nIt was dark now, and as we headed on into our backyard, past first Eli's shed and then back beneath the live oak and onto the grass, I could see the back door off the kitchen open wide, all that harsh white light spilling out.\n\nI could see too on the concrete steps off the back porch, silhouetted for that light, two shapes sitting there, leaned way forward and rocking slow.\n\nMomma and Daddy.\n\nDaddy had one arm up on Momma's back, their heads in close to each other so that they seemed almost one, Daddy's hand patting Momma's back slowly.\n\nMomma was crying, I heard, in this night air thin glistening slivers of her voice gathered and tossed, gathered and tossed. She was crying, her shoulders moving with the sounds she made, and I thought, _We_ _were only holding hands. We were only holding hands._\n\nI slowed down then, Eli too, in me a kind of fear already welling up, taking root with each loud breath I took in and gave out, trying to gain air for having run here. Something was wrong, I knew, something bigger than our holding hands. Something big. Something huge.\n\nHere we were, almost to the square of light that open door made on the grass, and for some reason I glanced away from my momma and daddy to that kitchen window, and in that same glance so many things fell into form before me, for it was in that moment I saw through the kitchen window the officer, saw him looking out at me, his hat off but the unmistakable green of his jacket, the epaulets and gold bars there, and the khaki shirt, the thin khaki tie knotted at his neck, him looking at me; and I saw in there beside him, crowded into that small kitchen, Pastor Stewart in his white shirt and black suit, his tie even thinner than the officer's, clutched in his hands the brim of his black hat. He was looking at me too, hanging back in the doorway like he had an idea to come on out but was waiting for some signal from me.\n\nAnd I saw in this same instant, saw all of this in that same instant, Momma's arm move out from inside her silhouette, and saw caught in the light her hand, in it the shivering piece of pale yellow paper. I saw it shiver and shiver with those glistening slivers of her voice gathered and tossed.\n\nI stopped, felt the air leave me.\n\nDaddy looked up then. I couldn't see his face, couldn't see him for the light behind him, couldn't see Momma's face, either. All I could see was her hand, and that paper shivering, all of it carried on the sound of her crying.\n\n\"They took him,\" Daddy whispered up at me. \"They took my dear sweet boy,\" he whispered, and now I stepped into the square of light, my legs no longer mine, my eyes somebody else's eyes, somebody else's life.\n\n\"My boy,\" Daddy whispered, and now I fell to my knees at their feet, lay my head on their legs and laps, the same slivers of sound as my momma's making their way up my throat, cutting and scraping their way up.\n\nDaddy touched at my hair, seemed to want to speak, though I still could not see him here in this dark, a fact now I know as a kind of blessing.\n\nGod, in his infinite and terrible mercy, decided the sorrow of a parent's face at the news of the death of his child was too painful a prophecy for the child I was to see.\n\nHe'd known even then that I would know this pain, and know it soon enough.\n\n\"My Mahlon,\" Momma said out of the darkness of her own shadow, the words filled with the work of love she'd given my older brother his whole life long, love given and given and given and now lost.\n\n\"Mahlon,\" I whispered, and thought of my older brother, thought of him in Italy somewhere, thought of the pencil-thin movie star mustache he'd shown off his last trip home just before he shipped out. I thought of his smile when I swore I'd never tell about him and Lula Beauchamp, and thought of the birthday feel I'd had when he'd finally left.\n\nAnd for no reason I know I looked up then, to the night sky above us, the purple gone of a sudden, replaced just that quick with this night.\n\nHere were the beginnings of stars, the faintest splinters of light that came up every night I'd ever been alive, a fact which only just this second seemed a loss for how little I ever looked at them.\n\nHere were stars, fixed and shining, each in the same place I'd ever seen them, me nothing beneath them for the fact I never looked at them, took them and their placement up there as much for granted as the next breath I'd take in.\n\nTaken as much for granted as a brother.\n\n\"Mahlon,\" I whispered again, and felt the fear welling in me grown too huge to hold on to, and then it burst, and I cried, and I cried, and I lay my head on my momma and daddy's legs, blinked at the tears out of me.\n\nAnd saw shimmer for an instant off to the side of us all, there in the grass and shrouded in the weak light out of the kitchen window, Eli in his white shirt, standing, watching.\n\nHis arms were crossed, his feet squared to us. Then he let his head down, and I saw his shoulders move ever so small, his own shiver of grief for my brother. Eli, crying too.\n\nHe turned, disappeared from the light, and was gone, and I closed my eyes, felt Daddy's hand to my hair again, heard Momma's cries, and heard myself whisper, once more before those slivers tore my throat to the empty shreds they were sure to be, my older brother's name.\n\n\"Mahlon,\" I whispered.\nChapter 5\n\nIT WAS EL I to name our baby, him choosing to keep a secret from me the notion until the day he was born in May 1953, at Cooley Dickinson Hospital here to Northampton. We'd tried out names but hadn't found anything we wanted, and then, me finally coming up from the anesthesia I'd been put under to a swirling room of white and light and silence, I looked to see my husband beside me.\n\n\"Let's name him Mahlon,\" he said, and nodded once.\n\nThere was no smile on his face when he'd said it. But neither was he sad for what the name meant, who it had been.\n\nThe truest name ever given, for the fact we'd known we loved one another on the night my daddy'd been handed the telegram. That was the day we charted our lives from, despite its being marked forever with death.\n\nWe'd been living in Northampton six years by then, since a year out of the Navy, when Eli and his best friend from the service, Lonny Thompson, decided to go in together, start up their own plumbing business back here to Lonny's hometown.\n\nSix years in a place more foreign even than Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where, at least, with all the military everywhere, people were from more than the one place we all lived. In Portsmouth I had girlfriends from Georgia, and Tennessee, and Kansas and Idaho and one even from California. Eli still worked building submarines that first year we were married, and I'd worked myself at Grace's Five and Dime on Queen Street, the war over and folks happy.\n\nBut Northampton was different altogether for how close and quiet the people here were, as though the winters we went through were some kind of sign to them to keep the doors of their hearts closed for the cold wind a possible friendship might blow through. Which is why the girls I met and made friends with I held as close as I could, Hilda and Phyllis and Carolyn, and Mary Margaret. The plumbing business worked well enough, houses being built after the war slowly but surely. Little developments sprung up all around Springfield and Holyoke, enough old buildings needed repairs and renovations right here in town.\n\nIt was an adventure we were on, this living so far and away from our home, and making our money, and trying to set up a family, and just enjoying each other. Before Mahlon was here we went out nights to Springfield to the Highland Ballroom to hear the big bands that passed through, once Jimmy Dorsey, another time Kay Kaiser and his Kollege of Musical Knowledge, another time Spike Jones; we even a time or three took the train all the way in to Boston to the Ritz-Carlton, once even to the Totem Pole Ballroom, and always with Lonny Thompson in the lead, him with some new hometown girl he was working on that particular week.\n\nWe took the train home to South Carolina now and again, always stopped first to Georgetown for a couple days to visit Eli's people, then headed on down to Charleston for a couple three days more, days filled with just setting and visiting. We watched the lives of our parents move on, heard them blister us again and again for not yet having any grand-kids, heard less of it as they finally realized this wasn't something going to happen, most likely, for the news from the doctors we'd been given.\n\nAnd though Momma and Daddy, and Mr. Stackhouse and Momma Jasmine, Eli's momma, begged and cajoled us to move back there to home, the fact we'd set up our lives in our own place, had our jobs and friends and everything, all of it made by ourselves and for ourselves, gave us to know we could only stay in Northampton.\n\nWhich is all to say, finally, that though we loved and held close our two families back there to South Carolina, we didn't really look back, once we'd gotten married and'd moved north.\n\nEL I AND LONNY'D MET working inside the hull of a sub in the shipyard the first day they got there, and there'd been no separating them from there on. He'd even come with Eli down from New Hampshire to be best man at our wedding in June of 1946. I'd never met him before he stepped off the train behind my Eli two days before the wedding.\n\nMy eyes, of course, were on my love, my Eli, this beautiful man, a man now with genuine shoulders and a jaw sharp as granite, no longer the boy in blue jeans and rubber boots at the stern of a shrimp boat.\n\nHe'd joined the Navy not but a month before V-E Day, nothing to hold him back once he'd turned seventeen. He'd given the news of it at the dinner table on an evening not at all unlike the one we'd discovered each other at a little less than a year before, and I'd known in the way my momma, and especially my daddy, took the news that in fact there was a kind of relief for it. They knew by that time we two were going to be who we ended up being, a married couple setting off to find our own lives together. And Eli setting out for the armed services first meant their sixteen-year-old girl wasn't getting married anytime soon.\n\n\"I enlisted yesterday,\" Eli'd said from across the table. He was sitting straight and tall in his chair, and had hold of the table edge with both hands, afraid my daddy'd come down hard on him for leaving him high and dry for a crew. Eli quick looked at me, hoping for something to hold on to other than the edge of the table.\n\nI'd nodded, small but certain, and gave him a smile.\n\nWe'd talked of it for near as long as I'd been talking to him. The two of us walked every night since that first one, and held hands now in plain view. He'd told me a hundred times of wanting to leave and find something to do with his hands of his own. He was becoming a man, had to find his own way, and the service was how to do it. The war was almost over then, winding down everywhere you looked, and the skills he could learn outweighed the possibility he might find his death, the way my brother had.\n\nI held the smile on him, nodded again to try and hand him as best I could some hope and help.\n\nMomma let out a heavy breath, leaned back in her chair. Her eyes went first to mine, then to his. She brought her napkin to her mouth, started to crying and smiling.\n\n\"Knew it!\" Daddy near shouted, and slapped hard his hand on the tabletop. He took his napkin from his lap, threw it on the table, and crossed his arms. He looked at me, then to Eli. He was smiling.\n\nNow here was Eli in his sailor uniform, the navy-blue blouse and bell-bottom pants, the white stripes sharp lines on the big square collar, clothes I'd never seen him wear save for the photographs he sent home.\n\nBut here were his same eyes, eyes that pierced me and held me even before he dropped his seabag beside him and took me in his arms and kissed me, no matter the whole world was watching: Momma, and Daddy, and Momma Jasmine and Mr. Stackhouse and his little stepbrother, Gordon Junior, all of us there at the station in Charleston.\n\nHere he was, home to marry me.\n\nHe held me, and he kissed me, nothing in the world close enough to touch us. But when we were through, and he let me go and pulled away, smiling and smiling, the world started seeping back in. Everybody moved to Eli then, our mommas both crying, Gordon Junior touching at the sleeves of his uniform like it was the hem of the Robe, Mr. Stackhouse and Daddy slapping his shoulders like he'd been the one to beat Hitler himself single-handed.\n\nThat was when I saw behind Eli another man in uniform, his head down and him smiling, hair combed back, hands behind his back and holding his seabag.\n\nEli turned from me, one arm still around my waist, to Lonny. \"Here he is,\" Eli said. \"Lonny Thompson, the Yankee loser I've been telling you about,\" and Eli reached out his free hand, slapped him on the shoulder, and laughed.\n\nLonny smiled even broader, shook his head. \"I'll bite my tongue right now about that Yankee stuff,\" he said, \"seeing as how I'm down here in Dixie.\" He let go the seabag with one hand, put his hand out for me to shake. \"I don't know what he's told you about me,\" he said, his eyes on me and then Eli, then me again, \"but all I've heard about you is how beautiful you are.\" He took my hand, and I felt how strong it was, and how callused, just like Eli's. \"Turns out,\" he said, \"all I heard is the truth.\" We shook hands, then let go, but only after Lonny'd let his eyes hang on mine a long moment.\n\n\"Watch out that smooth talk don't get all over you,\" Eli said. \"Goes down sweet, but it'll ruin you. Like sugar in a gas tank.\" He laughed again, and Lonny's eyes were down from mine, and he slapped at Eli.\n\nWe were all of us together, already a family there at the platform of the Charleston station. Gordon Junior touched at Eli's sleeve again, while Daddy started up talking to Lonny about the submarines and what all was going on up there to New Hampshire. Eli held tight to his momma, who set to crying again, which made Eli hold on even tighter, nowhere in him any way to tell he'd ever been a boy too stunned at his own daddy's death to believe his momma could marry someone else.\n\nIt was love I saw in how tight he held her, love I saw in his momma's arms around him. Love in all this, all of it: this family.\n\nSEVEN YEARS LATER Mahlon was born, and named, and then he was grown up, in the same old way everyone complains of the years passing without your noticing it: first he was walking, then bringing home worksheets to color in, and here came Cub Scouts and Little League and band and Boy Scouts and a paper route.\n\nThen here he was in the kitchen, home from his classes at Holyoke Community College, on his lips word of a girl he'd met in his freshman composition course. A girl with eyes he couldn't believe for how beautiful they were, and with a brain, and a laugh, and hair he wanted to touch the minute she'd sat down at the desk beside him.\n\nRuth.\n\nRuth. An only child just like my Mahlon. She was a girl from up in Ashfield, a hill town she lived in until her momma died when she was twelve. She'd moved then with her daddy on down to Holyoke, so he could be closer to his work as supervisor at Chicopee Mills.\n\nRuth, an independent girl made so by the death of her momma, and the death of her daddy when she was a senior at Springfield High. So that when my Mahlon met her that day in college it was her will and backbone and spirit perhaps he saw and fell in love with so quick. A spirit I fell in love with as well the first time I took her hand in mine to shake when we had her over to supper not but three weeks after they'd met.\n\nShe'd stood in the doorway of the old house on 116, behind her the failing light of an October early evening, beside her my son, beside me my Eli.\n\nAnd I saw her eyes, saw in them what Mahlon'd seen from that first day: a woman, with her own mind, and a heart that could hold Mahlon close enough to let him know the love I'd known with my Eli.\n\nShe'd had on a gray sweater, a plum muffler, and blue jeans. She'd had her hair pulled back, and I could see in how Mahlon couldn't take his eyes off her that this was a done deal, the two of them. Done and done.\n\nMahlon'd said, \"Momma, Daddy, this is Ruth Denton,\" and smiled, like the words were some kind of preamble he'd had to memorize and'd finally gotten right.\n\n\"I'm so happy to meet you,\" she'd said. The usual words, but filled with her eyes, and given the truth for the smile she gave.\n\nShe put out her hand, and I took it, felt the firmness of it. I let go, and she offered it to Eli, who nodded, smiled, said, \"We've heard a lot about you.\"\n\nThey'd come for supper before going in to town to see a movie at the Academy of Music. They never made it, the four of us up late into that autumn night, talking, getting to know one another.\n\nBecoming kin.\n\nThey married, struggled to get on their feet, struggled too through the discovery of cysts on Ruth's ovaries. She'd had, finally, to have a hysterectomy at twenty-five, no hope from then on out for having children of their own.\n\nIt was a struggle they'd made it through, too, until they saw it was enough, however selfish the world might've felt it was, to just be the two of them together, and to live the rest of their lives with and for each other.\n\nThen gone was my Eli.\n\nIt was Lonny to comfort Mahlon when Eli passed, the two of them just heading out to the Quabbin to walk and to talk a couple afternoons a week on the paths and trails that laced the reservoir out there. Mahlon'd known Lonny since before he could remember, shot his first deer with him, Eli that day at the head of the next draw over on the land Lonny owned out past Belchertown, the luck such that Mahlon had decided just to set up with Lonny instead of his daddy, and here had come a buck, and Lonny'd let Mahlon have him.\n\nMahlon'd even thought for a while on becoming a plumber because of Lonny, though the partnership that'd gotten us here to Lonny's part of the world split up in 1952, only a few months before Mahlon was ever born. That was when Eli'd opened up his own garage down on Lower King, Lonny staying with pipes and plungers and whatnot.\n\nThen, in April, Lonny'd been diagnosed with his cancer, and Mahlon was up to his place two or three nights a week after work, just to talk. No more walks out to the Quabbin.\n\nBut it was Mahlon to die first.\n\nAND WHERE IS the husband's arm around the shoulder of his wife as she whispers her son's name?\n\nWhere is my Eli, and where is my comfort?\n\nAnd now I knew the foolishness of a girl's being born again. I knew, in the cold light of this November morning in Massachusetts, that the next new world I'd seen upon coming up from the warm water off Sullivan's Island wasn't one that would not change. It was a new world, shot through with change, filled with it and the certain curse of the fact we all of us lived hoping, dumb as the sheep God said we all were, that life would go on in grace, and that joy was something we could hold tight as the hands of the ones we loved most.\n\nWhat was my story, but one of grief, my song one of sorrow?\nChapter 6\n\nRUTH AND MAHLON'S HOUSE was four blocks off Main, back behind the old elementary school and the graveyard beside it. Like all of them in this part of town, the house sat ten feet away from the houses on either side, only enough room on the one side for a little strip of grass, on the other a driveway that hugged the house and led to the garage behind it. Most all the houses, too, had been broken up into two or three apartments each, theirs no exception.\n\nThey'd rented out the downstairs for a few years to a young couple, then those kids had a baby, the husband got promoted, and they bought a house a little farther out. Then, as though all things worked together like some sad trail of stepstones across a creek, Eli died of his heart attack, and here Mahlon and Ruth were with an empty downstairs. They asked me to come live with them.\n\nA couple hundred yards away, at the end of Walnut on a raised platform of dirt, were train tracks separating this neighborhood from King Street and the Dunkin' Donuts and video stores and Cumberland Farms and whatnot of downtown all over there. The first few nights I was here, I'd come awake to the low rumble of a train heading into town and passing on through, then listen to it just as hopelessly fade away.\n\nOnce that rumble was gone, I'd listen for the sound of Eli breathing next to me. But instead of the warm and sweet in-and-out of air from him I'd hear the creak of the bed through the ceiling above me, Ruth or Mahlon turning in their sleep. A small sound, but a comforting one, a quiet twist of metal that gave me the good knowledge I wasn't alone.\n\nSome nights, too, I'd wake to hear the two of them making love, the small untroubled sound of the bed moving up there slow and gentle, sometimes in there too their voices, pitched quiet and distant and twined together all at once. Voices I couldn't recognize for the fact these were the ones they saved for when they were alone and together like that, and though it may seem strange for me to say that there was pleasure in listening to my son and his wife hold each other and love each other, there was a kind of pleasure nonetheless.\n\nIt was the pleasure of my own history with Eli, our own making love. Not the colorless love we made all those years it took us to find Mahlon, love at times desperate for the fact we'd been told by most every doctor from Springfield to Hartford we'd never have children. Love senseless and remote for the goal to it, one just past our reach but one we longed all the more for: conceiving a child.\n\nNor did the sounds from upstairs bring me the pleasure of remembering the early days and the eager way we had at each other, we two drenched in each other's arms, smiling and breathing in and in and in and smiling still for it. A smile that started the first night we were together, our wedding night\u2014June 24, 1946\u2014when we were finally alone in a room in the Fort Sumter Hotel there at the tip of Charleston and White Point Gardens. Outside our window on the fourth floor lay the whole of Charleston Harbor and the huge live oaks that filled the park and those grand mansions like brick-and-stucco peacocks along the Battery.\n\nA view I didn't see until the next morning, when I woke up to find first light creeping in through the curtains. I'd stood from the bed with no clothes on at all, a move I'd never made in my life before, standing naked at a window with not a thought in me of why this wasn't something a woman ought to do.\n\nBecause it was love I'd just then known, the all-night-long burst of it, the startling surprise of pleasure we'd waited all this time to know from each other worth all that wait, worth the promise revealed in the two of us together, him inside me, me with my arms around him:we were meant only for each other. Last night I had been a virgin, and this morning I was my Eli's lover, and I felt in the light on my skin and the sky out there as broad and full of early light as any sky could ever be, that the rest of my life was certain to be this full of bliss, this full of love.\n\nThen here was Eli behind me, close to me, him naked as me, and I felt a hand at my waist, and here was his other hand, out in front of me. In it was a round box a little smaller than a shoe-polish tin, wrapped in silver paper and tied off with white ribbon.\n\nHe put his chin on my shoulder, formed his body to mine. I held the box, said, \"For me?\"\n\n\"No one else on earth,\" he said, both hands around me from behind. \"Open it.\"\n\n\"As if I wouldn't,\" I said, and reached to his cheek, touched him. Gently as I could I untied the ribbon, carefully lifted free the tape at either end.\n\n\"Your wedding present,\" he said. \"Not much to look at, but it's what a sailor could afford.\"\n\nIt was a round blue velvet box, and I lifted the lid.\n\nThere, centered in white satin, lay a locket, the kind you pinned to your dress. Gold, simple. No filigree to it.\n\nI lifted it free of the box, held it up to this morning's light in through the open window.\n\n\"It's beautiful,\" I whispered.\n\n\"Now you got to open it up.\" He reached to my other hand, took the box, and tossed it on the bed behind us.\n\nI unhitched the tiny clasp, opened it up to see my Eli, his face no bigger than a quarter, clipped from one of his Navy portraits. \"My handsome Eli,\" I said, and held the locket up with both hands.\n\nAcross from his picture the locket was empty. No engraved words, and I said, \"What will we put on this side?\"\n\n\"Whoever we find,\" he said. \"Whoever it is God gives us to take a picture of.\"\n\n\"And what if there's more than one?\" I said. I put my free hand to his hands at my waist, dangled the open locket before us both, before us a day breaking clean and pure and only for us.\n\n\"Then we'll have to get you another one,\" he said. \"But keep this one close,\" he said. His voice had gone to a whisper, his hand up to my own hand, the two of us holding now the locket. With his thumb he pushed it closed, until it snapped shut in my palm.\n\n\"Keep this close,\" he whispered, and turned me to him.\n\n\"I promise,\" I'd whispered, and without another word we were back to the bed, and to each other, me holding tight to that locket, and this beginning.\n\nBUT THE SOUNDS I heard from the bedroom above me, and the pleasure I found in them, weren't about any sort of love Eli and I'd known on our honeymoon, or like we'd known trying to make the child God might give us.\n\nThe pleasure I found in the sounds from above me was the memory of those times of my own with Eli, when we were adults, Mahlon growing up and our lives running what felt at times all on its own. Those sounds of Ruth and Mahlon brought me those moments in the dark of our bedroom in the old house on 116, the two of us at the end of a routine day discovering each other new, the person in bed next to me somebody I'd known and forgotten and'd found again.\n\nAnd each time we did this, met each other in the dark and drew into the other's arms for the comfort and warmth needed those particular nights, we'd whisper to each other, \"Nice to meet you.\"\n\nA habit born out of need, one for the other, spoken in a kind of code deciphered in the dark to reveal the secret we both knew all along: _you have my heart._\n\n_* * *_\n\nWHEN FINALY Ruth made it downstairs, I was in the kitchen, setting out something for us to eat so's we'd at least try at some breakfast: toast, juice, half an orange each. Who knew when there'd ever be biscuits again.\n\nShe had on a heavy cable-knit sweater, cream-colored and with a high neck. Her chestnut hair fell down about her shoulders in a way made it look even more beautiful, and she had on jeans, her slippers. She wore no makeup, and stood for a moment looking at me, her hands in her jeans pockets.\n\nI was at the table, in one hand the plate of toast about to set down. But I just held that plate there above the tablecloth, white with here and there bright red and blue and yellow tulips. Because I couldn't move. Here was my son's wife. And my son was gone.\n\nHere was started the first day of the end of my life here.\n\n\"You look warm,\" I said, and smiled. \"That sweater.\"\n\nShe tried at a smile, rubbed her nose with a Kleenex balled up in her hand. Of course her eyes were red and sharp and swollen. Of course.\n\n\"Toasty,\" she said, and nodded at me, at what I held in my hand: the plate of toast. She tried at that smile again.\n\nI put the plate down, shook my head the smallest way. \"That's a good one,\" I said, and took my seat, directly across from Ruth's plate.\n\nRuth didn't move, only stood looking at the head of the table, where there was no plate, no napkin, no knife to spread fig jelly from the jar at the center of the table.\n\n\"You've got to eat something,\" I said. I leaned forward a bit into her line of sight. I nodded, still looked at her. I put my hands to my lap, looked to her chair. She moved to the table, sat down.\n\nI put a hand on the table, held it out to her for the morning blessing we said each day.\n\nThis was Mahlon's job each morning. Asking God to take care of us, see us through in His mercy to the end of this day, and to keep us safe.\n\nI held my hand out, palm up, and looked at Ruth. Her eyes were to the window, the light coming in stone-bright and hard. Outside lay the end of the driveway where it wrapped around the back corner of the house, and the little garage, the white clapboard of it, the shadows beneath the eaves.\n\nOutside lay nothing.\n\nI bowed my head, still with my hand out on the tabletop in hopes she might take my hand, and I prayed.\n\n\"Dear Lord,\" I said, and stopped. Just those two words out of me. Nothing else, because nothing else came.\n\nThen here was Ruth's hand in mine, sudden and warm and solid. Enough touch for me to go on. Whether I believed this God could bless us and keep us or not.\n\n\"Dear Lord,\" I said again, and held tight to Ruth's hand, felt her fingers go tight around mine, and even the pain of that hold felt, in its own jagged way, good. \"Bless this day. Protect us.\" I paused, heard clear as him being here with us the same petition Mahlon made every morning _\u2014Hold us in your hand, and forgive us our sins, for we are sinners_ _and fall short of Your glory\u2014_ but chose not to say his words myself.\n\nBecause though it was true, and we were all sinners, at this moment, on this morning, I wondered who held God accountable when it so fell that He was the one who sinned against us.\n\nMy Mahlon was gone.\n\n\"Amen,\" I whispered.\n\nI opened my eyes, looked up at Ruth, her hand still in mine.\n\nShe was turned to the window, her eyes on the same nothing out there. She hadn't closed them, hadn't bowed her head, and I admired her for that. For keeping steady the gaze when everything around you is swirling up and around and away from you.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" she said, \"up in the shower.\" She paused, took in a shallow breath. \"I was thinking about Mahlon, and me. About how we had this little ritual.\" She was staring heavy now out into that light, didn't blink or even, it seemed, breathe.\n\nI watched her, waited without breathing myself. This was news about my child. This was news.\n\n\"We never told anyone about it. Didn't have to.\" She paused. \"Because it was ours. Because we did it.\"\n\nAnd though I wanted this news, it came to me the brittleness of whatever she was about to do. It came to me in the light in her eyes, that blue-green lit with this day and the glisten of tears about to come, that this was something maybe she ought not offer up. Maybe this was something she should save, and savor.\n\nMaybe this was something might could break in the telling of it, the way I might begin to lose altogether if I ever put to spoken words those moments in the dark when Eli or me would reach to the other, whisper _Nice to meet you,_ that code no one else in the world could ever know.\n\n\"Don't,\" I said, against my will, for this news was what I wanted. I wanted whatever portion of my son, whatever mote of his presence I could see. That was what I wanted.\n\nBut this was hers.\n\nHer eyes went to mine quick. She blinked, blinked again, that glisten still hanging on.\n\n\"Don't say it,\" I said. \"You hang on to it for the treasure it is,\" I said, my voice gone, not even a whisper for the fact my own heart was breaking yet again.\n\n\"But it's only\u2014\" she started, but paused an instant. She took in the smallest of breaths, and I saw her shiver, in her the shock of seeing what it was I was keeping her from doing. She saw I was after helping her save her husband, to keep him alive.\n\n\"It's something you own. That memory,\" I said. \"What it is you did. It's something you own,\" and I swallowed hard at the words.\n\nShe nodded, once. The move wasn't much more than the shiver went through her for recognizing what I meant in all this. But she nodded, and my heart kept right on breaking.\n\nTHE ORANGE WAS tasteless in my mouth, mealy, an early navel way too early. I'd bought it a week or so ago, back when the world was open to possibilities. When an early navel might be, despite all odds, true to its flavor and purpose.\n\nI put the orange back on the plate, only one wedge gone from it, there with its peel in three pieces like bright shards from a broken bowl. I looked over to Ruth's plate. She hadn't touched anything, the toast long gone cold, the orange still its perfect unbroken bowl of color, the cranberry juice in exactly the same spot I'd placed it.\n\n\"Maybe I'm just a little too full from all the casseroles the girls've been bringing,\" I said. I stood, picked up the plate and glass. \"There's enough food in the freezer and fridge to last us a month.\" I put the juice to my lips, took a small sip. It'd gone warm, the sweet-and-sour of the cranberry dulled for it.\n\nI went to the sink, put the plate and food inside it, still held the glass. I would finish it. I would empty the glass, give my body whatever it was cranberry juice, whether warm or cold, could give it. Then the glass was empty, and I took it from my lips, looked at it for a moment. It was an empty glass, and needed to be put away. Everything I had needed to be put away, from this glass to the all of what was in the front room to the bed I slept in every night. The same bed Eli and I met each other new in each time we spoke our secret words.\n\nI rinsed the glass, pulled from the cupboard door beneath the sink the dish towel hanging there, and heard in the same second the odd split of bright sound Ruth's chair made as it scraped across the floor. She stood from the table, came to me at the sink, dropped her own toast in, but set the orange on the counter beside the sink, and the juice glass. Her glass was empty, too.\n\n\"They gave me two weeks off,\" she said. I turned, looked at her. Her eyes were to the orange there, as though it might speak to her, surrender some wisdom or secret as to how it could sit there, as bold and bright as it was even after it'd been cut in half. \"But maybe I'll go in before that,\" she said, and paused, let her eyes come to mine. \"Maybe I'll drive over tomorrow or so, see if I can't get back to work a little sooner.\"\n\nHer eyes on me were a test, I could see. She was asking me something in her words. She was after something.\n\nAnd it came to me: she was asking about being a widow. She was asking what it was you were supposed to do now.\n\n_How do you live now?_ she was asking.\n\nYou move home, I wanted to say to her. You try to breathe, I wanted to say. You finally reckon with how life is nothing more than whistling in the dark, I ached to tell her.\n\nBut I said the easy thing. Because I was leaving here, and leaving her.\n\nShe was still so young. She was intelligent, and beautiful. She could stay here, live out her days, and maybe one day the weary pain that shouted out from her blue-green eyes might disappear.\n\nI said, \"It's God gotten me through this long. His tender mercies that's gotten me through these eight years. He'll be here for you, too.\" I put a hand to her face, felt how soft her cheek was, how young and sweet and beautiful just that touch was. \"Hollow words, I know,\" I whispered. \"But two weeks won't begin to touch it. Two weeks will seem like a year and seem like a day. You got to trust in God to see you home.\"\n\nShe looked at me, tried once more at a smile. But there was nothing for it, and it disappeared in a moment, crumbled into itself. She leaned into me, and we were holding each other one more time.\n\nHow many more times would we hold each other? I wondered. How many, before I left her here, to her friends, and to that job, and to this house and this neighborhood and to the low cry of trains that trembled through town each night? How many, before I left her to this light?\n\nI did not know, of course. But here was one of them, the two of us together now, this holding each other, though Ruth could not know, the first of my good-byes.\n\nAnd the doorbell rang.\n\nWe pulled away at the same instant, looked at each other, and Ruth took in a quick breath.\n\n\"I'm wagering it'll be one more casserole,\" I said. \"Probably Mary Margaret, or Hilda. They both said they'd be by today.\" My hands were to her shoulders, in one of them still the dish towel. I smiled, said, \"How much you want to bet it's another plate of Mary Margaret's famous pierogis?\"\n\nRuth sniffed, wiped at her nose again with that same Kleenex. \"Peach Gazda's coming over today, too,\" she said. \"She ate half those pierogis Mary Margaret brought over day before yesterday.\" She gave a small laugh. \"She loves them.\"\n\nI was already headed out the kitchen into the foyer. \"Mary Mar-garet'll be happy to hear that,\" I said, and nodded. The notion of Peach, one of Ruth's friends and a fellow cashier from work at the Stop & Shop, coming by to help us eat yet again seemed a good one. Soon enough Ruth would be here without me.\n\nThis was where she was from, where she was born and raised. She would stay here, both in her home and surrounded by her friends.\n\nShe would find, somehow, how to breathe.\n\nAnd Mary Margaret had begun to help me breathe again, too: she'd been the first one I'd called once I'd been able to think to phone someone, and then here she'd been to the house, outside this same front door that cold night, her bundled up in her heavy jacket over her nightgown, and tears already behind the thick glasses she always wore. Before she could even get off the muffler she'd had knotted beneath her chin we were holding on to each other, and crying. Then Hilda and Carolyn and Phyllis got here, and then the all of us tended best as we could to Ruth. But it'd been Mary Margaret I'd asked to spend the night here with us, and Mary Margaret to stay, the two of us in my bed down here, and lying awake and awake and awake.\n\nI was at the door then, looked to the window to quick catch a glimpse through the sheers of who it was out there, whether Mary Margaret, or Hilda or Peach. We could warm up what was in the fridge, I was thinking, if it was her. But it was Mary Margaret I was hoping for.\n\nBut then I saw the shadow through the sheers of somebody else. Not one of the girls, but tall, this shadow. This was a man.\n\nI pulled the door open, not sure who it might be, but in me all the same a solid black brick of pain for who I knew it was.\n\nHere he was, between us now only the glass storm door. Dressed the same as he always had, a gray down vest over a red-and-black plaid wool shirt, gray work pants, old work boots scuffed and muddy. He still had the same old glasses he'd worn since a couple years after the war, the old-fashioned plastic-framed kind that started out thick at the top and thinned down to wire at the bottom edge. In his hands was his same old hat, the Red Sox ball cap he'd worn forever, even as far back as when he and Eli'd come into Grace's Five and Dime in Portsmouth, the two of them asking after free chocolate sodas, me obliging them.\n\nLonny Thompson.\n\nHere he was, and it seemed he may well have already passed away himself for how thin he was, how drawn his face, those glasses huge on his face, as though the frames'd grown somehow. The neck of his shirt seemed too big, too loose, and his shoulders'd all but disappeared. Wisps of white hair hung about his nearly bald head, age spots littered across the wrinkled skin of his forehead and cheeks and ears.\n\nHe was dying of the cancer.\n\nBut here were his eyes, the warm brown of them behind those glasses, no matter how drawn he was, no matter how very near death this man was.\n\nI hadn't spoken to him much other than hello and good-bye in more than fifty years. Not since a spring afternoon in 1952. Never mind he was my husband's best friend all those years. Never mind it was my son to find comfort from this man once his daddy'd passed away.\n\nNow here he was to my front step, between us the thin glass of the storm door, and all those years.\n\nI heard from behind me a startled breath in, on it grief and surprise both. I didn't need to look behind me to know Ruth was right there, right there, come to see who was at the door this next day.\n\nThen she let out a sigh, one from deep in her soul, a sigh hollow and full and quiet and quick and sad, all at once.\n\nThis was the man her husband'd been visiting before he died. Here was the reason he was dead now. This man.\n\nLonny's eyes broke from mine to Ruth behind me, and I turned, looked to her as well.\n\nShe was leaned against the doorway, both hands to her face, held there as if in a prayer, her fingers just touching, as though she might be afraid to utter the prayer that might be on her lips.\n\nShe looked from Lonny to me, and here was the shine in her eyes, the glistening evidence of the grief I'd heard in her quick breath in. She closed her eyes, then let her head drop, her chestnut hair falling off her shoulders to shroud her sorrow.\n\nSlowly I turned back to Lonny. His eyes were still on Ruth, but then he looked at me.\n\nThat was when he swallowed. I saw the work of it, the way his Adam's apple labored with the effort, and saw too the thin indentations high on his cheekbones, lines that ran from just in front of his ears and down to the edges of his nose, where oxygen tubes had left their marks all these months.\n\nMahlon had told me how bad he'd gotten. He'd told me about the oxygen, about how he and Lonny took small walks now and again, and how it'd gotten to where it was only out onto the porch of his house that they two could make it before Lonny'd give out.\n\nHe'd driven all the way here, behind him the old blue Dodge pickup as battered and beaten as it'd ever been, LONNY'S PLUMBING AND HEATING painted on the door.\n\nFor a moment I wondered what it had taken to drive all the way down here in the shape he was in. But, just as I'd known it was him for the shadow he'd cast through the sheers, I knew it was a kind of love that'd gotten him down here.\n\nIt was love for Mahlon that'd gotten him here, love that had inside it a love for my husband, his best friend his whole life.\n\nIt was a love for me, too. Love that meant no matter the sin in the world there was still a love larger than the mistakes any of us made.\n\nAnd it was love for Ruth, because she was Mahlon's wife, and he knew how much Mahlon loved her.\n\nI saw all of this, and saw too our one trip all the way to the Totem Pole Ballroom in Auburndale, come to me now fifty years later, and the sofas they had in there in rings, tiered down to the dance floor. I saw we three\u2014Lonny, and Eli, and me\u2014and saw too the date Lonny'd brought, her already dancing with somebody else not but a minute after we'd sat down on our sofa and ordered up drinks from the cocktail girl. Lonny had on a blue pinstripe suit, I saw, and already was glum over the bust this evening would be, even with Benny Goodman playing in the packed-out place.\n\nAnd I saw me standing then and putting my hand out to Lonny even before the drinks'd come in, but not before looking a moment at Eli, nodding to him, our eyes meeting a moment. I saw the smile on Eli's face as he nodded back, figuring out what I wanted to do: give poor Lonny a dance.\n\nAnd then I saw me turn to Lonny, whose eyes were still to the dance floor, looking for that nameless girl gone from my memory all these years later.\n\n\"Let's dance,\" I'd said then, and held out my hand to him, and now here he was standing in his blue pinstripe suit, and smiling, the evening not a bust after all.\n\nAnd we'd danced, making sure to flounce our way right on past the girl, who'd taken up with a stubby Merchant Marine of all people, one it was plain to see couldn't dance to save his life.\n\nBut we'd danced, and we'd laughed, and later on Eli had cut in, and then, the night over, and Lonny having danced with at least a dozen girls, we'd headed home. We'd left that girl we'd come into the ballroom with there at Norumbega Park, and'd laughed about it all the way home.\n\nI'd danced with him, this man who now labored so just to swallow. This man who stood before me now, dying.\n\nHis eyes came back to mine, and he swallowed again, all that labor once more. The hand with the Red Sox cap in it came slowly up to the glass, and he touched his index finger to the glass, then his next one, and now he dropped the cap, let it fall to the ground like a banner surrendered, his whole hand to the glass of the storm door.\n\nI looked in his eyes for a long while, felt inside me the same cry Ruth'd let out, the hollow of it, and the fullness.\n\nAnd I looked at that hand, the same one I'd held a moment too long there at the train station all those years before.\n\nOnly a hand. A man's hand, the hand of someone as much a part of this family as any blood relative might ever be.\n\nThough it was cold out there, and though it was warm in here, there was no halo of condensation around his hand, no wisps of gray warmth out of him to leave as evidence he was even alive.\n\n\"Forgive me?\" he said, the effort of the words even more than he'd needed to swallow. His voice was thin, empty, as though the glass between us and the cancer inside him had robbed the words of any meaning, despite how hard he'd worked to deliver them.\n\nI put a hand to my face, a move too quick and sharp for the all of what he was asking: forgiveness, for being the reason my son was dead. \"Lonny,\" I began, but heard out of me nothing more. Only his name, spoken and left alone.\n\nThat was when I heard Ruth crying from behind me, a quiet sheet of grief just here with me.\n\n\"Lonny,\" I tried again, \"maybe not now. Maybe later on we can all . . .\" I said, and then the words gave out altogether, and I was only left looking at him through this glass between us.\n\nHere was Lonny, asking for forgiveness.\n\nGod in His heaven, and nothing right with the world.\n\nStill he held his hand to the glass, and I looked at it one last moment before I turned away, slowly pushed closed the door until it latched hard and certain.\n\nI went into the kitchen. Two plates lay on the counter, beside them the sorrow and bright promise of half an orange.\n\nLight fell through the window.\nChapter 7\n\nWELL, UH, HILDA? \" Mary Margaret said, and I saw a broken smile play across her face, her eyes blinking too many times for the work it was just to lead off a hand. \"What do you bid?\"\n\nBird in Hand was the game we played every Tuesday night, a game involves bidding how many hands high and low you could win, and then the all of us yammering on through every minute not given over to making that bid.\n\nIt was a game for old women, and that's who we were. Old women sitting around a dining room table over to Carolyn's house on Florence Center Road, the little split-level ranch she'd lived alone in since her husband Virgil died in his sleep fifteen years ago.\n\nMary Margaret held her cards out in front of her like she always did, the cards too low and away from her face despite the fact she wore those trifocals now. We'd told her enough times she shouldn't hold her cards that way because it was too easy for us to see, and so too easy for us to be tempted to cheat. It was we women, too, who'd finally talked her into those trifocals for the fact she couldn't see a barn beside her. But the old habits die hard, and so we all knew just to look low, duck our eyes when she held them out that way.\n\n\"Because if you don't, uh, get a move on,\" Mary Margaret said, and tried again at a smile, a signal to me she was about to attempt to be funny, \"then we'll have to ask you to, uh, get the Hilda out of here.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" Hilda let out from across the table. \"Mary Margaret is trying to make a joke out of my name!\" Her German accent cut the words into hard pieces of separate sound, though she'd been here in the States for nearly as long as I'd lived in Massachusetts. \"What a joker you are,\" she said, and shook her head at Mary Margaret, screwed her mouth up as though the last thing she'd do would be to give a smile.\n\n\"A joke out of Mary Margaret,\" Phyllis said, her sitting here to my right. She let out a short laugh herself, then _tsk_ ed. \"Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and again,\" she said, and then Hilda let out a real laugh, and she and Phyllis shook their heads at this whole notion of Mary Margaret, and a joke.\n\nI looked at Mary Margaret, here to my left, saw she was blinking even faster now, the butt of her own try at making light of the fact Hilda wouldn't yet commit to bidding.\n\nThese were our Tuesday nights playing Bird in Hand.\n\nAnd this was my dear, fragile Mary Margaret. My best friend. The same woman who'd lived next door to Eli and me when first we got to town. Like me, she was a new bride, married only a year before to Tommy Blizniak, just home from the war, where he'd been in the South Pacific with the Seabees. She was a girl who'd never left the Connecticut River valley, her life spent on a Hadley onion farm until she was nine, when her parents were killed in that train wreck on the New Haven line. It was the first time she'd ever spent a night without her parents in the same house with her, them headed to New York City for their very first time away, and it was that loss, a matter of fact hard enough and heavy enough to make her second-guess every move she'd make from then on out, that opened the door and invited that break-ableness right on in. A loss so real its presence was still right here with us, seventy-some years later, with the hesitant call for bids to start.\n\nNow Tommy lived over to Willow Springs, the nursing home off River Road, where on good days he can recognize Mary Margaret. Sometimes he'd even smile at her and maybe nod, the stroke two years ago so strong it was a miracle, the doctors'd all said, he was even alive. She lived next door at Willow Woods, the assisted-living apartments with its own cafeteria and TV room and library. She wasn't in bad shape at all, nowheres near the bulk of the people living in there. But it was next door to Tommy. The accommodations were good, the food hot, the laundry folded for you, and help anytime you needed it.\n\n\"Two and one,\" Hilda finally said. \"My bid is two and one.\" And just as her accent hadn't dulled any in all these years, her hair was still the same blond, her eyes the same piercing blue they'd been when we met in 1951 at a rummage sale out to Belchertown. At the exact same moment, we'd both picked up an opposite corner of the same Swallows Flying quilt for sale at a table. We'd looked up at each other, got to talking about that pattern, and'd been friends ever since.\n\n\"Two and one,\" she said one more time, and glared across the table at me, her partner for this round, and of course I could see in the cut of those blue eyes what she was saying: _you bid higher._\n\nBut I only smiled at her, sat back in my chair, looked at this room on the night I had news to give them of how my life was going to change.\n\nThe walls were cluttered with drawings and watercolors and collages and all else from first Carolyn's grandchildren and now her great-grandchildren. She had nine so far, though at sixty-eight she was the youngest of us all. When you walked into each room here you sometimes felt you were walking into a grade-school classroom the day after the art teacher'd come through. Even in this room, the dining room with its wood-paneled walls and china hutch, she'd tacked a string of construction-paper turkeys to the walls at the ceiling, each one made from the handprint of a child and pasted with paper feathers of every wild color.\n\nI'd be lying if I said that all this evidence of the life that had come from her and Virgil\u2014those nine great-grandchildren, the fourteen grands from the five children she'd bore\u2014had never gnawed at my heart for how Eli and I'd had only Mahlon, and that he and Ruth'd never even been able to find their own. But on this night there was in all these decorations the certain innocence there had always been. Here were children's hands. Here was evidence of joy.\n\nIn every one of those turkeys, and in every Christmas reindeer head, those children's hands the antlers, and in every autumn leaf ironed between sheets of waxed paper she'd taped to the windowpanes on the front door, there was only love. Pure and simple and true, so that on this night I could not bear any ill will at all, nor envy, nor pity for myself. Here was love, as it had ever been and always would.\n\nPrecisely what I felt for these women, my friends.\n\nTonight was the second Tuesday after the funeral, Thanksgiving a week and a half away. It'd been a given we wouldn't play cards that first Tuesday, no one even suggesting it, though Mary Margaret and the girls'd visited every day since the Hadley police officer'd pulled up to the house.\n\nNor had we taken up with the quilting yet. Nobody'd said word one on this matter, either, but we all knew that tomorrow we'd be either to my house or to Phyllis's, our two quilting corners. Then we'd settle back to work, as though this evening's jawing and messing were a kind of starting line for the rest of all our lives.\n\nOr the finish line for the last eleven days.\n\n\"So then it was all I could do not to give that knucklehead grandson of mine a handful of slap,\" Phyllis started back up, just like she always did: she'd begun to tell us a story fifteen minutes ago, this one all about her grandson and his monkeyshines, then let it trail off like she did for the rest of whatever anyone was after talking about, only to start in as though she'd never stopped. Even though it was her turn to bid, she was just getting around to her story, like always. \"Sammy's here at my door at one thirty in the A.M.,\" she said, \"and asking can he camp out in my front room because he knows his father's going to cuff him good if he shows up at his own house like this.\" She shook her head, her perfect white hair cut close. She looked at me, smiling, as if I were somehow in on this conspiracy we'd already heard her tell of three times so far tonight. \"Imagine this kid!\"\n\nShe had on a pink pastel sweater, pastels all she ever wore. What with that close-cut hair and those colors, no one of us could ever manage to tell her she wasn't a teenager anymore, despite how much White Shoulders perfume she wore. She was a heavy girl, always had been, and held her cards so close to her chest it seemed near impossible for her to truly know what she had in her hand for the barest glimpse she took of the top edges of the cards.\n\nShe had her own story, her own woes, this grandson she was talking about, Sammy, not the first or last of them. He was thirty-two, still lived with Phyllis's oldest, Jack, and his wife Miriam. Thirty-two, and still so afraid of his daddy he wouldn't go home drunk.\n\nI nodded at her, smiled myself. But I couldn't muster any picture of Sammy, because tonight my head was filled with the notion that I was going to tell them.\n\nTonight, I would tell them I was going home.\n\n\"It is your bid,\" Hilda said, for Phyllis, of course, but still glaring at me, waiting for me to respond.\n\nI looked at her, held her eyes a moment, thought to wink my left eye the way I do when I can bid higher. We all have our own signals, and we all know every one of them, too, so that if I were to wink that left eye, or the right to show her I couldn't carry the hand, it wouldn't be anything but headline news here at the table. We'd been playing near as long as we'd been quilting, and we all knew that Hilda's glare like that meant what it did, and a smile meant otherwise;Phyllis touched the bridge of her nose for low, tugged her left ear for high; Carolyn signaled she couldn't go higher by just letting out, \"But I just can't go higher,\" as though in her honesty we'd forgive the slip, her always surprised when we carried on about how she just couldn't say such a thing. Mary Margaret, her cards flat and facedown on the table once she'd made up her mind how to go, puckered her lips when she knew she could carry the hand, made a quick _tsk_ when she couldn't.\n\nIt was a language we all spoke, our own kind of card-game code that showed we were all of us keeping secrets in our own way, but keeping no secrets at all. We knew how to read one another the way dear and old friends can read each other, for better and for worse, in winning the hand and in losing it all the same.\n\nBut this night was not every other night, and though I hoped there was a code I knew of for saying good-bye, there came at me the truth that there was none. Only the cold words I'd have to line up and give out to them all, my dearest friends on earth.\n\nAny second now Carolyn'd come on out of the kitchen with a fresh batch\u2014the third tonight\u2014of cocktail wienies baked in little crescent-roll scraps. Carolyn was a little slower than the rest of us but, bless her heart, she was the sweetest of us all. Wienie wrappers\u2014her name for them\u2014was the only appetizer she ever made, each one skewered with a toothpick, the lot of them served up on her best china platter. We had wienie wrappers and nothing but every fifth Tuesday, because it was the hostess's job to provide the goodies.\n\nStill, these eleven days after the funeral, the girls brought food to us, sat with us, watched us eat and carried on with us and around us. Eleven days of food, more of it than our house'd seen since when Eli passed.\n\nBut it'd started to work, that company and the good fact of food shared by friends who loved one another and looked after one another enough at least to lead me here. I wanted to be here for cards this night eleven days after my son's death.\n\nAnd it'd started to work on Ruth as well: she was out to the movies with Peach Gazda from work right this moment, the two of them over to the cineplex at the Hampshire Mall.\n\nRuth'd had her visitors, too, mostly friends from work who showed up bearing their own gifts of food and flowers and company. The house'd seemed more a swirl of life than I could ever remember, people in and out and in and out again, everybody smiling or not smiling or talking or not talking. But all of these girls there, with us.\n\nAnd still I hadn't told Ruth of what I'd planned, and in fact had already started in motion.\n\nI'D WRITTEN my Eli's stepbrother Gordon Stackhouse, Junior, the stepbrother Eli'd left up in Georgetown to come work for my daddy. The only relative I knew of we had left down to South Carolina, a man a few years younger than Eli. It was a Christmas-card relation anymore, the only touch we had on each other's lives the trading of cards and a few little lines about what all had happened in the last year. He was a good man, a deacon in his church, two sons and one daughter, all grown. Gordon and his wife Melba'd sent flowers when Eli'd passed away, and the two of them always made certain somehow to have their Christmas card to our house the week after Thanksgiving.\n\nAnd so I'd written him and Melba, let them know of the passing of my only child, and to ask too for any ideas they might have on where I might could find a place to live in Mount Pleasant. As though these two items\u2014my child died, I wanted to move home\u2014were a kind of explanation one of the other, and so bore no need of comment by me.\n\nI'd written the letter the third morning after the funeral, the sun nowhere near up yet, me alone at the empty kitchen table, the only company that smell of coffee, Ruth still asleep as she should have been. When I'd finished writing it, I'd held out in front of me the yellow sheet of stationery with the curlicues of daisies all around the edges, my hands shaking with what I was after doing.\n\nBut even with the way my hands shook with that letter, I was certain already there was a new place being prepared ahead of me. I knew it, knew it in the same way I'd known the memory of light, whole and perfect and real, that first morning after. I saw in the words I'd committed to ink and paper that purple light at sunset, saw myself a little girl inside it, and saw myself, too, as me, this woman with knotty hands and what felt like too much knowledge of the sorrows God could visit upon you. I was there, the both of me, home to South Carolina, and that light.\n\nThat was last week. Three days after the funeral, me out to the mailbox and pushing up the red flag, sunrise still only a whisper of gray in the sky to the east.\n\nSTILL HILDA GLARED at me across the table as though I hadn't gotten her message _\u2014You bid higher\u2014_ me not yet winking right eye or left to let her know what I could do.\n\nPhyllis took a quick peek at the top of her cards, held them tight to her chest again. She was looking at me, waiting for my wink, one eye or the other.\n\nI looked again at my hand, saw the same set of cards as when first they'd been dealt by Mary Margaret\u2014three twos, two aces, and a king. Plenty to outbid Hilda. Plenty to take the whole hand.\n\nBut I didn't wink. I gave her no signal, and now I could feel Mary Margaret's eyes on me, too. They were waiting, watching me. They knew me. These were my friends.\n\n\"Naomi?\" Mary Margaret said near a whisper. She leaned in a little closer, tried at that broken smile again. \"Are you, are you okay?\" she whispered.\n\nThese were my friends.\n\nThat was when Carolyn came in from the kitchen, in her hands the platter of wienie wrappers. Right on time. \"Look what I found out in the kitchen!\" she said, eyes to the platter, smiling at all those toothpicks standing at attention.\n\nBut then she looked up for the silence that'd taken over the room, and quick stopped not but three paces in. She was behind Hilda, saw all eyes were on me. \"Oh,\" she said, her eyebrows up. \"Excuse me,\" she said to me, and nodded once hard, as though she were some loud visitor in her own home.\n\nPhyllis let her hands holding the cards slowly fall from her chest, the cards open for all of us to see, clear as Mary Margaret's. But it was only me to see them, the others still looking at me.\n\n\"Your cards, Phyllis,\" I said, but she didn't move, her mouth open a little, her eyebrows together the smallest way.\n\n\"Naomi,\" she said, her voice pitched at the same whisper as Mary Margaret's, then Hilda whispered, \"Sweetheart,\" the word two words inside her accent. But both words soft and untroubled.\n\nI looked to her. She'd fanned closed her hand, the cards looking from here like only one, held tight in both her hands. She tilted her head, that glare she'd given gone.\n\n\"We love you,\" Carolyn said, her voice full and true. \"You know that,\" she said. \"That we love you.\" She nodded hard again, as though this sealed things among us all, and then she smiled, moved the platter from one hand to the other. All those toothpicks, hovering just above and behind Hilda.\n\nAnd then I felt a touch at my wrist, soft and purposeful at once.\n\nMary Margaret.\n\nI turned to her, her hand out to me and touching me, and I let go my cards altogether, just let them drop to the tabletop. I tried at my own smile, grabbed hold of Mary Margaret's hand with my own fingers, the pain in them nothing for how hard I held on, and how hard she held on to me. The pain was nothing at all.\n\nHere was Mary Margaret, her mouth closed tight but smiling, the wrinkles beside her eyes magnified for the glasses. But her eyes, the gray-green of them, somehow all the more alive.\n\nWe were all alive. Here. Now.\n\nShe whispered, \"We do.\" She nodded once, just as Carolyn had, in the move nothing tentative or weak. This was truth. \"We love you.\"\n\n\"I'm moving back home,\" I said, the words out of me too quick, too quick, but out of me easy and powerful and clean, the way a knife just sharpened will betray you and slice a finger, the blood blossoming from your fingertip in a moment of red so beautiful you have no choice but to marvel at it, the color and brightness of it, before you even feel the pain.\n\nThere was nothing then, no smiling, no nods. No codes or secrets or even breathing, it seemed. Only those handprint turkeys above us all, evidence of the innocence in a child's hand, the magical way the outline of who you are can become something else altogether.\n\nJust like me here before my friends. A moment ago I was a friend, and in this silence I knew I was already a traitor.\n\nMary Margaret let go my hand, pulled it only a hair away despite how I'd held on to it. The movement was so small, quick, and clean itself I wasn't sure she'd really let go, and I looked down at our hands just to make certain.\n\nThey were apart, there on the tabletop.\n\nI looked up to her face, her eyes on me through her glasses, eyes already filled with tears because of me, and because of this betrayal.\n\nI was leaving her, and she was already leaving me.\n\n\"You have to go home?\" Carolyn said, and half turned back to the kitchen, her eyes still on me. \"Because I can put some of these up in a Tupperware for you.\" Her eyes narrowed a bit, her eyebrows furrowed with thought, piecing out what every other friend here had already.\n\n\"To South Carolina,\" I said to them all, and it occurred to me inside the swirl of all this betrayal that this was the first time I'd spoken this truth. The first time I'd let myself say out loud what I knew I was going to do: _I'm moving back home to South Carolina._\n\nI looked again at Mary Margaret. She was sitting up straight as she could in her chair, her hand even farther away, her eyes blinking again, holding off the tears welled up there.\n\nThen one fell, slipped out from beneath her glasses, and trailed down her cheek.\n\nI reached up, reached to her face, leaned toward her and toward her, because I had it in me to wipe that tear away. I wanted to let her know this was a good thing, that my going home was something not worth letting tears spill over.\n\nI reached, saw my hand rise from the table, from the cards and the coffee cups and napkins with toothpicks laid neatly on each; I saw my hand rise for this history of all we women together all these years, these sisters of mine, and saw my fingers unfurl, the knuckles thick with age, until here was just my index finger, reaching to Mary Margaret's face, to that tear and its trail down her cheek. Then here was my fingertip, nearly there, nearly there, to try and wipe away the pain I'd inflicted on her, my oldest friend, my dearest friend.\n\nBut then, in the instant before I touched her face, she turned her cheek from me a fraction. Her eyes were still on me, that tear's trace gone untouched by me, my old finger left alone and useless, robbed of its purpose.\n\nAnd I saw just then that my touching her wasn't a move I'd intended as comfort to Mary Margaret, but as a comfort to me.\n\nIt was me betraying her, with my heading home.\n\nMary Margaret's jaw set hard, her teeth clenched, her mouth pursed up. None of it anything I'd seen on her face before. Never.\n\nBut here it was, that word again: _betrayal._\n\nShe said, \"What about Lonny Thompson?\"\n\nNow it was me to pull away, to haul in a breath as sharp as broken glass, to watch my hand crumple in on itself and draw away from her altogether. The word _betrayal_ was now a double-edged sword: I could betray her, and she could do the same to me.\n\n\"Mary Margaret?\" Hilda said, and Phyllis said, \"They were such dear friends, Eli and Lonny,\" and Carolyn said, \"If you have plumbing problems, my son-in-law Gary's the one to give a call,\" and I turned to them all once more, and the world came back to me.\n\nHere were these other friends, all with concern and puzzlement on their faces, their eyes going from me to Mary Margaret and back again for whatever strange connection this was: I'd told them I was leaving, and Mary Margaret named Lonny first thing.\n\nI sat up straight as Mary Margaret, stunned and surprised into this moment of time for the fact it was Mary Margaret, finally, to speak in code of how we would say good-bye. She knew me, knew my sorrow and regret. And she'd laid it bare open, a wound gaping and still just as raw as the day I'd told her of it, no matter the years and other sorrows that'd rained down on us both.\n\nShe'd spoken the code: _you have betrayed me._\n\nAnd now Hilda, and Carolyn, and Phyllis all seemed suddenly too far away, as far from me as I was from that sun outside Mahlon and Ruth's bedroom that first morning after.\n\nAs far away as I'd been from Lonny when I'd closed the door on him, his words to me the same ones I wanted to give to Mary Margaret first, and next to these other women: _forgive me,_ I wanted to say.\n\nI put my hands to the edge of the table. I looked at them all, watching me, and felt my legs begin to move of their own. I felt myself push on that table edge, felt myself begin the thoughts that involved making my hand go to beneath this chair to pick up my purse. All this thought, in just this instant. I was leaving. Now. Good a time as any.\n\nAnd the doorbell rang, split this moment in two, same as it had when Lonny'd shown up at our door. A doorbell ringing, cutting us all in two.\n\nCarolyn said, \"I'll get it,\" as though nothing had passed here at all. She came around Phyllis's end of the table and then behind me, still with the plate of wienie wrappers in her hand, and into the foyer.\n\n\"Why do you want to go back there?\" Phyllis said, her words hushed. She reached to me, held hard my right hand, hers warm and soft and gentle. Hilda said full-voiced, each word clipped as it'd ever been, \"You have not been there in many years!\" Slowly she shook her head.\n\nMary Margaret looked away, brought her hands to her lap. Her chin was turned from me, almost touched her shoulder for how low she brought it.\n\nI heard the front door open, felt the quick push in of cold air from outside even before I had time to answer either of them, though there were no words to speak.\n\n\"What a surprise!\" Carolyn said, and we all turned to see who was here.\n\nPeach. Ruth's friend from work. Who she'd gone out to the movies with this evening.\n\nShe stood just inside the foyer, held her purse by the strap with both hands so that it hung down in front of her. She had the same blue parka she'd had on when she'd come to pick up Ruth, and the same black slacks, her hair the same lacquered flip, and I wondered why I was tallying all of this up, and I realized it was because of what was missing: Ruth.\n\nPeach was trying hard to smile, her eyes already to mine and nervous, and now I was standing, my purse forgotten, these girls forgotten. I said, \"Ruth?\"\n\nAnd Ruth edged in beside Peach, poked her head in the doorway. It was all I could see of her, just her head, that hair of hers long and falling down in a straight line from the collar of her red parka, her skin pale, her mouth working up a smile.\n\nBut there was nothing of a smile to it at all.\n\nBecause her eyes were telling the story right then, and I knew again why my son loved her, knew it for her eyes, and knew too the sorrow there, genuine and still unsolved.\n\nShe was looking at me.\n\nWhat was it going out to a movie could do for you? I wondered, me headed for the foyer, across those few feet between us toward her pale and lonely face.\n\nAnd what was it playing cards with friends could do to solve the sorrow all your own?\n\n\"We had dinner over to the Friendly's at the mall,\" Peach said, her voice pitched low and quiet, as nervous as her eyes and smile, \"and then we went into the theater, and halfway through the movie she just stood up and started out. I thought she was going to the bathroom and I sat there for fifteen minutes before I\u2014\"\n\n\"Naomi,\" Ruth said, and Peach hushed for the word out of her. Ruth was still working that smile, biting down hard on her cheeks, the corners of her mouth up in a grimace she hoped would pass for a smile.\n\nShe held out a hand to me then, and now her hand was in mine, cold and thin. I could feel the small bones there, as though I were holding in my hand a shivering sparrow dropped from a tree for the cold, but still alive, and not yet given up.\n\nCarolyn stood with the plate in one hand, the other holding the doorknob, on her face a sweet smile, her forever happy to have someone to her home, no matter what the occasion. \"We've got hot coffee and wienie wrappers and a good game of Bird in Hand going on,\" she said. \"We'd be pleased for your company!\"\n\nPeach looked to her, let out a quick breath, as though this'd been the news she'd been waiting for. She stepped one foot farther into the foyer, and though I'd been betrayed by my best friend only a moment before, still I made to pull Ruth inside this house with its food and warmth and friends.\n\nI wanted to bring her in here, the only place I knew could even come close to being safe.\n\nAnd it seemed for that moment she would come inside, that we could step into this home cluttered with handprint turkeys and waxed paper autumn leaves, and feel that we were a part of this all. We were in fact safe from the accidents waiting just outside the spill of light from this open door, accidents that lay hidden in the darkness out there, lined up to gut our lives with whatever next surprise God was wanting to hand us.\n\nRuth's eyes were hard on mine, in them the barest beginning of relief: there was trouble in being alone even if it was with a friend. Maybe trouble wouldn't find her here, with all these women inside a house that wasn't her own.\n\nThat was what I saw in her eyes, the very beginning, perhaps, of hope.\n\nI felt her fingers quicken in mine, felt her hold a little tighter, felt her begin to move toward me, and inside.\n\nBut then Mary Margaret\u2014my Mary Margaret, my girlfriend, my trust\u2014called from behind me, \"What does Ruth think about you moving back to South Carolina?\"\n\nShe knew me, Mary Margaret did. She knew me for the coward I truly was, knew me to have lived a lie my whole life\u2014I was a faithful wife, a good woman\u2014and for that fact of who I really was she knew, too, that I wouldn't have the heart or courage to let Ruth know what I was going to do.\n\nBecause I hadn't yet told Ruth.\n\nMary Margaret knew me.\n\nThat relief, that barest of glimmers, bled out of Ruth's eyes in just that instant, soon as the words out of Mary Margaret registered.\n\nI looked at Ruth's eyes, saw her lips move, and the whispered words that came with that movement, _What did she say? What did she say?_\n\nNow it was my hand quickening in Ruth's, and without letting my eyes fall from hers I said to Carolyn, still with the doorknob in one hand and the plate of wienie wrappers in the other, \"You take care, Carolyn. We'll be heading on back to the house now.\" I reached my free hand to the coat tree beside me, pulled from it my old black wool coat. Here was a rush of movement behind me, the girls all getting up, words bubbling as they made their way around the table to try and persuade me to stay for whatever reasons they had, and now they were touching me, everything commotion, Peach talking too.\n\nBut here were Ruth's hopeless and puzzled eyes on me, her hand growing even smaller in mine.\n\n\"You'll be needing this,\" I heard beside me, and quick turned to Mary Margaret.\n\nShe stood an arm's length away, her jaw set even tighter, her chin still turned. In her hand was my purse, held out to me like it was an old loaf of bread gone moldy, ready to be tossed in the trash.\n\nI took it from her, grabbed hard at it, the move too fast and tough for my fingers to feel anything but pain. I turned, pushed through them, my coat not even on, and stepped out through the door and onto the front porch.\n\nRuth turned with me, her hand still in mine, and the news finally came to me that yes, I would have to tell Ruth, would have to let her know I was heading home to light and water and the smell of pine-straw in the hot summer sun.\n\nShe was still a young woman. She had her friends here, her home. She had to stay here.\n\n\"Call me,\" Peach said from behind us, and Phyllis said, \"We'll talk to you tomorrow.\" Hilda put in, \"Please make certain to be careful!\" and Carolyn, her words smiling and surprised, I could hear, at this sudden turn of events in her own house, said, \"Quilting tomorrow at your house or Phyllis's?\"\n\nI let go the question, no words to answer. Quilting. What did that mean?\n\n\"What was she talking about?\" Ruth said then. \"About South Carolina?\" and though I knew she was looking at me, waiting, waiting, all I did was to hurry a little faster down the walk, and away from the light spilling out that front door.\n\n\"Just let's go on home,\" I said. \"We need to be home,\" I said, and felt the cold of this night slice into me with the truth of who I was.\n\nA liar. An adulterer. A coward running for a home anyone with a lick of sense knew wouldn't be there once I arrived.\nChapter 8\n\nBLESS YOUR HEART,\" I said once we were in the car. \"Bless your heart. Maybe going out and all was just too soon. Just too soon to be going to the movies.\" I turned on the headlights, eased my old Electra away from the curb.\n\nWind tossed leaves across the street in front of us, the small bit of it lit with the headlights. They were single leaves, the last ones that'd hung on to the trees and made it through the fall, when all the hardworking people who lived in these houses we passed had spent Saturday mornings raking up the ones that'd given up on time, then bagged them and set them at the curb for the trashmen to pick up, or simply burned them in great heaps out back.\n\nThey were single leaves, gray, dead as dead could be as they skittered out in front of this car, no triumph at all in hanging on to the last. Nothing good about not dropping on time, with the rest of them, weeks ago.\n\nI turned right off Florence Road and onto Route 9, headed back toward downtown through Florence Center, past the park. Then here were the brick dormitories and crosswalks and what have you of Smith College all clustering up.\n\nI looked at it all, the windows lit in the dorms, and the big white houses that in the dark out here seemed as white as day, like they were stronger than the fact of night. This was the hub of town, the reason we were here, if you read the newspapers the way they wanted you to read them. Smith College was the center of the universe, though it was nothing more than a finishing school for the confused and rich, for girls who, when their cars broke down, handed over to my Eli a credit card and a shrug when he told them how much it would take to fix.\n\nThen we passed through the blinking yellow light out front of John M. Green Hall, the auditorium a hulk of shadows, those pillars out front like the ribs of some huge dead animal all shadowed over.\n\nOver fifty years I'd lived here, and I'd never been inside.\n\nBut why would I have? This was Smith College, and the closest I would have ever come to this place had to do with my age when I'd moved here. That was the most I'd ever have in common with the place: the fact I was a young woman once who was old enough to have gone to college here.\n\nI was married. And I was after having a child with my husband, the one I loved with all my heart, and did until he died. College hadn't mattered, and never did.\n\nI was in love with him, and we'd had our lives put together since that evening at the table back home to Mount Pleasant, him smiling at me, my momma dropping her fork, my daddy with his eyes wide open to us both.\n\nWe passed the museum at Smith, Main Street easing down the hill and to the left. We got the red light there just before the street drops into town, and the boutiques and caf\u00e9s and gourmet cooking stores and art galleries. The whole street\u2014four lanes wide, crosswalks ready and willing to hold out a helping hand to the pedestrians always out\u2014 was lit with streetlamps, washed everything in a kind of orange glow, the street and all its fashion laid out like presents under a Christmas tree for someone else. For the wealthy folks who'd settled in up here over the last twenty years, looking for what it meant to live in a hometown.\n\nBecause that was what they all wanted, and what we all wanted: a town to call home.\n\nHere was why I wanted to leave. Here it was: I wanted my hometown.\n\n\"It was the dark of it,\" Ruth said, and I turned to her. She was sitting up straight in her seat now, eyes to the stoplight out front of us, just looking at that red as though it were listening to her. Red light glistened in her eyes, wet for her crying.\n\n\"It was the dark inside the theater,\" she said. \"The way the lights went out, and we were all left sitting there watching something going on on the wall. Watching these people live their lives.\" She paused a moment, swallowed, and I could see her jaw set, the muscles working a bit in the light from the lampposts outside.\n\nShe turned to me. She bit her lips together, swallowed again. \"It was too much what I've been inside every day so far. Too much like it.\"\n\nThe light changed, and the green washed her face in a shade that seemed to hide her beauty and love and life even more deeply inside herself. But still I could see the glisten in her eyes, the tears there.\n\nI nodded. I said, \"I understand.\"\n\nShe turned away, looked ahead again. She nodded one time, the smallest nod imaginable.\n\nSo far it'd been me to try and teach and comfort her about what it might mean to be a widow, to love and lose and know it would never be back again. But she'd taught me this time.\n\nShe knew death herself, knew already what it was to lose your momma and then daddy, though she never spoke of it to me. We never talked about either of them, and through all these years I'd never once brought it to her, the fact she didn't speak on it. All I'd known was what Mahlon had given me, and most of it early on, when he himself was finding out about her when they were dating.\n\nHer mother had had ovarian cancer, and'd died at home the way she wanted, there to Ashfield, the hill town up off Route 9. Ruth had been with her when she passed, and then Ruth'd moved with her daddy on down to Holyoke, where he worked Chicopee Mills as a supervisor. He died when she was a high school senior in the mill fire in 1974, to be taken care of for a year or two by an aunt and uncle in Hadley, until she moved out and started on her own.\n\nAnd met Mahlon in an English class in college.\n\nShe knew already the truth of loss. This was, just like she'd said, all like sitting in the dark and watching a life played out just beyond your reach, that life your own.\n\nI waited for one more nod from her for the peace it'd give me, for the comfort of it, however glancing. But she did nothing, only looked out at that green light.\n\nAnd I drove, down off the hill and into the narrow valley the buildings and shops and apartments Main Street all made. People moved on the sidewalks, inside stores and buying things and eating things and laughing and talking, even this late of an evening. Even with a wind that tore at the last single leaves on trees, and carried them out and away.\n\nThere was life out there on this street, with it and inside it and through it all this wind, this dark, those leaves now and again. Inside and through all of it the truth that life went right on, even when you lost your heart.\n\nTHERE WAS no reason to it, Lonny and me. And no excuse.\n\nBut I only know this fact now that I can see as an old woman, a woman old enough to know that when we are young and make the mistakes we do, we are still fool enough to fool ourselves. We are so much more willing to believe ourselves, believe the lie we give ourselves to crawl out from under the fact we are sinners and sinners first, no matter the way these days that word doesn't ring with anything but the dusty sound of old people.\n\nSin.\n\nWhen we are young, it means, _I have made a mistake._ When we are old, it means, _I have separated myself from love._\n\nSo that what I told Mary Margaret one afternoon in April of 1952, the two of us having coffee over to her kitchen, the daffodils outside her window up and bright yellow and more alive than I'd felt myself for years, was the story of a mistake, and not the separation from love.\n\nIt was the story of Naomi, that same girl, and how she and her husband had been told by her doctor there wasn't any hope. It was the story of how they'd left this doctor, the fifth one they'd seen in four years, every one of them with the same story to tell them both, and how they'd walked down the three floors of the gray stairwell of the doctor's office there at the hospital in Springfield. Her husband, her Eli, had walked behind her slower and slower, until when she'd reached the bottom floor he was a whole flight above her.\n\nShe stood at the door out of the stairwell, a door painted the same dull gray as the rest of her life now that she'd been given this news again and always. She was waiting for him to open the door for her, her Eli the gentleman he was and always had been and always would be.\n\nBut he was so many steps above, so many steps away, that this Naomi took in her mind to open the door herself, and reached out to the old tarnished doorknob, and pulled it open, felt in her face the quick shove of hard cold air from outside, felt it through her altogether.\n\nA different kind of air this morning. Early April air, on it somehow the kind of hopeful wet and softer edge, the air no longer the same solid and hopeless cold it'd been since early December.\n\nThere was hope on this air. There was life to it, somehow.\n\nShe pushed the door open, stepped out into the parking lot and the gray sky. She didn't bother to gather her coat close about her neck, but let the cold course through her deeper and deeper. She heard behind her the door close of its own, her husband so many steps behind her.\n\nHe'd said nothing to her as they drove home, up the gray and brown valley, the thin road before them simply another shade of gray they had to cope with along with the rest of the gray that was the all of this news: there was no hope.\n\nThey said nothing, as though there had been an agreement between them forged in the secret the doctor had revealed to them, the secret that their bodies had betrayed them despite the love they had for each other. The doctor's words were so loud in their hearts now and for the final time\u2014money had run out for the number of doctors they had seen, for the costs of such specialists\u2014that the notion of words they could pass between them seemed as hopeless as the gray woods outside the window as they drove, as hopeless as the gray sky above this all.\n\nBut there had been this air, the feel of it, the possibility.\n\nThat was when, in the telling of this all to Mary Margaret only days after the fact of the mistake she'd made, Mary Margaret, her friend, her love, her listener, had reached a hand out to her across the table in her kitchen, and had taken Naomi's in hers. She'd smiled at her, and said nothing. She was there to listen, and to listen.\n\nOnce home, they had sat in the cab of the pickup, still no words between them. And then this girl, this Naomi, had opened her door, felt in that instant the same cold and full air, the same hope that seemed just past where she could touch. She felt that cold and that wet, felt it around her legs, and here at her throat, and on her face, and she'd turned to him, her beloved, and had put her hand to his there on the gearshift. He hadn't yet turned off the engine, and she felt through his hand the tremble of the engine, and thought too she could feel the tremble of his heart.\n\nShe looked at him, looked at him, waiting. But his eyes did not meet hers, only looked out the windshield at the house before them. He let out a quick and stiff breath, blinked one time, twice, and then a third, the last blink long and purposeful, she knew, his eyelids closed and quivering.\n\nHe wasn't going with her inside the house. She knew he wouldn't accompany her on the trek through this hopeful air that mocked them both, and into their hopeless house and along the hopeless hallway and into the hopeless bedroom, and to that hopeless bed they shared.\n\nBecause this was what she wanted, she'd known only then: she wanted him, now. She wanted the two of them together and in each other's arms, and him inside her and her with him as close as they could ever be. She wanted him because, with this news of the end of their lives, it seemed the only way she might live to take the next breath would be to feel him sharing with her in this hopelessness. She wanted him inside her, his mouth beside her ear, hers beside his, his arms holding her, and him inside her while she held him.\n\nShe wanted to hear the quick breaths in and out they would make, what on that night in Charleston, outside their window the whole of Charleston Harbor and the huge live oaks and grand mansions like brick-and-stucco peacocks along the Battery, had been a kind of music, the two of them breathing in and out hard and quiet and with a kind of joy that made no accommodation to the truth of the world, the sorrow in it and just outside their window.\n\nShe wanted to share with him this new world, the hopeless one.\n\nBut then, her hand still on his, his eyes closed, lids quivering for just this moment, she knew he was gone, and even before he opened his eyes she lifted her hand from his, from the trembling of the engine and his heart both.\n\nHe didn't look at her, and she closed the door, eased it shut without slamming it hard so that there would be no reading into this any anger on her part at the way she would enter the house betrayed as she'd just been. But it was betrayal she'd felt, full and true and hopeless.\n\nMary Margaret held her hand. The daffodils seemed to shout for how bright a yellow they were. Their coffee grew cold. The radiators hissed. Mary Margaret held her hand.\n\nEli backed out of the driveway, pulled away, headed off down Jackson Street toward where only he knew.\n\nAnd Naomi'd stood at the steps up to the house, watched him turn off Jackson onto Elm, the only evidence he'd ever existed the thin pale blue of exhaust that hung like the smallest ghost down at the corner, where he'd gunned the engine as he turned.\n\nShe looked to the house, to the pale yellow clapboards, the windows on either side of the door, the curtains inside, the rooms past them darkened, unknowable.\n\nNo one's house she knew.\n\nShe turned, headed on up Jackson toward Market, walking.\n\nShe walked. And walked. And found herself at a house she knew. A house on Third Street, a house she'd been to only a few times for the fact the man who lived inside was a bachelor, her husband's partner in the plumbing business, a wartime pal who'd never gotten married.\n\nShe went up the steps to his door, his house a small one with only one window to the left of the door, dull green asphalt shingles for siding, no curtains in the window.\n\nIt was lunchtime. His own pickup sat at the curb out front. He was home.\n\nHe'd held her hand a moment too long back home in Charleston, there at the train station. His eyes had held hers a moment too long.\n\nShe hadn't slammed the door to her husband's pickup, the one that had turned onto Elm and left behind a blue cloud of smoke.\n\nShe saw her hand go to the door, the scarred and weathered door of a house in which a bachelor lived, saw her hand, saw it.\n\nAnd saw before she'd touched the wood the door swing open and wide, to Lonny Thompson, smiling at her, a napkin in his hands and wiping.\n\nHe smiled, looked past her either way up and down the street, and she saw on his face a kind of puzzlement, wonder at why she was here and how her husband was not with her.\n\n\"Naomi?\" he'd said when his eyes finally came back to hers. \"You all right?\"\n\nAnd that was when she had cried, fully sobbed, and fallen into his arms, this man, her husband's best friend, his partner, his best man.\n\nTHERE HAD BEEN no joy to it. There had been no love to it, nor any ecstasy. There had been only two people inside a house on Third, two streets over from the railroad track. A house with dull green asphalt shingles for siding, inside it a woman, this Naomi, whose folly would haunt her the way a scar will haunt you, its lasting mark nothing you can do about save for trying to hide it. There had been only a woman, angry at her husband and the fact there was no hope for any children, no hope for that kind of love she had hoped for, an increase, she'd believed, of the love she had for her husband, and he had for her, by bringing into this world one from them both.\n\nThey had tried for years. They had tried, and failed, and her husband's hand not taking hers there in the cab of the truck, and the air this day that seemed full and possible, and the gray sky seemed all of it betrayal enough to make her seek out this man, her husband's best friend.\n\nA good man. A man who believed in the words she gave to him as she'd cried once she was inside his house, the door closed solidly behind them, and as she pulled him to his own bedroom, and as she tugged at his belt and shirt, the man too stunned and too much of a human to understand that this betrayal could be stopped, and perhaps himself a moment too lonely inside the all of his life, a man who could believe as he reeled and swallowed and then, finally, began to hear the words she gave him, words she knew were a lie and yet which fed this moment, allowed it to grow and breathe and live of its own until the two of them were there on his bed, their clothes still on, her finding him and taking him in and crying all at once, him still stunned and lonely and a human being.\n\nThe lie of her words: _I've wanted you. I've wanted you always, since the_ _day at the train station._\n\nThe sound the two had made, their breathing, was no music, but the sound of chaos, of the breaking of lives, a sound even more hopeless, she heard in the midst of it all, his mouth beside her ear when finally he'd given in to her in his loneliness, than the gray sky outside this house on Third, more hopeless than the inside of the truck cab on the way home, more hopeless than any doctor's words.\n\nMore hopeless even than the closing of her Eli's eyes to her, than his trembling hand under hers.\n\nIt was hopelessness that had driven her to Lonny Thompson, hidden behind her own eyes the hope like a ghost, like cold wet air at the throat, that perhaps she would conceive in this act of separation.\n\nShe wanted a child.\n\nAnd then it was over, and she opened her eyes to a man she did not know, his eyes already open and wide in astonishment at this moment, at the sudden shift in the earth's axis here at lunch of an April day.\n\nLonny Thompson. Her husband's best friend, a man he'd met in the hull of a submarine. A man at a train station who'd held her hand a moment too long.\n\nThe reason she had moved here, her husband this man's partner.\n\nLonny Thompson.\n\nNo one she knew.\n\nShe left him there on the bed, still with his puzzlement and wonder, and had walked on home to that house on Jackson, and climbed the five brick steps to the front door, entered her house, and went to the bathroom, where she had run the water for a bath too hot to bear, and she had climbed in, bearing it, bearing it, and washed herself and washed herself and washed herself, as though in the washing she might kill what might have already been created inside her, and in the hopes, too, she might find beneath the skin she washed off, nearly boiled off for how hot the water was, someone new, instead of this woman she knew even less than Lonny Thompson.\n\n_Naomi._ Who was she?\n\nA mistake, she had told Mary Margaret. A mistake, and she had cried.\n\nAnd of course it was a lie, calling sin a mistake, when it is always and only a separation from love. A separation made by this woman, this hopeless and crying woman who would, in the telling of this to Mary Margaret, find herself saying it was all a mistake, that it was a mistake and something she would wish to take back, because she loved her husband, her Eli.\n\nShe loved him whom she had betrayed.\n\nAnd Mary Margaret had never told, never once spoke of it.\n\nDaffodils still shouted outside the kitchen window. The radiator still hissed.\n\nThis girl, this Naomi, cried, and Mary Margaret listened.\n\nELI CAME HOME that evening to the house dark, no lights on. He'd walked in the back door, like every evening.\n\n_Naomi,_ he'd called. _Naomi?_\n\nHe moved through the house, checked room and room and room to finally find her here, in the bathtub, water gone stone cold. She was shivering, and he knelt to her as soon as he'd seen the shadow of her in the dark, found her with one hand holding tight to the edge of the tub, the other clutched in a fist at her chest. He leaned quickly to her, touched her cheek and forehead, felt how cold she was. He stood, her hand in his, and pulled her from where she had tried to wash herself free of her mistake.\n\nAnd then he had lifted her fully, taken her, wet and shivering, into both arms and lifted her free of the cold water, stood her on the bath mat, toweled her dry all there in the dark. Then he'd lifted her again, her still shivering, still shivering, and carried her to their bedroom, where he lay her in their bed, pulled over her first the sheet and blanket, then the Wedding Ring quilt her mother had made for them.\n\nA Wedding Ring quilt. A gift, made in love for love.\n\nHer love, her Eli, turned from her then, and left the room.\n\nThe girl had watched him leave, afraid for what would be the first of every time he ever left her again that it might be the last time, that the mistake she had made might have been found out and the back of the man she loved moving away from her might be the last she saw of him.\n\nHe left the room, her there in the dark growing darker each moment her mistake pressed down upon her, almost taking her breath from her\u2014the shivering would not stop, would never stop\u2014until it seemed in fact her breath were leaving her, that she would never breathe again for the mistake she had made, and the fact he was leaving her, as he had every right to do. Every right in the world to leave her alone, with her mistake.\n\nBut then here was movement in the dark before her. Here was her husband, her Eli shrouded so deeply in the dark and her mistake that it seemed the boy she'd squinted into sunlight all those years ago might have been a dream. But here he was inside this moment of darkness and mistake, his arms full with other quilts brought from the hall closet, and then this dark figure _\u2014This is my husband,_ she marveled, _This is my love\u2014_ leaned over her and lay first one quilt, and another, and another, heaped them all on her to warm her. All of this in the dark for the failing light of the world outside their window, the hopeless and sorrow-filled world out there going dark upon them all.\n\nBut here was her husband, showing her his love despite that hopelessness. Despite the slight ghost he'd left behind when he'd gunned the engine, and despite the way he'd closed his eyes and held them closed.\n\nHere he was, bestowing love on her, inside a hopeless house that would never be a home, both for what they could not make between them, and for the mistake she had made just this day, this most hopeless of all hopeless days.\n\nWhen his arms were empty, he reached to the corner of all these quilts, and pulled them back, a move that seemed remarkable for its strength\u2014to be able to pull away so much warmth, she thought, to be able to lift with such ease so much love\u2014and he climbed into bed next to her, still in his clothes from this day, still in his uniform shirt, the name _Eli_ stitched in red thread above the left pocket of the gray shirt, still in his gray work pants. He'd kicked off his shoes somewhere before this moment, she felt with her toes as he moved in next to her, and he smelled of coffee and cigarettes and of soap from when he'd washed his hands just before heading home from the shop. All these same smells he carried with him every time he came home from work, and she marveled at these smells, too, and how easy they came with him, how simple and true they were, how much him they were, how much Eli.\n\nHis clothes were rough at first, and cold, though she knew how much colder she herself must have been to his touch, and he pulled the quilts back over them both, and turned to her beneath them all, and took her in his arms, and held her.\n\nShe moved in close to him, and closer, felt her skin prickling over not in cold but in response to the depth of her mistake, herself huddled inside herself and her mistake to have betrayed such a man as this. Her skin prickled over, grew taut for it, fairly bristled at this gentleness, this act of love she bore witness to, and she felt the pain of her skin against him, a jagged and sharp pain that had, she knew, nothing to do with the roughness of his clothes against her skin, but had everything to do with her own heart, with the wound that her whole self had become. The all of her, fresh and stinging and raw, her whole self a wound, she knew at the end of this day that would haunt her the rest of all her days.\n\nAnd then, in a kind of miracle she knew even in that moment to be precisely that, a kind of miracle, her skin against his seemed to begin to heal, to soften, to gain warmth from the quilts, from his arms, from him.\n\nEli. Her husband. Her love.\n\nThat was when she allowed open her hand, clutched tight in her fist what she'd pledged to keep close.\n\nFor before she had gotten into a tub of water too hot to bear, she had burrowed in her bottom clothes drawer, found back in the farthest corner she could possibly find to have hidden it.\n\nA locket. Gold, and simple. No filigree, no engraved words.\n\nBut the empty side of the locket too empty to keep close to her these last few years of trying, and trying, and trying yet again to fill it with a photo of whoever God might give them, so that the empty side had become to her a kind of curse hidden away in anger and sorrow and failure.\n\nShe had found it where she had buried it, and then had climbed into that tub, and bore that heat, but not before she lay the locket, still closed, on the edge of the tub, balanced there while she washed herself and washed herself, and while inside the washing she prayed to God to be forgiven, and to be allowed no child inside her for what she had done. And still she washed, and prayed, and washed in the hopes she might kill whatever child might now be materializing in the empty side, and she prayed she might be forgiven of this death as well, washing herself in water too hot to bear in the hopes when she opened the locket she would not find in there that child.\n\nShe'd watched the locket, and watched it, and when she finished washing, the water already on its way to tepid, she reached to the locket, and opened it, and found a dark kind of miracle, the miracle that was no miracle and the same miracle she had lived through all this while: there was only her husband inside, opposite him nothing.\n\nThere was only herself, fresh and stinging and raw, a wound waiting for the miracle of healing.\n\nShe held the locket out before her, looked at both the man and the emptiness beside him.\n\nShe held it, and looked at it, while the water had gone from tepid to cool to stone cold, and while dim light in the single window above the toilet failed to the utter black in which her husband, the man across from the empty side, had called to her.\n\n_Naomi?_ her husband had called.\n\nShe snapped closed the locket, clutched it in a fist she held to her chest, her other hand tight to the edge of the tub. And she'd waited, hoping for him to save her.\n\nThey didn't make love, there in the dark that night. He didn't take off his clothes, and she did not reach to him in a way that would signal him she wanted anything other than this moment, this beginning to heal. And he did not touch her with any signals himself, any moves that would mean he wanted more than this moment himself.\n\nBut for a moment she let open her hand, and saw in the darkness there was only enough light to see the locket, there in the pale of her hand, a locket plain as her hand was her own.\n\nShe closed her fingers around it again, but now it was different. Warm somehow, despite the cold in her.\n\nThey lay there, until morning, and began their lives again.\n\nALL THIS\u2014all this\u2014I had told Mary Margaret. All this Mary Margaret knew.\n\nAll of it taken in with the holding of my hand not but a few days after it had all happened, the yellow daffodils full and whole and bright outside her window.\n\nEli's and my lives began again.\n\nI watched and hoped and prayed and cried for my period for the next three weeks, and then it came, welcome as a sailor home from war.\n\nEli and I didn't touch one another other than to hold each other to sleep for two months after that night, as though the two of us knew there was a passing of something between us. Some dying, maybe, of our old selves away from the hope we'd had and into this new world of no children.\n\nThen, three months after we'd started making love again, three months after a night in which I trembled and he trembled and we both cried out of the fear we had for whatever might happen next to us, whatever world we were about to enter\u2014three months after that first night back together, months during which we made love as though we had never done so before, reborn in us as well the discovery that we had each other, that the one either of us held in their arms was the bedrock and foundation of the way we would know the world for the rest of our lives\u2014three months of that kind of lovemaking in which we were making love to and with each other, my period did not arrive.\n\nTwo months later Eli and Lonny Thompson ended their partnership. Then here was Mahlon.\n\nI never asked Eli about the breakup of the partnership, never asked after whose decision it was to have Lonny stay with the plumbing business and Eli strike out new with the garage on Lower King.\n\nI never asked him, for fear there would be some question from him that might somehow undo me, expose the mistake I had made, reveal to him the scar of my sin against him.\n\nAnd Mary Margaret never said word one to me about any or all of this. Never.\n\nUntil this night, when she'd asked her small and simple and treacherous question: _What about Lonny Thompson?_\n\nAnd here had been brought back to me my sin, the act become now, with my age and sorrows, not just the mistake it had always been, but the separation from love it had always been as well. Me, from Eli.\n\nMary Margaret had betrayed me. In asking she'd intended not an answer from me but to remind me of my own leaving her, my own betrayal moving home to South Carolina would be.\n\n_Don't leave me,_ she'd said with that question.\n\nBut I was leaving her. No matter the mistake this was, no matter the separation from love it would be. No matter Mary Margaret's sin against me. Or mine against her.\n\nAnd still there lingered in me the fact of her words, the cold of them, the stark and solitary notion:\n\n_What about Lonny Thompson?_\nChapter 9\n\nI HEARD THE SOUND in what I thought was sleep: _tap tap tap,_ then _tap tap tap_ again. I wanted to give the sound to a dream, to find it perhaps Mahlon at a door, or even Eli, knocking so gently and quietly and wanting in to see me.\n\nBut then I found my eyes were open, that I was not inside sleep. Neither Mahlon nor Eli were here to find me.\n\nIt was my bedroom door, and here came once more _tap tap tap._ I turned, saw pale light frame the door, the door ease open.\n\nRuth.\n\nShe leaned in, her hair falling from her shoulders, her face gone to me. My glasses were on the nightstand beside me, and the light from the kitchen fell in from behind her.\n\nShe was inside my room, reached a hand to me, moved toward me.\n\n\"Naomi,\" she said. \"Come with me.\"\n\nI said nothing, as though perhaps this were the dream I'd believed it wasn't. There was no choice to this, I saw. Here was my son's wife, his love, offering her hand to me in the midnight dark of my bedroom, and I took it, felt how warm it was in mine.\n\nRuth. My Ruth.\n\nWE'D DRIVEN the rest of the way home in silence, down through Main Street, then under the railroad overpass, left onto Market and on down to Walnut and into the driveway that hugged the house on the left side, then into the turnout behind the house, the square of pavement where for years we'd wedged all three of our vehicles:my Electra, Ruth's Corolla, Mahlon's Chevy pickup.\n\nNow Mahlon's pickup was gone, towed away from that spot on River Road, where the black ice had been. Neither Ruth nor I'd laid eyes on the truck. It was gone, and for a moment I'd thought of Eli, and the shop, and the wrecked vehicles he'd have out back, pushed up against the chain-link fence that separated his lot from the railroad tracks. Even then I'd stayed away from those things when I'd come get him for lunch or to just stop in and tell him I loved him, each wrecked vehicle I could see out my windshield a life changed, and never for the better.\n\nMahlon's truck was gone, so much more room here behind our house, as though this were itself some kind of blessing, not having to nose our vehicles bumper-to-bumper just to fit.\n\nI turned off the engine, and we'd sat there a few moments in the dark, the engine slowly ticking down, the cold of the evening leaching in through the windows. The house, outside Ruth's window, hung high above us, white clapboard glowing in the night like a ghost itself, hulking and hard and all angles.\n\nHer hands were together in her lap, clutched in them the strap of her purse. I reached to her, found one of them, felt the cold of it. She looked at me, let go the strap, and held my hand. \"Maybe it's just too soon,\" I said once more, trying the empty words out on her again like some sort of sales pitch for a product she'd had no choice but to buy.\n\nThen we went in, up the steps into the back of the house, where my kitchen sat. We took off our coats, and I hung them on the pegs just inside the door, and we'd leaned into each other, and we held each other.\n\nShe'd let go of me first, pulled away, but held my shoulders a moment longer. For an instant I'd seen in her eyes on mine some recognition of something else between us. Not the movie, and the way the world happened out of our reach now that our husbands were gone. And not the notion this was all too soon to be going out.\n\nIt was something else I'd seen in her eyes, something I could not name.\n\nAnd then I had walked with her to the bottom of the stairs, let go, and watched her walk upstairs to her and Mahlon's floor. She took each step slowly, looked back down at me once when she was a few steps up, but not again. Once she made it to the top, I'd called, \"Goodnight,\" and she'd said \"Goodnight\" without turning to me, and she moved into her room.\n\nNOW HERE WAS her hand warm in mine, nowhere near the cold it'd been when I'd found it in the car.\n\nWith my other hand I found my glasses on the nightstand. She turned from me, and we moved through my room, out into the kitchen, where my own radiators hissed not at all any different than Mary Margaret's had a morning so many years before.\n\n\"Ruth?\" I said.\n\nShe was in a flannel gown and her old mint-green bathrobe, her fleece-lined slippers. I'd not even a moment to put on my robe or slippers, but that did not matter for the warmth in the kitchen, a kind of warmth I recognized immediately. One that went past radiators hissing, and I glanced to my right to the stove. The little red light above the knob was on, the oven heating up.\n\nThis was the feel of the kitchen every winter morning when the three of us were in here for breakfast: the radiators, the oven, the dark outside.\n\nI looked to the clock on the stovetop: 2:41.\n\n\"Ruth?\" I said again. \"Honey?\"\n\nShe looked at me still, and here in the kitchen light I saw that same look in her eyes as when she'd pulled away. Still I could not find a home for that look. There was nothing on her face I could read, only her eyes on mine, and now I was troubled.\n\nShe led me to the table, pulled out my chair without a word, and I sat.\n\nHere was the table, the vinyl tablecloth, white with those tulips scattered across it. Here was Mahlon's place to my right. And here, opposite me, was Ruth's place, her chair. Where we'd sat the morning after the funeral, and we'd tried to eat a piece of toast, an orange.\n\nAnd then Lonny'd knocked at the door.\n\nI looked up from the table, from those tulips. I wanted to find Ruth's eyes, to try and understand in them what we were after doing here.\n\nBut she was already to the counter, and I watched as she opened the cupboard beneath the counter, reached in, pulled out a bowl.\n\nMy flour bowl. The one I kept filled with flour and draped over with the tea towel, white with thin blue stripes.\n\nMy flour bowl.\n\nMy biscuits.\n\n\"Ruth, honey,\" I said and started to stand, \"you want me to make some biscuits I'd be glad to,\" and now the sense of this all started to come to me: she was in her grief, and wanted back to before.\n\nShe wanted Mahlon and her and me to be here at my table of a morning, with fresh biscuits and coffee and warm maple syrup to drizzle over those biscuits.\n\nBut Ruth quick looked to me, said, \"Naomi, sit,\" the words sharp though not mean. Just quick, and I saw she meant it.\n\nI eased back into my chair. I was to bear witness, I saw. Just bear witness to whatever she needed to do.\n\n\"I want you to listen,\" she said. \"I want you to know some things.\" She didn't look at me, and set the bowl out on the counter, and now there came to me the smell of coffee, or the recognition of it, the smell so much a piece of all this it didn't even register.\n\nI looked at the Mr. Coffee on the counter to her left, tucked under the cupboard. She'd already brewed a pot.\n\nShe pulled the tea towel off the bowl, folded it in quarters, and set it aside on the counter, her moves careful and slow, then opened the cupboard above the Mr. Coffee, brought out the tin of baking powder. She pulled off the plastic lid and reached in with two fingers, pinched up powder between them, dropped it into the flour there in the bowl. She snapped back on the lid, put it back in the cupboard, brought out this time the little round can of Crisco.\n\n\"I've watched you do this for as long as you've lived here,\" she said. She reached in a hand to the bowl, fluffed around in the center of it. \"Maybe you never thought I was watching, but I was.\"\n\nShe set the Crisco on the counter, went to the fridge, pulled out a single egg from the rack in there, then the green and white carton of buttermilk, untouched since Mahlon'd died. Eleven mornings, until this one.\n\nI felt how empty my hands were in this, how helpless in what she was doing, and I looked at them there on the table. My old woman's hands.\n\nRuth cracked the egg at the sink edge, just like I did, so's not to get any raw egg on the edge of the bowl, and she opened the shell, let slip into the flour the egg.\n\nShe said, \"I even watched you do this a few times over at the house on 116. Quite a few times.\" She paused, looked in at the bowl, the shell halves in either hand. \"So it's not as though this is any secret.\"\n\nShe dropped the shells in the sink, picked up the buttermilk carton, tipped in what looked to me the precise amount I tipped in every time.\n\n\"Ruth, I'd be glad to help you\u2014\" I started, but she quick turned to me once more, cut her eyes at me again to signal I was to sit, and listen. Still there was no anger in how she looked at me, nothing in how quick she turned to give me any fear.\n\nThere was only need.\n\nI swallowed, nodded. She had things to say.\n\nShe went to the oven then, took the potholder from the magnet hook on the front of the oven door, and opened the door, reached in, pulled out my old iron skillet, already heated up, in the bottom of it, I knew, a little dribble of oil all set to receive.\n\nShe placed the skillet on a hotpad I only now saw set on the counter beside the bowl, then peeled the plastic lid off the Crisco. She dipped her fingers in, pulled them out, on them a dollop of lard. Just enough.\n\nShe set the can on the counter, with the Criscoed hand reached into that bowl one more time, and now she was working her fingers in there, a kind of work I knew by heart. She leaned a hip against the counter, her hair up on her shoulders now. Here was the fine line of her nose, the fine line of her lips, her eyes on the bowl and her hand in there.\n\nThis was my daughter-in-law, in her mint-green bathrobe and flannel gown and fleece slippers.\n\nRuth.\n\nShe said, \"Every Thursday morning Mahlon made his delivery to the Stop & Shop, and I watched for his truck. I'd see from my checkout stand his truck out the front windows, and he'd pull around back to the dock.\" She paused, took in a small breath. Her voice had gone higher, tighter for the labor these words were to give. Still her fingers moved. \"Didn't matter whether we'd had a fight that morning or if his delivery schedule was so jammed he didn't have a spare second, we made certain\u2014\"\n\nShe stopped, and her lips trembled the smallest way.\n\nAnd now I knew, in the pitch of her voice, in that tremble, in the way she'd had to swallow hard, take in a breath to get this all going, what she was after here.\n\n\"Ruth,\" I said, \"Ruth, don't tell me. It's your treasure,\" I said, and heard the struggle it was to say these words myself, the pitch of them just as high and lonesome and full of need as her own words.\n\nBecause she was going to do it. Here she was, going to tell me the ritual she and my Mahlon had between them. Here she was, going to give me her portion of my son, and I made to stand yet again, heard beneath me the scrape of the chair. \"Ruth, child,\" I said.\n\nShe put up her free hand, held it out like a crossing guard for just a\n\nmoment. She wanted to speak. She needed to speak. And I sat back down, put my hands to the tabletop again. She put the hand back to the bowl, held it, took in another breath.\n\nI looked back to my hands, still useless. Older than my momma's had ever been allowed to grow, but in them the knowledge Ruth herself was finding now, in kneading these ingredients all together. This knowledge\u2014this unwritten piece of family history\u2014had found its way into my son's wife's hand and heart.\n\nAnd she was about to give away a piece of her own history, her own heart.\n\n_Nice to meet you,_ I heard whispered so quiet and so deep and so warm in my ear that I knew Eli was still with me.\n\nShe moved her fingers in the bowl, moved them, then lifted out what seemed a kind of strange and natural blessing: here came a biscuit, white and wet, a disc not a half inch thick and a thumb's length wide.\n\nShe held the biscuit there in the air, her eyes focused on it and her lips still trembling, like the piece of dough might reveal to her a path through this moment less painful than it had to be.\n\nI bit my lips together, laced my fingers together.\n\n_Nice to meet you,_ I heard my own heart whisper.\n\nShe said, \"Every Thursday, once the backroom manager was unloading the truck, and once I'd gotten someone to cover for me at the checkstand, I'd make my way to the backroom, and I'd accidentally bump into him in one or the other of the dark rows back there. Those pallets of toilet paper and dog food and bleach all stacked to the ceiling. And he'd kiss me, and I'd kiss him back, and then we'd get back to work.\"\n\nShe looked a moment longer at the biscuit, almost in wonder, it seemed, then set it in the skillet. \"That's all,\" she said, and she looked at the biscuit there. Though from where I sat I could not see the biscuit in the skillet, I knew that, yes, it had to be with wonder one would look at such a thing: nothing more than flour and egg and lard and buttermilk and baking soda.\n\nBut given love, the blessing of hands willing to work, and a warm kitchen filled with the good smell of coffee, it was a history.\n\n\"Just every Thursday, his lips on mine,\" she said. She turned to me, her blue-green eyes as clear and crystalline as they ever were.\n\nMy Mahlon'd loved her from the minute he met her. In her eyes was her good heart, constant and certain.\n\n\"Just the smallest kiss,\" she said, her voice down to a whisper now, \"but I knew he was there. I knew it was for me.\"\n\nHere was Mahlon, given back to me. A gift from the woman he loved.\n\nHere was Mahlon, a coffee cup in his hand at this same table, winking and smiling at Ruth every time he said anything about Thursday deliveries, and here was Ruth smiling for that wink every time.\n\nIt was a kiss they shared.\n\nI nodded, my lips still together, and I wondered what she could see in my own eyes, wondered if she could see the way I missed my Eli, and my Mahlon.\n\nI wondered if she could hear as clear and true as I could mine and Eli's own secret history: _Nice to meet you, Nice to meet you._\n\nRuth turned to the bowl, reached in, lifted out a few moments later another biscuit, and another, until there were six nestled in the old skillet.\n\nThen she had the skillet in her hand, opened the oven, slid it in, closed it back up.\n\nShe went to the sink, rinsed her hands, dried them on the towel hanging from the cupboard knob beneath the sink. Then she took up the tea towel from off the counter, let it fall open. She draped it over the flour bowl, put it back away under the counter.\n\nAll of it smooth as if she'd done it every morning. Smooth as if it'd been me to do it.\n\nShe came to the table, her eyes hard on me yet again, and she sat.\n\nI had a piece of her heart right in my own with what she'd told me of her and Mahlon. A treasure, shared now.\n\nShe reached across the small space between us, took hold both my hands with hers. She leaned in, closer. She said, \"I will go with you when you leave here.\"\n\nI took in a small, quick breath, blinked once, twice, three times, all in a moment.\n\n_What does Ruth think about you moving back to South Carolina?_ Mary Margaret had called.\n\n_What is she talking about?_ Ruth had whispered.\n\nAnd I really was a coward, and Ruth was stronger than I might ever hope to be.\n\nShe'd given to me the secret history of her and Mahlon. She'd given to me too my own history in the making of biscuits, history she'd made her own when I'd thought it would die with me. She knew I was leaving, and in her grief at the death of her beloved, she was brave enough to give these back to me.\n\nI said, \"Ruth, child,\" and I let go her hands with one of mine, reached to her face, touched my old fingers to her cheek. \"Ruth,\" I said, \"you can't go with me. You can't. You are a beautiful girl. You have your life here. I'm old, and I can't say where I'll\u2014\"\n\n\"Naomi,\" she whispered, and the word shut down my own words, lined up and hollow and cowardly as they were.\n\nShe brought a hand to mine at her cheek, held it there. She let her eyes close a long moment, opened them again.\n\nShe whispered, \"Where you go, I will go. Where you live, that's where I'll live too.\" She paused a moment, took in a slow breath, let it out just as slow. Still my hand was at her cheek, her hand holding on to mine. \"This is a pact between us. Here. Now.\"\n\nI took in a breath. I smelled the coffee here, smelled the faintest glimmer of the biscuits beginning to rise. Now I knew what I could not name in her eyes before this: I saw me in her. I saw my own history, saw Mahlon, saw light down through boughs and scattering on the pinestraw. I saw light.\n\nIt was me she was giving back to me, I saw, right there in the blue-green of the eyes my own child loved.\n\nShe said, \"There's nothing here for me,\" her voice still small and whispered. \"I have no family. But it's not because I have nothing else that I'm coming with you. It's because I have you.\" She brought my hand from her cheek, and we laced our fingers together there on the tabletop.\n\nWho was Naomi? I wondered. Who was she to be so blessed as to have a daughter such as this?\n\n\"So your family will be my family,\" Ruth whispered, \"and when you pray to God for his mercy, then I am praying with you, too. Because there's nothing can come between us anymore. There's nothing can do that,\" she said, her whisper beyond a whisper, even quieter. But here with me, still as quiet and certain as Eli's voice in my heart, _Nice_ _to meet you._\n\n\"There's nothing but dying can come between us,\" she whispered, \"and we've both faced that already.\" She paused. \"We're here. We're together.\"\n\nI let my eyes fall from hers, to our hands on the tablecloth. Tulips, red and yellow and blue, spread across the field of white. And our hands, together.\n\nHere was hope.\n\nThe biscuits would be done soon enough. And then we would eat, no matter what time it was. No matter the hard fact of death we both knew.\n\nI looked from our hands, up to her eyes, that blue-green that was my own blood. I took in a breath, felt no treachery in the words I was already lining up. There would be no loss of my own treasure, I saw, in giving them up, no loss in the story they would tell once they were gone from me.\n\nThere was only love.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" I began, and let go for her the story of Eli, and me, and finding each other in the dark of our room at the end of a day, and the introductions we made one to the other.\n\n_Nice to meet you._\n\n_Nice to meet you._\n\nAnd I told her, too, of the code this was, the secret we knew these words meant all along: _you have my heart._\n\nAnd Ruth, my Ruth, my daughter, understood.\n[PART II\n\nKin](Lott_9781418512521_epub_c13_r1.html#Anch022109)\n\nChapter 10\n\nI STEPPED OUT of the car, the air cold on my legs even through my slacks and long coat. Fifteen degrees on the marquee out front of the bank at Main and King on my way here. Yet another sunny day.\n\nI did not know if or when, once we were gone from here, I'd be back.\n\nWe were leaving tomorrow.\n\nThis was the cemetery out past Florence, the spread of headstones like a kind of granite carpet. First week of February already, and still no snow since back to November, which seemed no more than a God trick to me: he'd allow snow to kill my son, then keep hold of it every day after in order to keep this world I walked through as bare and open and keen a wound as my heart.\n\nBut we were moving tomorrow. We were leaving here, headed for that light, that water, the harbor and creek and shrimp boats and pine-straw, all of it, and that fact made the trees up the hill at the edge of the cemetery still as leafless as ever feel like a trick I hadn't fallen for.\n\nThis morning at breakfast, before Ruth headed to work for her last day at the Stop & Shop, the two of us with the little we had left of our lives in boxes around us, the movers due any minute to pack it all away and start on down to South Carolina, I'd told her I wanted to go here alone today. I told her I wanted to see them by myself once the movers had done their work, once this house'd been emptied of us.\n\nThough she'd nodded and smiled at me as if she knew exactly why I wanted this solitude, truth was I had no idea why I wanted to be here without her. I only knew I needed to do this, to be here with them. Just me.\n\nWe were leaving tomorrow.\n\nI pushed closed the car door, looked across the hood for a moment back toward the entrance a couple hundred yards down the one-lane asphalt road through the cemetery. Down the hill stood the wrought-iron entrance gates, running away from it on either side the stone fence that separated this place from Route 9, the two-lane that led away from here and all the way into Pittsfield, fifty miles away.\n\nMahlon used to make deliveries to grocery stores all the way out there. From Easthampton to Pittsfield and back. All on that highway down there.\n\nBut on Thursdays, he was over to the Stop & Shop on upper King. On Thursdays, he was in the backroom, and he was kissing Ruth, and I smiled thinking of this.\n\nFrom where I stood I could see on the other side of Route 9 the state park, and I could see from here, too, the plunge and the barnlike building next to it, where you changed and kept things in the lockers inside. The pool itself was empty, the palest blue, lounge chairs stacked in high piles and pushed up against the barn. Every time I stood here I couldn't help but think of summer afternoons when we'd lay out, Eli and me, on the lounge chairs, and watch Mahlon and all the rest of the kids jumping and swimming and fighting. Then we'd head home to barbecue steaks or burgers or whatnot.\n\nI lost the smile, remembering what was gone.\n\nI turned, stepped onto the grass from the crumbled edge of the asphalt, and started up the easy slope toward where they lay. My knees were aching with what we'd accomplished, the work of putting our lives into boxes and selling off what we didn't need, my fingers sore as well.\n\nYet it wasn't a pain would keep me from doing what I was here for: visiting Eli and Mahlon this last day. I hadn't been here in five days, a kind of sin couldn't be averted, what with all we had to do and had done. But it felt a sin nonetheless.\n\nRuth and I'd visited here every day for the first month after Mahlon was gone, then every other day once Ruth'd gone back to work the second week of December. Then here had been Christmas, next New Year's. We'd gone up here both those days, and Thanksgiving too, laid out flowers from Forget-Me-Not on Main, never any plastic nonsense even though the cold always had its way with whatever we put out.\n\nBut the cold and what it did to the flowers didn't matter. What mattered was that we'd been out here. We'd even started bringing patio chairs, the green and white lattice ones we kept in the basement all winter long, the day after we'd sat up eating biscuits and drinking coffee. Ruth'd been the one to rummage around in the dark and cold down there to find the chairs, right where Mahlon'd left them, behind the card table and the ladder he'd used every fall to put up the storm windows.\n\nWE'D SOLD OFF the ladder and that card table and most everything else we could at the tag sale we had out front of the house two weekends ago. Everything from the dining room table and chairs to the three boxes of old paperbacks, Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour and Larry McMurtry and everybody else who'd ever written a western, it seemed, all of them Eli's and Mahlon's favorites both. We'd even sold half our sheets and towels, and some of our hotpads and tea towels and old extra Tupperware we'd neither of us used anymore.\n\nAll of this evidence of our lives, sold off to people who'd been parked out on the street before daylight that morning. Early birds ready to pick through our lives for a good deal on a copper teakettle, a power saw, a card table and ladder.\n\nIt was the selling of the furniture, though, that felt the most strange that day. Ruth and I took turns bringing in interested people, strangers and friends alike\u2014Peach had ended up buying the two end tables from my sewing room\u2014to walk through our home, touch the furniture, sit on a chair, rub a finger on the waxed tabletop. Even climb onto my bed and lay out on it shoes and all, what one girl not twenty years old did in my own bedroom.\n\nHere was a girl in an orange parka, blue jeans, and clogs, lying in my bed, thinking on whether to buy it or not, her hands beside her and pushing down hard and pushing again.\n\nA moment stranger even than selling the house itself, which happened almost in a blur. Phyllis's daughter-in-law Miriam, a realtor, bought it herself three days after we'd posted it with her. She'd use it for a rental, she let us know, once she partitioned off the downstairs from the up. Just like it'd been when Ruth and Mahlon'd bought it all those years ago, and I couldn't help wonder if she wouldn't set up in our house that knucklehead son of hers, Sammy, the one who at age thirty-two still lived with her and Jack, and who'd show up drunk at his grandma Phyllis's doorstep too afraid of his daddy to go home.\n\nWhile Ruth or I brought people into the house to look at our furniture, out in the yard the girls manned the tables, Phyllis and Hilda and Carolyn keeping an eye out for us to make certain we got the best money we could.\n\nMary Margaret hadn't come, even though I'd called her and asked if she'd be able to help.\n\n\"My Tommy's took a turn,\" she'd nearly whispered into the phone the day before the sale.\n\nI hadn't seen or talked to her since that night playing Bird in Hand. Since the night she'd betrayed me with my own history. She'd neither come to another quilting session nor to a cards night, Tommy and his condition, one of the girls would always update us, taking a turn, and taking a turn, and taking a turn. The girls, too, visited her to her little apartment at Willow Woods, and Tommy in his room as well.\n\nBut I hadn't.\n\nBy the end of the day we had only the sofa and chairs in Ruth and Mahlon's front room, and both our beds\u2014the girl in the orange parka hadn't wanted it, for no reason she gave. We kept the fridge and microwave, the kitchen table and chairs. We kept our clothes, of course, and our quilts, dishes and pots and pans and my sewing machine and the chair for it. We kept three lamps, and one lone end table, my dresser and Ruth's both.\n\nAnd those two green and white lattice patio chairs.\n\nLast night I'd said good-bye to the girls. We met over to the Friendly's on King for Happy Ending sundaes, each girl handing me a card and hug and us holding hands together for what all had passed between us all these years.\n\nCarolyn's son'd loaned her his digital camera, and the waitress took too many pictures of us for the fact none of us could help but blink for the flash. Then Carolyn passed around the thing so's we all could look at one another right there on the spot. No need even for paper with this camera, for a permanent sort of record of us having been together this night.\n\nAll these lives, boiled down to dessert and four women around a table laughing and crying both while we looked at an electric picture of ourselves trying to smile through this end of things.\n\nThen we'd made our way to the door, the girls picking up the tab between them, though I'd made something of a fuss about that. We put on our scarves, tied them off beneath our chins all at once just before we went on out the door. We had done this a thousand times before, sat here and yammered and ate ice cream and all left at once. The same old wind down from Canada whipped along the valley and King Street and right through us once we were on the sidewalk and heading for our cars. Still we chattered and hugged again, and chattered and hugged yet again.\n\nBut this time we'd ended up standing beside Hilda's old Honda station wagon, and now she was opening the hatch, and reaching in, and the girls' chatter all stopped.\n\nShe held out to me something in a white plastic bag, big and square, and I cried right then, my hands deep in my coat pockets and unwilling to move, unwilling to take this gift.\n\nA quilt. Wrapped the same as we wrapped every other one we ever made once it was finished.\n\n\"You look at it,\" Hilda said in that German accent, each word strong and solid, the pitch and spirit a kind of song I was already missing. She pushed it to me, the bag touching my chest now. I saw in the light from the lampposts out here Hilda smiling at me, her eyes piercing me same as always, the blue of them a gray out here, but piercing all the same. \"You open it,\" she said.\n\n\"It's a brand-new pattern,\" Phyllis said, and put an arm around me, we two side by side. \"Not another one like it. We had a devil of a time, what with the stitches around all those curves.\"\n\nHere was a quilt. And here were my hands moving all of their own up to the white plastic, peeling back the edge of it to reveal to me their gift.\n\nNow the girls worked to pull it out of the bag along with me, and I could see it was a kind of Star pattern, but with only a single big star at the center. We unfolded it, each girl holding a corner and stepping away from each other to hold it out full.\n\n\"Not much to make of it in the light out here,\" Carolyn said. She stood directly across from me, Phyllis the corner to my right, Hilda the one to my left, the empty plastic bag tight under her arm. The wind puffed at the quilt, made it shiver a bit.\n\nIt was a Star, all right. Big and sharp right at the center. But around it was a ring of something I couldn't recognize for the dark, and the shivering quilt itself, and for the tears in my eyes: some foreign pattern radiated out from the star at the center.\n\nCarolyn said, \"Sometimes I might come off a little slow on the uptake,\" and she paused. I looked up at her. She was smiling and smiling, the knot of her scarf a little cockeyed beneath her chin. The girls were grinning at me too, proud for this moment, and now I was smiling with them.\n\n\"But I've seen at least six dozen times,\" Carolyn said, \"how you look at those Thanksgiving turkey handprints I got running along the molding in my dining room. And those reindeer heads the grands turn up with too, the ones have their cutout handprints for antlers. And I came up with an idea.\"\n\n\"Yes, this pattern was all of her idea!\" Hilda said. She nodded hard at me and at Carolyn and me again.\n\nAnd now I recognized what this pattern was encircling the Star at the center of the quilt. Handprints, a single circle of them, cut out of all kinds of fabric. Eight of them, left and right alternating, the fingers pointing away from the center.\n\nA halo of hands around the Star.\n\n\"These two here,\" Phyllis said, and nodded in front of her, \"are mine.\"\n\nI swallowed hard, took in a breath.\n\nHilda put in, \"The work of those stitches around the fingers, oh!\" She nodded to the fabric in front of her. \"These are mine right here.\"\n\n\"And mine are right here,\" Carolyn said. She nodded like the other girls to the spot in front of her where two hands reached out. \"We had a heyday cutting and piecing and trying to get the circle of them all set just so.\"\n\nI took in another breath, like I'd had the wind knocked out of me.\n\n\"You shouldn't have done\u2014\"\n\n\"Now stop this,\" Hilda said, and nodded hard at me. \"We love you.\"\n\n\"We all do,\" Phyllis said quick after Hilda, and then Carolyn said a little slower, a little quieter, \"We all four love you.\"\n\nI blinked, swallowed, felt my hands go tight on my corner of the quilt.\n\nEight hands.\n\n_We all four love you._\n\nI looked down at the hands in front of me, two hands reaching out toward me from that star. Right and left.\n\n\"I might seem a little slow,\" Carolyn said again, \"but I can pay attention.\" She nodded at the two hands out in front of me. \"Those are Mary Margaret's,\" she said, \"and it doesn't take an astronaut to see it's no coincidence you were the one to end up holding that corner.\"\n\n\"We did not have this planned!\" Hilda said. \"It is the luck of the draw that you are holding that corner!\" she said.\n\nPhyllis looked at me, her eyebrows together. \"We all know there's something passed between you both,\" she said, and now she was moving toward me, the quilt collapsing, and all three took that as their sign, too, to commence folding up this quilt, all of them moving slowly toward me, carefully folding.\n\nBut my eyes were to those hands held out to me. Mary Margaret's hands. They were falling, it looked, with folding the quilt.\n\n\"It is something she will not talk about,\" Hilda said, a softer edge to her words, a sadness that seemed to sand away the strict sound of her voice. \"We are very sorry that you have not been together as you have always been for these weeks before you are leaving.\"\n\n\"But she wanted her hands here on the quilt,\" Carolyn said, and now the girls were here before me, nearly huddled around me. The quilt had been folded neatly already, but with no thought to putting it back in the bag. They were holding it, the three of them, an offering to me. \"And she made it with us,\" Carolyn said. \"All of us made it for you. And we're hoping you'll go over to her\u2014\"\n\n\"When did you find the time to do this?\" I said, my words too loud out of me, and turned from the matter of Mary Margaret.\n\n\"There's always time to make a gift from your heart,\" Carolyn said. \"It doesn't take an astronaut to know that, either,\" she said.\n\n\"That's rocket scientist,\" I said, and tried to laugh. \"You mean a rocket scientist,\" I said.\n\nBut the girls were silent. The wind picked at the ends of their scarves there at their throats, their mouths thin lines, their eyes on me.\n\nI reached up, wiped at my own eyes, at the cold of the tears welled up there. I said, \"This is a gift I will treasure.\" It was all I knew to say.\n\nThen we hugged, this one last time. It was me to start it, and I reached out first to Phyllis, who held me to her too tight yet again, the scent of her White Shoulders welcome and beautiful.\n\n\"I love you,\" she whispered. \"You be careful now and make sure to call us.\"\n\n\"I will,\" I whispered back.\n\nHilda'd gotten the quilt into the plastic bag while I'd held Phyllis, and when I turned to her she handed off the quilt to Carolyn. Hilda put her hands on my shoulders, and looked at me. She was searching my eyes, I could tell, for more than the way I'd ignored their words on my best friend.\n\nShe would find nothing, I willed myself. She would see only my love for her, this woman I'd met at a rummage sale in Belchertown fifty years ago.\n\nHilda smiled, a slow and genuine one. She pulled me to her, and I held her. She said, \"My prayers are with you,\" her voice warm in my ear, and I said, \"Thank you.\"\n\nThen here was Carolyn. She held me close, too, and held me, then finally let go. She smiled, said, \"If you get the urge, just call me and I'll send you my recipe for wienie wrappers.\" She touched at my cheek with her thumb, shook her head the smallest way. \"You don't want to hear this,\" she said, \"but until you talk to Mary Margaret, there will be no comfort for either of you. You can't walk away from\u2014\"\n\n\"Carolyn,\" I said, then, \"Please.\"\n\nShe looked at me, blinked twice. She nodded, and held me, held me, and whispered no more on the matter of my life.\n\nThen we let go, and as we waved to one another and moved for our cars, it was as if their hands fixed on that quilt, that halo, were drifting out on water, out and away, never to touch again.\nChapter 11\n\nTHE QUIT WAS still on the front seat of my car, there in its white plastic bag. No chance I'd let movers take that with them. Those green and white lattice lawn chairs were still in the trunk too, beneath our suitcases all packed and ready to go. Even leaving my Electra had been arranged, Ruth and me deciding her Corolla would be the better choice for us to keep. Phyllis's Miriam had once again come to the rescue: on our way out of town tomorrow morning I'd drop it off in the lot out back of her realty office over on Pleasant, slip the keys in the mail slot. She'd do what she could to sell it for us.\n\nThe movers had come right on schedule, packed us away, our lives tucked inside a truck in less than three hours. We had a room all set for tonight at the Clarion Inn, there at the end of Lower King, just before you got onto 91 South.\n\nI walked up the hill, passed the gravestones all inlaid in the gentle slope, brown grass edged up to them, that grass crisp underfoot. So many names, so many lives, so many families.\n\nNow here I was, at my feet their black granite gravestones, both edged in the same brown and hopeless grass. Set at the top of both stones were the little vases, one for each, inside them one red rose apiece, the cold having done its work to make the flowers hopeless as the grass.\n\nHere they were. My husband, my son.\n\nI looked at the stones, read yet again their names, their dates, and the inscriptions Mahlon, Ruth, and me could come up with when it was Eli, only Ruth and me when it came Mahlon's turn.\n\nEli's read:\n\n_Beloved husband_  \n _Beloved father_\n\nMahlon's was a kind of echo that spoke the same truth of who he was:\n\n_Beloved husband_  \n _Beloved son_\n\nThe words seemed small and feeble. Only words, no matter they were carved into stone. What made the words anything more was me standing here, inside me the history of who the men beneath me were.\n\nPaperbacks, a power saw. A ladder, a card table. A dining room table and chairs we'd sat at through an exact number of Christmases and New Years and Thanksgivings. A number I might could come up with if I stood out here and sifted through history long enough.\n\nAll of it sold off, so that we would leave here as free and clear as Ruth and me could make ourselves.\n\nWE'D DECIDED on the tag sale that night in the kitchen once the biscuits came out, and once I'd warmed maple syrup on the stove in the little pan I always used. Then we started in on our three biscuits apiece, and our coffee, even though it was three in the morning, and we talked.\n\nI told her of the light that'd come to me the morning after the funeral, light scattered like diamonds at my feet on the pinestraw, and I told her of the warmth I'd felt even in the cold of her room.\n\nI told her of the letter I'd already sent to Gordon and Melba Stack-house down to Georgetown, and how I'd let them know of Mahlon's passing and asked after any ideas they might have on finding a place to live in Mount Pleasant. I told her too of how I'd stood at the mailbox and put the letter in before she'd ever even gotten up, and how my hand'd shook as I'd written it, me so full of fear and hope.\n\nAnd I told her how it'd been in her tears, and the black dress she'd worn to sleep the night before, and in the thin frost on the roofs I could see out her and Mahlon's window, that all of this had been brought to me, the notion I could move, and I apologized again for thinking to leave her here.\n\nShe'd only smiled at me, nodded, said, \"Don't say you're sorry again.\"\n\nThen an afternoon two days later, Ruth upstairs and taking a nap, me in the front room and just starting to straighten up the piles of folded material and baskets full of scraps and heaps of batting\u2014I'd told the girls at quilting that morning they might could take off my hands the supplies I kept here, though none of them volunteered, only smiled and nodded and looked at one another as though saying nothing might be a way to keep me here\u2014the phone rang.\n\nIt was Gordon.\n\n\"Hey, Naomi!\" Gordon said in that big way he had, and here he was with me, the boy a little shorter than Eli, stocky and wearing glasses and with a quick smile. Here he was in just these words, his voice just the same, though the last time I'd spoken to him must have been when Eli died. Eight years ago, but here warm and pleasant in my ear was his drawl, the same as mine. On just those two words a world of familiarity and comfort.\n\n\"Gordon,\" I let out, and I cried, right there into his ear without any more word than just his name. Suddenly I was more full of fear and hope than the morning I'd mailed the letter, the all of it bursting forth just now with the fact of this call.\n\n\"Now, gal,\" he said, and I heard him sniff, pause a moment while still I cried. \"Melba and me want you to know how very sorry we are at Mahlon's passing on,\" he said. \"We want you to know what a special boy we always knew he was.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said between quick breaths in, \"thank you, Gordon, thank you.\"\n\n\"You just take a breath now,\" he said, \"and a sit-down before you get yourself all worked up,\" and I smiled, took in a breath slow as I could.\n\nI sat on the sofa, despite the piles of folded material that took up most of the cushions, and I touched at my eyes, made to take in another deep breath. Then I was off, told him about the accident, about the funeral, and about how big a hole there was in every day now. I told him about Ruth, and the two of us together inside this house.\n\nGordon listened and listened, put in now and again a memory about Mahlon, and about Eli, and then he put on Melba, who managed only \"Bless your heart\" before she started in to crying, which started me up again, and then I told her all I'd told Gordon.\n\nWe were silent a few seconds, the two of us about empty of everything but what my letter'd said: how could they help us find a place to live in Mount Pleasant?\n\n\"Naomi,\" Melba said then. \"About moving back down here.\"\n\nHere came a heavy click, and Gordon's voice on the extension: \"Now what's all this business about you wanting to leave your Yankee home, Sister?\"\n\nThat was when I'd laughed, felt the hope in me fill, felt the fear begin in the smallest way to fade.\n\nIt was a name he'd given me a long time ago for no good reason I could say, save for the fact I was his stepbrother's wife. A sister of sorts.\n\nBut it was the sound of it that mattered, that human voice, and the fact someone I could call family was saying it. Even though Gordon was Eli's stepbrother, the son of Gordon Stackhouse, Senior, who married Eli's momma and'd taken her away from Mount Pleasant on up to Georgetown, here was the closest thing to blood I'd know.\n\nBesides my Ruth.\n\nThe two of them started to jabbering at once all about why couldn't we move in to Georgetown, and how they'd already rounded up an\n\n_Apartment Finder_ magazine for Mount Pleasant, but they had one for Georgetown County too, and would I think on that, please? They'd gotten the Mount Pleasant one from their daughter Jocelyn, who lived down to West Ashley on the other side of Charleston from Mount Pleasant, and who was a dental hygienist with three kids of her own and her ex-husband gone these five years now. \"But it was good riddance to rotten fish,\" Melba said, and Gordon put in, \"You got that right,\" and I laughed yet again, the feel of it in my chest almost too foreign to recognize, some language I'd known but forgotten.\n\n\"Our Jocelyn's got her older brother in Mount Pleasant to take care of her,\" Melba said, \"our boy Beau who's a captain at the fire station there off Six Mile Road to Mount Pleasant. He's the one who tossed out that worthless husband of hers when push finally come to shove,\" she said, and the two were on another tear about Beau, then went back to why couldn't we live in Georgetown near them like family was supposed to do, and they'd have called sooner than this but the letter got snagged somewhere along the mail route and then they'd not been certain what to say if they were to call, what with how sorry they were about Mahlon's passing on and how happy they'd be for us to move down there and back to home.\n\nWords to me, and for me, and with me. All from two people I was sorry now I hadn't stayed in touch with more than those Christmas cards. This was a blessing, the sound of these voices, voices rich with love and news and those drawls, all these words from them piling up and up, me still with that strange feel a laugh gave me, distant and familiar at once.\n\nI laughed again, listened to them go on about their third child, their son Robert, a manager at the Piggly Wiggly in Georgetown and who knew people in Mount Pleasant might could set up a job for Ruth, because she was a cashier, wasn't she? Robert'd be happy to land her a job right there in Georgetown if we'd think on settling there near family.\n\nAnd it was then, me settled on my old sofa with these voices singing in my ear, this news about Robert and a Piggly Wiggly, that I finally heard the leap they'd already made. The one I hadn't allowed in me until just two mornings before, when Ruth had told me she would go with me.\n\nThey'd already begun to make plans for Ruth, had known even before I did that she would be with me.\n\nThen I'd looked up from the daze I'd been in listening to all this commotion, all this life, to see Ruth herself, up from her nap and sleepy-eyed, but with a look of surprise to her.\n\nShe stood just inside the cluttered room, and while Gordon and Melba still went on, apologized again for not calling sooner for their being joyful and sorrowed at once, I looked at her, saw her beauty yet again and that puzzlement too. Suddenly this room was so crammed with all my quilting business I wanted then and there to toss it out to the street, so close was the idea of moving, so clear the path home.\n\n\"Ruth's right here,\" I said, without even waiting for one or the other of them to take a breath. \"You want to say hey to her?\"\n\nRuth's eyes grew even larger, and she quick reached a hand to her forehead, rubbed it, ran it back through her hair, as if she needed to clean up for a family she'd never even met.\n\n\"Why certainly, yes!\" Gordon'd said, and Melba said at the same time, \"Bless that girl's heart, put her on!\" and I stood from the sofa, handed the receiver out to her, smiling.\n\n\"Who is it?\" she mouthed.\n\n\"Gordon and Melba,\" I said full-voiced. \"They want to say hey to you.\"\n\nFor a moment she didn't move, only looked at me. Then slowly she started around the baskets, and the sewing machine, stepped over the pile of batting, all with her hand already out, on her face still the puzzled look, her eyes on me.\n\nShe whispered, \"I heard you laughing.\"\n\nI said, \"Good,\" and handed her the phone.\n\nShe took it, held it for a moment more, that puzzled look nowhere near gone yet, the sound of my laughter as foreign to her as it was to me.\n\nHer eyes were still on mine when she put the receiver to her ear, said, \"Hello?\" It wasn't three seconds before she'd smiled.\n\nI PUSHED my hands even deeper into my coat pockets against this sunny cold. I'd made ready to move us from here, to leave Eli and Mahlon both alone here in a strange land. It was done, Ruth my partner in it.\n\nAnd now it seemed Ruth's smile as she'd listened there on the phone, and the voices of those I knew and the promise we'd find people who loved us, was why we were leaving here.\n\nWe were leaving here to try to be happy. But we were leaving Eli and Mahlon.\n\nI looked at their gravestones against the grass that bordered each. Brittle grass. Dead, until sometime later this year, when it would send creepers out onto the granite, looking for a way to cover up those names. To wipe away those words.\n\nI bit my bottom lip, held it tight in my teeth, and felt the pain. But I held on to it, let myself feel it as deep as I could. We were leaving them.\n\nI looked up from the gravestones then, to the line of trees up the hill, the stone fence of the cemetery in front of them all. The stones were piled one on another, like any of a hundred thousand stone fences I'd seen in the years I'd lived here. A stone fence, a wall I'd looked at from here who could say how many times in the last eight years.\n\nBut this day there seemed in them something else, a familiar and lost feel to them, the careful and confused pattern those stones made with one another in order to stand straight and firm and to stay that way.\n\nAnd then I knew why I'd come here, and come here alone.\n\nThis was the wall I'd built between me and my sin. Between that betrayal of my husband and my love for him. A solid wall, a working wall. A wall that had stood our whole lives long, but that I'd always been able to see beyond, a wall past which were the leafless trees of my own betrayal I could see every day of my life.\n\nWe were leaving here to try to be happy.\n\nThen the fence, the trees past them, the brown grass and all the gravestones everywhere around me washed over in wet, my eyes veiled suddenly in my own tears. I swallowed, took in a quick breath. I looked down at my husband's gravestone, in the next moment fell to my knees, the pain nothing, nothing, and I brought my hands from my coat pockets and leaned forward until they settled on the stone, the cold and black of it. I touched the first two words of his inscription, those feeble words meant to capture a glimpse of who my husband had been when he was alive for as long as it took words to be wiped from stone.\n\n_Beloved husband_\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I said.\n\nBecause I had never asked him for this when he was alive, though I'd asked him for it every day in my heart.\n\nThis was why I was here alone.\n\nI was still a girl shivering in stone-cold bathwater, still me huddled inside me. Despite Mary Margaret had never said word one to me on it and still stayed my friend. Despite I'd never spoken to Lonny again save for the usual hellos through all these years.\n\nI was still a girl shivering, still only me huddled and hollow, despite even the gift of our son, and the blessing of his wife.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I said once more, my fingers still to those stone words about my husband, and reached across the grass to Mahlon's stone too, felt the pain of my stretching to touch his own history, his being the beloved husband and son he'd been. Then I was touching those words, just as cold and solid as the record of my husband's life.\n\n\"Forgive me, both of you,\" I said, the world still washed in my tears, in my trying to breathe.\n\nBut they were dead.\n\nEvery dream I'd had of finding a life blessed first with a husband, next with children to call my own, then perhaps the blessing beyond blessing of a grandchild whose handprint turkeys or reindeer antlers I might could dress up my dining room with so's I might see that blessing every day and know God was here with me, the bestower of all these blessings\u2014all this had been taken from me by that same God. The same God to give it all.\n\nAnd this was why I was leaving, I fully saw. Why that light from home so filled me, gave me such desire to head back there, why the world down there seemed so filled with joy and life. Why the voices I'd heard on the other end of the telephone line all these weeks of planning and planning and planning seemed so able to save me: there was only me left here, shivering and small and unforgiven.\n\nBetter to call me empty, for all God had taken from me.\n\nStill these twin gravestones were washed in my tears, the stones still so cold, still so black, and now I felt the pain in my knees begin to creep in, and the cold of the ground, and the burn of that cold in my fingertips.\n\n\"Naomi,\" I heard whispered from behind me.\n\nBefore I could turn to the word, here was a hand out in front of me from behind. A hand thin and trembling and white with the same age my own hands'd taken on, and I turned slowly to see whose hand it was, though I knew already and refused in the same second to believe it.\n\nHere was the sleeve the hand seemed swallowed by: red and black plaid wool, and next I saw the old scuffed work boots and gray work pants, the gray vest and that wool shirt. Here was his Red Sox cap, those old-fashioned glasses.\n\nHe was bent to me, one hand to his knee, the other still held out to me to help me up.\n\nLonny Thompson.\n\nEven closer to dead than when I'd closed the door on him that first morning after the funeral. The ball cap was too big on his head, his hands too small, the glasses even bigger now for how much he was being eaten away by the cancer.\n\n\"Naomi,\" he whispered again. \"Take my hand,\" he said.\n\nAnd I'd no choice but to think again of us there at the station in Charleston the first time I met him, and the way we'd held hands a moment too long.\n\nThe sun still shone down hard on us. The cold still shot through us. That stone fence still stood.\n\nI leaned back from the gravestones, my hands to my sides. I put one to the grass to steady myself, pushed hard on that hand and struggled up inside this pain, struggled and struggled, until first one foot was beneath me, and I stood. All without his help.\n\nHe was still leaned over. He looked up at me beside him, both hands to his knees now. He was breathing hard, and I saw again the indentations on his cheekbones, the thin lines where the oxygen tubes ran.\n\nHe'd walked up here, and I turned to look down the hill to where sat a burgundy Monte Carlo, right there behind my Electra.\n\nMary Margaret's car.\n\nEven from here, with my tears and the pain in my knees and the cold light cutting through me, I could see Mary Margaret inside and leaned over the wheel, watching.\n\n\"It's me needs forgiveness,\" Lonny managed out, his voice thin as his hands.\n\nI turned, started down the hill.\nChapter 12\n\nI MADE IT to the car without looking at either of them, kept my eyes to the brown grass before me, weaved my way through these headstones, through all these dead, and through the pain in my knees.\n\nBut when I came around the hood of the Electra, I let myself look up the hill at Lonny.\n\nIt felt like sin, looking at him. But I looked.\n\nHe'd only gotten a few yards down, and'd stopped, leaned over again, hands on his knees, his chest heaving with all this. Then, once I made it to the driver's side and opened my door, I let my eyes go to Mary Margaret's. This too felt like sin, simply letting my eyes go to hers.\n\nShe was staring at me, her forehead and eyebrows above her trifocals quivering and skittering again and again in just the second or so I looked at her.\n\nHere were her hands, holding tight to the steering wheel. Those same hands as on my quilt. This proof of her love.\n\nI looked away, because now I knew it was in fact a sin. My letting our eyes touch, and not saying good-bye, was as clear a separation from love as I could make.\n\nI had the car door open. I had our bags in the trunk. I was leaving.\n\nI looked inside the car, saw there on the seat the quilt in its white plastic bag. And despite myself, and despite my will, despite the stone wall I'd built stone on stone, my heart broke.\n\nI saw in that instant what a hand held out to you meant, and my heart broke again, and again and again, and one time more. All for the way her forehead and eyebrows moved, for the fear and loneliness and confusion and betrayal I saw there. And for those hands holding on to the wheel as though it was a friend she would lose and didn't want to let go.\n\nBecause none of who I was right this moment was lost on me. None of it.\n\nIt was me needed to ask forgiveness. Me, too, who needed to let Lonny ask after mine for his being the reason my Mahlon was out late on a night in November. I knew all this.\n\nI closed my car door, took one small step away from the car, and let my eyes go back to Mary Margaret's.\n\nShe let go the steering wheel, climbed out, and here we were in each other's arms, the sweet softness of my dearest friend and the sad silver whisper of her crying in my ear. We held each other.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I whispered to her, the words nothing but joy out of me. Not the bitter herbs I'd thought they might be, nor the broken glass or boiling pitch I'd figured these words might all be.\n\nThen my heart broke again into too many shards to count when I knew how sweet these words would have been to give to my Eli. To ask forgiveness of that sin against him, when he'd lived beside me and with me and inside me all the days of his life.\n\n\"Your Ruth told me you would be here,\" Mary Margaret whispered. \"I will miss you so.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" I said, and we pulled back from each other, still with our arms around each other. \"I'm so sorry,\" I said again.\n\nHer mouth quivered a moment, and I saw by the wrinkles beside her eyes she was trying at a smile. \"You know I love you,\" she said, and I nodded quick and hard and smiled too. I said, \"I love you, Mary Margaret.\" I paused, took in a breath to begin the work of explaining myself to her, the work of giving out words that spelled nothing but _I am_ _leaving you._\n\nBut before I could say a thing, she reached up a hand to my mouth, put her first finger to my lips.\n\n\"You hush now,\" she said, and nodded herself. \"If I could go home, I would too.\" She still smiled, but here was the tremble too, her mouth quivering. \"I love my Tommy,\" she started, \"and always will. But if I could, once my Tommy passes away, I would go back to my old house in Hadley,\" she said, the words trembling themselves, \"and I'd be a little girl on the afternoon before my mother and father took that train.\" She paused, swallowed. \"I'd be sitting at the table in the kitchen, watching my mother bake her gingersnaps for me so I would have some while she was gone.\"\n\nShe broke then, and I brought her to me, held her close again.\n\n\"It's all right,\" I said, though I didn't know what was right here at all. She was still an orphan even now, seventy years after the fact. I said, \"Thank you for the quilt,\" and she managed to let out a small laugh, even inside her crying. She pulled away again, looked at me, shook her head.\n\n\"You should have seen us all working on that thing to get it done for you on time.\" She sniffed, rubbed at her nose with a Kleenex she'd brought from her coat pocket. \"Carolyn had this grand vision, and it turned out fine.\" She shook her head again.\n\nAnd before I could say a thing more about the quilt and folding it open there in the dark parking lot, before I could say anything on those hands, the beauty of that circle of them, here was Lonny beside me, his hand touching to my shoulder, his face closer than it'd been in half a century.\n\nHere he was, the man who'd been my husband's best friend, and who'd been like a father to my Mahlon once Eli was gone.\n\nAll these years of all our lives passing and passing before us all, when all we were was flesh and blood and memory and loss.\n\nHe was a man. A man I'd sinned with against the one man I loved. But he was a man, and only that.\n\n\"Naomi,\" Lonny said, and took in a breath after just the one word. \"We need to talk,\" he said, and now slowly, slowly, Mary Margaret let go my arm, slowly moved away from me. I glanced to her, saw her smile at me, give the smallest nod.\n\nThey'd talked of this private need, I could see in her eyes. Now she was at the hood of her car, moving away from me. Still she smiled at me as she started across the pavement to the grass, and on up the hill to where my Eli and Mahlon were.\n\nShe was my friend.\n\n\"I know it was wrong of me,\" Lonny said, and I looked to him, saw him breathe in and out.\n\nI said, \"You just relax a minute. You just breathe.\" I paused, reached to his arm, let my hand touch him, the rough wool of his red and black plaid jacket.\n\nHis arm felt like nothing, like inside the sleeve might only be a bird wing, or the thinnest branch.\n\nHe troubled up a smile, seemed somehow to stand taller. He took in another breath deeper, though I could hear the shallow purchase it made inside him. He squinted his eyes a moment, opened his mouth even wider, breathed in again.\n\n\"Your Mahlon passing,\" he said, and leaned back against the car, closed his eyes. \"It's a great misery to me,\" he said, \"that he's gone. He was the nearest thing to a child I ever had.\" He breathed in, and again. \"Even so, I'm sorry he was up at my house that night. If he hadn't of been, he'd be alive right now.\" His eyes were still closed, but seemed to shut even tighter with the words, the work of them. Or with the work of bringing to bear the memory of my son, alive.\n\nLonny loved him. And Mahlon loved Lonny, too.\n\nI said, \"Lonny,\" the word strange and brand-new and ancient in me at once. \"Lonny,\" I said, \"that's enough. He loved you. He was where he wanted to be that night.\"\n\nThere they were: my words, the release of them a kind of miracle for the way they released, too, my own sore heart and miser's desire to keep hold tight as I could my Mahlon's death.\n\nI'd wanted him with me. But he hadn't been. Instead, he'd been at this dying man's house, and ministering to him in the only way really mattered: keeping company.\n\nLonny's eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for him to find me here beside him, my arm on his. Still the pain of this all was on his face, as though his words and mine both were of no help. His mouth was open, eyes squinted nearly shut, the rattle of his breath a ghost inside him.\n\nHe reached to me, took my hand on his arm in his own hand. The touch was nothing, the same ghost as struggled on every breath.\n\nI said, \"Lonny,\" as though to stop him, to let him know nothing else was needed from him, and then I said the other words, the ones I'd held tight to all these long months.\n\nI took in a breath of my own, and said, \"I forgive you.\"\n\nHe looked at me, still breathing in and in, as though there weren't enough air in the world to fill him up. Then tears came at the corners of his eyes, there in the creases of pale skin, skin thin as frost on a November morning rooftop.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said. He looked down, reached his free hand to the corner of one eye, then the other, let that hand fall again to his side. \"Thank you,\" he said again, even quieter. He breathed in, and swallowed. His eyes met mine, still in them the wet of tears welled there. He said, \"I want you to know how much he loved you, and Ruth.\" He paused, breathed. \"He was happy.\"\n\nSlowly I shook my head for him to stop. Not for this good news of my son, but for the work of the words he put out. For how hard they came to him.\n\nHe was near to dead as a man might be. And here he was beside me, lining up his own words to give me what had to be his own treasure, his own secret story of my son. His own memory and heart.\n\n_Nice to meet you,_ I heard yet again from my Eli.\n\n\"We talked about the Red Sox folding in the playoffs,\" he said, and a small smile came on him, more creases in that thin skin. He shook his head. \"Same as ever.\" He paused, swallowed. \"And we talked about the snow, about how early it was on us. Not even Thanksgiving yet.\"\n\nHe looked at me again, blinked. The tears were gone now, his eyes suddenly a kind of clear I only remembered from the old days. Sharp, and solid, and true. My husband's best friend.\n\n\"I didn't make it to the funeral,\" he said, \"because I knew it was all my fault. His being there at my place and heading on home down that road.\"\n\n\"Lonny,\" I whispered, \"Lonny, you have to stop this talk. Mahlon was up there because he wanted to be with\u2014\"\n\n\"It's two things in my life,\" he cut in, his eyes tight on mine. \"Two things that I kept from you,\" and again he was winded. I pressed my hand harder on his sleeve, wanted him to stop this path he was walking with his words. Still there was nothing to him inside the sleeve. Only frail bone.\n\n\"I forgive you,\" I said again.\n\n\"Stop,\" he said, then, \"hold on,\" and he sharpened his eyes on me, his mouth a thin line. \"You just hold on to those words,\" he nearly whispered. \"You just wait until I tell you what I need to tell you.\"\n\nHe was breathing in harder even than before, and I could see how the words he'd lined up were ones he'd measured and weighed and held on to for longer than I could know.\n\nMaybe forgiveness wasn't enough, I saw with the labor in him, in those creases, in the sharp edge of his eyes. Maybe it was speaking words he needed, and I thought of Mary Margaret, and the joy I'd felt in simply saying _I'm sorry_ in her arms.\n\n\"Two things,\" he said. \"First is having Mahlon there to my house that night, and not calling up earlier in the day to tell him to stay home for the weather. For that snow and all.\" Slowly he shook his head, looked to the ground before him, that cracked and crumbling asphalt. \"I could of done that,\" he said.\n\nI whispered, \"Mahlon loved you.\"\n\nHe nodded, still with his eyes to the ground, and sniffed hard. Then suddenly he let out a sob, hushed and hollow, his mouth crumbled into itself, jagged and soft at once, his eyes shut tight inside all the wrinkles, and his shoulders gave way, shivered.\n\nHe tried at a breath, at another, and still that hollow sob came out. I held even tighter to him than I dared, both hands to his arm and holding on, holding on. My own throat welled up, the knot there ready to let itself out in my own sob, and I let go one hand, reached to hold him as best I could in my arms, this big man who'd sunken into himself with how near death was to him, and with the sorrow of this grief on him.\n\nBut even with my arms trying to hold him, and even in his shivering, he didn't move, as though he had an iron spine, his feet anchored to the ground. Still he sobbed, still his shoulders shook.\n\nI let go, pulled away, but still held my hands to his arms, him square in front of me now. His eyes left the ground between us, met mine. He gained a breath, finally, and whispered, \"I break a promise with these words to you.\" He let the words out evenly, gently, his jaw set. \"But it's a promise I should of broken a long time ago.\"\n\nHis face was wet for the tears, his cheeks flushed the palest pink for all this was to get out. For all this work.\n\nBut what was this work?\n\nWhat was this promise?\n\nHe swallowed, blinked. \"Second thing,\" he said, \"is Eli knew about you and me.\"\n\nAnd my hands on his arms were away, and my face, the skin there, pinched and burned, and I heard out of me a single small _oh_ of sound, all of it in the single instant past his last word. All of it in the single shallow gap between one heartbeat and the next.\n\nI saw myself from very far away, saw Lonny from even farther distant. I saw we two from miles away, we two discovered.\n\n_Oh,_ I let out again, though it seemed not of me, seemed from years distant, lifetimes distant.\n\nHe wavered in my eyes, quickened in my eyes, tears here and here and here, and my face pinched and burned, my hands empty and away from him but still held up, as though there was something to catch, something big and wide and everything.\n\nHe tried to gather himself, his mouth trying to set itself straight, the thin muscles in his jaw working. He said, \"He knew because I told him.\" And here was his sob again, that hollow rush of sound out of him.\n\nBut there was nothing in me.\n\n\"I told him because he was my friend, and because it was wrong, and because we both knew it was from the second I answered the door that afternoon.\" He took in a ragged breath. His eyes went to mine a moment, an instant, terror in them, and loss.\n\nWhat was this news he was telling me, and where could I place it?\n\nWhere was there left to hide from me, and my separation from love?\n\n\"I told him the afternoon it happened,\" he said, his voice as ragged as that breath in, as clotted and mottled and full of death and loss as it could hold and not be dead itself. \"I went to the shop a couple hours after you left,\" he whispered, \"and he was there and busy with his hands on something. Busy working. Cutting pipe at the bench for some project we were working on. But I could tell he'd been through something.\" He paused, closed his eyes again. He took in a breath. \"I could tell he was lost, and I cannot say now or ever why I told him, save for the fact he was my friend, and I'd betrayed him and the love you and he had for each other.\" He paused again, and here was the sob again, hollow and dead and dead and dead.\n\nI was miles away. I was years away from this all. Still my face pinched and burned, and still I searched for somewhere I might hide.\n\nHe coughed, thick and wet, breathed in again. \"I waited for the cutter to shut off, the saw to run down to where he could hear me between cuts. And that was when I told him, when it was quiet. And I told him because it was wrong, and because he was my friend. And I apologized to him, and I told him it wasn't you. That it wasn't your fault.\"\n\nHe opened his eyes a moment, looked at me. But I could see he was somewhere else as well. He was gone from here. He wasn't looking for anything from me now. He was only speaking truth.\n\nHe was only speaking his life, and the misery of it.\n\n\"He didn't do anything when I told him. He just stood there looking at the cutter, the pipe, the vices on down the bench. And then he turned around and looked at me. Then he walked over to me, and he hit me.\" His eyes were still on me, but through me. He was inside himself, inside his story, and what separation from love he'd been living all this time too.\n\n\"Knocked me clean to the floor. He didn't say anything, just stood over me a minute, looking down at me, and I didn't do anything but look at him. And I told him I deserved even worse. I told him I deserved more from him for what I'd done. And then he walked away, right on out the shop door, and he got in that old truck of his, and he drove off.\"\n\nHe was looking through me, I knew, because I wasn't even here.\n\nI was in the bathtub, water gone stone cold. I was shivering, and here was Eli kneeling to me in the dark, finding my hand holding tight to the edge of the tub, the other clenched at my chest. I was with my Eli, who leaned quickly to me and touched my cheek and forehead to feel how cold I was, and he stood, my hand in his, and pulled me from where I'd tried to wash myself free of my mistake.\n\nThen he was lifting me fully, taking me, wet and shivering, into both arms and lifting me free of the cold water, and now I was standing on the bath mat, Eli toweling me dry all there in the dark, then lifting me again, me still shivering, still shivering, and he was carrying me to our bedroom, where he lay me in our bed, and pulled over me first the sheet and blanket, and then the Wedding Ring quilt my mother had made for us.\n\nWhile tight in my hand was a plain gold locket, only one photo in it, the other side empty as I'd prayed it would be.\n\n\"I didn't even leave the shop that day,\" he went on, though I was nowhere near. \"I stayed there on the floor until it got dark, found an old blanket in the utility closet, wrapped myself up in it.\"\n\nHe paused, focused a moment on me, as if I were there in front of him. He said, \"I don't want any pity from you. I'm not telling this to you for anything I want from you. I just want you to know who you were married to. The man you were married to.\"\n\nEli was leaving the room, and I was there in the dark growing darker each moment my mistake pressed down upon me\u2014the shivering would not stop, would never stop, ever\u2014until it seemed my breath was leaving me, that I would never breathe again for the mistake I had made, and the fact he was leaving me, as he had every right to do. Every right in the world to leave me alone, with my mistake.\n\n\"But this is the part I have to tell you,\" he said, and breathed the same clotted breath in. \"I have to tell you, because he was a better man than either of us could ever know. And even better. And Mahlon just like him. That was why Mahlon was out to my house. Because he was good. He was good. Just like his father was good.\"\n\nHe paused, put a hand to the thin and creased skin of his eyes, rubbed there.\n\nHe said, \"Next morning he came in to work and found me there sleeping on the floor. He nudged me with his foot, and I woke up to him standing over me again just like the afternoon before. And he looks at me, and he says, 'We got work to do.' \" He paused, shook his head again, tried to breathe. \"And he goes straight over to the cutter bench and picks up like nothing happened.\"\n\nHe stopped. He looked at me, tried at finding me.\n\n\"But this is what I have to tell you. This is the promise to him I have to break, and should of when Eli passed away.\" He swallowed, his Adam's apple a hard knob at his throat working to move. His eyes were full again, his breathing heavy and clotted still.\n\nI was a shivering woman in a bed, my husband leaving the room, and with him every right to leave me forever, clutched in my hand a locket, half full, and half empty.\n\nHis eyes went to me one more time, and he sniffed, blinked. \"That morning,\" he whispered, \"I stood up from the floor, and I said his name one time out loud before he could start up the cutter. But before I could say another word he stopped, and then he looked at the wall, and he said it.\"\n\nHe stopped full then, his lips tight between his teeth. He'd stopped breathing, was holding silent for this. For whatever he needed to say, even if I was nowhere near.\n\nLonny opened his mouth, grabbed at air, grabbed at it, each snatch a tight fist in his throat.\n\nThen he gave it away, handed the words to me, the ones that made this shroud of sorrow wrapped around me nearly choke off whatever joy I may have had for moving away from here.\n\nEven though the news was what I'd longed to hear for the last fifty years. Even though it was what I longed to hear even unto a few minutes ago, when I'd been on my knees at my husband's grave.\n\nHe said, \"Eli was just looking at that wall, and he says, 'I forgive you, and I forgive her. And you will never say another word about this for the rest of your life. Because I love her too much to let her know I know.' \"\n\nNow pain came upon me, sudden and full and certain, pain more than any I'd known before, pain greater even than the terrible but passing kind I'd gone through in the birth of my child; pain deeper than the pain I'd known when I'd found my Eli in our bed, breakfast on the table and me coming in to our room to find him gone, dead beneath the sheet and blanket, me thinking in the kitchen he was just a little tired maybe, sleeping in a little bit before getting up to face that day; pain keener even than when I'd received the news from the policeman who'd come to my door that night in November.\n\nHere was pain, all of it in this instant summed up and weighed and measured against all the sorrow of my life\u2014here was our back porch in 1944, a yellow telegram in my momma's hand; here was the phone call from my momma in 1956 that Daddy'd passed away; here was Gordon Stackhouse calling not but a year and a half later with the same news on my momma.\n\nHere was the all of it.\n\nYet this news should have been joy.\n\nIt should have been joy, this forgiveness. I shot my eyes right then to the graves, to Mary Margaret standing there up the hill, her head bowed, hands deep in her coat pockets. There was my Eli. Right there, right beside my Mahlon, just below that ground.\n\n\"I should of told you that same day,\" he whispered.\n\nThis should have been joy.\n\n\"No,\" I heard myself give out, a surprised word surprised not by joy but by terror and sorrow and distance from me and my whole life.\n\nHe'd known, and'd forgiven me. And I had never known.\n\n\"He was a better man than we'll ever know,\" Lonny whispered. \"He even kept us in the business together another eight months or so, trying to keep things working between us. It was me to ask him could we split the business, him to give it over to me and start up with the garage instead of starting up his own plumbing business.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said again, louder now, though it was still a nothing sound out of me, no more than a splinter of a word, a dead spark falling to the ground. Not enough even to register with Lonny, lost in his reverence for my husband and in his own condemnation.\n\nThis was what I wanted. This was the news I'd prayed for my whole life long. Given to me by God a lifetime too late.\n\nHere was movement in the darkened doorway of our bedroom. Here was my husband, my Eli, his arms full with quilts brought from the hall closet, and then this dark figure _\u2014This is my husband,_ I marveled, _This is my love\u2014_ leaned over me and lay first one quilt, and another, and another, heaped them all on me to warm me, while the hopeless and sorrow-filled world outside grew dark upon us.\n\nHere was my husband, already forgiving me. He knew even then, and chose to cover me with quilts.\n\nAnd when his arms were empty, he'd reached to the corner of all these quilts, pulled them back, and lay down beside me, his clothes rough at first, and cold, and he pulled the quilts back over us both, and turned to me beneath them all, and took me in his arms, and held me.\n\n\"No,\" I said yet again. Lonny blinked hard then, looked at me. He leaned in closer, and I could smell death on him hard and certain.\n\n\"It's a promise I've kept that day to this. A promise to a friend who stayed a friend, though it was never the same after that. A promise no one else knows was made. Not Mary Margaret. Not Mahlon certainly. Nobody. Even if it was a promise I should of never kept at all. A promise to hide from you how much he loved you.\"\n\nHe reached to my hands still up and empty between us, and took them in his. His hands were cold, and thin, his grip no more than the dying man's hold they were.\n\n\"Now,\" he whispered, \"can you forgive me?\"\n\nThe words fell on me like cold bricks, like an abandoned house falling down. My life, falling down on me.\n\nI swallowed hard, took in a quick breath, though I was still nowhere near. And because I wasn't here, I was able to say with my next breath out, \"Yes, I forgive you,\" and to believe I meant it in this moment. They were words I'd spoken, I knew, but I was nowhere near.\n\nI brought my arms down, his hold on them giving way, and now tears fell free from his eyes, and he smiled.\n\nHe was still alive.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" I said, and felt myself back away from him, felt the muscles in my face try at working into a smile of my own, though I was having none of it. \"Good-bye,\" I said again, and nodded, said, \"Thank you,\" and now his smile was gone, replaced with puzzlement at my words, for me backing away.\n\nBut it was me who was more puzzled than he would ever be.\n\nMy husband had forgiven me.\n\nI took another step back, and turned from him, heard him say \"Naomi\" once before my back was to him, and now I looked up the hill, took the handle of my car door and opened it.\n\nMary Margaret stood up there at the grave of my forgiving husband, and my good son. Her head was turned to us down here, and now my free hand was up, and I waved at her, called out \"I love you, Mary Margaret!\" then \"Good-bye!\" all as though I might see her at quilting tomorrow, or cards next week.\n\nShe quick put up a hand and waved at me, smiled: no more than reflex at my own mechanical moves. But I would never see her again, nor Lonny.\n\nI climbed in my car, my knees in pain that was no pain for the real thing in my heart and head, and I worked harder than I ever had before to fit the key into the ignition while Lonny stood outside my window. He spoke my name again and again, a word worn out for the life it'd expended here in Massachusetts, a nothing word as meaningless as _Thank you_ and _Good-bye_ and _I love you._\n\nThis should have been joy.\n\nBut I did not know what to do with this forgiveness, did not know where to place it, or where to hide from it, or how to hold it.\n\nFinally the key turned in my hand, the Electra started up. Lonny took a step away from my window, and Mary Margaret started down the hill, on her face a look of surprise and betrayal yet again, behind her my good son, and my good husband.\n\nHere was my Eli, beside me in bed, all his clothes on, and here again was the pain of my skin against him, a jagged and sharp pain that was the wound my whole self had become. The all of me, fresh and stinging and raw.\n\nAlready forgiven.\n\nWhere would I place this fact? And how could I hold it?\n\nAnd this word yet again: _Naomi._\n\nI put the car in gear, eased forward and away and down the narrow asphalt lane toward the gates that opened onto Route 9, and a way out.\nChapter 13\n\nI HEARD RUTH in the hall, heard the key in the lock, heard her pause for a moment before finishing the work of turning it.\n\nI was in our hotel room, in a chair by the one window, the drapes pulled open so that I could see the last Massachusetts day I'd spend here fall into dark. I hadn't yet taken off my coat, hadn't turned on a light. If in fact I'd planned to turn one on at all.\n\nThe door opened, and here she was. My Ruth.\n\nShe stood in the doorway, framed in the light from the hallway outside. Just like the night she'd come to my bedroom, pulled me into the kitchen to make me those biscuits.\n\nThe night we'd decided to leave together.\n\nShe was in her uniform from work, the green vest, white blouse, those black slacks. Her coat was over one arm, in that hand her overnight bag. In her other hand she held the key, clutched there too the ribbons for three Mylar balloons, bright metallic red and blue and gold. They floated just above her head, printed on them all bon voyage.\n\n\"Naomi?\" Ruth said, as though it might be somebody else here in this chair. Some other old woman.\n\n\"It's me,\" I said.\n\nI'd driven here from the cemetery, and parked, checked in. I got the quilt in its white plastic sack from the front seat, then my overnight bag from the trunk, set them both beside each other on the bed in here, and I'd sat down, and I'd waited. Three or four hours.\n\nFrom here I could see I-91 through the leafless trees, the long and narrow off- and onramps made for this exit. Back to my left were the hills just south of town, to my right the empty stubble of cornfields past the parking lot. I'd sat here, and watched those hills go black. I'd watched car headlights cut on one at a time until there were none left with their headlights off.\n\nI watched until the empty fields were still empty fields.\n\nRuth pulled closed the door behind her, the balloons bumping against one another to make a strange sound in the room. She flipped the switch there at the door, and on came the light directly above her.\n\nShe moved into the room, set the bag on the bed beside the quilt and my own bag, dropped her coat there too. The key still in her hand, she went to the closet door, wrapped the ribbons around the knob, let them go, one last jostling of air.\n\nShe went to the dresser, bent to the lamp, but before she twisted it on she paused. She was looking at me.\n\nI nodded. She could go ahead. I could sit in lamplight now. Because she was here.\n\nBut she didn't turn on the light. She stood bent to the lamp a second, then two, then slowly she stood, edged back to the bed, sat down. She let out a heavy breath, put her hands to the edge of the bed like she was holding on. Like she might herself float up and bounce along the ceiling like a Mylar balloon.\n\nAnd it occurred to me maybe she hadn't been looking at me at all. That me nodding at her to go ahead and turn on the light wasn't what she'd seen at all.\n\nMaybe she was inside herself, same as me on this night before the next life. Maybe she was after the comfort of this darkness, and the way it kept outside of you who you were.\n\nMaybe she was hiding, too.\n\nI took in a breath, said, \"Good to see you after a long day.\"\n\n\"A long one,\" she said. She shook her head carefully, in a kind of disbelief. She let go the edge of the bed, brought her hands to her lap. \"They'll be sending my last check down to the apartment in Mount Pleasant. They've got the address and all.\"\n\nI said, \"I think the girls have already sent cards to us down there. Care packages, I figure.\"\n\n\"You know,\" she said, and it was as if she hadn't heard a word from me. She was on her own, I saw. She was somewhere else.\n\nShe'd lost her Mahlon, I saw.\n\n\"Everyone thinks we're crazy,\" she said. \"I could feel it at the party today. And I've felt it all along. Even Peach, who hasn't said anything but how happy she is for us.\" She looked at her hands, laced them together in her lap.\n\nMy Mahlon had held those hands. He'd kissed them. He'd placed the ring on the left one, that ring still there, shiny in the light from there at the door.\n\n\"They think we're making a mistake in all this. In leaving so soon.\" She paused, breathed in. \"Maybe in leaving here at all.\"\n\nI said, \"Do you?\" I blinked, swallowed. \"Do you think this is wrong?\" She was quiet a moment, and looked up at me. Then she looked away, to the balloons.\n\nBut it was somewhere else she was looking, I knew.\n\nHer eyes lingered in that other place a moment, and I felt time fall away from the two of us, and all the plans we'd made, all the arrangements, all the work of leaving here. All of it just fell away.\n\nI was in a bed heaped with quilts, my skin raw and jagged.\n\nShe looked at me, let out a breath. I could see in the light she was smiling. This woman, this beautiful woman, the wife of my dead son, smiling.\n\n\"I want to see that sunlight you're talking about,\" she whispered.\n\nNow here was that light again, the scattered diamonds at my feet, the warmth of it, and the scent of pinestraw, the prickly carpet of it. Here was light, inside this dark and dead hotel room in a dark and dead town. Brought to me by my Ruth's smile, her words.\n\n\"I want to know what that's about, that light.\" She shrugged again. \"Crazy would be to stay here.\" She looked from me to the window, and I looked out then, too.\n\nHere were black hills, an interstate. Empty fields.\n\nAnd I knew right then, knew it clear as the fact I'd known I wasn't ever going to get up and turn that lamp on, that Mary Margaret was sitting beside her Tommy over to Willow Springs, her arms crossed and holding herself, and waiting.\n\nI saw her, waiting.\n\nI saw Lonny Thompson home to Sunderland, him in his hospital bed set in the front room, the television playing a Bruins game, oxygen tubes on him so's he could take in what last breaths he had in him.\n\nAnd I saw my Eli at the other end of town, saw too my Mahlon, their gravestones set in the dry dead grass in a cemetery surrounded by stone walls as black as the waiting world this night.\n\nHere were black hills, an interstate. Empty fields, all of it bathed in the failed light of a snowless February day.\n\nWhere could I go to hide from me? And where could I place the fact of my forgiveness?\n\nI turned from the window. Here was Ruth, looking at me. She was waiting, too.\n\n_Where you go, I will go,_ she'd said. _Where you live, that's where I'll live_ _too. This is a pact between us._\n\nFor a moment I saw the two of us in our cars right now, headlights on and me in the lead, snaking through the streets of this town toward Phyllis's daughter Miriam's realty office over on Pleasant. I saw us pulling in to the lot out back, leaving my car parked there just like we'd planned to do tomorrow morning. I saw me bent to the front door of her office, slipping in the keys through the mail slot, then Ruth weaving her Corolla along those same streets and out to the interstate.\n\nI saw us looking at all these old buildings, these landmarks out of our lives, one last time.\n\nBut I didn't want even that. Not even in the dark. It was the light. Still and always.\n\nI swallowed, said, \"We'll leave the keys to the Electra at the front desk. We can call Miriam's office tomorrow morning, tell her she can pick it up here.\"\n\nAnd Ruth, my Ruth, already with me as quick as if the idea had been her own, nodded once and stood, all of it one move, all of it a single thought and action at once, and I knew it'd be wasted words even to ask if she wanted to change out of that uniform.\n\nWe'd find a place down the interstate. We'd pull off someplace away from here, someplace neither of us'd ever spent a night before, and find a room, and we'd sleep.\n\nAlready she'd picked up her coat and shrugged it on, then took up her overnight bag and mine both, a bag in each hand, and I stood for the first time since I'd entered this room.\n\nI reached to the bed for the quilt in its white plastic sack, picked it up. It seemed heavy to me, seemed made of more than cloth.\n\nI turned from the bed, saw Ruth paused at the closet door, and those balloons. I said, \"Let me get those for you.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"They'll just be in the way.\"\n\nBut she stood there a moment more, her eyes lingering on the balloons, and then her hand was to the door, and she opened it.\n\nI OPENED my trunk, and we pulled out our suitcases to move into Ruth's, no words between us while cars passed and passed out on the interstate. Then here were two green and white lattice patio chairs in the floor of the trunk, revealed by the work of our own hands.\n\nWe said nothing, the two of us staring down at the chairs, the only light the pale yellow of the trunk bulb.\n\nI reached to the trunk lid, and pulled it closed, the sound hard and solid in the parking lot. Too hard. Too solid.\n\nRuth looked at me, nodded. We picked up our bags, headed for her Corolla three slots down.\n\nWe made it all the way to Maryland before either of us said a word about a place to sleep.\nChapter 14\n\nWE WERE UP before daylight, and I could see even in the pale glow from the night-light in the motel bathroom the smile on Ruth's face, the two of us looking at each other, giddy for the prospect of whatever might come next.\n\nWe drove, me one hour, Ruth the next two, and so on. We stopped in Richmond, gave a call to Gordon and Melba to let them know we were a day ahead of time, that they needn't do anything special, that we could stay somewhere on the road down if they needed the extra day. None of which they were having. Before I'd even finished explaining why we were early, that we simply couldn't wait another second to get home, they were on both extensions again, just like that first time they'd called.\n\n\"Only thing is, Robert's got to work today,\" Gordon said, \"so he won't be over till later,\" and Melba put in, \"And Jocelyn won't be up from Charleston with her kids until tomorrow, and of course Beau's working his shift to the fire station so he won't be here at all,\" and the deal was done. One night early was even better than they could hope for, despite it was only the two of them to be the welcoming committee.\n\nThen here we were to Florence, South Carolina, and Highway 701 around four in the afternoon, the only thing left to drive a two-lane road and fifty-three miles through the old world of who I was.\n\nHere was light, the old charm of it, the afternoon warmth and softness and bright memory of it all. Here were fields gone fallow for winter but still velveted over in green, smack in the middle of February. Here were live oaks spun with Spanish moss, and longleaf pine all heavy with themselves, their boughs above us as we drove like some kind of guardians over this road, protectors from the light that fell through them and onto us.\n\nWe had the radio on, and just then the weatherman said it was \"a cool sixty-three degrees, tonight's low down to a brisk fifty-two,\" and both Ruth and I laughed out loud for that. \"Fifteen degrees yesterday,\" I said, then hollered out, \"Sixty-three in February and sunny, and green everywhere!\" We both rolled our windows down, put out our hands to catch the wind. My hand sliced through it like I used to do when I was with my daddy and momma, my brother Mahlon and me in the backseat of our old Ford. I felt as much like we were flying right then, my hand cupped and moving of its own in the wind, as when I was five or six, and we were driving over the old bridges into Charleston proper from Mount Pleasant for whatever reason.\n\nI looked over at Ruth, her right hand on the wheel, her left out her window and doing the same. Just flying.\n\nWe drove, the road leading one way and another in long, gentle curves, while we passed barns fallen in on themselves, and dead farmhouses, and empty shacks, all of them with vines grown up and through and out the windows and holes in the roofs and around crumbling chimneys. Kudzu, dead for winter, seemed to strangle all these dead places, brown tendrils for all the world like long fingers holding tight.\n\nBut there were new barns, too, and full alive farmhouses with screened porches and gravel drives lined with oaks themselves. There were trailers dropped here and there, and ranch houses, the occasional gas station and general store, each with a couple three cars or trucks parked out front. There were perfect little gardens out front filled with daffodils\u2014daffodils, already up in February!\u2014and old tires split open and painted white and filled with those daffodils as well. Old refrigerators and washers sat up on broken-down porches, and yards with grass cut so fine you'd swear it was carpet you were about to set foot on.\n\nAll of it\u2014the dead and alive places both\u2014just like I remembered.\n\nBut there were other things, too, I hadn't thought of, things of course I knew would be here but wouldn't allow in for the weight of all I placed on my memory, and the weight of my desire for a world lit by a sun more forgiving and faithful than the one too weak to melt off black ice.\n\nThere were satellite dishes, of course, little ones fixed to a chimney or off the eaves, and big ones set out in the front yard like some sort of lawn ornament you might be proud of. Out front of a lot of houses were these little four-wheel vehicle things for riding off into the woods, what looked like overgrown go-carts. Beside or inside most every one of those gas stations was a video store, the windows plastered all over with movie posters.\n\nBut what had I expected? There were video stores every hundred feet in Northampton, not to mention tattoo parlors on every corner, and what seemed a new sushi bar opening every other weekend. All of it played out in a town I'd lived in for more than fifty years, a town that, when we got there from New Hampshire, was not much more than Smith College and onion fields.\n\nA town not a whole lot different than the Mount Pleasant I'd left.\n\nTime moved, whether you liked it or not.\n\nAnd so as we came closer and closer to Georgetown and Gordon and Melba's, there were more and more clues the world down here hadn't stayed still: trees started giving way to billboards for Hardee's, and McDonald's and Taco Bell and another fast-food place called Bo-jangles' that sold chicken and biscuits, and I tried to imagine that\u2014 fast-food biscuits\u2014and fairly shuddered at the thought of it.\n\nThere were billboards for lawyers who'd help if you'd been in a car wreck, and billboards for chiropractors who'd fix you after that wreck. Strip malls started up, with more of those video stores, and dry cleaners, and bargain shoe stores and even more video stores. Gone were those general store gas stations, replaced with minimarts at corners, all of them built on big concrete patches, the station logos and colors all too big and bright to believe, all of them sparkling and shiny and strange here on a country corner.\n\nThen we were in Georgetown proper, 701 dead-ending into 17, Old Georgetown Highway. We got a red light, beside us suddenly that McDonald's, across from us the Bojangles', and an army-surplus store and a Burger King. Here was a Ford dealership too, and traffic and traffic and traffic, all of it sprung on us in the kind of ugly and startling surprise time passing can only be. And farther off to our right, hulking like some ugly green and corrugated monster, stood Georgetown Steel, the huge plant right here in town a fact I'd forgotten, and then I remembered the paper mill too a little ways up the river, and the horrible smell off that place, a smell seemed to soak into the walls when the wind was just right.\n\nGeorgetown. We were here.\n\n\"You ready?\" Ruth said, and I turned to her. She had her sunglasses on, like I did, and smiled.\n\nShe'd never met any of these people. She'd heard talk, certainly, but always and only that. She'd spoken a time or two to them on the phone since all of this plan had begun. But there was now the true specter before her of family, of people who were a part of her and of me and of Mahlon and Eli she was about to put faces to, and for a moment I feared Gordon and Melba'd hug her to pieces, squeeze the wind out of my Ruth.\n\nThere had still been in her a fear, I'd known, that'd rendered her frail through this all. Through the sale of everything we could, through the brochures and whatnot of the apartment we were moving to, through even that last lingering look at the balloons before she told me they'd be in the way.\n\nI reached over to her, took her hand, squeezed it hard. \"Never more ready,\" I said, and hoped she'd believe the lie.\n\nGORDON AND MELBA WERE out the door before we'd even parked beneath the bare crepe myrtle that leaned over their driveway, the two of them headed toward us like horses out the gate to start on the hugs and tears and crying I knew would come.\n\nGordon looked all the world like his daddy, Eli's stepdaddy Gordon Stackhouse. He had the same bushy white eyebrows crept down almost over his eyes, and that bald head save for a crazy wisp or two right there above both ears. He had on green coveralls, short-sleeved and with a built-in belt. An old man's outfit, but it was the same old Gordon, the grinning little boy we'd have to deal with when we came up the odd Sunday afternoon for dinner and a visit.\n\nAnd here was Melba, her joy and big heart and arms open wide. \"Bless your heart!\" she hollered and then she was at Ruth's open car door, Ruth climbing out, keys still in her hand, sunglasses on. She had only one foot to the ground, but Melba's arms were already around her.\n\nMelba closed her eyes as she rocked. I could see tears on her face, in the wrinkles beside her eyes and down her cheeks. Her hair was the same hennaed red as last I'd seen her, maybe forty years ago, and her arms had the wattle of an old woman's, just like mine. Ruth got her other foot out of the car and onto solid ground, and here were her own tears, and I watched from my seat Ruth's arms go slowly up and around Melba's, saw her drop her keys for surrendering to such a hug.\n\nNow Gordon was here at my door, opened it for me, helped me up careful from the car seat, then I gave up to his open arms as well, all of us wordless and crying, the car doors standing wide open.\n\n\"Sister,\" he whispered as he held me, \"we're so glad you're home.\"\n\nI smiled up at him, not in me the nerve to correct him, me too thankful just to hold my Eli's kin in my arms.\n\n_Almost home,_ I wanted to tell him, but did not.\n\nSlowly we made it up onto the porch and into their house, the same house Eli and I'd come to visit in those dating days. Gordon'd inherited it back in 1967, when Mr. Stackhouse passed. The house was a small thing, set back off 17 on the other side of the Georgetown River and out of the mess of that downtown, back on a narrow asphalt road heaped over with live oak boughs.\n\nThe front room was cluttered the way old people's homes will be cluttered with the furniture it took a lifetime to gather and none of which you'd ever let go.\n\nUnless you were leaving your old life behind.\n\nThe sofa was covered with a brown and white checkered afghan blanket that might've been here the last time we'd visited, or might not, I couldn't recall. Beside it a black Naugahyde recliner with arms so worn out the doilies pinned on to cover them up were nearly worn through themselves. Wood-paneled walls were covered with family pictures, all framed eight-by-tens.\n\nAnd there were model wooden ships everywhere, a passion of Gordon's I'd forgotten in all these years. Behind that recliner three shelves went up the wall, on them eight or nine glass cases each a different size, each built to fit only what they held: a ketch-rigged sloop, an old CrisCraft, a yawl, a catboat, a simple dory. All of them rigged, sails set or oars to the gunwales, decks varnished. All of them beautiful.\n\nThen the surprise of knowing what these boats were called came to me: I knew a sloop, a yawl, a catboat. They were all boats my daddy'd taught me when I was growing up, when some days he'd taken me out on the _Mary Sweet,_ and we'd see them in the harbor.\n\nThat knowledge now here. Just like that.\n\n\"I forgot about all this,\" I said to Gordon, \"the model ships,\" and turned to him. He was smiling, looked up at the shelves himself, Ruth looking too. \"These are beautiful,\" she said.\n\nMelba stood at their TV cabinet across from the sofa, set on it a glass case two feet tall. \"This one's my pride and joy,\" she said, a hand to the top of the case like she was a game-show girl.\n\nInside was a fully rigged trawler, the hull a perfect kelly green, its seines all up in that same way I'd always thought of as hands in praise. Ruth and I stepped to the case for a closer look, saw the stern deck had in it rows of tiny wire crabpots too, and lines coiled, even the smallest rigged fishing poles set into rod holders on the gunwales.\n\n\"This was my daddy's baby,\" Melba said, \"the _Rebecca._ Took my Gordon three years to get this one set, and he gave it to my daddy the day he was done with it. You should've seen my daddy bawling when he got this. Such a sight,\" she said, and shook her head.\n\n\"This is beautiful,\" Ruth said. \"This is perfect.\"\n\nI looked at Melba, her smiling big as ever, eyes to the ship. \"It truly is,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't suppose you'll recall what this one's about,\" Gordon said from behind us, and we turned. He stood behind the recliner, his hands up to the far corner of the top shelf, and the smallest case up there, maybe a foot long and only six inches tall. From my height I couldn't see what was in the case, only watched as he lifted the whole thing off the shelf, gentle as could be. He turned to us, stepped out from behind the recliner, smiling down at what he had.\n\nA submarine.\n\n\"Oh my no,\" I said, and now here it was between us, all of us looking at the model like it was a campfire could keep us warm.\n\nIt was small, rough-carved from a two-by-two, and painted sloppy, the top half of it gray, the bottom black, and with a tower looked nothing more than a knot out of pine plank. Up from the tower and off the bow were toothpicks, painted gray too: a radio antenna, a bowsprit.\n\n\"First one I ever did, and looks like it too,\" Gordon said. \"After Eli went on up to New Hampshire.\" He paused, still smiling down on it. \"Did this when I was twelve and so damned jealous of Eli off to building subs and me so proud of him at the same time. My stepbrother.\" He shook his head, glanced at the _Rebecca,_ then over his shoulder at the shelves. \"All this come out of this punky thing,\" he said, looked at the submarine again. \"All of it out of Eli heading off to the war.\"\n\nWith his words I only now remembered hearing about that submarine, back when Momma'd sometimes trade letters from Eli's momma once Eli was in the Navy.\n\n\"Beau found it in a shoe box out to the garage when he was staying here with us after he and Valerie,\" Melba said, and stopped, took in a quick breath, like it'd come to her as a surprise, the words she'd spoken. She reached up, scratched at her nose. \"Beau built the case for it himself and made a present of it back to his daddy on Father's Day that year,\" she said, and nodded.\n\n\"Looks mighty puny,\" Gordon said, and looked up at me, still smiling. \"But I got Eli to thank for all this,\" he said. \"Or him to blame, one.\"\n\n\"He'd be proud to see all this,\" I said, and knew it for truth. I smiled at him, nodded.\n\n\"He's got his ships,\" Melba said, \"but I got my kids, and my grand-kids to show off for you,\" and Gordon said, \"They're mine, too!\" and turned, gently placed the glass case back on that top shelf. Then Melba took hold my hand and brought me to the sofa and the pictures that carpeted the wall above it, Ruth right here with us.\n\nMelba and Gordon both narrated at once, as though one were afraid the other might leave something out: here was Jocelyn's senior picture, twenty years ago already, she didn't go to the reunion seeing's how she'd got word her ex-husband had plans to show up, and here were her kids' school portraits this year, Zachary in eighth grade, Brian in seventh, the two of them just too close together and don't they look like twins? and little Tess in third, and doesn't she just look too thin to you for a little girl that age? And here's Robert\u2014that job at the Piggly Wiggly here in town's waiting for you, has your name on it, Ruth\u2014 and his beautiful wife Ellen, she's a ball of fire and a giggler from the get-go, you can see it in her eyes plain as day, and here's their Emily girl, who's almost grown up in tenth grade this year and gone through two boyfriends already, and here's little Ashley their princess and won't let anybody forget it neither, she's in second grade, wears a little rhinestone tiara around the house, I told you she was a princess; and here's Beau in his uniform at graduation, we were so proud, and this little Polaroid here is Beau and Ollie, just about a month before, Ollie'd've been eighteen in October this year, and the only thing can keep that Polaroid from fading is to hide it away, which we're not about to do.\n\nThere on the wall, nearly a secret for how small it was against all these eight-by-tens, was a framed Polaroid, the image on it nearly gone full to the green and yellow tint these things get swallowed by. But you could see it was a man smiling, in his arms a baby, black-haired like his daddy, Beau.\n\nOllie, Beau, and Valerie.\n\nAnd it was to my shame that I remembered only then the story from all those years ago: how their first grandchild, Ollie, had passed in his sleep at five months, not a year later Beau and his wife Valerie breaking up over it.\n\nRuth said, \"We're so sorry,\" and I turned to her. She was looking at Melba, and I saw in her eyes she knew the story herself. She'd been married to Mahlon four or five years by the time this'd happened.\n\nWe were a family all the way back then.\n\nMelba nodded, rubbed at her nose again. I could see her eyes were wet for this giant fact made new once more with our being here. She gave a quick smile to Ruth, nodded once more. Enough words on the matter, I could see.\n\nBut I went ahead, said, \"We are sorry,\" and felt the shock of guilt again for having forgotten over all these years that loss.\n\nMelba's eyes met mine, and she smiled.\n\nThen we were ushered to the dining room at the back of the house, though not a room so much as where the table sat, the kitchen to the left and part of this end of the house.\n\nSet upon the table was a dinner for Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter all at once. To the right was a sideboard, centered on top another huge model ship, a five-masted schooner set to sail right through its glass, crowded around it even more food, and the two of them set to narrating the dishes like they were those family photos: here's Ellen's shrimp and grits with Tabasco same as her momma did, she brought it over an hour or so ago, they'll be here in a little while; and biscuits and cheese grits and green-bean casserole, ham sliced off the bone and a whole fried turkey breast I cooked up special out in the fryer in the garage, no trouble at all; and those sausage balls Jocelyn's ex-husband made for us every year, the recipe a keeper though he certainly was not, and Beau throwing him out on his head finally, thank you very much; here's green salad and a purple Jell-O mold with cottage cheese and apples and walnuts, Melba's momma found that recipe in of all places on the back of a Rice Krispies box, you're supposed to put Rice Krispies in but my momma knew what to put in and leave out; and sweet-potato pie, you remember your momma and sweet-potato pie, Naomi? of course she does, why would you ask such a thing? and mashed potatoes and gravy and another plate of biscuits, and pitchers each of sweet tea and unsweetened both\u2014\"Just in case this Massachusetts girl here doesn't know what's good for her,\" Gordon said from across the table, Ruth beside him and Melba next to her, an arm around Ruth's waist as simple and true as if they were dear friends from many years past.\n\n\"I've been drinking it sweet since the first meal I ever ate at Naomi's house,\" Ruth said to him, and smiled at me. \"And if anybody's a Massachusetts girl it's her. She's been living up there since before I was born.\"\n\n\"This girl's a sharp one,\" Melba said and laughed, pulled Ruth closer. \"Just like we'd heard all these years, all of it true, and her even more beautiful than anyone told us.\"\n\nI stood across the table from the three of them, me somehow settled into place here when we'd first turned to the heaps of food from all those pictures, all that family.\n\n\"She's a keeper,\" I said.\n\nHere we were, their home, and all the words, all this food, all the family photos, the model ships, and those worn-out doilies and bare crepe myrtles outside and even Gordon's eyebrows and Melba's hennaed hair all music to me.\n\nAll a song I'd forgotten for the years gone from this place.\n\nI looked at Ruth, still smiling. She'd crooked an arm around Melba herself, natural as could be.\n\nI said, \"How did you ever put this all together a whole day before we were supposed to get here?\"\n\nMelba laughed, said, \"When's putting together food for family ever been a difficult thing?\"\n\nI shook my head, smiled down at the table so full. \"You shouldn't have,\" I said. \"But we're glad for it.\"\n\nI looked up to her, still smiling.\n\nAnd saw behind the three of them drapes floor to ceiling, huge magnolia blossoms on a sea-green background, and it only occurred to me now that last time I was here, all those years ago, there used to be a door off this room, one that led out to the backyard and the dock, a rickety old thing that angled over the saltmarsh hay and yellowgrass to the creek back there.\n\nWithout a word I went round the end of the table. Gordon leaned forward and peeled back a little piece of that fried turkey, and Melba and Ruth watched me head for those drapes.\n\n\"It's still there,\" Melba near to whispered, and there seemed some magic passed between us. And not just with her, but with Gordon, too, who turned from the turkey. Then slowly he went the couple feet behind him to the drapes, reached inside the edge of them, pulled the cord to open them up.\n\nThey'd replaced the door with a sliding glass window, and when the drapes pulled back full the memory of being a girl to Mount Pleasant and those walks in the woods was all the closer. So close I could feel the carpet of pinestraw beneath my feet, could feel the warm light down through the trees.\n\nThe yard swept out from beneath their own pines and live oak to the marsh a hundred feet or so away. There was the dock, the planks on it mottled and warped, I could see even with the sun already down. The creek was narrow here, the dock maybe fifty feet long and narrow itself, more so than I could recall. Nowheres near enough room for a boat to put in.\n\nBut we'd thrown castnets off the end of it, Eli or Gordon or even me, and I remembered of a sudden the cinch rope clenched between your teeth, the gathered net with its lead weights as big as your finger sewn into the hem all the way around draped over your arm, in each hand an edge of the hem itself. Then you threw it all out in a circle on the water before you, what every time I ever saw made me think of a petticoat thrown full on the floor, those weights swirling out over the water to drop, if you did it right, into a perfect circle, then disappearing. Next came the pull of the cinch rope once you felt the net settle to the bottom, and the hauling in to find treasure, whether shrimp to eat or mullet for bait, sometimes even a spottail bass.\n\nAnd here in me was the memory of the crabpots we'd drop in out there, and the cannonballs we'd do when the tide was in. We'd found our fill of blue crabs and shrimp, and our fill of fun jumping off back there while Eli and I were dating, little brother Gordon always wanting to pull his stepbrother under but Eli always stronger, and older, and just as mischievous as Gordon.\n\nNow here was the same Gordon beside me, with his daddy's eyebrows, eyes the wet and rheumy of an old age we'd never even considered might could find us those days out off the dock.\n\nI put my hand up to the glass, felt the cool of it, saw where my gnarled fingers touched at the glass that there was a shadow, a ghost outline up off the tips of them. Condensation on the glass.\n\nI was still alive.\n\nI felt Ruth's hand to my shoulder, all four of us looking out the window now. Across the creek the trees were a tall presence of green above the grays and yellows of a saltmarsh in February, and I watched while in the growing dark of our first day back there came at me the mystery of empty woods, of light leaving for the day. The green trees over there were turning color, changing to a kind of blue headed toward black, the curve and texture, the pitch and reach of the boughs out toward the creek above the marsh all swallowed in the failing light. Above it all night edged on, the lavender and gray of it, not even a star out yet.\n\n\"Almost home,\" Ruth whispered in my ear, her breath warm, a comfort.\n\nAnd just then, from across the creek and deep inside those trees, that wall of them no longer trees for the dark but a mystery deeper still, a light came on.\n\nNot just one, but a gang of them.\n\nThere, off to my right and across the creek and through those trees, sat a house not a hundred yards away, lit up with a string of floodlights shining up on it from the ground. I couldn't see the all of it, only could tell it was a house, a pale green one, built up high.\n\n\"Leastways you can't much see them in daylight,\" Gordon said, his voice gone to gravel. \"But then those dusk to dawn lights go on, and there they are.\" He paused, swallowed. \"None of them yet got a dock permit, though who knows how long before the wetlands commission people cave in.\"\n\nThen another set of lights came on to my left, and another straight out off the end of the dock, all of them set up to show off a house hidden in the woods.\n\n\"My,\" I whispered, and now the weight of the thousand miles we'd driven in these two days hit me, and I felt my knees and the pain in them, and the ache in my fingers.\n\nI felt on me what I hadn't thought of this entire day, or at least hadn't allowed to let myself think on.\n\nIt was the weight of forgiveness in me I felt, the surprise of it, delivered so late and so full, around me these people I loved who had no notion of who I truly was, of what I'd done. And with no notion of how I'd lived my life with all this, and how only yesterday at my husband's graveside I'd been delivered of it.\n\nForgiveness lighting up my sin, illuminating it like brand-new houses hidden in ancient trees.\n\nStill I did not know what to do, or how to hold on. But still I left my hand at the glass.\n\n\"There's thirty of them back in there,\" Melba said quiet, on her voice a kind of marvel and sadness at once. \"Every one of them sold before they even broke ground.\"\n\n\"My,\" I whispered again, though the word out of me was so quiet I believed it was only me to hear.\n\nThen Ruth squeezed my shoulder the smallest way, and I felt her lean into me. I knew she'd heard me, and had heard on the word the weight of these miles, and the revealed mystery of empty woods.\n\nBut she hadn't heard the other weight. Of forgiveness.\n\nPeople lived in those woods.\n\n\"Almost home,\" she whispered again.\nChapter 15\n\nTHE FRONT DOOR BANGED open, and we all turned to it. Here running in was a little girl, white-haired and with a rhinestone tiara on her head and wearing a pink tutu.\n\n\"Mamaw! Papaw!\" she shouted, her arms up for Gordon and Melba. But her eyes were on me, and Ruth, and me again, all before she fell into Melba, who hadn't even the time to bend to her. She wrapped her arms far as she could around Melba's middle, her cheek pressed hard against her tummy. She was grinning up at me, a spray of freckles across her nose, her teeth two perfect white rows save for one gap on the bottom.\n\n\"You must be Ashley,\" I said to her, and smiled, leaned a little over to her.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, and giggled. She quick turned her face away from me, pressed just as hard and holding on just as tight to Melba.\n\n\"Ashley, this here's your aunt Naomi,\" Gordon said, and bent to her, hands on his knees. \"And this is your aunt Ruth, too.\"\n\nShe whipped her head back to me, glanced at Ruth. \"Y'all aren't sisters!\" she said, and giggled again, this time louder, and before I could say a thing here came Ellen, lugging a huge casserole dish with two hot pads. She had a grin plastered on her face and was looking at Melba. She shook her head, then gave a quick nod back over her shoulder, a signal something was up with whatever was coming after her.\n\nThen she looked at Ruth and me, and the smile wasn't plastered anymore, but real.\n\n\"Welcome home!\" she said, and wedged the casserole onto what little room was left on the table. \"You never met me, but we've heard a lot about y'all,\" she said, and came to me, gave a hug, and did the same for Ruth.\n\nHer hair was in tight curls I couldn't say were permed or natural, and she had blue eyes, freckles all over. Already she was giggling just like they said she would, over what I couldn't say.\n\nRight behind her through the door was Gordon and Melba's boy Robert, a man I recognized mostly from the photos of him here on his momma's wall, but somewhere inside his smile and eyes the same baby in diapers I'd seen last time I'd been here. He was still in his white shirt and red tie from work, sleeves rolled up, his nametag there at his breast pocket. He wore glasses and had those eyebrows well on their way to the bushy of his daddy's, and he looked beat for a day's work. Now he was hugging me, and shook hands with Ruth, but not before he glanced to Ellen, then to Gordon and Melba. He made a smirk, quick shook his head.\n\n\"All's I got to say,\" he said, and crossed his arms, looked at Ruth and me both, \"is just never have a teenage daughter. That's all.\" He laughed a little, and Ellen giggled, while the front door stood open, waiting for their other girl, Emily.\n\n\"She broke up with her boyfriend today,\" Ellen said. She looked at Melba, had her hands together in front of her, the fingers just touching.\n\nMelba said, \"Bless her heart.\"\n\n\"Her boyfriend's nickname is Fatback!\" Ashley shouted, still holding tight to Melba's middle. She let out a squeal of laughter, her eyes on us.\n\n_\"Y'all just shut up!\"_ came shouted from outside the front door, and we all turned to see nothing. There was just that voice, on it a girl's pain and exasperation both.\n\n\"She's sitting out on the porch,\" Robert said, took in a deep breath through his nose, let it out. \"She can hear us.\" He rocked back on his heels, then forward.\n\nEllen said, \"She'll do this sometimes.\"\n\nRobert said, \"You got that right.\"\n\n\"She'll be okay in a minute,\" Gordon said, his voice easy now and a little too loud. Papaw's voice, I realized, just in case she was listening for him.\n\n\"No need for worrying,\" I said. \"I was a teenage girl once, too,\" I said, and thought of my brother _\u2014I ain't listening to Little Orphan Annie!_ _You got no choice but to give me your last piece of bacon!\u2014_ and my own cries of exasperated pain at being part of a family.\n\n\"I've been there too,\" Ruth said. \"There's nothing worse than a broken heart.\" She smiled a little, looked at Ellen, who smiled back.\n\nIt was just something to say, I knew. Comment on a teenage girl, on it nothing meant but commiseration: teenage girls are a handful.\n\nBut then Ellen let drop her hands, slowly moved to Ruth, and gave another hug, this one longer, surer.\n\n\"We are truly glad you're here,\" she said, and pulled away, \"and we're sorry for the grief you've had to bear.\" Ellen looked at me, still holding on to Ruth. \"Both of you,\" she said, and turned back to Ruth. Ruth looked at her, and to me, on her face surprise, her eyebrows slowly gone up, her eyes opening wide, and she bit her lip.\n\n\"We all are, sweetness,\" Melba said, and put a hand to Ruth's shoulder, rubbed it careful. Robert said, \"Yes, we are,\" and Gordon said, \"We're glad you two are home.\"\n\nRuth's chin trembled. She quick looked to them each, met them all with her eyes. She took in a sharp breath, pulled Ellen to her, and she cried, silent and full, her shoulders quivering for it. She held tight to Ellen, and cried.\n\nThen Gordon was holding me, this Stackhouse man squeezing me hard to let me know it wasn't lost on anyone the grief I had to bear right along with Ruth.\n\n\"Y'all are momma and daughter, not sisters!\" Ashley squealed, down below this all, and Gordon let go. She was still clutching tight her mamaw, still grinning.\n\n\"I guess you got that right, little missy,\" Gordon said.\n\nI leaned to her again. She didn't turn away this time, and I touched her hair, felt how soft it was, how fine. I gave a little tickle behind her ear.\n\n\"Momma and daughter,\" I said.\n\nAnd of course she giggled.\n\nGORDON SAID GRACE, all of us holding hands. Ashley, to my left, squeezed tight, Melba's hand in my right warm and big and holding even tighter. But I didn't mind a bit the pain on my fingers. Not a bit.\n\nAnd then we ate.\n\nThen ate more.\n\nEventually, too, Emily came in from the porch. She was a beautiful girl, the same spray of freckles across her nose as her little sister, and with the same white hair, hers parted in the middle. No tiara, and thin as a stick.\n\nShe smiled at me and at Ruth as she walked through the family room toward the table, no one saying a word for her quiet entrance. They all knew how to handle this, it happening enough times before.\n\nShe had on a white top with spaghetti straps, and a short short red skirt, the number 71 on the right thigh. The same heavy patch of a number you might see on a letterman jacket, and I couldn't help but wonder what sport it was a girl wore something that short for.\n\nShe went straight to the kitchen behind us, on the counter piled the plates and silverware and napkins and dishes of food we'd had to move to make way for ourselves to sit.\n\nEveryone at the table watched everyone else, though all of us were eating: Gordon with another tear of that turkey to his mouth, Ellen with a spoonful of cheese grits, Melba and Robert and Ruth and Ashley all eating.\n\nAshley, though, even with her mouth full, was ready for something, grinning while she chewed on a biscuit she held with both hands. She rocked in her seat, her feet swinging back and forth beneath her. I could see in her eyes, and that grin too, that she was ready, waiting.\n\nAll I'd wanted was just to say hello. I wanted just to let Emily know we were happy to be here, glad to be a part of all this food, and this family.\n\nSo it was me to open my mouth first.\n\nI set down my forkful of broccoli-cheese casserole\u2014what Ellen'd toted in when they arrived\u2014and turned in my seat. Emily was leaned into the open refrigerator, nosing around for something. That white blouse had pulled up in back some with her leaning, and there across the seat of the skirt, in those same letterman jacket letters, was the word abercrombie.\n\n\"What sport do you play over to Abercrombie?\" I said.\n\nShe stood from the refrigerator, turned to me, in her hand a bottled water. \"Ma'am?\" she said, her face all a question.\n\n\"Is that the name of your high school?\" I asked, and gave a quick twitch of a smile. \"Abercrombie?\"\n\nAshley squealed, shouted, \"Abercrombie and Fitch! She plays for Abercrombie and Fitch!\"\n\n\"What?\" I said, and turned to the table to see the all of them broken up into laughter.\n\nThere was a joke here, and me the butt of it. I quick looked to Ruth, who was laughing and wiping her fingers, her mouth closed tight for the food in there, and Gordon was at it too. Melba managed out \"Bless your heart!\" to me, and covered her mouth, propped an elbow to the table, and kept on laughing.\n\n\"It's clothes,\" Emily said to me. \"A clothes company. Just a clothes company,\" and though I could see the impatience in her, still a corner of her mouth was up in a smile she didn't want to let out.\n\n\"She used to play for Fatback, but he kicked her off the team!\" Ashley squealed, and Emily shouted through clenched teeth, \"Daddy!\" and Robert put in, \"Careful your mouth or you're in the car, Ashley.\"\n\nBut they were all still laughing, even Emily now, coming round the end of the table with her bottled water and a plate and silverware, and then she settled in beside her daddy, who speared a slice of ham and set it on her plate.\n\n\"Daddy!\" she said, and tried to hold off another smile.\n\n\"Pork is our friend,\" Robert said, \"and you need some meat on you, I'm here to tell you.\"\n\n\"A and F! Aunt Naomi thinks she plays for A and F!\" Ashley shouted, still rocking, still with that biscuit clutched tight.\n\nI was an old woman, no doubt to it. And this was a story they'd tell on me for years to come.\n\nEmily put her elbow to the table, covered her eyes, shook her head.\n\nRobert spooned up a good lot of cheese grits, served it onto Emily's plate without her seeing. Gordon, smiling, shook his head, and pointed at me with his fork. And Melba, and Ruth, and Ellen, and me too, all laughed, and all ate.\n\n_Aunt Naomi,_ Ashley'd said, and I tried to recall when I'd ever heard that name.\nChapter 16\n\nLIGHT FROM those houses across the creek banged into the bedroom, even with the curtains pulled tight. Ruth and I shared the queen bed in here, the house with only three bedrooms. One of them\u2014 Jocelyn's old room\u2014had been turned into a workroom, Melba's sewing machine and Gordon's workbench and tools in there now.\n\nThis was Beau and Robert's old room, though there was nothing to it of a boy's life anymore. The curtains at the two windows were more of those magnolias from the dining room, only on a pink background you couldn't say was pink in this dark. But you could see those magnolias, big and white and floating there, the light from across the creek leaking in all the way around. On the wall opposite the windows was the closet door, beside that the door into the bathroom. It was a tee-ninecy thing, only a shower stall big enough to turn around in. A toilet, a pedestal sink, a door into the other room so the kids could share it between them, though now it opened into that workroom.\n\nAt the foot of the bed was a white hope chest, on it our two overnight bags; against the wall across from it stood a white chest of drawers, above it a mirror, above that a white shelf. Set on it were a dozen or so of those crocheted toilet-paper cover dolls, the crocheted piece a hoop skirt over the roll, at the top a plastic doll head crocheted right into it, bonnet and all. There hadn't been boys in here for a long time.\n\nAfter dinner we'd visited for an hour or so, Ashley lying on the floor in the middle of us all and whispering to herself the storybook she had in front of her. Emily sat out to the dining room with her back to us and reading a novel. We'd just talked\u2014about fifteen degrees in Northampton yesterday, and the manager at the Piggly Wiggly to Mount Pleasant and her phone number, how Jocelyn's boys Zachary and Brian were trying to get into the magnet school and how Emily wanted to get two more piercings for her ears. Just talk, the last bit thrown in too loud by Gordon just to get a rise out of his granddaughter.\n\nShe didn't bite, not even a sigh for it.\n\nI'd started to nod off a little, the words and voices all melting into one another in that way that made no sense but which you were listening to all the same. Ruth's voice was in there and fearless, talking about something, and Ellen with a word and Robert with a few and the all of them laughing of a sudden.\n\nI opened my eyes, startled I'd fallen asleep.\n\nThere was Ruth at the dining room table with a washrag, wiping. Water ran in the kitchen, the sofa and recliner empty.\n\nRuth saw me, smiled. \"Didn't want to wake you,\" she said. \"Another of these long days we keep having.\" She nodded, headed into the kitchen.\n\nEllen and Robert and the girls were gone, Ruth and Melba at the refrigerator arranging things to fit all the food we had left. Gordon stood at the sink, wiping dry a pan.\n\nHe smiled, nodded. \"I heard you sawing logs in there,\" he said, shook his head. \"You'll be dreaming on cheese grits and shrimp in no time, once you hit the hay.\"\n\nNow here I lay, my hairnet on, glasses on the nightstand beside me, flannel nightgown warm as toast. Wide awake, as if that little nap after dinner'd been enough for a whole night.\n\nI could tell by her breathing beside me that Ruth was awake, too, the two of us side by side and on our backs. It was in the shallow depth of each breath she took in, let out, as if she were waiting for word from me to let her know we could talk.\n\nBut it was her to speak first.\n\n\"Do you remember that feeling?\" she whispered, then paused. \"Of being a girl,\" she went on, \"and everything in the world was meant to embarrass you. Like Emily was tonight.\"\n\nIt was a question out of midair, but we were here, in the middle of the night in a house gone quiet, in what might as well be a foreign country. For that it seemed as logical a question as any.\n\n\"I remember,\" I whispered back, \"but I thought you'd be thinking on sleep this time of night,\" and she quick gave back, \"I'm sorry, Naomi. I thought you were awake.\"\n\n\"Haven't closed an eye yet,\" I said. I let out a little puff of a laugh. \"Guess we're too wound up from the day.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"And being here.\" She paused, took in a breath. \"Just being here,\" she whispered.\n\nShe was quiet a second, then whispered in a voice seemed almost amazed, \"Did you know she was the one who brought in the overnight bags from the car?\"\n\n\"That child?\" I asked, my whisper almost too loud. I hadn't given the bags being in here a thought when we'd come in for bed. They'd just been there.\n\n\"Yes,\" Ruth whispered, still with that kind of amazed wonder. \"While you were asleep on the sofa. We were rinsing dishes and from nowhere comes her voice, 'Can I help?' And Melba and Ellen and I all turn, and she's standing there with that look on her face. Like she's bored, with her head tilted down, and her arms crossed.\" She stopped, slowly shook her head. \"But she's looking at me, and Ellen and Melba knew she was and so they didn't say anything.\" She paused. \"She was asking me if she could help me,\" she whispered. \"And so I tell her if she really wants to, we haven't brought in our bags yet. My hands are wet with the dishes, so I nod to my purse hanging off the back of one of the chairs, and tell her the keys are in there, and if she really wants she can bring them in for us.\"\n\nShe went quiet, shook her head once more. \"She got the keys, and did it.\"\n\nI thought on Emily, on that exasperated pain I'd heard in her voice\u2014 _\"Y'all just shut up!\"_ \u2014and the embarrassment and antagonized way of life my brother'd held me under.\n\n\"Talk to me,\" Ruth whispered. She rolled over toward me, pulled the sheet and blanket tight to her chin. \"I need you to tell me stories,\" she whispered. \"Of when you were a girl.\"\n\n\"Honey?\" I whispered. I looked at her, tried to push up on an elbow and made to turn over to her. \"You all right?\"\n\n\"I'm fine,\" she said. She reached a hand out from under the covers, put it to my shoulder to signal me to lie down. Here was her chestnut hair moving in the near dark, the silk sheaf of it off her shoulder as she reached to me. Here was her hand too, soft and warm but pushing to let me know she was, in fact, fine.\n\nAnd so I lay back, and I looked to the ceiling, at the fan up there, and I looked at the curtains, those magnolias floating like a raft on that light from outside.\n\nI was quiet a few seconds, wondering what she was after.\n\nBut she'd asked me to speak.\n\n\"Every day,\" I started, not certain where this might lead, but whispering nonetheless. \"Being embarrassed,\" I went on. \"I knew it chapter and verse. There was my brother, for starters, and him harassing me like brothers will.\" I stopped, listened for her to see if she were going to put in something of her own.\n\nShe was silent, still with that shallow breathing in and out, and I knew then what she needed: stories, just like she'd said. A way to start to live down here. A way to start to breathe, here in a foreign country.\n\nAnd there washed over me my life as a girl, a place so far removed and kept so far away with how many miles we'd lived from here, the all of it brought me now with fried turkey and cheese grits, with the single word _y'all,_ and the simple gift of sunlight dying over a saltmarsh, and a girl beside me needing stories. Never mind they were about the embarrassment a girl feels, because we all feel it, no matter what country we're from.\n\nShe needed stories, because we were almost home.\n\n\"But I was embarrassed about him in other ways,\" I whispered, and took in a deep breath. \"He slept in a shack out back of the house. Because our house was so small, and it was my job to wake him up, me to walk out the back door and down the three concrete steps off the porch and then knock on his screen door.\" I was quiet, felt in me the old rush of blood, the sense of burning came with shame. \"I was so ashamed of my brother sleeping in a shed, that I woke him quiet as I could so's nobody in the houses around might could hear me. Knocked light as I could on that screen door, whispered in to get up. Me looking around to the neighbors' houses for someone watching me. I knew we were poor, and everybody near enough to see me out their window was, too. Plenty others had sheds or shacks or whatnot family lived in. But that didn't matter, because it was me out there having to wake my brother.\"\n\nI went quiet, listened for Ruth, for some word, or the deep rhythm of breaths that would signal me I'd talked her to sleep.\n\nThen I heard from the foot of the bed her rubbing her feet together under the covers.\n\nShe was listening.\n\n\"Eli used to jab a pencil into my shoulder from where he sat behind me in school, him and all his friends laughing him on to it,\" I said. \"Which embarrassed me, them laughing and this annoying boy behind me positively misbehaving. You couldn't do anything for it but raise your hand and tattle, which I wasn't going to do. Which is why they did it to start with. Because they knew they'd get away with it.\" I paused, thought of Eli a moment, slowly shook my head, smiling to myself. \"That was back when he was a nitwit. Before I got hold of him.\"\n\n\"Back before 'Nice to meet you,' \" she whispered. On her words was a smile too, I could hear.\n\nI was quiet, thought on her words, on that night when I'd told her of our hearts' password. For a moment I felt a quick trace of pain, a shadow of it through me. This was our secret, I thought. Mine and Eli's, and now she was using it back to me, like it was a phrase you could utter as you please.\n\nBut it was only a shadow, and passed as one.\n\nI whispered back, \"Yes, before.\"\n\nI lay there again in silence, Ruth's feet still. \"And I was worried over my bust,\" I whispered, and let out a quiet laugh. Ruth whispered a laugh as well, and wiggled there beside me, settling in. \"Or the lack thereof, like every girl starts out. But I worked myself into a fit wondering when they'd come in, and all I'd wear were these loose-cut blouses had a Peter Pan collar, so no one would notice I was empty up top. Then when they started coming in I tried to talk my momma into making me a couple more in the same style but even bigger, even looser, so's nobody'd notice I actually had them finally.\" I paused, let out a quiet laugh again. \"My daddy heard me the afternoon I tried to talk my momma into this plan, and he shouts from the other room, 'You'll wear the clothes you got till your bosoms pop the buttons, and then all we'll do is use fishing line to sew them buttons right back on!\"\n\nWe both let out a laugh, then shushed each other and laughed and shushed again, like two girls at a pajama party. \"And the tomfoolery of it was,\" I finally got out, \"was that nobody noticed when I had nothing, and nobody noticed when they came in. But you couldn't tell me that, and I wouldn't've believed it if you'd told me. Because I was a girl, and I was embarrassed at it all.\" I took in a breath. \"Especially my daddy making comment on my bosoms.\"\n\nI let out a heavy sigh, shook my head again.\n\nRuth rolled onto her back. She took her hands out from beneath the covers, put them behind her head. \"I haven't come close to even thinking about any of this in years,\" she whispered.\n\nShe was looking to the foot of the bed now, that chest of drawers, the mirror, the shelf of toilet-paper cover dolls above it all.\n\n\"The whole time growing up we had one of those things. Those toilet-paper hiders. I never knew if my mom made it or not.\" She paused. \"I never saw her crochet, or knit. But she sewed things.\"\n\nShe looked to the ceiling. \"I was embarrassed about that thing. That one of my friends would see that thing sitting on the back of the toilet and make fun of it. It was this bright magenta yarn, and the doll face always just smiling. It sat on the toilet tank for as long as I could remember. When we lived in Ashfield, and then after my mother died and we moved down to Holyoke, here it was on the tank in the bathroom there, and I was still just as embarrassed.\" She paused. \"And it was still there when my dad died in the mill fire.\"\n\nShe stopped, thinking on what she'd just said, I could tell. On the path she was about to head down, and there was to her whispered voice the same kind of marvel as when Melba'd told us how many houses were buried in the woods across the creek.\n\nWe never talked about her momma, or her daddy.\n\nYet there wasn't any sadness to her voice, like there'd been in Melba's. There was just a kind of awe, and quiet.\n\n\"I remember walking to school when I was a freshman, and wearing brand-new clothes I didn't know worked or not,\" she whispered, and now it was me to roll over onto my side, and face her. I tucked my hand under my pillow, looked at her profile, watched her mouth move with her words. \"When my mom died I was twelve, and I didn't let my dad or anybody buy me any clothes for a year.\"\n\nShe took in a breath, held it, held it, then whispered, \"She used to make me clothes I didn't want to wear.\"\n\nI readied for tears, but none came, on her voice still that sense of marvel, and no sadness.\n\n\"Then she died,\" she went on, \"and we moved, and I didn't trust anything. I wore those silly clothes she made me even though I didn't want them. But they fit through the rest of that year, in eighth grade.\" She stopped, blinked. She breathed out. \"She'd made me bell-bottom pants, but they were this horrible green. And there was a vest she'd made me out of blue calico with little red rickrack all the way around. Two gingham blouses different colors, and another one out of that unbleached linen. Another pair of pants, orange this time, with patches sewn onto them. 'Right on,' was one of them, and 'Sock it to me,' and a peace sign.\" She paused, swallowed again. \"I hated them. But my mom had died, and she made these things.\" She stopped, then whispered, \"I didn't want to betray her.\"\n\nI thought I heard a twist in her voice then, a bumping up against something. I reached to her, put a hand to her elbow beside me, and she turned to me. I could see something of a smile on her. \"I'm fine,\" she whispered. \"I am.\" She turned to the ceiling, here again her profile.\n\n\"Then I outgrew them,\" she went on. \"Right about May, and somebody must have told my dad, because one Saturday morning a week after school's out he wakes me up and tells me we're going shopping.\" She turned her head to the shelf again, those toilet-paper dolls. \"That's when it hit me. Not having a mother. Because I didn't have one to measure up to anything, whether or not she would approve of it.\"\n\nShe took in a breath, let it out through her nose. I touched her elbow again, patted it the gentlest way I knew how.\n\n\"I don't know how to say this,\" she whispered, and paused, still facing that shelf, those dolls. \"But it hit me, that I would buy clothes with my dad, and he would say yes or no. There wasn't my mom to say yes or no. And I wouldn't know what was right or wrong for it. Whether the clothes were something my mom would let me wear, or if it was something I'd fight with her over wearing because she wouldn't let me. There wasn't my mom to say yes or no, even if I wanted to get the no. So I didn't trust anything. I didn't know what to trust, or who. And it scared me.\"\n\nShe swallowed, harder this time, and turned back to the ceiling.\n\n\"So I just bought things. We were down at Holyoke Mall. Dad and I just going into Steigers and Penney's both, and I'd see something and go try it on in the dressing room, and I'd come out without wearing it for him. He'd just nod when I held out to him what I wanted. Because he had no idea himself.\" She paused. \"Because he had no idea what was right or wrong himself. He didn't have my mom to ask, either.\" She paused again, let in a long breath, held it again, and let it out. \"Sometimes I'd come out of the dressing room,\" she whispered, even quieter now, \"and I'd catch him sitting there before he saw me, and he'd have his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.\"\n\nShe stopped, those last words out of her down to nothing. I patted her arm again. This was what she'd bumped up against, I knew. Her momma, her daddy.\n\nHerself, alone.\n\nI left my had there on her arm, just resting there. As if I could do anything for her, but to listen.\n\n\"And then I wore those clothes that year,\" she whispered, but the words back to that whispered pitch we'd held so far, like that had been the bottoming out of this all: her daddy, with his face in his hands, and her seeing him.\n\n\"I wore those clothes my freshman year, and I never knew if what I wore worked or not, and I'd walk to school down Ivy to Springfield High, and wonder what people's mothers told them to wear and what not to. Nobody made a peep about anything I ever wore. That was what scared me most. And embarrassed me most. That none of it made any difference.\" She paused. \"Just like you, and those blouses, and nobody noticing what you didn't want to show off.\"\n\nShe stopped, looked at me. \"Does this make any sense?\" she asked.\n\n\"How'd you choose that plum muffler and gray sweater you wore the first time I met you?\" I whispered, and tapped her arm with my fingers. \"When Mahlon brought you out to the house on 116 to meet us.\" I paused. \"Do you remember?\"\n\nBecause I did. Here she was, on the front steps up to the door at the old house. A beautiful young woman in a gray sweater, a plum muffler, and blue jeans. Her hair pulled back, and Mahlon with no way he would take his eyes off her.\n\nThey'd been a done deal, the two of them. Done and done, right there on our front steps.\n\nShe looked at me a long moment, then back to the ceiling, recollecting. \"I,\" she started, but then held off, blinked. \"I thought he would like those together,\" she whispered, much quieter for whatever of it she was seeing right now. \"I knew I liked them together. That they looked good together.\" She blinked again, turned to me.\n\n\"You two were already good as married that night,\" I whispered. I reached to her hair now, with my fingertips stroked it there at her temple.\n\n\"I picked those out,\" she whispered, and smiled at me, \"because they worked.\"\n\n\"So maybe it was your daddy to trust you first. Maybe he saw you could be trusted,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"May be,\" she said, and looked up at the ceiling again, slowly blinked.\n\nWe were quiet, and now rising up from the next room came the sharp gray rhythm of Gordon's snoring, and I whispered, \"Oh my.\"\n\n\"We're never going to get to sleep,\" Ruth whispered, and rubbed at her nose. \"But I don't mind.\" She was smiling again, and looked away, at the shelf, those dolls. \"And all of this because of Emily. Abercrombie and Fitch, just broken up with another boyfriend. A little sister bugging you to death.\" She paused, whispered, \"That was funny, you asking her what team she played on,\" and she gave out a quick, quiet laugh.\n\n\"I always like to entertain,\" I said, still with my fingertips to her hair. \"Last I heard, Abercrombie and Fitch was some kind of stodgy old men's store. How was I to know it was selling skirts so small you could use them for a potholder?\"\n\n\"And still she said 'Ma'am' when you asked her that question. Even with being a teenage girl in an A and F skirt, and with an ex-boyfriend named Fatback.\" She paused, and I could feel in my fingertips her slowly shaking her head. \"She still said 'Ma'am.' \"\n\nShe rolled over to face me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek on the pillow, my own hand at her temple even more full in her hair. I didn't move it.\n\n\"When I first met Mahlon, I thought he was some wiseguy. We'd sit in freshman comp and every time the teacher called on him he'd say, 'Yes sir?' and it was always that, Yes sir, No sir. And I just always thought he was jerking the chain of that old professor we had in there, or that he was brown-nosing him.\"\n\nI could see every feature on her face, and her hands there against her cheek, the collar of her flannel nightgown, all for the light in from beside the curtains. She was beautiful. Of course my Mahlon would love her. Of course he would.\n\n\"Then one day after class I was a couple people behind him in the cafeteria, and first the woman grilling burgers asks if he wants any cheese on his, and he says, 'Yes ma'am.' Then he comes up to the cashier, and she looks at his tray and says, 'Is that everything?' and he says, 'Yes ma'am.' And it was only then I figured out he wasn't doing it to get anything from anybody. He was just being polite. That it was just how he talked to people, and it knocked me down.\"\n\n\"Back before he kissed you in the backroom on Thursdays,\" I couldn't help but whisper.\n\nShe was quiet a second, then whispered, \"Yes, before,\" and she was smiling.\n\nThen here was Gordon snoring again, that gray saw. I pictured him on his back, the way Eli would be when he started up his own snoring, and I saw Melba in bed next to him, wondered if she would do like I did every time he started up and reach a hand over to him in the dark, jostle him a little so's he'd roll onto his side.\n\nAnd I thought of Melba, and that snapshot, a Polaroid giving up its recollection of that moment of Beau and his baby boy a little bit each day, until one day that picture would be just a notion of a picture for the sunlight in on it, and then only a memory in Melba's head.\n\nI whispered, \"I forgot about Ollie. And about Beau and Valerie.\" I paused, sniffed. \"That's something embarrasses me. Something I'm ashamed of.\"\n\n\"It's all right,\" Ruth whispered. \"Now you remember. That's what matters.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. But I should have recalled that piece of Gordon and Melba's life, that shard that still gave pain enough to bewilder Melba even to today.\n\n\"Ollie would have been seventeen right now. Only a year older than Emily,\" Ruth whispered, and here was that same awe, that wonder. \"I remember him because that was when Mahlon and I were trying so hard to have a baby of our own. We used to be a little bit jealous, because we'd hear from you about Eli's stepnephew, this Beau, and this Valerie being pregnant, then this little baby boy named Oliver being born.\" She paused and, still with her hands beneath her cheek, turned her head the smallest way, looked at the ceiling again, like she'd heard something somewhere in the house.\n\nShe whispered, \"We went to work more than ever then, and then Ollie passed away from SIDS.\" She stopped again, moved onto her back. \"Maybe two months after that we found out about the cysts.\"\n\nAnd now slowly, slowly, she was sitting up, her hands to her lap, her legs moving out from under the covers until she was up Indian-style on the bed.\n\n\"Ruth?\" I whispered. I struggled to sit up, too, tried to push myself up from my side. I wanted to sit with her, and wondered what'd made her sit up this way, wondered what it was she might be seeing.\n\nBut here to my shoulder was the pain of that work, and of my age, and it was nighttime, and we were in bed, and so I lay back down, watched her. Despite all the words we'd passed, and despite these stories.\n\nShe was looking at that shelf. She whispered, \"I wonder where it is right now. That doll.\" She paused, and I heard her swallow. \"The one I grew up with, me so embarrassed about it for no good reason at all.\"\n\nI said nothing, only looked at the shelf, those crocheted dolls. The room seemed bright as day for that light across the creek, and how long we'd been talking, eyes open wide.\n\nI thought of those lights, shining up on the houses. And I thought of embarrassments, and being a girl. What had gotten us on this long path it seemed we'd now nearly talked out.\n\nAnd I thought of the one embarrassment I most wanted to tell her, the black stone caught in my heart. The story of me that went past that word _embarrassment,_ and past the word _ashamed_ and on past _betrayal,_ and that broke right on through _sin._\n\nOnly to land on _forgiveness._\n\nForgiveness, illuminating my sin, like brand-new houses hidden in ancient trees. Me with no words I could whisper to let any of it go.\n\nRuth turned around on the bed, still Indian-style but facing me now. \"This is good,\" she whispered. \"Being here.\" She paused, took in a deep breath. \"Remembering about Ollie, and seeing Emily, hearing her say 'Ma'am,' reminding me of Mahlon.\" She was smiling full on now. \"I can feel it already,\" she whispered. \"This is good,\" she said, \"our coming here.\"\n\nI looked at her, a young woman this night allowed to touch on her momma's dying, and maybe her daddy's trust, and allowed to whisper a few words on her love for my Mahlon.\n\nI was jealous.\n\nStill, I nodded, agreed with her by letting my eyes close against that light of forgiveness. It was all I could think to do.\n\nNow here were her fingertips, just touching my temple, the small bit of hair the net didn't protect.\nChapter 17\n\nWHEN I WOKE UP, the bed beside me was already empty, and I could hear talking from out in the front room. Slowly I pushed myself up, sat for a few seconds on the edge of the bed, facing those windows, all those magnolias.\n\nIf I had my way, and despite how cold a sentiment it might have been to hold, we wouldn't spend this day here to Gordon and Melba's. No matter the food, no matter the hospitality. No matter they were kin.\n\nWe were only an hour or so from Mount Pleasant. Only an hour from the next story.\n\nBut the movers weren't due in until tomorrow morning, and here we were.\n\nI reached to the nightstand, put on my glasses, then took the first few steps of what I knew would end up a longer day even than yesterday. I went to the window, reached to the cord behind the one side, and pulled it open.\n\nRain. A middling kind, not loud enough to wake me. But enough to give the water out to the creek, what sliver of it I could see from here, a soft sheen to it, no single drops.\n\nI looked to those trees across the marsh, and those houses. For the life of me, no matter how hard I tried to see, and squint, bob my head one way and another, even touch my nose to the glass with a notion I could see better if I was closer, I couldn't make out any one of them.\n\nJust trees.\n\nRUTH AND MELBA SAT at the dining room table, coffee mugs before them, both smiling up at me, Ruth especially. They were both still in their robes, too.\n\n\"Morning, Aunt Naomi,\" Ruth said. She took a sip, her eyes on me over the top of the mug, still smiling even through drinking coffee.\n\n\"I was just telling her about when Gordon broke my arm in eighth grade,\" Melba said, \"when he pushed me off the culvert over to Layton's Creek the first day of summer vacation.\"\n\n\"It was Shine Morrison pushed you,\" Gordon called out from the workroom in a flat pitch that said they'd been through this a thousand times too many, told this one time more for Ruth's ears to hear. \"It was me to haul you in from the creek and save your life, but it was Shine Morrison pushed you in.\"\n\nMelba narrowed her eyes, shook her head quick. She leaned to Ruth, put a hand up to her mouth to whisper a secret: \"It was Gordon,\" she mouthed. \"He had a crush on me.\"\n\n\"It was Shine Morrison had the crush on you,\" Gordon called. \"It was me to marry you, but Shine Morrison had the crush on you first. And if you'd have married him instead of me, you'd be living with that plug-ugly cellular tower in your backyard right now. So count your blessings.\"\n\n\"It was Gordon,\" she mouthed.\n\nRuth stood, coffee mug in hand, and came around the table. \"They should be ready about now,\" she said, and now she was in the kitchen. She bent to the oven, and pulled it open, set the mug on the counter. She grabbed a hotpad from the counter, and pulled something out.\n\nThere on the counter beside the mug was an old mixing bowl, a tea towel draped over it.\n\nShe closed the oven door, and turned to us.\n\nA skillet of biscuits.\n\n\"She got a wild hair this morning, wouldn't let me make my own,\" Melba said. \"She told me she wanted to make a batch of Naomi's biscuits her first morning here to South Carolina.\"\n\nA perfect batch of biscuits, browned just so. Done exactly right.\n\nRuth looked up at me. \"What do you think?\" she said. She was still and all just a girl, I saw. Wanted a good word on what she'd done, and who she was.\n\n\"They look good to me,\" I said, and smiled. \"But they're not my biscuits. They're my momma's.\"\n\n\"They do indeed look good,\" Gordon said from behind us, and I turned. He was already dressed for the day, the same sort of short-sleeved coveralls, but these blue. The hair above his ears was as wild as ever, in one hand a coffee mug, in the other a slip of sandpaper.\n\nHe was looking at Ruth, nodded at the pan. \"But if that batch there tastes half as good as they look,\" he said, \"won't be long before they'll be Miss Ruth's biscuits and nobody else.\"\n\nMelba stood from the table, went to him. \"What's wrong with my biscuits?\" she said, and snatched the coffee mug from his hand.\n\n\"It was Shine Morrison pushed you in. Me to save you,\" he said, slowly shook his head at her, and then she was at the coffeemaker, filling his mug. He looked to Ruth, winked, glanced at me, winked again.\n\nRuth said, \"They'll always be Naomi's.\" She was smiling at me.\n\nBut it was a different smile this morning, I saw. More to it, suddenly, than I'd seen even yesterday, when she'd stood with her arm crooked around Melba, natural as could be. More to it than even last night, in the dark that was no darkness at all.\n\n_I can feel it already,_ she'd said.\n\n\"I told you this girl's a sharp one,\" Melba said.\n\nI said, \"Don't I know it.\"\n\n_* * *_\n\nTHE BISCUITS WERE good. They were excellent, light and moist. Done exactly right, and we ate three apiece, drank coffee until the second pot was gone, and called that breakfast. Melba put on a pot of decaf, and still we sat, and talked, while outside still it rained.\n\nThe day moved on, slow as I figured.\n\nOne by one we girls took our showers, and while I waited for mine I stood with Gordon in his workshop, watched him sand on the hull of a ship he told me was a Dutch fishing boat.\n\nHe was sanding with paper looked like only paper, no grit to it at all for how fine it was, and talked on about the history of the Dutch boat, the fact the hull itself was wide with not much draft for the shallows up there, the keel gunwale-mounted so's they could drop in and lift out to allow for those shallows.\n\nHe told me, too, of how this one was to be a gift for Robert's fortieth birthday next June, and how a while back he'd made a bark took him two and a half years to build. So happened he finished the last coat of varnish not but a week before Beau's birthday, his fortieth, and so he decided he'd make a gift of it to his oldest child. Since he'd done that for Beau, he'd realized just to be fair he'd have to build one for next Robert, then Jocelyn.\n\nHe told me this all in a voice so quiet, so calm, I had no choice but to understand the why behind spending so long on a model ship. There was peace to it, the comfort of holding in your hand something you were making, and now I was missing already the girls, and our quilting, so very much like what he was after with building ships: being at work with your hands to provide something, finally, good.\n\nI watched that paper on the hull, the way because of the grit it seemed to me only a few grains of wood fell with each pass. Same as the way this day was passing, even if there was comfort to watching him work.\n\nThe shower cut off in the bathroom next to us. Ruth was finished.\n\n\"My turn,\" I said, but Gordon didn't seem to hear, only worked that wood, grain by grain.\n\n_* * *_\n\nTHE RAIN LET UP near three, the clouds still hanging low and dark, right when Robert and Ellen and the girls all arrived back to the house. Ellen toted in a Tupperware tub, and another casserole dish, Robert with a pork loin he'd picked up at work this morning when he'd checked in.\n\nAshley had on her tiara still, but wore instead of the tutu a Snow White costume from Halloween. Emily had on a pair of blue jeans dipped so low on her hips you wondered what kept them from dropping to her knees, and not a minute after they arrived she disappeared somewhere in the house. Ashley camped out in the middle of the front room floor again, a different book this time.\n\nA while later Jocelyn made it up from West Ashley with her own kids\u2014Zachary and Brian, eleven and ten, and seven-year-old Tess, who was, as warned by Melba, too thin to believe. All three of them ran straight through the house when they got here, hopped over Ashley and headed right to that sliding glass door.\n\nRobert sat beside me on the sofa, a napkin of sausage balls in his hand and a glass of sweet tea on the end table next to him. Gordon sat in his recliner, where he'd been parked since lunch: leftover turkey, cheese grits, green salad.\n\nThe kids running through didn't say word one, and then one or the other of the boys slammed back the door so hard in its track the whole window quivered.\n\n\"Whoa now!\" Gordon hollered out, and the boys and Tess froze with his words, especially Tess, whose thin golden hair swirled around her head with how fast she turned to him.\n\n\"Where's your manners?\" he said, stern and silly for it, I knew. He was pulling their legs, but the kids weren't certain he was.\n\n\"Take them to the woodshed,\" Robert said, and grinned, picked up his tea.\n\nAll three of them looked at me sitting on the sofa, not yet up to say hello to Jocelyn, whenever she'd be in. I tried to stand, pushed on the cushions beneath me with one hand and pulled on the arm at the same time.\n\nSuddenly here were two crew-cut blond boys at either side of me, both taking hold of a hand each. Just as Gordon'd pointed out, the two were so much like twins I had no idea which was Zachary and which Brian. Both had the same hair, and wore striped T-shirts, baggy denim shorts came down past the knee, and flip-flops.\n\n\"We must use the force,\" the one to my right said. He was looking to the other one, who looked to him and grinned. \"Force we must use, yes,\" he said, his voice a high-pitched old man's, and he nodded.\n\nThey both closed their eyes and grimaced, made that same high-pitched voice, but in only a grunt. Slowly they pulled, though I was already near to standing. Then they were laughing at each other, and here I was, standing up.\n\n\"Nice to meet you, Aunt Ruth,\" the one on the left said, and before I could tell him I was Naomi, the other one said, \"Meet you nice it is, Aunt Ruth,\" in that same voice.\n\nThey both bowed, then turned to Robert, saluted at the same time. \"Captain Scoobee,\" they said, \"we salute you,\" and turned, set for the sliding glass door.\n\nI looked at Robert, who slowly shook his head. \"They do that every single time I ever see them,\" he said.\n\nNow here stood Ruth, in from the kitchen. She was bent to Tess, and smiling. \"I'm Aunt Ruth,\" she said, and held out a hand for her to shake. Tess wore a little shorts and blouse set, bright pink with light pink daisies all over it, her skin near the same golden color as her hair. She hesitated a moment looking up at Ruth, confused. She glanced at me, then at Ruth, and her hand. She shook it once, and looked down.\n\n\"We knew you were actually Aunt Ruth,\" one of the boys said, and moved toward Ruth. \"But there has been a terrible collision at the pod-related quadrant of the ninth dimension.\"\n\n\"You are actually Aunt Naomi,\" the other one said. \"We don't mess with the ninth dimension. Not since what happened last time.\" He reached out to Ruth and shook her hand, and the other one did the same. \"Nice to meet you, Aunt Naomi,\" they both said at the same time, and looked at each other, laughed.\n\nTess backed away, her hands in front of her and up to her chest, her eyes on Ruth.\n\n\"Hello, Tess,\" I called out.\n\nShe turned to me quick as when Gordon'd hollered out, her face stricken a moment with what looked like fear. Her forehead and eyebrows quivered an instant, and she looked away, out the sliding glass door standing open. But it was a look took hold of me, in just that instant of it.\n\nI knew that look. I'd seen it before.\n\nGordon was up from the recliner, moved to Tess, took her hand gentle as anything. \"That's really your aunt Naomi,\" Gordon said, quiet, and pointed at me.\n\nShe glanced at me again, then at Ruth over her shoulder. She looked more fearful than ever, even more confused, her eyebrows together, mouth closed tight. Then the boys busted past Tess and Gordon both, out through the sliding glass door and headed for the dock.\n\n\"Where's your castnet, Pappy?\" one of them called out behind him, and Gordon shot back, \"It's Papaw or nothing,\" to which the other one shouted, \"Pappy it is, boys!\"\n\nGordon looked at me, Tess's hand in his, his eyes open wide. He shook his head. \"Those boys is off their nut about a half mile,\" he said, and Robert put in, \"You got that right, Pappy,\" and laughed.\n\nGordon turned, then he and Tess both were out through the open sliding glass door. \"Let's go show those boys how to throw a castnet,\" he said to her, and she nodded up at him.\n\nI looked across to Ruth, raised my eyebrows, gave the smallest shrug to say _Is she just shy?_\n\nRuth shook her head, shrugged back.\n\n\"She's never recovered from that divorce,\" Ashley said, her words matter-of-fact, and we both looked down at her on the floor between us. She had the book open, lay on her tummy and up on her elbows, her chin in her hands as she read. Her legs were bent at the knee, feet up in the air and locked together, just rocking easy as you please.\n\n\"She doesn't say much at all,\" she said, and reached down, turned a page. \"And she eats like a bird.\"\n\n\"Careful your mouth, Ashley,\" Robert said.\n\n\"Careful your mouth, Ashley!\" Ellen shouted from out in the kitchen, listening to every word that'd passed out here.\n\nThen came \"Thank you very much, little Doctor Laura,\" from the front door, and here was Jocelyn struggling in same as Ellen had last night with what all she'd brought.\n\n\"Hey, Aunt J,\" Ashley said, and turned another page.\n\nRobert and I and Ruth and now Ellen out from the kitchen all went to Jocelyn, in a fuss took from her arms first what looked a Tupperware pie keeper, beneath that a casserole dish, beneath that a cardboard box. Slung on one arm was a backpack, on the other arm two more, and once we'd lifted it all from her\u2014it was me to get one of the backpacks, Tess's, I knew, for the bright pink of it, the other two camouflage\u2014 Jocelyn made like she was about to fall down, wagged her arms out in front of her, rolled her eyes and took deep breaths.\n\nShe was a redhead same way her momma was, though hers was styled a little more, and had a wave to it. She was a little heavy, but wore those tight black stretch pants, a man's white dress shirt with the tails hanging down to cover her up some.\n\n\"Welcome to the madhouse,\" she said, and came to me, gave me a hug, and then did the same with Ruth. She hung on to her a little longer, just looking at her, slowly shaking her head.\n\n\"What you been through,\" she said, and pulled her close again.\n\n\"Boys, now careful!\" Gordon shouted from outside. We turned, saw through the open glass door one of the boys with his arms around the other from behind, holding him out over the water. Both of them laughing.\n\nGordon stood shaking his head. He'd let go Tess, her hands up to her chest again, fingers laced together, her chin down. She watched the two of them, on her face the same fearful look as just a moment before.\n\n\"It's like this twenty-four-seven,\" Jocelyn said, in her voice a kind of tired surrender. She crossed her arms. \"They were practicing that Aunt Ruth and Aunt Naomi mix-up the whole way up here,\" she said.\n\nGordon said, \"Y'all want to castnet, you got to stop horsing around now,\" and the one holding the other backed up a foot or so on the dock, dropped the other in a heap to the boards.\n\nTess flinched when the boy fell, her hands gone from her chest to her mouth, her lips to her knuckles.\n\nThen, bright as day, Jocelyn looked at us both again, said, \"So we'll be seeing a lot of you both now! After school tomorrow I'll bring the boys over to your place to help start putting things away.\" She nodded once at me, then Ruth. \"That's a promise,\" she said.\n\nI looked at Ruth. She'd seen the all of what was going on out on the dock. She'd seen Tess's face, too.\n\nBut then she looked to Jocelyn, broke out a smile. \"Sounds good!\" Ruth said, and I said, \"A promise is a promise,\" in what I hoped was just as bright.\n\nHere came the rain again.\n\nTHE BOYS GAVE UP after one throw each of the castnet out there in the rain, then came inside, wrestled on the front room floor. Ashley cried when they rolled too close to her reading there.\n\nRobert grilled the pork loin on the charcoal grill out under the eaves.\n\nJocelyn opened up the cardboard box she'd carried in, laid out on the table her Kitchen Consultant Super Starter Kit from Pampered Chef, a dozen or so kitchen tools and gadgets, and the pale blue apron with the white logo on front. She and Ellen and Ruth each looked over all the gadgets and gewgaw, and Jocelyn invited Ruth to her first party week after next at a friend of hers right there to Mount Pleasant.\n\nMelba made hush puppies to go with dinner tonight, and fried okra, and the boys ate their whole meals using a spoon for a fork and a fork for a spoon, and did it serious, without laughing, as though this were the most natural thing on earth.++\n\nEmily made it to the table, sat beside Ruth, who talked to her through dinner in quiet words I couldn't hear for the general bedlam of a dinner table of twelve. Emily gave up a smile now and again for whatever Ruth said, and gave back her own words as well.\n\nTess ate two sugar-snap beans and a sausage ball.\n\nThe boys wrestled on the front room floor after dinner.\n\nEllen and Ruth cleared dishes while Melba and I rinsed and handed them into the dishwasher.\n\nRobert left to make a run by the store, see if they'd handled the freezer thaw well enough.\n\nJocelyn sat at the table and talked about each item in the Super Starter Kit, from the Crinkle Cutter to the Lemon Zester\/Scorer to the Large Round Stone to the Apple Corer\/Peeler\/Slicer, the company's \"signature item,\" and if her ex-husband would just make his payments she wouldn't even have to be doing any of this.\n\nThe boys wrestled on the front room floor.\n\nRobert came back, and Ashley curtsied for me in her Snow White costume when it came time for them to leave for home.\n\nEmily came out of hiding\u2014she'd disappeared after dinner\u2014to give me the lightest hug you could give and still touch on her way out the door.\n\nEllen kissed me good-bye and hugged and hugged, said, \"We'll get down there to see you, but you got to promise you'll make it up here to see us!\" and Ruth and I both promised we would.\n\nThe boys stood quiet when it was time to go, called Gordon _Papaw_ and hugged both him and Melba tight, on the boys' faces the sad fact they had to leave here, head for home.\n\nJocelyn packed up what she'd brought, no help from either boy, then promised one more time she'd have the both of them over to the apartment once they were out of school tomorrow, to help put things away.\n\nGordon carried Tess out to Jocelyn's car, her falling asleep on the sofa not ten minutes after supper.\n\nI excused myself for bed.\n\n* * *\n\nIF I'D HAD MY WAY, we wouldn't have spent this last day here to Gordon and Melba's. A day whose every minute'd fallen like a single grain of wood off the hull of a ship.\n\nI turned out the light, climbed up into the bed, and lay there, listening to them talk out to the dining room table, the murky rumble of three voices that went up and down and fell together and broke out in laughter.\n\nLight still leaked out beside the curtains.\n\nWe'd be seeing more of Ellen and Robert, their girls, especially Emily, given her place in Ruth's heart already. Certainly we'd be seeing Gordon and Melba.\n\nAnd Jocelyn, who lived the closest in of all. There would be the oddball handful those boys were.\n\nAnd Tess, and I thought of that look on her face, the look I knew: her forehead quivering an instant, the muscles there skittering for fear, and confusion.\n\nFor loss, I knew.\n\n_She's never recovered from that divorce._\n\nNow I knew where I'd seen that look before. It was in Mary Margaret, whose loss of both parents made her second-guess every move her whole life long, a loss that opened the door and invited brittleness right on in.\n\nHere was Tess, her own door already opening.\n\nAnd I thought of Ollie, and Beau in his father's garage after Valerie had left him, him trying to solve his own life out there, only to find a piece of his daddy's life, that carved sub. I thought of him making it new for his daddy, building a glass case for what'd been Gordon's first effort to deal with his own kind of loss: his stepbrother, my Eli, gone off to war.\n\nLoss was alive down here too. Of course I knew that. You'd have to be a fool to believe otherwise, to think that loss lived only where you left it.\n\nBut all I wanted, this moment, now, was to see that light, and the way it fell through the pine and live oak, palmetto and magnolia and water oak too, light sifted down through the woods to spread like scattered diamonds on the ground, bright broken pieces of light on pine-straw so many perfect gifts of warmth.\n\nTomorrow, I'd be home.\n\nRuth would be in here soon, and so I started to breathe deep, tried to get some kind of rhythm so that I might be asleep, or at least sound like it, once she got in here. I didn't want any whispering tonight.\n\nI closed my eyes, took in a breath, and another.\n\nHere was rain on the rooftop now, loud enough to hear. Middling gone to hard.\nChapter 18\n\nTHE WIPERS BLURRED most all the ride down.\n\nIt was all different. And all very much the same.\n\nHE Highway 17 was four lanes now, a wide grass median in the middle, ten yards of grass back to the woods on either shoulder. When I was a girl the whole fifty miles or so from Mount Pleasant'd been a two-lane shrouded over with live oak and pine, save when it cut low across the marsh on stubby pylons, the road hovering just above the saltmarsh hay.\n\nNow it was just a straight line, or nearly so, and sixty miles per hour. But still nothing but woods, even if so far back from the road.\n\nStill it was marsh too, the highway shooting out across it always a kind of surprise. Grays and browns and rusts suddenly beneath us, ahead of us the dark line of trees, a smear of black through the rain, waiting.\n\nSame as when I was a girl, but different.\n\nMELBA ' D MADE U S a breakfast of eggs and bacon and more biscuits\u2014 hers, which didn't rise quite as high as mine, but were still a delight. While we ate, Gordon'd gone over the directions we'd been given by the apartment people again and again. He'd spent twenty minutes talking about other ways to do it, pursed his lips, shook his head, shrugged, scratched at his ear.\n\nAll this to say, finally, \"Yep. That's how you get there.\"\n\nMelba'd teared up there at the table, and me too, and Ruth as well, three women still in their robes and crying and smiling and laughing. Gordon, in his short-sleeved coveralls\u2014the green again\u2014carried on about how we'd see one another more than we cared to, no need for tears now that we'd be only fifty miles between us. We'd be tired of each other by Christmas.\n\nRuth'd showered and dressed, came out of the bedroom in her blue jeans and a green cotton sweater. The same outfit of old clothes she'd worn the day of the tag sale back in Northampton. She had her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail same as she'd done that day, too.\n\nShe stood in the open door a moment, in her hands her overnight bag. She glanced back into the bedroom at something, looked at Melba a second. There was something a little nervous to her, her smile a little anxious.\n\nBut it was her clothes I was worried over, what she'd chosen to wear this day.\n\nGordon and Melba and I were still nursing coffee at the table, and I said, \"Ruth, don't you want to put on something nice?\"\n\nShe glanced one last instant behind her into the room, looked at me, gave a little shake of her head to let go whatever it was in the bedroom had hold of her. Maybe, I thought, it'd already occurred to her she'd put on the wrong sort of outfit.\n\nBut before she could say anything, Gordon let out, \"This girl's a step ahead. She knows this is moving day,\" and he cut his eyes at me, winked. \"More than it is any sort of fancy trip.\"\n\nRuth nodded, set the bag down beside the sofa. \"This is going to be one long day,\" she said. \"Just thought I'd dress ready for it.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" I said, too quick. I looked back to my mug, empty save for a dribble at the bottom. I shrugged, said, \"You're right. It's true.\"\n\n\"Melba?\" Ruth said then, and crossed her arms quick, smiling. She looked down, and I could see she was blushing for something, embarrassed. \"Sweetheart?\" Melba said.\n\n\"Can I ask you something?\" Ruth backed into the bedroom, arms still crossed. Then she put up her index finger, crooked it a couple times to motion Melba in with her. \"In here?\"\n\n\"Of course, sweetheart,\" Melba said. She stood from the table, glanced at the two of us, her eyebrows up, wondering what this was about. Then she was at the bedroom door, and inside, the two of them out of sight.\n\n\"You know it's likely going to be even more work for the fact you got Zachary and Brian to contend with, putting things away,\" Gordon said, and laughed a sad kind of way.\n\nI looked at Gordon, said, \"You got that right, Pappy,\" and he let out another laugh, said, \"You sound like you never even left this place, Sister.\"\n\n\"Oh why darlin', yes!\" Melba squealed from in the bedroom, and then came, \"Bless your heart!\"\n\nHere was Melba strutting out of the bedroom, chin up in the air, and with a smirk that was a smile too. She narrowed her eyes at Gordon. \"We have a connoisseur of the finer arts,\" Melba said. \"A woman of taste, unlike you, Mister Gordon Stackhouse, Junior.\"\n\nRight behind her came Ruth, smiling as well. She had her hands behind her back. \"I asked her for one,\" she said to both me and Gordon. \"Hope you don't mind,\" she said.\n\nShe brought a hand from behind her to show us a bright red crocheted toilet-paper cover doll, roll and all.\n\n\"Oh my no!\" Gordon shot out. \"Why on God's green earth would you want one of those horrible things?\" he said, and shook his head.\n\n\"I have my reasons,\" Ruth said, \"and we need to start thinking about how we're going to decorate.\"\n\n\"If that's the case, and this woman didn't twist your arm over it,\" Gordon said, \"then take as many those awful things you want, please!\"\n\n\"This breaks the set, you know,\" she said to Gordon, and poked a finger to his chest, her smiling full on now. \"Won't be any takers for the rest of them at our estate sale, which is what I know you were counting on for the kids.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you,\" Gordon said to Ruth over Melba's head. \"She made every one of those in a fever forty years ago, which is right about how long I've been waiting for somebody to come along\u2014\"\n\n\"You built that shelf for them, didn't you?\" Melba cut in.\n\n\"I was only\u2014\" he started.\n\nBut my eyes were on Ruth, who was looking at me through all this, Gordon and Melba eye to eye now and having fun for it. Ruth held it up a little higher for me to see, and I went to her there at the bedroom door, took it in my hand.\n\nAn old crocheted hoop skirt, a plastic doll head on top, bonnet and all.\n\n\"Closest thing to magenta I could find,\" she said to me, quiet, and I nodded, looked at her.\n\n\"Our first housewarming gift,\" I said, and smiled, handed it back to her. I glanced back to Gordon and Melba, still at each other.\n\nAnd I left them there, went into the bedroom.\n\nMy eyes went right to that shelf above the chest of drawers and mirror, to the hole in the line of dolls. Certainly, this was good. My Ruth, finding which way she could a piece of the momma she didn't have.\n\nAnd though this would be, like Gordon'd said, a workday more than anything else, maybe even more than we'd planned for the fact those two nutty boys would be there to help, still after I'd showered I put on the outfit I'd planned to wear all along, packed special for this morning. I might could change into something old once the movers were gone and we were in the apartment. Or I might could just wear what I wanted the whole day long. It was my own choice.\n\nThis was the day I would gain back a piece of my own home. Even with the rain.\n\nSo I went to the overnight bag, brought from deep inside, where I'd laid them both flat so's they'd stay neat, my good navy-blue wool slacks, and the white knit sweater, red roses round the neck. The sweater Ruth and Mahlon'd given to me the birthday before Eli passed.\n\nI put them on, and looked in the mirror.\n\nI was an old woman, her gray hair in need of a styling in the next day or so.\n\nAn old woman, wrinkles beside her eyes and down her cheeks, her nose bigger the way old people's noses went. An old woman with a wattle to her throat, her eyes the same rheumy wet behind her glasses as her husband's stepbrother's were going.\n\nBut I had on this sweater, the red roses on white that ringed my shoulders like a spring garland. Eli's favorite sweater of mine, so much he'd give me a kiss at the back of my neck every time I wore it.\n\nThe last time a week or so before he passed away. I hadn't worn it since.\n\nThen I reached into the overnight bag again, dug down even deeper, to the little zippered pocket hidden along the seam on the side. A pocket meant for hiding things you wanted kept hidden.\n\nI found the tiny zipper, opened it, reached in.\n\nHere it was, just as I'd secreted it in there the morning before we'd left, Ruth to her last day of work, me headed for my last visit to Eli and Mahlon. Precisely where I'd placed it, before I'd found out all I'd been forgiven.\n\nI'd wrapped it in a pink Kleenex, the round velvet box, lined in satin, long lost somewhere along the path of this life, and I peeled back the tissue to reveal to me the locket.\n\nStill only a gold locket, still no filigree to it, nor any words engraved. I hadn't worn it since the day of the funeral, hadn't looked at them inside it since the morning after, when I'd sat on my bed, convinced already of the truth I'd get here to home one day soon. That I'd return to those colors it was enough just to look at to have them live in you, and to the water, and that light up off it, and that joy.\n\nI hadn't opened it for all of what God'd given me, then taken away. I would open this locket, I'd decided that morning after, and look at these two faces again only once I'd gotten home, the looking at them a gift.\n\nI pinned it to the sweater, right there at my heart, and turned, looked in the mirror one more time.\n\nHere was the locket, keeping close.\n\nI was still an old woman, I saw. But maybe now, with being here, this day, I might become Naomi again.\n\nTHEY MADE no fuss when I'd come out of the bedroom. Melba'd smiled, said, \"Bless your heart, you look wonderful,\" and came to me, hugged me, teared up yet again.\n\n\"My my,\" was all Gordon said, a hand to the back of a chair, the other on his hip, him smiling.\n\n\"Oh, Naomi,\" Ruth said. She had her purse over one shoulder, had a beige plastic grocery sack in her hand, inside it, I could tell, the doll. She came to me, took over that hug from Melba, then pulled away, still holding me, her eyes to the roses. \"That sweater,\" she said. \"I thought it was long gone.\"\n\nThen her eyes landed on the locket.\n\nHer smile seemed to quiver. She blinked, looked to the locket, to my eyes again.\n\nShe knew how close I'd kept it all the years she'd known me. I'd worn it every day, though she'd never said a word on its disappearance. And had done me the honor of never asking after it.\n\nShe nodded, let her hands fall from my shoulders to my own hands, and took them, gave that smile one more time.\n\nI looked past her, to Gordon, said, \"Brother,\" and I let the word hang there a moment for what I meant with it. I'd never called him that in my life.\n\n\"Brother,\" I said again, quieter, \"I need one last favor of you.\"\n\nHe'd let go the chair, both hands to his sides, almost like he was at attention.\n\n\"Sister?\" he said, and tilted his head a little, listening.\n\n\"Tell us,\" I said, \"how to find the house on Whilden.\" I paused, nodded at him, tried a smile. \"The old house,\" I said.\n\nHe took in a breath, let it out in a low whistle, and now slowly he came to me. Ruth stepped aside, and here were his hands on mine, him looking down into my eyes. We were all together, a cluster of kin, Melba with a hand to Ruth's back, Ruth beside me, Gordon before me.\n\nHe said quiet, \"I was wondering when it was coming to this.\" He paused, took a look at Melba for whatever she might give him in a glance.\n\nMelba nodded to Gordon, then closed her eyes. She let her chin down a little, like she might be saying a prayer.\n\nGordon looked back to me, swallowed. \"Sister, no one here's had the heart to ask you what needs asking. Because of what you and Ruth both've been through, and what you lost.\" He glanced to Ruth beside us, then came right back to me. He swallowed again, working up for these words.\n\n\"Sister,\" he whispered, \"why do you want to go there?\"\n\n\"Because it's home,\" I said, simple and straight, but soft as I could. There was no way to put to him my notion of light, and those colors.\n\nAnd of finding Naomi.\n\n\"I can get you to the old house,\" he said. \"I can draw you a map easy as putting pencil to paper.\" He shook his head slowly. \"But you're trying to find something don't exist. You won't recognize a thing.\" He worked up a smile. \"This here is home,\" he said, \"or near as you're going to find it.\"\n\n\"This is almost home,\" I said. \"But it's not my home. It's not our home, however much we love you.\"\n\n\"We love you,\" Ruth said beside me, her voice an echo of mine and her own words both. She reached a hand to Gordon's arm, smiled to Melba. \"We love you both,\" she said. \"But we have to go.\" She paused. \"We have to find out.\"\n\nI looked at her, stunned into silence for what I'd known all along: that she was with me in this. Yet here was Ruth, with me. Here was my treasure, despite the treasure I could not share with her, the story of the forgiveness I'd been afforded.\n\nDespite, too, my jealousy, for how quickly it seemed she was touching her own life, finding it here already.\n\nI turned to Gordon, still no words in me.\n\n\"Naomi,\" he whispered. \"I'll get you to that house.\" I could feel his hands tremble holding to mine, saw how full his eyes were. Not the wet of old age, I knew. But tears, readying.\n\n\"But,\" he whispered, \"it's only the Lord can bring you home. Only Him in His grace can give you the peace you're looking for.\"\n\n\"He's the one,\" I said, and suddenly with his words I squeezed tight his hands. It was only pain in my own hands. Only that, and I squeezed harder.\n\n\"He's the one,\" I said again, \"who left me empty enough to go looking. And I believe I'll find it. I will.\"\n\n\"Naomi,\" Melba'd said, and touched my shoulder, rubbed gently there. \"Don't talk like that. He's not gone.\"\n\n\"Didn't say He was,\" I said, too quick yet again. I hadn't looked at her, my eyes still on Gordon's, and then I'd felt the cold surprise of a tear down my old woman's cheek, my own eye to brim first. \"Mahlon's the one gone. And my Eli gone all over again for it. I said it was God who'd left me empty.\" I paused. \"So maybe you ought to just call me empty instead of Naomi.\"\n\nRuth had looked at me then, on her face a kind of quick puzzlement, but with her hand still to Gordon's arm. She'd glanced then to Melba, to Gordon again.\n\n\"Help us, Gordon,\" she'd said. \"Please.\"\n\nGRAYS AND B ROWNS and rusts. A smear of black through the rain.\n\nHere were the colors I'd wanted to see.\n\nWe passed through McClellanville and the single flashing yellow at the only corner\u2014a Texaco station and general store on the left, an Amoco minimart on the right\u2014a half hour after we'd left, just like we'd been told by Gordon and the apartment people both. Then here was more marsh out either side of us, rusts and browns and grays again, above it the gray of this rain.\n\nUp ahead on Ruth's side and a hundred yards out rose a tuft of trees like a rooster's tail up off the marsh, one of the million nameless little islands everywhere.\n\n\"When I was a little girl,\" I said, and paused, heard in the space the words out of me made that they were the first ones spoken since we'd climbed in, backed out of Gordon and Melba's driveway. \"Grown-ups used to tell us stories about the Mothers and Fathers,\" I said, quieter. \"Haints of the first slaves. Supposed to be buried out to one of these little islands three hundred years ago.\" I nodded at the island, right out her window now.\n\nShe glanced at it, then to me, back to the road. \"Haints?\" she said.\n\n\"Ghosts,\" I said, and smiled. \"Hadn't thought of that word in fifty years,\" I said, and shook my head. \"When the first fireflies showed up we'd be out in the backyard, my brother and me, trying to gather up enough to make a lantern out of a Mason jar. And my daddy'd sit out on the back porch, and tell us the Mothers and Fathers would haunt you if you were out in the woods too late. Every year he told us that one.\"\n\nI shook my head, looked out the windshield for the next smear of black that meant the woods were coming up. And that we were one stretch closer. \"Supposed to have green eyes lit up in the dark like fireflies, but they'd chase you through the woods,\" I said.\n\n\"Sounds like one of those stories they tell you to keep you out of trouble,\" Ruth said. \"We had Elder Hosmer, who back in the French and Indian Wars went crazy for whatever reason, and scalped his wife and two daughters.\" She shook her head. \"That's one they told us up there in Ashfield to keep us from running off into the woods alone. Like your Mothers and Fathers.\"\n\n\"Maybe so,\" I said. \"But it still scared the bejeepers out of us.\"\n\nShe looked at me. \"Bejeepers,\" she said. \"That's a new one. And haints.\" She paused a moment, leaned her head to one side. \"And when will I get to start saying Y'all?\"\n\n\"The first time you say it and don't know you did,\" I said, and smiled, looked at her.\n\nShe nodded, smiled, eyes to the road. \"That's the trick, I guess,\" she said.\n\nWe were quiet, and now here was the line of woods, a thick wall of black that seeped to the darkest green as the highway slipped closer to them.\n\n\"Naomi,\" Ruth said, and I looked at her, her eyes to me and to the road and to me again.\n\nShe said, \"You know it won't be the same.\" She paused, let her eyes linger on me a few moments before she looked back to the road. Out her window the gray above empty marsh gave way to the smear of trees. \"It won't be the same as when you were a girl,\" she said.\n\nI looked away, out my own window. \"I'm not a fool,\" I said.\n\n\"I know,\" she said, and already I was sorry for how my words'd snapped out of me.\n\n\"This is good,\" she said, in what sounded like an answer to a question hadn't yet been asked. \"All of it already. Just like I said the other night.\" She paused. \"But we just have to know. We just have to understand that this is new,\" she said. \"All of it. We have to understand it won't be like either one of us thinks it will be. That it will be new, and good because of that.\"\n\nThe rain started in even harder, and the wiper jumped to high for it. I knew she was right, me wound too tight for what all I'd allowed myself to imagine: a hometown like the one I'd grown up in, and the old house kept up neat, living in it a family might let us wander in and look around.\n\nMaybe even buy it.\n\nAll the while Eli and Mahlon keeping close, right there at my heart. And the blessing of Ruth beside me, a family member I could give back my history to.\n\nOf course it was all nothing but a dream. Gordon knew I'd been dreaming it, Melba too. Everyone did, I was sure, right on down to Ashley, who knew the story of her cousin Tess without missing a beat. Now Ruth knew too. Maybe she'd known all along that I dreamed my dream to fool myself away from what I knew would come: things changed.\n\nBut you can tell yourself one thing to stop from believing the other, and still believe.\n\n\"And I want to know what you were saying back there, about God,\" Ruth said.\n\nI looked to her.\n\nNow there was trouble to her, like I hadn't seen before. Her eyes, the blue-green of them, seemed sharper somehow, and she was shaking her head the smallest way, her eyes to the road. \"Because I don't know what any of that means. What the two of you really meant back there,\" and now I thought of that puzzled look to her face when I'd finally let out that I was empty.\n\n\"To me,\" she said, \"it was always just what you and Mahlon and Eli believed. It's what gave you hope.\" She paused, regripped the steering wheel, adjusted herself in her seat. \"But when you say to Gordon that God's done with you, whatever God means to you. And when I know your whole life you believed in Him. Well.\" She shook her head again, slower, but something to her eyes still just as sharp, just as pained.\n\n\"That means,\" she said, and now her chin was trembling. \"That means you're giving up hope. But what else is it that's gotten us this far?\"\n\n\"Ruth,\" I said. \"Ruth, don't\u2014\"\n\nAnd now she eased on the brake, glanced in the rearview mirror, touched on the turn signal. We were slowing down, onto the shoulder, and we stopped.\n\nShe turned to me, her chin still quivering. \"You told me the morning after the funeral,\" she said, her voice ragged and quiet now, her eyebrows together, \"that God and his tender mercies\u2014that was what you called it, his tender mercies\u2014had gotten you through the eight years since Eli died. But the only mercies I've gotten,\" she said, \"have been from you. And now what I've found down here, with Gordon and Melba and everyone else.\"\n\nShe stopped, took in a breath. For an instant I wanted to wedge in the rest of what I'd wanted tell her before she'd pulled over. For an instant I wanted to finish the sentence I'd begun:\n\n_Ruth,_ I wanted to say, _don't look to me._\n\n_I am a sinner, forgiven a lifetime too late._\n\n_I am empty._\n\n\"So it's too late for you to tell me you have no hope,\" she said. \"It's too late. What you place your hope in, I do too. And so if you take away your hope, then what do I have left?\"\n\n_Emptiness,_ I wanted to say _Naomi,_ I wanted to say.\n\nBut instead, I was the same coward I'd always been.\n\nI said, \"Remember what Mahlon prayed every morning?\" I nodded, reached a hand to Ruth's face, held her chin, still quivering. \"He'd pray, 'Hold us in your hand, and forgive us our sins, for we are sinners and fall short of Your glory.' Do you remember that?\"\n\nShe closed her eyes, sniffed. She nodded.\n\n\"That's what I believe,\" I said. \"That He holds us, and He forgives us. And we're still sinners who fall short of Him. That's what Mahlon believed, too.\"\n\nI was not lying. To her, or to God. Or to me. That was what I believed about who God was. But I also knew He took away what He pleased, and no one held Him accountable.\n\nI let my hand fall from her chin to the seat between us, and her empty hand there, and I held it.\n\nEnough of a gesture to have her smile at me, and believe me.\n\nTHERE WA S NOT much to our arriving. Only me, reading directions, and Ruth driving.\n\nAnd rain.\n\nI recognized nothing.\n\nThere were traffic lights, to begin with. Lights so far out of Mount Pleasant I'd thought perhaps they were for some new town that'd started since I was gone. Then here were more traffic lights, and an outdoor mall with chain stores and restaurants straight out of Springfield and Holyoke, then more traffic lights, another outdoor mall, and cars swarming up around us, and still all this rain so much it was hard to make sense of anything.\n\nNow here was the entrance for the apartment complex out my side, where we'd be back sometime soon to meet the movers and the manager, and I peered off to my right as best I could through a thin line of trees, and through this rain, to see a parking lot, and buildings. Pink, I thought.\n\nNow we were under a freeway, then rounding up the onramp to join it\u2014a freeway, in Mount Pleasant\u2014all of it just as Gordon'd said, and then here was the end of the freeway at another stoplight, an Exxon minimart on the right, a car wash on the left. We had two more lights before we'd even get to Coleman Boulevard, the one name Gordon'd finally hit in all this that I recognized.\n\nColeman, where Mount Pleasant Academy was, and where Eli Robinson had sat behind me, jabbed me with a pencil.\n\nThe light changed, and we passed any number of antique stores, an auto-parts store, another restaurant, and a smaller strip mall, and went through those two lights.\n\nWe made it to Coleman.\n\n\"I walked to school on Coleman Boulevard,\" I said. The street we were on made a T with it, and I leaned forward, saw between swipes of the wipers a store in front of us across Coleman, something old-timey, red and with a tall storefront, but nothing I recognized.\n\nWe made the left onto Coleman, and I turned in my seat, looked behind me and to my right, leaned forward to see out Ruth's window.\n\n\"What?\" Ruth said.\n\n\"I think that was Old Georgetown Highway,\" I said. \"That road we came in off the freeway on. That was Old Georgetown Highway. Or at least some little piece left of it.\"\n\nShe smiled, shook her head, squinted out the windshield again. \"You need to calm down if this is what you're going to do every time you see something you know.\"\n\n\"I'm not even sure that was it,\" I said, and faced forward, settled myself. \"School was back that way, I think,\" and I pointed a thumb over my shoulder. \"This goes on out to the bridge over to Sullivan's Island,\" I said. \"It's a drawbridge, turns sideways instead of up and down. It was the strangest thing we ever saw when the WPA came out and put it in, and we'd ride our bikes down here just to watch it turn.\"\n\nStill there was nothing I saw that I knew. Still there was all this rain.\n\n\"Here it is,\" Ruth said, and we turned, as Gordon'd warned, at a restaurant that looked like an old 7-Eleven.\n\nMcCants Street. Cloaked over with live oak. Where, a mile up the road, Eli and I'd walked our first walk together, all the way to the end of the road. Where we'd stood at the dead end, before us the lavender harbor.\n\nAnd now, suddenly, the rain eased up, then stopped altogether, as if we'd put in a request for it, this last few blocks to where it'd all begun.\n\nI could feel the blood in me rising for this all.\n\nThe street shone with the water, and though there was none falling, still we'd get splattered with it when we ducked under live oak, water dripping heavy off the leaves, and now there seemed somehow light coming through from above, the gray going white while we rode slowly along.\n\nWe passed a couple three apartment complexes on the left, some older homes on the right. Here was the water-treatment plant on the left, too, and the ball fields, just like Gordon'd said there would be. All of it new.\n\nThen the road changed, went from the sturdy black asphalt it'd been into rough, and gray, and older. Trees seemed to swallow us up even more now, too, and then here was the cemetery, to my right, the old one that school was let out one day a year so we children could clean it up.\n\nA low white fence outlined it, like ever, more live oak inside the yard, gravestones at cockeyed angles for the roots, and then here we were past the end of the fence, more houses now. Still none of them coming to mind.\n\nThen, here on the corner on my right, stood a white post four foot tall, stenciled on it in black letters the words venning road.\n\n\"One more block,\" I whispered, and Ruth turned right onto Venning, a long block that would lead us, finally, to Whilden.\n\nVenning. The street Eli and I'd walked onto out the back of our yard that first night, when the treefrogs above us had started up the story we both knew was ours already, the sudden whirl and purring drone of them all about we two.\n\nThere were houses here, clustered in close like the houses here had always been, but still I did not recognize them. They were beautiful homes, even in this gray going white. Homes with shiny brass kick-plates on wide black doors, curved tabby driveways, bright white porch rails, and Charleston green shutters.\n\nBut I did not recognize them.\n\n\"Slow down,\" I said, though Ruth wasn't doing much of any speed at all. It was only me, too ready, too ready, and I reached up, put a hand to the dashboard.\n\n\"I can't believe this,\" Ruth said. \"We're here.\"\n\n\"We'll come up on the back of the property,\" I said, \"up here on the right.\"\n\nAnd now the light was changing fully, the clouds breaking open above us and around us so that suddenly, just as I'd dreamed it might, there really came that light down upon us. Here were the trees, those live oaks, spun in them the same airy twists of Spanish moss as had spoken that language of whispers I'd heard the first walk with Eli _\u2014Eli and_ _Naomi, Naomi and Eli\u2014_ and here were pines, and a magnolia in the front yard of a house out Ruth's window I believed just then I might have recognized. Even the grass and weeds edged up to the road all took on different greens, and from out of nowhere daffodils and daylilies I hadn't noticed in the yards of the houses we passed\u2014was that the Howlands' place? or was it the Lambs'?\u2014were out and full and dripping with the rain so that it seemed more like morning dew than anything else.\n\nHere it would be, I knew. The place.\n\nHome.\n\n\"Slow down,\" I said to Ruth one more time, though now we were crawling along. It seemed we'd passed it already, or that distances were larger now, because I could not see up ahead and on my right what I remembered of the house, beside us only an empty lot. We were almost to the corner of Venning and Whilden, and now I saw the white post not ten yards away:WHILDEN STREET in those stenciled black letters.\n\nBut here beside me was an empty lot overgrown with weeds, and I looked out my window, through the last little runnels of water from all that rain, to see just that: an empty lot.\n\nI looked back and away from the corner, toward the rear of the lot. Here was a live oak, low and spreading. But nothing else.\n\nI opened my mouth to speak, thought to ask Ruth to circle this block once and have another go at finding it, thought maybe too that they'd changed the streets, that the town may have renamed one or another, Whilden one of them.\n\nBut then I saw it.\n\nA set of concrete steps sitting alone, ten yards or so from the tree, at the back end of this lot on the corner of Whilden and Venning. Right where steps up to a back porch would naturally be.\n\nThree concrete steps, mossed over and trimmed in weeds, and empty. I eased back in the seat, put a hand to the window, touched the glass as I'd done the glass door at Gordon and Melba's. But this time there came no shadow up off them, no ghost outline at the tips of my old woman's fingers.\n\nOnce there had been a white plank house here, a house up on a redbrick foundation two feet high, the front porch with a roof over it, out back a smaller porch without one. At the far rear of the yard had stood a low old live oak. Just far enough out from under its canopy so that acorns dropping didn't sound like firecrackers had stood a shed where my brother slept before he went off to the war.\n\nAnd where a young man named Eli had slept, too.\n\nThe house was gone. Even the brick foundation, the only thing left those three steps from off what had once been a back porch.\n\n\"This light is beautiful,\" Ruth whispered. \"Just like you said it would be.\" On her voice was that awe and wonder of a couple nights before.\n\nShe was right. There was beauty to this. But it was a different kind of beauty, what I could only think was a terrible beauty, a beauty God-given, God-prescribed.\n\nOf course the only evidence of the joy I was after in all this would be those concrete steps, the ones on which I'd found my momma and daddy with a telegram. The moment when the name of our only child had been given to Eli, him even then just a boy. But enough of a man to pay attention to the loss he was watching, my momma, my daddy, and me beginning to grieve at the loss of Mahlon.\n\nAnd of course this moment, and those steps, and Ruth and me and every plan I'd made on my own and out of God's hands would be bathed in this beauty, and in this light.\n\nHere I was, delivered home by me.\n\nI reached to my sweater, felt the locket, my eyes still to the concrete steps, and wrapped my fingers round the cold metal.\n\nI held it, and held it.\n\n\"Is this the right place?\" Ruth said from beside me, my back turned to her for my looking out the window. \"Is it here anymore?\" she said, a piece of that awe already fading in her voice.\n\nI unpinned the locket, my fingers dull and slow, and then I had it in my palm. I looked down at it, there in the creases of my old woman's hand.\n\nI could open it, or I could leave it shut. I could give them back to me. Or I could leave them with God.\n\nI looked back out the window, at the empty lot.\n\nAnd I opened it, looked at what was inside.\n\nTwo photos, each the size of a quarter.\n\n\"This is it, isn't it,\" Ruth said, not a question, but a fact.\n\nI was quiet, still looked at the photos, at these images on paper. Only paper, even in this light. Mahlon's eyes not even open so I might see into him. And nowhere in Eli's face, that boy in a Navy portrait, anything other than Eli.\n\nI'd believed I'd see in him my betrayal, and see in him my forgiveness, two facts out of my life that made me ashamed and afraid to lay eyes on him again, for how much I loved him.\n\n\"This is still beautiful,\" Ruth said, quiet now. For an instant, in the time between heartbeats, I thought she was speaking of my boys, of Eli and Mahlon both, and I whispered just then _Yes_ only loud enough for my own heart to hear.\n\n\"It's still beautiful here,\" Ruth said. Here was her hand to my shoulder, holding on. \"The light is just like you said it would be.\" She paused, held a little tighter to my shoulder. \"And we're here,\" she said. \"We're home.\"\n\nI closed the locket, held it tight in my hand, and looked out to those steps once more.\n\nThere, on the top step, perched a mockingbird, dappled in light. He stood still a moment, and though he was too far away to tell from here, me in the front seat of a car just arrived from fifty years and a thousand miles away, I knew he was watching me.\n\nHe dipped down, quick tipped back his head, bent and tipped back again.\n\nHe was drinking from a pool of rainwater on the top step.\n\nI turned from the window. \"Did you tell Melba why you wanted the doll?\" I said, and paused, took in a breath. \"Did you tell her about your momma?\"\n\nHer hand was still to my shoulder, and I reached up, put mine on it, tight in my other hand the locket. She looked at me, tilted her head a little again, her blue-green eyes dead on mine.\n\n\"It's all right,\" she said. \"We knew it wouldn't be the same. We knew that. We both did.\"\n\nShe was quiet, waiting, I knew, for something from me. But there was nothing I had left to offer.\n\nThen she smiled. \"I told Melba,\" she said, \"it reminded me of home.\" She paused. \"That's all.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" I said, and nodded. I let go her hand, faced forward. Light fell.\n[PART III\n\nRedeemer](Lott_9781418512521_epub_c13_r1.html#Anch042211)\n\nChapter 19\n\nI WAS ON the park bench they keep inside the Harris Teeter where Ruth worked, me waiting for her to come off shift. We had just the one car, and I'd had my Christmas shopping to do today\u2014there were only six days left before Christmas, and there was so much new family I needed to get things for, from Tess right on up to Gordon and Melba, when it'd all only been cards all the years before this.\n\nAnd now here I was, waiting for Ruth.\n\nThe bench sat up front of the store, against the wall of windows, and faced in toward the row of checkstands. Behind me the sun was near down, and I could feel the heat through the window on the back of my neck. Nothing too warm, but warmth all the same, here at the end of a day that'd seen me deal with traffic from morning till now. Out front of me lay the wide plain of varnished concrete where people pushed grocery buggies on their way in or out, on either side of me silver Christmas trees decorated with red Harris Teeter ornaments and red lights.\n\nThe bench was meant for people just like me: old, and waiting, whether for the shuttle buses from the Franke Home or Sandlapper Estates, the posh retirement communities here in town, or for a taxi to haul you home. Or even for your daughter-in-law, working check-stand 7.\n\nThere stood Ruth, at number 7, scanning and scanning item after item after item. She had on the black slacks and white dress shirt the supervisors wore here, her hair in a loose ponytail. No doubt filling in for a cashier late into work.\n\nWe'd lived here coming up on a year already. Ruth'd worked the first three months or so at the Piggly Wiggly in the job Robert'd set up for her, just like Gordon'd promised on that first phone call I'd gotten back in November of last year.\n\nEven though the job at the Piggly Wiggly over to that shopping center at Wando Crossing\u2014there was a Wal-Mart in the same center, and a Marshall's, and a Rack Room and T.J. Maxx and a dozen other places to boot\u2014had been good enough, Ruth'd found a better one here at the Harris Teeter back on Long Point Road. This was near where a handful of all the new developments had come in and, the manager'd told her, where she might could become a shift supervisor. That was five months ago, and now here she was. Shift supervisor, promoted six weeks ago. When she'd worked at the Stop & Shop for fifteen years and never got past cashier. There'd been opportunities back in Northampton, sure. But she'd passed them up all along, wanting only to have as a worry the hours she'd have to fill.\n\nBut now. Now she was a supervisor, which meant she'd sometimes have to cover for a late cashier, sometimes have to bag groceries, sometimes have to fire and sometimes have to hire. She dealt with everything, from the circus of scheduling hours to grabbing a woman off her bike out front of the store when she'd walked out with a ham tucked into her dress, right on down to swinging a mop to clean up a dropped jar of mustard.\n\nShe was happy.\n\nShe was working, had friends she could call up and have over for supper, had reason to wake up of a morning for the fact of a job, one that called on her to make decisions for herself, and expected her to make the right ones.\n\n_* * *_\n\nWI T H THE MONEY from the sale of the house in Northampton, she'd bought a small place back on Rifle Range Road in a tract of homes called Quail Hollow, a house eighteen thousand dollars more and two-thirds the size of where we'd lived. A fifteen-year-old house with two bedrooms and an eat-in kitchen, a family room and a dining room, all of it built on a concrete slab. No basements down here.\n\nBut there was a yard to it. Not like the apartment complex we'd moved into that first day here\u2014three hundred units in three-story stuccoed buildings all painted Lowcountry pastels and trimmed out with white gingerbread. As though pretty pinks and greens would erase the fact the complex was located directly across the street from Wando High School, a fact the management'd forgot to inform us of in all the paperwork we'd completed from Massachusetts.\n\nThe house had a yard, thick grass in the front and back both, and in the back three big pines giving off enough shade to let you sit out under them of an evening, provided you had the citronella burning. We had neighbors in close, just like in Northampton, but these were young couples with small children, and when you sat out under those pines you could hear the all of their lives: mommas hollering out for the kids to come in for dinner, daddies coming home to mow the lawn and edge it in whatever cool of the day there might be, the rumble of kids on Big Wheels up and down the street. There was the smell of fresh-cut grass, and that citronella, and smoke off barbecues most every night of the week.\n\nAnd nobody in the neighborhood from Mount Pleasant, everyone from somewhere else: there were Jeff and Amy Adkins two doors down on the right, from Chicago, and next door on our left were Russ and Tina Deal from Naples, Florida. Across the street lived the Fortners, Allen and Lynn, from Phoenix, next to them the single fellow, Joel something, from Brooklyn.\n\nThey were neighbors, all of them. Polite, friendly. Sometimes we borrowed, just like in the old days, a cup of sugar or an egg one from another. Sometimes we barbecued together. When we moved in, we'd gotten a loaf of banana nut bread from the Fortners, and a lasagna from Joel. Jeff Adkins had mowed our lawn without our even asking the first couple of times, before Ruth'd hired a boy named Jacob from five or six doors down who'd left Xeroxed pieces of paper in everybody's mailboxes, advertising he'd mow lawns cheap.\n\nI asked Jacob one day where he was from. \"Ohio,\" he'd said, and went right back to tipping in gasoline from the red gallon jug into his mower, as though the question from this old woman was something he'd been asked too many times already.\n\nSome days, too, light fell through those pine boughs to scatter at my feet.\n\nAll of this was good. I had in me no wish for different neighbors, for a bigger house, for a parcel of land large enough to lose myself on. For any more of this light.\n\nNow Ruth got up each day, showered and dressed, went to work, either driving herself because there was no plan for me, or me driving her in for whatever errands I might have. Like today.\n\nDecember already. Our lives in this new place moving just that fast. One year and seventeen days since Mahlon died.\n\nAfter she came off shift, we'd head home, where Ruth'd change into regular clothes and me rest a minute, take a look at the mail before we met with Jocelyn and her kids and some other friends of hers from church to go Christmas caroling.\n\nAll of which sounded good to me as well. I couldn't remember when I'd last gone caroling, didn't know people still did such a thing. We'd gone when I was a child, went house to house with a gang of kids from church, but that was the last I'd seen of it.\n\nI would do this.\n\nStill Ruth scanned, and the bagger, a young black man, placed each item into thin white plastic sacks, on each sack printed a green wreath, the words HOLIDAY WISHES FROM HARRIS TEETER in red inside the wreath.\n\nThe customer, a white woman, stood watching it all, her hair pulled back in a perfect blond bun, her lips a sharp line of red. In the buggy seat was a toddler just as blond as his momma, his hair in a perfect pageboy cut. He wore a blue seersucker jumper, I could see from here, and with both hands banged on the credit card keypad like it was a toy he wanted to break. His momma seemed not to notice a thing about all that, instead watched the numbers on the register pop up, then the bagboy bagging, then the numbers again.\n\nThen they were finished, and the woman pushed the buggy out from the checkstand.\n\nShe had on riding pants, I could see now, and shin-high leather boots as well, those cream-colored pants tighter than you could imagine, her white blouse tucked in just so.\n\nNow the child was kicking at her, his hands gripped to the buggy bar in front of him, his head shaking back and forth to make that hair on his head fairly shiver. Still his momma paid him no mind, just looked out past him toward the door like he wasn't even there with her.\n\nI watched her a moment, then saw Ruth half turn to me, her still there in the checkstand. She gave the smallest smile, the smallest shake of her head at this woman in riding pants.\n\nMount Pleasant. Nowhere I knew.\n\nBut I smiled back at her, gave a little shrug. I was to be happy here. This was where I wanted to be. This was supposed to be home.\n\nAnd I had been forgiven.\n\nThe bagboy moved three checkstands down, Ruth in her stand with a paper towel in one hand, a bottle of Windex in the other. She sprayed the scanner, leaned over with the paper towel, and wiped at it.\n\nHer hair had grown longer, and she was still a little tan for the now and again trips to the beach on her off afternoons, trips she made alone, just herself and a book and a beach chair.\n\nShe was happy.\n\nShe looked over her shoulder at me, mouthed _Five minutes,_ and smiled, then wiped at the scanner again, one last quick scrub of it.\n\nWHEN WE'D BEEN at the apartment complex, I'd go with her to sit out by the pool, though through the summer there were days when it'd been too hot even to do that much, even leave the house, and I wondered at how we'd lived through summers when I was a girl.\n\nI remembered the heat, of course, and the humidity, the way at night when I climbed into bed sometimes the sheets were damp for how heavy the air was. But there was always the lucky chance that sometime in the night a front might blow through, with it thunder and lightning and the blessing of rain. Then the air inside the house would go cool for it all, and those sheets became something I didn't want out of for the cool of them the next morning.\n\nBut there were whole days passed this summer when I didn't leave the apartment for the comfort of central air, when even the notion of going out to the metal hive of mailboxes a hundred yards down the sidewalk was too much to consider. Then I simply waited indoors until Ruth made it home, and watched TV more than I ever had in Northampton, what with the girls and the quilting and Bird in Hand.\n\nOf course I missed the girls, though all of them were careful to write me once, sometimes twice a week each. Even Mary Margaret wrote, her careful hand on her lavender-scented stationery keeping me up to date on how many of Carolyn's wienie wrappers Phyllis had put away, and how Hilda's arthritis was making it harder than ever with a pair of scissors. And how her Tommy had taken another turn, and another.\n\nAll news from the old world, my girlfriends waiting anxious to hear from me about my life in return, even jealous, they let me know, of how good I must have it down here, all that beach and water and no snow at all.\n\nBut there had been more to my staying indoors for days than the heat, and the work of answering the news from friends.\n\nHere with me every day since we'd left Northampton, despite Ruth's presence, and despite the joy of good words from the girls, there lingered in me each day the darkness of what I knew.\n\nStill shooting through me each day, like the pain in my knees and hips and hands but deeper and truer and more stubborn than any physical pain I would ever know, was my trying to reckon with what I knew my husband had known, and had forgiven.\n\nBecause there was no reckoning with it. I'd been forgiven.\n\nI lingered in the darkened rooms of the house in Quail Hollow, and watched TV, wrote those letters to my friends. I sat beneath three pines in a grassy backyard, citronella burning, children and husbands and wives not from around here but all living everywhere around me.\n\nI did all this\u2014I _lived\u2014_ as a forgiven woman, yet in me none of the fruits of forgiveness\u2014peace, hope, and love\u2014because the man I'd sinned against was dead, and there was nothing I could give him, and no way to give it to him. There was only this waiting for the day my own life would end, when I might see God, and give up to Him a curse face-to-face for leaving me this empty, and with this gift of love there was no way to say thank you for.\n\nEven inside all this light.\n\nRuth finished with the paper towel, dropped it in the trash can beneath the register, set the Windex down there too, just in time for her to work the next buggy moving up.\n\nLeading the buggy on in was a man, pushing the buggy another man, the both of them in navy-blue T-shirts and pants, on the left breast of their shirts a white insignia of some sort, the buggy full to spilling with food.\n\nI looked over my shoulder out the window wall behind me, saw at the far end of the lot, back by the Bank of America, an orange and white EMS truck I hadn't noticed when I'd pulled in.\n\nNow the five minutes I'd have to wait was ten at least, and I took in a breath, let it out slow, and looked back to Ruth.\n\nShe'd been turned to me while I'd looked out the window, I could tell, and I caught the last instant of her eyes looking for mine before she turned back to the men, and the long last chore left to her.\n\nShe hadn't smiled, hadn't nodded or shrugged or mouthed to me the word _Sorry,_ like she might do.\n\nNo. There'd been something else to the look she gave me. Maybe something on the lines of nervous, as though she might think me angry at her for this turn. But I wasn't, never had been. Those afternoons I was here to wait for her I'd simply sit and say nothing, maybe get a free cup of coffee from the pump pot they kept on the little table at the entrance, back on the other side of the customer-service desk. Or maybe I'd head over to the magazine aisle and take a look at the nonsense fashion magazines for a minute or so, and wonder what from these ads Emily might have on next time she came over. But I'd never said word one when for some reason or another Ruth was a few minutes late.\n\nMaybe she was worried over our being late to wherever we had to go for caroling, I thought. Or maybe she was mad at some late cashier she was having to cover for.\n\nI looked at my watch, saw it still wasn't yet five-thirty, when she was due to go.\n\nI looked up at her, hoped she'd try and look to me again, so's I could give a small wave, smile at her, signal her somehow I was fine.\n\nShe was turned away from me now, and seemed to stand taller. Her hands on each item were clumsy somehow, as though grabbing each can of soup or bag of salad took some sort of thought from her.\n\nThe first man was bent over, worked at lifting out items from the buggy, while the second man, redheaded with a crew cut and younger than the first, stood talking to Ruth. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he laughed a single shot of a laugh, and gave a small sharp push of the buggy into the other man.\n\nThe first one, still bent to the groceries, flinched a bit, then stood, three frozen pizzas in his hands. He was taller than the redhead, had short dark hair sprinkled with gray and a mustache to match, and he reached over, banged the redhead over the head with the pizzas.\n\nIt was a slap between friends, but I could see by the way the tall one looked first to Ruth then the redhead then to Ruth and finally to the floor that he was embarrassed over this all. Still he held the pizzas in his hands, and the redhead said something, laughed again. The tall one quick put the pizzas on the belt, glanced at Ruth, then turned to the redhead, slowly shook his head. He was smiling.\n\nAll this while Ruth still worked at scanning what they'd picked up, her hands still that same clumsy and unsure, her back perfectly straight. How long was all this going to take? I wondered. How long before these men filling up for the week would quit flirting with my daughter-in-law and let us be about our evening, and our lives?\n\nIf in fact that's what they were doing, flirting. It could have been they were just joshing each other, or putting on a show for Ruth. It could have been nothing at all, these men in uniform here to buy groceries for the firehouse.\n\nBut then I recognized the look Ruth had given me a moment before, and I knew what the nervous glance on her face had been about: she'd looked back to me for some assurance that I was here for her in the face of this show. That was why her hands worked as they did, too, why she stood so straight as well.\n\nShe was afraid of all this. Of men making a fuss in front of her, even with the fact she still wore her wedding ring, and any fool with eyes to see would know.\n\nBut know what? That her husband was dead?\n\nThat my son Mahlon was dead, and she his widow?\n\nThe tall one had emptied the buggy, stood now at the foot of the checkstand, pulled from the bin beneath a paper bag. He started in on the groceries, while the redhead still yakked, both hands still to the buggy.\n\nAnd the tall one just kept bagging, now and again glancing up at Ruth and at the redhead, shaking his head.\n\nNow here was the bagboy. The tall one turned to him, and I could see him full on now. He smiled at the bagger, and I heard him say, \"The cavalry has arrived,\" though he kept at filling his bag until he'd finished, then picked it up, set it in an empty buggy he'd pulled over with him. I'd figured he would step back, let the bagboy have at the rest of it, but he pulled from the bin another bag, and kept on.\n\nFinally, the tall one pushed the emptied buggy into the jabbering redhead who turned, and pushed the buggy on through. The tall one grabbed the redhead's shoulder as he passed by, said to him, \"Bill, give this good man a hand here,\" and nodded at the groceries. He smiled at the bagboy, and moved aside to let the redhead give a hand.\n\nThe taller, older one moved to the credit-card keypad, pulled from his wallet a card, and swiped it through, all the while glancing up at Ruth again and again.\n\nBut Ruth didn't let her eyes meet his, instead glanced over her shoulder to me one last desperate time, just an instant of eyes on me. Her smile was a kind of fearful tremble, I could see, as she pulled from the register feed the receipt he had to sign. Then her eyes to mine were gone, back to looking at the receipt, and at the pen she held out to the man, her fingers just touching the very end of it, like it was a match about to burn down to her skin.\n\nMy heart bled for her, put to this humiliation\u2014these men making fools of her through no fault of her own, when they could see the ring on her left hand. Especially the tall one, who took the pen from that left hand, him still glancing up and up and up at her, while still my Ruth kept her eyes away. They were flirting, and I was the witness to it all, and my daughter's only protector.\n\nThen they were finished, slips signed, groceries bagged, and in the same moment here was Ruth's relief, a young black woman with a cash drawer at her hip.\n\nThe redhead pushed the buggy toward the sliding glass doors, behind him the older one, who looked at the two-foot-long receipt, slowly folded it up, and placed it inside his wallet.\n\nI watched them as they moved past me, oblivious to what they'd put Ruth through, and though the redhead didn't so much as breathe my way, the tall one saw me watching.\n\n\"Good evening, ma'am,\" he said. He gave a smile that seemed part familiar, part distant, as though he might be the least bit surprised by an old woman on a bench in the Harris Teeter. He put his wallet in his back pocket, and nodded. \"Merry Christmas,\" he said, and he was past me, the sliding doors open.\n\nIt seemed there was goodness in his eyes. Nothing shifty to them, no malice to them, far as I could see.\n\nBut I thought of Ruth's hands trembling, and the way she'd held the pen out to him, her fearful and grieved.\n\nThey were through the open door now, and the tall one put a hand to the shoulder of the redhead in front of him, whispered, \"Who is that?\" just as the doors whisked closed behind them, and just as he quick glanced over his shoulder, back into the store. Straight at check-stand 7.\n\nI looked then too, saw that Ruth was already gone, the black woman ringing up the next buggy.\n\nBEFORE RUTH COULD leave she'd have to sign in her cash drawer, then tie up for the next shift supervisor the usual loose ends of a day: who had called in sick, what sale item they were writing rainchecks for, all that.\n\nMore waiting. And so I stood, slowly made my way outside to the sidewalk in front of the store.\n\nThere they were, pushing their cart toward the EMS truck, and I could hear even from here the loud laugh of the redhead. He started running with his buggy ahead of the tall one, then stood on the bar at the bottom of it and coasted, still laughing.\n\nMen.\n\nThe shopping center was built in a square around the parking area, on each of the two dozen or so lampposts red lights strung up in the shape of Christmas trees, all of them on in this dusk. From where I stood just here, outside one of the two Harris Teeters the town had\u2014 there were also three Piggly Wigglys, four Bi-Los, and two Food Lions, with a Publix thrown in for good measure, each with a shopping center of its own\u2014I could see straight across from me that Bank of America where the EMS truck was parked, beside that a soup and salad caf\u00e9, next a prissy odds-and-ends boutique. Next was a toy store that specialized in scientific products, next another caf\u00e9, the Hound and Duck, all meat and potatoes.\n\nIn the row of stores to my right was a Starbucks, a day spa, a hair stylist, and a Heavenly Ham shop; to my left was a cell-phone store, a package store, a real estate office, and a mortgage company.\n\nAnd this was only half of the center. On the other side of the row that held the cell-phone place was another square just like this one, all the stores over there clustered around a Steinmart the way all these were around the Harris Teeter.\n\nThis was Mount Pleasant, and even then only a moment of it, a glance. There had to be three dozen of these kinds of places at least, and then there were the developments, those tracts where lived the people who shopped at all these places: Longpoint, and the Enclave, and Hamlin Square, The Meadows, Lake Shore, Mallard Lakes, Molasses Creek and Hobcaw Creek and Hidden Cove and Rice Hope and the granddaddy of them all, Snee Farm, where they had an Olympic pool and eight tennis courts, eighteen holes of golf and a clubhouse too.\n\nAnd there was, of course, Quail Hollow.\n\nAll of these people, all settled in a town that, when I was a girl, I felt was my own private island, my own secret land. I could walk from my house to Shem Creek, walk barefoot, and watch my daddy pass by in his shrimp boat.\n\nI could see my Eli at the stern, in his blue jeans and rubber boots, giving me the smallest of waves.\n\nAll that, gone. The only thing left a set of mossed-over concrete steps that led up to nothing. A mockingbird set upon it.\n\nAnd here now was Ruth beside me, her purse strap over her shoulder, her face flushed for the hustle of getting away. I looked at my watch: five-forty. Not as late as I'd figured we'd be when those men had pulled up to the checkstand.\n\nShe said, \"Sorry about that,\" and pulled out the blue knit scrunchy at the back of her neck, let loose her hair. Slowly she shook it out, with her fingers made to fluff it a bit. \"Who knows what's coming through at the last second,\" she said, and let out a heavy breath, relieved, it seemed.\n\nI was quiet a second, then nodded toward the EMS truck. Its headlights were on now, and slowly they pulled out of the bank parking lot. \"Those men,\" I said. \"No shame,\" I said, \"flirting like that.\"\n\n\"Oh, them,\" she said, and the words came out quick, and thin.\n\nI looked at her. Her eyes were to the truck a moment, then she was opening her purse, dropped in the scrunchy and reached in, pulled things this way and that, looking for something.\n\n\"They're harmless,\" she said. \"They're in here once a week, stocking up,\" she said, and gave a quick smile, a little shake of her head. \"At least that redhead is. The tall one's new.\"\n\nNow here came beside us a woman in a white tennis dress, her hair the same perfect blond as the horsey gal's, but this in a flip, bobbing up and down as she walked.\n\nRight behind her came the bagboy, pushing a buggy with a few sacks of groceries. \"You take care, Henry,\" Ruth called out from beside me. She had her keys out of her purse, her eyes to the bagboy.\n\nHe turned his head as he pushed the buggy, climbed onto the rung at the back same as the redhead had. He was smiling, said, \"Yes ma'am, Miss Ruth,\" and he nodded with his chin, one sharp jut of it.\n\nShe smiled, but then cut her eyes to something across the parking lot, beyond this Henry, and I saw a look come to her face, her eyebrows together in some kind of troubled consideration. Even in the dusk, I could see her cheeks still flushed.\n\nI looked to where it seemed she was watching.\n\nThe bank parking lot, the two bright red sparks of the EMS truck headed away and out onto Longpoint Road.\n\n\"Let's go,\" Ruth said, and jingled her keys at me. \"I'll drive.\"\n\n\"All right,\" I said, and swallowed. \"All right,\" I said again, this time quieter, and I followed her out into the lot.\nChapter 20\n\nI'M GOING TO microwave some Spanish moss and send little bits of it back home to the girls in Northampton,\" Ruth called out from her bedroom. \"Dorinda told me you could do that. Send it like little souvenirs in the mail.\"\n\nI stood at the kitchen counter, my coat still on for how quick we'd be inside before heading to meet with Jocelyn and her brood. In my hand was the letter opener from the pencil can we kept beneath the phone, on the counter today's mail: the usual pound of catalogs, even with Christmas so close, and the bills we always had with us, today's dose Mount Pleasant Waterworks, South Carolina Electric and Gas, something in a business envelope but with the address handwritten.\n\nAnd there were the cards we'd been getting most every day as well, two of them today. Like every year in Northampton, we hung them on a string above and beside the doorway into the kitchen, a kind of garland of cards that draped heavy the closer we got to the day.\n\nSame thing here in this house, a string hung in the arch between the front room and this kitchen, the thumbtacks into the Sheetrock as easy as a hot knife to butter. Not like back home, where the walls were the old plaster kind and solid. Their first Christmas in, Mahlon'd had to drill the tiniest holes he could manage, then plug in a finishing nail at either side above the doorway.\n\nLast year we hadn't even celebrated any of this, what with the plans for moving, and with the deep and cold feel in both our hearts that it wasn't a day worth celebrating for what we'd lost. We hadn't gotten any decorations out, hadn't bought a tree or put up even that card string over the doorway into the kitchen. Cards came, and we'd only piled them on the kitchen table, then went about the business of sorting what we wanted to keep, and what we wanted to sell.\n\nNow we were here, in a house with a smaller kitchen, a brand-new refrigerator in one corner, electric stove and oven instead of gas, pale blue Formica countertop, and stainless steel sink. A kitchen like any other of a million in the new tract homes that went up every day around here, like kudzu in an empty woods.\n\nBut there on the kitchen counter, in the corner next to the blender, sat Melba's bright red crocheted toilet-paper cover doll, roll and all. An attempt, I knew, to make this place feel more like the home Ruth wanted it to be. I'd told her a hundred times it was the sort of thing you were supposed to keep in your bathroom, but she'd wanted it out here.\n\n\"To remind me of Melba,\" she'd said more than a time or two, though I knew it was more about her own momma, and how she missed her, all of that carried in a strange memento sitting on our kitchen counter.\n\nAnd now it was Christmas in full bloom. Just above the counter was a pass-through to the front room, a Formica counter three feet wide and open all the way to the ceiling. From here I could see the tree we bought over to the Lowe's last Saturday, hung on it every ornament we had, all done with Tess and Zachary and Brian while Jocelyn carried on about the Herbal Life franchise she was thinking on starting up\u2014she'd been through Mary Kay and Pampered Chef both since we'd moved here. I'd baked nutmeg cookies and made hot chocolate, which of course made the boys bounce even harder off the walls. And Tess didn't even finish a single cookie, no matter how hard I tried at getting her to eat.\n\nHung off the eaves out front of the house were three strings of icicle lights Ruth bought over to the Lowe's too, Allen Fortner from down the street helping out with his ladder, though I like to died when he was teetering up there, him a good two hundred fifty pounds and not much taller than me. But the lights'd gotten up, the tree set about with all we had. A sprinkle of presents lay under it already, one from Gordon and Melba, another from Robert and Ellen, a couple three from Ruth's friends at work. Me with one each from Hilda, Phyllis, and Carolyn. There was even a little round box under there for Ruth from Emily.\n\nAnd here, in the doorway into the kitchen, hung the garland of cards. What seemed more than we'd ever gotten before for the fact we'd changed our lives in a way most all our friends couldn't imagine: _we're so amazed and glad for you that you moved back home,_ Hilda'd written, and Peach Gazda'd said, _You are two of the bravest women I know._ Along with the card she'd sent a photo of Ruth's girlfriends from work, all of them in their uniforms\u2014those Stop & Shop green vests and black pants\u2014and jammed into a checkstand, Santa Claus hats on every one of them.\n\n\"What about the chiggers?\" I called out to Ruth. \"In the Spanish moss?\" and I set aside the catalogs on the counter, and the bills, left myself the business-size envelope and the cards. \"You want all your girlfriends back home to get an envelope full of chiggers for Christmas?\" \"That's why you nuke it,\" she said back. I could hear on her words she was pulling on a sweater. \"Once you nuke them.\" She was looking in the mirror, turning one way and another, sizing up. \"Then you can handle the stuff because the bugs are dead.\"\n\n\"Sounds silly to me,\" I said.\n\nThen she was moving through the bedroom, said, \"Dorinda told me, too, that Spanish moss isn't even Spanish moss. It's just the name the Indians called it because the stuff looked like the beards on the conquistadors.\"\n\nI looked at the first card, a big cream-colored envelope to Ruth. The address looked handwritten but not, one of these computer-generated things whoever sending it wanted you to think was personalized. But the handwriting was too perfect, nowheres on it the odd flat loop or wavy line real people gave. I turned it over, saw it was from Harris Teeter headquarters up in Charlotte, and I set it down.\n\n\"You ought to get a job with the carriage tours downtown,\" I said. \"You're a regular walking guidebook,\" I said, and now Ruth laughed from deeper inside the house, in her bathroom, pulling a brush through her hair, eyes to the mirror in there.\n\n\"Just stuff I want to know,\" she called out. \"To find out about where we live is all.\" She paused, bent now to the mirror for a last touch at her makeup.\n\n\"Silliest thing I ever heard,\" I said, and held the business envelope out in front of me, the handwriting small and thin and hard to focus on for it. \"I don't want anything to do with chiggers, dead or alive,\" I said, and slipped it into my coat pocket for later, when I could try and get a better look at it, or just hand it over to Ruth for her to read to me, like I sometimes had no choice but to do.\n\nI heard Ruth laugh again at my old woman's words, and here in my hand was the last card of the day.\n\nFrom Mary Margaret, I could tell, though the handwriting\u2014the careful loops and shivering lines\u2014seemed smaller than before, like they were shivering even fuller, and I thought of Tommy, in his bed there at Willow Springs, taking another turn.\n\nI slipped the letter opener in and pulled it through, even this small splinter of work grown sharper and sharper in my hands every day. But this was a Christmas card, and from my Mary Margaret, and that kind of pain didn't matter.\n\nI pulled out the card, on the front an old-fashioned painting of a shepherd on a hillside, a lamb beside him, the two of them looking to the star of Bethlehem, and I opened it.\n\nAnd out slipped two sheets of Mary Margaret's lavender paper. They were folded in half, and as though it'd been settled years ago, lifetimes ago, they caught the air and unfolded themselves like birds just finding flight, and floated down.\n\nIt was an odd moment, the surprise of it a strange and mysterious one that seemed to last the entire day so far, me so tired at the shopping I'd done, and at the fiasco of those men after making time with my widowed daughter-in-law, and now with the prospect of Christmas caroling with Jocelyn and those boys of hers and sad little Tess and the rest of whoever else we were going to meet and have to charm and sing along with at a place who knew where\u2014this was a sudden mystery, the way two sheets of paper inside a Christmas card from my friend could fall slow as snow in a Massachusetts woods, falling still and still, finally settling facedown right there on the counter before me.\n\nAll this, in only this moment.\n\nI looked at those sheets, looked at them, the card in my hand and open, and still I looked at them, as though those sheets might right themselves and give their news out loud to me. But of course nothing happened, my old woman's surprise just an old woman's surprise, and I glanced a moment at the card, saw just below the verses from Luke about the angels and shepherds Mary Margaret's signature and nothing else\u2014no note, not even the word _Love._\n\nI closed the card, set it on the counter, then reached to the sheets, picked them up, and turned them to me.\n\nMary Margaret's handwriting had gone to an even darker tremble, the address on the envelope\u2014the shiver I'd seen there\u2014only a hint at the trouble I saw in these words, and I read it.\n\nDecember 14th\n\nDearest Naomi\u2014\n\nI am so very sorry to write you with this news. I did not phone you, because I thought I would not know what to say to you that would help, and there was nothing for you to do with this news except take it from me. But I want you to know I love you and that everything you ever told me I never told anyone else.\n\nLonny Thompson passed away last Wednesday in his sleep. He was in Cooley Dickinson for only two days because his doctor would not let him stay at home anymore. Then he passed away.\n\nI know you both talked together that last day at the cemetery, but he never did tell me what he said to you, and I never asked him. I saw him three times after you left, when I went up to say hello to him in Sunderland. He said he was okay with how you left, but it never seemed to me that this was true.\n\nI do not tell you this so you will feel bad, but so you will know that you and Eli and Mahlon were so very important to him. Still I do not have the right words. This letter has come out all wrong, so please forgive me.\n\nThe funeral was nice, but cold. A sunny day, and there were a good twenty people from town who came, including us girls. We sent flowers with all our names on it, including yours.\n\nI love you, and my eyes are filled with tears as I write this to you. Will I see you again? I pray that I will.\n\nDo you remember the day we met each other? I remember it, and hope the memory of it brings good thoughts to your heart. It does to mine.\n\nLove,   \nMary Margaret\n\nHere, finally, was that word.\n\n_Love._\n\nI hung on that word, hung on the sad scrawl of her hand giving it to me, hung on it for longer than the strange moment of these falling words from inside a Christmas card.\n\nI hung on that word, because I did not want the others, though there was no surprise to them at all.\n\nLonny was dead.\n\n\"I'm just telling you what Dorinda said,\" Ruth said, and I looked up from the pages in my hand, saw her moving through the front room and toward me, when there had been nothing in the world an instant before save for that single and lonely and shivering word _Love._\n\n_Love,_ I thought. What does that mean?\n\n\"But she moved down here from Wisconsin two years ago,\" Ruth was saying. She was at the pass-through, leaned toward me on it from the other side, her hands clasped together on the countertop there. \"So maybe that's just some sort of joke on Yankees. Get them all to stand around nuking Spanish moss like it was a Lean Cuisine, then send chiggers on home to Wisconsin.\"\n\nHere was Ruth smiling, her as beautiful as ever she'd been, her hair loose on her shoulders and gleaming even at the end of a day at work. Her cheekbones were touched with the smallest bit of color, her mascara the slightest shade of cinnamon, her lipstick a color so natural I couldn't say she was wearing any.\n\nAnd she had on a Christmas sweater, a cream pullover cable-knit with a trim of poinsettias at the cuffs and along the bottom edge. Nothing loud or out of line, like sweaters I'd seen on some of these Mount Pleasant moms: circus red with giant snowmen appliqu\u00e9s, or Santa Claus climbing out a chimney big enough to fill the backside of a cardigan.\n\nNo. This sweater was just enough. Just enough. It was no wonder those men would pitch a fit over her.\n\nAnd there was her ring, the single band of white gold anyone in the world knew meant love, no matter the people involved, and the way they could betray each other.\n\nMahlon had loved her. And she still loved him.\n\nLonny was dead, the last time I saw him alive the moment when he let me know of the depth of my husband's love for me. When he'd burdened me, and lifted that burden, with the good and terrifying news of my husband's forgiveness.\n\n\"You look beautiful,\" I said to Ruth, though the words came out more a whisper than anything else, and I felt my eyes begin to fill for it, felt the blood rush yet again to my cheeks, and I looked down from her.\n\nMy eyes had nowheres to go, but to the letter in my hand, and the news I did not want to hear.\n\nLonny was dead.\n\n\"Naomi?\" Ruth said, and reached toward me, touched my shoulder through the weight of my coat.\n\nAnd dead with Lonny was what he knew of my husband's good heart, dead with him Eli's forgiveness of him, and of me.\n\nThere was no surprise in this news at all, but in this moment, ushered in by Mary Margaret's words falling like snow to arrive here, now, I saw that there had been a kind of comfort in his being alive.\n\nAs long as Lonny was alive, so was my Eli's forgiveness, because someone else knew of his heart. And as long as Lonny was alive, I could run from myself, from that piece of me that had sinned so fully and deeply against my Eli. That woman had still been alive, lived there in Massachusetts, a country I'd hoped would be as far from me as my childhood was from a morning in November, when a faithless sun had shone down on those frosted rooftops.\n\nBut I hadn't run from me. I'd only run from our home, and from the death of our son, and from God for having taken from me the last evidence of the love Eli and I shared.\n\nAnd still God found me out. Still He was with me.\n\nStill a mockingbird sat on concrete steps, and watched you, the two of you knowing full well the fool you truly were.\n\nRuth gently squeezed my shoulder through the coat, said, \"Are you all right?\" and I looked back up to her, smiled at her, at her beauty, and her life. I smiled at what she'd found here with no help from me but the push from a frightened old woman to move from the shadow of what I'd believed was my unforgiven sin, to the empty notion the sun could make me whole again.\n\nWhen Eli, my Eli, had given me the gift of forgiveness even the day my guilt had begun.\n\nNow here was Ruth, alive. She was, truly, beautiful.\n\nAnd I saw only now the gift she was to me, brought here through gifts given me one after the other\u2014Eli's forgiveness leading to the gift of Mahlon, Mahlon's love for Ruth leading to her gift to me, to words shared in a kitchen what seemed seven lifetimes ago: _where you go, I will,_ she'd said. _But it's not because I have nothing else that I'm coming with you._ _It's because I have you._\n\nBut it was me, finally, who had her. And there was only me to know of that gift that had brought us here, the gift, pure and perfect, of forgiveness.\n\nA gift, I knew suddenly and fully, I could only do honor to by giving it away.\n\nBut how?\n\nI couldn't tell her of how I'd been forgiven by my husband of my adultery, my breaking the bond of our marriage. How could that help, to tell her I'd sinned with Lonny Thompson, the one who'd been the reason Mahlon had been out on a night of black ice after an early November snow? How could _that_ be the passing on of the gift my husband had given, to tell her of me, and of Lonny?\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I managed, finally, and folded the two pages in half quickly, just as quick put them in my coat pocket, me hiding yet again, this time from Ruth herself the news of the death of Lonny. And the news too of my being the single bearer of the gift of Eli's forgiveness. A gift too good to keep hidden, I knew.\n\nBut what could I do? And how could I share it?\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I said again. I nodded hard once, my hand inside my coat pocket, clutched in it those pieces of lavender paper, as thin and frail as Lonny's arm through his coat that last morning, and as thin and frail as Mary Margaret's own heart.\n\nAs thin and frail, I felt, as my soul, burdened still with the weight of keeping a gift hidden, no matter how sweet, no matter how cleansing and pure.\n\nMe, the only one left on earth to know, and no way to pass it on, as gifts are best received.\n\n\"If you say so,\" Ruth said, and smiled. She let go my arm, let her eyes hang on mine a moment longer before she looked down to the countertop between us. Then she reached from her side of the pass-through to touch at the catalogs, the bills, and took up the big cream-colored Christmas card. She looked at it only a moment, flipped it over to read the Harris Teeter address on the back.\n\n\"Same old same old,\" she said. \"Just like back at the Stop and Shop, a computer card to let me know how much I mean to the company.\" She shrugged, let it drop to the counter. \"Who was that letter from?\" she asked, and looked up at me, and in her eyes I could see there was nothing getting past her. We'd lived together this long. We knew each other.\n\nAnd still I lied. \"Mary Margaret's Tommy's taken another bad turn,\" I said. \"Maybe the last one,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said, her eyes square on me. She touched at my arm again, leaned her head the smallest way to the right, in her eyes and her touch the truth of her concern, and now I felt even worse for having brought her to believe me.\n\nMe, ever and always a liar, hiding.\nChapter 21\n\nRUTH NUDGED THE CAR into a space that faced a low brick building ten yards or so away, a row of windows there, inside them all the curtains drawn. Between us and the building was a sidewalk and a strip of worn-down grass, everything a bright gray in the headlights.\n\n\"Where are we?\" I asked, even though there was in me no desire to know. They were only words to speak, to try and hear if I could still manage not to lie.\n\nBecause I did not know where we were, only knew we were going Christmas caroling. I'd gotten into this car, sat beside Ruth as she backed down the driveway, then maneuvered us along one traffic-choked street after another to arrive here.\n\nAnd my hand was in my coat pocket, holding tight those pieces of lavender paper.\n\n\"The Mount Pleasant Home,\" she said, and cut off the headlights, left us in a dark even more gray for a lamppost behind us in the small parking lot. Shadows were suddenly everywhere, we two in the deepest of them, together.\n\nShe looked at me. She had her coat on, her hands still on the wheel. The engine was still running, my feet warm for the heater blowing on them, though it was only fifty-five or so outside. Sweater weather back home to Northampton.\n\n\"Does she think this is really the last time? That he won't make it after this?\" Ruth said. I could only see the vaguest features of her face, her hair, her a silhouette against her window.\n\n\"Who?\" I said, still trying to piece out this all: where was the Mount Pleasant Home? And who was she talking about?\n\nWhat did she know?\n\nShe was quiet a second. She gripped her fingers on the steering wheel harder, then eased, gripped again. \"Tommy,\" she said. \"Mary Margaret's Tommy.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said and took in a quick breath, glanced forward out the windshield, then out my window, back to her, gathering myself for this lie, readying to move deeper into it.\n\n\"She doesn't think he'll make into January,\" I said. \"Seems this time it may be for real. Not that he was ever faking, or that she was making it out to be more than it was.\"\n\n\"I never thought that,\" she said. She let go the wheel, turned off the engine, and in the silence I waited for the tick of the engine cooling down. Same as a night near a year ago, when we'd sat in the drive behind the house, all that room made for my old Electra by Mahlon's truck no longer there.\n\nThe same night Mary Margaret had called out to me, _What about_ _Lonny Thompson?_ while I ushered Ruth out Carolyn's door, Ruth home early from the movies with Peach.\n\n_We were all left sitting there watching something going on on the wall,_ she'd said about why she'd left the theater. _Watching these people live their lives._\n\nI looked at the brick building before us, that strip of grass, the sidewalk, still all gray. But now, with the headlights off, I could see light inside those windows, through the drawn curtains.\n\nShe said, \"I think you should go up there.\" She paused. \"When Tommy passes away.\" She looked down at her hands in her lap. \"For the funeral. And to visit. And go see Eli and Mahlon.\"\n\nI looked at her. That night it had been me to drive her home, me to sit at the wheel and listen for the ticking of the engine while she struggled in that darkness, watching everyone else's lives happening, her away from it and only watching.\n\nShe looked at me, her chin down, but her eyes on me. \"Maybe I can get some time off work, maybe go with you. Or maybe you'd want to go alone.\"\n\nHer words were a kind of test. It was in the way she held her chin down, her eyes on me, waiting for me to carry on with this bluff, or to give her the truth of what was wrong. She hadn't believed me after all. I could tell her about Lonny. This as a means to tell her the real story:my Eli's forgiveness. I could tell her.\n\nBut the bluff held on. I was only watching my life happen on a wall, me in darkness.\n\nI said, \"She asked in the letter if I would do that. Come out.\" I smiled. \"I'm glad you agree with her.\"\n\nI could see in the shadows her mouth make a thin line, saw her bite her lips together. She nodded once more, and in one small move had the key out and her door open, the car filled with the pale yellow of the dome light.\n\n\"Tonight we meet the mythical Beau,\" she said, and turned in her seat, started out.\n\n\"I'll believe that when I see it,\" I said, and the words came out too loud, too much like an old woman welcome for the change in topic. I turned to my door, opened it, and started out, Ruth already around the hood and with a hand to my elbow before I was even standing, then closing the car door behind me.\n\nI looked around then, still uncertain where we were. But then I knew: we were just off the biggest intersection in town, Bowman Road and Highway 17. I could see off to my right an Arby's, then the intersection itself, where Bowman crossed 17, with its four lanes and grass median and stoplights for every which way you were planning to turn. Past it all stood a McDonald's, beyond that the Kmart, its parking lot lamps tall as radio towers, it seemed to me.\n\nBowman Road, when I was a girl, had been the last oyster-shell road, an outpost branch off Old Georgetown Highway, nothing out here but the swamped headwaters of Shem Creek and shanties spread out like broken hopes of home. Now there was nothing left of the marsh save for what you might glimpse between the doctors' offices and quickie oil-change garages and all else around here.\n\nDirectly across the street from us stood East Cooper Community Hospital, three stories tall and brick, all set upon land all those years ago nobody would have thought to give a second glance to. It sat on a huge parking lot washed in a kind of dark orange for whatever sort of lampposts they had over there, a few cars clustered up close to the front of the hospital proper, the smoked-glass doors there. I could see from here too the emergency entrance on the left side of the building, wide glass doors under a canopy there at the far end of a long concrete drive almost straight across from us, all of it only a couple hundred yards away. An orange and white EMS truck\u2014maybe even the same one\u2014was pulled up and parked just out from under the canopy, its lights off.\n\nAnd I could see, too, windows in the hospital over there lit up from inside.\n\nIt seemed convenient, a hospital this close to the nursing home, and I thought again of Willow Woods, where Mary Margaret lived, while next door to it stood Willow Springs, where Tommy and everyone else taking one last turn stayed.\n\nI turned back to Ruth, looked at her. \"Ten months we've been here,\" I said, \"and we haven't seen Beau yet.\" I shook my head. \"You'd think a relative would have a little more respect than that.\"\n\n\"It's been a rough year for him,\" Ruth started. \"You know that. But tonight he's supposed to be here. He got a promotion to the station over by the rec center. He's got better shifts now, and Jocelyn said he'll be here.\"\n\n\"I've heard that before, too,\" I said, and we started up the sidewalk.\n\nBecause I _had_ heard about Beau meeting us here or there or somewhere else over all these months. We'd spoken to him on the phone two or three times since we'd come here, the first time the day after we moved in when he'd said hello and apologized for not being able to help, then once this summer when he couldn't make it for a barbecue at Jocelyn's.\n\nHe'd called, too, when we were up to Gordon and Melba's for Thanksgiving, her table and sideboard and kitchen counters piled even higher with food than that day we drove in from Massachusetts. Even in the middle of all the confusion and cramped quarters of a house filled with so much family\u2014everyone was there yet again, Ellen and Robert and Emily and Ashley, Jocelyn and her boys and Tess\u2014Melba'd managed to have a place set for Beau and waiting at the table, his plate and napkin and knife and fork and spoon all set and ready, a little pool of calm water hidden inside a hurricane.\n\nGordon'd ended up waiting to start carving the fried turkey an extra twenty minutes, but then Melba, bless her heart, said, \"Let's just go on and eat,\" though there wasn't any joy to her at all.\n\nWe all sat down, Gordon at the head and working away, to his left Melba, me to his right, everyone else spread around the table, Emily careful as ever to sit next to Ruth like she always did now.\n\nThere was only Beau's seat left, and then here was Tess, just climbing on up into his chair.\n\nAnd the phone rang, right on cue. Zachary or Brian\u2014I still couldn't tell which from the other\u2014jumped up and answered it, plucked the receiver right off the wall phone there in the kitchen, Melba already to her feet.\n\n\"Why aren't you here on Planet Turkey with us, Uncle Beau?\" the boy said, grinning at his brother still at the table, him with a turkey leg in his hands. \"We're doing an autopsy on the first victim right now,\" he said, and Ashley, sitting there in an Indian Maiden costume she'd worn for Halloween and still wearing that tiara, shouted out, \"That is so gross! People are trying to eat!\"\n\nMelba hushed them both, Robert whispering loud to Ashley, _Careful_ _your mouth!_ before Melba took the phone and grimaced a smile at the boy, then started in to talking.\n\nWe'd kept on eating, Melba moving out of the kitchen, her back to us. She seemed to want to find a corner for the quiet she needed, but the cord wouldn't reach. She'd only been able to face away from the table, and toward that high shelf above the recliner, where perched that submarine of Gordon's in its glass case. Beau's gift back to his daddy, all those years ago.\n\nThen she'd turned to me, held the receiver out to me at the table. She was working hard at a smile, said, \"He wants to say hey to you,\" and nodded.\n\nI'd stood, come around the end of the table, and took it from her, but not before I'd touched at her shoulder, smiled at her.\n\n\"Aunt Naomi,\" he said, his voice strong and clear but quiet, the quiet that came from inside and had nothing to do with how you wanted to be heard. It was who he was. Same as I'd heard two times before. \"Aunt Naomi, I want to apologize for not being able to be there,\" he'd said, and gone on for a minute or so about the why of work.\n\nThen he'd said, \"And I want you to know I love you, Aunt Naomi, and Ruth too. I just want you both to know that.\"\n\nI said, \"We love you too,\" and saw Melba and Gordon both smiling up at me, and we said good-bye.\n\nI believed him, certainly. We were family. Still, I'd thought he ought to have at least called sooner. I sat back at the table, and only then did I catch the thin shine of tears in Melba's eyes, saw her pinch up yet another smile, touch at either eye. \"It's been a tough row for him this year,\" she said, still with that smile.\n\nTess was sitting next to her, the commotion everywhere suddenly stopped for what everyone knew was something happening. Even the boys'd stopped tussling, their hands suddenly in their laps.\n\n\"Ollie's birthday was in October,\" Gordon gave out from the head of the table, his voice soft and low. He was looking at Melba now, smiling of his own, but not with tears. He reached to her, rubbed her arm slow and easy, tenderness to his smile and touch both. \"He would have been eighteen,\" he went on, still with his eyes to Melba. \"That's when Beau got on with the Georgetown department all those years ago. Back when all you needed was to graduate high school and pass the physical.\"\n\nGordon looked to me. He still rubbed slow and gentle at Melba's arm. \"That's what he's been working on all this while. This year. The fact his own life took off on its own once he hit eighteen. And that's how old Ollie would've been.\" He paused, swallowed, looked back to Melba. \"But he's coming through it. He is,\" he said to her.\n\nMelba said, \"I know it,\" and sniffed, looked up at Gordon. She reached a hand to his on her arm. \"He sounds good.\" She squeezed his hand, and Robert said, \"He sounded good when I talked to him on Saturday last week.\" He nodded to his momma, and Jocelyn'd put in, \"It's just been this year,\" looked first to me then Ruth, as though her words were some kind of apology for her big brother.\n\nRuth and I both nodded. There was no apology needed. We both knew what grief was.\n\nYet there was still a piece in me that wanted to say maybe it was better if you went to those you loved, stayed near them. Maybe it was family, finally, that would help you through all it was God could hand you.\n\nWE WERE AT the glass double doors of the building, the edges of the glass frosted all the way around with spray-on snow, stenciled snowmen and a Christmas tree sprayed on too.\n\nThe Mount Pleasant Nursing Home. Here was where we'd go caroling, and I looked through the glass, saw a long hallway with doorways spaced down it, a wheelchair here and there, at the end of the hallway a nurses' station, lit bright like it was the helm of a ship.\n\nJust like Willow Springs. Where Tommy, in whatever condition he might be in, lay right now. Most likely with Mary Margaret beside him. Ruth pushed the door open, and here was warmth, too much of it, and the smell of any nursing home I'd ever been in. Ammonia, pitched to one degree or another, and the smell of flowers, and of food somewhere. All of it wrapped in a warmth too warm, too forced.\n\nIt was, I'd known for the last thirty years or so, when friends of ours had started peeling away and into these places, the smell of death, no matter how careful the staff was, or how careless.\n\nThis was where any of us, all of us, might very well see the end.\n\nWe took a few steps into the foyer, and I heard a commotion as familiar to me now as the sound of a lawnmower next door, or the smell of a barbecue: Jocelyn's boys, going at it like every time I ever saw them, and then here we were at a little waiting room off to the left, a room you couldn't see into from the front door.\n\nThere they were, on the carpeted floor of the place, laughing and rolling around with some big man I couldn't rightly see for them all over him, all three messing around on the floor of a nursing home and threatening to knock into a coffee table set up with a little Christmas tree and a dozen or so ornaments. There was a sofa in here, pushed up against one wall, two overstuffed chairs against another wall, but nobody was sitting. The boys both had on jeans and sweatshirts, and both wore Santa Claus hats, the furry red things with white trim and the little white ball at the tip. The man\u2014Beau, I knew already\u2014had on a green heavy sweater and gray turtleneck shirt, khaki slacks, and what looked like hiking boots. Past that I couldn't see a thing. Only the boys on top of him, him squawking out about how mean they were to him, and the boys still just pouring it on.\n\nAll three of them, laughing.\n\nHere was Jocelyn, and Tess too, smiling down at them, and darned if Jocelyn didn't have on one of those fire-engine-red Christmas sweaters, woven into it puppies chasing one another all up and down the arms and across the front, on every one of them bright ribbon bows for collars and tiny brass bells\u2014real ribbons and bells, tied right into the weave. And Tess, in a green slacks and shirt set, on the left breast a little Christmas puppy, a bright red ribbon and little brass bell sewn on it.\n\nShe was smiling.\n\nNobody'd yet seen us for the fuss of the boys wrestling, and now they rolled in one clump too close to the coffee table, bumped it hard and sent the tree to tip over.\n\nJocelyn shouted in a tough whisper \"Now, Beau!\" and bolted to the table as though to catch what was already knocked down, while the boys quick sat up for what had happened.\n\nThis was exactly when Tess looked up from this all to discover Ruth and me standing here, and in that instant our eyes met.\n\n\"Aunt Naomi!\" she let out, louder than any time I'd ever heard her, and for some reason I could not say she shot across the room to me, took both my hands, her smiling up at me big as I'd ever seen her smile.\n\n\"Why, how are you, Tess?\" I asked, a little stunned for this, and I heard from beside me Ruth take in a quick breath, as though she might be even more startled at sweet Tess letting out words this loud.\n\nI glanced up to her and smiled, looked for the surprise I figured I'd see in her eyes.\n\nBut her eyes, too wide open, were to the room, her mouth a little open too, and I looked to the room, all the fuss suddenly quiet, and still. Jocelyn was bent to the table, the tree\u2014a plastic one\u2014already righted, her looking up at us. And there on the floor, untangled now and silent, sat the three boys, Beau in the middle.\n\nHe had on a Santa Claus hat too.\n\nThe boys started in again, nearly leapt on him from either side, and Jocelyn stood up, talking already and headed toward us, Tess still holding tight my hands.\n\nBut I was looking at Beau, who hadn't moved, even with the boys pulling on him.\n\nHe was looking at Ruth, on his face the same look as she had, eyes open a little too wide, mouth open too.\n\nI knew him.\n\n\"Uncle Beau is here, Aunt Naomi!\" Tess said. She pulled at my hands a little, and though there was pain to this, I didn't say or do anything.\n\nBecause I knew this man.\n\nBut from where? I'd seen his picture enough times in the front room of Gordon and Melba's, that portrait of him in his uniform when he'd graduated from the fire academy. But the man in that photo was a boy, in his early twenties, not yet visited upon him the sorrows he'd come to know for the death of his son.\n\nAnd there was that Polaroid, its fading colors giving away day by day the image of a man and his child, and I thought of the joy I could still barely see in him even with that fading, joy still clear and full at this baby boy with a full head of black hair there in his daddy's arms.\n\nBut that wasn't where I knew this man from either.\n\n\"He really does exist,\" Jocelyn was saying, \"just like we've warned you all this time.\" She was at Ruth's side now, had hold of her elbow, and turned back to Beau, still on the floor, still not having moved at all.\n\nStill with his eyes on her, his mouth open the smallest way.\n\nHe had a mustache, sprinkled through with gray, and it seemed there was goodness in his eyes, even though he was staring at Ruth.\n\nNow it was me to take in a quick breath.\n\nThe fireman, at the Harris Teeter. The awkward one, the taller one, who'd looked at her and away and to her again, hoping, I'd seen, to make her eyes meet his, no matter the ring she wore.\n\nWhile Ruth, my Ruth, trembling and fearful, had kept her eyes away from him, afraid of these men putting moves on her, and flirting, and meaning her harm and no harm at once.\n\nThe one who'd whispered _Who is that?_ as the doors whisked closed behind him.\n\nThis was Beau, the fireman Ruth had known was new.\n\nHe moved, finally, got to one knee and pulled off his Santa hat even while the boys hung on his arms, and then he was standing, him taller, it seemed, for this small room, and still the boys jumped at him, held on to him, pulled at him.\n\nHe only stood looking at Ruth, the hat in both hands in front of him, wadding it, almost wringing it. His mouth moved, opened and closed once, twice, but nothing came out.\n\nHis face seemed to go red, a blush coming across him, and I knew it was for his having been caught out: Ruth knew him for the flirt he was around women.\n\nAround Ruth herself. His stepcousin's widow.\n\nI glanced again to Ruth. She seemed to waver where she stood, as though she thought to take a step back for his standing up. In her eyes still on him was the same desperate and fearful look as earlier this evening, when she'd glanced at me to make sure I was still there at the bench, her afraid of these men making a fuss in front of her.\n\nHere came a blush over her as well, her cheeks and ears and neck flushed with color, her eyebrows together in the same troubled consideration she'd given the EMS truck as she'd watched it leave in the dusk of this same evening.\n\nShe needed me, I knew. She needed me right then. Right now.\n\nI moved to her side, Tess's hands still holding tight to mine, a sud- den and heavy pain as I pulled her along with me, a pain too heavy and burdensome, but me without chance to let go for how much Ruth needed me.\n\n\"Did you get it?\" Tess said to me, her voice still strong and a wonder for it, but I only quick smiled down at her, still in front of me and holding on tight to my hands, and her still smiling up at me.\n\nNow Beau's eyes went to mine, and he blinked, his forehead pinched a moment for the fact he recognized me, too: the old woman on the bench at the Harris Teeter, the one he'd wished a Merry Christmas to as he'd folded up his receipt.\n\n\"Aunt Naomi?\" he said, a question, certainly, and a surprise at once. He blinked again.\n\n\"What in the world is going on here?\" Jocelyn asked, too loud as ever. \"Do y'all know each other?\"\n\n\"I'd say we do,\" I let out, level and calm. For Ruth, so that she might know I was with her, that I was even closer than standing beside her.\n\nI'd said it cold as I did for him, too. Just so's he'd know I knew him. \"We go way back,\" he said, and now he was smiling at me, big and broad.\n\nAnd true.\n\nHe stopped wringing the Santa hat, took two big strides across the room straight at me, and took me tight into a hug, me with only enough time to let go Tess's hands and turn my face from his chest so that I didn't smother in it, Tess squirming quick out of the way herself just in time.\n\nAgain he said, \"Aunt Naomi,\" this time in a kind of quiet wonder, and still he hugged me, me so very small in his grasp. I breathed in his smell, took in the faintest trace of burnt wood.\n\nHe was a fireman. Of course.\n\nHe let me go, stood back from me and smiled still just as big and broad. Already Jocelyn was laughing, and the boys were at him again, there beneath us all Tess, laughing and giggling at all this, all this.\n\n\"We go way back,\" he said again, now to Jocelyn, though his eyes were still on mine, his hands still holding on to my shoulders. \"About an hour or so,\" he said.\n\n\"What's this?\" Jocelyn let out. \"What are you talking about?\"\n\nI said, \"It was at the Harris Teeter while I was waiting on Ruth to get off work.\" My voice was just as level and hard, though nowhere in his eyes on mine was the kind of guilt that blush of his had betrayed. He was smiling at me, and smiling, and still holding on to me. \"Beau here was with one of his men and buying groceries, the two of them giving Ruth here a hard time and flirting and all else.\"\n\nHis eyes seemed to flicker a moment, and the smile gave way a bit to puzzlement, and I could feel his hands go the smallest way loose on my shoulders.\n\nAnd he let his eyes go to Ruth.\n\n\"It was Bill Dupree you were there with, wasn't it,\" Jocelyn said, and though I could see out the corner of my eye her cross her arms, put out her hip, still I was watching Beau, glad for the guilt he was onto now. Glad, too, it was me to bring it to bear on him.\n\nI was here for Ruth. I was right here.\n\nThen his eyes were to me again, the puzzlement gone, in its place what I could see clean and clear was regret. Plain and simple and true.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said right out, the words no surprise at all for what I'd seen in his eyes. \"Aunt Naomi, if Bill or I said or did anything out of line, I apologize. No excuses whatsoever.\" He looked a moment at Ruth, nodded.\n\n\"So it _was_ Bill Dupree?\" Jocelyn said, and I knew in that instant she was interested in him, knew too they were talking about the redhead with the crew cut.\n\n\"Will you introduce me?\" Beau said to me, ignoring like any brother will his little sister.\n\nHe'd apologized. He'd meant it.\n\nAnd now I had to think if he'd even done anything out of line at all. He'd tried to meet Ruth's eyes, and'd slapped this Dupree boy on the head with those frozen pizzas.\n\nHe'd wished an old woman he did not know waiting on the bench inside the Harris Teeter a Merry Christmas, and had called her _Ma'am._\n\nBut he'd also whispered on his way out the door, _Who was that?_\n\nI said, \"This is my son Mahlon's wife, Ruth,\" and let my eyes linger on his a moment to let him know I was warning him, and to let him know who he'd wounded with his wandering eye.\n\nBut he was already turned to her, already smiling, that Santa hat back in both hands, him holding tight to it.\n\nI turned to Ruth. Still she looked frightened, and still her cheeks and neck were flushed in color. Still her eyebrows were together, her worried and fearful.\n\nBut she was smiling, too. She was smiling now, and let out a breath, took in another, gave finally what wanted to pass as a laugh, but which seemed to me a means of relief.\n\nBeau put out his hand to her. She paused a moment before she put out her own, let his take hold of hers. Their hands touched, and they shook, once. He quick let go her hand, then he turned to me, said, \"I'm sorry, Miss Ruth, if there was anything I did or said or if anything\u2014\"\n\n\"Now please, y'all,\" Jocelyn cut in, too loud again, and she put her hands to her hips, quick shook her head. \"If it was Bill Dupree involved, you know it had to be ugly,\" she said, \"and it sounds like cotillion class around here with the introductions and apologies. This is just family!\"\n\nBeau, still with the hat in his hands, looked over at me, slowly shook his head. \"You know, of course, that my lovely sister here was the only girl ever to flunk Miss Pansy's cotillion class.\"\n\nJocelyn pushed him hard with both hands\u2014he didn't move, stood rock still\u2014and the boys burst out all over again.\n\nYet even in the midst of all this going on, Beau looked again at Ruth, said in the softest way, and serious, \"It's a pleasure to meet you, and I am sorry for your loss.\"\n\nThey were quiet words, said without a smile even inside the tussle and mayhem and noise of these people. This family. But I'd heard them, and Ruth had too. And I'd seen, too, that just as with his apology to me, he'd meant these words. He was glad to meet her, and he was sorry.\n\nHe was only himself.\n\nThen the boys started in earnest, pulled at Beau to nearly topple him, and he staggered a bit, stepped back. Finally his eyes left Ruth, and he was smiling again, though the blush was still working strong on him. He turned from us, a boy hanging on each arm, their feet dragging the ground, and he let out a giant's laugh, deep and dark, entirely too loud for the front room of a nursing home.\n\nThat was when Ruth's arm looped into mine, and I felt her hold on hard to me, felt her lean in on me, my wounded daughter-in-law so close beside me.\n\nI leaned into her, too, and looked at her. She was still watching him, her bottom lip between her teeth, her biting down hard. Then she turned to me, looked in my eyes, tried at a smile, all while Jocelyn went at Beau about this Bill Dupree, and how much of a dog he was for flirting like that, and asking in the next breath was he seeing anyone now. Beau just shook his head and glanced at her now and again with a look on his face to tell her what a fool she could be, the boys all the while getting louder by the second.\n\n\"Did you get it?\" I heard Tess say, and felt her grab hold of my free hand, pulling on it. \"Aunt Naomi, did you get it yet? Did you?\"\n\nI looked down at her, still there right beside me in her green slacks and shirt set, and I said too quick, said too hard, \"Don't pull so hard on your Aunt Naomi's hand, sweetheart, it hurts when you do that.\"\n\nI knew even before I'd said it I shouldn't have. She let go my hand in an instant, drew hers together at her chest and took a small step back even before I had the words all out, all the ugly of what was going on in meeting this Beau\u2014Ruth's trembling, my cold words to Beau, that guilt I was pleased to see in the way the blush worked its way on him\u2014 all of it was still in me with those words to Tess, just hanging on and asking me whatever it was she wanted to know. A girl so brittle of course all it would take would be a word to break her yet again.\n\n\"Tess, darling, I'm sorry,\" I started, \"I didn't mean to\u2014\"\n\n\"Here they are!\" Jocelyn let out, and Tess's eyes shot to behind me, and the ruckus started anew with the sudden parade into the room of more people. This was another whole family, the Brookeses, Jocelyn let me know as she introduced me to the mother, bone thin and with blunt-cut blond hair and a white sweater, green corduroy slacks. We shook hands and I took in the fact she was the wife of the doctor whose caroling party this was, him somewhere else in the building giving the heads-up to the nurses, and now here was her son introduced as well, him nearly tall as her and with the same color hair and in jeans and a College of Charleston sweatshirt; then another son maybe the same age as Jocelyn's wrestlers, but this one Japanese maybe, thick black hair and a green dress shirt; and finally a girl maybe a little older than Tess and in a bright red dress, little Christmas tree appliqu\u00e9s along the hem, long blond hair in curls down to her shoulder.\n\nThrough all this Ruth stayed beside me, though she'd had to let go my arm for shaking hands. And through it all too I'd tried to get a look at Tess, tried to find her to give her a smile. But then in paraded more people, and what seemed even more, until the room was a bright swirl of friends, some I was introduced to and some I wasn't, every name I got a name I knew I wouldn't remember two minutes from now. Tess'd faded into the room with these new people, even though the little girl in the red dress seemed herself alone once she'd shaken my hand. She'd stood beside her momma a minute or so, only to be caught up in the madness of the wrestling boys, and then they were all wrestling, the two new boys and the little girl, Tess nowheres I could see.\n\nAnd slowly, slowly, Ruth drifted from beside me, while still I smiled and shook hands and let Jocelyn go on with anybody who had ears about us moving here near a year ago now.\n\nRuth was gone from me, and Tess was as well, and even though I was in the middle of a room full of people I felt my heart pull in me for the fact I seemed somehow still as alone as I ever had been. Maybe even more, for the meeting of this Beau, and for the letter in my coat pocket, and for the trembling of Ruth beside me, and for the lie I had given her about what that letter had said.\n\nAnd for the way I'd cut short Tess, spoken to her as though she were a bother to my life, and not a child whose heart had been broken already.\n\nThat was when I caught sight of Beau behind and above the left shoulder of the next nameless woman Jocelyn was introducing me to, a woman with short gray hair and eyebrows too penciled in and who was going to get Jocelyn started up with something called Creative Memories.\n\nThere was Beau in the midst of the swirl, him meeting all these people, him tall enough so that I could see his eyes move now and again from whoever it was at hand and off to my right.\n\nHere on his face was that blush, him nodding to someone I couldn't see and smiling, and then his eyes to my right again and then again.\n\n\"On Monday night? Then you'll be there at our next crop?\" the woman said to me. I quick looked to her smiling too hard at me now, Jocelyn beside her and smiling just the same.\n\n\"Crop?\" I said, and slowly shook my head. \"A crop?\"\n\nNeither of their smiles faltered a whit, the two of them still just as bright and happy as could be despite the fact the old woman they were talking to had missed a step somewheres.\n\n\"The whole party,\" Jocelyn said, \"where you crop pictures to fit in your Creative Memories album.\" She paused a moment, blinked twice. \"Like we just said?\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" I said, and smiled myself. \"All these people, and the talking,\" I said.\n\nBut my eyes were already to Beau again, him looking to my right, and smiling at whoever, here still that blush.\n\nAnd then, as if God had one more thing to show me about the way the world could be a dangerous place, a place filled with darkness and sorrow, God Himself ever and always a mockingbird on a stairstep left from a house long gone, I looked off to my right, and at this precise moment the people in my line of sight seemed somehow to part this way and that just the smallest way\u2014a turn of the shoulders here, a turn of the head there\u2014to reveal to me who Beau was watching.\n\nRuth.\n\nShe was nearly to the wall over there, the furniture and that little tree and coffee table and everything else in this small room swallowed up by all these people. From where I stood I could see she was listening to an older woman I couldn't say as I'd met yet, and she was nodding, smiling.\n\nBut then her eyes left the woman's a moment, just a glance up, and away, and right to Beau.\n\nShe was still blushing too.\n\n\"It's a precious thing,\" the gray-haired woman in front of me said, and I looked at her, saw her and Jocelyn both still smiling hard at me. \"Cutting photos to fit those is a kind of cropping all by itself.\"\n\n\"What?\" I said, and felt my legs beneath me begin to tremble. \"What is?\" I said, and let my eyes go back to Ruth. But the crowd had moved back in, and she was gone.\n\n\"Your locket,\" Jocelyn said, and now I could see her smile fall a little, puzzlement taking over. Both her and this woman's eyes went to my chest, and they both nodded. \"Like we were just talking about?\" Jocelyn said, and looked at me again.\n\n\"My what?\" I said.\n\nAnd then I looked down, saw what they were looking at:my hand was at the lapel of my coat, clutched between my first finger and thumb my locket, me holding on tight.\n\nI hadn't even known I was touching it, hadn't registered the pain of holding on this hard.\n\nI let my eyes go from my fingers, and to Beau, still there above and inside the swirl of this room. I let my eyes go to his shy smile, his blush, his nodding, and to his meeting all these people.\n\nSomeone near him, I knew, might take in the scent of burnt wood. But someone closer still would know he'd lost a child many years ago, and had spent most of this last one reckoning himself to that gift from God that would never go away: the death of a child.\n\nNow my own pain came to me, and I knew in fact that my fingers were pressing too hard to the locket on my lapel, and to the photos of those I'd lost myself.\n\nMy husband, and my son.\n\nI looked again to Jocelyn and the woman, nodded, agreed that a locket was a precious thing, agreed, yes, to attend the next crop, all while still my fingers burned on the locket, and burned, and while Beau smiled and nodded and talked, his eyes stealing again and again away from them all, and to my Ruth.\n\nI glanced once more toward where I'd seen her. But I'd lost her, between us now too many people, and still my legs trembled, and still my fingers burned.\nChapter 22\n\nTHE DOCTOR WHOSE effort this all was leaned into the room, hollered over us all, and brought the loud to a stop. He wasn't but maybe five foot tall\u2014his wife, the blunt-cut, bone thin blonde, had to be a half foot taller\u2014and round as a melon, glasses low on his nose. His front shirt pocket was heavy with index cards, one for each of his patients, I imagined, and his Christmas tie\u2014snowmen throwing neon ornaments at one another\u2014too snug at his throat.\n\nBut like everyone here, there was something to him smiling. He started right away to parceling us out like we were Cub Scouts at a pack meeting, and I couldn't help but think of when Mahlon was a boy and Pack 32 would meet once a month over to the elementary school beside the cemetery.\n\nHis smile wasn't the pained and pasted on one you might expect for having to divvy us up, move us on through a nursing home too warm and full of the smells that made it a place none of us wanted ever to be. This was smiling true, and he went person to person around the room, each of us calling out to him the expected number we were to give\u2014we were counting off from one to four\u2014so that we'd be in even groups.\n\nI listened for Ruth's voice, but as he went along the murmuring of us all started up. Everyone here knew the man, put in a word to him as he went along, and then he was at Jocelyn in front of me.\n\n\"Three?\" she said, like it was a test, and the doctor nodded once, sure and certain and still smiling. Then he turned to me, smiling right into my eyes, and I let out \"Four\" almost too soft to hear.\n\n\"Miss Naomi?\" he said. He put out his hand to me, and I let go the locket, put my hand to his without any thought at all, nowhere in the touch any pain.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, puzzled and fearful I'd missed yet again an introduction, a face I'd said hello to once already.\n\n\"Jocelyn's told us a lot about you and Ruth,\" he said, still holding my hand, \"and we want you to know we're glad you're here with us.\" I looked at him, looked at him. I made no move to speak, made no move to be polite and utter for this stranger words could get ahold of anything at all. There was before me only the something I couldn't name in the smile he still gave, and in the sound of these friends all piled in a room too small, before us all a mission of kindness that had to feel even to the littlest ones here a kind of chore more than an occasion for the joy it seemed was here with us.\n\nHe let go my hand, still in him the smile, despite this speechless old woman who hadn't the courtesy even to smile back at him. He nodded at me, said, \"A lot of these folks are my patients, and they really appreciate our coming every year. They do.\" He nodded once more, then turned to the woman with the gray hair who cropped pictures for a living. \"Five!\" she said, and the doctor said, \"Now, Connie,\" and she shrugged, said, \"Six?\"\n\n\"You're number one,\" the doctor said, and the woman laughed and Jocelyn laughed, and the three or four people spread out in front of me all laughed, and started back to talking, and smiling.\n\nAnd smiling.\n\nMy fingers were already to the locket, holding on.\n\nAnd I wondered: was this who I had become? Was this who I was now, at the end of my life? A woman who found a smile a remarkable thing? One who found the possibility of joy a suspect notion?\n\nWas this, finally, Naomi?\n\n\"Thank you, everybody, for coming out tonight,\" the doctor shouted. He was in the center of the room, though I could only see him along and between the people before me. I hadn't heard Ruth's voice at all.\n\nBut there was Beau, across the room and to my left, in the back corner where the sofa and one of the chairs met. He was looking down to beside him, had his finger to his lips, shushing the boys, I was certain, his thick green sweater and gray turtleneck what I had no choice but to see was handsome on him.\n\nHe was handsome, and he too, even inside his shushing the boys beside him, was smiling.\n\n\"I need y'all to get into your groups,\" the doctor said. \"Sharon's got the Xeroxes of the carols,\" and now his wife's hand shot up beside him, in it a sheaf of papers. \"Let's get all the number ones on out the door and over to the south pod,\" he said. Somebody said, \"We're number ones! We're number ones!\" followed by a fall of laughter, and people shuffled through and between us and toward the entrance to the room.\n\nAmong them Beau, and I caught glimpses between people of the two boys still with him, holding on to his arms as they went.\n\nHe looked over to me once he was near the doorway out. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, nodded, then did the same for Jocelyn beside me, and they were gone.\n\nNext came the twos, and the threes, and here was Ruth moving off with that group, wedged in the knot of people. She paused to look over at me. She was smiling, and put a hand up, gave a small wave, mouthed _See you later,_ and I had to smile back at her, give a nod. She looked better somehow, as though she'd managed a few deep breaths in and out, though it still seemed her cheeks were too red.\n\nBut she was smiling, and once she'd waved to me her eyes cut to a woman pushed up beside her. Ruth opened her eyes a little wider to her, smiled a little broader, nodded quick: they were talking, the two of them.\n\nYet Jocelyn still stood in front of me, made no move to head out with her group, the threes, her eyes to the people moving off.\n\n\"That's you, isn't it, sweetheart?\" I said. \"Number three?\"\n\nShe turned to me, quick put out a hand to my arm, gave a little shrug. She was smiling, but in her eyes was concern, her eyebrows together, that smile just a bit smaller than only a moment ago, when we'd been surrounded by folks.\n\n\"I don't want you to be left alone without any family, Aunt Naomi,\" she said. \"I know how it can be when you're with a brand-new set of people. When it feels like you don't know a person in the world, and everybody else is carrying on like it's their birthday.\" She paused, let her whole hand hold on to my arm, as though she meant to lead me somewhere I didn't want to go. \"Believe me,\" she said, her words pitched small now, somewhere I'd never heard from her. \"I know what it's like to feel like that. And I just don't want you to.\"\n\n\"Too late for that,\" I said, my voice even smaller than hers, even softer than what little bustling was going on with the last of us left in here, the sofa suddenly with us again for the people who'd left, and here now were the chairs pushed against the wall, the plastic Christmas tree on the coffee table still and all only a plastic Christmas tree.\n\nAll of it the same as the moment before we'd walked into a room with a man named Beau inside, waiting to break into my daughter's heart for nothing other than sport.\n\n\"Excuse me?\" Jocelyn said, and gave a short shake of her head, squinted up her eyes at me. \"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I said you go on ahead. I'll be fine,\" and I reached to her with my free hand, touched at her own arm. I gently gave her the smallest shove away, just enough, I hoped, that she wouldn't see I meant it the way I did: I wanted to be left alone. And all of it saddled with a smile of my own.\n\n\"You sure?\" she said. She tilted her head to one side, eyes still squinted at me.\n\n\"I'm certain,\" I said, and patted her arm.\n\nShe took a step from me, hesitated, shook her head one more time. \"You'll be fine with this crowd,\" she said. \"And you feel free to find us if you need to.\"\n\nShe smiled once more, and I thought I might've seen in her eyes some kind of relief: she was done baby-sitting me. She turned, called, \"Marjorie!\" and was out of the room.\n\nWE MOVED ON out into the hallway, and to whatever pod it was left to us, led by the doctor himself. There were maybe eight of us, husbands and wives and children all dressed in greens and reds to one degree or another. They were all of them walking and chatting and making an occasional word to me, as though I were a part of them. I kept toward the back of the group, my eyes more often than not to the linoleum squares of the floor, careful not to look up for fear someone would see me and feel he had to bring me into the circle of friends they all seemed to have been their whole lives long.\n\nBut I wanted none of it. I wanted to be left alone, and kept my hands in my coat pockets, my coat still on despite the warmth in here, in my right hand the sheets of Mary Margaret's letter, the lavender of them something I could feel at my fingertips, and the thin loops of her frightened handwriting, even that word _Love_ at the end of it. I could feel it all, there in the pain of my fingers pushed deep down into my pocket.\n\nThe doctor stopped at the first door on this hallway, a hallway the same empty as each one we'd walked so far, and gave us the routine we were to follow in each room:we'd sing three songs, the last one always \"We Wish You a Merry Christmas,\" the other two something from the quick list of lyrics printed on the sheets everyone but me had a copy of: \"Silent Night,\" of course, and \"Jingle Bells\" and \"O Little Town of Bethlehem\" and five or six others. But it was always \"We Wish You a Merry Christmas\" we were to end with, and then we'd be out the door and moving on to the next room.\n\nI knew already what to expect this night, knew from the years of visiting friends in homes just like this up in western Massachusetts, no matter if it was Christmas or the Fourth of July: we were here to see people my age and older, some younger, all marking time for what was coming at them next: death. Plain and simple.\n\nWe moved into the room, the doctor first, me last, to find a woman laid out as though she were already gone. She lay flat on the hospital bed, blankets heaped neatly so that all you could see of her was her head on the pillow. Her hair, what was left of it, was nearly transparent, a thin gray halo about her head, her cheeks sunken in and eyes closed, her skin yellow and gray both.\n\nThere was no one in the room with her, only a single potted plant on the nightstand to her right, above us a television turned to _Jeopardy!_ with the sound turned off, and then the doctor started right in with \"We Three Kings.\"\n\nHe sang alone the first few notes, smiling and nodding at us all and at the woman, and then the room gathered in with him, and they were singing, first the adults and then the three children we had with us, a boy and two girls, none of them more than five or six and looking frightened for every good reason at the mystery of what lay before them.\n\nAge. And being alone.\n\nI feared the woman might startle at the sound of these voices in the room of a sudden and frighten these children even further, but in the same moment I thought maybe, truly, she was beyond hearing anything from us, her so very near her end.\n\nWe finished that song, started in on \"Silent Night,\" and then the woman's eyelids fluttered.\n\nThey did not open, only quick moved as though struggling up from a dream she might be inside. Then her mouth began to move, her lips touching just barely at what looked like words, her still and never moving, no sounds from her.\n\nFor a moment there came a softer spot in the singing, everyone here seeing this happen, the movement of eyes and lips to a song we all knew by heart. The children looked at one another, still singing, and I watched from where I stood just inside the door a father place his hand on one of the girls' shoulder. He stood behind her, and let his hand settle there, while she looked at her friends. Then he patted her once, twice, and she looked forward, at the woman whose lips still moved, eyelids still fluttered, her singing in this way the carol.\n\nAnd then we were done, moved out of the room singing \"We Wish You a Merry Christmas\" and into the hallway, no words between us on what we'd just seen, and now we were in a room where lay a woman with Parkinson's, her head moving in a slow quiver, but a smile on her still. She had her hair set fresh, as though somebody just today had come in and done it, the silver-blue curls perfect, and she wore a pink peignoir set, the robe tied off in a neat satin bow at her throat, both her hands clasped at her chest. She was sitting up full in the bed, and tried to sing along with us, joy right there in her eyes, though her words were only stumbling in now and again.\n\nBut there was something in the practiced way she held her hands at her chest, and how perfect her hair had been done, and even this peignoir set and that perfect bow that gave me to think she might very well be one of the women my mother washed clothes for from over on Bennett Street all those years ago. Back when our yard had been filled with lines of clean clothes like midday ghosts in the breezes off the harbor.\n\nThen it came to me: all those Old Village women who'd paid my momma were dead, just like my momma was. If anything this woman might be a daughter of one of those families, maybe even someone I knew. A classmate two rows over from me there at Mount Pleasant Academy, a girl I'd always been sure to ignore for the fact my momma'd washed the very clothes she wore.\n\nWhile my Eli sat behind me, jabbed my shoulder with a pencil now and again just to hear the laugh his pals gave when I jumped.\n\nHere was my Eli, and here was me. Still just that girl sitting at the desk in front of him three years running.\n\nStill ignoring the girl two rows over. Still acting like she wasn't alive, for the embarrassment that came upon me with how clean her clothes were, how white and crisp a blouse. Even if, right here and now, the distance between her and myself was so small.\n\nI was after staying hidden, I knew, inside my desire to run from _me,_ and from the gift I'd had all my life and hadn't had at all. The gift of my husband's forgiveness so deep it made no mention of my sin.\n\nMy song was one of nothing more than burden, my story nothing more than fear.\n\nBut they were mine.\n\nWe started in on the last song, yet again \"We Wish You a Merry Christmas,\" the children already edging away from the foot of the bed, the parents looking toward the door and smiling one to the other for the good work they were proud to be doing this night.\n\nAnd then the woman looked at me, our eyes meeting and holding a moment.\n\nOur eyes were on each other, and though it seemed a curse in this instant, seemed yet again as empty and full a moment as a mockingbird on a concrete step, I saw in her eyes that she might just in this instant be the one to recognize _me._\n\nShe was a woman I'd already assigned a house on Bennett Street, a classmate of mine wearing clean clothes at the expense of my momma's red hands. But she was looking at me, and smiling that joy out to me, joy borne of a visit by strangers, one of them perhaps she thought she knew.\n\nAnd then she nodded, hope still in her, I saw, that indeed I might be someone she knew come to visit here in a place warmer now than it had ever been, more filled than ever with the smell of the end it surely was. She nodded.\n\nAnd I let my eyes fall from hers, because I was after hiding.\n\nI looked down from her eyes the smallest distance, until I came to her hands, still clasped at her chest in the same practiced measure of joy as when we'd first started singing. Here were her hands, pale white and thin.\n\nAs thin as mine. As bone thin and spotted as they'd been when I opened my eyes to see my pale hand sharp against the shoulder of Ruth's black dress that first morning after, the skin on my hands and this woman's both as thin as the frost on the rooftops outside Ruth and Mahlon's window.\n\nBut in this moment I saw too in my heart and head my momma's hands, saw just then her hands red from washing this girl's clothes and hanging them in the midday breeze earlier this August afternoon.\n\nI saw my momma's red hands holding high a cast-iron skillet above a coffee can on the stove, my momma straining to pour off hot grease, the thin stream of it into the can still and forever like brown molten glass on this August evening. Here were my momma's hands again, the red of them, her wrists beginning to quiver for the weight of the cast-iron skillet.\n\n_No sir,_ I heard from the front room, then _Yessir._\n\nMy Eli, and my daddy.\n\nAnd here were my own hands\u2014the hands of a young girl, me\u2014 taking up the skillet from my momma, and me settling it there on the stovetop, and then me _\u2014me\u2014_ taking up my momma in my own arms, my hands gentle on her shoulders and holding tight this first evening I was no longer a child.\n\nHere too were my momma's hands on my own shoulders, holding on even tighter than I was to her, but letting me go all the same.\n\nShe was letting me go in holding me this tight this August night, when I would begin my life with Eli.\n\nAnd now, now, the woman laid out under blankets two rooms back, the woman whose lips moved just the smallest way, her eyelids fluttering like whispered words themselves, was my own momma.\n\nAnd now here were ghosts cluttered around me, invisible but evidenced by the way they brought to me my life, and my loss, same as you couldn't see the wind that moved those sheets in our yard, but knew there was wind all the same. Here they all were, in just this moment of a woman's eyes meeting mine, in a nod of acquaintance, and in my eyes falling from hers in cowardice, and in shame.\n\nGhosts:my momma, and my daddy. My brother Mahlon, his movie-star mustache and threat of a palmetto bug to my bed, and now here were the ghosts of the girls, though they were not dead, but lost all the same for the fact of my making us move here and away from them, in my will to do this a kind of death all the same: here was Carolyn, and Phyllis, and Hilda.\n\nAnd here was Mary Margaret.\n\nAnd here, I could see and not see, touch and not touch, was my Mahlon, and my Eli.\n\nHere too, though nothing more than a breath in this wind of lost lives, nothing more than a moment of air, was a boy in a fireman's arms eighteen years ago.\n\nHere was Beau's Ollie.\n\nAnd I wanted to ask all of them, any of them, wanted to shout to them and whisper or simply speak with my heart so broken I could barely breathe, How is it that the human heart can live through all it has visited upon it?\n\nHow is it any of us end up here, at the tail end of this life, without being crushed one way and another by the sheer weight of the histories we all of us have lived out, and how is it the human heart can endure in the face of the truth history does not end until the last breath we give out? How is it that joy and sorrow, like twin stars, never touch each other, and never disappear from the same night sky of our souls?\n\nHow is it, I wanted to ask and could not ask, that the human heart endures?\n\nBut who could I ask? And who could answer?\n\nThen we were finished in this room, suddenly with me husbands and wives and children all alive, all alive, while sweeping beside and around and through me were still these ghosts, and now we were leaving the woman whose eyes I could not meet, my classmate and my stranger, the all of us suddenly back out into an empty hall that carried in that emptiness as much of an answer to what I wanted to know as any of these strangers I traveled with, the all of us too burdened with our own histories ever to find an answer. We were moving, moving, room to room to room, so that we might visit people my age whose hearts had not yet surrendered to the crushing weight of sorrow.\n\n\"Just a few more now,\" the doctor said, \"then we'll be finished. Come on now,\" he said, smiling and nodding outside yet another door, gesturing us all in with his free hand, while still those glasses rode low on his nose, and while still his shirt pocket bulged with index cards, on each of those cards a history, an impending loss, a probable death. All carried in a shirt pocket, while still he smiled.\n\n\"This is Mr. Gervais,\" he said, herding in the kids first, the rest of us after, me of course and always last. \"Mr. Gervais, and his boy Andrew,\" he said.\n\nGhosts surrounded me. They circled me, bounded me, clustered about me as slowly we moved into this next room, and now we were here.\n\nAnd then suddenly, wholly, all of my ghosts were gone.\n\nHere in the room lay a man in bed, the bed cranked up so that his head lay back against the pillow. Beside him sat another man, his son.\n\nThey were holding hands.\n\nThe father's mouth was open, his eyes taking us all in. He was no older than any of the others. No older than me. He had white hair and skin the yellow and gray of the first woman we'd seen. He wore a blue cardigan sweater, his blanket up to his chest. His son sat in a chair beside him, had on jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, had brown hair and eyes. No older than my own Mahlon.\n\nFather, and son.\n\nThe son made to stand at our moving in, still with his father's hand in his, but the doctor said from behind me, \"No, Andrew, no, you stay put.\"\n\nThe son was looking at the doctor, behind me here in the doorway for having herded us all in, and then his eyes met mine, same as the woman in the room we'd just left.\n\nI was a part of this other group, these other people who seemed somehow happy.\n\nHe counted me among these people, I saw, and then the father looked at me and smiled, though his head did not move for what I knew now had to be a stroke. Just that smile, and the work of it, the effort and misery. But the joy, too.\n\nThe joy.\n\nHe smiled at me, gave to me in just that smile what he could.\n\nA smile, given to me.\n\nAnd already, even before the next carol had begun, my chest seemed to rock in me, and my eyes clouded over, and the pinch in my heart of my life without my husband and son became a vise cinching down on me for what I knew must be the very last time, the very last time. I knew this, knew it as fully as I'd known the light down here would never be what it had been when I was a girl, and now I felt the fact of my feet moving me backward, my hands in my coat pockets pushed deep as they could ever reach, Mary Margaret's letter like broken glass in my hand _\u2014Lonny Thompson passed away,_ I could feel cut into my fingers, _Lonny Thompson passed away\u2014_ all of it, all of it, swirling and circling into me with these two men I did not know but knew all the same looking at me, and smiling, one nearly dead and the other only a moment of black ice away from his own.\n\nFather, and son.\n\nHusband, and husband.\n\nI felt all this, and knew suddenly and deeply and fully what it meant to be alive, because I seemed in this small moment so very far from it: to be alive was to be the one in bed and to have lived your life so that there would be someone beside you, someone there to hold your hand no matter the quiver, no matter the cold of it or the dead white skin and frail bones hiding underneath that skin. No matter the cluster of ghosts you carried with you every breath you took in.\n\nAnd to be alive was to be the one in the seat beside the bed, too, the one holding that hand.\n\nTo be alive was to live in a way such that you were both of these people: the comforted and the comforting, the loved and the loving, so that finally all you were, all that you had lived your life to become, the sum total of each sunrise and sunset you'd ever managed to witness, was to love.\n\nTo live was to receive love, and to give it away.\n\n_Forgive me, God,_ I believe I whispered, while all this swirled down and into me, and while still it seemed my history would crush me under the weight of my own unwillingness to give love away.\n\nEli had forgiven me.\n\nLonny was dead.\n\nAnd I would be soon.\n\n_Forgive me,_ I whispered.\n\nTo have received the love I had from my Eli, and to have given it away. This was who Naomi was to have been, I saw.\n\n_Eli,_ I whispered, then _Mahlon._\n\nAnd then I felt the ground give way beneath me, this vise breaking me in half, and now the edges of the room began to whirl and pop, here at the center father and son, father and son, until finally it seemed my heart could no longer endure, and I fell away.\nChapter 23\n\nN _aomi?_\n\n_Do you remember the day we met each other?_\n\n_Where is my Eli, and where is my comfort?_\n\n_And where is the husband's arm around the shoulder of his wife as she_ _whispers her son's name?_\n\n_His clothes are rough at first, and cold. He pulls the quilts back over them_ _both, and turns to her beneath them all, and takes her in his arms, and holds_ _her._\n\n_And her skin against his begins to heal, to soften, to gain warmth from the_ _quilts, from his arms, from him. She begins to heal._\n\n_Eli. My husband._\n\n_My love._\n\n_I allow open my hand, clutched tight in my fist what I have pledged to_ _keep close._\n\n_A locket. Gold, and simple. No filigree, no engraved words._\n\n_What will we put on this side?_\n\n_Whoever we find. Whoever it is God gives us to take a picture of._\n\n_And what if there's more than one?_\n\n_What if there's more than one?_\n\n_Then we'll have to get you another one. But keep this one close._\n\n_Keep this close._\n\n_I promise._\n\n_Naomi?_\n\n_Do you remember the day we met?_\n\n_Naomi?_\n\n_I remember a young woman married a little over a year, and moving in just_ _this day to a home in a town she and her husband have been led to by her husband's_ _best friend._\n\n_They will begin the rest of their lives here in this western Massachusetts_ _town, in this quiet valley, in this part of the world she would never have believed_ _she might live in._\n\n_Only a moment before, a heartbeat before, she had been a teenage girl in a_ _light cotton dress, a girl who walked pinestraw littered through woods, a warm_ _and prickly carpet beneath her, a girl born and raised in South Carolina light,_ _in a small town on a deepwater creek that led to a harbor that led to the great_ _green sea._\n\n_But here she is now, with her love, and a new life, in New England._\n\n_I remember, too, her husband had stopped for a while the unloading of_ _boxes from the trailer they had hauled here, and had left her alone in the house_ _to go see the garage he and his best friend had leased to begin their business together._ _She is alone, and emptying boxes, arranging their life just so, just so:_ _they had pieced together the bed first, and here she is putting on the sheets, and_ _in the moment when she lifts the top sheet, snaps it open over the bed to let it_ _fall free and full to the mattress already covered with the bottom sheet, there_ _comes to her a moment of her momma's life: the washing of sheets back home,_ _and hanging them on the lines out to the big backyard, those sheets like midday_ _ghosts in the breeze off the harbor._\n\n_Only a moment, only a moment, and then the sheet falls to the bed, and_ _she smiles at her own life set up now, and the adventure this all seems it will_ _be: life. Hers, her husband's. Their life._\n\n_Theirs._\n\n_She moves to the foot of the bed, edges between boxes of clothes and towels_ _and shoes to reach down, tuck in the corners, making ready for when she_ _and her husband will climb into this bed together in their new world, and start_ _their life. She tucks in both corners, then makes her way to the box set atop the_ _dresser, and she reaches in, brings from within it the quilt her momma made_ _for them both. A Wedding Ring, bright piecemeal shards of color sewn into_ _rings against a white background, and I remember how she turns with the quilt_ _in her arms, and lays it out on the bed, and with all the care she can give, with_ _all the attention and grace she can give, as though this were a prayer in itself,_ _she unfolds the quilt, and sets it out on the bed, neat and squared and centered_ _just so, just so._\n\n_I remember she turns from the bedroom then, and moves to go to the_ _kitchen, but she stops there in the doorway out, looks one way and the other,_ _confused just this moment at this new house, and which way to the kitchen,_ _this house a new world all its own, terrain she will have to learn to navigate,_ _after a year in a cramped apartment three hours from here._\n\n_But the kitchen is only just there to her right and through the doorway, and_ _she goes into the room, maneuvers around boxes to the sink for no other reason_ _than to look out the window above it, and to see this new world she lives in._\n\n_She will make lunch in a minute, she thinks, and she looks out the window_ _above the sink, at the small strip of yard between her house and the one_ _next door, the grass still green this far into fall, leaves off the trees already so_ _that she can see the pale blue clapboard of the house next door. She can see too_ _the last remnants of daffodils clustered beneath the bay window across from_ _her, the plants only brown mops flat to the ground._\n\n_She can imagine them in spring, as she stands at the sink. She can imagine_ _them full and green, their blooms shouting for how bright a yellow they_ _will be._\n\n_And then she sees her, a woman, there at the bay window of the house_ _next door, looking out at her._\n\n_Looking at Naomi._\n\n_She has black hair, and wears glasses in a thin metal frame. She has on a_ _blue-checked collared dress, and holds back with one hand a curtain edge._\n\n_Then she seems to smile, though there is something brittle to that smile,_ _and in the way she lifts a hand just barely, and seems to wave at Naomi._\n\n_Naomi waves back, too quick, she knows even as she lifts her hand, and_ _the woman's smile through the window across from her seems to gain somehow,_ _but then she lets fall the curtain edge from which she'd peered, and the woman_ _is gone._\n\n_Just like that. As though it were a dream, but not._\n\n_And I remember Naomi knows something just then. She knows something_ _of this woman's heart, knows there is something broken inside her, and she_ _knows that this woman, her new neighbor, will not come to visit. It is as if a_ _pact has already been sealed between them, with the fact of the woman's smile,_ _and the fact of her hand raised in only the smallest way: she will not come to_ _Naomi's house, as people in a neighborhood do._\n\n_She has seen the woman's face, her eyes, and the brittle there. She knows._\n\n_And sets about doing what she will to make a friend of this woman next_ _door. A woman, she'd seen, no older than herself. Most likely a young bride_ _just like Naomi is a bride, and already she has the oven on, and finds in the_ _box set atop the kitchen table the canister of flour, and the tin of baking powder,_ _the can of lard. She finds in another box, this one on the counter beneath_ _the cupboards, her mixing bowl, in the box beside it her tea towels._\n\n_When they arrived this morning, they had found the icebox already stocked_ _by her husband's best friend, inside it the buttermilk he knew they used for_ _just what she was setting about to do, and eggs as well, bacon and cheddar_ _cheese and butter and even four bottles of Coca-Cola, two bottles of Rolling_ _Rock. There'd been no note on the door of the icebox, but they had both_ _known who had put it all there. They had known._\n\n_He is a good man, her husband's best friend._\n\n_And now he has provided for her what she needs to make for the woman_ _next door, her neighbor. Maybe, her friend._\n\n_She knocks on the kitchen door, at the back of the house, because this is the_ _sort of friend she wants to be: a kitchen door friend, and she waits, waits._\n\n_And then the door opens, slowly, and here she is, the woman with black_ _hair and glasses, that blue-checked dress._\n\n_Here is that smile, the brittle of it._\n\n_And I remember Naomi holding out to her a plate of biscuits, still hot, the_ _plate covered with a blue and white striped tea towel, Naomi's hands beneath_ _it warm for the warmth of the plate in this late fall day, and she thinks she_ _might be able to see her own breath before her in this sun shining down on_ _them both this first day in the new world._\n\n_My hands warm for the warmth of the plate this late fall day._\n\n_My hands._\n\n_\"Come in,\" the woman says, and nods, seems almost to bow away from_ _her, and she is inside, the kitchen warm and snug. A home._\n\n_\"My name's Naomi,\" she says, and turns to the woman pushing closed_ _the door behind her, and here are the woman's hands, reaching up almost hesitantly_ _to take the plate, and she smiles again, says, \"I'm Mary Margaret.\"_ _Mary Margaret sets the plate on the table there in the bay window, motions_ _carefully for Naomi to sit, and then turns from her, opens a cupboard, pulls_ _down two small plates. She gets forks from a drawer, pours coffee for them both_ _from the percolator on the stove, all without word, and all without her eyes_ _meeting Naomi's._\n\n_\"You don't even know what I brought!\" Naomi says and gives a little_ _laugh._\n\n_Mary Margaret stops pouring coffee into the second cup, the pot poised over_ _it. This is when their eyes meet._\n\n_Mary Margaret blinks once, twice, and I remember there is a moment that_\n\n_passes between us just then. There is a moment of time that will cement us together,_ _through these early years of our marriage, when it seems the mystery of_ _how a man and woman can live together and still stay in love might sometimes_ _never be solved; and through the years when our children will swoop in and_ _carry us away with them and these friends we have known all these years may_ _receive from us no more than a passing nod as we drive past each other in cars_ _on our way to other moments; and a moment between us that will sustain us_ _somehow, somehow, through the accumulation of our histories, our sorrows and_ _losses and betrayals and hands holding tight to each another, no matter the_ _pain of how tight we hold on to one another._\n\n_There is a moment that passes between us that becomes friendship._\n\n_Mary Margaret looks at me, my words\u2014You don't even know what I_ _brought!\u2014still hanging in the air like the breath I believed I might could see_ _while I stood outside her kitchen door, waiting for her to ask me in._\n\n_She says, \"You brought you.\" She pauses, draws in a small breath, on it_ _a kind of relief at being able just to speak this way, to show in her words her_ _heart, I can see. I see this, all in a single breath drawn in._\n\n_\"You brought you,\" Mary Margaret says. \"That's all that matters.\"_\n\n_She smiles then, a smile that somehow gives way to what looks a kind of_ _faith in me for simply sitting here, for bringing me here, to her table._\n\n_And there is nothing for me to say, the only words to utter my hands to the_ _plate of biscuits, and pulling away the blue and white striped tea towel._\n\n_Then we sit, and we talk, and Mary Margaret takes a biscuit, breaks off_ _a piece of it, tastes it, all the while on her face a kind of contemplation, and_ _she closes her eyes, smiles even further, even broader, the two of us young brides_ _who have been married only a year or so\u2014our anniversaries are three weeks_ _apart, we've already discovered\u2014and suddenly she stands, goes to a cupboard_ _beside the sink, opens it, and pulls down a bottle of maple syrup, then turns_ _to the cabinet below the counter, opens it, and brings out a small saucepan._\n\n_In a moment she's settled the pan on her stove, opened the bottle of syrup_ _and tipped in a little, the stove eye clicked on._\n\n_She looks back at me, says, \"There's nothing wrong with your biscuits._ _They're perfect. But this is just the thing. This is just the ticket,\" and already_ _the syrup is warmed, and she brings the saucepan right to the table, drizzles_ _warm syrup on the biscuit centered there on my plate._\n\n_And I take my fork, slice through and pick up a piece, and taste it._\n\n_It's beautiful._\n\n_She stands before me, the saucepan still in hand, her other hand to her_ _throat and just touching, waiting for me._\n\n_Waiting for Naomi, a friend already._\n\n_\"Just the ticket,\" I say, and I smile, and Mary Margaret smiles._\n\n_A smile is a remarkable thing._\n\n_And Mahlon drizzles warm syrup over his biscuits every morning because of_ _Mary Margaret, our windows black in winter, gray and lavender in summer, with_ _us the smell of coffee and biscuits, and plans for the day, talk of deliveries and rec-league_ _softball games and the crafts fair over to the commons in Amherst._\n\n_Mary Margaret there with us every moment, for the gift of maple syrup,_ _and here too my momma with the gift of biscuits, here as well my brother_ _Mahlon with the gift of his name, and with us as well Eli with the gift of the_ _notion to name our son after my brother._\n\n_Everyone, everywhere, all of them a gift, our lives from one end to the_ _other, inside a world that never changed and a world shot through with it\u2014_ _ever and always a gift._\n\n_Naomi?_\n\n_Do you remember the day we met each other? I remember it, and hope the_ _memory of it brings good thoughts to your heart. It does to mine._\n\n_I remember this, remember it clear as sunlight down through pine, sunlight_ _scattered like diamonds at my feet._\n\n_I remember._\n\n_How does the heart endure?_\n\n_How?_\n\n_It endures, because it is not alone. Because God is with us, the heart is_ _never alone._\n\n_Naomi?_\n\n_* * *_\n\nHERE WERE faces above me, faces I knew.\n\nI knew them all.\n\n\"Naomi?\" I heard again, and here was a face closer to me, closer, and I knew this face too, just as I knew all these faces clustered and hovering over me.\n\nBut I knew this face better. I knew this one, and I reached a hand from wherever my hand lay and touched his face, and I was smiling at him. Now he was smiling at me, his mustache moving with that smile, and his brown eyes moving, and he blinked, let out a breath. He reached to my face, too, and I felt his fingers, the rough of them, just touch my cheek, just push back a strand of my hair behind my ear.\n\nAnd I took in the scent of burnt wood on him, as anyone could.\n\nAnd I took in the sorrow that was all his own, saw on his eyes the depth of what he knew about loss.\n\n\"Naomi,\" he said, still smiling, and he looked up and away from me to the faces above us, and said, quick and hushed, \"Someone go tell Richard she's awake. Run.\"\n\nI heard footsteps away. Beau looked back to me, said, \"You just hold on, Naomi. We love you. Doctor Brookes'll be back in a second. He went to get a little bit of help. We're going to take good care of you, I promise.\" He nodded, still smiling, and quick looked back up and away, then to me again, nodded again.\n\nAnd now I knew I was in Beau's arms, and that he was kneeling, me cradled in his hold, and I knew in the same instant his words weren't hollow comfort.\n\nThey were true. He loved me. He would take good care of me.\n\nHe was my kin, my family.\n\nI was on the floor in the hall, I saw, above me the acoustic-tile ceiling and fluorescent lights, those faces above me the faces of those I'd sung carols with. Children's faces, and the face of a father who'd tapped his daughter's shoulder, and here were the faces of mothers and other fathers, and now here came the rush of footsteps down the hallway, and the face of the doctor, whose glasses now were pushed up onto his nose, his eyes behind the lenses clear and full of goodwill and care, and he was smiling too.\n\nThen here were more footsteps, and now here, here was the terrified face of my Ruth, my daughter, the three of them\u2014the doctor, Beau, and Ruth\u2014all above me and feeling too close, too close.\n\nBut not too close at all.\n\n\"Naomi,\" Ruth cried, \"oh, Naomi,\" her already kneeling and touching my face, and searching me, searching me. Her forehead was knotted up, her chin trembling with just my name.\n\n\"It's all right,\" I said to her, though it seemed I might not be saying anything at all, my voice something inside someone else's dream.\n\n\"Oh, Naomi,\" she cried again, and now here was Jocelyn above me too, all these faces in close, and I could see behind her and above now as well the faces of her two boys, Zachary and Brian.\n\nZachary and Brian. Two boys.\n\nAnd I knew them, knew the difference between them, now, now.\n\nBrian's hair was a little thinner than his older brother's, the blond of it a little shinier somehow.\n\nZachary had a freckle just below his left eye, the smallest freckle I knew I'd ever seen, but a freckle nonetheless. He was just the smallest bit taller, too, and smiled a little more quickly than his little brother, who sometimes seemed to think a moment, hesitate a breath before letting loose with his own smile.\n\nThey were different, and it seemed in this moment that I'd always known this, always known, but'd never wanted to know. I'd not wanted to bother to see what the difference between these two crazy boys might be.\n\nTwo faces, wholly different, and new, and familiar, all at once.\n\n\"Boys,\" I managed to whisper, and put my hand up to them, or tried at least.\n\nThey smiled at me, leaned in closer among all these faces. They were fearful smiles, full of the strange and frightening fact of what they were seeing: an old woman they knew, perhaps dying, perhaps not. And they were here for it.\n\nBut they were smiling, and I knew them both for the family they were.\n\n\"Oh, Naomi,\" Ruth cried again, still with her hand to my face, and now here was a gurney from out of the blue, me being lifted onto it, while my heart, enduring this as though it were nothing at all, as if it were only a walk in the woods down to a creek on a midsummer afternoon, simply stayed with me, and endured, and endured.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I whispered to Ruth, her eyes on mine and holding on hard. \"You don't worry about me,\" I whispered.\n\nShe didn't smile, her mouth crumpled in on itself and tears falling free from the eyes my son'd seen his future in the first moment he'd said hello. Eyes I'd seen the truth and beauty of when she'd stood on our front porch the evening my Mahlon had brought her home to meet us.\n\nEyes right now, right now, with the same truth and beauty they ever held, and beside her Beau's eyes, the two of them above me and taking me in, taking me in, and I knew already.\n\nI knew already.\n\nThen I was on the gurney, the gurney then raised and clicked into place, while the faces parted, and now those tiles above me, blank as my heart had been all the months since I'd first decided to head home to the light down here, ran away above me, a long line of empty tiles and fluorescent lights and empty tiles giving way and giving way, one blank heartbeat to the next to the next to the next, while faces carried themselves alongside me: the doctor, who smiled at me and looked away and ahead of us, that smile gone until he looked back down at me and smiled again, the tie with those snowmen in a neon snowball fight bouncing with each step he took; and Ruth, her hand to my arm and holding on while she ran beside me, still no smile from her at all for the fear in her, I knew, suddenly and cleanly, that the one she'd come here with, the one she'd given herself to _\u2014Where you go, I will go. Where you_ _live, that's where I'll live too,_ she'd said. _This is a pact between us\u2014_ was leaving her, and she would be left alone here, where the light I'd believed would save me had never shone down on me.\n\nBut I knew she wasn't alone.\n\nThe heart is never alone.\n\n\"Aunt Naomi!\" I heard cried out beside me to my left, and I let my eyes leave the tiles above me, those dead heartbeats of the old life I was leaving behind me with each stride down this hallway, and I saw there, just a little beyond Beau, Jocelyn running too, and in her arms Tess.\n\n\"Aunt Naomi!\" Tess cried out again, and she reached out a hand toward me. She was on Jocelyn's hip, her other arm around her mother's neck, holding tight. She was too big of a girl to be carried this way, and Jocelyn's face, I could see, was red with the effort.\n\nBut they were beside me. They were with me.\n\n\"Tess,\" I whispered, and I smiled at her, tried to lift my hand toward her, though she was too far away to touch, too far away.\n\n\"I'm praying for you right this minute,\" she said, and it was only then I saw she was smiling.\n\nIt was a smile free of fear. She was praying for me, and praying in faith, I saw in that smile.\n\nHere was Tess, my brittle Tess, giving her prayers to the God I'd run from in coming here.\n\nHere was joy, in giving me comfort, and her finding comfort in the giving:Tess, smiling.\n\n\"Me too,\" Jocelyn said, her face still that red, her hair moving as she ran alongside us. \"I'm praying right now,\" she said.\n\n\"And me,\" I heard a boy call from somewhere.\n\nZachary. I knew his voice.\n\n\"Me three,\" Brian called next, and I heard inside and around all this a murmuring of voices, and knew in the same moment there were people all around us as we moved, these carolers come to watch me hurried off to a hospital.\n\nBut they were all in agreement with Tess, I could hear on their voices, their small words offered up to me. They were with Jocelyn, and Brian and Zachary, and with Tess: \"We're praying for you,\" I heard, and heard again, and again, women and men and children alike as we turned left and into another hall, all of us hurrying.\n\nThey were all praying for me, and didn't even know me.\n\n\"You picked the right crowd to have something like this happen in,\" Beau said then, smiling broader now. He glanced down at me, and back up. \"A doctor, a truckload of people praying for you, and all of it across the street from the hospital.\" He glanced down at me again, and let out a small laugh.\n\n\"Don't forget,\" the doctor put in, \"and a fire captain thrown in there.\" He was a little winded for all this running, but he gave out a laugh too.\n\nAnd somehow, somehow, I managed one too, a small and quiet laugh, but a laugh just the same, the feel of it in me almost too foreign to recognize, some language I'd known but forgotten.\n\n\"It seemed convenient,\" I said.\n\nBoth Beau and the doctor let out one more laugh, looked down at me at the same time, both smiling.\n\nRuth was still here above me, still running with us all, and I could see she was trying at a smile, trying at the smallest laugh. But there was nothing coming of it. Still she cried.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I said to her, my eyes locked on hers. I whispered, \"You don't worry about me. This is God getting us through. This is His tender mercies getting us through,\" I said, and smiled. \"He's holding us in His hand,\" I whispered.\n\nHer eyes hung on mine a moment longer, and though it seemed the joy I was trying to give her, the shard of hope that was suddenly in me with the good knowledge of what was to come of all this something I wanted to hand her like a Christmas gift she could unwrap and hold close\u2014though none of that seemed to find its way into her eyes on mine, still I hoped, and felt joy.\n\nHere was joy, because I'd been forgiven.\n\n\"Naomi,\" she said, her voice a whisper of fear and loss and sorrow about to be. \"Naomi,\" she whispered, \"what can I do?\"\n\nAnd I whispered to her a gift I'd been given myself so many years ago, words a treasure I'd been given so many years ago:\n\n\"You brought you,\" I whispered, and smiled. \"That's all that matters.\" She looked at me, puzzlement to her face for a moment at this old woman's words, at the strange ramble I figured she was hearing out of me on a gurney in a nursing home.\n\nBut then there came into her eyes a kind of recognition, as though she knew what I meant, and as though perhaps her own words had come back to her _\u2014Where you go, I will go. This is a pact between us\u2014_ and I believed I could see inside her eyes a smile all her own, and meant for me.\n\nThen her eyes broke from mine. She was looking ahead of us, and now she peeled away from me for the fact we were bumping through a doorway, the ceiling above me giving way to a porch roof, the air out here suddenly cold and drenched in orange lights flashing all around.\n\nBut even inside all this, all this, I could see stars above me once we were out from beneath that porch, stars washed out and thin for all the light, and washed out too for the noise now of people hollering one thing and another about me and my pulse and blood pressure and more and more and more.\n\nHere were stars, the faintest splinters of light that came up every night I'd ever been alive, a fact that only just this second seemed a loss for how little I ever looked at them.\n\nSame as the night I'd looked up at them, when the news of my brother Mahlon's passing came to us in a yellow piece of paper on that roofless porch, those concrete steps. Here were stars, fixed and shining, each in the same place I'd ever seen them, me nothing beneath them for the fact I never looked at them, took them and their placement up there as much for granted as the next breath I'd take in.\n\nTaken as much for granted as the love of a daughter-in-law who still had so much life before her.\n\nThey were stars, never moving, fixed up there joy and sorrow both, and both beautiful and certain, fixed as ever they would be.\n\nStars, beautiful and certain.\nChapter 24\n\nF _ibrillation,_ Doctor Brookes called it once he'd gotten me settled into my room. Not a heart attack exactly, but an irregular heartbeat. Enough out of sync with itself to make me black out a minute, but even from that first word from him on what'd happened to me, it all seemed too much fuss.\n\nHe was leaning against the bed easy as you please, though his smile was gone, him serious and measured. It'd been a good hour or two since we'd busted in to the emergency room, where they hooked me up to an IV and a heart monitor, then set about to fussing and fussing over me. Then we'd gone into another room to take an EKG, and to another room where we'd simply stayed put, waiting for my room. I'd been tired through it all, but more than that: my breathing was short, and my chest seemed heavier, my heartbeat strange and foolish and stubborn in the odd way it beat inside. Through it all, too, here had been Ruth holding my hand, Beau alongside as well.\n\nThen we'd made our way here, to a room with a window perhaps I'd looked at from the nursing home parking lot across the street earlier this evening, before the all of everything changed.\n\nBecause it had all changed. Everything.\n\nThe doctor had on a lab coat, his glasses back low on his nose. He'd finally loosened that tie, and shook his head slowly as he told me about the blood thinners I'd have to be on from now on, the beta blockers and the Coumadin I'd have to take. He told me of the ambulance ride we'd need to make over the bridges and on into the heart center at Roper Hospital downtown in a day or two. I'd be here at least five days, he'd already decided. I'd just have to stay put, to relax and get used to the relaxing.\n\nFive days. I'd be home on Christmas Eve.\n\nBeau and Ruth stood at the foot of the bed while the doctor kept on about how fortunate we were to have the episode happen where it had, though I'd only joked about the convenience of it when they'd wheeled me through the nursing home and out into the night beneath those stars. But he was serious about everything he told me. I heard it in the way he'd said that word _episode,_ on him when he'd spoken it no sense of the stuffiness of that word, the stiff sound of it out the mouth of a man I'd watched only a while ago holler about who was what number and where to get the Xeroxes.\n\nWhat'd happened was serious, I could tell. And still it all seemed too much of a fuss.\n\n\"I'm just sorry to have to be one more index card for your shirt pocket,\" I said to him, and shook my head. I reached up even through the tired of all I'd been through that night, and touched at his shirt pocket. \"Hope my card's not the straw that broke the camel's shirt pocket,\" I said.\n\nHe reached to my hand, shook his head at me, smiled. He said, \"We're going to take care of you, Miss Naomi.\"\n\n\"But I'm fine,\" I said. Because I was, and I would be.\n\nThat was when Gordon and Melba and Ellen and Robert and even Emily all broke into the room in a careful rush, crowding in and touching at me and looking fearful and thankful and puzzled all at once. Doctor Brookes quick moved from the bed, took a step away, sizing up this new commotion.\n\nTheir faces were all to me, mouths open, tears welled up. Gordon leaned in close, had on yet one more pair of those green coveralls, this one long-sleeved for the fact of winter, the few wisps of hair on his head still wild as ever.\n\nBut here was fear on his face as he leaned in, touched at my temple. \"You'll be fine,\" he said, and I whispered back, \"Don't I know it.\" Gordon smiled full then, shook his head.\n\nMelba'd already given in to crying, and took her turn, touched at my face, whispered, \"You're in good hands.\" I nodded, wondered for a moment if she knew this doctor even though they lived all the way up to Georgetown.\n\nThen I saw in her eyes what she'd meant, saw in the way she made her eyes hang on mine even full of her tears: it was God's hands she was talking about. She'd been praying for me, too, I knew. They all had.\n\n\"Don't I know it,\" I whispered to her as well, and put my hand up to her face. I cupped her cheek in my hand, held it there a moment.\n\nDoctor Brookes said in a loud whisper, \"Now she's got to rest, y'all. You can set up with her just a few more minutes, but then we have to move you on out. She's going to need her sleep.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Ellen said almost in a whisper, and I saw her smiling at me down at the foot of the bed, her hands together in front of her, her curly perm curly as ever. Robert stood just behind her, his hands on her shoulders and him trying to smile. He had on his white dress shirt and tie, straight from work at the Piggly Wiggly.\n\nNext to Ellen stood Emily in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, her hair just pulled back for how quick they must have left the house. Her eyes were red, too, and it gave me pause to think on that, a teenage girl crying over her daddy's step aunt, and I wondered what I might have done in the last year or so to deserve such attention, and came up with nothing. She was simply and always a confidante of Ruth's, the two of them every time they saw each other quiet and talking, and letting out a laugh now and again.\n\nAnd I knew, too, that that boy Fatback was long gone, something Ellen'd whispered to me at Thanksgiving was due to no one other than Ruth, and words she'd given to Emily that Ellen'd never been able to pull from her.\n\nOf course Emily stood next to Ruth, Ruth already with an arm around her, the two of them facing me. Next to Ruth stood Beau, next to him Gordon, who'd come all the way around the bed to talk to the doctor. Gordon's arms were crossed, and he was looking over the doctor, grilling him in his way about what all was being done for me, and if they could bring me on up to Georgetown to the hospital there so's I could be closer to home.\n\nAnd now here in the doorway was Jocelyn, Tess's hand holding tight to Jocelyn's left hand, Ashley holding tight to her right, and Brian and Zachary just behind her.\n\n\"Can we come in?\" Jocelyn said, smiling hard for the duty she'd drawn in everyone being here with me: she was the baby-sitter.\n\nThen Tess stepped into the room, her eyes right on mine. She was smiling just as free and clear as she had when she'd called out her prayer to me in the hallway of the nursing home.\n\nJocelyn had no choice but to follow, still holding Tess's hand. Jocelyn's circus-red sweater and all those bells knitted into the puppies' collars started in to jingling in the smallest, thinnest way as Tess led her in, and then here was Ashley, her without a tiara for the first time I'd ever seen. She had on a green and red striped sweatshirt and sweatpants, what looked like house slippers, her hair mussed from sleep on the way here.\n\nThen came in my two boys, Brian and Zachary, their mouths thin lines, all seriousness and, for what seemed the first time ever, quiet.\n\nThey had on their Santa hats.\n\nAnd room was made, room was made: everyone gave way for someone to stand in close beside them, until clustered here was the all of my family, sudden and perfect, and here with me.\n\nStars in a night sky, I thought. Fixed and certain, a bank of them spread around me, from Gordon right down to the youngest, Tess, here to my left in her green blouse, the little Christmas puppy's bright red ribbon and little brass bell on the left breast just peeking over the edge of the bed. She was in closest of them all, had snuck up under her grandma Melba's arm, her hand on the pillow beside my head, just touching my shoulder, just touching.\n\nAnd Beau here, for the first time together with us all.\n\nAnd Ruth.\n\nStars around me, I knew, and I knew suddenly, perfectly, that the light down here, the warmth of it down through pines and scattered at my feet, hadn't been the light I'd needed, no matter the way I'd believed it was.\n\nNo. Here was the light I'd needed: that of family, stars settled around me on a night when I'd been ushered by prayers to safety.\n\nFamily.\n\n\" _Did\u2014you\u2014get\u2014it?_ \" Tess whispered, with each word a soft tap to my shoulder. She was smiling full, her eyes right on mine, touching at a secret between us, though I had no idea about what.\n\n\"Tess, now,\" Jocelyn said, \"we don't need to be bothering Aunt Naomi over that. We don't need\u2014\"\n\n\"Get what, sweetheart?\" I said, and remembered soon as I said it Tess pulling at my hand there in the front room of the nursing home, me shutting her down with my words, me too worried over how this Beau had wounded my Ruth.\n\n\"What I mailed you?\" Tess said, still in a whisper. She leaned in even closer now, tapped at my shoulder yet again, and left her hand there.\n\nI reached to her with my free hand, let it settle on hers, and I smiled. \"I'm sorry,\" I whispered to her. \"I'm sorry for being snippy with you tonight,\" I said, and now it was my own eyes tearing up in all this. \"But honey,\" I whispered, \"I don't know what\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Ruth let out from down at the foot of the bed, then again, \"Oh,\" and we all of us looked at her, saw her eyebrows up, her mouth open in surprise. Even Emily blinked at her, leaned a little away from her for the surprise of the word out of her.\n\nShe turned, this firmament broken of a sudden, and went to the corner of the room, lifted from there what looked like a white garbage sack. She set it on the chair down there, reached in, everyone turned and watching her, waiting for whatever this was about.\n\nRuth looked at us over her shoulder, a nervous sort of smile on her face for all this attention, then turned back to the bag, pulled from it my coat, the one I'd worn all night so far. The same one I'd had on at that bench at the Harris Teeter right on through to waking up on the floor of the nursing home, to find my world changed for the memory of Mary Margaret's words the first time we met.\n\n_You brought you._\n\nRuth lay the jacket over one arm, reached down into the pocket, and pulled from it the letter.\n\nThe lavender sheets were crumpled for how tight I'd clutched them, and the news of my being the only one left in this world to know the depth of my husband's love for me. She held them out, folded on one another, battered and creased at my own hands for the indictment of my heart they genuinely were.\n\nEveryone's eyes were on her, and what she held in her hand, and though for a moment I thought perhaps there would come at me shame, that the discovery of the letter would let everyone here know of my sin, nothing came.\n\nHere was peace.\n\nLonny had passed away. A memory had been bestowed upon me. I'd accepted the gift of forgiveness.\n\nRuth still had on that nervous smile, said, \"You were holding on to these when you blacked out. They were in your hand.\" She lifted my coat from her arm, set it on the chair beside her.\n\nAt first I thought she meant the separate sheets when she'd said _they,_ but then she carefully separated the sheets, picked them open ever so gently, and there inside those lavender pages, like a secret inside a secret, was an envelope, folded over on itself, crushed inside the pages from my holding too tight to the gift of forgiveness.\n\nRuth separated out Mary Margaret's letter, turned to my coat, and slipped the pages back inside the pocket, in her other hand now only the envelope. She looked to me while she'd done it, on her face a different kind of puzzle, and I knew already that somehow, somewhere along the long trip this night had become, us moving room to room to room, that she'd read the letter.\n\nShe'd read the letter, I could see on her eyes, and I knew right then, right then that I would have to tell her.\n\nShe made her way toward the bed, Doctor Brookes stepping aside for her. Gordon and Beau made room for her at the edge of the bed to my right, and now I remembered, as though it were itself a memory from another life, a moment out of someone else's life, me standing at the counter back at the house earlier this evening, and going through the day's mail, sifting through for whatever might arrive.\n\nI remembered a business-size envelope, the handwritten address on it small and thin and hard to focus on, an envelope I'd slipped into my coat pocket for later when I could try and get a better look at it, or just let Ruth read to me.\n\nThen here had been Mary Margaret's card, and that letter inside it, those two pages falling open and to the kitchen counter slow as snow in a Massachusetts woods. Gone from me any thought on an envelope put away for later.\n\nRuth put out her hand, held it out flat, and with her other hand unfolded the envelope.\n\n\"That's it!\" Tess said from beside me. \"That's it! That's it!\" and she was tapping my shoulder again, her close in to Melba, who was holding on to her the gentlest way, a hand to Tess's hair and tracing through it her fingertips.\n\nTess was smiling, looking at the envelope, and Jocelyn put in, \"You got to calm down now,\" her voice stern and quiet, then Zachary said, \"Settle down,\" Brian dishing out for good measure, \"Leave her alone, Tess.\"\n\n\"It's fine,\" I said to them all. \"I'm fine,\" I said, and reached out my free hand to Ruth, took the envelope from her. But not before I let my eyes meet hers. I smiled up at her, nodded.\n\nI had to tell her my story. I knew it in the fear I still saw there, and the puzzlement.\n\n\"Open it up!\" Tess said, and now it seemed she might be jumping high as a kite if it weren't for Melba's holding her down.\n\nStill I couldn't make out the address, the words just as small and thin. I looked at Tess, said, \"Is this for me?\"\n\n\"Of _course_ it's for you,\" she said right back. \"That's my penmanship,\" she said, and Melba gave out a little laugh, Gordon too.\n\n\"I'm afraid I need your help, sweetheart, to open it on up. My arm just isn't helping me much right now,\" I said, and nodded to where my left arm lay with the IV into it, the tape all over down there.\n\nTess quick leaned back, lifted her hands from where she'd leaned on the edge of the bed, as though she'd suddenly been burned. She looked at my arm, then me, then to my arm again.\n\nThe smile was gone, here again the kind of fragile I knew too well, too well. I whispered, \"It's okay, honey. It's okay.\"\n\nBeau said, \"You go on ahead and open it for Aunt Naomi, Turtle.\" Instantly Tess turned her head to Beau, a smile on her face again just that quick too, and she looked around at the all of us at my bed. We were all watching her, and she leaned her head a little to one side for the shyness sudden on her. Melba tickled a little under her chin, and then Tess put out her hand, took from mine the envelope.\n\nI looked up at Beau, saw Ruth was looking at him, a small smile on her face.\n\n\"Turtle?\" Ruth said. Beau shrugged, gave a little shake of the head, him still smiling. \"That one goes way back,\" he said.\n\nTess already had the envelope open, the flap torn off, and here she was pulling out something made of brown construction paper.\n\nShe unfolded it, unfolded it again, let blossom in her hand something I'd nearly ruined in my hands for clinching it so tight. Then Tess leaned onto the bed, and held out to me with both hands her gift.\n\nA brown construction-paper reindeer head, its antlers cutout hand-prints. Tess's hands.\n\nHere was a red nose out of construction paper, too, its eyes black circles drawn with a Magic Marker on the wrinkled and creased paper. And here, written across the bottom in the shape of a smile, was the word _Tess._\n\nI looked at it there in her hands, looked at it. I felt my chin quiver, felt the smile I wanted to give her tremble too, and I moved my eyes to her, reached my free hand to her cheek, touched the soft skin there.\n\nHow could I tell her of all the times I'd seen these hung at Carolyn's house, given her by her grandchildren every winter? And how could I tell her of the Thanksgiving turkeys they made for her as well, and of the autumn leaves pressed between waxed paper and hung like stained glass in her windows?\n\nHow could I tell her of the envy I'd known all those years, when I'd known and known and known there would never be a grandchild for me?\n\nAnd how could I tell her of how deeply I was thankful for her, and thankful for two boys I knew were two boys, and for a girl who knew she was a princess, and for a girl who counted my Ruth among her closest friends?\n\nHow could I tell them all how much I loved them?\n\nI touched her cheek, felt the smooth of her skin, let my smile tremble and tremble.\n\n\"Do you like it?\" she said, her eyebrows up, as though somehow she could believe I might not.\n\nI swallowed, whispered, \"More than you will ever know.\"\n\n\"Then I'll make you fifty of them,\" Brian said right out, and Zachary said, \"I'll make you a hundred,\" and I saw out the corner of my eye, there down near the foot of the bed, two boys in Santa hats, one giving the other a small shove with his shoulder.\n\n\"Now, boys,\" Beau said, just like a good father will say, and Jocelyn said, \"Boys.\"\n\n\"I'll make you a whole reindeer,\" Ashley said, her first words this entire time from down there between Jocelyn and her brothers. She was smiling, then yawned, and I nodded at her, said, \"That would be fine, too.\"\n\n\"I'll make you one,\" Emily said, and I looked at her, me and everyone else, all our eyes suddenly on her.\n\n\"Not a whole reindeer,\" she said, and blinked at the sudden attention here. \"Just the head,\" she said, her arms crossed, hip out in the teenage way she always did.\n\nBut I could see on her face she was serious in this. That there would be a gift coming from her out of all this as well.\n\nAll these gifts, and me here to receive them.\n\nThere was joy in giving comfort, something they all already knew.\n\nI already knew how I could share the gift I'd gotten, that gift too good to keep. A gift of love so good and kind I could only do honor to by giving it away.\n\nHere was home.\n\nLATER, MUCH LATER, I woke up to voices, though in my sleep they hadn't been voices at all, but songs coming to me, as though across water, a great green sea; songs come to me from far away, no words to them at all. Only voices giving song.\n\nThey were songs I knew by heart, though they weren't songs of sorrow. They were songs of joy, of company, of friendship.\n\nThat was what I heard as I came up out of my sleep.\n\nI opened my eyes to the hospital room. Morning light fell into the room through the window on my left. Though the blinds there were pulled, still sunlight made its sweet way between the slats, so that lines of shadow and light there across the blankets held me together, bound me up in their warmth.\n\nBeneath the window lay a cot, sheets and blanket undone, Ruth's purse sitting on the pillow.\n\nI let my eyes go to the song that'd brought me from sleep. There, past the foot of my bed, sat the two of them in chairs pushed up against the wall, Beau in the left one, Ruth in the right.\n\nI lay there, careful not to move nor draw attention to myself waking up, because they were talking. And because I wanted to listen.\n\nBeau was half-turned to Ruth, his face a profile against the dull yellow of the walls in here. He still had on his gray turtleneck and green sweater, his eyes thick and heavy, his face in need of a shave. He'd spent the night here, out in a waiting room, I knew, and now I could not recall when the rest of the family had left, couldn't recall any rounding up that'd been done by Doctor Brookes so's I could get some rest.\n\nI'd only fallen asleep, and now I was awake, and listening.\n\nHe was talking to Ruth, his hands laced together in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, but with his eyes straight on Ruth. His voice stayed low and quiet, his words trailing together to give to me that song I'd heard in my sleep, and still no words came to me. Still it was only a kind of song, words carried one to the next in a peaceful string for how quiet he was speaking. A song I was happy to hear.\n\nRuth sat facing me, her arms crossed, her chin down. She was looking at the floor, maybe even had her eyes closed, and I could see, too, she was biting down hard on her lower lip, and now her chin touched her chest for how low she let it fall. She had on that same sweater from last night, the cream pullover cable-knit with a trim of poinsettias at the cuffs. But of course her hair was flattened out on one side, her makeup, the little of it she wore, gone.\n\nShe shook her head, and I thought I could see her smiling.\n\n\"It's true,\" Beau said, the first words I could make out. Still I didn't move, only watched the two of them.\n\nBecause I already knew.\n\nBeau made to reach over to Ruth then, his hand slow out in the air between them. He held it there, held it, still with Ruth's eyes closed so that she could not know how he held it out there, ready to touch her arm, her shoulder. Ready to touch her.\n\nBut he brought it back, let it settle to his chair arm. He turned, and now he looked down, as if he'd been afraid to touch her.\n\nAnd now I saw it wasn't a smile on her face, but her about to cry. She took in one quick, silver breath, on it the edge of tears, and then she stood, arms still crossed, and started carefully, quickly for the door.\n\nBut not before she paused there at the foot of the bed, and looked at me, checking on me.\n\nI let my eyes close just soon enough, heard her take in another breath, this one even closer to the edge of sorrow she knew so well, so well, and then I heard her footsteps out into the hall, and away.\n\nThen here came a sigh from Beau, deep and full and on its own edge of something. I opened my eyes again, saw he'd turned in his seat, had both feet on the ground now. He was leaned forward, elbows to his knees, his hands still laced together in front of him.\n\nThen he bowed his head, took in a deep breath, let one more out.\nChapter 25\n\nI SAW ON the clock the numbers 3:17, bright red and full of some kind of promise, even in the dark of my bedroom, even in the dark of all that'd happened since my son Mahlon had died, and since my Eli had died, and since I had sinned against him and God with what I had done with a good man named Lonny.\n\nI saw in those numbers beside me on the nightstand something full of promise, as though in being forgiven and living in that forgiveness anything I looked at, any moment I let myself see, there was inside it the possibility for joy, for that promise, no matter how laced through and wrapped round with sorrow that moment might be.\n\nThey were only numbers on a clock on my nightstand, bright and red there in the dark. But there was promise.\n\nAnd so I got up, though Doctor Brookes'd told me to stay put. But still I got up, because there seemed promise in this moment, no matter it was the middle of the night, no matter my doctor's orders, and I put on my glasses, then stood beside my bed, lifted from the foot my blue robe and slowly slipped it on, fit my feet into my slippers.\n\n_* * *_\n\nI'D GOTTEN HOME from the hospital near noon, everyone there to help, even Robert, who'd managed the miracle of a couple hours off from the Piggly Wiggly on a Christmas Eve. Here had been the fuss of it all once again, a parade of people on down the hallway of the hospital when all I'd needed was a car ride the couple of miles here to home.\n\nBut they'd all insisted, here with me Ashley leading the way, her tiara back on again and wearing a red felt cape, and Zachary and Brian with those Santa hats, the two of them pushing a wobbly-wheeled metal cart each, both carts choked with flowers of all sorts. There were cheerful arrangements of daisies and carnations, roses here and there, all laced through with little pine branches, the smallest Christmas ornaments, ribbons of green and red and silver and gold. They'd come from some of the families we'd caroled with, and friends from Ruth's work, even from neighbors up and down the street over to Quail Hollow, the Adkins, and the Deals, and the Fortners. Even a potted white hydrangea from Doctor Brookes himself.\n\nAnd a dozen white roses sent from Phyllis, and Carolyn, and Hilda, and Mary Margaret.\n\nI'd talked to Mary Margaret on the phone three times already, promised her soon as I was able that I'd visit her there in Northampton, and visit the girls, and visit Tommy too, who, she'd informed me when I talked to her just this afternoon once I'd gotten settled in, had taken a turn for the better.\n\n\"He wished me a Merry Christmas when I walked in his room this morning,\" she'd said, and I'd heard the smile on her.\n\nAnd I would visit Mahlon and Eli, and Lonny as well. There were flowers I needed to give him, I knew, and time I needed to spend at my husband's and son's side, there in a cemetery with stone walls past which had been the leafless trees of my own betrayal.\n\nBut which now, I knew, I'd see as only the trees they were, green all summer long, that stone fence I'd built between me and my sin only a veil torn with my forgiveness.\n\nThere was time I needed to spend with them, and I would. And time, too, to spend with Mary Margaret.\n\nWe'd all moved down the hospital halls, Gordon behind me and pushing the wheelchair, Ellen holding the three Mylar balloons\u2014red, green, and white\u2014I'd gotten from the Creative Memories woman, Emily and Ruth already out to the parking lot and bringing up the car. Melba walked beside me on the left, Tess on the right, both of them holding a hand each, and I breathed in, took up the smell of the flowers on those carts just ahead of us, a perfume that seemed even more fragrant for the family all around me, if even in the midst of too much fuss, everyone here.\n\nEveryone, except for Beau, who was on shift, and would be until the day after Christmas.\n\nBeau, who'd spent more time in my room than anyone else, save for Ruth herself.\n\nBeau, who I'd caught talking quietly with Ruth any of a dozen times since that first morning.\n\nBeau, my kinsman.\n\nThey'd all stayed here at the house only a few minutes before heading back to their Christmas Eve errands and whatnot, though they all wanted to stay. But the good doctor'd ordered quiet for me for the rest of the day, and Ruth'd finally herded them all out. They would be here tomorrow, Christmas dinner at our house for the fact Doctor Brookes didn't want me traveling at all. We'd see them soon enough, and then they were all gone, left to the rest of their Christmas Eve.\n\nAnd perhaps that was what, finally, I'd seen in those red numbers beside me: we were here, to Christmas Day, a day of promise beyond promise. Three hours already in.\n\nI moved for the door then. I had on my robe, and my slippers, my hair still in a net. I hadn't had it done since we'd moved down here, only had it cut now and again. I washed and set it myself now, and not even that since I'd been in the hospital. But this afternoon, once everyone was gone, Ruth had washed it for me in the kitchen sink, her hands gentle and careful and full of the love she had in her to give, and I'd wondered while she'd taken care of me when I might be able to tell her what I needed to tell her.\n\nAnd when I might be able to give her what I needed to give.\n\nBut there had been to her hands in my hair a kind of distance, a solitude she'd surrendered to, proof of it no more than the feel of her fingers in my hair, and the quiet she held within her while she shampooed, and while she slowly and carefully moved the towel about my head.\n\nShe'd said nothing, too, as we put the curlers in, no words either in the drying and combing, and then she'd finished, all of it enough to wear me out a little more than I'd thought it would. She'd brought me on back to bed, left me to rest with my hairnet on, and it came to me yet again that worrying over my hair enough to put it in a net might somehow be a sin, this vanity.\n\nBut I'd left the net on, like I did every time I went to bed, because it was what I'd always done. It was my life. Who I was.\n\nA widow, who lived with her daughter-in-law.\n\nA woman forgiven, and living in that forgiveness.\n\nAnd then, as she'd left me there in my bed, her hand to the knob, I'd said, \"Ruth.\"\n\nShe turned to me, tried yet again and as always she did now to bring up a smile. She raised her eyebrows, said, \"Yes?\"\n\n\"I love you,\" I said. \"I want you to know that.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" she said, and'd come back to the bed, leaned to me, and held me close. \"I love you, too, Naomi,\" she whispered.\n\nThen she stood, and was gone, left to her the rest of her own Christmas Eve.\n\nI TOUCHED the doorknob here in my bedroom, but turned once more to that clock, those bright red numbers filled with promise.\n\n3:18, it read. I smiled, turned the knob in my hand, and felt the same sharp shards of pain I'd felt when a morning what seemed a century ago I'd stood at my Ruth and Mahlon's door, two coffee cups in hand, and the rest of my empty life to live.\n\nBut here was promise, and I turned the knob despite the pain, even smiled a moment for it.\n\nI stepped out into the hall, saw already the pale and thin wash of colored light that made its way from the front room. I looked behind me, saw Ruth's bedroom door standing open at the end of the hall, darkness inside same as my room, and I knew now why there was promise in my waking up to here, and to now.\n\nI moved along the hall, turned left and into the front room.\n\nThe Christmas tree lights were on, color bright and hidden and familiar and joyful all at once, colors that tugged at my heart. My old woman's heart that didn't know enough to let itself beat of its own accord, that didn't know enough of God's mercies to let itself seek the rhythm it had to observe. A rhythm that same God I'd believed had abandoned me had given it with my own first breath in, my history begun so many years ago.\n\nIt was a tug at my heart for all those who weren't here with me, but who I still loved and always would.\n\nHere were only lights on a Christmas tree, nothing special at all or out of the ordinary, no more important in and of themselves than bright red numbers on an alarm clock early of a Christmas morning. Only lights, but they were here, where I knew now was my home.\n\nHere too were those flowers, everywhere around: on the TV to my left, on the coffee table in front of the sofa to my right, spread out on the pass-through into the kitchen. Flowers, and flowers.\n\nAnd there above this all, tacked to the walls up at the ceiling, along each of the four walls in here, circling the room entirely, were reindeer heads, their antlers handprints, what seemed when I'd walked in the door this afternoon home from the hospital a thousand of them, a surprise I hadn't been ready for at all, Brian and Zachary in their Santa hats snickering behind me even before Gordon'd opened the front door.\n\nReindeer heads, all tacked up and hanging from the walls, each one different, some made to look like pirates with eye-patches over an eye, some with gap-teeth where they'd drawn on a smile, some with cross-eyes or zebra stripes or horn-rim glasses, one even with _x_ 's for eyes and with a tongue sticking out\u2014\"That one was a roadkill we found,\" Zachary said when he'd pointed it out there above the hallway back to the bedrooms, and Jocelyn'd reached out a playful hand and slapped at him, said, \"I told you to throw that one away\"\u2014but all of them gracing this home like the good gift of grace from God you couldn't buy.\n\n\"Those boys is off their nut about a half mile,\" Gordon'd let out like he always did when the boys were with him. And of course Robert'd put in, \"You got that right, Pappy,\" and laughed like he always did.\n\n\"There's mine,\" Ashley'd said, and pointed to the closet door just to the left of the front door, and there had been her own version of what the boys'd done: taped to the door was a full-size silhouette cutout of herself, her feet turned out like she was standing on ground, her arms out to either side. It was all on white paper, but the head yet another of the brown construction-paper heads with those handprint cutouts. \"See?\" Ashley'd said, and hurried to the closet door, Ruth pulling closed the front door behind us. \"It's me,\" she said, and reached up on her tiptoes and pointed at the silver glitter tiara she'd put on it. \"It's glue and glitter,\" she said, and smiled at me.\n\n\"It's beautiful,\" I'd said, and meant it, smiling at her.\n\n\"Mine's an ornament,\" Emily said, and stepped toward the Christmas tree then, pointed out like a girl not any older than her sister to one of the boughs. Settled there on the branch was what looked like a shiny sugar-cookie cutout of a reindeer head, but with all the details painted in: black antlers, black eyes, a red nose. She turned to me, smiling hard and embarrassed for it. She shrugged, said, \"I made them in pottery class at school.\"\n\n\"She glazed and fired both of them,\" Ellen'd said from behind me, and I looked from Emily to the ornament, saw a second one hanging on the next branch over. Two reindeer heads: one for me, and one for Ruth.\n\n\"They're both beautiful as can be,\" I said, and looked at Emily, still with that little-girl smile. I reached out my hands to her, and she came to me, let me hold her a long while, this young woman with a heart big and sure.\n\n\"And there's Tess's,\" Melba'd said, and we'd let go. Melba stood beside me, her arm up and pointing to the first of any of these that'd been made for me, hanging there in the center of the garland of cards above the doorway into the kitchen.\n\nTess's gift, hanging there, simple and true, the word _Tess_ for a smile.\n\nAll of them evidence of the innocence in a child's hand, the magical way the outline of who you are can become something else altogether.\n\nIt hung there still, here in light from only the Christmas tree at a little past three on Christmas morning, and would hang there as long as I lived, if I knew there wouldn't come another one. But there would, I knew already. There would be paper Easter eggs she and the rest of them might bring me to hang up, and Thanksgiving turkeys and perhaps even autumn leaves pressed between waxed paper, if they could turn up any autumn leaves.\n\nBut most important, these children would be here. Here.\n\nI moved out into the room now, felt the joy of a Christmas morning I couldn't have imagined when this story of joy wrapped round in sorrow had begun on a November morning a thousand miles north of here. Joy that'd seemed only a notion, something beyond any reach I could ever muster.\n\nAnd now, here in the middle of this front room of what I knew was ever and always my home, that sun I'd headed for nowhere to be found beneath the stars fixed in the night sky outside, I could see Ruth.\n\nShe was in the kitchen, there at the sink, her back to me, her hands to the edge of the counter, her face to the window above the sink. She hadn't yet gone to bed, I knew: she still had on her jeans, and the blue jersey she'd worn all day long. She had on her slippers, her hair down about her shoulders, all of her given to me only in the light from the tree behind me.\n\nShe'd blushed when she saw him that first night, her cheeks and ears and neck flushed with color, her eyebrows together and troubled, her eyes too wide open, her mouth a little open too.\n\nBut she'd smiled when he'd put out his hand.\n\n_This is my son Mahlon's wife, Ruth,_ I heard from deep inside me.\n\nAnd I heard whispered, this time even quieter, but even more certain, _This is my daughter._\n\nI'd seen Beau as well, seen the blush come over him, seen what I'd thought might be goodness in his eyes, and knew now had certainly been just that: goodness.\n\nI'd seen his hand lifted to touch my crying Ruth the morning after I'd come to the hospital. I'd seen his hand held out to her, willing to comfort, willing to comfort, but holding back for his own fear, his own grief.\n\nHere was the promise of this morning. Here was the way I could do my Eli's gift justice, and love my Mahlon as well. Here was how to give.\n\nI moved to the doorway into the kitchen, above me now the garland of cards, Tess's reindeer head a kind of blessing beneath which I might stand and give comfort.\n\nI stopped, put my hands together in front of me, laced my fingers together to let me hold on, hold on.\n\n\"What did he tell you,\" I said, \"that first morning.\"\n\nShe didn't move, and I knew she'd known I was here, and I smiled for this, too, smiled at the all of the miracle of how I could find love in giving love away.\n\nBut she said nothing, only breathed in deep, let it out slowly.\n\n\" 'It's true,' was all I heard,\" I said.\n\nThat was when she turned to me, and though the light was low, I could see she'd been crying, standing there for as long as she had.\n\n\"I thought you were asleep,\" she said, and crossed her arms. She leaned her head to one side, looking at me, and I smiled, though I knew she could not see my face for the light behind me.\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\nShe let her head fall then, looked at the floor between us, slowly shook her head. \"He said,\" she started, and moved her hands up and down her arms as though she were cold. She took in a breath again. \"He said that I was blessed. He said that I was a blessing to you. And that everyone could see how much a blessing I was to you.\" She paused, breathed out quiet and slow. She looked up at me, her hands still now, but holding on. \"He said I was good.\"\n\n\"You are,\" I said, and though I wanted to move to her, to hold her and give her whatever warmth I might could give, something held me still, here beneath Tess's gift, her comfort in giving comfort.\n\n\"But I'm afraid,\" she whispered, the words slips of air edged with trembling. \"I'm afraid of what I feel,\" she whispered. \"And of forgetting Mahlon.\"\n\nShe stopped then, as though the name of my son and her husband were some kind of miracle itself, a word with enough wonder in it to keep us both from speaking more.\n\n_Mahlon,_ I thought, then, _Eli._\n\nSon and father. Husband and husband.\n\nBlessings to us both.\n\nI wanted to speak then. I wanted to tell her my story, to tell her of Lonny, and the letter I knew she'd read, and of the difference between a mistake and sin, of the distance between myself and God I'd put into place with making us move here.\n\nI wanted to tell her my story. But my story, I saw in only this moment and in the fact of no words in me to speak all this, was forgiveness, my song one of joy, what I'd thought was a black stone caught in my heart only a hand held out to me through all these years.\n\nI was here to be a blessing, having been blessed. Eli's gift to me, I finally saw, had been my own life back to me, forgiven, and whole.\n\nI said, \"Don't be afraid. Because this is God's mercies, too. What you feel is His gift to you. It's His gift.\"\n\nI stopped, still wanting only to hold her, my daughter. But there were still words I had in me, lined up suddenly and fully and a surprise.\n\n\"I want you just to remember,\" I whispered, surprised and surprised at the joy in the words from me. \"Just remember now and again Thursday mornings,\" I whispered, \"and his kiss given to you, the two of you stealing away. Remember that. And remember our mornings together, and the light through the window outside while we talked.\" I paused, took in a breath, felt it catch in my throat the smallest way. \"And I want you to remember how,\" I started, and heard for a moment the next words lined up in me, and how they could seem silly in my speaking them. But I swallowed down that notion of silly, because it was love I was trying to tell her of. Love true and simple between two friends, love that was passed down to her husband, my son.\n\nI whispered, \"I want you to remember how Mahlon loved maple syrup on his biscuits of a morning.\" I paused, slowly shook my head at the wonder of this all. \"Mary Margaret taught me that,\" I said, \"the first day I moved in up to Northampton.\" I stopped, took in a breath of my own. \"Back when we were brides,\" I said.\n\nRuth stood there, and I could hear her crying now, that broken silver sound, and I let that sound fill the air between us, let her tears go, for the right they had to be with us.\n\nThey were tears of joy, I could hear, for the remembrance of the joy of those moments between us. I let her cry.\n\nAnd then, in a moment I could not measure, or anticipate, or figure could ever have come to me for how much I loved my son, I said, \"Remembering Mahlon won't be a betrayal of him, or of Beau.\"\n\nNow here between us was this new name. The name of the next blessing God had for Ruth, and I heard Ruth take in a breath, quick and full.\n\n\"You brought you here with me,\" I whispered, and though I'd feared now would be the moment my own tears might come, that tears might overwhelm me for what I'd known I would have to do from the moment there in Beau's arms in the nursing home, when I'd opened my eyes to see my kinsman, my family, still there were no tears in me.\n\nHere was only joy, warm and solid. Here was comfort, in the comforting of my Ruth.\n\n\"I'm giving you back you,\" I said. \"Because I love you. Because of the blessing you have been to me.\"\n\nShe came to me then, finally, stepped across a kitchen smaller than the one we spent breakfasts in together all those years, but the distance between us wide and uncharted, so that the moment it took for her to reach me seemed suddenly fearful and full of peril.\n\nSuddenly, in the years it took her to reach me across this kitchen, I knew my daughter, my Ruth, and the sorrow she herself had known so deeply her own life long: she'd lost her momma, and then her daddy, and then her husband.\n\nI knew her.\n\nAnd I knew the blessing she would be to Beau, and he to her.\n\nThen she took me up in her arms. \"Know how much I love you,\" she whispered in my ear. \"Know how much,\" she said, and held me, and I held her too, held her, until slowly, slowly she pulled away, and brought her arms from around me.\n\nShe paused a moment before she let me go altogether, and I felt her give the gentlest squeeze to my arms, and then she let go, put her hands together in front of her, all the while her eyes on mine here in the dark of Christmas morning.\n\nShe held her left hand up between us. She'd lost the smile, but on her face no grief I could see. This was Ruth. This was my daughter. This was a woman I knew.\n\nThis was a blessing of God.\n\nAnd then she did as I'd known she would, all of her own and with no word from me, between us the good knowledge that there was no sin in this, no betrayal nor distance nor loss.\n\nThere was only love.\n\nShe placed her right hand over the fingers of her left, gently eased off the wedding band on her ring finger, placed there so many years before by a man we both loved and ever would.\n\nShe placed the ring in my hand, then with her other hand curled my fingers slowly, painlessly over the ring, and now I could see the tears in her eyes, the shimmer of them for the light from the tree behind me. I saw her smiling, and saw tears.\n\nI saw joy.\n\nJoy I knew needed to be given away.\n\n\"You have to go to him,\" I whispered then, the words from me even more a surprise, and I swallowed, saw what had to be done, saw it clear as I'd heard the song of those tree frogs singing tree to tree to tree, telling a story Eli and I both already knew was all about us.\n\nRuth blinked, still holding my hand in both hers. She said, \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean you have to go to him. Be the blessing you already are, and let him be the blessing he's already been to you,\" and I thought yet again of his hand lifted to touch her, waiting, waiting.\n\n\"But\u2014\" she began, and stopped, her mouth open the slightest bit, and seeing, seeing.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. I said, \"This is good. Our being here.\"\n\nIt was what she'd said to me our first night to South Carolina, these the same words she'd spoken to me in the darkness of Robert and Beau's old room. When she'd told me of the death of her momma, and the clothes she'd made for Ruth, and Ruth's own fear she might betray her momma if she didn't wear those clothes. Then one day she'd outgrown them, and'd had to step out into trusting herself to buy the right clothes, without a momma to tell her what worked, and didn't work.\n\nHere she was, on the front steps up to the door at the old house. A beautiful young woman in a gray sweater, a plum muffler, and blue jeans. Her hair pulled back, and Mahlon with no way he would take his eyes off her.\n\nHere in my hand was their love, her wedding ring. Not an end to that love, but a moving through it, I could see, to the next story that would be all her own, the next song she would sing herself.\n\nShe'd loved my son.\n\n\"I\u2014\" she said, and her eyebrows gathered a moment, just a moment, her eyes on mine in this darkness that was not darkness at all, but its own light, its own song and story.\n\nThen she smiled. And now here were her fingertips, just touching my temple, the small bit of hair the hairnet didn't protect.\n\nI leaned my face into her hand, the warmth of it. My daughter's hand.\n\nI said, \"Now. Go to him. Talk to him.\" I paused, brought my hand to hers, held it there against my cheek. \"He's at the station. It will be fine,\" I said, and I knew it would. I knew.\n\nThere was a different kind of sense to this all, I felt and took hold of, all in this vision of what could be: her, to his station, to begin the two of them now, now. To begin it, their own song. It was possible, here on Christmas morning, with the exchanging of gifts bigger than I could have ever hoped. I'd given her back herself in love, and she'd given me her wedding ring in love as well, all of it, all of it part of something bigger than we two and every soul that'd ever been, every being that'd ever loved: all of it part of the God I'd thought had abandoned me, the God whose mercy seemed hollow, and'd left me bitter, and empty.\n\nAnd I could see in her eyes now and feel in her hand on my cheek that she saw the possibility as well. She smiled, whispered, \"Yes,\" and gave a small nod. Her hand paused on my cheek, her thumb to my jaw and moving there gently, gently.\n\n\"Yes,\" she whispered again. \"But only if you go with me.\"\n\n\"This is about you,\" I said, and felt myself give a smile that carried inside it a pinch of sadness, a moment of saying _No._ \"This is about the two of you,\" I said, still with my hand to hers.\n\n\"You are my family,\" she said. \"I told you before. I didn't come here with you because I had nothing else. I came here because I have you.\" She paused again, said, \"If you feel up to it. If you feel like you can do it. I'm not going without you. And Doctor Brookes said\u2014\"\n\n\"You don't need me,\" I said, and slowly shook my head. \"You don't need\u2014\"\n\n\"That's where you're wrong,\" she said, and she lost a piece of her smile.\n\nShe lowered her hand from my cheek, my hand still with hers, and then we were holding hands between us.\n\nAnd I wondered yet again, Who was Naomi?\n\nWho was she to be so blessed as to have a daughter such as this?\n\n\"Your family is my family,\" Ruth whispered, \"just like I told you that night. When I told you I was coming with you. And I came here with you.\" She paused, took in a breath, the matter of her going to a fire station early of a Christmas morning sealed just that easily, and my accompanying her sealed just as well.\n\n\"Then I'll go,\" I said, and I put my arms up to her, drew her in to me, and held her.\n\nWhile I held tight to her wedding ring in my hand, still no pain in my fingers for how tight I held it, and how tight I held on to Ruth.\n\nMy daughter, my blessing.\nChapter 26\n\nI PUT ON a pair of slacks and a blouse, fished off my hairnet, put on a pair of wool socks. Just clothing, something to wear, no picking it out, so that we might get there sooner, to whatever might happen when we found our kinsman. There'd been a quiet rush to it all, too, this gathering together of me to accompany my Ruth to meet Beau, to see him, to begin with him the beginning of whatever path they might share between them, a path made clear in love by Ruth giving back to me her ring.\n\nI still held it in my hand, right where she'd placed it. I'd held it while I slipped out of my robe and nightgown, while I'd put on my clothes, shrugged on my coat.\n\nOf course I was slower now, had taken my time with the all of this. But now the heaviness in my heart had lifted, the breaths I took in full and clear and cool, the beat of my heart nowhere near the odd and out-of-step dance it'd been.\n\nIt was peace in me as I'd dressed, I'd known, all of it in the dark, all of it in my home.\n\nAll of it in this place I'd believed meant something because of the light I'd remembered. But all of it truer now, made more real because, even in the darkness of this night, of this early morning, the world had been made over in love.\n\nThen, once I'd gotten dressed, my coat on and me ready to go, I went to my closet, because there was one further gift had to be bestowed. One last gift on this night of gifts one to another.\n\nI saw it there on the floor of the closet, in the darkness even deeper: a white plastic sack in the corner, precisely where I'd left it when we moved in here, never meaning to open it, never meaning to visit it again for the sorrow and guilt and lack of love I'd let fester in me all these many months we'd been here. When love had been here with me, and joy, and forgiveness. They'd all been here with me, all this while, and now, only now did it seem this gift I myself had gotten from those I loved could be put to good use.\n\nTo be given away, like all good gifts received.\n\nI picked it up from the corner of the closet, held the bundle under my arm as I made my way back out to the front room. The room was even darker now, the tree lights off for our leaving. But I could see Ruth at the front door, her only a soft silhouette against the white door.\n\n\"What if they're gone?\" she said, and I heard on her words the fear in her, the anticipation and worry of what might happen next. \"What if they're out on a call? Or just getting back? Or if one comes in while we're there?\" They were words of worry not over the possibility of what she'd uttered, I knew, but words rushed and fearful of what this morning might hold: the beginning of her own next song.\n\nI thought of Eli, of the two of us walking an oyster-shell road, the evening sky and the growing edge of dark that made the silence between us all the quieter, the small crunch of our steps lonely and pointless, a half-hour walk and whatever talk we could come up with as wide and empty as Charleston Harbor.\n\nBut we'd spoken. We'd begun, that evening.\n\nAnd so I said, \"He prayed for you. The morning when I heard him talking to you. When he told you you were blessed. And if he's not there, or he has to go, then we'll wait.\"\n\nI touched the bundle beneath my arm, said, \"That's why I brought this. A quilt,\" I said, and tapped at it again.\n\nShe was still, there in the darkness, and I could hear her breathe, careful and careful and careful. She said, \"You have a plan, don't you.\"\n\nAnd I said right back to my daughter, \"Sometimes I do,\" then, \"I'm praying for you right now.\" I paused. \"That's my plan right now, mine and Beau's both. Just like Tess did for me. Just like she told me that night.\"\n\nI heard her take in another breath, and another. Then she said, \"Thank you,\" and though I believed I might could still hear that fear, that trembling on her, still she opened the door, in on us the cold air from outside, and the night.\n\nAnd we left.\n\nROADS LED one to another in the darkness, not a single car anywhere. This was Christmas morning, not even four o'clock yet, and we made turn and turn and turn, passed through green lights, waited at reds, us moving quick through this town on streets that hadn't been imagined when I was a girl growing up, and there came to me the memory of all the traffic that'd snagged us the day we'd moved here, when rain had banged down on us the whole day long, until at the last moment sunlight had suddenly broken in to give me a mockingbird on a concrete step.\n\nTo give me the emptiness of seeking after that which had already passed.\n\nAnd now, now, we turned off of Longpoint Road onto a side street, this one at the Exxon station a little ways down from the Harris Teeter where I'd met this Beau in the first place, and where I'd seen the goodness in him even if I hadn't wanted to find it there.\n\n_Good evening, ma'am,_ he'd said, and, _Merry Christmas._\n\nAnd now we passed an entrance to a Food Lion on the left, next to it a low flat building, out front of it a sign for the preschool it was, and then we turned left onto yet one more little street, to my right and a few yards off across grass a big white warehouse of a building, and I asked, \"Where are we?\"\n\n\"That's the rec center,\" Ruth said, quiet, like it was some secret, and I turned to her, wondered at why she'd point out a town's rec center in a voice pitched that soft, and I saw she was looking ahead of us, off to my side, her mouth a thin line.\n\nI turned, looked ahead of us, out my window, just as Ruth slowed down, us at a crawl now, and here stood the fire station.\n\nA white brick building, I could see even in the dark. One half, the right, was the truck bays wide and tall, the bays themselves lit up from inside like midday, a fire truck backed into each; the other half was the firehouse itself, a one-story ranch. A flagpole stood out front with no flag up for the night upon us all, a concrete drive out front nearly as wide as the building itself. Woods to the left of it, a row of palmetto trees to the right.\n\nThere, leaned against the front bumper of the truck in the left bay, closest to the firehouse, stood a man, alone, and as Ruth edged the car to a stop out here on the road, my side of the car in the grass, I saw the man bring a cigarette to his lips, saw the ember burn bright there at his face.\n\nHe was watching us, pushed himself off the bumper, crossed his arms now.\n\nBill Dupree. The redhead flirt it seemed Jocelyn had eyes for.\n\nBut he was a man, I saw. Only that. Working, here on Christmas Day. There was a history to him, too. A heart that had to endure.\n\nRuth cut off the engine, and the lights. But she didn't move, and I heard her tap the steering wheel with the fingertips of both hands.\n\nI turned to her. She was looking straight ahead, her mouth that same thin line, her fingers still tapping. I could see her chestnut hair down about her shoulders, saw the shadows of her eyes.\n\nShe was beautiful, even in this darkness.\n\nShe turned to me, quick worked up a smile. \"You don't think I should have baked some biscuits?\" she said, and I laughed, shook my head, the moment between us of all the fear and worry and sorrow gone for just that instant, and I leaned to her, she to me, and we held each other, held each other, one long last touch before this next story began.\n\nThen we let go, and I said, \"There'll be plenty of time for biscuits,\" and I smiled at her.\n\nIt was me to open my door first, to let in light down on us so that I could see into her eyes, catch one more instant of the blue-green so clear and crystalline you could see in them her good heart, constant and certain.\n\nHere she was: Ruth.\n\n\"What can I do for you ladies this morning?\" Bill Dupree said then, and I turned, saw him just a few feet away out my side, his arms still crossed. He'd lost the cigarette, and had on his blue T-shirt, and his slacks, boots, him rocking forward and back on the heels, sizing us up. I could tell he was smiling, his eyes going from me to whoever it was driving this car: two women pulling up to a fire station long before daylight on Christmas morning.\n\n\"You're going to catch a cold,\" I said, and put both feet to the grass. Here he was beside me, holding an elbow and helping me up once he'd seen I was after getting out, and now here was Ruth beside me already out her door and around the hood, the three of us out on the lawn and standing suddenly together, as though this were what happened all the time.\n\n\"We need to see Beau Stackhouse,\" Ruth said, and I looked at her. Her arms were crossed, her purse over her shoulder, her coat buttoned all the way up.\n\n\"Is this an emergency?\" he said, and I turned to him. He'd let go my elbow, had taken a step back from us, still trying to figure out what was up in all this, and I said, \"Not the kind of emergency you're thinking of,\" and I smiled at him.\n\nHe looked to me, then to Ruth, back to me, then to Ruth once more. \"Oh,\" he said, and he stood taller, let his arms drop to his sides. \"I know you,\" he said, then, \"Sorry,\" and he took a step to me, put his hand to my shoulder, said, \"Are you all right? Are you here for your heart? I mean, Beau told us you were getting home today and that\u2014\"\n\n\"We're right where we're supposed to be,\" I said. \"Ruth's here to see Beau,\" I said, and I reached to his hand at my shoulder, patted it. \"And don't you worry about me,\" I said. \"I'm fine. And even better than that.\"\n\nI looked back to Ruth, still with her arms crossed. My car door stood open behind me, and I turned from Bill, leaned into the car, picked up from where I'd laid it on the floorboard between my feet the white plastic sack, this gift I still had to give.\n\n\"Beau talked to me,\" Bill was saying behind me, \"and Miss Ruth, if I said anything out of line I apologize for it. I apologize.\"\n\nThen there came to me the sudden small sound of Ruth laughing, a sweet sound true and bright even in the quiet of it, and I turned from the car, the quilt in its bag in both my hands. Here was Ruth, her arms down now, her purse off her shoulder, a hand out to Bill and touching his arm.\n\n\"Beau might worry too much,\" she said to him, and Bill put his hands to his back pockets, looked at the ground, and let out a low whistle. \"You got that right,\" he said, and slowly shook his head.\n\nThen they both were looking at me, there with the quilt.\n\n\"We won't need that,\" Ruth said. \"We'll be inside,\" she said.\n\nBut I only shook my head slowly, smiled up at her. \"I have a plan, remember?\" I said, and Ruth leaned her head one way, glanced at Bill. \"Now can Ruth get to talk to this man Beau, or do we have to wait until you get a call for him to come out?\"\n\nBill smiled, shook his head again. He put a hand to the back of his neck, rubbed it. \"Well,\" he said, and let the word drag out a little long. \"He's asleep. Been a long night already. Two grease fires, clowns deep-frying turkeys the night before Christmas, and leaving the rigs unattended in their garages. Both of them.\" He shook his head again. \"He's asleep. And there's this saying about letting sleeping firemen lie.\" \"But this is an emergency,\" I said, smiling. \"Only of a different sort.\" I looked at Ruth, saw she was biting down on her bottom lip and smiling just the same.\n\nBill stopped his hand on his neck, glanced at us both, shrugged. He crossed his arms again, said, \"Can't argue with an emergency,\" then, \"Let's go on in,\" and he turned, started up the lawn.\n\nWe followed him across the grass, Ruth looking at me and at the quilt as we went. I could see even in the night out here the puzzlement in her, the wonder at what I could mean in carrying a quilt in here.\n\nThen we were on the concrete drive, and inside the bay closest to the house. The truck beside us was big, and seemed new as any fire truck I'd ever seen, the huge number 2 on its door. It was warmer in here, though I could not say why other than we were out of the night air. To my left was a desk of sorts, on it two telephones, another attached to the wall; next to that was a white door into the house itself, past that a row of five or six beige metal lockers. A lawnmower sat down past it all, pushed against the rear wall of the garage.\n\n\"I got to let you know this is so against regulations,\" Bill said, and turned to us, Ruth and I just inside the bay. He smiled at Ruth, then me, winked. \"But I got a feeling this is some kind of emergency, if you two are showing up on Christmas Day this early.\" He paused, shook his head. \"Or maybe the two of you are just playing a little Santa Claus.\"\n\nI looked at him. He was older than I remembered from that first time in the Harris Teeter, seemed weary somehow, and it came to me: work. This was Christmas Day, and they'd already had two fires to put out.\n\n\"Maybe that's all we're up to,\" I said, and smiled at him, looked to Ruth. \"Playing Santa Claus.\"\n\nShe'd crossed her arms again, was biting down on her lip again, and I thought of the fear I'd heard in her words.\n\nBut here she was, ready to embark.\n\nHere was Ruth, and it was now that I needed, I saw, to give her what I needed to give, this gift given to me in love surrendered to her in this love too.\n\nNow.\n\nI took the quilt out from under my arm, held it out to her with both hands like the offering it had been to me. Ruth looked at me, seemed lost, and lost, and I saw her eyebrows quiver, her chin tremble.\n\n\"This is for you,\" I said.\n\nStill she didn't move.\n\nShe'd never laid eyes on it before. I'd left it in the bag I'd gotten it in to this day, the last time I'd seen it myself there in the Friendly's parking lot, even though I'd told them all\u2014Phyllis, and Carolyn, and Hilda, Mary Margaret the only one not there\u2014that it was a gift I would treasure.\n\n\"Let me help you with that,\" Bill said, and here he was beside us, and now without word, without signal between any of us, he was lifting it out of the plastic bag, then stuffed the empty bag into his back pocket, him all motion and meaning and goodwill in helping us here. Ruth swallowed, blinked once, twice, her eyebrows up in whatever it was I was doing in bringing a quilt here, and at the bustle of all this.\n\nAnd now we were all holding an edge, stepping back and away from each other in the space between a fire truck and the doorway into the house itself, Bill bumping into the row of lockers behind him, me right beside the tire taller than me of the fire truck behind me, Ruth edging close to the desk.\n\nHere it was: a Star pattern, big and sharp right at the center. Around it a ring of handprints, a single circle of them, cut out of all kinds of fabric. Eight of them, left and right alternating, the fingers pointing away from the center.\n\nA halo of hands around the Star.\n\nIt was the first time I'd seen it in light, and I began to weep for the beauty of it, and the joy of these hands, and the friendship it meant: hands held out.\n\nAnd I knew that despite the fact I'd left it in that bag, left it hidden away on the floor of my closet, this was what it meant to treasure it: to give it to my daughter, and to Beau, at this beginning.\n\nI looked up at Ruth, saw her shimmer in my eyes.\n\n\"Where did you\u2014\" she began, and I shook my head no, smiling as best I could at her, and now she was coming to me, folding the quilt up on an arm and folding it up, and I saw beside me Bill Dupree let go his corner as Ruth picked it all up, saw him step back against the locker altogether, his hands gone to his pockets, his head down at these two women crying.\n\nThen Ruth was holding me, holding me, and I said, \"Go to him. Now.\" I took in a breath, cool and clear and full, and whispered, \"Sit beside him, and lay this over you both. Tell him it's an old woman's wish. Because it is a treasure.\" I paused, let in another cool and abiding breath. \"Tell him it's because he's your family, and you're his.\"\n\nShe took in a breath, held it, and then nodded, slowly took a step away from me, her eyes on mine one moment longer, one instant more.\n\nAnd then she turned, looked to Bill Dupree, who sniffed, rubbed the back of his hand to his eye as though there were something there to irritate him no end.\n\nI smiled, said, \"If you would, could you show Miss Ruth to\u2014\"\n\nBut he was already at the door into the house, nodding without word, and pushing it open. He leaned his head in, no light falling from inside to the concrete floor out here, and then he came back out. His eyebrows were up, and he sniffed again, as though surprised at what could only be the surprise of us here, and carrying on so.\n\nAt the surprise, I knew, of seeing the start of this next song.\n\nHe nodded to Ruth, pushed the door open a little farther. I could see nothing from where I stood, only the dark wedge of room.\n\nAnd I watched as Ruth took a step toward him, and another, the quilt draped over her arms, her coat still on, her purse over her shoulder. She was beside him, and she leaned in too, glanced back to Bill, who pointed inside, nodded again.\n\nShe turned to me one last time, looked at me.\n\nHere were her eyes, the truth in them, and beauty. It was no wonder my Mahlon had fallen in love with her, and been blessed and blessed and blessed.\n\nThen she turned, went inside, and she was gone.\n\nOUTSIDE THE NIGHT SKY still reigned over this much of Christmas. Outside, the same stars that had been fixed there since before the any of us had ever taken in our first breath still held firm.\n\nBill Dupree had rounded up two lawn chairs from somewhere once we'd stood there a minute or so, had set them up a few feet out on the driveway. But I hadn't sat down quite yet, instead wanted out here, in this dark, and in this sky I saw was a home all its own.\n\nIn a minute I'd take a seat with him, maybe let go the fact Jocelyn was interested in him, if he were good enough for her. But I wouldn't let him know, too, that by every indication I'd seen this night he was a man good enough, good enough.\n\nBut for now I stood out in the air, and looked at those stars, thought on a moment to try and see, in my old woman's way, which one up there might be sorrow, and which one joy.\n\nOnly then, in looking and looking, seeing stars and stars and stars, did I see that it didn't matter which was which. They were both up there, fixed somewhere in the same night sky of us all.\n\nThe both of them a gift from the same God who'd made them both.\n\nAnd then I looked at my hand, the gnarled fingers of mine that'd been company through this all, the pain there a part of me, and who I was.\n\nSlowly I let them unfurl before me, reveal to me in the darkness the slight and perfect glimmer of a wedding band, held tight in my hand through this all.\n\nA gift back to me so perfect I had no choice but to hold it so tight. But no choice, too, but to give it back to where it belonged.\n\nI reached to the lapel of my coat, the move so practiced and ready it was no move at all, but this time I reached behind, unfastened the pin that held the locket in place, placed beneath it the hand that held the ring palm up, and I let the locket fall.\n\nHere it was: gold, simple. No filigree to it at all.\n\nI opened it, saw there two photos, each no bigger than a quarter.\n\nTwo faces, I could see even in this starlight. Two faces I could see with my eyes closed.\n\nTwo faces I knew by heart: Eli, from his Navy portrait, and Mahlon, a baby with his eyes closed in sleep.\n\nI looked at them, looked at them, and then with my fingers I picked up the ring there beside them in my hand, and let this gift from my daughter drop inside the locket, a perfect circle that fit inside a plain gold locket.\n\nI closed it, brought my fingers to my palm until I felt the locket fasten upon itself.\n\nIt was warm in my hand.\n\nI closed my eyes, heard whispered so quiet and so deep and so warm in my ear, whispered from somewhere close, somewhere inside me and just beyond touch, _Nice to meet you._\n\nAnd I whispered back, _Nice to meet you._\n\nI opened my eyes, saw again these stars.\n\n_Why call me Naomi?_ I asked one last time, and knew now the answer.\n\nMy name is Naomi.\n\nAnd I am filled.\nA Song I Knew by Heart\n\n_A Reader's Guide_\n\nBRET LOTT\nA CONVERSATION WITH BRET LOTT\n\n**Q:** This story is told by Naomi, an older woman who has lost her husband and her son. You have captured her voice beautifully. Do you find it difficult to portray a woman's voice? How is it different from writing a character that is more similar to you?\n\n**Bret Lott:** I haven't ever really found it difficult to capture on the page a woman's voice, because I don't really let myself think about its being \"a woman's voice.\" That is, I know that if I let myself think of Naomi as first a woman, then in effect I will have already diminished her being a human being with a life story, a history, concerns and prejudices, and joys and sorrows. Rather, what I always listen for in a voice (and this is the third book of mine from a first-person female point of view) is who this _person_ is: what she desires, what she fears, where she has grown up and how and with whom; and I listen as well for her failures, and her triumphs. What I then have on my hands will be, it is to be hoped, a real human being, one who, in this case, is a female. That's when the issues of that person's being a female come into play\u2014what a woman could do and say at a particular point in history, how those desires she has could or could not be acted upon\u2014but I only begin to think about those things once I have established in my own imagination a real live human being.\n\nI also listen in the real sense: I have a good number of friends at my church who happen to be older ladies, women with whom my wife and I have worked on different events and ministries, everything from Wednesday Night Supper to Prison Fellowship, and they all have real voices, and real histories (and a good-sized gang of them plays cards every Tuesday night!). They have proved\u2014especially my dear friend Eleanor Johnson\u2014to be wellsprings of stories and voices and love. They helped a great deal in getting to know Naomi.\n\n**Q:** When you started to write this story, what were you hoping to accomplish? What did you want to find out or share with your readers? Did you accomplish this? Were there any surprises along the way? How long after you had the idea for this story was it before you started writing it?\n\n**BL:** I had been thinking of writing this book for years, and actually began it right after having written _The Hunt Club,_ which means I started it all the way back in 1998. _The Hunt Club_ is a sort of murder mystery, complete with car chases and redneck-on-redneck crime sprees, and so when I finished it I wanted to return to the sort of book I love best, the character study. But _The Hunt Club_ did so well that I was asked to write a sequel (don't even ask how that came out!), and so I put this aside. Then Oprah called, and _Jewel_ was suddenly born again, which meant that my attention was on that book and all the attendant things that went along with\u2014publicity, interviews, etc. etc. etc.\n\nSo that when I finally settled down in early 2000 to get to the writing of this, my mission was to pick up where I had left off: a retelling of _The Book of Ruth_. That was what I'd wanted to do all along, simply retell a story of one of the most beautiful love relationships in the Bible. It's an absolutely intriguing story because our culture has turned the mother-in-law\/daughter-in-law relationship into one of terrific antagonism, when the traditional wedding vows that say \"Where you go, I will go; your people shall be my people\" aren't quoting a man and a woman from the Bible, but a daughter-in-law speaking to her mother-in-law. That dynamic\u2014that deep love between two people who are related only _in law_ \u2014was what intrigued me most.\n\nBut in trying to retell the story, I soon found out that there really wasn't any reason to just retell it\u2014the Bible is the Bible, and so who can improve upon that? What I found in the writing of this, though, was that I was simply trying to understand the depth of that love, trying to understand how two women could love each other that deeply, and what would be the repercussions, the reverberations and resonances of that love. The writing of it became, finally, a lesson to me in what it means to love, and to forgive, and to give away love as a means to show how much love one has for another.\n\nMost surprising to me in the writing of this was Naomi's instance of infidelity. When I began writing the book, I had no idea she had done what she had done, and simply followed her along as she made ready to move to where she believed her life could return to its more innocent state. But then, and I mean this truly, she suddenly revealed to me\u2014to herself, as it were\u2014what she had done, which gave her reason for wanting to leave much more resonance for me, and much more urgency: she needed and wanted to get away from _herself_. This troubled me while writing the book: a woman I had believed simply wanted to go home had suddenly become someone who had, however briefly and however long ago, sinned fully against her husband. And suddenly I didn't much like her for that, so much so that I had to go through a kind of psychoanalysis with my agent, Marian Young, talking to her daily for a while about this character and what she had done, and asking myself, What am I supposed to do with her?\n\nBut it is the true nature of forgiveness, I finally saw, that won out: those we love who have sinned against us and against whom we have sinned must be forgiven for that love to triumph. And so, though her infidelity seemed at first a kind of curse upon the story, that sin became the catalyst for the entire novel: we cannot accept the blessing of love without accompanying it with the gift of forgiveness.\n\n**Q:** Do you have a writing routine or any rituals surrounding your work?\n\n**BL:** I write every day, except Saturday and Sunday. I have been blessed in this life with having a job that lets me go in late in the morning or early afternoon and accomplish that part of things, allowing me the mornings to write. I get up around five or five-thirty, having set up the coffeemaker the night before so that there's a fresh pot when I go downstairs. This book was written in something of a closet we have downstairs; it's a little room off the living room, maybe four foot by four foot, that has a small window above a ledge-desk. That window looks out on the side of my next-door neighbor's house, which is to say there really isn't any kind of inspirational view. The size of the room is important too in that because it's so small I can't get up and pace or putter: I simply have to write (though I manage every day to find things to distract me). The effect of writing there is that I feel much more cloistered, much more insulated from the world out there\u2014I feel much more like I am being allowed only the space I need to write a book (I even write on a laptop, and not the big ol' computer in the study upstairs).\n\nI know this all may sound like something more akin to punishment\u2014getting up that early, locking myself away in a closet\u2014 but I believe that creativity arrives only through discipline. At one point in my life I was a runner, and put in six or seven miles a day (though looking at me now you wouldn't have a clue), and the system by which you become a runner is just about the same as becoming a writer: you make yourself do it, though as you lace up your shoes you may be dreading it, may be thinking about what else you could be doing, may be feeling already the fatigue that will come to you once it's all over. Still, once you get settled in to the run, and settled in to the desk, there comes to you a kind of joy, a kind of release and wonder at the world and what you are doing in it. There's a kind of freedom that comes upon you in a way only knowable through disciplining yourself to find it; this freedom is why you get up the next day and do it again, whether running or writing. The act is, finally, addictive, and its own reward.\n\n**Q:** In many ways, the lives of these two women are ordinary, but through them and the rituals of their daily life you are able to create a world that transcends the mundane. Where do you search for the elements that make up a story, a new world? In particular, did you take the biscuit scene from real life?\n\n**BL:** I believe daily life rituals are what make up our lives, for the most part, and that if we can invest those rituals with the power of love, then those rituals can become, in their own loving way, sacred. My grandmother (the inspiration for the novel _Jewel_ ) used to make biscuits in the same way that Ruth does here. I can't tell you how many times my siblings and cousins and I watched Grandma Lott make in her own mysterious way these absolutely perfect gifts of biscuits, which we promptly smothered with maple syrup and gobbled up. When I was writing this book, I couldn't help but recall that mystery, as well as the joy and love that went into the making of these biscuits, and the way they were, truly, gifts from her, but gifts made in such a routine manner as not to call for anything other than the rote actions involved in making them. And I remembered once asking for the recipe for her biscuits, and her not being able to tell me what it was. All she could do was to show me, which meant the gift of these biscuits was all the more endearing and important: the only way I could know what she knew was to do it, instead of reading it. This seemed, once I was writing this book, to serve as a kind of central metaphor (though I wasn't thinking of it at the time as a metaphor, but simply as a gift from Ruth back to Naomi) for the nature of love, and for the nature of forgiveness: the only way to truly know love is also to give love away; the only way to truly be forgiven is also to forgive. No matter how many recipes one reads for biscuits, there will be no biscuits like those made with love.\n\nI think the ordinary life is the most interesting, contrary to popular belief. The loud lives, the lives of high drama and high emotional decibel, are the lives we have pounded into our heads every minute we are awake by the media, whether newspapers or television or, for the most part, books published these days. I know I'm sounding like an old coot, but it seems to me that if we are not looking at our own lives and examining, testing, listening to, and treasuring those lives, then we are all going to fall into the trap of believing that only those lives lived at the highest pitch will be those lives worth examining. Bunk.\n\nAs for where I find those elements of the ordinary that make up the lives of my characters, again, I listen, and pay attention to what is happening around me. Certainly my wife and I have our own mundane routines\u2014the predictable coffee and newspaper each morning comes to mind here\u2014but what makes these into important rituals are the details. Which coffee cups we use are very important to us (they have all been bought in pairs, though no two are exactly alike, and were purchased around the world and brought home precisely for this ritual each morning), and if one or the other of us ever brought to the table in the morning a mismatched pair, or if either of us used the other's cup, a huge signal will have been sent out: _something is wrong_. And out of this came, I believe, the whole notion of Naomi's bringing two cups instead of three, that broken ritual that begins the entire book: because she is bringing two instead of three cups, _something is wrong_. Precisely what is left for the rest of the book to discover is the depth and breadth and scope of what is wrong, all borne out of the simple breaking of the daily ritual.\n\n**Q:** In many ways, this story is about relationships\u2014relationships that have passed, between loved ones, husbands and wives. Why did you find the relationship between Naomi and Ruth to be so compelling as a subject? Which relationship in the story was primary for you? Which one did you feel contained the crux of the story?\n\n**BL:** This gets back to my initially believing I was just going to retell _The Book of Ruth_ in a contemporary setting, when what the story finally ended up being was a kind of investigation of that love relationship between Ruth and Naomi\u2014and a window into, finally, the relationship Naomi had with her own husband, Eli. Again, regarding those daily rituals that become sacred when invested with love, there is so much of Naomi's relationship to her husband\u2014their \"Nice to meet you,\" the keeping close of his gift to her of the locket\u2014that surfaces only when Naomi sees Ruth dealing with her own grief. This added an entirely new and unexpected layer to the story\u2014Naomi having to grieve again for her lost husband\u2014a fact that of course ushers in Naomi's own secret past. The result is that, though of course the primary relationship in this book is that between Ruth and Naomi, the prime relationship _becomes_ Naomi's to her husband, including her sin against him and then the ensuing wrestling with the fact that she had already been forgiven by him and what she can do to show her thankfulness for that gift from him. But then a curious thing happened: in Naomi's wrestling with the gift of forgiveness, she realizes the best gift she can give is the giving of Ruth to Beau; for this reason, the story (I hope) comes full circle back to Ruth and Naomi. That is, their relationship returns to its primary importance only through Naomi's having surrendered to the fact of forgiveness from her husband. And I think that oftentimes it is our own relationship to our sins that makes us unable to move forward with our lives; forgiveness is, I believe, integral to the growth of love.\n\n**Q:** How did you choose coastal South Carolina as the setting of this book? How much of the story for you was embedded in its place? What was it about this landscape that you wanted to bring to the reader?\n\n**BL:** I've lived in South Carolina for eighteen years, and published every book I have written while living there. But only with _The Hunt_ _Club,_ which was written ten years after I'd moved there, did I finally feel comfortable enough with the place and its people to think I could actually write about it. I enjoyed using the landscape of the Lowcountry so much that I wanted the next book, as well, to take place there, and found that the setting\u2014a beautiful land full of light, lush and forgiving and nowhere near as severe as New England winters can be\u2014 served nicely. Not that there was ever any other choice in my mind: Lonny Thompson, a character from my first novel, _The Man Who_ _Owned Vermont_ , had always been lurking throughout my writing life\u2014 he was a man who was important in that first book, but whose story seemed always to me a mystery, and when I first started seeing this story, and seeing it beginning in a locale as much the antithesis of the Lowcountry as I could see, it seemed natural that Northampton\u2014the setting for both _The Man Who Owned Vermont_ and my second novel, _A_ _Stranger's House_ \u2014would serve once again; the added bonus was that I would finally be able to get to the bottom of who Lonny Thompson was to be haunting me all those years after I'd created him. Both landscapes, then\u2014the harshness of Massachusetts, the lushness of South Carolina\u2014mirrored for me the famine-ridden land of Moab in the Bible, and Naomi's hometown of Bethlehem.\n\n**Q:** Much of the story is about returning home, both literally and figuratively. Where did you grow up? Where do you now call home? Is home for you, as the dedication in your book would suggest, about your family, or is it about place?\n\n**BL:** I grew up in Southern California and Phoenix, Arizona, but the bulk of my adult life has been lived exactly where _A Song I Knew by_ _Heart_ takes place: Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. Over the course of those eighteen years our two sons (age nineteen and twenty-two) grew up, and the town of Mount Pleasant expanded in a huge way. Traffic is thick now, whereas when first we moved there it was a sleepy little suburb of Charleston. But that place will always seem home for the memories of soccer, and Cub Scouts, and our kids' schools, and their basketball games every Tuesday and Friday night for years, not to mention our friends from church, and my colleagues from work. My wife and I have never thought of moving back to California, for the roots we put down were in South Carolina. But life takes its turns: we just recently moved here to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where I have taken over the reins of the venerable old literary journal _The Southern Review_. When offered the position I didn't think a moment about it; this is one of the most important journals in American history, and to be able to guide it into the twenty-first century is an opportunity I couldn't turn down. But we miss our boys, both of whom are away in college in South Carolina. Melanie and I are emptynesters for the first time. We've found a terrific church here, and the job is a good one. Still, we plan to retire to South Carolina someday. But, finally, home is where our family is whenever we are together.\n\n**Q:** What are you currently working on?\n\n**BL:** Right now I am at work on a new novel, _Ancient Highway,_ though a new story collection, _The Difference Between Women and Men,_ is out this summer from Random House. _Ancient Highway_ is based loosely on the life of my grandfather on my mother's side\u2014he ran away from his East Texas home when he was a kid of fourteen, bent on going to Hollywood to be an actor in the \"flickers.\" He ended up being in a handful of movies, all of them bit roles, and was even on _The Andy Griffith_ _Show_ a couple of times. But he never made it big. The story is told from his point of view, and from his daughter's point of view, and from his grandson's point of view as well, and happens at all different times in the twentieth century. It's a great deal of fun, and also a stretch for me. But I'm enjoying the writing of it, and hope to finish it sometime this year.\nREADING GROUP QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION\n\n1. Read the story of Naomi and Ruth from the Bible. How does an understanding of the biblical story help to illuminate the relationship between the two women in the novel? In what ways are the two stories different?\n\n2. Naomi knows that she must return to South Carolina when she remembers the light of her childhood home, which is different from the light in the North where she lived as an adult. Why do you think it is the memory of the light that pulls her back? What do you think the light symbolizes, not just in this instance but throughout the novel?\n\n3. Why do you think Ruth decides to go to South Carolina with Naomi, even though it is not her home? Why does she say, \"Where you go, I will go. Where you live, that's where I'll live too. This is a pact between us. Here. Now\" (p. 97)?\n\n4. Variations on the title _A Song I Knew by Heart_ appear throughout the novel. What is the significance of the title in the beginning of the novel, and does your understanding of it change throughout the book?\n\n5. The lives of Naomi and Ruth are filled with many of the rituals of daily life. One that plays an especially important role between the two of them is the baking of biscuits, a recipe that was passed down to Naomi and one that she has passed along to Ruth. Why do you think this act is so important between the two women? Explore some of the other daily rituals that appear throughout the novel and how they play an important role in bringing the characters closer.\n\n6. Even though the book opens with the death of Mahlon and the remembrance of Eli's death, _A Song I Knew by Heart_ is in many ways a love story. It tells of the love between Naomi and Eli and Ruth and Mahlon. What other love stories are told? What other types of love are revealed?\n\n7. Why do you think Ruth decided to betray her husband with Lonny Thompson? How do you understand Eli never telling her that he knew what she did? What other betrayals occur in the novel?\n\n8. Throughout much of the story, Naomi is seeking forgiveness from her husband. Why do you think she seeks forgiveness now, instead of earlier in her life, when he was still alive? Do you think she is able to find the forgiveness she needs? Why or why not? What role does returning home play in her search? Lonny is also seeking forgiveness from Ruth. Why do you think he needs to be forgiven?\n\n9. Naomi wears a locket around her neck. Why is it so special to her? What does the locket hold at different points in the novel? What does it mean when Ruth gives Naomi her ring, and why does Naomi put it with her locket?\n\n10. After having finished the novel, how do the epigraphs at the beginning of the novel enrich your understanding of the story as a whole?\n\n11. This story is filled with loss, but each loss gives way to a new beginning, a new relationship. Even the beginning of the relationship between Naomi and Eli when they returned from their first walk was punctuated with the news of her brother's death in the war. In what other instances does death make a new beginning possible?\n\n12. What role does memory and the act of remembering play in this novel? Naomi remembers her life with Eli, and cherishes many of the private moments they shared, like when they told each other \"Nice to meet you.\" Why do you think she urges Ruth to keep her memories of Mahlon private? Do you agree with Naomi? Are memories things that can be owned? Why, or why not?\n\n13. What is the relationship between memory, loss, and forgiveness in _A Song I Knew by Heart_?\n\n14. \"When we are young, it means, _I have made a mistake_. When we are old, it means, _I have separated myself from love_ \" is how Naomi describes sin (p. 77). Do you agree with her? How does her understanding of sin affect the course of the novel? How do she and the other characters in the novel separate themselves from love? In what ways do they embrace it?\n\n15. There are many quilts throughout the story\u2014the wedding ring quilt given to Naomi for her wedding, the quilt given to her before she leaves to return home. Why do you think the author chose quilts? What is it about quilts and quilting that lends itself to a deeper understanding of relationships and love?\n\n16. How do you understand the incident at Harris Teeter when Naomi witnessed Ruth first meet Beau? Why do you think Ruth was so uncomfortable? Why do you think Naomi encourages Ruth to go to Beau? What is the significance of giving Ruth the quilt before she meets Beau at the firehouse?\n\n17. Naomi wonders what her name can mean, what it contains. Often she feels that it is emptiness, that she is empty. She contemplates the names she is called, like Aunt Naomi. What is she accomplishing in trying to understand her own name? At the very end of the novel, she asks, \"Why call me Naomi?\" and she answers, \"My name is Naomi. And I am filled\" (p.303). How has she come to this place in her life? How does she understand herself differently? What has allowed her to be filled?\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nI want to thank those friends in whose homes much of this book was written: Thomas Lynch, who was so kind as to allow our family a stay in his cottage in Moveen, County Clare, Ireland; Mady Smets and the Peyresq Foundation, who provided for our family an apartment in Annot, les Alpes de Haute-Provence, while I taught at the Campus Europ\u00e9en, Universit\u00e9 de Charleston; and Jeff and Hart Deal, who allowed me untold hours of quiet in their home on Dewees Island. This book could not have been written without your generosity. Nor could it have been written without the prayers and encouragement of my brothers and sisters in Christ at East Cooper Baptist Church, especially the members of the Joint Heirs class, and the Wednesday Night Supper Gang. Finally, I want to thank Eleanor Johnson, a true prayer warrior and woman of Christ, for her prayers, her insight, her faith, and her friendship.\n\nBRET LOTT is the author of the novels _Jewel_ (an Oprah Book Club selection in 1999), _Reed's Beach, A Stranger's House, The Man Who_ _Owned Vermont,_ and _The Hunt Club;_ the story collections _How to Get_ _Home, A Dream of Old Leaves,_ and _The Difference Between Women and_ _Men;_ the memoir _Fathers, Sons, and Brothers;_ and _Before We Get Started._ He and his wife now live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he is the editor of _The Southern Review_ and professor of English at Louisiana State University.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nPhilip Pullman\n\nB\u00e4rnstenskikaren\n\nDEN M\u00d6RKA MATERIAN  \nDEL 3\n\nNatur & Kultur\nDe inledande citaten ur William Blakes _Oskuldens och erfarenhetens s\u00e5nger_ i kapitlen 13 och  har \u00f6versatts av Viveka Heyman.\n\n\u00d6vriga Blake-citat har \u00f6versatts av Olle Sahlin.\n\nVictor Emanuel \u00d6man svarar f\u00f6r citaten ur\n\nJohn Miltons _Det f\u00f6rlorade paradiset._\n\nBibelcitaten \u00e4r h\u00e4mtade ur 1917 \u00e5rs \u00f6vers\u00e4ttning.\n\nOlle Sahlin har \u00f6versatt resterande citat.\n\nDen m\u00f6rka materian:\n\n_Guldkompassen_\n\n_Den skarpa eggen_\n\n_B\u00e4rnstenskikaren_\n\nAnm\u00e4rkning: Ordet \"d\u00e6mon\", som f\u00f6rekommer i boken, uttalas precis som det svenska ordet \"demon\".\n\ninfo@nok.se\n\nwww.nok.se\n\nThe Amber Spyglass \u00a9 2000 by Philip Pullman\n\nNatur & Kultur, Stockholm 2018\n\nOriginalets titel: _His Dark Materials III. The Amber Spyglass_\n\n\u00d6vers\u00e4ttning: Cilla de Mander och Olle Sahlin\n\nOmslagsillustration: Peter Bergting\n\nForm: Malin Lilja\n\nISBN 978-91-27-15552-7\n\nE-boksproduktion: Axiell Media, 2018\n\nF\u00f6rlaget Natur & Kultur \u00e4r en stiftelse som utan \u00e4gare kan agera sj\u00e4lvst\u00e4ndigt och l\u00e5ngsiktigt. V\u00e5rt m\u00e5l \u00e4r att genom st\u00f6d, inspiration, utbildning och bildning verka f\u00f6r tolerans, humanism och demokrati.\nBer\u00e4tta om hans styrka, sjung om hans n\u00e5d,\n\nHans kl\u00e4dnad \u00e4r ljuset, hans tronhimmel rymden.\n\nHans stridsvagn av vrede f\u00f6der de svarta \u00e5skmolnen.\n\nOch m\u00f6rkret \u00e4r hans v\u00e4g p\u00e5 stormens vingar.\n\nRobert Grant\n\nUr _Hymns Ancient and Modern_\n\nO stj\u00e4rnor,\n\n\u00e4r det inte fr\u00e5n er som \u00e4lskarens l\u00e4ngtan efter sin  \n\u00e4lskades anlete h\u00e4rr\u00f6r?\n\nKommer inte hans hemliga f\u00f6rst\u00e5else f\u00f6r hennes rena  \ndrag fr\u00e5n de lika rena konstellationerna?\n\nRainer Maria Rilke\n\nUr _Tredje Duinoelegin_\n\nL\u00e4tta dimmor stiger fr\u00e5n allt det levande.\n\nNatten \u00e4r kall och spr\u00f6d och full av \u00e4nglar.\n\nSom sl\u00e5r ner de levande. Fabrikerna \u00e4r helt upplysta.\n\nKlockan sl\u00e5r oh\u00f6rd.\n\nVi \u00e4r tillsammans till slut, om \u00e4n skilda \u00e5t.\n\nJohn Ashbery The Ecclesiast\n\nUr _River and Mountains_\n\nSamtliga \u00f6vers\u00e4ttningar Olle Sahlin\n\n## 1\n\n## F\u00f6rtrollad s\u00f6mn\n\nVILDA DJUR KOM FRAM OCH S\u00c5G, HUR I S\u00d6MN HON L\u00c5G.\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nI EN DAL skuggad av rhododendronbuskar, n\u00e4ra sn\u00f6gr\u00e4nsen, med en fors som var mj\u00f6lkvit av det porlande sm\u00e4ltvattnet och med duvor och h\u00e4mplingar som fl\u00f6g in och ut mellan de v\u00e4ldiga tallarna, l\u00e5g en grotta till h\u00e4lften dold av klippan ovanf\u00f6r och de styva, tunga bladen, som l\u00e5g samlade nedanf\u00f6r.\n\nSkogen var full av ljud: forsen mellan klipporna, vinden bland tallbarren, surret fr\u00e5n insekterna, ropen fr\u00e5n de sm\u00e5 skogslevande d\u00e4ggdjuren och s\u00e5ngen fr\u00e5n f\u00e5glarna. Ibland fick lite starkare vindilar grenarna p\u00e5 cedertr\u00e4den och tallarna att gnidas mot varandra med ett ljud som fr\u00e5n en cello.\n\nDet var en plats full av gnistrande solsken fr\u00e5n en evigt klarbl\u00e5 himmel. Citrongyllene str\u00e5lar letade sig ner till marken mellan r\u00e4nder och fl\u00e4ckar av brungr\u00f6n skugga. Ljuset var aldrig stilla, aldrig best\u00e4ndigt, eftersom bankar av dimma ibland drog in mellan tr\u00e4dtopparna och filtrerade solljuset till ett p\u00e4rlemorskimrande dis och t\u00e4ckte varje tallkotte med en fuktighet som b\u00f6rjade glittra s\u00e5 snart dimman l\u00e4ttade. Ibland f\u00f6rvandlades molnens fuktighet till sm\u00e5 droppar av halvdimma och halvregn, som sv\u00e4vade ner snarare \u00e4n f\u00f6ll, och \u00e5stadkom ett mjukt prassel bland de m\u00e5nga miljonerna barr.\n\nDet gick en smal stig bredvid forsen. Den ledde fr\u00e5n byn, en liten samling av herdehyddor vid dalens nedre \u00e4nde, till den halvt raserade helgedomen n\u00e4ra glaci\u00e4rkanten vid den \u00f6vre \u00e4nden. D\u00e4r smattrade sidenflaggorna i den eviga vinden fr\u00e5n de h\u00f6ga bergen och d\u00e4r l\u00e4mnade fromma bybor offerg\u00e5vor av korngryn och torkade teblad. Ljuset och isen gjorde att dalens \u00f6vre \u00e4nde st\u00e4ndigt omgavs av regnb\u00e5gar.\n\nGrottan l\u00e5g ett litet stycke ovanf\u00f6r stigen. F\u00f6r m\u00e5nga \u00e5r sedan hade det bott en helig man d\u00e4r, som hade mediterat och fastat och \u00e4gnat sig \u00e5t b\u00f6n, s\u00e5 platsen var helgad av v\u00f6rdnad f\u00f6r hans minne. Grottan var omkring tio meter djup och golvet var alldeles torrt. Det var en idealisk lya f\u00f6r bj\u00f6rn eller varg, men d\u00e4r inne levde bara f\u00e5glar och fladderm\u00f6ss.\n\nDen skepnad som nu l\u00e5g hopkrupen strax innanf\u00f6r ing\u00e5ngen, med svarta \u00f6gon som spanade \u00e4n h\u00e4r och \u00e4n d\u00e4r och med de skarpa \u00f6ronen p\u00e5 helsp\u00e4nn, var varken f\u00e5gel eller fladdermus. Solskenet fl\u00f6dade rikligt \u00f6ver den gl\u00e4nsande gyllene p\u00e4lsen och aph\u00e4nderna vred och v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 en tallkotte. Apan br\u00f6t av fj\u00e4llen med sina smala fingrar och krafsade fram de sista fr\u00f6na.\n\nBakom honom, alldeles bortom den punkt dit solskenet n\u00e5dde, h\u00f6ll mrs Coulter p\u00e5 att v\u00e4rma vatten i en liten kastrull \u00f6ver en naftaspis. Hennes d\u00e6mon mumlade varnande, s\u00e5 hon tittade upp.\n\nEn ung byflicka kom g\u00e5ende l\u00e4ngs skogsstigen. Mrs Coulter visste vem hon var, f\u00f6r flickan Ama hade kommit med mat till henne under n\u00e5gra dagar redan. N\u00e4r mrs Coulter anl\u00e4nde hade hon gjort klart att hon var en helig kvinna som \u00e4gnade sig \u00e5t meditation och b\u00f6n, och att hon hade svurit att aldrig tala med en man. Ama var den enda hon ville ha bes\u00f6k av.\n\nMen den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen kom flickan inte ensam. Hennes far hade f\u00f6ljt med, och medan Ama kl\u00e4ttrade upp till grottan, s\u00e5 v\u00e4ntade han en bit l\u00e4ngre bort.\n\nAma n\u00e5dde fram till grott\u00f6ppningen och bugade sig.\n\n\"Min far har skickat mig med b\u00f6ner om er v\u00e4lvilja\", sa hon.\n\n\"Var h\u00e4lsad, barn\", sa mrs Coulter.\n\nFlickan bar p\u00e5 ett bylte insvept i bleknat bomullstyg som hon lade vid mrs Coulters f\u00f6tter. Sedan h\u00f6ll hon fram en liten bukett blommor, ett dussin vitsippor som bundits samman med lite bomullstr\u00e5d, och b\u00f6rjade tala med snabb, nerv\u00f6s r\u00f6st. Mrs Coulter f\u00f6rstod lite grand av bergsfolkets spr\u00e5k, men det d\u00f6g inte att l\u00e5ta dem f\u00e5 veta hur mycket. S\u00e5 hon log och gestikulerade att flickan skulle st\u00e4nga igen munnen och ist\u00e4llet titta p\u00e5 deras b\u00e5da d\u00e6moner. Den gyllene apan h\u00f6ll fram sin lilla svarta hand, och Amas fj\u00e4rilsd\u00e6mon fl\u00f6g n\u00e4rmare och n\u00e4rmare, \u00e4nda tills han kunde sl\u00e5 sig ner p\u00e5 ett valkigt l\u00e5ngfinger.\n\nApan f\u00f6rde honom l\u00e5ngsamt till sitt \u00f6ra, och mrs Coulter k\u00e4nde hur en tunn str\u00f6m av f\u00f6rst\u00e5else fl\u00f6t in i hennes sinne och klargjorde flickans ord. Byborna var glada \u00f6ver att en helig kvinna som hon sj\u00e4lv hade s\u00f6kt tillflykt i grottan, men det gick ett rykte om att hon hade en f\u00f6ljeslagare, som p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt var m\u00e4ktig och farlig.\n\nDetta skr\u00e4mde byborna. Var denna andra person mrs Coulters herre eller var det hennes tj\u00e4nare? Ville hon n\u00e5got ont? Varf\u00f6r hade hon kommit \u00f6verhuvudtaget? T\u00e4nkte de stanna l\u00e4nge? Ama framf\u00f6rde fr\u00e5gorna tillsammans med tusentals onda aningar.\n\nEn ovanlig l\u00f6sning slog mrs Coulter medan d\u00e6monens f\u00f6rst\u00e5else \u00f6verf\u00f6rdes till henne sj\u00e4lv. Hon skulle kunna ber\u00e4tta sanningen. Inte hela, f\u00f6rst\u00e5s, men en del av den. Hon skrattade inombords \u00e5t id\u00e9n, men h\u00f6ll skrattet borta fr\u00e5n r\u00f6sten medan hon f\u00f6rklarade:\n\n\"Ja, jag har n\u00e5gon annan hos mig. Men det \u00e4r inget att vara r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r. Det \u00e4r min dotter, och hon har drabbats av en besv\u00e4rjelse som f\u00e5tt henne att somna. Vi har kommit hit f\u00f6r att g\u00f6mma oss f\u00f6r trollkarlen som lade besv\u00e4rjelsen p\u00e5 henne, medan jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker bota henne och skydda henne. Du f\u00e5r komma och titta p\u00e5 henne, om du vill.\"\n\nAma lugnades n\u00e4stan av mrs Coulters mjuka r\u00f6st, men var fortfarande lite r\u00e4dd, f\u00f6r talet om trollkarlar och besv\u00e4rjelser skr\u00e4mde henne. Men den gyllene apan h\u00f6ll hennes d\u00e6mon s\u00e5 mjukt och f\u00f6rsiktigt, och hon var dessutom nyfiken, s\u00e5 hon f\u00f6ljde med mrs Coulter in i grottan.\n\nHennes far, som stod p\u00e5 stigen nedanf\u00f6r, tog ett steg fram\u00e5t och hans kr\u00e5kd\u00e6mon str\u00e4ckte ut vingarna n\u00e5gra g\u00e5nger, men han stannade d\u00e4r han var.\n\nMrs Coulter t\u00e4nde ett ljus, f\u00f6r dagsljuset f\u00f6rsvann snabbt, och tog med sig Ama till den bortre \u00e4nden av grottan. Den lilla flickans \u00f6gon glittrade vid\u00f6ppna i dunklet, och hennes fingrar r\u00f6rde sig mot varandra i en upprepad r\u00f6relse med finger mot tumme, finger mot tumme, f\u00f6r genom att f\u00f6rvirra de onda andarna kunde hon kanske avv\u00e4rja alla faror.\n\n\"Ser du?\" sa mrs Coulter. \"Hon \u00e4r alldeles ofarlig. Det \u00e4r inget att vara r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r.\"\n\nAma tittade p\u00e5 figuren i sovs\u00e4cken. Det var en flicka som var kanske tre eller fyra \u00e5r \u00e4ldre \u00e4n hon sj\u00e4lv, med en h\u00e5rf\u00e4rg som Ama aldrig tidigare hade sett \u2013 blont gulbrunt h\u00e5r som p\u00e5 ett lejon. L\u00e4pparna var h\u00e5rt sammanpressade, och hon sov utan tvekan v\u00e4ldigt djupt, f\u00f6r hennes d\u00e6mon l\u00e5g hoprullad och medvetsl\u00f6s vid hennes hals. Han hade samma form som en mungo, men var mindre och hade gyllenr\u00f6d h\u00e5rrem. Den gyllene apan smekte mjukt och f\u00f6rsiktigt p\u00e4lsen mellan den sovande d\u00e6monens \u00f6ron, och medan Ama s\u00e5g p\u00e5 r\u00f6rde den mungoliknande varelsen sig oroligt och gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett str\u00e4vt litet jamande. Amas d\u00e6mon pressade sig i musform t\u00e4tt intill Amas nacke och kikade skr\u00e4mt fram genom hennes h\u00e5r.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r din far vad du har sett\", fortsatte mrs Coulter. \"Ingen ond ande. Bara min dotter, sovande av en besv\u00e4rjelse och under mitt beskydd. Ama, var sn\u00e4ll och s\u00e4g till din far att det m\u00e5ste vara en hemlighet. Ingen utom ni tv\u00e5 f\u00e5r veta att Lyra finns h\u00e4r. Om trollkarlen visste var hon fanns, skulle han s\u00f6ka upp henne och f\u00f6rg\u00f6ra b\u00e5de henne och mig, och allting i n\u00e4rheten. S\u00e5 var tyst! Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r din far, men inte f\u00f6r n\u00e5gon annan.\"\n\nHon kn\u00e4b\u00f6jde bredvid Lyra och smekte undan det fuktiga h\u00e5ret fr\u00e5n det sovande ansiktet innan hon b\u00f6jde sig ner f\u00f6r att kyssa sin dotters kind. Sedan tittade hon upp med \u00f6gon fyllda av sorg och k\u00e4rlek, och log mot Ama med en s\u00e5 tapper blick att den lilla flickans \u00f6gon fylldes av t\u00e5rar.\n\nMrs Coulter tog Ama i handen n\u00e4r de gick tillbaka till grott\u00f6ppningen och s\u00e5g flickans far betrakta dem nerv\u00f6st d\u00e4r nerifr\u00e5n. Kvinnan f\u00f6rde ihop sina h\u00e4nder och bugade sig, och han besvarade l\u00e4ttad h\u00e4lsningen medan hans dotter, efter att ha bugat sig b\u00e5de mot mrs Coulter och mot den f\u00f6rtrollade soverskan, v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 klacken och skuttade ner f\u00f6r sluttningen i skymningsljuset. Far och dotter bugade sig \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng mot grottan, och gav sig sedan iv\u00e4g i dunklet mellan de stora rhododendronbuskarna.\n\nMrs Coulter \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till vattnet p\u00e5 spisen, som n\u00e4stan hade kokat upp.\n\nHon satte sig p\u00e5 huk och smulade ner n\u00e5gra torkade l\u00f6v i vattnet, tv\u00e5 nypor fr\u00e5n den ena p\u00e5sen, en fr\u00e5n den andra, och tillsatte sedan tre droppar av en blekgul olja. Hon r\u00f6rde om ordentligt, och r\u00e4knade tyst under fem minuter. Sedan tog hon kitteln fr\u00e5n spisen, satte sig ner och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att v\u00e4tskan skulle svalna.\n\nRunt omkring henne fanns en del av utrustningen fr\u00e5n l\u00e4gret vid den bl\u00e5 sj\u00f6n, d\u00e4r sir Charles Latrom hade d\u00f6tt: en sovs\u00e4ck, en ryggs\u00e4ck med kl\u00e4dombyten och tv\u00e4ttutrustning. D\u00e4r fanns en l\u00e5da av segelduk runt en kraftig tr\u00e4ram, fodrad med glansull, fylld med olika vetenskapliga instrument. D\u00e4r fanns \u00e4ven en pistol i ett h\u00f6lster.\n\nBrygden svalnade hastigt i den tunna luften, och s\u00e5 snart den var kroppstempererad h\u00e4llde hon den f\u00f6rsiktigt i en pl\u00e5tmugg och tog den med sig till grottans inre. Apd\u00e6monen sl\u00e4ppte tallkotten och f\u00f6ljde med.\n\nMrs Coulter st\u00e4llde f\u00f6rsiktigt ifr\u00e5n sig muggen p\u00e5 en l\u00e5g sten och kn\u00e4b\u00f6jde bredvid figuren i sovs\u00e4cken. Den gyllene apan kr\u00f6p ihop p\u00e5 den andra sidan, redo att gripa tag i Pantalaimon om han skulle vakna.\n\nLyras h\u00e5r var fuktigt och \u00f6gonen r\u00f6rde sig bakom de slutna \u00f6gonlocken. Hon hade b\u00f6rjat vakna: mrs Coulter hade k\u00e4nt hur \u00f6gonlocken hade fladdrat till n\u00e4r hon kysste henne, och hon visste att hon inte hade l\u00e5ng tid p\u00e5 sig innan Lyra skulle ha vaknat helt och h\u00e5llet.\n\nMrs Coulter stack in ena handen under flickans huvud och str\u00f6k med den andra bort det fuktiga h\u00e5ret fr\u00e5n hennes panna. Lyra \u00f6ppnade munnen och st\u00f6nade l\u00e5gt; Pantalaimon gled lite n\u00e4rmare hennes br\u00f6stkorg. Den gyllene apan tog aldrig \u00f6gonen fr\u00e5n Lyras d\u00e6mon och de sm\u00e5 svarta fingrarna ryckte f\u00f6rsiktigt i kanten p\u00e5 sovs\u00e4cken.\n\nEn blick fr\u00e5n mrs Coulter fick honom att sl\u00e4ppa taget och backa en handsbredd. Kvinnan lyfte f\u00f6rsiktigt upp dottern s\u00e5 att axlarna inte l\u00e4ngre l\u00e5g mot marken och huvudet rullade till. D\u00e5 drog Lyra hastigt efter andan och \u00f6gonen \u00f6ppnades till h\u00e4lften, fladdrande, tunga.\n\n\"Roger\", mumlade hon. \"Roger... var \u00e4r du... jag ser inget...\"\n\n\"Sch\", viskade hennes mor, \"sch, min \u00e4lskling! Drick det h\u00e4r!\"\n\nHon h\u00f6ll muggen mot Lyras mun och lutade den f\u00f6rsiktigt, s\u00e5 att en droppe fuktade flickans l\u00e4ppar. Lyra k\u00e4nde den med tungan och slickade i sig den, och d\u00e5 l\u00e4t mrs Coulter lite mer av v\u00e4tskan droppa ner i hennes mun, mycket f\u00f6rsiktigt, och l\u00e4t henne sv\u00e4lja varje klunk innan hon fick lite till.\n\nDet tog flera minuter, men till slut var muggen tom och mrs Coulter lade ner sin dotter. S\u00e5 fort Lyras huvud l\u00e5g p\u00e5 marken igen kr\u00f6p Pantalaimon tillbaka och lade sig runt hennes hals. Hans gyllenr\u00f6da p\u00e4ls var lika fuktig som hennes h\u00e5r. De f\u00f6ll \u00e5terigen i djup s\u00f6mn.\n\nDen gyllene apan r\u00f6rde sig smidigt tillbaka till grott\u00f6ppningen och satt \u00e5terigen och betraktade stigen. Mrs Coulter doppade en tygbit i en sk\u00e5l fylld med kallt vatten och baddade Lyras ansikte, och lossade sedan p\u00e5 sovs\u00e4cken och tv\u00e4ttade hennes armar och nacke, f\u00f6r Lyra var alldeles varm. Sedan tog flickans mor en kam och redde f\u00f6rsiktigt ut tovorna i hennes h\u00e5r, str\u00f6k tillbaka det fr\u00e5n pannan och formade en prydlig mittbena.\n\nHon l\u00e4mnade sovs\u00e4cken \u00f6ppen f\u00f6r att flickan skulle svalna, och vecklade sedan upp byltet som Ama hade haft med sig: n\u00e5gra platta br\u00f6d, en kaka hoppressat te, lite klibbigt ris insvept i ett stort l\u00f6v. Det var dags att t\u00e4nda elden, f\u00f6r bergens kyla var h\u00e5rd om natten. Metodiskt gjorde hon i ordning brasan, h\u00f6gg t\u00e4ndved, staplade veden och slog eld p\u00e5 en t\u00e4ndsticka. D\u00e4r hade hon ytterligare en sak att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5: t\u00e4ndstickorna var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att ta slut, liksom naftan till spisen. Fr\u00e5n och med nu m\u00e5ste hon h\u00e5lla liv i elden b\u00e5de dag och natt.\n\nHennes d\u00e6mon var missn\u00f6jd. Han gillade inte det hon gjorde h\u00e4r i grottan, och n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte uttrycka sitt missn\u00f6je avf\u00e4rdade hon honom bara. Han v\u00e4nde ryggen till, med f\u00f6rakt i varje r\u00f6relse medan han spr\u00e4tte iv\u00e4g fj\u00e4llen fr\u00e5n tallkotten ut i m\u00f6rkret. Hon brydde sig inte om honom, utan arbetade ist\u00e4llet s\u00e4kert och skickligt med att bygga upp elden och s\u00e4tta p\u00e5 kitteln f\u00f6r att kunna v\u00e4rma vatten till te.\n\nMen hans skeptiska inst\u00e4llning p\u00e5verkade henne \u00e4nd\u00e5, och medan hon smulade ner den m\u00f6rkgr\u00e5 teklumpen i vattnet funderade hon p\u00e5 vad i hela v\u00e4rlden det var hon trodde att hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med, och om hon hade blivit galen, och, om och om igen, vad som skulle h\u00e4nda n\u00e4r kyrkan kom p\u00e5 henne. Den gyllene apan hade r\u00e4tt. Det var inte bara Lyra hon g\u00f6mde: hon g\u00f6mde sig f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv.\n\n_Den lille pojken kom ut ur m\u00f6rkret, skr\u00e4md och hoppfull, viskande om och om igen:_\n\n_\"Lyra \u2013 Lyra \u2013 Lyra...\"_\n\n_Bakom honom kom andra skepnader, \u00e4nnu mer skugglika \u00e4n han sj\u00e4lv, \u00e4nnu tystare. De verkade h\u00f6ra till samma s\u00e4llskap och vara av samma slag, men de hade inga synliga ansikten och inga r\u00f6ster som talade. Pojkens r\u00f6st var aldrig mer \u00e4n en viskning och ansiktet var skuggat och oskarpt, som n\u00e5got till h\u00e4lften gl\u00f6mt._\n\n_\"Lyra... Lyra...\"_\n\n_Var var de?_\n\n_P\u00e5 en stor sl\u00e4tt d\u00e4r inget ljus kom fr\u00e5n den j\u00e4rnm\u00f6rka himlen, och d\u00e4r dimman skymde horisonten \u00e5t alla h\u00e5ll. Marken var bar jord, trampad sl\u00e4t av tyngden av miljontals f\u00f6tter, trots att dessa f\u00f6tter v\u00e4gde mindre \u00e4n fj\u00e4drar; s\u00e5 det m\u00e5ste vara tiden sj\u00e4lv som pressat den sl\u00e4t, trots att tiden inte gick p\u00e5 denna plats. S\u00e5 m\u00e5ste det helt enkelt vara. Detta var alla platsers \u00e4nde och den sista av alla v\u00e4rldar._\n\n_\"Lyra...\"_\n\n_Varf\u00f6r var de d\u00e4r?_\n\n_De var f\u00e4ngslade. N\u00e5gon hade beg\u00e5tt ett brott, men ingen visste vilket det var, eller vem som hade beg\u00e5tt det, eller vilken makt det var som satt som domare._\n\n_Varf\u00f6r fortsatte den lille pojken att ropa Lyras namn?_\n\n_Hopp._\n\n_Vilka var de?_\n\n_Andar._\n\n_Men Lyra kunde inte r\u00f6ra vid dem, hur mycket hon \u00e4n f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte. Hennes f\u00f6rbluffade h\u00e4nder r\u00f6rde sig tv\u00e4rs igenom dem, g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng, medan den lille pojken stod kvar och bad och b\u00f6nade._\n\n_\"Roger\", sa hon, men hennes r\u00f6st var bara en viskning, \"\u00e5h, Roger, var \u00e4r du? Vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r ett st\u00e4lle?\"_\n\n_\"Det \u00e4r dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, Lyra\", svarade han. \"Jag vet inte vad jag ska g\u00f6ra \u2013 jag vet inte om jag ska vara h\u00e4r f\u00f6r alltid, och jag vet inte om jag har gjort n\u00e5t dumt eller n\u00e5t s\u00e5nt, f\u00f6r jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte vara sn\u00e4ll, men jag hatar det, jag \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r alltihop, jag hatar det \u2013\"_\n\n_Och Lyra svarade: \"Jag_\n\n## 2\n\n## Balthamos och Baruch\n\nEN VINDPUST FOR FRAM \u00d6VER MITT ANSIKTE, D\u00c4RVID RESTE SIG H\u00c5REN P\u00c5 MIN KROPP.\n\nJOB\n\n\"H\u00c5LL TYST\", SA Will. \"H\u00e5ll tyst, bara. St\u00f6r mig inte.\"\n\nDet var precis efter det att Lyra hade tagits till f\u00e5nga, precis efter det att Will hade kommit ner fr\u00e5n berget, precis efter det att h\u00e4xan hade d\u00f6dat hans pappa. Han t\u00e4nde den lilla lyktan han hade tagit ur pappans packning och anv\u00e4nde de torra t\u00e4ndstickor som f\u00f6ljde med. Sedan satte han sig p\u00e5 huk i l\u00e4 av klippan och \u00f6ppnade Lyras ryggs\u00e4ck.\n\nHan trevade inuti med sin friska hand och hittade den tunga, sammetsinslagna alethiometern. Den glittrade i lyktskenet och han h\u00f6ll ut den mot de b\u00e5da skepnader som stod bredvid honom, de som kallade sig \u00e4nglar.\n\n\"Kan ni l\u00e4sa den h\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Nej\", sa en r\u00f6st. \"F\u00f6lj med oss. Du m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja med oss. F\u00f6lj med till lord Asriel.\"\n\n\"Vem sa \u00e5t er att f\u00f6lja efter min pappa? Ni sa att han inte visste om att ni f\u00f6ljde efter honom\", sa Will argsint. \"Men han sa att ni skulle dyka upp. Han visste mer \u00e4n ni trodde. Vem har skickat er?\"\n\n\"Ingen har skickat oss. Bara vi sj\u00e4lva\", h\u00f6rdes r\u00f6sten. \"Vi vill tj\u00e4na lord Asriel. Och den d\u00f6de mannen, vad ville _han_ att du skulle g\u00f6ra med kniven?\"\n\nWill tvekade.\n\n\"Han sa att jag skulle ta den till lord Asriel\", sa han.\n\n\"F\u00f6lj med oss d\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Nej. Inte f\u00f6rr\u00e4n jag har hittat Lyra.\"\n\nHan vek ihop sammetstyget runt alethiometern och stoppade ner den i sin egen ryggs\u00e4ck. Han st\u00e4ngde den och svepte sedan faderns tunga mantel omkring sig som skydd mot regnet och kr\u00f6p ihop d\u00e4r han var, samtidigt som han s\u00e5g stadigt mot de b\u00e5da skuggorna.\n\n\"Talar ni sanning?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Ja.\"\n\n\"\u00c4r ni starkare \u00e4n m\u00e4nniskor, eller svagare?\"\n\n\"Svagare. Du har riktigt k\u00f6tt, det har inte vi. Men du m\u00e5ste \u00e4nd\u00e5 f\u00f6lja med oss.\"\n\n\"Nej. Om jag \u00e4r den starkare, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste ni lyda mig. Dessutom har jag kniven. S\u00e5 jag kan best\u00e4mma \u00f6ver er: hj\u00e4lp mig att hitta Lyra. Jag struntar i hur l\u00e5ng tid det tar, men jag ska hitta henne f\u00f6rst, och _sen_ f\u00f6ljer jag med till lord Asriel.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da skepnaderna stod tysta i flera sekunder. Sedan gled de iv\u00e4g och samtalade l\u00e5gt med varandra, s\u00e5 att Will inte kunde h\u00f6ra ett ord av vad de sa.\n\nTill slut n\u00e4rmade de sig igen.\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5. Du beg\u00e5r ett misstag, men du ger oss inget val. Vi ska hj\u00e4lpa dig att hitta flickan.\"\n\nWill stirrade genom m\u00f6rkret f\u00f6r att kunna se dem tydligare, men regnet hindrade honom.\n\n\"Kom n\u00e4rmare s\u00e5 att jag kan f\u00e5 titta p\u00e5 er\", sa Will.\n\nDe n\u00e4rmade sig, men tycktes bara bli \u00e4nnu otydligare.\n\n\"Kommer jag att se er b\u00e4ttre p\u00e5 dagen?\"\n\n\"Nej, s\u00e4mre. Vi tillh\u00f6r inte n\u00e5gon av de h\u00f6gre \u00e4nglarangerna.\"\n\n\"Om inte jag kan se er, s\u00e5 g\u00f6r ingen annan det heller, s\u00e5 d\u00e5 kan ni h\u00e5lla er g\u00f6mda. F\u00f6rs\u00f6k ta reda p\u00e5 vart Lyra har tagit v\u00e4gen. Hon kan inte ha hunnit l\u00e5ngt. Det fanns en kvinna \u2013 hon kommer att vara hos henne \u2013 kvinnan tog henne. G\u00e5 och leta nu och kom tillbaka och ber\u00e4tta vad ni har hittat.\"\n\n\u00c4nglarna steg upp i den stormiga luften och f\u00f6rsvann. Will k\u00e4nde hur en pl\u00f6tslig vresig tungsinthet kom \u00f6ver honom; han hade inte haft mycket kraft kvar innan striden med fadern och nu var han helt f\u00e4rdig. Det enda han ville g\u00f6ra var att sluta \u00f6gonen, som var s\u00e5 tunga och s\u00e5 \u00f6mma av all gr\u00e5t.\n\nHan drog manteln \u00f6ver huvudet, pressade ryggs\u00e4cken mot br\u00f6stet och somnade p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick.\n\n\"Ingenstans\", sa en r\u00f6st.\n\nWill sov djupt, men h\u00f6rde r\u00f6sten och k\u00e4mpade sig vaken. Till slut (och det tog st\u00f6rre delen av en minut, eftersom han var s\u00e5 djupt medvetsl\u00f6s) lyckades han \u00f6ppna \u00f6gonen mot det klara morgonljuset han hade framf\u00f6r sig.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r du?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Bredvid dig\", svarade \u00e4ngeln. \"Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen.\"\n\nSolen hade nyss g\u00e5tt upp och klipporna och mossan lyste friskt och klart i morgonljuset, men han s\u00e5g ingen n\u00e5gonstans.\n\n\"Jag sa ju att jag skulle vara sv\u00e5rare att se i dagsljus\", fortsatte r\u00f6sten. \"Du ser oss b\u00e4st i halvljus, i skymningen eller i gryningen, och n\u00e4st b\u00e4st i m\u00f6rker; allra s\u00e4mst i solsken. Min kamrat och jag har s\u00f6kt l\u00e4ngre ner l\u00e4ngs berget, men utan att hitta vare sig kvinnan eller barnet. Men det finns en sj\u00f6 med bl\u00e5tt vatten, d\u00e4r hon m\u00e5ste ha slagit l\u00e4ger. Det finns en d\u00f6d man d\u00e4r och en h\u00e4xa som f\u00f6rt\u00e4rts av en Geng\u00e5ngare.\"\n\n\"En d\u00f6d man? Hur ser han ut?\"\n\n\"Han var i sextio\u00e5rs\u00e5ldern. K\u00f6ttig, men sl\u00e4thudad. Silvergr\u00e5tt h\u00e5r. Kl\u00e4dd i dyra kl\u00e4der och med sp\u00e5r av en tung parfym omkring sig.\"\n\n\"Sir Charles\", sa Will. \"Det m\u00e5ste vara han. Mrs Coulter m\u00e5ste ha d\u00f6dat honom. Det var i alla fall bra.\"\n\n\"Hon har l\u00e4mnat sp\u00e5r. Min kamrat har f\u00f6ljt dem och kommer att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda n\u00e4r han har tagit reda p\u00e5 vart hon har tagit v\u00e4gen. Jag stannar hos dig.\"\n\nWill reste sig upp och s\u00e5g sig omkring. Stormen hade rensat luften och morgonen var frisk och klar, vilket bara gjorde scenen omkring honom \u00e4nnu mer pl\u00e5gsam. I n\u00e4rheten l\u00e5g kropparna efter flera av de h\u00e4xor som hade eskorterat honom och Lyra till m\u00f6tet med hans pappa. En svart kr\u00e5ka med grov n\u00e4bb h\u00f6ll redan p\u00e5 att slita s\u00f6nder ansiktet p\u00e5 en av dem och Will kunde se hur en \u00e4nnu st\u00f6rre f\u00e5gel kretsade ovanf\u00f6r, som om den f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte best\u00e4mma sig f\u00f6r vilket som var det b\u00e4sta bytet.\n\nWill tittade p\u00e5 var och en av kropparna i tur och ordning, men ingen av dem var Serafina Pekkala, h\u00e4xklanens drottning och Lyras speciella v\u00e4n. Sedan mindes han: Hade hon inte pl\u00f6tsligt gett sig iv\u00e4g p\u00e5 n\u00e5got annat \u00e4rende strax innan det blev kv\u00e4ll?\n\nS\u00e5 hon kunde fortfarande vara vid liv. Tanken p\u00e5 detta muntrade upp honom och han spanade mot horisonten efter n\u00e5got sp\u00e5r efter henne, men fann inget annat \u00e4n bl\u00e5 himmel och vassa klippor i alla v\u00e4derstreck.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r du?\" sa han till \u00e4ngeln.\n\n\"Bredvid dig\", h\u00f6rdes r\u00f6sten, \"som alltid.\"\n\nWill tittade till v\u00e4nster, varifr\u00e5n r\u00f6sten hade kommit, men s\u00e5g ingenting.\n\n\"S\u00e5 ingen kan se dig. Kan n\u00e5n annan \u00e4n jag h\u00f6ra dig?\"\n\n\"Inte om jag viskar\", svarade \u00e4ngeln syrligt.\n\n\"Vad heter du? Har ni n\u00e5gra namn?\"\n\n\"Ja, det har vi. Mitt namn \u00e4r Balthamos. Min kamrat heter Baruch.\"\n\nWill funderade p\u00e5 vad han skulle g\u00f6ra. N\u00e4r man v\u00e4ljer en v\u00e4g bland m\u00e5nga, s\u00e5 upph\u00f6r alla de v\u00e4gar man inte v\u00e4ljer att existera, likt ljus som blir utbl\u00e5sta, som om de aldrig hade funnits. I just det \u00f6gonblicket existerade Wills samtliga val, men f\u00f6r att de skulle kunna forts\u00e4tta att finnas, s\u00e5 fick han inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5gonting. Han var trots allt tvungen att v\u00e4lja.\n\n\"Vi g\u00e5r ner f\u00f6r berget\", sa han. \"Vi g\u00e5r ner till den d\u00e4r sj\u00f6n. Det kanske finns n\u00e5t d\u00e4r som jag kan anv\u00e4nda. Hur som helst h\u00e5ller jag p\u00e5 att bli t\u00f6rstig. Jag tar den v\u00e4g jag tror \u00e4r r\u00e4tt, s\u00e5 f\u00e5r du visa mig v\u00e4gen om jag g\u00e5r vilse.\"\n\nDet var f\u00f6rst sedan han hade g\u00e5tt i flera minuter ner f\u00f6r den stigl\u00f6sa och steniga sluttningen som Will ins\u00e5g att handen inte gjorde ont l\u00e4ngre. Faktum var att han inte hade t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 skadan alls sedan han hade vaknat.\n\nHan stannade och tittade p\u00e5 det grova linnebandage som hans pappa hade satt p\u00e5 efter deras strid. Det var flottigt av salvan han hade strukit p\u00e5, men det fanns inga sp\u00e5r av blod. Efter det oavbrutna bl\u00f6dandet sedan f\u00f6rlusten av fingrarna var detta s\u00e5 v\u00e4lkommet att hans hj\u00e4rta tog ett skutt av gl\u00e4dje.\n\nHan provade att b\u00f6ja alla fingrarna. Jovisst, s\u00e5ret gjorde fortfarande ont, men det var en annan sorts sm\u00e4rta: inte den djupa livsutt\u00f6mmande v\u00e4rken fr\u00e5n dagen innan, utan en svagare, mer molande k\u00e4nsla. Det k\u00e4ndes som om handen h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e4kas. Och detta hade hans pappa \u00e5stadkommit. H\u00e4xornas besv\u00e4rjelse hade misslyckats, men hans pappa hade botat honom.\n\nHan fortsatte uppmuntrad ner f\u00f6r sluttningen.\n\nDet tog tre timmar och flera anvisningar innan han n\u00e5dde fram till den lilla bl\u00e5 sj\u00f6n. Han hade hunnit bli br\u00e4nnande t\u00f6rstig vid det laget och manteln var b\u00e5de tung och varm i den gassande solen. Men s\u00e5 snart han tagit av sig den saknade han dess skydd, f\u00f6r d\u00e5 sveddes hans bara armar och nacke av solen. Han sl\u00e4ppte ifr\u00e5n sig b\u00e5de mantel och ryggs\u00e4ck p\u00e5 marken och sprang den sista lilla biten till vattnet och f\u00f6ll med ansiktet ned\u00e5t och slukade och svalde tacksamt munfull efter munfull. Vattnet var s\u00e5 kallt att huvudet och t\u00e4nderna v\u00e4rkte.\n\nS\u00e5 snart han hade sl\u00e4ckt t\u00f6rsten satte han sig upp och tittade sig omkring. Han hade inte varit i skick att l\u00e4gga m\u00e4rke till n\u00e5gonting dagen innan, men nu s\u00e5g han tydligare vattnets intensiva f\u00e4rg och kunde h\u00f6ra surret av insekter omkring sig.\n\n\"Balthamos?\"\n\n\"Alltid n\u00e4rvarande.\"\n\n\"Var \u00e4r den d\u00f6de mannen?\"\n\n\"P\u00e5 andra sidan den h\u00f6ga klippan till h\u00f6ger om dig.\"\n\n\"Finns det n\u00e5gra Geng\u00e5ngare i n\u00e4rheten?\"\n\n\"Nej, inga.\"\n\nWill plockade upp ryggs\u00e4cken och manteln och letade sig fram l\u00e4ngs sj\u00f6kanten till den klippa Balthamos hade pekat ut.\n\nBortom den fanns ett litet l\u00e4ger med fem eller sex t\u00e4lt och resterna av l\u00e4gereldar. Will n\u00e4rmade sig f\u00f6rsiktigt ifall n\u00e5gon var vid liv och l\u00e5g dold.\n\nMen tystnaden var djup och det var bara knirrandet fr\u00e5n insekterna som skrapade p\u00e5 ytan. T\u00e4lten stod or\u00f6rliga, vattenytan var lugn och de krusningar han sj\u00e4lv hade \u00e5stadkommit n\u00e4r han drack h\u00f6ll l\u00e5ngsamt p\u00e5 att d\u00f6 ut. En glimt av en gr\u00f6n r\u00f6relse i n\u00e4rheten av foten fick honom att hoppa till, men det var bara en liten \u00f6dla.\n\nT\u00e4lten var sydda av ett kamouflagef\u00e4rgat tyg, vilket bara gjorde att de syntes \u00e4nnu tydligare bland de m\u00f6rkr\u00f6da klipporna. Han tittade in i det f\u00f6rsta och fann att det var tomt. Det var samma sak med det andra, men i det tredje hittade han n\u00e5got v\u00e4rdefullt: ett kokk\u00e4rl och en ask t\u00e4ndstickor. D\u00e4r fanns \u00e4ven ett m\u00f6rkt, avl\u00e5ngt f\u00f6rem\u00e5l som var lika l\u00e5ngt och lika tjockt som hans underarm. Vid f\u00f6rsta anblicken trodde han att det var l\u00e4der, men i solskenet s\u00e5g han tydligt att det var torkat k\u00f6tt.\n\nN\u00e5, han hade ju faktiskt en kniv. Han skar av en liten bit av k\u00f6ttet och fann att det var segt och aningen salt, men gott och smakrikt. Han stoppade ner k\u00f6ttet och t\u00e4ndstickorna och kokk\u00e4rlet i ryggs\u00e4cken och letade igenom de \u00f6vriga t\u00e4lten, men de var tomma.\n\nHan sparade det st\u00f6rsta t\u00e4ltet till sist.\n\n\"\u00c4r det d\u00e4r inne som den d\u00f6de mannen ligger?\" sa han rakt ut i luften.\n\n\"Ja\", sa Balthamos. \"Han blev f\u00f6rgiftad.\"\n\nWill gick f\u00f6rsiktigt fram till ing\u00e5ngen, som var v\u00e4nd mot sj\u00f6n. Utvr\u00e4kt bredvid en omkullv\u00e4lt tygstol l\u00e5g liket av den man som i Wills v\u00e4rld var k\u00e4nd som sir Charles Latrom och i Lyras v\u00e4rld som lord Boreal, den man som stal hennes alethiometer, vilket i sin tur ledde Will till den vassa kniven. Sir Charles hade varit hal, o\u00e4rlig och m\u00e4ktig, men nu var han d\u00f6d. Ansiktet var ot\u00e4ckt f\u00f6rvridet, s\u00e5 Will ville og\u00e4rna titta p\u00e5 det, men en blick in i t\u00e4ltet visade att det fanns gott om saker att stj\u00e4la, s\u00e5 han klev \u00f6ver kroppen f\u00f6r att kunna titta n\u00e4rmare.\n\nHans far, soldaten, uppt\u00e4cktsresanden, skulle ha vetat precis vad han borde ta. Will var tvungen att gissa. Han tog ett litet f\u00f6rstoringsglas i ett st\u00e5letui, eftersom han kunde anv\u00e4nda det till att t\u00e4nda med, vilket skulle spara p\u00e5 t\u00e4ndstickorna; en rulle vaxad lintr\u00e5d; en vattenflaska som var mycket l\u00e4ttare \u00e4n den getskinnsplunta han hade haft med sig, och en liten pl\u00e5tmugg; en liten kikare; en rulle med guldmynt stor som en manstumme, invirad i papper; en f\u00f6rstahj\u00e4lpenl\u00e5da; vattenreningstabletter; ett paket kaffe; tre paket pressad, torkad frukt; en p\u00e5se havrekakor; sex mintchokladkakor; en ask fiskekrokar och en rulle nylonlina; och till sist ett anteckningsblock, ett par pennor och en liten ficklampa.\n\nHan packade ner alltihop i ryggs\u00e4cken, skar av en bit k\u00f6tt till, samt fyllde magen och sedan vattenflaskan med vatten fr\u00e5n sj\u00f6n.\n\n\"Tror du jag beh\u00f6ver n\u00e5t mer?\" sa han till Balthamos.\n\n\"Du kunde beh\u00f6va lite f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd\", kom svaret. \"N\u00e5gon sorts egenskap som l\u00e5ter dig uppfatta visdom och g\u00f6r att du respekterar och lyder den.\"\n\n\"\u00c4r du vis?\"\n\n\"Mycket mer \u00e4n du.\"\n\n\"Jaha, men det kan inte jag avg\u00f6ra, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du. \u00c4r du m\u00e4nniska? Du l\u00e5ter som en m\u00e4nniska.\"\n\n\"Baruch var m\u00e4nniska. Det var inte jag. Nu \u00e4r han \u00e4ngel.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5...\" Will upph\u00f6rde med det han hade h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 med, vilket var att l\u00e4gga de tyngsta f\u00f6rem\u00e5len l\u00e4ngst ner i ryggs\u00e4cken, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte titta p\u00e5 \u00e4ngeln. Det fanns inget att se. \"S\u00e5 han var m\u00e4nniska\", fortsatte han, \"och sedan... Blir man \u00e4ngel n\u00e4r man d\u00f6r? \u00c4r det vad som h\u00e4nder?\"\n\n\"Inte alltid. F\u00f6r det mesta inte... Mycket s\u00e4llan.\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r levde han d\u00e5?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r fyratusen \u00e5r sedan, mer eller mindre. Jag \u00e4r mycket \u00e4ldre.\"\n\n\"Levde han i min v\u00e4rld? Eller i Lyras? Eller i den h\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"I din. Men det finns myriader av v\u00e4rldar. Det k\u00e4nner du redan till.\"\n\n\"Men hur blir folk \u00e4nglar?\"\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r mening med alla de h\u00e4r metafysiska spekulationerna?\"\n\n\"Jag vill bara veta.\"\n\n\"Det vore b\u00e4ttre om du h\u00f6ll dig till din uppgift. Du har plundrat den d\u00f6de mannen, du har alla de leksaker du beh\u00f6ver f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla dig vid liv; kan vi ge oss av nu?\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r jag vet vilken v\u00e4g jag ska ta.\"\n\n\"Vilken v\u00e4g vi \u00e4n tar, s\u00e5 kommer Baruch att hitta oss.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 kommer han att hitta oss, \u00e4ven om vi stannar kvar h\u00e4r. Det \u00e4r ett par saker till jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra.\"\n\nWill satte sig ner d\u00e4r han inte kunde se sir Charles kropp och \u00e5t tre rutor av en mintchokladkaka. Det var fantastiskt hur uppfriskad och st\u00e4rkt han k\u00e4nde sig s\u00e5 fort n\u00e4ringen hade spridit sig i kroppen. Sedan s\u00e5g han p\u00e5 alethiometern igen. De trettiosex sm\u00e5 bilderna m\u00e5lade p\u00e5 elfenben var knivskarpa: det r\u00e5dde ingen tvekan om att det d\u00e4r var ett sp\u00e4dbarn, det d\u00e4r en marionett, det d\u00e4r en br\u00f6dlimpa och s\u00e5 vidare. Det var deras inneb\u00f6rd som var otydlig.\n\n\"Hur kunde Lyra avl\u00e4sa den h\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade han Balthamos.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r mycket m\u00f6jligt att hon bara hittade p\u00e5. De som anv\u00e4nder de h\u00e4r instrumenten har studerat i m\u00e5nga \u00e5r och inte ens de kan f\u00f6rst\u00e5 det utan hj\u00e4lp av en m\u00e4ngd referensb\u00f6cker.\"\n\n\"Hon hittade inte p\u00e5. Hon avl\u00e4ste den verkligen. Hon ber\u00e4ttade saker som hon annars aldrig kunnat f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 \u00e4r det ett mysterium lika mycket f\u00f6r mig som f\u00f6r dig, det kan jag f\u00f6rs\u00e4kra dig\", svarade \u00e4ngeln.\n\nWill funderade: Sa hon inte n\u00e5got om alethiometerl\u00e4sandet n\u00e4r han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e4ra sig anv\u00e4nda kniven? N\u00e5got om det sinnestillst\u00e5nd hon m\u00e5ste vara i f\u00f6r att det skulle fungera; och att det hade hj\u00e4lpt honom att uppt\u00e4cka hemligheterna hos silverklingan.\n\nHan k\u00e4nde sig nyfiken och tog ut kniven och skar ett litet f\u00f6nster framf\u00f6r den plats d\u00e4r han satt. Han s\u00e5g inget utom bl\u00e5 himmel genom det, men nedanf\u00f6r, l\u00e5ngt nedanf\u00f6r, fanns ett landskap av tr\u00e4d och \u00e5krar: utan tvekan hans egen v\u00e4rld.\n\nS\u00e5 bergen i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden hade ingen motsvarighet till bergen i hans egen. Han st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret igen och anv\u00e4nde v\u00e4nsterhanden f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen. Vilken lycka att kunna anv\u00e4nda den igen!\n\nSedan slogs han s\u00e5 pl\u00f6tsligt av en id\u00e9 att det k\u00e4ndes som en liten elektrisk st\u00f6t.\n\nVarf\u00f6r \u00f6ppnade kniven bara f\u00f6nster mellan den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden och hans egen, om det nu fanns en myriad av olika v\u00e4rldar?\n\nNog m\u00e5ste han kunna g\u00f6ra \u00f6ppningar till vilken som helst av dem.\n\nHan h\u00f6ll upp kniven igen och l\u00e4t tankarna rinna \u00e4nda ut till klingspetsen p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt som Giacomo Paradisi hade l\u00e4rt honom, \u00e4nda tills hans medvetande hade slagit sig till ro bland sj\u00e4lva atomerna, och d\u00e5 kunde han k\u00e4nna vartenda litet hack och varje oj\u00e4mnhet i luften.\n\nIst\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att sk\u00e4ra s\u00e5 snart han k\u00e4nde det f\u00f6rsta hacket, s\u00e5 som han vanligtvis brukade g\u00f6ra, s\u00e5 l\u00e4t han kniven r\u00f6ra sig vidare till n\u00e4sta och sedan n\u00e4sta. Det k\u00e4ndes som att dra kniven \u00f6ver en rad med stygn, samtidigt som han pressade s\u00e5 mjukt mot dem att inget av dem skadades.\n\n\"Vad h\u00e5ller du p\u00e5 med?\" sa r\u00f6sten i luften och \u00e5terf\u00f6rde honom till nuet.\n\n\"Utforskar\", sa Will. \"Var tyst och h\u00e5ll dig ur v\u00e4gen. Om du kommer i n\u00e4rheten av den h\u00e4r kommer du att bli skuren och om jag inte ser dig kan jag inte undvika dig.\"\n\nBalthamos gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett ljud av d\u00e4mpat missn\u00f6je. Will h\u00f6ll ut kniven igen och trevade efter de sm\u00e5 hacken och \u00f6gonblicken av tvekan. Det fanns l\u00e5ngt fler av dem \u00e4n han hade trott. Nu n\u00e4r han k\u00e4nde dem utan tv\u00e5nget att sk\u00e4ra igenom omedelbart, uppt\u00e4ckte han att de hade olika karakt\u00e4r: den h\u00e4r var h\u00e5rd och tydlig, den d\u00e4r var dimmig; en tredje var hal, en fj\u00e4rde var spr\u00f6d och br\u00e4cklig...\n\nN\u00e5gra av de sm\u00e5 hacken i luften hittade han l\u00e4ttare \u00e4n andra, och mycket riktigt, n\u00e4r han skar igenom hittade han sin egen v\u00e4rld igen.\n\nHan st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret och s\u00f6kte efter ett hack som k\u00e4ndes annorlunda. Han hittade ett som var elastiskt och motst\u00e5ndskraftigt och l\u00e4t kniven leta sig igenom.\n\nJust det! Den v\u00e4rld han s\u00e5g genom det f\u00f6nstret var inte hans egen: marken var n\u00e4rmare h\u00e4r och landskapet bestod inte l\u00e4ngre av gr\u00f6na \u00e5krar och h\u00e4ckar utan av en \u00f6ken av b\u00f6ljande sanddyner.\n\nHan st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret och \u00f6ppnade ett annat: den r\u00f6kfyllda luften \u00f6ver en industristad, med en rad av kedjade och buttra arbetare som trampade in i en fabrik.\n\nHan st\u00e4ngde det f\u00f6nstret ocks\u00e5 och \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till nuet. Han k\u00e4nde sig l\u00e4tt vimmelkantig. F\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen f\u00f6rstod han en del av knivens fulla kraft och lade mycket f\u00f6rsiktigt ifr\u00e5n sig den p\u00e5 stenen framf\u00f6r sig.\n\n\"T\u00e4nker du stanna h\u00e4r hela dagen?\" fr\u00e5gade Balthamos.\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nker. Man kan bara g\u00e5 utan problem fr\u00e5n en v\u00e4rld till en annan om marken \u00e4r p\u00e5 samma niv\u00e5. Det finns kanske platser d\u00e4r det \u00e4r s\u00e5, och det \u00e4r d\u00e4r som det mesta sk\u00e4randet \u00e4ger rum... Och man m\u00e5ste veta hur den egna v\u00e4rlden k\u00e4nns med knivspetsen, f\u00f6r annars skulle man aldrig hitta tillbaka. Man skulle g\u00e5 vilse i all evighet.\"\n\n\"Verkligen. Men skulle vi kunna...\"\n\n\"Och man m\u00e5ste veta vilken v\u00e4rld som har marken p\u00e5 samma st\u00e4lle, f\u00f6r annars skulle det inte vara n\u00e5n mening med att g\u00f6ra en \u00f6ppning\", sa Will lika mycket f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv som till \u00e4ngeln. \"S\u00e5 det \u00e4r inte fullt s\u00e5 enkelt som jag trodde. Vi hade kanske bara tur i Oxford och Citt\u00e0gazze. Men om jag bara...\"\n\nHan plockade upp kniven p\u00e5 nytt. Precis som den tydliga och klara f\u00f6rnimmelse han fick n\u00e4r han vidr\u00f6rde en punkt som \u00f6ppnade sig mot hans egen v\u00e4rld, s\u00e5 hade det \u00e4ven varit en annan sorts f\u00f6rnimmelse, som han hade upplevt ett par g\u00e5nger tidigare: ett intryck av soliditet och resonans, likt k\u00e4nslan av att sl\u00e5 p\u00e5 en tung tr\u00e4trumma, f\u00f6rutom att den likt alla de \u00f6vriga upptr\u00e4dde som en knappt m\u00e4rkbar oj\u00e4mnhet i tomma luften.\n\nD\u00e4r var det. Han flyttade p\u00e5 sig och k\u00e4nde p\u00e5 ett annat st\u00e4lle: d\u00e4r var det igen.\n\nHan skar igenom och uppt\u00e4ckte att han hade gissat r\u00e4tt. Resonansen innebar att marken i den v\u00e4rld han \u00f6ppnade mot befann sig p\u00e5 samma niv\u00e5 som den h\u00e4r. Han kunde se ut \u00f6ver en gr\u00e4skl\u00e4dd h\u00f6glands\u00e4ng under en molnig himmel. En hjord av fridfulla djur betade i gr\u00e4set \u2013 men det var djur han aldrig hade sett f\u00f6rut \u2013 de var stora som bisonoxar och hade breda horn, raggig bl\u00e5 p\u00e4ls och en kam av styva h\u00e5rstr\u00e5n l\u00e4ngs ryggen.\n\nHan klev igenom. Det n\u00e4rmaste djuret tittade upp utan n\u00e5gon st\u00f6rre nyfikenhet, och \u00e5tergick sedan till sitt betande. Will l\u00e4t f\u00f6nstret st\u00e5 \u00f6ppet och trevade p\u00e5 \u00e4ngen i den andra v\u00e4rlden med kniven efter de v\u00e4lbekanta hacken och provade.\n\nJod\u00e5, han kunde \u00f6ppna ett f\u00f6nster till sin egen v\u00e4rld fr\u00e5n den h\u00e4r ocks\u00e5, och han befann sig fortfarande h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r g\u00e5rdarna och h\u00e4ckarna, och jo, han kunde l\u00e4tt hitta den solida resonans som h\u00f6rde samman med Citt\u00e0gazze-v\u00e4rlden han just hade l\u00e4mnat.\n\nMed en djup k\u00e4nsla av l\u00e4ttnad \u00e5terv\u00e4nde Will till l\u00e4gret vid sj\u00f6n och st\u00e4ngde allt bakom sig. Nu kunde han hitta v\u00e4gen hem, nu kunde han inte g\u00e5 vilse, nu kunde han r\u00f6ra sig mycket s\u00e4krare.\n\nMed \u00f6kad kunskap kom \u00f6kad styrka. Han stoppade ner kniven i slidan och hivade upp ryggs\u00e4cken p\u00e5 ryggen.\n\n\"N\u00e5, \u00e4r du klar nu?\" sa den sarkastiska r\u00f6sten.\n\n\"Ja. Jag kan f\u00f6rklara, om du vill, men du verkar inte s\u00e4rskilt intresserad.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, f\u00f6r mig \u00e4r allt du g\u00f6r en st\u00e4ndig k\u00e4lla till fascination. Men bry dig inte om mig. Vad t\u00e4nker du s\u00e4ga till de d\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna som \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hit?\"\n\nWill tittade h\u00e4pet upp. L\u00e4ngre bort p\u00e5 stigen \u2013 en bra bit l\u00e4ngre bort \u2013 kom en rad resen\u00e4rer med packh\u00e4star, och de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g upp mot sj\u00f6n med god fart. De hade inte sett honom \u00e4n, men det skulle de snart g\u00f6ra om han stannade d\u00e4r han var.\n\nWill plockade upp faderns mantel, som han hade lagt \u00f6ver en sten i solskenet. Den v\u00e4gde mycket mindre n\u00e4r den var torr. Han s\u00e5g sig om: det fanns inget annat han kunde ta med sig.\n\n\"Nu forts\u00e4tter vi\", sa han.\n\nHan hade g\u00e4rna lagt om bandaget, men det fick v\u00e4nta. Han gav sig av l\u00e4ngs sj\u00f6stranden, bort fr\u00e5n resen\u00e4rerna, och \u00e4ngeln f\u00f6ljde honom, osynlig i den klara luften.\n\nL\u00e5ngt senare den dagen l\u00e4mnade de de kala bergen l\u00e4ngs en utl\u00f6pare som var t\u00e4ckt med gr\u00e4s och dv\u00e4rgrhododendron. Will l\u00e4ngtade efter att f\u00e5 vila, och best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r att han snart skulle sl\u00e5 l\u00e4ger.\n\n\u00c4ngeln hade inte sagt s\u00e4rskilt mycket. Emellan\u00e5t hade Balthamos sagt saker som: \"Inte den v\u00e4gen\" eller \"Det finns en l\u00e4ttare stig till v\u00e4nster\", och de r\u00e5den hade han f\u00f6ljt, men faktum var att han gick bara f\u00f6r g\u00e5endets skull och f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla sig borta fr\u00e5n de d\u00e4r resen\u00e4rerna, f\u00f6r \u00e4nda tills den andra \u00e4ngeln \u00e5terv\u00e4nde med nyheter, s\u00e5 kunde han lika g\u00e4rna stanna d\u00e4r han var.\n\nNu n\u00e4r solen var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g ner tyckte han att kunde se sin m\u00e4rkliga f\u00f6ljeslagare. Mannens kontur tycktes dallra i ljuset och luften var t\u00e4tare inuti den.\n\n\"Balthamos?\" sa han. \"Jag skulle vilja hitta en b\u00e4ck. Finns det n\u00e5n i n\u00e4rheten?\"\n\n\"Det finns en k\u00e4lla halvv\u00e4gs ner f\u00f6r sluttningen\", sa \u00e4ngeln, \"alldeles ovanf\u00f6r de d\u00e4r tr\u00e4den.\"\n\n\"Tack\", svarade Will.\n\nHan hittade b\u00e4cken och drack djupt, och fyllde sedan vattenflaskan. Men innan han kunde forts\u00e4tta ner till den lilla skogsdungen kom ett utrop fr\u00e5n Balthamos. Will v\u00e4nde sig om och kunde se hans kontur ila iv\u00e4g \u00f6ver sluttningen mot \u2013 vad? \u00c4ngeln syntes bara som en f\u00f6rbifladdrande r\u00f6relse. Will kunde se honom tydligare om han inte tittade direkt p\u00e5 honom. Han s\u00e5g ut att hejda sig och lyssna, men sedan kastade han sig upp i luften och susade snabbt fram till Will.\n\n\"H\u00e4r!\" sa han och r\u00f6sten var f\u00f6r en g\u00e5ngs skull helt fri fr\u00e5n b\u00e5de ogillande och sarkasm. \"Baruch passerade f\u00f6rbi h\u00e4r! Och h\u00e4r \u00e4r ett av de d\u00e4r f\u00f6nstren, det \u00e4r n\u00e4stan osynligt. F\u00f6lj med \u2013 f\u00f6lj med. F\u00f6lj med h\u00e4r nu.\"\n\nWill f\u00f6ljde ivrigt med, f\u00f6r tr\u00f6ttheten var alldeles bortgl\u00f6md. N\u00e4r han n\u00e5dde fram till f\u00f6nstret s\u00e5g han att det \u00f6ppnade sig mot ett dunkelt tundraliknande landskap, som var plattare \u00e4n bergen i Citt\u00e0gazze-v\u00e4rlden, och kallare, med en mulen himmel. Han tog sig igenom och Balthamos f\u00f6ljde omedelbart efter.\n\n\"Vilken v\u00e4rld \u00e4r det h\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r flickans egen v\u00e4rld. Det var h\u00e4r de tog sig igenom. Baruch har gett sig av i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g p\u00e5 jakt efter dem.\"\n\n\"Hur vet du var han \u00e4r? Kan du l\u00e4sa hans tankar?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r klart att jag kan l\u00e4sa hans tankar. Vart han \u00e4n g\u00e5r, s\u00e5 \u00e4r mitt hj\u00e4rta hos honom; vi k\u00e4nner som en, trots att vi \u00e4r tv\u00e5.\"\n\nWill s\u00e5g sig om. Det fanns inga tecken p\u00e5 m\u00e4nskligt liv och kylan i luften blev str\u00e4ngare f\u00f6r varje minut som gick, allteftersom det m\u00f6rknade.\n\n\"Jag vill inte sova h\u00e4r\", sa han. \"Vi stannar i Citt\u00e0gazze-v\u00e4rlden i natt och tar oss igenom i morgon. Det \u00e4r \u00e5tminstone skog d\u00e4r, s\u00e5 att jag kan g\u00f6ra upp eld. Nu n\u00e4r jag vet hur hennes v\u00e4rld k\u00e4nns, s\u00e5 kan jag hitta den med kniven! Balthamos? Kan du ta n\u00e5n annan form?\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r skulle jag vilja det?\"\n\n\"I den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden har m\u00e4nniskorna d\u00e6moner och om jag ger mig ut i den utan en s\u00e5n, s\u00e5 kommer folk att bli misst\u00e4nksamma. Lyra blev r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r mig alldeles i b\u00f6rjan av just den anledningen. S\u00e5 om vi ska f\u00e4rdas i hennes v\u00e4rld, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste du l\u00e5tsas vara min d\u00e6mon och ta formen av ett djur av n\u00e5t slag. En f\u00e5gel, kanske. D\u00e5 kan du \u00e5tminstone flyga.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, s\u00e5 bed\u00f6vande tr\u00e5kigt.\"\n\n\"Kan du g\u00f6ra det?\"\n\n\"Jag kan ju...\"\n\n\"G\u00f6r det d\u00e5. Visa mig.\"\n\n\u00c4nglaskepnaden s\u00e5g ut att kondenseras i en liten virvel mitt i luften, men sedan landade en koltrast p\u00e5 gr\u00e4set vid Wills f\u00f6tter.\n\n\"Flyg upp till min axel\", sa Will.\n\nDet gjorde f\u00e5geln och talade sedan med \u00e4ngelns v\u00e4lbekanta och syrliga r\u00f6st:\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nker bara g\u00f6ra det n\u00e4r det \u00e4r absolut n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt. Det \u00e4r outs\u00e4gligt f\u00f6r\u00f6dmjukande.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 synd d\u00e5\", sa Will. \"S\u00e5 snart vi f\u00e5r syn p\u00e5 folk i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, s\u00e5 f\u00f6rvandlar du dig till en f\u00e5gel. Det \u00e4r ingen id\u00e9 att tjafsa eller br\u00e5ka om saken. G\u00f6r det bara.\"\n\nKoltrasten lyfte fr\u00e5n hans axel. Halvv\u00e4gs till marken f\u00f6rsvann den, och d\u00e4r var \u00e4ngeln igen, tjurande i skymningen. Innan de gick tillbaka genom f\u00f6nstret tittade Will sig omkring, drog efter andan och tog liksom m\u00e5tt p\u00e5 den v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r Lyra var tillf\u00e5ngatagen.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r din kamrat nu?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"F\u00f6ljer kvinnan s\u00f6derut.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 ger vi oss iv\u00e4g \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet vi ocks\u00e5, i morgon bitti.\"\n\nN\u00e4sta dag vandrade Will i timmar utan att tr\u00e4ffa p\u00e5 en enda m\u00e4nniska. Landet bestod mestadels av l\u00e5ga kullar t\u00e4ckta av kort torkat gr\u00e4s. S\u00e5 fort han kom upp p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon h\u00f6jd s\u00e5g han sig om efter tecken p\u00e5 m\u00e4nskliga bos\u00e4ttningar, men hittade inga. Den enda variationen i den dammiga brungr\u00f6na tomheten var en avl\u00e4gsen fl\u00e4ck av m\u00f6rkare gr\u00f6nt. Han gick mot den, f\u00f6r Balthamos sa att det var en skog och att det fanns en flod d\u00e4r som gick s\u00f6derut. N\u00e4r solen stod som h\u00f6gst gjorde han ett misslyckat f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att sova under n\u00e5gra l\u00e5ga buskar; och n\u00e4r kv\u00e4llen kom var han uttr\u00f6ttad och \u00f6m i f\u00f6tterna.\n\n\"Det g\u00e5r l\u00e5ngsamt fram\u00e5t\", sa Balthamos syrligt.\n\n\"Det kan inte jag hj\u00e4lpa\", sa Will. \"H\u00e5ll tyst om du inte har n\u00e5t vettigt att s\u00e4ga.\"\n\nN\u00e4r han n\u00e5dde fram till skogsbrynet stod solen l\u00e5gt och luften var full av pollen, s\u00e5 mycket att han n\u00f6s flera g\u00e5nger och skr\u00e4mde en f\u00e5gel, som skrikande fl\u00f6g upp fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gonstans i n\u00e4rheten.\n\n\"Det var det f\u00f6rsta levande jag sett idag\", sa Will.\n\n\"Var t\u00e4nker du sl\u00e5 l\u00e4ger?\" sa Balthamos.\n\n\u00c4ngeln syntes ibland i tr\u00e4dens l\u00e5nga skuggor. Det Will kunde se av hans ansiktsuttryck var grinigt.\n\n\"Jag m\u00e5ste stanna h\u00e4r n\u00e5nstans\", sa Will. \"Du kan hj\u00e4lpa mig att hitta ett bra st\u00e4lle. Jag h\u00f6r rinnande vatten \u2013 se om du kan hitta det.\"\n\n\u00c4ngeln f\u00f6rsvann. Will stretade p\u00e5 genom den l\u00e5ga ljungen och porsen och \u00f6nskade att det fanns en stig att g\u00e5 p\u00e5. Han tittade bekymrat p\u00e5 ljuset; om han inte valde en plats att sl\u00e5 l\u00e4ger p\u00e5 snart skulle m\u00f6rkret v\u00e4lja \u00e5t honom.\n\n\"\u00c5t v\u00e4nster\", sa Balthamos p\u00e5 arml\u00e4ngds avst\u00e5nd. \"En b\u00e4ck, och ett d\u00f6tt tr\u00e4d att ha till brasved. Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen...\"\n\nWill f\u00f6ljde \u00e4ngelns r\u00f6st och hittade snart den plats han hade beskrivit. En b\u00e4ck porlade raskt fram mellan mossiga stenar och f\u00f6rsvann \u00f6ver en klipphylla ner i en tr\u00e5ng liten klyfta, som var m\u00f6rk i skuggan av tr\u00e4den. Bredvid b\u00e4cken str\u00e4ckte sig en gr\u00e4st\u00e4ckt strandsluttning upp mot buskarna och undervegetationen.\n\nInnan han till\u00e4t sig att vila samlade han ved och st\u00f6tte strax p\u00e5 en cirkel av sv\u00e4rtade stenar i gr\u00e4set, d\u00e4r n\u00e5gon annan hade t\u00e4nt en eld f\u00f6r l\u00e4nge sedan. Han samlade ihop en h\u00f6g kvistar och tyngre grenar och skar dem till l\u00e4mplig l\u00e4ngd med kniven innan han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 dem att brinna. Han visste inte vilket som var det b\u00e4sta s\u00e4ttet att g\u00f6ra det p\u00e5, och sl\u00f6sade bort flera t\u00e4ndstickor innan han lyckades f\u00e5 flammorna att ta sig.\n\n\u00c4ngeln betraktade det hela med ett slags tr\u00f6tt \u00f6verseende.\n\nN\u00e4r elden v\u00e4l brann \u00e5t Will tv\u00e5 havrekakor, lite torkat k\u00f6tt och lite mintchokladkaka, och sk\u00f6ljde ner det hela med djupa klunkar kallt vatten. Balthamos satt tyst i n\u00e4rheten, och till slut sa Will:\n\n\"T\u00e4nker du titta p\u00e5 mig hela tiden? Jag t\u00e4nker inte g\u00e5 n\u00e5nstans.\"\n\n\"Jag v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 Baruch. Han kommer snart tillbaka, och d\u00e5 ska jag ignorera dig s\u00e5 mycket du vill.\"\n\n\"Vill du ha n\u00e5t att \u00e4ta?\"\n\nBalthamos r\u00f6rde sig n\u00e5got: han var frestad.\n\n\"Jag menar, jag vet inte om du \u00e4ter \u00f6verhuvudtaget\", sa Will, \"men om du skulle vilja ha n\u00e5nting, s\u00e5 var s\u00e5 god.\"\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det d\u00e4r...\", sa \u00e4ngeln kr\u00e4set, och pekade p\u00e5 mintchokladkakan.\n\n\"Mest socker, tror jag, och pepparmint. Var s\u00e5 god.\"\n\nWill br\u00f6t av en bit och h\u00f6ll fram den. Balthamos lutade sig fram och luktade. Sedan lyfte han upp biten. Hans fingrar var kalla och l\u00e4tta mot Wills handflata.\n\n\"Jag tror att det h\u00e4r kommer att st\u00e4rka mig\", sa han. \"En bit r\u00e4cker alldeles utm\u00e4rkt, tack s\u00e5 mycket.\"\n\nHan satt och knaprade tyst. Will uppt\u00e4ckte att om han tittade p\u00e5 elden, med \u00e4ngeln precis i utkanten av synf\u00e4ltet, s\u00e5g han honom mycket tydligare.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r Baruch?\" sa han. \"Kan han kommunicera med dig?\"\n\n\"Jag k\u00e4nner att han inte \u00e4r l\u00e5ngt borta. Han kommer hit mycket snart. N\u00e4r han \u00e5terv\u00e4nder ska vi tala. Att tala \u00e4r det b\u00e4sta s\u00e4ttet.\"\n\nOch knappt tio minuter senare h\u00f6rdes det mjuka ljudet av vingslag och Balthamos reste sig ivrigt. I n\u00e4sta \u00f6gonblick omfamnade de b\u00e5da \u00e4nglarna varandra och Will s\u00e5g, n\u00e4r han stirrade in i elden, hur mycket de h\u00f6ll av varandra. Mer \u00e4n h\u00f6ll av: de \u00e4lskade varandra passionerat.\n\nBaruch slog sig ner bredvid sin f\u00f6ljeslagare, och Will r\u00f6rde runt i elden s\u00e5 att ett r\u00f6kmoln gled f\u00f6rbi dem. R\u00f6ken gav kontur \u00e5t deras kroppar s\u00e5 att han f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen kunde se dem b\u00e5da klart och tydligt. Balthamos var slank, hans smala vingar var elegant vikta bakom hans axlar, och hans ansikte hade ett uttryck av h\u00f6gdraget f\u00f6rakt blandat med mild, varm medk\u00e4nsla, som om han skulle \u00e4lska allt och alla om bara hans natur kunde l\u00e5ta honom gl\u00f6mma deras fel. Men det var tydligt att han inte s\u00e5g n\u00e5gra fel hos Baruch. Baruch verkade yngre, som Balthamos hade sagt, och var kraftigare byggd, med sn\u00f6vita och tunga vingar. Han var en enkel natur; han s\u00e5g upp till Balthamos som k\u00e4llan till all visdom och gl\u00e4dje. Will f\u00e4ngslades och r\u00f6rdes av deras k\u00e4rlek.\n\n\"Fick du reda p\u00e5 var Lyra \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans?\" sa han, ot\u00e5lig att f\u00e5 h\u00f6ra alla nyheter.\n\n\"Ja\", sa Baruch. \"Det finns en dal i Himalaya, mycket h\u00f6gt upp, n\u00e4ra en glaci\u00e4r, d\u00e4r ljuset f\u00f6rvandlas till regnb\u00e5gar av isen. Jag ska rita en karta p\u00e5 marken \u00e5t dig, s\u00e5 att du inte tar fel. Flickan sitter f\u00e5ngen i en grotta bland tr\u00e4den, och h\u00e5lls sovande av en kvinna.\"\n\n\"Sovande? \u00c4r kvinnan ensam? \u00c4r det inga soldater hos henne?\"\n\n\"Ja, ensam. Hon g\u00f6mmer sig.\"\n\n\"Och Lyra \u00e4r inte skadad?\"\n\n\"Nej. Hon sover bara \u2013 och dr\u00f6mmer. Jag ska visa dig var det \u00e4r.\"\n\nMed sitt bleka finger ritade Baruch en karta i den nakna jorden bredvid elden. Will tog fram anteckningsblocket och gjorde en exakt kopia av kartan. Den visade en glaci\u00e4r som var egendomligt ormformad och som rann ner mellan tre n\u00e4stan exakt likadana bergstoppar.\n\n\"Nu\", sa \u00e4ngeln, \"g\u00e5r vi n\u00e4rmare. Dalen med grottan ligger vid den v\u00e4nstra sidan av glaci\u00e4ren, och en flod av sm\u00e4ltvatten rinner genom den. Dalens b\u00f6rjan ligger h\u00e4r...\"\n\nHan ritade \u00e4nnu en karta, och Will kopierade den ocks\u00e5, och sedan en tredje, och varje g\u00e5ng gick han n\u00e4rmare, s\u00e5 att Will k\u00e4nde att han kunde hitta dit utan sv\u00e5righet \u2013 under f\u00f6ruts\u00e4ttning att han tog sig de mellan sexhundra och \u00e5ttahundra milen fr\u00e5n tundran till bergen. Kniven var bra p\u00e5 att sk\u00e4ra igenom till andra v\u00e4rldar, men den kunde inte ta bort avst\u00e5nden inom dem.\n\n\"Det finns en helgedom i n\u00e4rheten av glaci\u00e4ren\", sa Baruch som avslutning, \"med r\u00f6da sidenfanor som \u00e4r halvt s\u00f6nderslitna av vinden. En ung flicka kommer med mat till grottan. De tror att kvinnan \u00e4r ett helgon som kommer att v\u00e4lsigna dem om de ger henne allt hon beh\u00f6ver.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 det tror dom\", sa Will. \"Och hon g\u00f6mmer sig... Det f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag inte. G\u00f6mmer hon sig f\u00f6r kyrkan?\"\n\n\"Det verkar s\u00e5.\"\n\nWill vek noga ihop kartorna och stoppade undan dem. Han hade satt bleckmuggen p\u00e5 stenarna i utkanten av elden f\u00f6r att v\u00e4rma lite vatten, och nu h\u00e4llde han lite pulverkaffe i vattnet, r\u00f6rde om med en pinne och svepte en n\u00e4sduk runt h\u00e4nderna innan han tog upp muggen f\u00f6r att dricka.\n\nEn brinnande pinne lade sig till r\u00e4tta i elden; en nattf\u00e5gel skrek till.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt tittade b\u00e5da \u00e4nglarna upp \u00e5t samma h\u00e5ll, utan att Will f\u00f6rstod varf\u00f6r. Han f\u00f6ljde deras blickar, men s\u00e5g ingenting. Han hade sett sin katt g\u00f6ra s\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng: hon hade tittat upp fr\u00e5n sin halvslummer, pl\u00f6tsligt klarvaken, och betraktat n\u00e5got eller n\u00e5gon som osynlig hade kommit in i rummet och g\u00e5tt igenom det. Det hade f\u00e5tt hans h\u00e5r att st\u00e4lla sig p\u00e5 \u00e4nda, och det gjorde det nu ocks\u00e5.\n\n\"Sl\u00e4ck elden\", viskade Balthamos.\n\nWill svepte upp lite jord med sin friska hand och kv\u00e4vde flammorna. Kylan gick omedelbart in i m\u00e4rgen p\u00e5 honom och han b\u00f6rjade darra. Han drog manteln runt sig och tittade upp igen.\n\nNu fanns det n\u00e5got d\u00e4r uppe: ovanf\u00f6r molnen gl\u00f6dde en kontur, och det var inte m\u00e5nen.\n\n\"Vagnen? Kan det vara den?\" h\u00f6rde han Baruch mumla.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det?\" viskade Will.\n\nBaruch lutade sig n\u00e4ra honom och viskade tillbaka: \"De vet att vi \u00e4r h\u00e4r. De har hittat oss. Will, ta din kniv och...\"\n\nInnan han kunde avsluta meningen st\u00f6rtade n\u00e5gonting ner ur himlen och f\u00f6ll rakt p\u00e5 Balthamos. Inom en tiondels sekund hade Baruch kastat sig \u00f6ver det, och Balthamos slet f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 loss sina vingar. De tre varelserna k\u00e4mpade fram och tillbaka i halvdunklet, som enorma getingar som fastnat i ett spindeln\u00e4t, helt utan ljud: det enda Will h\u00f6rde var kvistarna som kn\u00e4cktes och l\u00f6ven som rasslade medan de stred med varandra.\n\nHan kunde inte anv\u00e4nda kniven: de r\u00f6rde sig f\u00f6r snabbt. Ist\u00e4llet tog han ficklampan ur ryggs\u00e4cken och t\u00e4nde den. Ingen av dem hade v\u00e4ntat sig det. Anfallaren slog ut med vingarna, Balthamos h\u00f6ll armen f\u00f6r \u00f6gonen, och bara Baruch hade sinnesn\u00e4rvaro nog att h\u00e5lla fast. Men Will kunde se vad fienden var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got: en annan \u00e4ngel, mycket st\u00f6rre och starkare, och Baruch h\u00f6ll krampaktigt f\u00f6r munnen p\u00e5 honom.\n\n\"Will!\" skrek Balthamos. \"Kniven \u2013 sk\u00e4r en v\u00e4g ut...\"\n\nI samma \u00f6gonblick slet anfallaren sig loss ur Baruchs grepp och skrek:\n\n\" _Ers h\u00f6ghet! Jag har dem!_ \"\n\nHans r\u00f6st fick Wills huvud att ringa, han hade aldrig tidigare h\u00f6rt ett s\u00e5dant skrik. \u00d6gonblicket senare skulle \u00e4ngeln ha slungat sig upp i luften, men Will sl\u00e4ppte ficklampan och kastade sig fram\u00e5t. Han hade d\u00f6dat en klippgast, men att anv\u00e4nda kniven p\u00e5 en varelse som s\u00e5g ut som han sj\u00e4lv var mycket sv\u00e5rare. Trots det slog han armarna runt de stora, flaxande vingarna och h\u00f6gg igen och igen mot fj\u00e4drarna tills luften var full av virvlande vita fl\u00e4ckar, och han mindes Balthamos ord n\u00e4r de v\u00e5ldsamma intrycken sk\u00f6ljde \u00f6ver honom: _Du har riktigt k\u00f6tt, det har inte vi._ M\u00e4nskliga varelser var starkare \u00e4n \u00e4nglarna, och det var sant, f\u00f6r han kunde tvinga ner \u00e4ngeln mot marken.\n\nAnfallaren skrek fortfarande med den \u00f6ronbed\u00f6vande r\u00f6sten: \" _Ers h\u00f6ghet! Till mig, till mig!_ \"\n\nWill lyckades kasta en blick upp\u00e5t och s\u00e5g hur molnen virvlade och delade sig, och det d\u00e4r skenet \u2013 n\u00e5got ofantligt \u2013 v\u00e4xte sig allt starkare, som om molnen sj\u00e4lva b\u00f6rjade lysa av energi, som plasma.\n\n\"Will \u2013 ta dig loss och sk\u00e4r igenom, innan han kommer...\", skrek Balthamos.\n\nMen \u00e4ngeln k\u00e4mpade h\u00e5rt. Nu hade han ena vingen fri och tvingade sig upp fr\u00e5n marken, s\u00e5 att Will m\u00e5ste h\u00e4nga kvar eller tappa honom helt. Baruch kastade sig upp f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa honom, och tvingade anfallarens huvud allt l\u00e4ngre bak\u00e5t.\n\n\"Nej!\" skrek Balthamos igen. \"Nej! Nej!\"\n\nHan kastade sig mot Will, skakade hans arm, hans axel, hans h\u00e4nder, och anfallaren f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skrika igen, men Baruchs hand t\u00e4ckte hans mun. Fr\u00e5n ovan kom en djup sk\u00e4lvning, som fr\u00e5n en m\u00e4ktig generator, n\u00e4stan f\u00f6r l\u00e5gt f\u00f6r att h\u00f6ras, fast\u00e4n det ruskade om sj\u00e4lva atomerna i luften och fick m\u00e4rgen i Wills ben att skaka.\n\n\"Han kommer...\", sa Balthamos, n\u00e4stan snyftande, och nu k\u00e4nde Will lite av hans r\u00e4dsla. \"Sn\u00e4lla, Will, sn\u00e4lla...\"\n\nWill tittade upp.\n\nMolnen delade sig, och ner ur det m\u00f6rka gapet kom en varelse med h\u00f6g fart. Den s\u00e5g liten ut till att b\u00f6rja med, men n\u00e4r den kom n\u00e4rmare v\u00e4xte den och blev st\u00f6rre och mer v\u00f6rdnadsbjudande. Han var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g rakt mot dem, med omissk\u00e4nnlig illvilja. Will var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att han till och med kunde se hans \u00f6gon.\n\n\"Will, du m\u00e5ste\", sa Baruch entr\u00e4get.\n\nWill reste sig och t\u00e4nkte s\u00e4ga \"H\u00e5ll i honom\", men redan d\u00e5 han formade orden i huvudet s\u00e4ckade \u00e4ngeln ihop p\u00e5 marken, l\u00f6stes upp och spreds ut som dimma, och var sedan borta. Will s\u00e5g sig om och k\u00e4nde sig dum och illam\u00e5ende.\n\n\"D\u00f6dade jag honom?\" sa han med skakig r\u00f6st.\n\n\"Du var tvungen\", sa Baruch. \"Men nu...\"\n\n\"Jag hatar det h\u00e4r\", sa Will h\u00e4ftigt, \"jag hatar verkligen allt det h\u00e4r d\u00f6dandet! N\u00e4r tar det slut?\"\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste ge oss av\", sa Balthamos svagt. \"Skynda, Will \u2013 skynda \u2013 sn\u00e4lla du...\"\n\nDe var b\u00e5da livr\u00e4dda.\n\nWill k\u00e4nde i luften med knivsudden efter vilken v\u00e4rld som helst f\u00f6r att kunna ta sig bort fr\u00e5n den h\u00e4r. Han skar snabbt igenom och tittade sedan upp: den d\u00e4r andra \u00e4ngeln som kom fr\u00e5n himlen var bara sekunder ifr\u00e5n dem, och hans ansiktsuttryck var fruktansv\u00e4rt. Till och med p\u00e5 det avst\u00e5ndet, och till och med under dessa tr\u00e4ngande sekunder, k\u00e4nde Will hur han blev unders\u00f6kt och genomletad fr\u00e5n den ena \u00e4nden av sitt v\u00e4sen till den andra av en enorm, brutal och skoningsl\u00f6s intelligens.\n\nOch vad mera var, han hade ett spjut \u2013 han h\u00f6jde det till kast...\n\nOch under de \u00f6gonblick det tog \u00e4ngeln att hejda sin flykt, resa sig upp och dra tillbaka armen f\u00f6r att kasta vapnet f\u00f6ljde Will efter Baruch och Balthamos igenom och st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret bakom sig. D\u00e5 hans fingrar tryckte ihop de sista centimetrarna k\u00e4nde han en tryckv\u00e5g \u2013 men den f\u00f6rsvann, han var trygg: det var spjutet som skulle ha passerat igenom honom i den andra v\u00e4rlden.\n\nDe stod p\u00e5 en sandt\u00e4ckt strand under en lysande m\u00e5ne. Stora ormbunksliknande tr\u00e4d v\u00e4xte in\u00e5t landet: l\u00e5ga sanddyner str\u00e4ckte sig flera kilometer l\u00e4ngs med stranden. Det var varmt och fuktigt.\n\n\"Vem var det?\" sa Will och v\u00e4nde sig darrande mot de b\u00e5da \u00e4nglarna.\n\n\"Det var Metatron\", sa Balthamos. \"Du borde ha...\"\n\n\"Metatron? Vem \u00e4r han? Varf\u00f6r anf\u00f6ll han? Och ljug inte f\u00f6r mig.\"\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r honom\", sa Baruch till sin f\u00f6ljeslagare. \"Det borde du redan ha gjort.\"\n\n\"Ja, det borde jag\", erk\u00e4nde Balthamos, \"men jag var sur p\u00e5 honom och orolig f\u00f6r din skull.\"\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r mig nu d\u00e5\", sa Will. \"Och kom ih\u00e5g att det inte \u00e4r n\u00e5n id\u00e9 att s\u00e4ga till mig vad jag borde g\u00f6ra \u2013 det spelar ingen roll f\u00f6r mig, ingen roll alls. Bara Lyra betyder n\u00e5t, och min mamma. Och _det_ \", tillade han till Balthamos, \"\u00e4r po\u00e4ngen med alla de metafysiska spekulationerna, som du kallade det.\"\n\n\"Jag tror vi m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta allt vi vet f\u00f6r dig\", sa Baruch. \"Will, detta \u00e4r sk\u00e4let till varf\u00f6r vi tv\u00e5 har letat efter dig, och varf\u00f6r vi m\u00e5ste f\u00f6ra dig till lord Asriel. Vi uppt\u00e4ckte en hemlighet om Himmelriket \u2013 om Auktoritetens v\u00e4rld \u2013 och vi m\u00e5ste dela den med honom. \u00c4r vi i s\u00e4kerhet h\u00e4r?\" tillade han och s\u00e5g sig omkring. \"Det finns ingen v\u00e4g igenom?\"\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r en annan v\u00e4rld. Ett annat universum.\"\n\nSanden de stod p\u00e5 var mjuk och de sluttande dynerna i n\u00e4rheten var inbjudande. De kunde se flera kilometer \u00e5t alla h\u00e5ll i m\u00e5nskenet, och de var helt ensamma.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig d\u00e5\", sa Will. \"Ber\u00e4tta om Metatron, och om den d\u00e4r hemligheten. Varf\u00f6r kallade den d\u00e4r \u00e4ngeln honom 'ers h\u00f6ghet'? Och vem \u00e4r Auktoriteten? \u00c4r han Gud?\"\n\nHan satte sig ner och de b\u00e5da \u00e4nglarna satte sig bredvid honom. I m\u00e5nljuset syntes de tydligare \u00e4n n\u00e5gonsin tidigare.\n\n\"Auktoriteten, Gud, Skaparen, Herren, Jahve, El, Adonai, Kungen, Fadern, den Allsm\u00e4ktige\", sa Balthamos l\u00e5gt. \"Alla \u00e4r de namn han givit sig sj\u00e4lv. Han var aldrig Skaparen. Han var en \u00e4ngel, precis som vi \u2013 den f\u00f6rsta \u00e4ngeln, det \u00e4r sant, den m\u00e4ktigaste, men han skapades av Stoft precis som vi, och Stoft \u00e4r bara ett ord f\u00f6r vad som h\u00e4nder n\u00e4r materia b\u00f6rjar f\u00f6rst\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv. Materian \u00e4lskar materia. Materian vill veta mer om sig sj\u00e4lv, och d\u00e5 skapas Stoft. De f\u00f6rsta \u00e4nglarna kondenserades ur Stoftet, och Auktoriteten kom allra f\u00f6rst. Han sa till dem som kom efter honom att han hade skapat dem, men det var l\u00f6gn. En av dem som kom efter honom var mycket visare \u00e4n han, s\u00e5 hon avsl\u00f6jade sanningen, varefter han st\u00f6tte ut henne. Vi tj\u00e4nar henne fortfarande. Auktoriteten h\u00e4rskar fortfarande i Himmelriket, med Metatron som sin regent.\n\nMen n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller v\u00e5r uppt\u00e4ckt i det molnt\u00e4ckta berget, s\u00e5 kan vi inte ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dig. Vi lovade varandra att den f\u00f6rsta som fick h\u00f6ra om det skulle vara lord Asriel sj\u00e4lv.\"\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta vad ni kan d\u00e5. Jag m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 veta.\"\n\n\"Vi hittade v\u00e4gen till det molnt\u00e4ckta berget\", sa Baruch. \"Jag \u00e4r ledsen, vi anv\u00e4nder dessa termer alltf\u00f6r l\u00e4ttvindigt\", fortsatte han sedan. \"Det kallas ibland f\u00f6r Vagnen. Det \u00e4r inte permanent, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du, utan flyttar sig fr\u00e5n plats till plats. Vart det \u00e4n tar v\u00e4gen s\u00e5 \u00e4r det Himmelrikets hj\u00e4rta, hans citadell, hans palats. N\u00e4r Auktoriteten var ung var det inte omgivet av moln, men n\u00e4r tiden gick samlade han dem t\u00e4tare och t\u00e4tare omkring sig. Ingen har sett kr\u00f6net p\u00e5 flera tusen \u00e5r. S\u00e5 hans citadell kallas nu f\u00f6r det molnt\u00e4ckta berget.\"\n\n\"Vad hittade ni d\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Auktoriteten sj\u00e4lv h\u00e5ller till i en kammare i hj\u00e4rtat av berget. Vi kunde inte komma n\u00e4ra, men vi s\u00e5g honom. Hans krafter...\"\n\n\"Han har delegerat mycket av sin makt\", insk\u00f6t Balthamos, \"till Metatron, som jag sa. Du har sett hur han \u00e4r. Vi undslapp honom tidigare, och nu har han sett oss igen, och vad mera \u00e4r, han har sett dig, och han har sett kniven. Jag sa \u00e5t dig att...\"\n\n\"Balthamos\", sa Baruch v\u00e4nligt, \"klandra inte Will. Vi beh\u00f6ver hans hj\u00e4lp, och det \u00e4r inte hans fel att han inte vet saker som det tog l\u00e5ng tid f\u00f6r oss att inse.\"\n\nBalthamos v\u00e4nde bort blicken.\n\n\"S\u00e5 ni t\u00e4nker inte ber\u00e4tta den d\u00e4r hemligheten f\u00f6r mig?\", sa Will. \"Okej d\u00e5. Ber\u00e4tta en annan sak f\u00f6r mig ist\u00e4llet: Vad h\u00e4nder n\u00e4r vi d\u00f6r?\"\n\nBalthamos v\u00e4nde sig f\u00f6rv\u00e5nat tillbaka.\n\n\"Det finns ett d\u00f6dsrike\", sa Baruch. \"Var n\u00e5gonstans, och vad som h\u00e4nder d\u00e4r, \u00e4r det ingen som vet. Min ande kom aldrig dit, tack vare Balthamos; jag \u00e4r det som en g\u00e5ng var Baruchs ande. De d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld \u00e4r bara m\u00f6rk f\u00f6r oss.\"\n\n\"Den \u00e4r ett f\u00e4ngelse\", sa Balthamos. \"Auktoriteten grundade den tidigt. Varf\u00f6r vill du veta? Du f\u00e5r se det f\u00f6rr eller senare.\"\n\n\"Min pappa har just d\u00f6tt, s\u00e5 det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag vill veta. Han skulle ha ber\u00e4ttat allt han visste f\u00f6r mig, om han inte hade d\u00f6dats. Ni s\u00e4ger att det \u00e4r en v\u00e4rld \u2013 menar ni en v\u00e4rld som den h\u00e4r, som ett annat universum?\"\n\nBalthamos tittade p\u00e5 Baruch, som ryckte p\u00e5 axlarna.\n\n\"Och vad h\u00e4nder i d\u00f6dsriket?\" fortsatte Will.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r om\u00f6jligt att s\u00e4ga\", sa Baruch. \"Allt som r\u00f6r det \u00e4r hemligt. Inte ens kyrkorna vet. De s\u00e4ger till de troende att de kommer till himlen, men det \u00e4r en l\u00f6gn. Om folk visste hur det egentligen \u00e4r...\"\n\n\"\u00c4r det dit som min pappas ande har kommit?\"\n\n\"Utan tvivel, och det har ocks\u00e5 de or\u00e4kneliga miljoner andra som har d\u00f6tt f\u00f6re honom.\"\n\nWill k\u00e4nde hur hans f\u00f6rest\u00e4llningsf\u00f6rm\u00e5ga b\u00e4vade vid tanken.\n\n\"Och varf\u00f6r begav ni er inte direkt till lord Asriel med er stora hemlighet, vad den nu \u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5t\", sa han, \"ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att leta efter mig?\"\n\n\"Vi var inte s\u00e4kra p\u00e5 om han skulle tro oss\", sa Balthamos, \"om vi inte kom med ett tecken p\u00e5 v\u00e5r goda vilja. Tv\u00e5 \u00e4nglar av l\u00e5g rang, av alla de krafter han r\u00f6r sig bland \u2013 varf\u00f6r skulle han ta oss p\u00e5 allvar? Men om vi kunde f\u00f6ra med oss kniven och dess b\u00e4rare, s\u00e5 skulle han kanske lyssna. Kniven \u00e4r ett m\u00e4ktigt vapen och lord Asriel skulle bli glad \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 dig p\u00e5 sin sida.\"\n\n\"Urs\u00e4kta\", sa Will, \"men det d\u00e4r l\u00e5ter ganska svagt, tycker jag. Om ni litade p\u00e5 er hemlighet skulle ni inte beh\u00f6va en urs\u00e4kt f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa lord Asriel.\"\n\n\"Det finns ett annat sk\u00e4l\", sa Baruch. \"Vi visste att Metatron skulle f\u00f6rf\u00f6lja oss och vi ville vara s\u00e4kra p\u00e5 att kniven inte skulle falla i hans h\u00e4nder. Om vi kunde \u00f6vertala dig att f\u00f6rst bege dig till lord Asriel, s\u00e5 skulle \u00e5tminstone...\"\n\n\"\u00c5h nej, det kommer inte att h\u00e4nda\", sa Will. \"Ni g\u00f6r det _sv\u00e5rare_ f\u00f6r mig att ta mig till Lyra, inte l\u00e4ttare. Hon \u00e4r det viktigaste av allt och ni har gl\u00f6mt henne helt och h\u00e5llet. Men det har inte jag. Varf\u00f6r tar ni inte och helt enkelt ger er av till lord Asriel, och l\u00e4mnar mig i fred? _F\u00e5_ honom att lyssna p\u00e5 er. Ni kan flyga till honom mycket fortare \u00e4n vad jag kan g\u00e5, och jag ska hitta Lyra f\u00f6rst, vad som \u00e4n h\u00e4nder. G\u00f6r det bara. Ge er iv\u00e4g. L\u00e4mna mig i fred.\"\n\n\"Men du beh\u00f6ver mig\", sa Balthamos kyligt, \"f\u00f6r jag kan l\u00e5tsas att jag \u00e4r din d\u00e6mon, och i Lyras v\u00e4rld skulle du dra till dig uppm\u00e4rksamhet annars.\"\n\nWill var stum av ilska. Han reste sig upp och gick tjugo steg bort genom den djupa mjuka sanden, och stannade sedan, f\u00f6r hettan och fuktigheten var f\u00f6rlamande.\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig om och s\u00e5g de b\u00e5da \u00e4nglarna tala t\u00e4tt tillsammans, och sedan kom de fram till honom, besv\u00e4rade och \u00f6dmjuka, men samtidigt stolta.\n\n\"Vi ber om urs\u00e4kt\", sa Baruch. \"Jag ska bege mig ensam till lord Asriel och ber\u00e4tta vad vi vet f\u00f6r honom, och be honom hj\u00e4lpa dig att hitta hans dotter. Det kommer att ta mig tv\u00e5 dagar att flyga, om jag flyger r\u00e4tt.\"\n\n\"Och jag t\u00e4nker stanna hos dig, Will\", sa Balthamos.\n\n\"Jaha\", sa Will, \"tack s\u00e5 mycket.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da \u00e4nglarna omfamnade varandra. Sedan lade Baruch sina armar runt Will och kysste honom p\u00e5 b\u00e5da kinderna. Kyssen var lika l\u00e4tt och sval som Balthamos h\u00e4nder.\n\n\"Kommer du att hitta oss\", fr\u00e5gade Will, \"om vi forts\u00e4tter v\u00e5r v\u00e4g mot Lyra?\"\n\n\"Jag tappar aldrig bort Balthamos\", sa Baruch och tog ett steg tillbaka.\n\nSedan kastade han sig upp i luften, steg snabbt mot himlen och f\u00f6rsvann bland de utspridda stj\u00e4rnorna. Balthamos s\u00e5g efter honom med en desperat l\u00e4ngtan i blicken.\n\n\"Ska vi sova h\u00e4r eller forts\u00e4tter vi?\" sa han till slut och v\u00e4nde sig mot Will.\n\n\"Sova h\u00e4r\", sa Will.\n\n\"Sov d\u00e5, s\u00e5 h\u00e5ller jag vakt mot alla faror. Jag har varit kylig mot dig, Will, och det var fel av mig. Du b\u00e4r den tyngsta b\u00f6rdan, och jag borde hj\u00e4lpa dig och inte klandra dig. Jag ska f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka vara v\u00e4nligare fr\u00e5n och med nu.\"\n\nS\u00e5 Will lade sig ner p\u00e5 den varma sanden och visste att \u00e4ngeln h\u00f6ll vakt n\u00e5gonstans i n\u00e4rheten. Men det var en ganska klen tr\u00f6st.\n\n_ska f\u00e5 ut oss h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, Roger, jag lovar. Och Will \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hit, det \u00e4r jag s\u00e4ker p\u00e5!\"_\n\n_Han f\u00f6rstod inte. Han bredde ut sina bleka h\u00e4nder och skakade p\u00e5 huvudet._\n\n_\"Jag vet inte vem det \u00e4r och han kommer inte hit\", sa han, \"och g\u00f6r han det, s\u00e5 k\u00e4nner han inte igen mig.\"_\n\n_\"Han \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till mig\", sa hon, \"och jag och Will, \u00e5h, jag vet inte hur, Roger, men jag lovar att vi ska hj\u00e4lpa dig. Gl\u00f6m inte att det finns andra p\u00e5 v\u00e5r sida ocks\u00e5. Serafina och Iorek och_\n\n## 3\n\n## As\u00e4tare\n\nRIDDAREN \u00c4R BORTA, HANS SV\u00c4RD FINNS ICKE MER; \u2013 NU VILAR NOG HANS SJ\u00c4L BLAND HELGONEN.\n\nS T COLERIDGE\n\nSERAFINA PEKKALA, KLANDROTTNING \u00f6ver Enaretr\u00e4sks h\u00e4xor, gr\u00e4t n\u00e4r hon fl\u00f6g genom Arktis uppr\u00f6rda himmel. Hon gr\u00e4t av vrede, av r\u00e4dsla och av samvetskval: vrede mot kvinnan Coulter, som hon hade svurit att d\u00f6da; r\u00e4dsla \u00f6ver vad som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda med hennes \u00e4lskade hemland; och samvetskval... Den saken t\u00e4nkte hon ta hand om senare.\n\nUnder tiden tittade hon ner p\u00e5 det sm\u00e4ltande ist\u00e4cket, de \u00f6versv\u00e4mmade skogarna som t\u00e4ckte l\u00e5glandet, det stigande havsvattnet, och k\u00e4nde sig bekl\u00e4md.\n\nMen hon stannade inte f\u00f6r att bes\u00f6ka hemlandet eller f\u00f6r att tr\u00f6sta och uppmuntra sina systrar. Ist\u00e4llet fl\u00f6g hon allt l\u00e4ngre norrut, in i dimman och stormarna som omgav Svalbard, kungad\u00f6met som styrdes av pansarbj\u00f6rnen Iorek Byrnison.\n\nHon kunde knappt k\u00e4nna igen den st\u00f6rre av \u00f6arna. Bergen l\u00e5g svarta och nakna. Det var bara n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 g\u00f6mda dalar, som hade legat i skydd fr\u00e5n solen, som hade lite sn\u00f6 kvar i sina skuggigaste h\u00f6rn. Men vad gjorde solen h\u00e4r uppe, till att b\u00f6rja med, vid den h\u00e4r tiden p\u00e5 \u00e5ret? Hela naturen hade st\u00e4llts p\u00e5 \u00e4nda.\n\nDet tog henne st\u00f6rre delen av en dag att hitta bj\u00f6rnkungen. Hon fann honom bland klipporna vid \u00f6ns norra del, snabbt simmande efter en valross. Det var sv\u00e5rare f\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnarna att d\u00f6da i vatten: n\u00e4r landet var t\u00e4ckt av is och havets stora d\u00e4ggdjur var tvungna att komma upp p\u00e5 land f\u00f6r att andas, hade bj\u00f6rnarna f\u00f6rdel av sitt kamouflage och att bytena befann sig utanf\u00f6r sitt r\u00e4tta element. Det var s\u00e5 det skulle vara.\n\nMen Iorek Byrnison var hungrig, och inte ens valrossens huggande betar kunde h\u00e5lla honom p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd. Serafina s\u00e5g hur de b\u00e5da djuren k\u00e4mpade och f\u00e4rgade det vita havsskummet r\u00f6tt, och hon s\u00e5g Iorek dra kadavret ur v\u00e5gorna och upp p\u00e5 en bred klipphylla, bevakad p\u00e5 respektfullt avst\u00e5nd av tre raggp\u00e4lsade r\u00e4var, som v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 sin tur att f\u00e5 festa.\n\nN\u00e4r bj\u00f6rnkungen hade \u00e4tit klart fl\u00f6g Serafina ner f\u00f6r att tala med honom. Nu var det dags att ta hand om samvetskvalen.\n\n\"Kung Iorek Byrnison\", sa hon, \"f\u00e5r jag tala med er? Jag l\u00e4gger ner mina vapen.\"\n\nHon lade sin b\u00e5ge och sina pilar p\u00e5 den v\u00e5ta klippan mellan dem. Iorek kastade en blick p\u00e5 dem, och hon f\u00f6rstod att om hans ansikte hade kunnat visa n\u00e5gra uttryck, s\u00e5 hade det varit f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning.\n\n\"Tala, Serafina Pekkala\", morrade han. \"Vi har v\u00e4l aldrig slagits, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Kung Iorek, jag har svikit er kamrat Lee Scoresby.\"\n\nBj\u00f6rnens sm\u00e5 svarta \u00f6gon och blodbest\u00e4nkta nos blev pl\u00f6tsligt stilla. Hon kunde se hur vinden rufsade om topparna p\u00e5 det gr\u00e4ddvita h\u00e5ret l\u00e4ngs ryggen. Han sa inget.\n\n\"Mr Scoresby \u00e4r d\u00f6d\", fortsatte Serafina. \"Innan jag l\u00e4mnade honom gav jag honom en blomma f\u00f6r att han skulle kunna kalla p\u00e5 mig om han beh\u00f6vde mig. Jag fick hans kallelse, s\u00e5 jag fl\u00f6g till honom, men jag kom f\u00f6r sent. Han dog medan han bek\u00e4mpade en styrka med muskoviter, men jag vet inget om vad som hade f\u00f6rt dem till platsen, eller varf\u00f6r han h\u00f6ll st\u00e5nd mot dem, d\u00e5 han l\u00e4tt kunde ha flytt. Kung Iorek, mina samvetskval f\u00f6rg\u00f6r mig.\"\n\n\"Var h\u00e4nde detta?\" fr\u00e5gade Iorek Byrnison.\n\n\"I en annan v\u00e4rld. Det kommer att ta mig en stund att ber\u00e4tta allt.\"\n\n\"B\u00f6rja d\u00e5.\"\n\nHon ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r honom att Lee Scoresby hade best\u00e4mt sig f\u00f6r att hitta mannen som varit k\u00e4nd som Stanislaus Grumman. Hon ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r honom om hur lord Asriel hade \u00f6vertr\u00e4tt gr\u00e4nsen mellan v\u00e4rldarna, och om n\u00e5gra av konsekvenserna \u2013 till exempel att isen h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att sm\u00e4lta. Hon ber\u00e4ttade om hur h\u00e4xan Ruta Skadi hade flugit efter \u00e4nglarna, och hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte beskriva dessa flygande varelser f\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnkungen s\u00e5 som Ruta hade beskrivit dem f\u00f6r henne: ljuset som lyste upp dem, deras kristalliknande klarhet, deras stora visdom.\n\nSedan beskrev hon vad hon hade hittat d\u00e5 hon svarade p\u00e5 Lees kallelse.\n\n\"Jag lade en besv\u00e4rjelse \u00f6ver hans kropp, f\u00f6r att den inte skulle f\u00f6rd\u00e4rvas\", ber\u00e4ttade hon f\u00f6r honom. \"Den finns kvar d\u00e4r tills ni kommer dit, om ni \u00f6nskar det. Men det bekymrar mig, kung Iorek. Jag \u00e4r bekymrad \u00f6ver alltihop, men mest \u00f6ver detta.\"\n\n\"Var \u00e4r flickan?\"\n\n\"Jag l\u00e4mnade henne hos mina systrar, eftersom jag m\u00e5ste komma n\u00e4r Lee kallade p\u00e5 mig.\"\n\n\"I samma v\u00e4rld?\"\n\n\"Ja, i samma.\"\n\n\"Hur tar jag mig dit h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n?\"\n\nHon f\u00f6rklarade. Iorek Byrnison lyssnade uttrycksl\u00f6st, och sa sedan: \"Jag ska s\u00f6ka upp Lee Scoresby. Men sedan m\u00e5ste jag bege mig s\u00f6derut.\"\n\n\"S\u00f6derut?\"\n\n\"Isen har f\u00f6rsvunnit fr\u00e5n det h\u00e4r landet. Jag har t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 saken, Serafina Pekkala. Jag har hyrt ett skepp.\"\n\nDe tre sm\u00e5 r\u00e4varna hade v\u00e4ntat t\u00e5lmodigt. Tv\u00e5 av dem l\u00e5g ner och tittade, med huvudet mot tassarna, medan den tredje fortfarande satt upp och f\u00f6ljde med i konversationen. Arktis r\u00e4var hade, som de as\u00e4tare de var, snappat \u00e5t sig lite talat spr\u00e5k, men deras hj\u00e4rnor var utformade p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5dant s\u00e4tt att de bara f\u00f6rstod uttalanden i presens. Det mesta av det Iorek och Serafina pratade om var bara meningsl\u00f6sa ljud f\u00f6r r\u00e4varna. N\u00e4r r\u00e4varna v\u00e4l pratade var dessutom mycket av det de sa rena l\u00f6gner, s\u00e5 det spelade ingen roll om de skulle upprepa vad de hade h\u00f6rt. Ingen skulle kunna reda ut vilka delar som var sanna, \u00e4ven om de godtrogna klippgastarna som regel trodde p\u00e5 n\u00e4stan allt och aldrig l\u00e4rde sig av besvikelsen. B\u00e5de bj\u00f6rnarna och h\u00e4xorna var vana vid att deras samtal plundrades och skrapades rena, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som resterna av deras m\u00e5ltider.\n\n\"Och ni, Serafina Pekkala?\" fortsatte Iorek. \"Vad t\u00e4nker ni g\u00f6ra nu?\"\n\n\"Jag ska hitta gyptierna\", sa hon. \"Jag tror att vi kommer att beh\u00f6va dem.\"\n\n\"Lord Faa\", sa bj\u00f6rnen, \"jo. Utm\u00e4rkta k\u00e4mpar. Farv\u00e4l.\"\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig bort fr\u00e5n henne och gled ljudl\u00f6st ner i vattnet och b\u00f6rjade simma mot den nya v\u00e4rlden med sitt regelbundna, outtr\u00f6ttliga hundsim.\n\nOch en tid senare klev Iorek Byrnison genom den svartnade undervegetationen och \u00f6ver de spruckna klipporna vid utkanten av en nedbr\u00e4nd skog. Solen str\u00e5lade genom det r\u00f6kfyllda diset, men han struntade i hettan p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som han struntade i koldammet, som fick hans vita p\u00e4ls att svartna, och i myggorna, som f\u00f6rg\u00e4ves letade efter n\u00e5gon hud att bita i.\n\nHan hade f\u00e4rdats l\u00e5ngt, och vid n\u00e5got tillf\u00e4lle under resan hade han simmat in i den andra v\u00e4rlden. Han m\u00e4rkte f\u00f6r\u00e4ndringen i vattnets smak och luftens temperatur, men d\u00e5 luften fortfarande var frisk och vattnet fortsatte att b\u00e4ra hans kropp, simmade han vidare. Nu hade han l\u00e4mnat havet bakom sig och var n\u00e4stan framme vid den plats som Serafina Pekkala hade beskrivit. Han s\u00e5g sig omkring och de svarta \u00f6gonen spanade upp\u00e5t mot kalkstensbrantens solskimrande klippor ovanf\u00f6r honom.\n\nI brottet mellan den nedbr\u00e4nda skogen och bergen fanns en sluttning med tunga klippblock och nedrasad sten, och den var \u00f6vers\u00e5llad med svedd och f\u00f6rvriden metall. Det var balkar och stag som hade tillh\u00f6rt n\u00e5gon komplicerad maskin. Iorek Byrnison betraktade metallen, b\u00e5de som smed och som krigare, men det fanns inget av fragmenten han kunde anv\u00e4nda. Han ritsade ett streck med en m\u00e4ktig klo l\u00e4ngs med ett stag som var mindre skadat \u00e4n resten, men n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g hur spr\u00f6d metallen var sl\u00e4ppte han genast tanken p\u00e5 den och spanade ist\u00e4llet p\u00e5 nytt mot bergv\u00e4ggen.\n\nS\u00e5 uppt\u00e4ckte han det han s\u00f6kt efter: en smal ravin som letade sig in mellan de brutna klippv\u00e4ggarna, med ett stort, l\u00e5gt klippblock vid ing\u00e5ngen.\n\nHan kl\u00e4ttrade stadigt vidare mot klippblocket. Torra ben kn\u00e4cktes ljudligt i stillheten n\u00e4r hans v\u00e4ldiga tassar trampade p\u00e5 dem, f\u00f6r m\u00e5nga m\u00e4n hade d\u00f6tt h\u00e4r och sedan skrapats rena av pr\u00e4rievargarna och gamarna och alla de mindre djuren, men den stora bj\u00f6rnen ignorerade dem och kl\u00e4ttrade f\u00f6rsiktigt vidare mot klippblocket. Jorden var l\u00f6s och han var tung, s\u00e5 det h\u00e4nde mer \u00e4n en g\u00e5ng att marken gav vika under hans f\u00f6tter och drog ner honom i moln av damm och grus. Men s\u00e5 snart varje ras hade upph\u00f6rt fortsatte han outtr\u00f6ttligt, t\u00e5lmodigt upp\u00e5t igen, tills han n\u00e5dde sj\u00e4lva klippan, d\u00e4r fotf\u00e4stet var s\u00e4krare.\n\nStenbumlingen var \u00e4rrad och m\u00e4rkt av kulor. Allt som h\u00e4xan hade sagt honom var sant och som bekr\u00e4ftelse blommade en lila stenbr\u00e4cka lite ov\u00e4ntat i en klippskreva, precis d\u00e4r h\u00e4xan hade planterat den som tecken.\n\nIorek Byrnison tog sig runt till den \u00f6vre sidan. Stenbumlingen var ett bra skydd mot fienderna nedanf\u00f6r, men inte tillr\u00e4ckligt bra, f\u00f6r i regnet av kulor som hade slagit flisor ur klipporna var det n\u00e5gra som hade hittat sina m\u00e5l i den manskropp som nu l\u00e5g likstel i skuggan.\n\nDet var fortfarande en kropp och inte ett skelett, f\u00f6r h\u00e4xan hade lagt en besv\u00e4rjelse \u00f6ver honom som skydd mot f\u00f6rruttnelse och as\u00e4tare. Iorek s\u00e5g att den gamle kamratens ansikte var sp\u00e4nt och sammanbitet av sm\u00e4rtan fr\u00e5n s\u00e5ren, och han s\u00e5g ocks\u00e5 de fransiga h\u00e5len i kl\u00e4derna d\u00e4r kulorna hade g\u00e5tt in. H\u00e4xans besv\u00e4rjelse hade inte omfattat det blod som m\u00e5ste ha spillts, s\u00e5 insekterna och solen och vinden m\u00e5ste ha tv\u00e4ttat bort det. Lee Scoresby s\u00e5g inte ut som om han sov och han s\u00e5g heller inte fridfull ut; han s\u00e5g ut som om han hade d\u00f6tt i strid, men s\u00e5g samtidigt ut som om han hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt att striden varit segerrik.\n\nEftersom aeronauten fr\u00e5n Texas var den ena av endast tv\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskor som Iorek n\u00e5gonsin hade v\u00e4rdesatt accepterade han mannens sista g\u00e5va till honom. Med flinka r\u00f6relser rev han bort mannens kl\u00e4der och \u00f6ppnade kroppen med ett enda svep av klon, varefter han b\u00f6rjade \u00e4ta av den gamle v\u00e4nnens k\u00f6tt och blod. Det h\u00e4r var det f\u00f6rsta han hade \u00e4tit p\u00e5 flera dagar, s\u00e5 han var hungrig.\n\nEn komplex v\u00e4v av tankar formade sig i bj\u00f6rnkungens sinne, och den hade fler tr\u00e5dar \u00e4n bara hunger och tillfredsst\u00e4llelse. D\u00e4r fanns minnet av den lilla flickan, Lyra, som han hade kallat Silvertunga, och som han senast sett n\u00e4r hon korsade den br\u00e4ckliga sn\u00f6bron \u00f6ver ravinen p\u00e5 Svalbard, hans egen \u00f6. Sedan var det uppr\u00f6rdheten bland h\u00e4xorna, med rykten om pakter och allianser och krig; och det o\u00f6vertr\u00e4ffat m\u00e4rkliga med den h\u00e4r nya v\u00e4rlden och h\u00e4xans insisterande p\u00e5 att det fanns m\u00e5nga fler s\u00e5dana v\u00e4rldar, och att samtliga dessa v\u00e4rldars \u00f6den p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt h\u00e4ngde ihop med det som h\u00e4nde med flickan.\n\nEn annan sak var islossningen. Han och hans folk levde p\u00e5 isen; isen var deras hem; isen var deras f\u00e4ste. Efter de v\u00e4ldiga st\u00f6rningarna i Arktis hade isen b\u00f6rjat f\u00f6rsvinna och Iorek f\u00f6rstod att han m\u00e5ste hitta ett nytt fruset f\u00e4ste \u00e5t sitt folk om det inte skulle g\u00e5 under. Lee hade ber\u00e4ttat att det fanns berg i s\u00f6dern, att de var s\u00e5 h\u00f6ga att inte ens hans ballong kunde flyga \u00f6ver dem, och att deras toppar var t\u00e4ckta av is och sn\u00f6 \u00e5ret om. Att utforska de bergen skulle bli hans n\u00e4sta uppgift.\n\nMen just nu fanns det n\u00e5got mycket enklare som uppfyllde hans hj\u00e4rta, n\u00e5got som var mycket klart och h\u00e5rt och orubbligt: h\u00e4mnd. Lee Scoresby, som hade r\u00e4ddat Iorek ur faran med sin ballong och hade stridit vid hans sida i Arktis i den egna v\u00e4rlden, hade d\u00f6tt. Iorek skulle h\u00e4mnas honom. Den duglige mannens k\u00f6tt och ben skulle inte bara n\u00e4ra honom, utan \u00e4ven g\u00f6ra honom rastl\u00f6s tills tillr\u00e4ckligt mycket blod hade spillts f\u00f6r att lugna hans hj\u00e4rta.\n\nN\u00e4r Iorek avslutade m\u00e5ltiden var solen p\u00e5 v\u00e4g ner och luften h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att svalna. N\u00e4r bj\u00f6rnen hade samlat ihop de delar som blivit \u00f6ver i en enda h\u00f6g tog han blomman i munnen och sl\u00e4ppte den i mitten av kvarlevorna, s\u00e5 som m\u00e4nniskorna brukade g\u00f6ra. Nu var h\u00e4xans besv\u00e4rjelse bruten, s\u00e5 det som \u00e5terstod av Lees kropp var fritt byte f\u00f6r alla som kom f\u00f6rbi. Inom kort skulle kvarlevorna g\u00f6da ett dussin olika slags liv.\n\nSedan begav Iorek sig ner f\u00f6r sluttningen mot havet igen, och fortsatte s\u00f6derut.\n\nKlippgastarna \u00e5t g\u00e4rna r\u00e4v om de fick tag p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon. De sm\u00e5 varelserna var sluga och sv\u00e5ra att f\u00e5nga, men k\u00f6ttet var m\u00f6rt och gott. Klippgasten l\u00e4t en av dem prata p\u00e5 innan han d\u00f6dade den, och skrattade gott \u00e5t dess dumma pladder.\n\n\"Bj\u00f6rn m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 s\u00f6derut! Sv\u00e4r! H\u00e4xa bekymrad! Sant! Sv\u00e4r! Lovar!\"\n\n\"Bj\u00f6rnar g\u00e5r inte s\u00f6derut, din smutsiga l\u00f6gnare!\"\n\n\"Sant! Kungsbj\u00f6rn m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 s\u00f6derut! Visa valross \u2013 fin fet god...\"\n\n\"G\u00e5r kungsbj\u00f6rnen s\u00f6derut?\"\n\n\"Och flygande saker har skatt! Flygande saker \u2013 \u00e4nglar \u2013 kristallskatt!\"\n\n\"Vad\u00e5 flygande saker \u2013 som klippgastar? Vad\u00e5 skatt?\"\n\n\"Som ljus, inte som klippgast. Rika! Kristall! H\u00e4xa bekymrad \u2013 h\u00e4xa ledsen \u2013 Scoresby d\u00f6d...\"\n\n\"D\u00f6d? \u00c4r ballongmannen d\u00f6d?\" Klippgastens skratt ekade bland de torra klipporna.\n\n\"H\u00e4xan d\u00f6dar honom \u2013 Scoresby d\u00f6d, kungsbj\u00f6rn g\u00e5r s\u00f6derut...\"\n\n\"\u00c4r Scoresby d\u00f6d? Ha ha, Scoresby \u00e4r d\u00f6d!\"\n\nKlippgasten slet huvudet av r\u00e4ven och slogs sedan med sina br\u00f6der om in\u00e4lvorna.\n\n_dom \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hit, det \u00e4r dom!\"_\n\n_\"Men var \u00e4r du n\u00e5nstans, Lyra?\"_\n\n_Det kunde hon inte svara p\u00e5. \"Jag tror jag dr\u00f6mmer, Roger\", var det enda hon kom p\u00e5 att s\u00e4ga._\n\n_Bakom den lille pojken kunde hon se fler andar, dussintals, hundratals, med huvudena t\u00e4tt ihop, kikande p\u00e5 dem och lyssnande p\u00e5 vartenda ord._\n\n_\"Och den d\u00e4r kvinnan?\" sa Roger. \"Jag hoppas att hon inte har d\u00f6tt. Jag hoppas att hon h\u00e5ller sig vid liv s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge som det bara \u00e4r m\u00f6jligt. F\u00f6r om hon kommer ner hit, s\u00e5 finns det inget st\u00e4lle att g\u00f6mma sig p\u00e5, hon kommer att drabba oss f\u00f6r alltid d\u00e5. Det \u00e4r det enda som \u00e4r bra med att vara d\u00f6d, att hon inte \u00e4r det. Det \u00e4r bara det att n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng kommer hon att d\u00f6, det vet jag...\"_\n\n_Lyra blev oroad._\n\n_\"Jag tror jag dr\u00f6mmer och jag vet inte var hon \u00e4r!\" sa hon. \"Hon \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans i n\u00e4rheten, och jag kan inte_\n\n## 4\n\n## Ama och fladderm\u00f6ssen\n\nHON L\u00c5G SOM VID LEK \u2013 HENNES LIV TOG ETT SKUTT - MED TANKEN ATT V\u00c4NDA \u00c5TER \u2013 MEN INTE ALLTF\u00d6R SNART.\n\nEMILY DICKINSON\n\nHERDEDOTTERN AMA BAR med sig bilden av den sovande flickan i minnet: hon kunde inte sluta t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 henne. Hon ifr\u00e5gasatte inte alls sanningen i det som mrs Coulter hade ber\u00e4ttat. Trollkarlar existerade utan tvivel, och d\u00e5 var det mer \u00e4n troligt att det b\u00e5de lades besv\u00e4rjelser och att en mor skulle vilja skydda sin dotter p\u00e5 detta b\u00e5de vildsinta och \u00f6mma s\u00e4tt. Amas beundran f\u00f6r den vackra kvinnan i grottan och hennes f\u00f6rtrollade dotter gr\u00e4nsade till dyrkan.\n\nS\u00e5 ofta hon kunde gick hon till den lilla dalen, f\u00f6r att springa \u00e4renden \u00e5t kvinnan eller bara f\u00f6r att sm\u00e5prata och lyssna, eftersom kvinnan kunde ber\u00e4tta helt underbara sagor. Om och om igen hoppades hon f\u00e5 se en skymt av den sovande, men det hade bara h\u00e4nt en g\u00e5ng, och hon accepterade att det antagligen inte skulle h\u00e4nda igen.\n\nOch medan hon mj\u00f6lkade f\u00e5ren, eller kardade och spann deras ull, eller malde s\u00e4d till mj\u00f6l, t\u00e4nkte hon oavbrutet p\u00e5 besv\u00e4rjelsen och p\u00e5 varf\u00f6r den hade lagts. Mrs Coulter hade inte ber\u00e4ttat n\u00e5got, s\u00e5 Ama kunde fantisera fritt.\n\nEn dag tog hon tv\u00e5 platta, honungss\u00f6tade br\u00f6d och gick i tre timmar l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4gen till Cho-Lung-Se, d\u00e4r det fanns ett kloster. Med lirkande och t\u00e5lamod och genom att muta portvakten med ett av honungsbr\u00f6den lyckades hon f\u00e5 audiens hos den store helaren Pagdzin _tulku_ , som hade hejdat en epidemi av vitfeber s\u00e5 sent som f\u00f6rra \u00e5ret. Han var o\u00e4ndligt vis.\n\nAma gick in i den store mannens rum, bugade mycket djupt och erbj\u00f6d honom sitt kvarvarande honungsbr\u00f6d med all den \u00f6dmjukhet hon kunde uppb\u00e5da. Munkens fladdermusd\u00e6mon fl\u00f6g ner och svepte runt hennes huvud, och skr\u00e4mde hennes egen d\u00e6mon Kulang, som kr\u00f6p in och g\u00f6mde sig i hennes h\u00e5r, men Ama f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte st\u00e5 tyst och stilla \u00e4nda tills Pagdzin _tulku_ tilltalade henne.\n\n\"Ja, barn? Skynda dig, skynda dig\", sa han, och det l\u00e5nga gr\u00e5 sk\u00e4gget vippade f\u00f6r varje ord.\n\nI det svaga ljuset var sk\u00e4gget och de glittrande \u00f6gonen n\u00e4stan det enda hon kunde urskilja. D\u00e6monen slog sig till slut ner p\u00e5 bj\u00e4lken ovanf\u00f6r honom och var \u00e4ntligen stilla. \"Sn\u00e4lla, Pagdzin _tulku_ , jag vill f\u00e5 vishet\", sa hon d\u00e5. \"Jag vill l\u00e4ra mig att l\u00e4gga besv\u00e4rjelser och f\u00f6rtrolla folk. Vill ni l\u00e4ra mig?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa han.\n\nDet hade hon r\u00e4knat med. \"Men kan ni inte ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig om n\u00e5got botemedel bara?\" fr\u00e5gade hon \u00f6dmjukt.\n\n\"Kanske det. Men jag t\u00e4nker inte ber\u00e4tta vad det \u00e4r. Jag kan ge dig medicinen, men jag t\u00e4nker inte ber\u00e4tta hemligheten.\"\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 hemskt mycket, det \u00e4r en stor \u00e4ra\", sa hon och bugade sig flera g\u00e5nger.\n\n\"Vilken \u00e4r sjukdomen, och vem har den?\" sa den gamle mannen.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r en s\u00f6mnsjukdom\", f\u00f6rklarade Ama. \"Den har drabbat min fars kusins son.\"\n\nHon var extra f\u00f6rt\u00e4nksam genom att byta k\u00f6n p\u00e5 den drabbade, ifall helaren hade h\u00f6rt talas om kvinnan i grottan.\n\n\"Och hur gammal \u00e4r pojken?\"\n\n\"Tre \u00e5r \u00e4ldre \u00e4n jag, Pagdzin _tulku_ \", gissade hon, \"allts\u00e5 tolv \u00e5r. Han sover och sover och kan inte vakna.\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r har hans f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar inte kommit till mig? Varf\u00f6r skickade de dig?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r att de bor l\u00e5ngt borta p\u00e5 andra sidan om min by, och f\u00f6r att de \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt fattiga, Pagdzin _tulku_. Jag fick inte h\u00f6ra om min sl\u00e4ktings sjukdom f\u00f6rr\u00e4n ig\u00e5r, s\u00e5 d\u00e5 gav jag mig omedelbart iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 ert r\u00e5d.\"\n\n\"Jag borde tr\u00e4ffa patienten och unders\u00f6ka honom noggrant, och studera planeternas position vid tidpunkten f\u00f6r hans insjuknande. S\u00e5dana h\u00e4r saker kan inte genomf\u00f6ras i en hast.\"\n\n\"Finns det ingen medicin jag kan f\u00e5, som jag kan ta med mig tillbaka?\"\n\nFladdermusd\u00e6monen f\u00f6ll ner fr\u00e5n sin bj\u00e4lke och fladdrade \u00e5t sidan som en svart skugga innan hon nuddade golvet, och st\u00f6rtade blixtsnabbt g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng runt rummet, alltf\u00f6r snabbt f\u00f6r att Ama skulle kunna f\u00f6lja henne med blicken; men helarens klara \u00f6gon s\u00e5g precis vart hon fl\u00f6g, och n\u00e4r hon \u00e5terigen h\u00e4ngde upp och ner fr\u00e5n sin bj\u00e4lke och hade f\u00e4llt sina m\u00f6rka vingar runt kroppen, steg den gamle mannen upp och gick fr\u00e5n hylla till hylla och fr\u00e5n burk till burk och fr\u00e5n skrin till skrin, och tog en sked pulver p\u00e5 ett st\u00e4lle och en nypa \u00f6rter p\u00e5 ett annat, i den ordning som d\u00e6monen hade visat.\n\nHan h\u00e4llde alla ingredienserna i en mortel och st\u00f6tte dem samman medan han muttrade en besv\u00e4rjelse. Sedan knackade han med mortelst\u00f6ten p\u00e5 kanten av morteln f\u00f6r att skaka loss de sista kornen, tog en pensel och bl\u00e4ck och skrev n\u00e5gra tecken p\u00e5 en bit papper. N\u00e4r bl\u00e4cket hade torkat h\u00e4llde han pulvret p\u00e5 skriften och vek skickligt ihop papperet till ett litet fyrkantigt paket.\n\n\"S\u00e4g \u00e5t dem att borsta ner det h\u00e4r pulvret i det sovande barnets n\u00e4sborrar, lite i taget medan han andas in\", sa han till henne, \"s\u00e5 kommer han att vakna. Det m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras mycket f\u00f6rsiktigt. F\u00f6r mycket p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng kommer att kv\u00e4va honom. Anv\u00e4nd den allra mjukaste borste du har.\"\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket, Pagdzin _tulku_ \", sa Ama. Hon tog paketet och stoppade det i fickan p\u00e5 sin understa kjol. \"Jag \u00f6nskar att jag hade ytterligare ett honungsbr\u00f6d att ge dig.\"\n\n\"Ett r\u00e4cker\", sa helaren. \"G\u00e5 nu, och n\u00e4sta g\u00e5ng du kommer ska du ber\u00e4tta hela sanningen, och inte bara delar av den.\"\n\nFlickan blev alldeles f\u00f6rl\u00e4gen, s\u00e5 hon bugade sig djupt f\u00f6r att d\u00f6lja sin f\u00f6rvirring. Hon hoppades att hon inte hade avsl\u00f6jat allt f\u00f6r mycket.\n\nN\u00e4sta kv\u00e4ll skyndade hon sig till dalen s\u00e5 tidigt hon kunde och hade med sig lite \u00e5ngkokt ris i ett stort t\u00f6relblad. Hon var ivrig att f\u00e5 ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r kvinnan vad hon hade gjort, och att ge henne medicinen och f\u00e5 ta emot hennes tack och hyllning, men mest av allt var hon ivrig att f\u00e5 se den sovande vakna och tala till henne. De kunde ju bli v\u00e4nner!\n\nMen n\u00e4r hon rundade kr\u00f6ken p\u00e5 stigen och tittade upp\u00e5t, s\u00e5g hon ingen gyllene apa och ingen t\u00e5lmodig kvinna som satt vid grottans \u00f6ppning. Platsen var tom. Hon sprang de sista metrarna och var r\u00e4dd att de skulle ha f\u00f6rsvunnit f\u00f6r alltid \u2013 men d\u00e4r var kvinnans stol och hennes matlagningsutrustning och allt det andra.\n\nAma spanade in mot m\u00f6rkret l\u00e4ngre in i grottan, med hj\u00e4rtat dunkande i br\u00f6stet. Den sovande hade v\u00e4l \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte redan vaknat: i det svaga ljuset kunde Ama urskilja sovs\u00e4ckens form, flickans h\u00e5r som en ljusare fl\u00e4ck, och den vita kurva som var hennes sovande d\u00e6mon.\n\nHon sm\u00f6g lite n\u00e4rmare. Det var inget tvivel om saken \u2013 de hade g\u00e5tt iv\u00e4g och l\u00e4mnat den f\u00f6rtrollade flickan ensam.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt slogs Ama av en tanke: T\u00e4nk om _hon_ skulle v\u00e4cka henne innan kvinnan kom tillbaka!\n\nMen hon hade knappt tid att gl\u00e4dja sig \u00e5t id\u00e9n innan hon h\u00f6rde ljud fr\u00e5n stigen utanf\u00f6r, s\u00e5 med en skuldmedveten rysning slank hon och hennes d\u00e6mon in bakom ett klippblock vid grottv\u00e4ggen. Hon borde inte vara d\u00e4r. Hon spionerade. Det var fel.\n\nOch nu satt den gyllene apan p\u00e5 huk i \u00f6ppningen, snusade i luften och vred huvudet \u00e5t olika h\u00e5ll. Ama s\u00e5g att han visade sina vassa t\u00e4nder och k\u00e4nde hur hennes egen d\u00e6mon borrade sig djupare ner i hennes kl\u00e4der, sk\u00e4lvande i sin musform.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det?\" h\u00f6rdes kvinnans r\u00f6st, riktad till apan, och sedan m\u00f6rknade grottan d\u00e5 hennes silhuett skymde grott\u00f6ppningen. \"Har flickan varit h\u00e4r? Ja \u2013 d\u00e4r \u00e4r ju maten hon har l\u00e4mnat. Men hon borde inte ha kommit in. Vi f\u00e5r ordna ett st\u00e4lle l\u00e4ngs stigen d\u00e4r hon kan l\u00e4mna maten.\"\n\nUtan minsta blick p\u00e5 den sovande b\u00f6jde kvinnan sig ner f\u00f6r att v\u00e4cka liv i gl\u00f6den, och satte sedan en kastrull med vatten p\u00e5 elden, medan d\u00e6monen satt hopkrupen i n\u00e4rheten och vaktade stigen. D\u00e5 och d\u00e5 gick han en sv\u00e4ng runt grottan, och Ama, som blev stel och fick kramp i sitt tr\u00e5nga g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle, \u00f6nskade innerligt att hon hade v\u00e4ntat utanf\u00f6r och inte g\u00e5tt in. Hur l\u00e4nge skulle hon sitta fast h\u00e4r?\n\nKvinnan blandade lite \u00f6rter och pulver i det varma vattnet. Ama kunde k\u00e4nna den str\u00e4va doften n\u00e4r \u00e5ngan spred sig i luften. Ett ljud kom fr\u00e5n grottans bakre del: flickan v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 sig och mumlade. Ama vred p\u00e5 huvudet: hon kunde se den f\u00f6rtrollade soverskan r\u00f6ra sig, kasta sig fr\u00e5n sida till sida och sl\u00e4nga ena armen \u00f6ver \u00f6gonen. Hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att vakna!\n\nMen kvinnan brydde sig inte om det!\n\nUppenbarligen h\u00f6rde hon det, eftersom hon tittade upp ett \u00f6gonblick, men sedan \u00e5tergick hon till sina \u00f6rter och det kokande vattnet. Hon h\u00e4llde dekokten i en pl\u00e5tmugg och l\u00e4t den st\u00e5, och v\u00e4nde f\u00f6rst d\u00e4refter sin uppm\u00e4rksamhet mot den vaknande flickan.\n\nAma f\u00f6rstod ingenting av det kvinnan sa, men hon lyssnade p\u00e5 orden med allt st\u00f6rre f\u00f6rundran och misst\u00e4nksamhet:\n\n\"Tyst nu, min k\u00e4ra\", sa kvinnan. \"Oroa dig inte. Du \u00e4r trygg nu.\"\n\n\"Roger...\", mumlade flickan halvvaket. \"Serafina! Vart har Roger tagit v\u00e4gen... Var \u00e4r han?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r ingen h\u00e4r utom vi\", sa hennes mor med halvsjungande r\u00f6st, n\u00e4stan nynnande. \"Lyft p\u00e5 dig nu, och l\u00e5t mamma tv\u00e4tta dig... Kom nu, lilla v\u00e4n...\"\n\nAma s\u00e5g p\u00e5 n\u00e4r flickan st\u00f6nande k\u00e4mpade sig vaken och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte knuffa undan modern; och kvinnan doppade en svamp i sk\u00e5len med vatten och str\u00f6k den \u00f6ver dotterns ansikte och kropp, innan hon torkade henne torr.\n\nN\u00e4r hon var klar var flickan n\u00e4stan vaken, s\u00e5 kvinnan m\u00e5ste handla snabbt.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r Serafina? Och Will? Hj\u00e4lp, hj\u00e4lp! Jag vill inte sova \u2013 Nej, nej! Jag vill inte! Nej!\"\n\nKvinnan h\u00f6ll muggen i ett j\u00e4rngrepp med den ena handen medan hon med den andra f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte lyfta Lyras huvud.\n\n\"Ta det lugnt, min \u00e4lskade... s\u00e5ja... stilla... drick ditt te.\"\n\nMen flickan skrek h\u00f6gre och for ut med handen, s\u00e5 att hon n\u00e4stan spillde ut dekokten.\n\n\"L\u00e5t mig vara i fred! Jag vill h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n! Sl\u00e4pp mig! Will, Will, hj\u00e4lp mig \u2013 \u00e5h, hj\u00e4lp mig...\"\n\nKvinnan grep h\u00e5rt om hennes h\u00e5r, tvingade hennes huvud bak\u00e5t och tryckte muggen mot hennes mun.\n\n\"Jag v\u00e4grar! V\u00e5ga r\u00f6ra mig och Iorek sliter huvudet av dig! \u00c5h, Iorek, var \u00e4r du? Iorek Byrnison! Hj\u00e4lp mig, Iorek! Jag v\u00e4grar \u2013 jag v\u00e4grar...\"\n\nP\u00e5 kvinnans kommando st\u00f6rtade den gyllene apan iv\u00e4g till Lyras d\u00e6mon och grep tag i honom med sina h\u00e5rda svarta fingrar. D\u00e6monen bytte fr\u00e5n skepnad till skepnad fortare \u00e4n Ama n\u00e5gonsin tidigare sett en d\u00e6mon byta form: katt-orm-r\u00e5tta-r\u00e4v-f\u00e5gel-varg-leopard-\u00f6dla-iller...\n\nMen apan sl\u00e4ppte inte p\u00e5 greppet; och sedan f\u00f6rvandlade Pantalaimon sig till ett piggsvin.\n\nApan tj\u00f6t till och sl\u00e4ppte taget. Tre l\u00e5nga taggar satt sk\u00e4lvande kvar i handen. Mrs Coulter morrade till och slog Lyra h\u00e5rt \u00f6ver ansiktet med sin fria hand. Det var en grym \u00f6rfil med baksidan av handen, som slog henne till marken, och innan Lyra hunnit samla sig hade hon muggen mot munnen och m\u00e5ste sv\u00e4lja eller kv\u00e4vas.\n\nAma \u00f6nskade att hon kunde t\u00e4cka \u00f6ver \u00f6ronen: fl\u00e4mtningarna, skriken, hostandet, snyftandet, b\u00f6nerna, hulkandet, var n\u00e4stan mer \u00e4n hon stod ut med. Men lite i taget dog det bort och bara en darrande snyftning h\u00f6rdes fr\u00e5n flickan, som \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng f\u00f6rsj\u00f6nk i s\u00f6mn \u2013 f\u00f6rtrollad s\u00f6mn? F\u00f6rgiftad s\u00f6mn! Drogad, f\u00f6rr\u00e4disk s\u00f6mn! Ama s\u00e5g ett vitt streck formas vid flickans strupe d\u00e5 hennes d\u00e6mon med en anstr\u00e4ngning f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en l\u00e5ng, smidig, sn\u00f6p\u00e4lsad varelse med gl\u00e4nsande svarta \u00f6gon och svart svanstipp, och lade sig runt hennes hals.\n\nKvinnan sj\u00f6ng l\u00e5gm\u00e4lt mjuka vaggvisor f\u00f6r flickan och smekte bort h\u00e5ret ur hennes panna, torkade det heta ansiktet torrt, nynnade s\u00e5nger som \u00e4ven Ama f\u00f6rstod att hon inte kunde orden till, eftersom det enda hon sj\u00f6ng var en l\u00e5ng rad nonsensstavelser: la-la-la, ba-ba-boo-boo. Hennes vackra r\u00f6st pratade bara rappakalja.\n\nTill slut var det \u00f6ver, och d\u00e5 gjorde kvinnan n\u00e5gonting underligt: hon tog en sax och klippte flickans h\u00e5r, och h\u00f6ll hennes sovande huvud \u00e5t \u00e4n det ena h\u00e5llet, och \u00e4n det andra, f\u00f6r att se hur det tog sig ut. Hon tog en m\u00f6rkblond lock och lade den i en liten guldberlock som h\u00e4ngde runt hennes egen hals. Ama f\u00f6rstod varf\u00f6r: hon skulle anv\u00e4nda den till mer magi. Men f\u00f6rst h\u00f6ll kvinnan den mot sina l\u00e4ppar... \u00c5h, vad det h\u00e4r var underligt.\n\nDen gyllene apan drog ut den sista piggsvinstaggen och sa n\u00e5got till kvinnan, som str\u00e4ckte sig upp och ryckte ner en sovande fladdermus fr\u00e5n grottans tak. Den lilla svarta saken flaxade och skrek med en n\u00e5lvass r\u00f6st som genomborrade Amas \u00f6ron, och sedan s\u00e5g hon kvinnan ge fladdermusen \u00e5t d\u00e6monen, och hon s\u00e5g hur d\u00e6monen drog en av vingarna ut\u00e5t och ut\u00e5t och ut\u00e5t, tills den kn\u00e4cktes och br\u00f6ts av och h\u00e4ngde l\u00f6st i en vit sena, medan den d\u00f6ende fladdermusen skrek och dess kamrater flaxade omkring i pl\u00e5gad f\u00f6rvirring. Knak \u2013 knak \u2013 kras \u2013 medan den gyllene apan slet den lilla varelsen itu, en lem i taget. Kvinnan l\u00e5g dystert p\u00e5 sin sovs\u00e4ck vid elden och \u00e5t l\u00e5ngsamt en chocolatlkaka.\n\nTiden gick. Ljuset f\u00f6rsvagades och m\u00e5nen steg, och kvinnan och hennes d\u00e6mon somnade.\n\nAma sm\u00f6g ut ur sitt g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle, stel och ledbruten, och tassade p\u00e5 t\u00e5 f\u00f6rbi de sovande. Hon gav inte ett ljud ifr\u00e5n sig f\u00f6rr\u00e4n hon var halvv\u00e4gs ner l\u00e4ngs stigen.\n\nMed r\u00e4dslan som drivkraft sprang hon l\u00e4ngs den smala v\u00e4gen, med sin d\u00e6mon glidande som en uggla p\u00e5 tysta vingar bredvid. Den kalla rena luften, tr\u00e4dtopparnas stadiga r\u00f6relser, de m\u00e5nbelysta molnens glans mot den m\u00f6rka himlen och alla miljonerna stj\u00e4rnor lugnade henne en aning.\n\nHon stannade f\u00f6rst n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g den lilla klungan av stenhus. D\u00e6monen satte sig p\u00e5 hennes knutna hand.\n\n\"Hon lj\u00f6g!\" sa Ama. \"Hon _lj\u00f6g_ f\u00f6r oss! Vad ska vi g\u00f6ra, Kulang? Ska vi ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r pappa? Vad ska vi _g\u00f6ra_?\"\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta inte\", sa hennes d\u00e6mon. \"Det blir bara problem. Vi har medicinen. Vi kan v\u00e4cka henne. Vi kan g\u00e5 dit n\u00e4r kvinnan har g\u00e5tt d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n igen och v\u00e4cka flickan och ta henne d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\"\n\nTanken gjorde dem skr\u00e4ckslagna, men nu hade den uttalats. Det lilla papperspaketet l\u00e5g tryggt i Amas ficka och de visste hur det skulle anv\u00e4ndas.\n\n_vakna, jag kan inte se henne \u2013 jag tror hon \u00e4r n\u00e4ra \u2013 hon har skadat mig...\"_\n\n_\"\u00c5h, Lyra, var inte r\u00e4dd! Om du ocks\u00e5 \u00e4r r\u00e4dd blir jag galen...\"_\n\n_De f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla om varandra, men deras armar gled bara rakt genom tomma luften. Lyra f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rklara vad hon menade, och viskade, t\u00e4tt intill hans bleka lilla ansikte i m\u00f6rkret:_\n\n_\"Jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker bara vakna \u2013 jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd att jag ska sova hela livet och sen d\u00f6 \u2013 jag vill vakna f\u00f6rst! Om jag bara var vid liv och riktigt vaken skulle jag inte bry mig om ifall det bara var f\u00f6r en timme \u2013 jag vet inte ens om det h\u00e4r \u00e4r p\u00e5 riktigt \u2013 men jag ska hj\u00e4lpa dig, Roger! Det sv\u00e4r jag p\u00e5 att jag ska g\u00f6ra!\"_\n\n_\"Men om du dr\u00f6mmer, Lyra, s\u00e5 kanske du inte tror p\u00e5 det n\u00e4r du vaknar. Det \u00e4r vad jag skulle g\u00f6ra, jag skulle tro att det bara var en dr\u00f6m.\"_\n\n_\"Nej!\" sa hon vildsint, och_\n\n## 5\n\n## Tornet av adamant\n\nD\u00c4R ATT DV\u00c4LJAS I DIAMANTH\u00c5RD FJ\u00c4TTRING OCH I ELD SEN HAN MOT HERREN DJ\u00c4RVTS G\u00c5 FRAM MED VAPEN.\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\nEN SJ\u00d6 AV sm\u00e4lt svavel fyllde botten av den enorma ravinen i dess hela l\u00e4ngd. Pustar och fl\u00e4ktar av avgrundslika dunster steg upp ur djupet och sp\u00e4rrade v\u00e4gen f\u00f6r den ensamma, bevingade varelsen vid ravinens kant.\n\nOm han steg mot himlen skulle fienderna, som spanade efter honom men som hade tappat bort honom, genast hitta honom igen. Men om han h\u00f6ll sig p\u00e5 marken skulle det ta s\u00e5 l\u00e5ng tid att ta sig f\u00f6rbi den giftiga avgrunden att hans budskap kanske skulle komma f\u00f6r sent.\n\nHan m\u00e5ste ta chansen. Han v\u00e4ntade tills ett av de stinkande r\u00f6kmolnen steg upp fr\u00e5n den gulaktiga ytan och kastade sig sedan rakt in i det.\n\nFr\u00e5n fyra olika delar av himlen s\u00e5g fyra par \u00f6gon den snabba r\u00f6relsen, och omedelbart b\u00f6rjade fyra par vingar att piska mot den r\u00f6ksmutsiga luften f\u00f6r att f\u00f6ra v\u00e4ktarna n\u00e4rmare molnet.\n\nS\u00e5 b\u00f6rjade en jakt d\u00e4r f\u00f6rf\u00f6ljarna inte kunde se sitt byte och d\u00e4r bytet inte kunde se n\u00e5got alls. Den som f\u00f6rst kom ut ur molnet p\u00e5 sj\u00f6ns andra sida skulle ha en f\u00f6rdel, som skulle inneb\u00e4ra antingen \u00f6verlevnad eller ett lyckat dr\u00e5p.\n\nOturligt nog f\u00f6r den ensamme flygaren n\u00e5dde han friska luften ett par sekunder efter en av sina f\u00f6rf\u00f6ljare. De fl\u00f6g omedelbart ihop, b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 med r\u00f6kstrimmor efter sig, och b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 omt\u00f6cknade av de giftiga gaserna. Till att b\u00f6rja med hade villebr\u00e5det \u00f6verhanden, men sedan kom ytterligare en j\u00e4gare ut ur molnet, och i den snabba och ursinniga striden f\u00f6ll och steg de och f\u00f6ll igen, alla tre, snurrande i luften likt gnistor, f\u00f6r att slutligen falla ner bland klipporna p\u00e5 den bortre sidan. De b\u00e5da andra j\u00e4garna l\u00e4mnade aldrig gasmolnet.\n\nVid den v\u00e4stra \u00e4nden av en s\u00e5gtandad bergskedja, p\u00e5 en topp som erbj\u00f6d god utsikt \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten nedanf\u00f6r och dalarna bortom, stod en f\u00e4stning av basalt. Den s\u00e5g ut att v\u00e4xa rakt upp ur berget, som om en vulkan hade slungat upp den f\u00f6r miljoner \u00e5r sedan.\n\nI v\u00e4ldiga grottor under de upptornande murarna fanns alla sorters f\u00f6rr\u00e5d staplade och bokf\u00f6rda; i arsenalerna och magasinen h\u00f6ll krigsmaskiner p\u00e5 att kalibreras, bev\u00e4pnas och testas; i verkst\u00e4derna under berget n\u00e4rde vulkaniska eldar smedjor d\u00e4r svavel och titan sm\u00e4ltes och blandades till aldrig tidigare k\u00e4nda legeringar.\n\nP\u00e5 f\u00e4stningens mest utsatta sida, d\u00e4r basaltv\u00e4ggarna reste sig rakt upp ur de ur\u00e5ldriga lavastr\u00f6mmarna, fanns en liten port med en vaktpost, som stod d\u00e4r dag och natt och anropade alla som ville in. Medan vaktombytet p\u00e5gick p\u00e5 f\u00e4stningsvallarna ovanf\u00f6r stampade vaktposten ett par g\u00e5nger i marken och slog sina behandskade h\u00e4nder mot \u00f6verarmarna f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 upp v\u00e4rmen, f\u00f6r det var nattens kallaste timme och den lilla naftalampan i h\u00e5llaren bredvid honom avgav ingen v\u00e4rme. Hans avbytare skulle komma om tio minuter, s\u00e5 just nu s\u00e5g han fram emot r\u00f6kbladen och muggen med chocolatl, men mest av allt sin s\u00e4ng.\n\nAtt h\u00f6ra en knackning p\u00e5 den lilla d\u00f6rren var det sista han hade v\u00e4ntat sig.\n\nHan var dock p\u00e5 sin vakt och \u00f6ppnade det lilla titth\u00e5let, samtidigt som han vred p\u00e5 skruven som \u00f6kade fl\u00f6det av nafta till den lilla l\u00e5gan i str\u00e4vpelaren utanf\u00f6r. I det pl\u00f6tsligt uppflammande ljuset s\u00e5g han tre k\u00e5pkl\u00e4dda figurer som bar en fj\u00e4rde, vars form var obest\u00e4md, men som verkade sjuk eller s\u00e5rad.\n\nDen fr\u00e4msta figuren str\u00f6k av sig huvan. Han sa l\u00f6senordet trots att vaktposten k\u00e4nde igen honom.\n\n\"Vi hittade honom vid svavelsj\u00f6n. Han s\u00e4ger att han heter Baruch. Han har ett viktigt meddelande till lord Asriel.\"\n\nVaktposten l\u00e5ste upp d\u00f6rren och hans terrierd\u00e6mon darrade medan de tre figurerna med \u00e5tskilligt besv\u00e4r baxade sin b\u00f6rda genom den tr\u00e5nga \u00f6ppningen. D\u00e6monen gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett ofrivilligt litet tjut, som snabbt klipptes av n\u00e4r vaktposten s\u00e5g att personen som bars in var en s\u00e5rad \u00e4ngel. En \u00e4ngel med l\u00e5g st\u00e4llning och ringa makt, men \u00e4nd\u00e5 en \u00e4ngel.\n\n\"L\u00e4gg honom i vaktrummet\", sa vaktposten, och medan de gjorde detta vevade han ig\u00e5ng telefonen och rapporterade till vakthavande bef\u00e4l.\n\nP\u00e5 det h\u00f6gsta b\u00e5lverket fanns ett torn byggt av adamant: det hade bara en trappa upp till ett antal rum med f\u00f6nster som vette \u00e5t norr, s\u00f6der, \u00f6ster och v\u00e4ster. I det st\u00f6rsta rummet fanns ett bord med stolar och ett kartsk\u00e5p, i ett annat fanns en t\u00e4lts\u00e4ng. V\u00e5ningen kompletterades med ett litet badrum.\n\nLord Asriel och hans spionkapten satt mitt emot varandra i adamanttornet, med en m\u00e4ngd papper utbredda mellan sig. En naftalampa h\u00e4ngde \u00f6ver bordet och i ett fyrfat fanns gl\u00f6dande kol som f\u00f6rdrev den bittra nattk\u00f6lden. Innanf\u00f6r d\u00f6rren satt en liten bl\u00e5 h\u00f6k p\u00e5 en pinne.\n\nSpionkaptenen hette lord Roke. Han hade ett uppseendev\u00e4ckande utseende, f\u00f6r han var inte mer \u00e4n en tv\u00e4rhand h\u00f6g och slank som en trollsl\u00e4nda. Lord Asriels \u00f6vriga kaptener bem\u00f6tte honom med stor respekt, f\u00f6r han var bev\u00e4pnad med en giftig tagg p\u00e5 sina h\u00e4lsporrar.\n\nHan brukade sitta p\u00e5 bordet och hade f\u00f6r vana att besvara allt utom st\u00f6rsta artighet p\u00e5 ett h\u00f6gdraget och giftigt s\u00e4tt. Han och hans folk, gallivespierna, hade inte mycket av det som kr\u00e4vdes av bra spioner, utom f\u00f6rst\u00e5s sin exceptionella litenhet: de var s\u00e5 stolta och l\u00e4ttst\u00f6tta att de hade varit oerh\u00f6rt indiskreta om de hade varit i lord Asriels storlek.\n\n\"Jod\u00e5\", sa han med klar och tydlig r\u00f6st och med \u00f6gonen glittrande som bl\u00e4ckdroppar, \"jag k\u00e4nner till ert barn, lord Asriel. Jag vet tydligen mer \u00e4n vad ni g\u00f6r.\"\n\nLord Asriel tittade rakt p\u00e5 honom, s\u00e5 han ins\u00e5g pl\u00f6tsligt att han hade missbrukat sin herres v\u00e4lvilja: kraften i lord Asriels blick st\u00f6tte till honom som om den hade varit ett finger, s\u00e5 att han m\u00e5ste ta st\u00f6d mot lord Asriels vinglas f\u00f6r att inte tappa balansen. Men strax s\u00e5g lord Asriel lika f\u00f6rbindlig och dygdig ut som hans dotter kunde g\u00f6ra ibland, och d\u00e4refter var lord Roke f\u00f6rsiktigare.\n\n\"Otvivelaktligt, lord Roke\", sa lord Asriel. \"Men av n\u00e5gon anledning, som jag inte k\u00e4nner till, \u00e4r flickan centrum f\u00f6r kyrkans uppm\u00e4rksamhet, och jag m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 veta varf\u00f6r. Vad s\u00e4ger de om henne?\"\n\n\"Magisteriet sjuder av spekulationer; en gren s\u00e4ger en sak, en annan unders\u00f6ker n\u00e5got annat, och allihop f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker h\u00e5lla sina uppt\u00e4ckter hemliga f\u00f6r alla andra. De viktigaste grenarna \u00e4r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden och S\u00e4llskapet f\u00f6r den Heliga Andes uppgift\", sa lord Roke, \"och jag har spioner i b\u00e5da tv\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Har ni allts\u00e5 omv\u00e4nt en medlem i S\u00e4llskapet?\" sa lord Asriel, \"Gratulerar. De brukade vara helt ogenomtr\u00e4ngliga.\"\n\n\"Min spion i S\u00e4llskapet \u00e4r lady Salmakia\", sa lord Roke, \"en mycket skicklig agent. Det finns en pr\u00e4st d\u00e4r, vars musd\u00e6mon hon kontaktade medan de sov. Hon f\u00f6reslog att pr\u00e4sten skulle genomf\u00f6ra en f\u00f6rbjuden ritual med syfte att frammana Visdomens ande. I det avg\u00f6rande \u00f6gonblicket visade sig min agent. Nu tror mannen att han kan kommunicera direkt med Visdomens innersta v\u00e4sen n\u00e4r han vill, och att hon ser ut som en gallivespier och bor i hans bokhylla.\"\n\nLord Asriel log. \"Och vad har hon f\u00e5tt veta?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"De tror att er dotter \u00e4r det viktigaste barn som n\u00e5gonsin har funnits. De tror att det inom kort kommer att intr\u00e4ffa en st\u00f6rre v\u00e4ndpunkt, och att alltings \u00f6de kommer att bero p\u00e5 vad hon g\u00f6r d\u00e5. Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden h\u00e5ller f\u00f6r \u00f6gonblicket f\u00f6rh\u00f6r med vittnen fr\u00e5n Bolvangar och andra st\u00e4llen. Min spion i n\u00e4mnden, chevalier Tialys, kontaktar mig varje dag p\u00e5 magnetstensresonatorn och rapporterar vad de har kommit fram till. F\u00f6r att sammanfatta, s\u00e5 skulle jag s\u00e4ga att S\u00e4llskapet f\u00f6r den Heliga Andes uppgift mycket snart kommer att f\u00e5 veta var barnet befinner sig. Det kommer att ta Disciplinn\u00e4mnden n\u00e5got l\u00e4ngre tid, men n\u00e4r de v\u00e4l vet svaret, s\u00e5 kommer de att handla beslutsamt och omedelbart.\"\n\n\"Meddela mig s\u00e5 fort ni vet mer.\"\n\nLord Roke bugade sig och kn\u00e4ppte med fingrarna. Den lilla bl\u00e5 h\u00f6ken, som satt p\u00e5 sin pinne vid d\u00f6rren, bredde ut vingarna och glidfl\u00f6g ner mot bordet. Hon bar tr\u00e4ns, sadel och stigbyglar. Lord Roke kastade sig omedelbart upp p\u00e5 hennes rygg, varefter de fl\u00f6g ut genom det f\u00f6nster som lord Asriel h\u00f6ll upp f\u00f6r dem.\n\nTrots den bittra kylan l\u00e4t han f\u00f6nstret st\u00e5 \u00f6ppet ett \u00f6gonblick, och lutade sig mot f\u00f6nstersmygen medan han lekte med sin sn\u00f6leopards \u00f6ron.\n\n\"Hon d\u00f6k upp hos mig p\u00e5 Svalbard, men jag struntade i henne\", sa han. \"Du minns chocken... Jag beh\u00f6vde ett offer, men det f\u00f6rsta barn som dyker upp \u00e4r min egen dotter... Men n\u00e4r jag ins\u00e5g att hon var utom fara, att hon hade ett annat barn med sig, s\u00e5 slappnade jag av. Var det ett stort misstag? Jag t\u00e4nkte inte p\u00e5 henne efter det, inte f\u00f6r ett \u00f6gonblick, men hon \u00e4r viktig, Stelmaria.\"\n\n\"L\u00e5t oss t\u00e4nka\", svarade hans d\u00e6mon. \"Vad kan hon \u00e5stadkomma?\"\n\n\" _\u00c5stadkomma_ \u2013 inte mycket. _Vet_ hon n\u00e5got?\"\n\n\"Hon kan l\u00e4sa alethiometern, hon har tillg\u00e5ng till kunskap.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inget speciellt. Det har andra ocks\u00e5. Men var i helvete \u00e4r hon?\"\n\nDet h\u00f6rdes en knackning p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren, s\u00e5 han v\u00e4nde sig genast om.\n\n\"Ers n\u00e5d\", sa officeren som kom in i rummet, \"en \u00e4ngel har just anl\u00e4nt till den v\u00e4stra porten \u2013 s\u00e5rad \u2013 och han insisterar p\u00e5 att f\u00e5 tala med er.\"\n\nN\u00e5gon minut senare l\u00e5g Baruch p\u00e5 t\u00e4lts\u00e4ngen, som burits in i det st\u00f6rre rummet. En sjukv\u00e5rdare var tillkallad, men det var uppenbart att det inte fanns mycket hopp kvar. \u00c4ngeln var sv\u00e5rt s\u00e5rad, vingarna var s\u00f6nderrivna och \u00f6gonen var besl\u00f6jade.\n\nLord Asriel satte sig strax intill honom och sl\u00e4ngde en handfull \u00f6rter p\u00e5 gl\u00f6den i fyrfatet. Precis som Will hade uppt\u00e4ckt med r\u00f6ken fr\u00e5n sin eld, s\u00e5 gjorde den att \u00e4ngeln syntes tydligare.\n\n\"N\u00e5, min herre\", sa han, \"vad \u00e4r det ni vill ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig?\"\n\n\"Tre saker. Var sn\u00e4ll och l\u00e5t mig ber\u00e4tta alltihop innan ni svarar. Jag heter Baruch. Min f\u00f6ljeslagare Balthamos och jag sj\u00e4lv tillh\u00f6r rebellerna, och vi drogs till er fana s\u00e5 snart ni h\u00f6jde den. Men vi ville ge er n\u00e5got v\u00e4rdefullt, f\u00f6r v\u00e5r kraft \u00e4r liten, och f\u00f6r inte s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan lyckades vi ta oss in i hj\u00e4rtat av det molnt\u00e4ckta berget, Auktoritetens citadell i Himmelriket. Och d\u00e4r fick vi veta...\"\n\nHan hejdade sig ett \u00f6gonblick f\u00f6r att andas in r\u00f6ken fr\u00e5n \u00f6rterna, vilket tycktes st\u00e4rka honom. Han fortsatte:\n\n\"Vi fick reda p\u00e5 sanningen om Auktoriteten. Vi fick veta att han har dragit sig tillbaka till en kristallkammare djupt inne i det molnt\u00e4ckta berget, och att han inte l\u00e4ngre sk\u00f6ter Himmelrikets dagliga aff\u00e4rer. Ist\u00e4llet kontemplerar han djupare mysterier. I hans st\u00e4lle, styrande i hans namn, finns en \u00e4ngel som kallas Metatron. Av olika orsaker k\u00e4nner jag den \u00e4ngeln v\u00e4l, men n\u00e4r jag k\u00e4nde honom...\"\n\nBaruchs r\u00f6st f\u00f6ll till en viskning. Lord Asriels \u00f6gon brann, men han h\u00f6ll tyst och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att Baruch skulle forts\u00e4tta.\n\n\"Metatron \u00e4r stolt\", fortsatte Baruch n\u00e4r han \u00e5terf\u00e5tt lite av sin styrka, \"och hans \u00e4relystnad \u00e4r om\u00e4ttlig. F\u00f6r fyratusen \u00e5r sedan valde Auktoriteten honom till sin regent och de smidde sina planer tillsammans. De har nu en ny plan, som min f\u00f6ljeslagare och jag lyckades f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5. Auktoriteten anser att alla slags medvetna varelser har blivit farligt sj\u00e4lvst\u00e4ndiga, s\u00e5 Metatron kommer att b\u00f6rja ingripa i m\u00e4nsklighetens aff\u00e4rer p\u00e5 ett mycket mer aktivt s\u00e4tt. I hemlighet kommer han att flytta Auktoriteten fr\u00e5n det molnt\u00e4ckta berget till ett permanent citadell n\u00e5gon annanstans, och f\u00f6rvandla berget till en krigsmaskin. Enligt hans \u00e5sikt \u00e4r kyrkorna i alla v\u00e4rldar korrupta och svaga, de kompromissar alldeles f\u00f6r l\u00e4tt... Han vill s\u00e4tta upp en permanent inkvisition i varje v\u00e4rld, styrd direkt fr\u00e5n Himmelriket. Och hans f\u00f6rsta m\u00e5l \u00e4r att f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra er republik...\"\n\nDe darrade b\u00e5da tv\u00e5, \u00e4ngeln och mannen, men den ena av svaghet och den andra av stark iver.\n\nBaruch samlade all sin kvarvarande styrka inf\u00f6r forts\u00e4ttningen:\n\n\"Den andra saken \u00e4r denna. Det finns en kniv som kan anv\u00e4ndas f\u00f6r att sk\u00e4ra \u00f6ppningar mellan v\u00e4rldarna, och sk\u00e4ra s\u00f6nder allt som finns i dem. Knivens kraft \u00e4r obegr\u00e4nsad, men endast i h\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 den som vet att anv\u00e4nda den. Den som vet det \u00e4r en pojke...\"\n\n\u00c4nnu en g\u00e5ng m\u00e5ste \u00e4ngeln stanna upp f\u00f6r att kunna \u00e5terh\u00e4mta sig. Han var r\u00e4dd, f\u00f6r han k\u00e4nde hur han var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att glida is\u00e4r. Lord Asriel s\u00e5g med vilken kraftanstr\u00e4ngning han h\u00f6ll sig samman och satt med ett h\u00e5rt grepp om armst\u00f6den p\u00e5 sin stol tills Baruch hade ork att forts\u00e4tta:\n\n\"Min f\u00f6ljeslagare \u00e4r just nu hos pojken. Vi ville f\u00f6ra honom direkt till er, men han v\u00e4grade, f\u00f6r... Detta \u00e4r den tredje saken jag m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r er: han och er dotter \u00e4r v\u00e4nner. Och han g\u00e5r inte med p\u00e5 att komma till er f\u00f6rr\u00e4n han har hittat henne. Hon \u00e4r...\"\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r den h\u00e4r pojken?\"\n\n\"Han \u00e4r son till schamanen. Det \u00e4r Stanislaus Grummans son.\"\n\nLord Asriel blev s\u00e5 f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad att han ofrivilligt st\u00e4llde sig upp, n\u00e5got som fick r\u00f6ken att virvla runt \u00e4ngeln.\n\n\"Hade Grumman en _son_?\" sa han.\n\n\"Grumman f\u00f6ddes inte i er v\u00e4rld. Grumman var inte heller hans riktiga namn. Min f\u00f6ljeslagare och jag leddes till honom genom hans egen \u00f6nskan att hitta kniven. Vi f\u00f6ljde honom, eftersom vi visste att han skulle leda oss till den och till dess b\u00e4rare, med m\u00e5let att f\u00f6ra b\u00e4raren till er. Men pojken v\u00e4grade att...\"\n\n\u00c4nnu en g\u00e5ng m\u00e5ste Baruch avbryta sig. Lord Asriel satte sig ner igen, f\u00f6rbannande sin egen ot\u00e5lighet, och str\u00f6dde lite mer \u00f6rter p\u00e5 elden. Hans d\u00e6mon l\u00e5g i n\u00e4rheten, med svansen l\u00e5ngsamt svepande l\u00e4ngs ekgolvet. Hennes \u00f6gon l\u00e4mnade aldrig \u00e4ngelns pl\u00e5gade ansikte. Baruch drog flera l\u00e5ngsamma andetag och lord Asriel h\u00f6ll sig tyst. Ljudet av repet som slog mot flaggst\u00e5ngen ovanf\u00f6r var det enda som h\u00f6rdes.\n\n\"Ta den tid ni beh\u00f6ver, min herre\", sa lord Asriel v\u00e4nligt. \"Vet ni var min dotter befinner sig?\"\n\n\"I Himalaya... i sin egen v\u00e4rld\", viskade Baruch. \"Stora berg. En grotta n\u00e4ra en dal fylld av regnb\u00e5gar...\"\n\n\"L\u00e5ngt h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n i b\u00e5da v\u00e4rldarna. Ni fl\u00f6g snabbt.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r min enda g\u00e5va\", sa Baruch, \"f\u00f6rutom min k\u00e4rlek till Balthamos, som jag aldrig mer kommer att f\u00e5 se.\"\n\n\"Och om _ni_ hittade henne s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt...\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 kan vilken annan \u00e4ngel som helst ocks\u00e5 g\u00f6ra det.\"\n\nLord Asriel h\u00e4mtade en v\u00e4ldig kartbok fr\u00e5n kartkistan, \u00f6ppnade den och bl\u00e4ddrade fram sidorna som handlade om Himalaya.\n\n\"Kan ni precisera?\" sa han. \"Kan ni visa mig exakt var?\"\n\n\"Med kniven...\", f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte Baruch s\u00e4ga, och lord Asriel ins\u00e5g att \u00e4ngelns tankar vandrade: \"Med kniven kan han g\u00e5 in och ut ur vilken v\u00e4rld han vill... Pojkens namn \u00e4r Will. De \u00e4r i fara, han och Balthamos... Metatron vet att vi k\u00e4nner till hans hemlighet. De f\u00f6rf\u00f6ljde oss... De fick tag p\u00e5 mig ensam p\u00e5 gr\u00e4nsen till er v\u00e4rld... Jag var hans bror... Det var s\u00e5 vi hittade in i det molnt\u00e4ckta berget. Metatron var en g\u00e5ng Hanok, son till Jered, son till Mahalalel... Hanok hade m\u00e5nga hustrur. Han \u00e4lskade k\u00f6ttet... Min bror Hanok st\u00f6tte ut mig, f\u00f6r att jag... \u00c5h, min \u00e4lskade Balthamos...\"\n\n\"Var \u00e4r flickan?\"\n\n\"Ja. Ja. En grotta... hennes mor... dal fylld av vindar och regnb\u00e5gar... slitna flaggor p\u00e5 templet...\"\n\nHan satte sig upp f\u00f6r att titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 kartboken.\n\nD\u00e5 reste sig sn\u00f6leoparden i en enda hastig r\u00f6relse och kastade sig mot d\u00f6rren, men det var f\u00f6r sent. Soldaten som hade knackat p\u00e5 hade \u00f6ppnat utan att inv\u00e4nta n\u00e5got svar. Det var s\u00e5 man gjorde, det var ingens fel, men n\u00e4r lord Asriel s\u00e5g uttrycket i soldatens ansikte n\u00e4r mannen tittade f\u00f6rbi honom v\u00e4nde han sig om och s\u00e5g Baruch, som darrande k\u00e4mpade f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla ihop sin skadade skepnad. Anstr\u00e4ngningen blev f\u00f6r mycket f\u00f6r honom. Draget fr\u00e5n den \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rren s\u00e4nde en vindpust \u00f6ver s\u00e4ngen, och med den sv\u00e4vade \u00e4ngelns partiklar upp\u00e5t i kaotisk slumpm\u00e4ssighet och f\u00f6rsvann, uppl\u00f6sta n\u00e4r hans vilja f\u00f6rsvagades. \"Balthamos!\" h\u00f6rdes som en viskning i luften.\n\nLord Asriel lade handen p\u00e5 d\u00e6monens nacke. Hon k\u00e4nde hur han skakade, s\u00e5 hon tr\u00f6stade honom. Han v\u00e4nde sig mot soldaten:\n\n\"Ers n\u00e5d, jag ber...\"\n\n\"Inte ert fel. Var sn\u00e4ll och h\u00e4lsa kung Ogunwe att jag skulle uppskatta om han och mina \u00f6vriga bef\u00e4lhavare kunde komma hit omedelbart. Jag vill \u00e4ven att herr Basilides kommer hit med alethiometern. Slutligen vill jag att 2:a gyropterskvadronen, fulltankad och fullt bev\u00e4pnad, samt en tankzeppelinare, omedelbart ger sig iv\u00e4g \u00e5t sydv\u00e4st. De f\u00e5r vidare order i luften.\"\n\nSoldaten gjorde honn\u00f6r, och efter \u00e4nnu en hastig, olustig blick mot den tomma s\u00e4ngen gick han ut och st\u00e4ngde d\u00f6rren efter sig.\n\nLord Asriel knackade i bordet med en m\u00e4ssingspassare och gick sedan tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver rummet och \u00f6ppnade det s\u00f6dra f\u00f6nstret. De st\u00e4ndiga eldarna l\u00e5ngt nedanf\u00f6r spred sin gl\u00f6d och r\u00f6k genom den m\u00f6rknande luften, och till och med p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r h\u00f6jden kunde man h\u00f6ra hammarslagen \u00f6ver den piskande vinden.\n\n\"Vi har f\u00e5tt veta mycket, Stelmaria\", sa han tyst.\n\n\"Men inte tillr\u00e4ckligt.\"\n\nDet kom \u00e4nnu en knackning p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren, varefter alethiometrikern steg in. Det var en blek, tunn man i den yngre medel\u00e5ldern. Han hette Teukros Basilides, och hans d\u00e6mon var en n\u00e4ktergal.\n\n\"God kv\u00e4ll, herr Basilides\", sa lord Asriel. \"Vi har ett problem, och jag vill att ni l\u00e4gger allt annat \u00e5t sidan f\u00f6r att l\u00f6sa det...\"\n\nHan ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r mannen vad Baruch hade sagt, och visade honom kartboken.\n\n\"Hitta den d\u00e4r grottan\", sa han. \"Ge mig s\u00e5 exakta koordinater ni kan. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r den viktigaste uppgift ni n\u00e5gonsin har f\u00e5tt. Var sn\u00e4ll och b\u00f6rja omedelbart.\"\n\n_stampade s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt med foten i marken att det gjorde ont till och med i dr\u00f6mmen. \"Du kan inte tro att jag skulle g\u00f6ra n\u00e5t s\u00e5nt, Roger, s\u00e5 s\u00e4g inte s\u00e5. Jag kommer att vakna, och jag kommer inte att gl\u00f6mma, s\u00e5 det s\u00e5!\"_\n\n_Hon tittade sig omkring, men det enda hon s\u00e5g var uppsp\u00e4rrade \u00f6gon och ansikten utan hopp, bleka ansikten, m\u00f6rka ansikten, gamla ansikten, unga ansikten, alla de d\u00f6da i en enda hop, som tr\u00e4ngde sig n\u00e4ra och var tysta och sorgsna._\n\n_Rogers ansikte var annorlunda. Hans var det enda som var hoppfullt._\n\n_\"Varf\u00f6r ser du ut s\u00e5 d\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade hon. \"Varf\u00f6r \u00e4r inte du lika el\u00e4ndig som dom andra? Varf\u00f6r har inte du f\u00f6rlorat hoppet?\"_\n\n_Och han svarade: \"F\u00f6r att_\n\n## 6\n\n## F\u00f6rebyggande syndaf\u00f6rl\u00e5telse\n\nRADBAND, BULLOR, ALTARBREV, RELIKER BLI STORMENS LEK.\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\n\"NU, FRA PAVEL\", sa Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mndens f\u00f6rh\u00f6rsledare, \"vill jag att du p\u00e5minner dig, s\u00e5 exakt du kan, det h\u00e4xan sa ombord p\u00e5 skeppet.\"\n\nN\u00e4mndens tolv medlemmar betraktade pr\u00e4sten i vittnesb\u00e5set i det svaga eftermiddagsljuset; han var deras sista vittne, en pr\u00e4st med l\u00e4rt utseende och grodformad d\u00e6mon. N\u00e4mnden hade lyssnat p\u00e5 vittnesm\u00e5l i fallet under \u00e5tta dagar redan, inne i det ur\u00e5ldriga S:t Jeromes College med sina h\u00f6ga torn.\n\n\"Jag kommer inte ih\u00e5g h\u00e4xans exakta ord\", sa Fra Pavel tr\u00f6tt. \"Jag hade aldrig sett tortyr f\u00f6rut, som jag f\u00f6rklarade f\u00f6r n\u00e4mnden ig\u00e5r, och det gjorde mig sjuk och illam\u00e5ende. S\u00e5 exakt vad hon sa kan jag inte s\u00e4ga, men jag minns ordens inneb\u00f6rd. H\u00e4xan sa att de norra klanerna hade k\u00e4nt igen flickan Lyra som huvudperson i en profetia de k\u00e4nt till sedan l\u00e5ng tid tillbaka. Hon skulle f\u00e5 makten att g\u00f6ra ett \u00f6desdigert val, p\u00e5 vilken alla v\u00e4rldars framtid skulle h\u00e4nga. Och vidare fanns d\u00e4r ett namn som skulle p\u00e5minna om en liknande h\u00e4ndelse, och som skulle f\u00e5 kyrkan att hata och frukta henne.\"\n\n\"Och avsl\u00f6jade h\u00e4xan det namnet?\"\n\n\"Nej. Innan hon kunde yppa det lyckades en annan h\u00e4xa, som varit n\u00e4rvarande under en osynlighetsbesv\u00e4rjelse, d\u00f6da henne och fly.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 vid det tillf\u00e4llet h\u00f6rde den d\u00e4r kvinnan Coulter inte namnet?\"\n\n\"Det st\u00e4mmer.\"\n\n\"Och strax efter\u00e5t gav mrs Coulter sig iv\u00e4g?\"\n\n\"Exakt.\"\n\n\"Vad uppt\u00e4ckte ni sedan?\"\n\n\"Jag fick reda p\u00e5 att barnet hade tagit sig in i den andra v\u00e4rld som lord Asriel hade \u00f6ppnat v\u00e4gen till, och d\u00e4r hade hon f\u00e5tt hj\u00e4lp av en pojke som \u00e4ger, eller kan anv\u00e4nda, en kniv med extraordin\u00e4ra egenskaper\", sa Fra Pavel. Sedan harklade han sig nerv\u00f6st innan han fortsatte: \"Jag kan allts\u00e5 tala fullkomligt fritt inf\u00f6r n\u00e4mnden?\"\n\n\"Med full frihet, Fra Pavel\", sa n\u00e4mndens ordf\u00f6rande med barsk och tydlig r\u00f6st. \"Ni kommer inte att bli bestraffad f\u00f6r att ni ber\u00e4ttar f\u00f6r oss vad ni sj\u00e4lv f\u00e5tt h\u00f6ra. Var sn\u00e4ll och forts\u00e4tt.\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten fortsatte igen efter det betryggande beskedet:\n\n\"Kniven, som den h\u00e4r pojken \u00e4r i besittning av, kan skapa \u00f6ppningar mellan v\u00e4rldarna. Den har dessutom en \u00e4nnu st\u00f6rre kraft \u2013 jag ber, \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng \u00e4r jag r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r mina egna ord... Med den kan man d\u00f6da de h\u00f6gsta \u00e4nglarna, och \u00e4ven det som \u00e4r h\u00f6gre \u00e4n dessa. Det finns ingenting som den h\u00e4r kniven inte kan f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra.\"\n\nHan svettades och skakade, och hans grodd\u00e6mon blev s\u00e5 uppr\u00f6rd att hon f\u00f6ll ner fr\u00e5n vittnesb\u00e5sets kant och landade p\u00e5 golvet. Fra Pavel fl\u00e4mtade till av sm\u00e4rta och lyfte snabbt upp henne och l\u00e4t henne dricka fr\u00e5n vattenglaset han hade framf\u00f6r sig.\n\n\"Och st\u00e4llde ni ytterligare fr\u00e5gor om flickan?\" sa f\u00f6rh\u00f6rsledaren. \"Fick ni reda p\u00e5 det namn som h\u00e4xan talade om?\"\n\n\"Ja, det fick jag. Jag ber \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng om n\u00e4mndens f\u00f6rs\u00e4kran att...\"\n\n\"Den har ni f\u00e5tt\", fr\u00e4ste ordf\u00f6randen. \"Var inte r\u00e4dd. Ni \u00e4r ingen k\u00e4ttare. Rapportera vad ni f\u00e5tt veta, och sl\u00f6sa inte mer tid.\"\n\n\"Jag ber s\u00e5 hemskt mycket om urs\u00e4kt. Barnet befinner sig, allts\u00e5, i samma st\u00e4llning som Eva, Adams hustru, allas v\u00e5r moder, och upphovet till all synd.\"\n\nStenograferna som antecknade vartenda ord var nunnor fr\u00e5n S:t Philomels orden och de hade svurit tystnadsl\u00f6fte, men vid Fra Pavels ord h\u00f6rdes en d\u00e4mpad fl\u00e4mtning fr\u00e5n en av dem, och en m\u00e4ngd h\u00e4nder r\u00f6rde sig n\u00e4r de allihop gjorde korstecknet. Fra Pavel ryckte till, men fortsatte sedan:\n\n\"Var sn\u00e4lla och kom ih\u00e5g \u2013 alethiometern f\u00f6rutsp\u00e5r inte: den s\u00e4ger att 'om vissa saker h\u00e4nder, d\u00e5 kommer konsekvenserna att bli \u2013' och s\u00e5 vidare. Och den s\u00e4ger att om flickan skulle bli frestad, s\u00e5 som Eva blev, s\u00e5 kommer hon sannolikt att falla. Och p\u00e5 det beror... allt. Och om denna frestelse sker, och om barnet faller f\u00f6r den, s\u00e5 kommer Stoft och synd att triumfera.\"\n\nTystnaden f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver rummet. I de bleka solstr\u00e5lar som snett f\u00f6ll in genom de stora blyinfattade f\u00f6nstren virvlade miljontals gyllene dammkorn, men dessa var stoft, inte Stoft; \u00e4ven om mer \u00e4n en av n\u00e4mndens medlemmar fick i dem en bild av det d\u00e4r andra, osynliga Stoftet, det som kom n\u00e5gon annanstans ifr\u00e5n och f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver alla m\u00e4nniskor, oavsett hur plikttroget de f\u00f6ljde lagarna.\n\n\"Slutligen, Fra Pavel\", sa f\u00f6rh\u00f6rsledaren, \"ber\u00e4tta vad ni vet om var flickan befinner sig just nu.\"\n\n\"Mrs Coulter har henne\", sa Fra Pavel. \"Och de befinner sig i Himalaya. Det \u00e4r allt jag vet \u00e4n s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge. Jag ska omedelbart fr\u00e5ga efter en mer exakt uppgift, och s\u00e5 snart jag har den ska jag meddela n\u00e4mnden; men...\"\n\nHan avbr\u00f6t sig och kr\u00f6p ihop av r\u00e4dsla. Med en darrande hand lyfte han glaset till l\u00e4pparna.\n\n\"Ja, Fra Pavel?\" sa fader MacPhail. \"H\u00e5ll inte inne med n\u00e5gonting.\"\n\n\"Jag tror, fader ordf\u00f6rande, att S\u00e4llskapet f\u00f6r den Heliga Andes uppgift vet mer om det h\u00e4r \u00e4n vad jag g\u00f6r.\"\n\nFra Pavel talade s\u00e5 l\u00e5gt att han n\u00e4stan viskade.\n\n\"Jas\u00e5?\" sa ordf\u00f6randen, och hans stirrande \u00f6gon gl\u00f6dde av lidelse.\n\nFra Pavels grodd\u00e6mon gnydde till p\u00e5 grodors vis. Pr\u00e4sten k\u00e4nde till rivaliteten mellan Magisteriets olika grenar och visste att det kunde vara mycket farligt att komma i kl\u00e4m mellan dem; men att h\u00e5lla inne med det han nu visste skulle vara \u00e4nnu farligare.\n\n\"Jag tror\", fortsatte han darrande, \"att de \u00e4r mycket n\u00e4rmare svaret p\u00e5 var flickan befinner sig n\u00e5gonstans. De har andra kunskapsk\u00e4llor som \u00e4r f\u00f6rbjudna f\u00f6r mig.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r helt sant\", sa f\u00f6rh\u00f6rsledaren. \"Ber\u00e4ttade alethiometern det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r er?\"\n\n\"Ja, det gjorde den.\"\n\n\"Utm\u00e4rkt, Fra Pavel, jag tror det \u00e4r h\u00f6gst l\u00e4mpligt att ni forts\u00e4tter med era efterforskningar. Ni ska f\u00e5 s\u00e5 mycket hj\u00e4lp ni beh\u00f6ver n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller skriftligt arbete och sekreteraruppgifter. Var god och stig ner.\"\n\nFra Pavel bugade sig, och med grodd\u00e6monen p\u00e5 axeln samlade han ihop sina anteckningar och l\u00e4mnade salen. Nunnorna mjukade upp fingrarna.\n\nFader MacPhail knackade med en penna i ekbordet framf\u00f6r sig.\n\n\"Syster Agnes, syster Monica, ni kan l\u00e4mna oss nu. Var sn\u00e4lla och l\u00e4mna en utskrift p\u00e5 mitt skrivbord innan dagen \u00e4r slut.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da nunnorna b\u00f6jde huvudet och l\u00e4mnade salen.\n\n\"Mina herrar\", sa ordf\u00f6randen, f\u00f6r det var s\u00e5 man tilltalade varandra i N\u00e4mnden, \"m\u00f6tet ajourneras.\"\n\nDe tolv medlemmarna, fr\u00e5n den \u00e4ldste (fader Makepwe, ur\u00e5ldrig och med \u00f6gon som varades) till den yngste (fader Gomez, blek och darrande av fanatism), samlade ihop sina papper och f\u00f6ljde ordf\u00f6randen till r\u00e5dskammaren, d\u00e4r de kunde sitta mitt emot varandra vid ett bord och samtala fullst\u00e4ndigt privat.\n\nMannen som f\u00f6r \u00f6gonblicket var ordf\u00f6rande f\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden var en skotte vid namn Hugh MacPhail. Han hade valts till posten som ung: ordf\u00f6randen valdes p\u00e5 livstid och han var bara runt fyrtio, s\u00e5 det v\u00e4ntades allm\u00e4nt att fader MacPhail skulle forma N\u00e4mndens, och s\u00e5ledes \u00e4ven hela kyrkans, \u00f6de under m\u00e5nga \u00e5r fram\u00f6ver. Han var svartmuskig, l\u00e5ng och imponerande, med en tjock kalufs av stripigt gr\u00e5tt h\u00e5r, och om det inte vore f\u00f6r den j\u00e4rnh\u00e5rda disciplin han \u00e5lade sig sj\u00e4lv skulle han vara tjock: han drack bara vatten och \u00e5t bara br\u00f6d och frukt, och han motionerade en timme varje dag under ledning av en man som tr\u00e4nade elitidrottare. Som ett resultat av detta var han smal och t\u00e4rd och ot\u00e5lig. Hans d\u00e6mon var en \u00f6dla.\n\nN\u00e4r de hade satt sig sa fader MacPhail:\n\n\"S\u00e5 h\u00e4r ligger det allts\u00e5 till. Det tycks vara flera saker vi b\u00f6r ha i \u00e5tanke.\n\nF\u00f6r det f\u00f6rsta, lord Asriel. En h\u00e4xa, som \u00e4r v\u00e4n till kyrkan, har rapporterat att han samlar en stor arm\u00e9, inklusive n\u00e5got som kan vara \u00e4nglastyrkor. S\u00e5 vitt h\u00e4xan vet \u00e4r hans avsikter fientliga mot kyrkan och mot sj\u00e4lvaste Auktoriteten.\n\nF\u00f6r det andra, Oblatbyr\u00e5n. Att de satte ig\u00e5ng forskningsprogrammet i Bolvangar, och att de finansierar mrs Coulters aktiviteter, antyder en f\u00f6rhoppning om att ers\u00e4tta Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden som den Heliga Kyrkans starkaste och effektivaste arm. Vi har blivit f\u00f6rbisprungna, mina herrar. De har handlat h\u00e4nsynsl\u00f6st och skickligt. Vi borde l\u00e5ta oss n\u00e4psas f\u00f6r v\u00e5r sl\u00e4pph\u00e4nthet eftersom vi har l\u00e5tit det ske. Jag ska strax \u00e5terkomma till vad vi kan g\u00f6ra \u00e5t saken.\n\nF\u00f6r det tredje, pojken som Fra Pavel vittnade om, med den extraordin\u00e4ra kniven. Vi m\u00e5ste naturligtvis hitta honom och komma i besittning av den s\u00e5 fort som m\u00f6jligt.\n\nF\u00f6r det fj\u00e4rde, Stoft. Jag har vidtagit \u00e5tg\u00e4rder f\u00f6r att ta reda p\u00e5 vad Oblatbyr\u00e5n har f\u00e5tt veta om saken. En experimentell teolog fr\u00e5n Bolvangar har blivit \u00f6vertalad att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss exakt vad det var de uppt\u00e4ckte. I eftermiddag ska jag f\u00e5 ett samtal med honom en trappa ner.\"\n\nN\u00e5gra av pr\u00e4sterna bytte oroligt st\u00e4llning, f\u00f6r \"en trappa ner\" betydde k\u00e4llaren under byggnaden: vitkaklade rum med uttag f\u00f6r anbarisk str\u00f6m, ljudisolerade och v\u00e4ldr\u00e4nerade.\n\n\"Vad vi \u00e4n f\u00e5r reda p\u00e5 om Stoftet\", fortsatte ordf\u00f6randen, \"s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi st\u00e4ndigt p\u00e5minna oss om v\u00e5rt syfte. Oblatbyr\u00e5n f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 Stoftets effekter: vi m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rg\u00f6ra det helt. Ingenting mindre \u00e4n detta. Om vi, f\u00f6r att kunna f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra Stoftet, ocks\u00e5 m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra Oblatbyr\u00e5n, biskopskollegiet, varenda organisation som den Heliga Kyrkan nyttjar f\u00f6r att kunna utf\u00f6ra Auktoritetens arbete \u2013 s\u00e5 f\u00e5r det bli s\u00e5. Det kan vara s\u00e5, mina herrar, att den Heliga Kyrkan sj\u00e4lv kom till endast f\u00f6r att genomf\u00f6ra denna uppgift, och f\u00f6r att g\u00e5 under samtidigt som den utf\u00f6rs. Men en v\u00e4rld utan kyrka och utan Stoft \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r vi varje dag m\u00e5ste k\u00e4mpa under syndens ohyggliga b\u00f6rda. En v\u00e4rld renad fr\u00e5n allt detta \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre!\"\n\nFader Gomez nickade lidelsefullt. Hans \u00f6gon blixtrade.\n\n\"Och slutligen\", sa fader MacPhail, \"flickan. Fortfarande bara ett barn, har jag f\u00f6r mig. Denna Eva, som kommer att bli frestad och som f\u00f6rmodligen kommer att falla, eftersom historien brukar upprepa sig. Det blir ett fall som st\u00f6rtar oss alla i f\u00f6rd\u00e4rvet. Mina herrar, av alla de s\u00e4tt vi kan hantera det problem hon st\u00e4ller oss inf\u00f6r, s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag f\u00f6resl\u00e5 det mest radikala, och jag litar p\u00e5 att ni h\u00e5ller med mig.\n\nJag f\u00f6resl\u00e5r att vi s\u00e4nder iv\u00e4g en man med uppdraget att d\u00f6da henne innan hon _kan_ bli frestad.\"\n\n\"Fader ordf\u00f6rande\", sa fader Gomez omedelbart, \"jag har \u00e4gnat mig \u00e5t f\u00f6rebyggande botg\u00f6ring varje dag under hela mitt vuxna liv. Jag har studerat, jag har tr\u00e4nat...\"\n\nOrdf\u00f6randen h\u00f6jde handen. F\u00f6rebyggande botg\u00f6ring och syndaf\u00f6rl\u00e5telse var doktriner som Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden hade utvecklat och studerat, men de var inte k\u00e4nda av den \u00f6vriga kyrkan. De innebar att man gjorde bot f\u00f6r en synd som \u00e4nnu inte hade beg\u00e5tts, en intensiv och gl\u00f6dande botg\u00f6ring, inklusive hudfl\u00e4ngning och prygel, f\u00f6r att p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet lagra upp syndaf\u00f6rl\u00e5telse. N\u00e4r botg\u00f6raren hade uppn\u00e5tt den l\u00e4mpliga niv\u00e5n f\u00f6r en viss synd beviljades han syndernas f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g, \u00e4ven om han kanske aldrig skulle beh\u00f6va utf\u00f6ra synden ifr\u00e5ga. Ibland var det till exempel n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt att d\u00f6da n\u00e5gon: och d\u00e5 var det alltid s\u00e5 mycket enklare f\u00f6r den som utf\u00f6rde d\u00e5det om han kunde g\u00f6ra det i ett tillst\u00e5nd av n\u00e5d.\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nkte faktiskt p\u00e5 er\", sa fader MacPhail v\u00e4nligt. \"H\u00e5ller n\u00e4mnden med mig? Ja. N\u00e4r fader Gomez l\u00e4mnar oss, med v\u00e5r v\u00e4lsignelse, kommer han att vara ensam, om\u00f6jlig att n\u00e5 eller \u00e5terkalla. Vad som \u00e4n h\u00e4nder kommer han att s\u00f6ka sig fram som en pil fr\u00e5n Gud, rakt mot flickan, f\u00f6r att f\u00e4lla henne. Han kommer att vara osynlig; han kommer om natten, som \u00e4ngeln som f\u00f6r\u00f6dde Syrien; han kommer att vara tyst. S\u00e5 mycket b\u00e4ttre det hade varit f\u00f6r oss alla om det hade funnits en fader Gomez redan i Edens lustg\u00e5rd. D\u00e5 skulle vi aldrig ha l\u00e4mnat paradiset.\"\n\nDen unge pr\u00e4sten var n\u00e4rmast gr\u00e5tf\u00e4rdig av stolthet. N\u00e4mnden v\u00e4lsignade honom.\n\nOch i takets m\u00f6rkaste h\u00f6rn, dold bland de m\u00f6rka ekbj\u00e4lkarna, uppfattades varje ord av en man, som inte var mer \u00e4n en tv\u00e4rhand h\u00f6g, och vars h\u00e4lar bar vassa sporrar.\n\nI k\u00e4llaren stod mannen fr\u00e5n Bolvangar i ljuset fr\u00e5n en naken gl\u00f6dlampa. Det enda han hade p\u00e5 sig var en smutsig vit skjorta och ett par l\u00f6st sittande byxor utan b\u00e4lte. Han h\u00f6ll uppe byxorna med den ena handen och hade sin kanind\u00e6mon i den andra. Framf\u00f6r honom, i den enda stolen, satt fader MacPhail.\n\n\"Doktor Cooper\", b\u00f6rjade fader MacPhail, \"var sn\u00e4ll och sl\u00e5 er ner.\"\n\nDet fanns inga m\u00f6bler utom stolen, en tr\u00e4brits och en hink. Ordf\u00f6randens r\u00f6st ekade p\u00e5 ett obehagligt s\u00e4tt mot de vita kakelplattorna som t\u00e4ckte v\u00e4ggarna och taket.\n\nDr Cooper satte sig p\u00e5 britsen. Han kunde inte slita blicken fr\u00e5n den magre och gr\u00e5h\u00e5rige ordf\u00f6randen. Han slickade sina torra l\u00e4ppar i v\u00e4ntan p\u00e5 de nya obehagligheter som s\u00e4kert var i ant\u00e5gande.\n\n\"S\u00e5 ni lyckades n\u00e4stan skilja flickan fr\u00e5n hennes d\u00e6mon?\" sa fader MacPhail.\n\n\"Vi tyckte inte det fanns n\u00e5gon anledning att v\u00e4nta, eftersom experimentet i vilket fall som helst skulle genomf\u00f6ras\", sa dr Cooper os\u00e4kert, \"s\u00e5 vi placerade henne i experimentkammaren, men hindrades innan vi hann slutf\u00f6ra processen. Mrs Coulter avbr\u00f6t oss och tog med sig flickan till sitt eget rum.\"\n\nMannens kanind\u00e6mon \u00f6ppnade sina runda \u00f6gon och tittade skr\u00e4mt p\u00e5 ordf\u00f6randen, men st\u00e4ngde dem sedan och g\u00f6mde ansiktet.\n\n\"Det m\u00e5ste ha varit besv\u00e4rligt\", sa fader MacPhail.\n\n\"Hela programmet var mycket sv\u00e5rt\", h\u00f6ll dr Cooper ivrigt med.\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad \u00f6ver att ni inte bad N\u00e4mnden om hj\u00e4lp, vi har starka nerver.\"\n\n\"Vi \u2013 jag \u2013 vi f\u00f6rstod det som att programmet leddes av... Det var ett \u00e4rende som Oblatbyr\u00e5n hade hand om, men vi fick veta att Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden hade gett sitt samtycke. Vi skulle aldrig ha deltagit annars. Aldrig!\"\n\n\"Nej, naturligtvis inte. Och nu till n\u00e5got helt annat. Har ni n\u00e5gon uppfattning\", sa fader MacPhail och gick \u00f6ver till den egentliga orsaken till bes\u00f6ket i k\u00e4llaren, \"om vad lord Asriel studerade? Om vad som kan ha gett upphov till den enorma energim\u00e4ngd han lyckades anv\u00e4nda p\u00e5 Svalbard?\"\n\nDr Cooper svalde. I den intensiva tystnaden f\u00f6ll en svettdroppe fr\u00e5n hans haka, och b\u00e5da m\u00e4nnen h\u00f6rde tydligt n\u00e4r den landade p\u00e5 betonggolvet.\n\n\"Nej...\", b\u00f6rjade han. \"Det fanns en person i v\u00e5rt arbetslag som noterade att det frigavs energi under avskiljningsprocessen. Det skulle kr\u00e4vas enorma krafter f\u00f6r att kontrollera den, men p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som en atomexplosion kan s\u00e4ttas ig\u00e5ng med hj\u00e4lp av konventionella spr\u00e4ng\u00e4mnen, s\u00e5 skulle man kunna lyckas om man fokuserade en kraftig anbarisk str\u00f6m... Men ingen tog honom p\u00e5 allvar. Jag brydde mig inte om hans id\u00e9er\", tillade han ivrigt, \"eftersom jag visste att s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge de inte var auktoriserade, s\u00e5 kunde de lika g\u00e4rna vara k\u00e4tterska.\"\n\n\"Helt r\u00e4tt\", sa ordf\u00f6randen. \"Var \u00e4r han nu?\"\n\n\"Han var en av dem som f\u00f6rolyckades under angreppet.\"\n\nOrdf\u00f6randen log. Det var ett s\u00e5 v\u00e4nligt leende att dr Coopers d\u00e6mon darrade till och svimmade mot hans br\u00f6stkorg.\n\n\"Mod, dr Cooper\", sa fader MacPhail. \"Ni m\u00e5ste vara stark och modig! Ni har en storslagen uppgift att utr\u00e4tta, en v\u00e4ldig strid att utk\u00e4mpa. Ni m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rtj\u00e4na Auktoritetens f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse genom att samarbeta med oss helt och fullt, genom att ber\u00e4tta allt ni vet, genom att inte h\u00e5lla inne med n\u00e5gonting, inte ens gissningar eller vilda spekulationer, inte ens skvaller. Jag vill att ni ska \u00e4gna all er kraft \u00e5t att komma ih\u00e5g vad er kollega sa. Utf\u00f6rde han n\u00e5gra experiment? Gjorde han n\u00e5gra anteckningar? Anf\u00f6rtrodde han sig till n\u00e5gon annan? Vilken sorts utrustning anv\u00e4nde han? T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 _allt_ , dr Cooper. Ni kommer att f\u00e5 penna och papper och all den tid ni beh\u00f6ver.\n\nOch det h\u00e4r rummet \u00e4r inte s\u00e4rskilt bekv\u00e4mt. Vi f\u00e5r se till att flytta er till ett l\u00e4mpligare st\u00e4lle. Beh\u00f6ver ni n\u00e5got s\u00e4rskilt n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller m\u00f6blemanget, till exempel? F\u00f6redrar ni att skriva vid ett vanligt bord eller ett skrivbord? Vill ni ha en skrivmaskin? Kanske ni hellre vill diktera f\u00f6r en stenograf?\n\nBer\u00e4tta f\u00f6r vakterna hur ni vill ha det, s\u00e5 ska ni f\u00e5 allt ni beh\u00f6ver. Men jag vill att ni anv\u00e4nder vartenda \u00f6gonblick, dr Cooper, till att t\u00e4nka tillbaka p\u00e5 er kollega och hans teori. Er storslagna uppgift \u00e4r att minnas, och om n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt \u00e5teruppt\u00e4cka det han visste. S\u00e5 fort ni vet vilka instrument ni beh\u00f6ver, s\u00e5 ska ni ocks\u00e5 f\u00e5 dem. Det \u00e4r en storslagen uppgift, dr Cooper! Ni \u00e4r v\u00e4lsignad som blivit betrodd med den! Rikta era tacks\u00e4gelser mot Auktoriteten.\"\n\n\"Det ska jag, fader ordf\u00f6rande! Det ska jag!\"\n\nMed ett stadigt tag om midjan p\u00e5 sina l\u00f6st sittande byxor reste filosofen sig upp och bugade n\u00e4stan utan att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 saken, om och om igen, n\u00e4r ordf\u00f6randen f\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden l\u00e4mnade cellen.\n\nSamma kv\u00e4ll begav sig chevalier Tialys, den gallivespiske spionen, iv\u00e4g genom Gen\u00e8ves gr\u00e4nder och bakgator f\u00f6r att tr\u00e4ffa sin kollega, lady Salmakia. Det var en farlig f\u00e4rd f\u00f6r b\u00e5da tv\u00e5: farlig ocks\u00e5 f\u00f6r vem eller vad som \u00e4n hotade dem, men s\u00e4rskilt farofylld f\u00f6r de sm\u00e5 gallivespierna. Mer \u00e4n en omkringstr\u00f6vande katt hade m\u00f6tt d\u00f6den genom deras sporrar, och bara en vecka tidigare hade Tialys varit n\u00e4ra att f\u00f6rlora ena armen av ett bett fr\u00e5n en skabbig hund; det var bara lady Salmakias snabba reaktion som hade r\u00e4ddat honom.\n\nDe m\u00f6ttes och utbytte nyheter vid den sjunde av deras f\u00f6rutbest\u00e4mda m\u00f6tesplatser, invid r\u00f6tterna till en platan vid ett sjaskigt litet torg. Lady Salmakias kontakt inom S\u00e4llskapet hade ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r henne att de tidigare den kv\u00e4llen hade f\u00e5tt en v\u00e4nskaplig inbjudan fr\u00e5n ordf\u00f6randen f\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden att komma och diskutera en fr\u00e5ga av \u00f6msesidigt intresse.\n\n\"Raskt marscherat\", sa Tialys. \"Hundra mot ett p\u00e5 att han inte s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got om sin l\u00f6nnm\u00f6rdare.\"\n\nHan ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r henne om planen p\u00e5 att d\u00f6da Lyra. Hon blev inte f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r det mest logiska de kan g\u00f6ra\", sa hon. \"De \u00e4r mycket logiska. Tror du att vi n\u00e5gonsin f\u00e5r tr\u00e4ffa den d\u00e4r flickan, Tialys?\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte, men det skulle jag vilja g\u00f6ra. Farv\u00e4l, Salmakia. I morgon vid font\u00e4nen.\"\n\nI det korta utbytet l\u00e5g outtalat det som de aldrig talade om: deras korta livsl\u00e4ngd i j\u00e4mf\u00f6relse med m\u00e4nniskornas. Gallivespierna levde tills de var nio eller tio \u00e5r, s\u00e4llan mer, och Tialys och Salmakia var b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 p\u00e5 sitt \u00e5ttonde \u00e5r. De var inte r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r \u00e5lderdomen, f\u00f6r deras folk dog pl\u00f6tsligt vid full styrka och vig\u00f6r, och deras barndom var mycket kort: men j\u00e4mf\u00f6rt med dem str\u00e4ckte sig barnet Lyras liv lika l\u00e5ngt in i framtiden som h\u00e4xornas str\u00e4ckte sig bortom Lyras eget.\n\nChevalier Tialys \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till S:t Jeromes College och b\u00f6rjade sammanst\u00e4lla det meddelande han skulle s\u00e4nda till lord Roke med hj\u00e4lp av magnetstensresonatorn.\n\nSamtidigt som Tialys hade sitt m\u00f6te med Salmakia s\u00e4nde ordf\u00f6randen efter fader Gomez. Under en timme bad de tillsammans i hans arbetsrum, och sedan gav fader MacPhail den unge pr\u00e4sten en f\u00f6rebyggande syndaf\u00f6rl\u00e5telse, vilket gjorde att det mord p\u00e5 Lyra han skulle utf\u00f6ra i sj\u00e4lva verket inte var n\u00e5got mord. Fader Gomez s\u00e5g f\u00f6rklarad ut; \u00f6vertygelsen som str\u00f6mmade genom hans \u00e5dror fick hans \u00f6gon att lysa.\n\nDe diskuterade praktiska fr\u00e5gor, pengar och s\u00e5dant; och sedan sa ordf\u00f6randen: \"N\u00e4r ni har gett er av, fader Gomez, kommer ni att vara fullkomligt avskuren, f\u00f6r alltid, bortom all v\u00e5r hj\u00e4lp. Ni kan aldrig komma tillbaka; vi kommer aldrig att kontakta er. Jag kan inte ge er n\u00e5got b\u00e4ttre r\u00e5d \u00e4n detta: leta inte efter flickan. Det skulle avsl\u00f6ja er. Leta ist\u00e4llet efter fresterskan. F\u00f6lj fresterskan, s\u00e5 kommer hon att leda er till barnet.\"\n\n\"Hon?\" sa fader Gomez chockerat.\n\n\"Ja, _hon_ \", sa fader MacPhail. \"Vi har f\u00e5tt veta mycket genom alethiometern. V\u00e4rlden som fresterskan kommer fr\u00e5n \u00e4r egendomlig. Ni kommer att f\u00e5 se m\u00e5nga saker som kommer att chocka och skr\u00e4mma er, fader Gomez. L\u00e5t inte dessa konstigheter avleda er fr\u00e5n er heliga uppgift. Jag litar p\u00e5 styrkan i er tro\", tillade han v\u00e4nligt. \"Den h\u00e4r kvinnan reser, ledd av ondskans krafter, mot en plats d\u00e4r hon i sinom tid kommer att m\u00f6ta barnet f\u00f6r att kunna fresta henne. Det vill s\u00e4ga, under f\u00f6ruts\u00e4ttning att vi inte lyckas h\u00e4mta flickan fr\u00e5n hennes nuvarande position. Det \u00e4r fortfarande v\u00e5r huvudplan. Ni, fader Gomez, \u00e4r v\u00e5r slutliga garanti, f\u00f6r om vi misslyckas, s\u00e5 kommer de diaboliska krafterna \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte att segra.\"\n\nFader Gomez nickade. Hans d\u00e6mon, en stor och skimrande gr\u00f6nryggad skalbagge, klickade med t\u00e4ckvingarna.\n\nOrdf\u00f6randen \u00f6ppnade en l\u00e5da och gav den unge pr\u00e4sten en bunt hopvikta papper.\n\n\"H\u00e4r st\u00e5r allt vi vet om kvinnan\", sa han, \"och om v\u00e4rlden hon kommer ifr\u00e5n, och om platsen d\u00e4r hon senast s\u00e5gs. L\u00e4s det noga, min k\u00e4ra Luis, och g\u00e5 sedan med min v\u00e4lsignelse.\"\n\nHan hade aldrig f\u00f6rr anv\u00e4nt pr\u00e4stens f\u00f6rnamn. Fader Gomez k\u00e4nde hur hans \u00f6gon fylldes av gl\u00e4djet\u00e5rar n\u00e4r han kysste ordf\u00f6randen farv\u00e4l.\n\n_du \u00e4r Lyra.\"_\n\n_Sedan ins\u00e5g hon vad det innebar. Hon k\u00e4nde sig alldeles vimmelkantig, till och med i dr\u00f6mmen; hon k\u00e4nde hur en tung b\u00f6rda lades p\u00e5 hennes axlar. Och som f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra den \u00e4nnu tyngre s\u00e4nkte s\u00f6mnen sig \u00f6ver henne igen, och Rogers ansikte drog sig tillbaka in bland skuggorna._\n\n_\"Tja, jag... jag vet... Det \u00e4r alla m\u00f6jliga m\u00e4nniskor p\u00e5 v\u00e5r sida, som doktor Malone... Visste du att det finns ett annat Oxford, Roger, precis som v\u00e5rt? Hur som helst, hon... Jag hittade henne i... Hon skulle hj\u00e4lpa... Men det \u00e4r egentligen bara en person som...\"_\n\n_Det var nu n\u00e4stan om\u00f6jligt att se den lille pojken, och hennes tankar h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att spridas ut och vandra iv\u00e4g som f\u00e5ren p\u00e5 en \u00e4ng._\n\n_\"Men vi kan lita p\u00e5 honom, Roger, det sv\u00e4r jag p\u00e5\", sa hon med en sista anstr\u00e4ngning,_\n\n## 7\n\n## Mary, ensam\n\nSIST SK\u00d6T SOM I DANS, VART TR\u00c4DSLAG H\u00d6GT OCH BREDDE UT SIN KRONA, H\u00c4NGD MED FRUKTER.\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\nN\u00c4STAN SAMTIDIGT SOM fader Gomez gav sig iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att f\u00f6lja efter fresterskan, utsattes hon sj\u00e4lv f\u00f6r frestelser.\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket, nej, nej, det r\u00e4cker s\u00e5 bra, inte mer, \u00e4rligt talat, tack s\u00e5 mycket\", sa dr Mary Malone till det gamla paret i olivlunden, n\u00e4r de f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ge henne mer mat \u00e4n hon kunde b\u00e4ra.\n\nDe levde isolerade och barnl\u00f6sa, och hade varit r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r Geng\u00e5ngarna som de sett bland de silvergr\u00e5 tr\u00e4den. Men n\u00e4r Mary Malone hade kommit g\u00e5ende l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4gen med sin ryggs\u00e4ck hade Geng\u00e5ngarna blivit r\u00e4dda och glidit iv\u00e4g. Det gamla paret hade bjudit in Mary i sin lilla murgr\u00f6nst\u00e4ckta stuga, hade undf\u00e4gnat henne med vin och ost och br\u00f6d och oliver, och nu ville de inte l\u00e5ta henne g\u00e5.\n\n\"Jag m\u00e5ste forts\u00e4tta\", sa Mary igen, \"tack s\u00e5 mycket, ni har varit s\u00e5 v\u00e4nliga \u2013 jag kan inte b\u00e4ra \u2013 \u00e5h, okej d\u00e5, en liten ost till \u2013 tack s\u00e5 mycket...\"\n\nUppenbarligen s\u00e5g de henne som ett skydd mot Geng\u00e5ngarna, och hon \u00f6nskade att hon kunde vara det. Under hennes vecka i Citt\u00e0gazze hade hon sett tillr\u00e4ckligt med f\u00f6r\u00f6delse, tillr\u00e4ckligt m\u00e5nga vuxna som slukats av Geng\u00e5ngarna och tillr\u00e4ckligt m\u00e5nga f\u00f6rvildade, plundrande barn, f\u00f6r att b\u00f6rja frukta de eteriska vampyrerna. Det enda hon visste var att de gled iv\u00e4g n\u00e4r hon n\u00e4rmade sig, men hon kunde inte stanna hos alla som ville att hon skulle g\u00f6ra det, f\u00f6r hon m\u00e5ste forts\u00e4tta.\n\nHon lyckades trycka ner den sista getosten, som var inslagen i vinblad, log och bugade sig igen, och drack en sista g\u00e5ng ur k\u00e4llan som sprang upp ur den gr\u00e5 klippan bredvid huset. Sedan slog hon mjukt ihop h\u00e4nderna, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som det gamla paret, v\u00e4nde sig beslutsamt om och gick d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\nHon s\u00e5g mer best\u00e4md ut \u00e4n hon k\u00e4nde sig. Hennes sista samtal med de v\u00e4sen hon kallade Skuggpartiklar och Lyra kallade Stoft hade varit p\u00e5 hennes dator, och hon hade gjort som de hade sagt \u00e5t henne och f\u00f6rst\u00f6rt den. Nu visste hon inte vad hon skulle g\u00f6ra. De hade sagt \u00e5t henne att g\u00e5 igenom \u00f6ppningen i det Oxford hon levde i, Wills Oxford, och det hade hon gjort \u2013 och fann sig sj\u00e4lv yr och sk\u00e4lvande av f\u00f6rundran i den h\u00e4r m\u00e4rkv\u00e4rdiga andra v\u00e4rlden. Ut\u00f6ver det var hennes uppgift att hitta pojken och flickan och sedan spela ormens roll, vad nu det kunde betyda.\n\nS\u00e5 hon hade vandrat och utforskat och unders\u00f6kt, men utan att hitta n\u00e5gonting. Medan hon f\u00f6ljde den lilla stigen bort fr\u00e5n olivlunden t\u00e4nkte hon att det var dags att s\u00f6ka ledning.\n\nS\u00e5 snart hon hade kommit tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n den lilla bondg\u00e5rden f\u00f6r att vara s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att inte bli st\u00f6rd satte hon sig under pinjetr\u00e4den och \u00f6ppnade ryggs\u00e4cken. I botten, insvept i en sidenhalsduk, l\u00e5g en bok hon hade haft i tjugo \u00e5r. Det var en redog\u00f6relse f\u00f6r den kinesiska sp\u00e5domsmetoden I Ching.\n\nHon hade tagit den med sig av tv\u00e5 anledningar. Den ena var sentimental, hennes farfar hade gett henne den och hon hade anv\u00e4nt den mycket under sin skoltid. Den andra var, att n\u00e4r Lyra f\u00f6rst hade letat sig fram till Marys laboratorium hade hon fr\u00e5gat: \"Vad \u00e4r det d\u00e4r?\" och hade pekat p\u00e5 en plansch med I Ching-symboler p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren, och strax efter\u00e5t, n\u00e4r Lyra l\u00e4ste datorn p\u00e5 sitt fantastiska s\u00e4tt, hade hon f\u00e5tt l\u00e4ra sig (h\u00e4vdade hon) att Stoft anv\u00e4nde m\u00e5nga olika s\u00e4tt n\u00e4r det talade till m\u00e4nniskorna, och att ett av dem var den kinesiska metod d\u00e4r man anv\u00e4nde s\u00e5dana symboler.\n\nUnder sin hastiga packning innan hon l\u00e4mnade sin egen v\u00e4rld f\u00f6r att leta efter Lyra och Will hade Mary Malone tagit med sig _F\u00f6rvandlingarnas bok_ , som den kallades, och de sm\u00e5 stavar av r\u00f6lleka hon beh\u00f6vde f\u00f6r att kunna l\u00e4sa den. Nu var det dags att anv\u00e4nda dem.\n\nHon bredde ut sidenet p\u00e5 marken och inledde arbetet med att dela upp och r\u00e4kna, dela upp och r\u00e4kna och l\u00e4gga \u00e5t sidan, som hon s\u00e5 ofta hade gjort som passionerat nyfiken ton\u00e5ring, men bara mycket s\u00e4llan sedan dess. Hon hade n\u00e4stan gl\u00f6mt bort hur det gick till, men m\u00e4rkte snart att ritualen \u00e5terv\u00e4nde, och med den kom k\u00e4nslan av den d\u00e4r lugna och koncentrerade uppm\u00e4rksamheten, som var s\u00e5 viktig i samtalet med Skuggorna.\n\nTill slut fick hon fram talen som angav det hexagram hon hade f\u00e5tt, gruppen av sex brutna eller obrutna linjer, och slog upp vad det betydde. Det h\u00e4r var den sv\u00e5ra delen, eftersom boken alltid uttryckte sig s\u00e5 g\u00e5tfullt.\n\nHon l\u00e4ste:\n\n_Att v\u00e4nda sig mot kr\u00f6net  \nF\u00f6r anskaffande av n\u00e4ring  \nGer god lycka.  \nSe sig omkring med skarp syn  \nSom en tiger med om\u00e4ttlig hunger._\n\nDet verkade uppmuntrande. Hon l\u00e4ste vidare och f\u00f6ljde boken l\u00e4ngs de labyrintliknande stigarna tills hon kom fram till: _Att vara stilla \u00e4r berget; det \u00e4r en sidov\u00e4g; det betyder sm\u00e5 stenar, d\u00f6rrar och \u00f6ppningar._\n\nNu m\u00e5ste hon gissa. Ordet \"\u00f6ppningar\" p\u00e5minde henne om det mystiska f\u00f6nstret i luften, genom vilket hon hade n\u00e5tt den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden; och de f\u00f6rsta orden verkade s\u00e4ga att hon skulle forts\u00e4tta upp\u00e5t.\n\nB\u00e5de f\u00f6rbryllad och uppmuntrad packade hon ner boken och stavarna av r\u00f6lleka och fortsatte upp\u00e5t, l\u00e4ngs stigen.\n\nFyra timmar senare var hon mycket varm och tr\u00f6tt. Solen stod l\u00e5gt p\u00e5 himlen. Den igenvuxna stig hon f\u00f6ljde hade s\u00e5 gott som f\u00f6rsvunnit, s\u00e5 hon kl\u00e4ttrade allt l\u00e5ngsammare och med st\u00f6rre och st\u00f6rre sv\u00e5righet mellan klippblocken och de mindre stenarna. Marken sluttade ned\u00e5t p\u00e5 v\u00e4nster sida och i det disiga kv\u00e4llsljuset s\u00e5g hon ett landskap t\u00e4ckt av olivlundar och citrontr\u00e4d, d\u00e5ligt underh\u00e5llna ving\u00e5rdar och \u00f6vergivna v\u00e4derkvarnar. Till h\u00f6ger vette en bergssluttning, t\u00e4ckt av knytn\u00e4vsstora stenar, upp mot en bergv\u00e4gg av trasig och s\u00f6ndersmulad kalksten.\n\nHon hivade tr\u00f6tt upp ryggs\u00e4cken och satte foten p\u00e5 n\u00e4sta sl\u00e4ta sten \u2013 men stannade innan hon ens hade hunnit f\u00f6rdela om vikten. Ljuset gl\u00e4nste till mot n\u00e5got egendomligt, s\u00e5 hon skuggade \u00f6gonen fr\u00e5n ljuset som speglades mot sluttningen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte hitta det igen.\n\nOch d\u00e4r var det: likt en glasskiva som h\u00e4ngde utan st\u00f6d i luften, men glas utan n\u00e5gra reflektioner som kunde f\u00e5nga uppm\u00e4rksamheten: bara en fyrkantig fl\u00e4ck av n\u00e5gonting annorlunda. D\u00e5 mindes hon vad I Ching hade sagt: _en sidov\u00e4g, sm\u00e5 stenar, d\u00f6rrar och \u00f6ppningar._\n\nDet var en \u00f6ppning som den p\u00e5 Sunderland Avenue. Hon kunde bara se den p\u00e5 grund av ljuset: hade solen st\u00e5tt h\u00f6gre hade den f\u00f6rmodligen inte synts alls.\n\nHon n\u00e4rmade sig den lilla luftfl\u00e4cken brinnande av nyfikenhet, eftersom hon inte hade haft tid att studera den f\u00f6rsta, f\u00f6r hon hade ju varit pressad att komma undan s\u00e5 snabbt som m\u00f6jligt. Men den h\u00e4r unders\u00f6kte hon i detalj, nuddade vid kanten, rundade den f\u00f6r att se hur den blev alldeles osynlig fr\u00e5n andra sidan, lade m\u00e4rke till den absoluta skillnaden mellan _h\u00e4r_ och _d\u00e4r_ och var n\u00e4ra att spricka av iver \u00f6ver att n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant kunde existera.\n\nDen knivb\u00e4rare som hade gjort \u00f6ppningen, ungef\u00e4r samtidigt som den amerikanska revolutionen, hade slarvat genom att inte st\u00e4nga den, men han hade \u00e5tminstone skurit igenom p\u00e5 ett st\u00e4lle som l\u00e5g p\u00e5 samma h\u00f6jd p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r sidan. Men klippan p\u00e5 den andra sidan var annorlunda, inte kalksten utan granit, och n\u00e4r hon klev igenom till den andra sidan stod hon inte vid foten av en upptornande bergssluttning, utan stod n\u00e4stan p\u00e5 toppen av en l\u00e5g bergknalle, som blickade ut \u00f6ver en v\u00e4ldig sl\u00e4tt.\n\nDet var kv\u00e4ll h\u00e4r ocks\u00e5, s\u00e5 hon satte sig ner f\u00f6r att kunna andas in luften och vila sig och f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 f\u00f6rundra sig i lugn och ro.\n\nEtt brett gyllene ljus f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver en o\u00e4ndlig pr\u00e4rie, eller m\u00f6jligen en savann, olikt n\u00e5got hon hade sett i sin egen v\u00e4rld. F\u00f6r det f\u00f6rsta var pr\u00e4rien t\u00e4ckt av ett kort gr\u00e4s i en o\u00e4ndlig variation av sand-gr\u00f6nockra-guldgula nyanser, och gr\u00e4set vajade mjukt fram och tillbaka p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt som avsl\u00f6jades mycket tydligt i det l\u00e5nga kv\u00e4llsljuset. Dessutom tycktes pr\u00e4rien \u00f6verallt vara genomkorsad av n\u00e5got som s\u00e5g ut som stenfloder med ljusgr\u00e5 yta.\n\nF\u00f6r det andra stod det h\u00e4r och var p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tten dungar av de h\u00f6gsta tr\u00e4d Mary n\u00e5gonsin hade sett. N\u00e4r hon vid ett tillf\u00e4lle hade deltagit i en fysikkonferens i Kalifornien hade hon tagit ledigt f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 de stora redwoodtr\u00e4den, och hade f\u00f6rundrats. Men vilken sorts tr\u00e4d det h\u00e4r \u00e4n var, s\u00e5 var de \u00e5tminstone en halv g\u00e5ng h\u00f6gre \u00e4n redwoodtr\u00e4den. Tr\u00e4dens l\u00f6vverk var t\u00e4tt och m\u00f6rkgr\u00f6nt och de v\u00e4ldiga stammarna var guldr\u00f6da i det tunga kv\u00e4llsljuset.\n\nOch slutligen gick betande varelser omkring nere p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tten, alltf\u00f6r l\u00e5ngt borta f\u00f6r att hon skulle kunna uppfatta dem tydligt. Det var n\u00e5got egendomligt \u00f6ver deras r\u00f6relsem\u00f6nster som hon inte kunde komma underfund med.\n\nHon var fruktansv\u00e4rt tr\u00f6tt, och dessutom t\u00f6rstig och hungrig. Men n\u00e5gonstans i n\u00e4rheten h\u00f6rde hon det v\u00e4lkomna ljudet av rinnande vatten. N\u00e5gon minut senare hade hon hittat det. Det var bara en liten r\u00e4nnil f\u00e4rskt vatten som sprang upp ur en mossig spricka, och sedan rann vidare som en liten b\u00e4ck ner f\u00f6r sluttningen. Hon drack l\u00e4nge och tacksamt och fyllde sedan sina f\u00e4ltflaskor. D\u00e4refter gjorde hon det bekv\u00e4mt f\u00f6r sig, f\u00f6r natten f\u00f6ll snabbt.\n\nHon \u00e5t lite av det grova br\u00f6det och getosten d\u00e4r hon l\u00e5g insvept i sovs\u00e4cken med ryggen mot klippan. Sedan f\u00f6ll hon i djup s\u00f6mn.\n\nHon vaknade av att morgonsolen sken henne rakt i ansiktet. Luften var sval och daggen hade lagt sig som sm\u00e5 droppar p\u00e5 Marys h\u00e5r och p\u00e5 hennes sovs\u00e4ck. Hon l\u00e5g n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick omsluten av friskheten och k\u00e4nde sig som om hon var den f\u00f6rsta levande m\u00e4nniskan i v\u00e4rlden.\n\nHon satte sig upp, g\u00e4spade, str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 sig, huttrade och tv\u00e4ttade sig sedan i den kalla b\u00e4cken innan hon \u00e5t n\u00e5gra torkade fikon och s\u00e5g sig omkring.\n\nBakom den lilla kulle hon hade hamnat p\u00e5 sluttade marken sakta ned\u00e5t och sedan upp\u00e5t igen. Den b\u00e4sta utsikten fanns framf\u00f6r henne, ut \u00f6ver den o\u00e4ndliga pr\u00e4rien. Tr\u00e4den kastade sina l\u00e5nga skuggor mot henne, och n\u00e4r hon skuggade \u00f6gonen fr\u00e5n solen kunde hon se f\u00e5gelflockar flyga framf\u00f6r de stora tr\u00e4dkronorna, s\u00e5 sm\u00e5 mot den upptornande gr\u00f6nskan att de s\u00e5g ut som dammkorn.\n\nEfter att ha packat ryggs\u00e4cken igen gav hon sig av ner f\u00f6r bergknallen, ner till pr\u00e4riens str\u00e4va, frodiga gr\u00e4s, och b\u00f6rjade g\u00e5 mot den n\u00e4rmaste tr\u00e4ddungen. Hon gissade att den l\u00e5g en knapp mil bort.\n\nGr\u00e4set var kn\u00e4h\u00f6gt och i det v\u00e4xte n\u00e5got som liknade enbuskar i fotkn\u00f6lsh\u00f6jd. Det fanns blommor som liknade vallmo, s\u00e5dana som liknade sm\u00f6rblommor och s\u00e5dana som liknade bl\u00e5klint, och de lade ett skimmer av olika nyanser \u00f6ver landskapet. S\u00e5 fick hon syn p\u00e5 ett stort bi, stort som en fingerled, som bes\u00f6kte en blomma och fick den att b\u00f6ja sig och svaja under tyngden. Men n\u00e4r den backade ut fr\u00e5n blommans bl\u00e5 kronblad och tog till v\u00e4ders s\u00e5g hon att det inte var n\u00e5gon insekt, f\u00f6r ett \u00f6gonblick senare var den p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot hennes hand och landade p\u00e5 hennes finger. Den s\u00e4nkte en l\u00e5ng n\u00e5lliknande n\u00e4bb mot hennes hud med yttersta varsamhet, men fl\u00f6g sedan iv\u00e4g igen n\u00e4r den inte hittade n\u00e5gon nektar. Det var en liten kolibri, och de bronsf\u00e4rgade vingarna r\u00f6rde sig f\u00f6r fort f\u00f6r att hon skulle kunna se dem.\n\nHur mycket skulle inte v\u00e4rldens alla biologer avundas henne, om de hade f\u00e5tt se vad hon s\u00e5g!\n\nHon fortsatte och fann att hon kom allt n\u00e4rmare en av de hjordar av betande varelser hon hade sett fr\u00e5n klippan kv\u00e4llen innan, och vars r\u00f6relser hade f\u00f6rbryllat henne fast hon inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt varf\u00f6r. De var ungef\u00e4r lika stora som r\u00e5djur eller antiloper och hade en liknande f\u00e4rgteckning, men det som fick henne att stanna och gnugga sig i \u00f6gonen var hur deras ben var ordnade. De satt i en rombform, med tv\u00e5 i mitten, ett d\u00e4r fram och ett under svansen, s\u00e5 att de r\u00f6rde sig p\u00e5 ett underligt vaggande s\u00e4tt. Mary l\u00e4ngtade efter att f\u00e5 unders\u00f6ka ett skelett f\u00f6r att ta reda p\u00e5 hur konstruktionen fungerade.\n\nDe betande varelserna betraktade henne \u00e5 sin sida med milt ointresserade blickar, utan n\u00e5gon r\u00e4dsla. Hon hade verkligen velat komma n\u00e4rmare f\u00f6r att ta en ordentlig titt p\u00e5 dem, men det b\u00f6rjade bli varmt och skuggan under de v\u00e4ldiga tr\u00e4den s\u00e5g inbjudande ut. Hon hade trots allt gott om tid.\n\nR\u00e4tt som det var l\u00e4mnade hon gr\u00e4set och klev ut p\u00e5 en av stenfloderna hon hade sett fr\u00e5n kullen \u2013 den var verkligen n\u00e5got att titta p\u00e5.\n\nKanske var det ursprungligen n\u00e5got slags lavaflod. Den underliggande f\u00e4rgen var m\u00f6rk, n\u00e4stan svart, men ytan var blekare, som om den hade blivit nedn\u00f6tt eller s\u00f6ndermalen. Ytan var lika sl\u00e4t som p\u00e5 vilken b\u00e4ttre v\u00e4g som helst i Marys egen v\u00e4rld. Den var avsev\u00e4rt l\u00e4ttare att g\u00e5 p\u00e5 \u00e4n gr\u00e4set.\n\nHon f\u00f6ljde den v\u00e4g hon hade hittat och den fl\u00f6t i en vid kurva bort mot tr\u00e4ddungen. Ju n\u00e4rmare hon kom tr\u00e4den, desto mer f\u00f6rundrades hon \u00f6ver stammarnas enorma storlek. Hon gissade att de var lika breda som huset hon bodde i, och lika h\u00f6ga som \u2013 lika h\u00f6ga som... Hon ville inte ens gissa.\n\nN\u00e4r hon till slut n\u00e5dde fram till den f\u00f6rsta stammen lade hon sina h\u00e4nder mot den djupt f\u00e5rade r\u00f6dgula barken. Marken t\u00e4cktes av ett flera centimeter tjockt lager med bruna l\u00f6vskelett. Dessa var lika l\u00e5nga som hennes fot och de var mjuka och v\u00e4ldoftande att g\u00e5 p\u00e5. Hon omgavs snart av ett moln av knottliknande flygande saker, liksom av en flock av de sm\u00e5 kolibrierna, av en gulvingad fj\u00e4ril med vingar stora nog att t\u00e4cka hennes handflata, och av alldeles f\u00f6r m\u00e5nga krypande saker f\u00f6r att det skulle vara trevligt. Luften var full av surrande och gnisslande ljud.\n\nN\u00e4r hon r\u00f6rde sig inne i den m\u00e4ktiga dungen fick hon samma k\u00e4nsla som inne i en katedral, samma stillhet, samma k\u00e4nsla av upp\u00e5tstr\u00e4vande struktur och samma f\u00f6rundran hos henne sj\u00e4lv.\n\nDet hade tagit l\u00e4ngre tid \u00e4n hon hade trott att ta sig hit. Det b\u00f6rjade n\u00e4rma sig middagstid, f\u00f6r pelarna av ljus som f\u00f6ll ner genom tr\u00e4dkronorna var n\u00e4stan lodr\u00e4ta. Mary undrade d\u00e5sigt varf\u00f6r de betande varelserna inte s\u00f6kte skugga under tr\u00e4den under den hetaste tiden av dagen.\n\nDet fick hon snart reda p\u00e5.\n\nHon var alltf\u00f6r varm f\u00f6r att kunna ta ett steg till, s\u00e5 hon lade sig ner mellan r\u00f6tterna p\u00e5 ett av j\u00e4ttetr\u00e4den, med huvudet mot ryggs\u00e4cken.\n\nHon hade slutit \u00f6gonen i kanske tjugo minuter, men hade inte riktigt somnat. Pl\u00f6tsligt h\u00f6rdes en d\u00e5nande krasch, alldeles i n\u00e4rheten, och den fick marken att skaka.\n\nSedan h\u00f6rdes en till. Mary satte sig f\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckt upp och s\u00e5g en r\u00f6relse i \u00f6gonvr\u00e5n. Det visade sig vara ett runt f\u00f6rem\u00e5l, ungef\u00e4r en meter tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver, som kom rullande \u00f6ver den l\u00f6vt\u00e4ckta marken. Det stannade upp och f\u00f6ll sedan tungt p\u00e5 sidan.\n\nOch sedan f\u00f6ll ett till, lite l\u00e4ngre bort. Hon s\u00e5g det massiva f\u00f6rem\u00e5let falla och s\u00e5g hur det kraschade mot ett av tr\u00e4dens str\u00e4vpelarliknande r\u00f6tter f\u00f6r att sedan rulla iv\u00e4g.\n\nTanken p\u00e5 att n\u00e5gon av de d\u00e4r sakerna skulle falla ner p\u00e5 henne fick henne att snappa \u00e5t sig ryggs\u00e4cken och rusa ut ur dungen. Vad var det f\u00f6r n\u00e5got? Fr\u00f6kapslar?\n\nHon spanade noga upp\u00e5t n\u00e4r hon n\u00e5gra minuter senare v\u00e5gade sig in under tr\u00e4dkronorna igen f\u00f6r att titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 en av fr\u00f6kapslarna. Hon lyckades dra upp den p\u00e5 h\u00f6gkant och rulla ut den ur dungen. Sedan lade hon ner den p\u00e5 gr\u00e4set f\u00f6r att kunna ta sig en n\u00e4rmare titt.\n\nDen var fullst\u00e4ndigt cirkelrund och lika tjock som hennes handflata. I mitten fanns ett h\u00e5l och det s\u00e5g ut som om det var d\u00e4r den hade suttit fast i tr\u00e4det. Den var inte s\u00e4rskilt tung \u2013 hon kunde lyfta den utan st\u00f6rre besv\u00e4r \u2013 men den var fruktansv\u00e4rt h\u00e5rd och var t\u00e4ckt av fibertr\u00e5dar som l\u00e5g l\u00e4ngs med omkretsen p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt som gjorde att hon kunde dra handen utan motst\u00e5nd \u00e5t det ena h\u00e5llet, men inte \u00e5t det andra. Hon testade med kniven mot ytan: den \u00e5stadkom inte minsta m\u00e4rke.\n\nFingrarna k\u00e4ndes annorlunda, sl\u00e4tare. Hon luktade p\u00e5 dem: det kom en svag doft fr\u00e5n dem, under lukten av damm. Hon tittade p\u00e5 fr\u00f6kapseln igen. Det gl\u00e4nste svagt i h\u00e5let i mitten, och n\u00e4r hon r\u00f6rde vid det igen k\u00e4nde hon hur fingrarna l\u00e4tt gled \u00f6ver ytan. H\u00e5let uts\u00f6ndrade n\u00e5gon sorts olja.\n\nMary lade ner saken igen och funderade p\u00e5 hur den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden hade utvecklats.\n\nOm hennes gissning om de olika universumen st\u00e4mde, att de var de olika v\u00e4rldar som kvantteorin hade f\u00f6rutsp\u00e5tt, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste n\u00e5gra av dem ha skilt sig fr\u00e5n hennes egen mycket tidigare \u00e4n andra. I den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden hade evolutionen uppenbarligen lett till enorma tr\u00e4d och till stora varelser med rombformade skelett.\n\nHon b\u00f6rjade inse hur begr\u00e4nsad hennes vetenskapliga bildning var. Hon kunde ingen botanik, ingen geologi, ingen som helst biologi \u2013 hon var lika okunnig som ett barn.\n\nS\u00e5 h\u00f6rde hon ett l\u00e5gt \u00e5skliknande muller. Det gick inte att avg\u00f6ra var det kom ifr\u00e5n f\u00f6rr\u00e4n hon s\u00e5g ett litet dammoln r\u00f6ra sig l\u00e4ngs en av stenv\u00e4garna \u2013 p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot tr\u00e4ddungen, och p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot henne. Molnet var ett par kilometer bort, men det r\u00f6rde sig inte l\u00e5ngsamt, och pl\u00f6tsligt k\u00e4nde hon sig r\u00e4dd.\n\nHon st\u00f6rtade tillbaka in i dungen. Hon hittade ett smalt utrymme som hon kunde kl\u00e4mma in sig i. Sedan kikade hon ut \u00f6ver den v\u00e4ldiga rot hon hade bredvid sig och s\u00e5g dammolnet n\u00e4rma sig.\n\nDet hon s\u00e5g fick huvudet att snurra. F\u00f6rst s\u00e5g det ut som ett motorcykelg\u00e4ng. Sedan trodde hon att det var en hjord av djur p\u00e5 _hjul_. Men det var ju om\u00f6jligt. Inget djur kunde ha hjul. Det kunde inte vara det hon s\u00e5g. Men det var det.\n\nDet var ungef\u00e4r ett dussin varelser. De var ungef\u00e4r lika stora som de betande djuren, men slankare och gr\u00e5f\u00e4rgade, med behornade huvuden och korta snablar, som p\u00e5 en elefant. De hade samma rombformade uppbyggnad som gr\u00e4s\u00e4tarna, men p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt hade de utvecklat hjul p\u00e5 b\u00e5de frambenet och bakbenet.\n\nMen hjul existerade inte i naturen, insisterade hennes hj\u00e4rna; det gick inte, man m\u00e5ste ha en axel med en b\u00e4ring som var helt skild fr\u00e5n den roterande delen, f\u00f6r annars kunde det inte h\u00e4nda, det var om\u00f6jligt...\n\nN\u00e4r de stannade mindre \u00e4n femtio meter bort och dammet hade lagt sig, fattade hon pl\u00f6tsligt hur det l\u00e5g till, och kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att skratta av f\u00f6rtjusning.\n\nHjulen var fr\u00f6kapslar. Helt runda, o\u00e4ndligt h\u00e5rda och l\u00e4tta \u2013 de kunde inte ha varit b\u00e4ttre formgivna. Varelserna krokade en klo genom mitten p\u00e5 dem med bakbenet och frambenet och sparkade sig fram med hj\u00e4lp av sidobenen. Medan hon f\u00f6rundrade sig \u00f6ver detta var hon \u00e4nd\u00e5 lite nerv\u00f6s, f\u00f6r hornen s\u00e5g oerh\u00f6rt vassa ut, och \u00e4ven p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r avst\u00e5ndet kunde hon se sk\u00e4rpa och nyfikenhet i deras blickar.\n\nOch de letade efter henne.\n\nEn av dem hade f\u00e5tt syn p\u00e5 den fr\u00f6kapsel hon hade burit ut ur dungen, s\u00e5 han rullade av v\u00e4gen och r\u00f6rde sig mot den. N\u00e4r han n\u00e5dde fram till den lyfte han skickligt upp den p\u00e5 h\u00f6gkant med snabeln och rullade tillbaka den till sina kamrater p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen.\n\nDe samlades runt kapseln och r\u00f6rde f\u00f6rsiktigt vid den med sina starka, b\u00f6jliga snablar, och hon ins\u00e5g att hon tolkade det mjuka kvittrande och klickande och hoande de utst\u00f6tte som uttryck f\u00f6r missn\u00f6je. N\u00e5gon hade fingrat p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r: det var fel.\n\nSedan t\u00e4nkte hon: Jag kom hit av en anledning, \u00e4ven om jag inte har f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt den \u00e4n. Var modig. Ta initiativet.\n\nS\u00e5 hon reste sig upp och ropade, mycket medveten om sig sj\u00e4lv:\n\n\"H\u00e4r borta. H\u00e4r \u00e4r jag. Jag tittade p\u00e5 er fr\u00f6kapsel. F\u00f6rl\u00e5t. Var sn\u00e4ll och g\u00f6r mig inte illa.\"\n\nDe vred omedelbart p\u00e5 huvudena f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 henne. Snablarna var utstr\u00e4ckta och de glittrande \u00f6gonen tittade rakt fram. \u00d6ronen stod pl\u00f6tsligt rakt upp.\n\nHon kom ut fr\u00e5n sitt g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle vid roten och v\u00e4nde sig mot dem. Hon h\u00f6ll ut h\u00e4nderna, men ins\u00e5g att just den gesten inte kunde betyda n\u00e5got f\u00f6r varelser utan h\u00e4nder. Men det var det enda hon kunde g\u00f6ra. Hon lyfte upp ryggs\u00e4cken, gick tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver gr\u00e4set och klev ut p\u00e5 sj\u00e4lva v\u00e4gen.\n\nP\u00e5 n\u00e4ra h\u00e5ll, inte mer \u00e4n fem steg bort, kunde hon se mycket mer av dem, men hennes uppm\u00e4rksamhet f\u00e5ngades av n\u00e5got i deras blickar som var b\u00e5de livligt och n\u00e4rvarande, av deras intelligens. De h\u00e4r varelserna skilde sig lika mycket fr\u00e5n de betande varelserna i n\u00e4rheten som en m\u00e4nniska skiljer sig fr\u00e5n en ko.\n\nMary pekade p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv och sa: \"Mary.\"\n\nDen n\u00e4rmaste varelsen str\u00e4ckte fram sin snabel. Hon gick n\u00e4rmare och den r\u00f6rde vid hennes br\u00f6st d\u00e4r hon sj\u00e4lv hade pekat, och h\u00f6rde sin egen r\u00f6st komma mot henne fr\u00e5n varelsens strupe: \"Merry.\"\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r ni?\" sa hon, och: \"V\u00e4rni\", svarade varelsen.\n\nDet enda hon kunde g\u00f6ra var att svara: \"Jag \u00e4r en m\u00e4nniska\", sa hon.\n\n\"Jaee enm\u00e4nscha\", sa varelsen, och sedan h\u00e4nde n\u00e5got \u00e4nnu underligare: varelserna skrattade.\n\n\u00d6gonen rynkades, snablarna sv\u00e4ngde, de kastade med huvudena \u2013 och fr\u00e5n deras strupar kom det omissk\u00e4nnliga ljudet av gl\u00e4dje. Hon kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli, utan skrattade med.\n\nSedan r\u00f6rde sig en annan av varelserna fram\u00e5t och nuddade vid hennes hand med snabeln. Mary l\u00e4t den g\u00f6ra det, och str\u00e4ckte sedan fram sin andra hand, s\u00e5 att den kunde forts\u00e4tta sin mjuka, h\u00e5riga unders\u00f6kning.\n\n\"\u00c5h\", sa hon, \"du k\u00e4nner lukten av oljan fr\u00e5n fr\u00f6kapseln!\"\n\n\"F\u00f6kapel\", sa varelsen.\n\n\"Om ni kan forma ljuden i mitt spr\u00e5k, s\u00e5 kanske vi kan kommunicera n\u00e5gon g\u00e5ng. Fast det vete gudarna hur det ska g\u00e5 till. Mary\", sa hon och pekade p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv igen.\n\nIngenting. De tittade p\u00e5 henne. Hon upprepade det: \"Mary.\"\n\nDen n\u00e4rmaste varelsen nuddade vid sin egen br\u00f6stkorg med snabeln och sa n\u00e5got. Var det tre stavelser, eller var det tv\u00e5? Varelsen sa n\u00e5got igen, och den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen anstr\u00e4ngde hon sig f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 fram samma ljud: \"Mulefa\", sa hon pr\u00f6vande.\n\nDe andra upprepade ordet \"Mulefa!\" med hennes r\u00f6st, skrattande, och verkade till och med retas med den som hade talat. \"Mulefa!\" sa de igen, som om det var ett storartat sk\u00e4mt.\n\n\"Tja, om ni kan skratta, s\u00e5 antar jag att ni inte kommer att \u00e4ta upp mig\", sa Mary. Och fr\u00e5n det \u00f6gonblicket var st\u00e4mningen mellan dem avslappnad och v\u00e4nlig, och hon k\u00e4nde sig inte l\u00e4ngre nerv\u00f6s.\n\n\u00c4ven gruppen slappnade av: de hade saker att g\u00f6ra och str\u00f6vade inte bara omkring. Mary s\u00e5g att en av dem hade en sorts sadel eller packs\u00e4ck p\u00e5 ryggen, och tv\u00e5 andra lyfte upp fr\u00f6kapseln p\u00e5 den och sp\u00e4nde fast den med remmar med hj\u00e4lp av skickliga och intrikata snabelr\u00f6relser. N\u00e4r de stod stilla h\u00f6ll de balansen med de tv\u00e5 sidobenen och n\u00e4r de r\u00f6rde sig styrde de med b\u00e5de fram- och bakbenen. R\u00f6relserna var b\u00e5de smidiga och kraftfulla.\n\nEn av dem rullade fram till v\u00e4gkanten och h\u00f6jde snabeln till ett trumpetande rop och medan det ekade \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten tittade alla de betande varelserna upp och b\u00f6rjade trava fram mot dem. S\u00e5 snart de anl\u00e4nt stod de t\u00e5lmodigt vid kanten och v\u00e4ntade medan de behjulade varelserna l\u00e5ngsamt r\u00f6rde sig bland dem, unders\u00f6kte dem, r\u00f6rde vid dem och r\u00e4knade dem.\n\nSedan s\u00e5g Mary hur en av dem str\u00e4ckte sig in under ett av de betande djuren och mj\u00f6lkade det med sin snabel. Sedan rullade den behjulade varelsen \u00f6ver till henne och str\u00e4ckte mjukt upp snabeln mot Marys mun.\n\nF\u00f6rst ryggade hon tillbaka, men det syntes en s\u00e5dan f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntan i varelsens \u00f6gon att hon tog ett steg fram och \u00f6ppnade munnen. Varelsen l\u00e4t lite av den s\u00f6ta tunna mj\u00f6lken rinna in i hennes mun, s\u00e5g hur hon svalde och gav henne lite mer, om och om igen. Gesten var s\u00e5 f\u00f6rst\u00e5ndig och v\u00e4nlig att Mary impulsivt lade armarna runt varelsens huvud och kysste henne. Hon kunde k\u00e4nna lukten av den varma, dammiga huden och de h\u00e5rda benen under denna och de kraftfulla musklerna i snabeln.\n\nS\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom trumpetade ledaren l\u00e5gt, varefter betesdjuren gick sin v\u00e4g. Muleforna gjorde sig redo att ge sig av. Hon k\u00e4nde gl\u00e4dje \u00f6ver att de hade v\u00e4lkomnat henne och var ledsen \u00f6ver att de t\u00e4nkte ge sig av, men sedan k\u00e4nde hon ocks\u00e5 f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning.\n\nEn av varelserna gick ner p\u00e5 kn\u00e4 p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen och gestikulerade med snabeln, och de andra vinkade v\u00e4lkomnande \u00e5t henne... Det r\u00e5dde ingen tvekan; de erbj\u00f6d sig att b\u00e4ra henne, att ta henne med sig.\n\nEn annan tog hennes ryggs\u00e4ck och band fast den vid sadeln p\u00e5 en tredje. Mary kl\u00e4ttrade klumpigt och os\u00e4kert upp p\u00e5 ryggen p\u00e5 den kn\u00e4b\u00f6jande och undrade var hon skulle g\u00f6ra av benen \u2013 framf\u00f6r varelsens ben, eller bakom? Och vad skulle hon h\u00e5lla fast sig i?\n\nMen innan hon kom p\u00e5 n\u00e5got svar hade varelsen rest sig upp och gruppen hade b\u00f6rjat ge sig av l\u00e4ngs stenv\u00e4gen, och tog Mary med sig.\n\n_\"f\u00f6r att han \u00e4r Will.\"_\n\n## 8\n\n## Vodka\n\nJAG \u00c4R EN FR\u00c4MLING I ETT LAND SOM ICKE \u00c4R MITT.\n\nANDRA MOSEBOKEN\n\nBALTHAMOS K\u00c4NDE BARUCHS d\u00f6d i samma \u00f6gonblick som den intr\u00e4ffade. Han skrek rakt ut och st\u00f6rtade sig upp\u00e5t i natten ovanf\u00f6r tundran. Han slog med vingarna och snyftningarna f\u00f6rde hans sm\u00e4rta upp bland molnen. Det dr\u00f6jde en stund innan han kunde \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till Will, som klarvaken stod med kniven i handen och stirrade upp i det fuktiga och kalla m\u00f6rkret. De hade \u00e5terv\u00e4nt till Lyras v\u00e4rld.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det?\" sa Will, d\u00e5 \u00e4ngeln darrande kom fram till honom. \"\u00c4r det n\u00e5gon fara? St\u00e4ll dig bakom mig...\"\n\n\"Baruch \u00e4r d\u00f6d\", tj\u00f6t Balthamos, \"min \u00e4lskade Baruch \u00e4r d\u00f6d...\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r? Var?\"\n\nMen Balthamos kunde inte ber\u00e4tta det: han visste bara att ena halvan av hans hj\u00e4rta hade f\u00f6rintats. Han kunde inte h\u00e5lla sig stilla: han fl\u00f6g upp igen och for fram genom luften som om han letade efter Baruch, i f\u00f6rst det ena och sedan det andra molnet, ropande, gr\u00e5tande, ropande. R\u00e4tt vad det var \u00f6verf\u00f6lls han av skamk\u00e4nslor och fl\u00f6g ner f\u00f6r att tjata p\u00e5 Will om att g\u00f6mma sig och vara tyst, och lova att han outtr\u00f6ttligt skulle vaka \u00f6ver honom. Sedan blev hans sorg f\u00f6r stor, den pressade honom mot marken och han mindes vartenda tillf\u00e4lle d\u00e5 Baruch hade visat mod och v\u00e4nlighet \u2013 de var tusentals och han hade inte gl\u00f6mt ett enda. Han ropade att en s\u00e5dan \u00e4del varelse aldrig kunde utsl\u00e4ckas och slungade sig sedan mot himlen igen, flygande hit och dit, vild och h\u00e4nsynsl\u00f6s och bedr\u00f6vad, f\u00f6rbannande luften, molnen, stj\u00e4rnorna.\n\nTill slut sa Will: \"Balthamos, kom hit.\"\n\n\u00c4ngeln gjorde som han befallde, hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6s. Pojken stod huttrande i sin mantel i tundrans bittert kalla m\u00f6rker och sa till honom: \"Nu m\u00e5ste du f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka vara tyst. Du vet att det finns saker d\u00e4rute som kommer att anfalla om dom h\u00f6r oss. Om du \u00e4r i n\u00e4rheten kan jag skydda dig med kniven, men jag kan inte hj\u00e4lpa dig om dom anfaller d\u00e4r uppe. Och om du ocks\u00e5 d\u00f6r, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det ute med mig. Balthamos, jag beh\u00f6ver din hj\u00e4lp f\u00f6r att hitta Lyra. Sn\u00e4lla, gl\u00f6m inte det. Baruch var stark \u2013 var stark du ocks\u00e5. Var lika stark som han, f\u00f6r min skull.\"\n\nF\u00f6rst svarade Balthamos inte, men sedan sa han: \"Ja. Ja, det m\u00e5ste jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. Sov nu, Will, medan jag h\u00e5ller vakt, jag ska inte svika dig.\"\n\nWill litade p\u00e5 honom, f\u00f6r han var tvungen. S\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom somnade han igen.\n\nN\u00e4r han vaknade, genomv\u00e5t av daggen och frusen \u00e4nda in i m\u00e4rgen, stod \u00e4ngeln i n\u00e4rheten. Solen var precis p\u00e5 v\u00e4g upp och vassen och k\u00e4rrv\u00e4xterna gl\u00e4nste av guld i topparna.\n\nInnan Will hann r\u00f6ra sig sa Balthamos: \"Jag har best\u00e4mt hur jag ska g\u00f6ra. Jag ska stanna hos dig dag och natt, och jag ska g\u00f6ra det glatt och villigt, f\u00f6r Baruchs skull. Om jag kan, s\u00e5 ska jag leda dig till Lyra, och sedan ska jag leda er b\u00e5da till Lord Asriel. Jag har levt i flera tusen \u00e5r, och om jag inte d\u00f6das kommer jag att leva i flera tusen \u00e5r till. Men jag har aldrig tidigare m\u00f6tt n\u00e5gon som f\u00e5tt mig att vilja g\u00f6ra gott, eller vara s\u00e5 v\u00e4nlig, som Baruch. Jag misslyckades ofta, men varje g\u00e5ng fanns hans godhet d\u00e4r och fr\u00e4lste mig. Nu n\u00e4r den inte l\u00e4ngre finns, f\u00e5r jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka utan den. Jag kommer kanske att misslyckas ibland, men jag ska i alla fall f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 skulle Baruch vara stolt \u00f6ver dig\", sa Will huttrande.\n\n\"Ska jag flyga i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g nu, och se var vi \u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa Will, \"flyg h\u00f6gt, och ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig hur landet ser ut l\u00e4ngre fram. Det kommer att ta en evighet att g\u00e5 genom det h\u00e4r tr\u00e4sket.\"\n\nBalthamos fl\u00f6g iv\u00e4g. Han hade inte ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r Will om allt det som bekymrade honom, eftersom han gjorde sitt b\u00e4sta f\u00f6r att inte oroa pojken. Men han visste att \u00e4ngeln Metatron, regenten, som de hade undkommit med s\u00e5 knapp marginal, skulle ha Wills ansikte v\u00e4l inpr\u00e4ntat i sitt sinne. Och inte bara hans ansikte, utan allt om honom som \u00e4nglarna kunde se, inklusive de delar som Will sj\u00e4lv inte var medveten om, till exempel den del av hans natur som Lyra skulle ha kallat hans d\u00e6mon. Nu var Metatron ett stort hot mot Will, och snart m\u00e5ste Balthamos ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r honom. Men inte riktigt \u00e4n; det var f\u00f6r sv\u00e5rt.\n\nWill trodde att det skulle g\u00e5 fortare att bli varm om han helt enkelt traskade iv\u00e4g, hellre \u00e4n att han f\u00f6rst samlade br\u00e4nsle och sedan v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att elden skulle ta sig, s\u00e5 han hivade upp ryggs\u00e4cken p\u00e5 ryggen, svepte manteln om b\u00e5de sig sj\u00e4lv och ryggs\u00e4cken och begav sig s\u00f6derut. Det fanns en stig, lerig och s\u00f6nderk\u00f6rd och full av h\u00e5l, s\u00e5 det var uppenbart att folk faktiskt passerade f\u00f6rbi h\u00e4r. Men den platta horisonten var s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt borta i alla riktningar att det inte k\u00e4ndes som om han r\u00f6rde sig fram\u00e5t.\n\nEn stund senare, d\u00e5 ljuset var starkare, h\u00f6rde han Balthamos r\u00f6st bredvid sig:\n\n\"Ungef\u00e4r en halv dagsmarsch l\u00e4ngre fram finns en bred flod och en stad, med en kaj d\u00e4r b\u00e5tar kan f\u00f6rt\u00f6jas. Jag fl\u00f6g s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt att jag kunde se att floden forts\u00e4tter en l\u00e5ng v\u00e4g rakt \u00e5t s\u00f6der och \u00e5t norr. Om du kan ta dig ombord p\u00e5 en b\u00e5t skulle du kunna ta dig fram mycket snabbare.\"\n\n\"Bra\", sa Will ivrigt. \"Leder den h\u00e4r stigen fram till stan?\"\n\n\"Den g\u00e5r genom en by, med en kyrka och bondg\u00e5rdar och frukttr\u00e4dg\u00e5rdar, och sedan forts\u00e4tter den till staden.\"\n\n\"Jag undrar vilket spr\u00e5k dom talar. Jag hoppas att dom inte l\u00e5ser in mig om jag inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5r deras spr\u00e5k.\"\n\n\"Som din d\u00e6mon\", sa Balthamos, \"ska jag \u00f6vers\u00e4tta \u00e5t dig. Jag har l\u00e4rt mig m\u00e5nga m\u00e4nskliga spr\u00e5k, och jag kan s\u00e4kert f\u00f6rst\u00e5 det de talar i det h\u00e4r landet.\"\n\nWill traskade vidare. Det var enformigt och mekaniskt, men han var \u00e5tminstone i r\u00f6relse, och varje steg f\u00f6rde honom n\u00e4rmare Lyra.\n\nByn var ett slitet st\u00e4lle och bestod av en klunga av tr\u00e4byggnader, inh\u00e4gnader med renar i, och hundar som sk\u00e4llde n\u00e4r han n\u00e4rmade sig. R\u00f6ken som steg fr\u00e5n skorstenarna av pl\u00e5t lade sig \u00f6ver sp\u00e5ntaken. Marken var tung och s\u00f6g sig fast kring hans f\u00f6tter, och man hade uppenbarligen haft en \u00f6versv\u00e4mning nyligen: det fanns lera halvv\u00e4gs upp p\u00e5 d\u00f6rrarna p\u00e5 en del v\u00e4ggar. Avbrutna tr\u00e4bj\u00e4lkar och stycken av l\u00f6st h\u00e4ngande korrugerad pl\u00e5t visade var skjul och verandor och uthus hade st\u00e5tt.\n\nMen det var inte det konstigaste. F\u00f6rst trodde han att han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att tappa balansen och det fick honom till och med att snubbla n\u00e5gra g\u00e5nger; f\u00f6r byggnaderna lutade ett par tre grader, allihop \u00e5t samma h\u00e5ll. Den lilla kyrkans kupol hade en kraftig spricka. Hade det varit jordb\u00e4vning?\n\nHundar sk\u00e4llde i hysterisk ilska, men v\u00e5gade inte komma n\u00e4ra. Balthamos hade som d\u00e6mon tagit formen av en stor sn\u00f6vit hund med svarta \u00f6gon, tjock p\u00e4ls och h\u00e5rt ringlad svans, och han morrade s\u00e5 ilsket att de riktiga hundarna h\u00f6ll sig p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd. De var magra och el\u00e4ndiga, och de f\u00e5 renar Will s\u00e5g var skabbiga i p\u00e4lsen och hade h\u00e5gl\u00f6sa blickar.\n\nPojken stannade i mitten av den lilla byn, s\u00e5g sig omkring och undrade vart han skulle ta v\u00e4gen, men medan han stod d\u00e4r d\u00f6k tv\u00e5 eller tre m\u00e4n upp och st\u00e4llde sig f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 honom. De var de f\u00f6rsta m\u00e4nniskor han hade sett i Lyras v\u00e4rld. De bar tunga filtrockar, leriga st\u00f6vlar, p\u00e4lsm\u00f6ssor, och de s\u00e5g inte ut att vara v\u00e4nligt sinnade.\n\nDen vita hunden f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en sparv och fl\u00f6g upp till Wills axel. Ingen hajade till \u00f6ver detta. Will kunde se att var och en av m\u00e4nnen hade en d\u00e6mon, mest hundar, och det var s\u00e5 det gick till i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden. \"Forts\u00e4tt g\u00e5\", viskade Balthamos p\u00e5 hans axel. \"Se dem inte i \u00f6gonen. H\u00e5ll ner huvudet. Det \u00e4r artigast s\u00e5.\"\n\nWill fortsatte fram\u00e5t. Att g\u00f6ra sig obem\u00e4rkt var hans st\u00f6rsta talang. N\u00e4r han n\u00e5tt fram till dem hade m\u00e4nnen redan f\u00f6rlorat intresset f\u00f6r honom. Men d\u00e5 \u00f6ppnade sig en d\u00f6rr i det st\u00f6rsta huset l\u00e4ngs gatan, och n\u00e5got ropades ut med h\u00f6g r\u00f6st.\n\n\"Pr\u00e4sten\", sa Balthamos l\u00e5gm\u00e4lt. \"Du m\u00e5ste vara artig mot honom. V\u00e4nd dig mot honom och buga.\"\n\nWill gjorde som han sa. Pr\u00e4sten var en enorm, gr\u00e5sk\u00e4ggig man, som bar svart kaftan och hade en kr\u00e5kd\u00e6mon p\u00e5 axeln. Hans rastl\u00f6sa \u00f6gon spelade uppm\u00e4rksamt \u00f6ver Wills kropp och ansikte. Han vinkade.\n\nWill gick fram till d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen och bugade sig igen.\n\nPr\u00e4sten sa n\u00e5got, och Balthamos mumlade: \"Han fr\u00e5gar var du kommer ifr\u00e5n. S\u00e4g vad som helst.\"\n\n\"Jag talar engelska\", sa Will l\u00e5ngsamt och tydligt. \"Jag kan inga andra spr\u00e5k.\"\n\n\"Ah, engelska!\" utropade pr\u00e4sten lyckligt p\u00e5 samma spr\u00e5k. \"Min k\u00e4re unge man! V\u00e4lkommen till v\u00e5r by, v\u00e5rt lilla inte-l\u00e4ngre-vinkelr\u00e4ta Cholodnoje! Vad heter du, och vart \u00e4r du p\u00e5 v\u00e4g?\"\n\n\"Jag heter Will, och jag \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g s\u00f6derut. Jag har tappat bort min familj, och jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker hitta dom igen.\"\n\n\"I s\u00e5 fall m\u00e5ste du komma in och f\u00e5 lite f\u00f6rfriskningar\", sa pr\u00e4sten och lade en tung arm runt Wills axlar och f\u00f6ste in honom genom d\u00f6rren.\n\nMannens kr\u00e5kd\u00e6mon visade ett livligt intresse f\u00f6r Balthamos. Men \u00e4ngeln bestod provet genom att f\u00f6rvandla sig till en mus och krypa innanf\u00f6r Wills skjorta, som om han hade blivit blyg.\n\nPr\u00e4sten ledde in honom i en kammare som var fylld av tobaksr\u00f6k. En gjutj\u00e4rnssamovar stod tyst och \u00e5ngade p\u00e5 ett sidobord.\n\n\"Vad var det du hette?\" sa pr\u00e4sten. \"Upprepa det f\u00f6r mig.\"\n\n\"Will Parry. Men jag vet inte vad jag ska kalla er.\"\n\n\"Otyets Semyon\", sa pr\u00e4sten. Han smekte Wills arm medan han visade honom till en stol. \"Otyets betyder Fader. Jag \u00e4r en av den Heliga Kyrkans pr\u00e4ster. Mitt dopnamn \u00e4r Semyon och min fars namn var Boris, s\u00e5 jag \u00e4r Semyon Borisovitj. Vad heter din far?\"\n\n\"John Parry.\"\n\n\"John \u00e4r detsamma som Ivan. S\u00e5 du \u00e4r Will Ivanovitj, och jag \u00e4r fader Semyon Borisovitj. Var kommer du ifr\u00e5n, Will Ivanovitj, och vart \u00e4r du p\u00e5 v\u00e4g?\"\n\n\"Jag har g\u00e5tt vilse\", sa Will. \"Jag var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g s\u00f6derut med min familj. Min far \u00e4r soldat, men h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med en utforskning av Arktis, men sen h\u00e4nde n\u00e5t, s\u00e5 vi tappade bort oss. Nu \u00e4r jag p\u00e5 v\u00e4g s\u00f6derut, eftersom jag vet att det var dit vi skulle sen.\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten bredde ut sina h\u00e4nder och sa: \"En soldat? En uppt\u00e4cktsresande fr\u00e5n England? Ingen s\u00e5 intressant person har g\u00e5tt p\u00e5 Cholodnojes v\u00e4gar p\u00e5 \u00e5rhundraden, men i dessa oroliga tider kanske han dyker upp i morgon? Sj\u00e4lv \u00e4r du en v\u00e4lkommen bes\u00f6kare, Will Ivanovitj. Du m\u00e5ste stanna \u00f6ver natten i mitt hus, s\u00e5 kan vi tala och \u00e4ta tillsammans. Lydia Alexandrovna!\" ropade han.\n\nEn \u00e4ldre kvinna tassade tyst in. Han talade till henne p\u00e5 ryska, varefter hon nickade och tog ett glas och fyllde det med hett te fr\u00e5n samovaren. Hon r\u00e4ckte teglaset till Will, tillsammans med en liten tallrik med sylt och en silversked.\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket\", sa Will.\n\n\"Sylten \u00e4r f\u00f6r att s\u00f6ta teet\", sa pr\u00e4sten. \"Lydia Alexandrovna har gjort den p\u00e5 bl\u00e5b\u00e4r.\"\n\nSylten gjorde att teet inte bara blev bittert utan \u00e4ven kv\u00e4ljande, men Will smuttade \u00e4nd\u00e5 p\u00e5 det. Pr\u00e4sten lutade sig hela tiden fram och tittade n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 honom, och k\u00e4nde p\u00e5 hans h\u00e4nder f\u00f6r att se om han var kall, och smekte hans kn\u00e4n. F\u00f6r att avleda honom fr\u00e5gade Will varf\u00f6r byns byggnader lutade.\n\n\"Det har skett h\u00e4vningar i jorden\", sa pr\u00e4sten. \"Allt f\u00f6ruts\u00e4gs i Johannes uppenbarelser. Floderna rinner bakl\u00e4nges... Den stora floden h\u00e4r i n\u00e4rheten brukade rinna norrut, ut i Polarhavet. Hela v\u00e4gen fr\u00e5n bergen i Centralasien rann den norrut under tusentals \u00e5r, \u00e4nda sedan den Allsm\u00e4ktige Fadern, Guds Auktoritet, skapade v\u00e4rlden. Men sedan f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades allt n\u00e4r marken skalv och dimman och \u00f6versv\u00e4mningen kom, och d\u00e5 rann den stora floden s\u00f6derut under minst en vecka, innan den v\u00e4nde och rann norrut igen. V\u00e4rlden har v\u00e4nts upp och ner. Var var du under den stora jordb\u00e4vningen?\"\n\n\"L\u00e5ngt h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n\", sa Will. \"Jag visste inte vad som h\u00e4nde. N\u00e4r dimman l\u00e4ttade hade jag tappat bort min familj, och nu vet jag inte var jag \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans. Ni sa vad den h\u00e4r byn heter, men var ligger den? Var \u00e4r vi?\"\n\n\"Ta hit den d\u00e4r stora boken p\u00e5 nedersta hyllan\", sa Semyon Borisovitj. \"Jag ska visa dig.\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten drog fram sin stol till bordet och slickade sig p\u00e5 fingret innan han b\u00f6rjade bl\u00e4ddra i den stora kartboken.\n\n\"H\u00e4r\", sa han och pekade med en smutsig nagel p\u00e5 en plats i mellersta Sibirien, l\u00e5ngt \u00f6ster om Uralbergen. Floden i n\u00e4rheten rann, som pr\u00e4sten hade sagt, fr\u00e5n den norra delen av bergen i Tibet hela v\u00e4gen upp till Arktis. Han studerade Himalayabergen noga, men kunde inte se n\u00e5got som liknade den karta som Baruch hade ritat.\n\nSemyon Borisovitj pratade och pratade, och pressade Will p\u00e5 detaljer om hans liv, hans familj, hans hem. Will, som var en tr\u00e4nad f\u00f6rst\u00e4llare, svarade nog s\u00e5 beredvilligt. Till slut kom hush\u00e5llerskan in med r\u00f6dbetssoppa och m\u00f6rkt br\u00f6d, och efter att pr\u00e4sten hade bett en l\u00e5ng bordsb\u00f6n satte de sig till bords.\n\n\"S\u00e5, hur ska vi tillbringa dagen, Will Ivanovitj?\" sa Semyon Borisovitj. \"Ska vi spela kort, eller f\u00f6redrar du att prata?\"\n\nHan slog upp \u00e4nnu ett glas te fr\u00e5n samovaren, och Will tog tveksamt emot det.\n\n\"Jag kan inte spela kort\", sa han, \"och jag \u00e4r angel\u00e4gen om att f\u00e5 forts\u00e4tta resan. Om jag skulle ge mig iv\u00e4g till floden, till exempel, tror ni att jag skulle kunna f\u00f6lja med en \u00e5ngb\u00e5t p\u00e5 v\u00e4g s\u00f6derut?\"\n\nPr\u00e4stens enorma ansikte mulnade, och han gjorde korstecknet med en snabb handr\u00f6relse.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r br\u00e5k i staden\", sa han. \"Lydia Alexandrovna har en syster som kom hit och ber\u00e4ttade att en b\u00e5t med bj\u00f6rnar ombord f\u00e4rdas uppf\u00f6r floden. Pansarbj\u00f6rnar. De kommer fr\u00e5n Arktis. S\u00e5g du n\u00e5gra pansarbj\u00f6rnar uppe i norr?\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten var misst\u00e4nksam, och Balthamos viskade s\u00e5 tyst att bara Will kunde h\u00f6ra det: \"Var f\u00f6rsiktig.\" Will f\u00f6rstod omedelbart varf\u00f6r han hade sagt det; p\u00e5 grund av det Lyra hade ber\u00e4ttat om bj\u00f6rnarna hade hans hj\u00e4rta b\u00f6rjat bulta s\u00e5 snart Semyon Borisovitj n\u00e4mnde dem. Han m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka d\u00f6lja sina k\u00e4nslor.\n\nHan sa: \"Vi var l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n Svalbard, och bj\u00f6rnarna var upptagna av sina egna aff\u00e4rer.\"\n\n\"Ja, det \u00e4r vad jag har h\u00f6rt\", sa pr\u00e4sten till Wills l\u00e4ttnad. \"Men nu l\u00e4mnar de sitt hemland och reser s\u00f6derut. De har en b\u00e5t, och stadens befolkning vill inte l\u00e5ta dem fylla p\u00e5 nytt br\u00e4nsle. De \u00e4r r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnarna. Vilket de borde vara \u2013 de \u00e4r Dj\u00e4vulens avf\u00f6da. Allt som kommer norrifr\u00e5n \u00e4r av Dj\u00e4vulen. Som h\u00e4xorna \u2013 ondskans d\u00f6ttrar! Kyrkan borde ha d\u00f6dat dem allihop f\u00f6r \u00e5ratal sedan. H\u00e4xor \u2013 ha inget med dem att g\u00f6ra, Will Ivanovitj, h\u00f6r du det? Du vet v\u00e4l vad de g\u00f6r n\u00e4r du blir tillr\u00e4ckligt gammal? De kommer att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00f6rf\u00f6ra dig. De kommer att anv\u00e4nda alla sina listiga, bedr\u00e4gliga, mjuka knep, sitt hull, sin mjuka hud, sina vackra r\u00f6ster, och de kommer att ta din s\u00e4d \u2013 du vet vad jag menar \u2013 de kommer att t\u00f6mma dig och l\u00e4mna dig tom! De kommer att ta din framtid, dina barn som ska komma, och inte l\u00e4mna n\u00e5got kvar. De borde d\u00f6das, varenda en.\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten str\u00e4ckte sig mot en hylla bredvid sin stol och tog ner en flaska och tv\u00e5 sm\u00e5 glas.\n\n\"Nu ska jag bjuda dig p\u00e5 n\u00e5got litet att dricka, Will Ivanovitj\", sa han. \"Du \u00e4r ung, s\u00e5 inte s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga glas. Men du v\u00e4xer upp, s\u00e5 du beh\u00f6ver veta en del saker, som hur vodka smakar. Lydia Alexandrovna plockade b\u00e4ren f\u00f6rra \u00e5ret, och jag har destillerat spriten, och h\u00e4r i flaskan \u00e4r resultatet, den enda plats d\u00e4r Otyets Semyon Borisovitj och Lydia Alexandrovna ligger med varandra!\"\n\nSkrattande drog han korken ur flaskan och fyllde b\u00e5da glasen till randen. Den sortens prat fick Will att k\u00e4nna sig oerh\u00f6rt illa till mods. Vad skulle han g\u00f6ra? Hur skulle han tacka nej till spriten utan att vara oartig?\n\n\"Otyets Semyon\", sa han och reste sig upp, \"ni har varit mycket v\u00e4nlig, och jag \u00f6nskar att jag kunde stanna l\u00e4ngre och smaka p\u00e5 er sprit och lyssna n\u00e4r ni ber\u00e4ttar, f\u00f6r det ni har sagt har varit mycket intressant. Men som ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r \u00e4r jag orolig f\u00f6r min familj, och mycket m\u00e5n om att hitta dom igen, s\u00e5 jag tror jag m\u00e5ste forts\u00e4tta, hur g\u00e4rna jag \u00e4n skulle stanna.\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten putade med l\u00e4pparna i sitt vildvuxna sk\u00e4gg och rynkade \u00f6gonbrynen. Men sedan ryckte han p\u00e5 axlarna, och sa: \"N\u00e5ja, g\u00e5 om du m\u00e5ste. Men innan du ger dig av m\u00e5ste du dricka din vodka. St\u00e5 upp med mig nu! Ta den, och svep allt p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng, s\u00e5 h\u00e4r!\"\n\nHan svepte glaset bak\u00e5t och svalde alltihop p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng, och r\u00e4tade sedan p\u00e5 sin massiva kropp och stod mycket n\u00e4ra Will. Glaset han h\u00f6ll fram s\u00e5g mycket litet ut mellan hans tjocka smutsiga fingrar, men det var fyllt till br\u00e4dden med den klara spriten. Will kunde k\u00e4nna dess berusande lukt och stanken fr\u00e5n den unkna svetten och matst\u00e4nken p\u00e5 mannens kaftan, och m\u00e5dde illa redan innan han b\u00f6rjade.\n\n\"Drick upp, Will Ivanovitj!\" utbrast pr\u00e4sten med hotfull hj\u00e4rtlighet.\n\nWill h\u00f6jde glaset och svalde utan att tveka den br\u00e4nnande, oljiga v\u00e4tskan i en enda klunk. Sedan k\u00e4mpade han f\u00f6r att st\u00e5 emot illam\u00e5endet.\n\nEn pr\u00f6vning \u00e5terstod. Den store Semyon Borisovitj lutade sig fram\u00e5t och tog tag om Wills axlar.\n\n\"Min pojke\", sa han, och sedan sl\u00f6t han \u00f6gonen och b\u00f6rjade l\u00e4sa en b\u00f6n eller en psalm. En stark dunst av tobak och alkohol och svett slog ut fr\u00e5n honom, och han stod s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra att hans tjocka sk\u00e4gg, som vippade upp och ner, str\u00f6k Will \u00f6ver ansiktet. Will h\u00f6ll andan.\n\nPr\u00e4stens h\u00e4nder flyttades bakom Wills axlar, och sedan h\u00f6ll Semyon Borisovitj honom t\u00e4tt intill sig i en kram och kysste honom p\u00e5 kinderna, h\u00f6ger, v\u00e4nster, h\u00f6ger igen. Will k\u00e4nde hur Balthamos gr\u00e4vde in sm\u00e5 klor i hans axel, och h\u00f6ll sig stilla. Huvudet snurrade, magen v\u00e4nde sig, men han r\u00f6rde sig inte.\n\nTill slut var det \u00f6ver, och pr\u00e4sten tog ett steg tillbaka och st\u00f6tte bort honom.\n\n\"G\u00e5 d\u00e5\", sa han, \"g\u00e5 s\u00f6derut, Will Ivanovitj. G\u00e5.\"\n\nWill tog sin mantel och ryggs\u00e4cken och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte g\u00e5 rakt d\u00e5 han l\u00e4mnade pr\u00e4stens hus och tog v\u00e4gen som ledde ut ur byn.\n\nHan vandrade i tv\u00e5 timmar och k\u00e4nde hur illam\u00e5endet l\u00e5ngsamt avtog och ersattes av en smygande, dunkande huvudv\u00e4rk. Vid ett tillf\u00e4lle stannade Balthamos honom, och lade sina svala h\u00e4nder p\u00e5 Wills nacke och panna, varefter sm\u00e4rtan avtog n\u00e5got. Will lovade sig sj\u00e4lv att aldrig n\u00e5gonsin dricka vodka igen.\n\nSent p\u00e5 eftermiddagen breddades stigen och letade sig ut ur vassruggarna, s\u00e5 Will kunde se staden framf\u00f6r sig, och bortom den s\u00e5 mycket vatten att det lika g\u00e4rna kunde ha varit havet.\n\nRedan p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd kunde Will se att det var br\u00e5k p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng. R\u00f6kpuffar steg upp bakom husen och f\u00f6ljdes efter n\u00e5gra sekunder av d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n en kanon.\n\n\"Balthamos\", sa han, \"du m\u00e5ste bli en d\u00e6mon igen. H\u00e5ll dig i n\u00e4rheten bara, och var uppm\u00e4rksam p\u00e5 alla faror.\"\n\nHan gick in i den el\u00e4ndiga lilla stadens utkant, d\u00e4r byggnaderna lutade \u00e4nnu v\u00e4rre \u00e4n i byn och d\u00e4r \u00f6versv\u00e4mningen l\u00e4mnat lerfl\u00e4ckar p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r Wills huvud. Stadens utkant var \u00f6vergiven, men medan han tog sig n\u00e4rmare floden blev ljudet av kanonen, ropen, skriken och gev\u00e4rsskotten h\u00f6gre och h\u00f6gre.\n\nOch h\u00e4r fanns till slut m\u00e4nniskor. N\u00e5gra satt som \u00e5sk\u00e5dare i f\u00f6nster p\u00e5 \u00f6verv\u00e5ningarna, andra kikade nerv\u00f6st fram runt husknutarna och tittade ner mot floden, d\u00e4r kranarnas och lastbommarnas och fartygsmasternas metallfingrar reste sig \u00f6ver hustaken.\n\nEn explosion skakade v\u00e4ggarna och glaset f\u00f6ll ur f\u00f6nsterb\u00e5garna i ett f\u00f6nster i n\u00e4rheten. Folk drog sig tillbaka och tittade sedan ut igen, och fler rop h\u00f6jdes i den r\u00f6kfyllda luften.\n\nWill n\u00e5dde fram till gath\u00f6rnet och spanade utefter hamnen. N\u00e4r r\u00f6ken och dammet hade lagt sig n\u00e5got s\u00e5g han ett rostigt fartyg ett stycke ut i floden, och det h\u00f6ll sig p\u00e5 plats trots str\u00f6mmen, och p\u00e5 kajen stod en folkhop bev\u00e4pnad med gev\u00e4r eller pistoler. Folkhopen var samlad runt en stor kanon, som avfyrades p\u00e5 nytt medan han s\u00e5g p\u00e5. En eldstunga, en omskakande rekyl, och s\u00e5 ett m\u00e4ktigt plask bredvid fartyget.\n\nWill skuggade \u00f6gonen med handen. Det var folk p\u00e5 b\u00e5ten, men... Han gnuggade \u00f6gonen, trots att han visste vad som v\u00e4ntade \u2013 de var inte m\u00e4nniskor. Det var enorma metallvarelser, eller s\u00e5 bar de tung rustning. P\u00e5 fartygets f\u00f6rd\u00e4ck slog pl\u00f6tsligt en lysande eldsblomma ut och folket skrek av r\u00e4dsla. Elden fl\u00f6g genom luften, steg h\u00f6gre och kom allt n\u00e4rmare och spred gnistor och r\u00f6k omkring sig, och f\u00f6ll sedan i en kaskad av l\u00e5gor i n\u00e4rheten av kanonen. M\u00e4nnen skrek och skingrades, n\u00e5gra sprang brinnande till kajkanten och hoppade i och sveptes sedan bortom synh\u00e5ll av str\u00f6mmen.\n\nWill s\u00e5g en man i n\u00e4rheten, som s\u00e5g ut som en l\u00e4rare, och fr\u00e5gade:\n\n\"Talar du engelska?\"\n\n\"Ja, ja visst...\"\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder?\"\n\n\"Bj\u00f6rnarna, de anfaller, och vi f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker bek\u00e4mpa dem, men det \u00e4r sv\u00e5rt, vi har bara en kanon, och...\"\n\nEldkastaren p\u00e5 b\u00e5ten slungade iv\u00e4g \u00e4nnu en omg\u00e5ng brinnande tj\u00e4ra, och denna g\u00e5ng tr\u00e4ffade man \u00e4nnu n\u00e4rmare kanonen. Tre stora explosioner precis efter\u00e5t avsl\u00f6jade att det hade blivit en tr\u00e4ff p\u00e5 ammunitionen. Skyttarna kastade sig d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n och l\u00e4t kanonr\u00f6ret sjunka.\n\n\"\u00c5h\", klagade mannen, \"det tj\u00e4nar ingenting till, de kan inte skjuta l\u00e4ngre...\"\n\nKaptenen v\u00e4nde f\u00f6ren mot land och man\u00f6vrerade fartyget n\u00e4rmare. M\u00e5nga m\u00e4nniskor skrek av r\u00e4dsla och f\u00f6rtvivlan, framf\u00f6r allt n\u00e4r \u00e4nnu ett eldklot flammade upp p\u00e5 f\u00f6rd\u00e4cket. N\u00e5gra av de gev\u00e4rsbev\u00e4pnade sk\u00f6t ett eller ett par skott och v\u00e4nde sedan p\u00e5 klacken och flydde. Men den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen l\u00e4t bj\u00f6rnarna bli att avlossa elden och fartyget r\u00f6rde sig snart med bredsidan f\u00f6rst mot kajen, medan motorn arbetade h\u00e5rt f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla det mot str\u00f6mmen.\n\nTv\u00e5 sj\u00f6m\u00e4n, (m\u00e4nskliga, inte bj\u00f6rnar) hoppade ner f\u00f6r att sl\u00e5 rep runt pollarna, och fr\u00e5n stadsbefolkningen h\u00f6rdes arga utrop riktade mot dessa m\u00e4nskliga f\u00f6rr\u00e4dare. Sj\u00f6m\u00e4nnen brydde sig inte om den saken, utan skyndade sig att l\u00e4gga ut landg\u00e5ngen.\n\nN\u00e4r de sedan v\u00e4nde sig om f\u00f6r att g\u00e5 ombord igen kom ett skott fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gonstans n\u00e4ra Will, och en av sj\u00f6m\u00e4nnen f\u00f6ll. Hans d\u00e6mon \u2013 en fiskm\u00e5s \u2013 f\u00f6rsvann likt en utbl\u00e5st ljusl\u00e5ga.\n\nBj\u00f6rnarna blev rasande. Eldkastaren t\u00e4ndes omedelbart och drogs runt s\u00e5 att den riktades mot strandsidan, och elden sk\u00f6t upp och f\u00f6ll sedan som en kaskad \u00f6ver hustaken. Och vid landg\u00e5ngens \u00e4nde d\u00f6k en bj\u00f6rn upp. Den var st\u00f6rre \u00e4n de \u00f6vriga, en m\u00e4ktig, metallkl\u00e4dd uppenbarelse, och kulorna som regnade \u00f6ver honom ven och klingade och studsade gagnl\u00f6st, och lyckades inte g\u00f6ra minsta buckla i det massiva pansaret.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r anfaller dom staden?\" fr\u00e5gade Will mannen han hade bredvid sig.\n\n\"Dom vill ha br\u00e4nsle. Men vi handlar inte med bj\u00f6rnar. Vem vet vad dom kan ta sig f\u00f6r nu n\u00e4r dom har l\u00e4mnat sitt kungarike och seglat upp l\u00e4ngs floden? S\u00e5 vi m\u00e5ste bek\u00e4mpa dem. Pirater... r\u00f6vare...\"\n\nDen stora bj\u00f6rnen hade g\u00e5tt ner f\u00f6r landg\u00e5ngen och bakom honom stod flera andra samlade, s\u00e5 tunga att skeppet lutade. Will s\u00e5g att m\u00e4nnen p\u00e5 kajen hade g\u00e5tt tillbaka till kanonen och h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att ladda \u00e4nnu en granat.\n\nHan fick en id\u00e9, s\u00e5 han sprang ut p\u00e5 kajen, rakt ut p\u00e5 den \u00f6ppna platsen mellan skyttarna och bj\u00f6rnen.\n\n\"Sluta!\" ropade han. \"Sluta sl\u00e5ss. L\u00e5t mig prata med bj\u00f6rnen!\"\n\nDet blev pl\u00f6tsligt tyst och alla stod stilla, f\u00f6rbluffade \u00f6ver det vansinniga beteendet. Bj\u00f6rnen sj\u00e4lv, som hade samlat sig f\u00f6r att anfalla kanonbes\u00e4ttningen, stod kvar d\u00e4r han var, men hela hans kropp darrade av stridslystnad. De v\u00e4ldiga klorna gr\u00e4vde i marken, och de svarta \u00f6gonen brann av ursinne under j\u00e4rnhj\u00e4lmen.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r du f\u00f6r n\u00e5got? Vad vill du?\" r\u00f6t han p\u00e5 engelska, eftersom Will hade anv\u00e4nt det spr\u00e5ket.\n\nFolket som stod runt om s\u00e5g f\u00f6rvirrat p\u00e5 varandra, och de som kunde spr\u00e5ket \u00f6versatte \u00e5t resten.\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nker k\u00e4mpa mot dig i envig\", ropade Will, \"och om du ger dig m\u00e5ste det h\u00e4r br\u00e5ket upph\u00f6ra.\"\n\nBj\u00f6rnen r\u00f6rde sig inte. S\u00e5 fort folket f\u00f6rstod vad Will hade sagt b\u00f6rjade de ropa och skr\u00e4na och skratta h\u00e5nfullt. Men inte l\u00e4nge, f\u00f6r Will v\u00e4nde sig mot folkmassan och stod d\u00e4r med kylig blick, beh\u00e4rskad och helt stilla tills skrattet hade upph\u00f6rt. Han kunde k\u00e4nna hur Balthamos darrade p\u00e5 hans axel i koltrastskepnad.\n\nN\u00e4r folket hade tystnat ropade han: \"Om jag f\u00e5r bj\u00f6rnen att ge sig m\u00e5ste ni g\u00e5 med p\u00e5 att s\u00e4lja br\u00e4nsle till dom. D\u00e5 kommer dom att forts\u00e4tta l\u00e4ngs floden och l\u00e4mna er i fred. Ni m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 med p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r. Om ni inte g\u00f6r det kommer dom att f\u00f6rg\u00f6ra er allihop.\"\n\nHan visste att den enorma bj\u00f6rnen stod bara n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 meter bakom honom, men l\u00e4t bli att v\u00e4nda sig om. Han s\u00e5g hur stadsbefolkningen talade med varandra, hur de gestikulerade och gr\u00e4lade, men efter n\u00e5gon minut h\u00f6rdes en r\u00f6st ropa: \"Pojk! F\u00e5 bj\u00f6rnen att g\u00e5 med p\u00e5 det!\"\n\nWill v\u00e4nde sig om. Han svalde h\u00e5rt, drog ett djupt andetag och ropade:\n\n\"Bj\u00f6rn! Du m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 med p\u00e5 det! Om du ger dig f\u00f6r mig m\u00e5ste br\u00e5ket sluta och ni kan k\u00f6pa br\u00e4nsle och forts\u00e4tta i fred l\u00e4ngs floden.\"\n\n\"Om\u00f6jligt\", r\u00f6t bj\u00f6rnen. \"Det vore nesligt att sl\u00e5ss mot dig. Du \u00e4r svag som ett ostron utan skal. Jag kan inte sl\u00e5ss mot dig.\"\n\n\"Jag h\u00e5ller med\", sa Will, och vartenda sp\u00e5r av hans uppm\u00e4rksamhet var nu koncentrerat p\u00e5 den v\u00e4ldiga vildsinta varelsen framf\u00f6r honom. \"Det \u00e4r inte alls en r\u00e4ttvis kamp. Du har all den d\u00e4r rustningen, och jag har ingenting. Du kan slita huvudet av mig med ett svep av din ram. Vi g\u00f6r det mer r\u00e4ttvist. Ge mig en del av din rustning, vilken del som helst. Din hj\u00e4lm, till exempel. D\u00e5 blir det j\u00e4mnare och d\u00e5 vore det inte l\u00e4ngre nesligt att sl\u00e5ss mot mig.\"\n\nMed ett morrande som uttryckte hat, vrede och f\u00f6rakt, str\u00e4ckte bj\u00f6rnen upp en enorm klo och hakade loss kedjan som h\u00f6ll hj\u00e4lmen p\u00e5 plats.\n\nNu h\u00e4rskade en djup tystnad \u00f6ver hela hamnen. Ingen sa n\u00e5got \u2013 ingen r\u00f6rde sig. Alla f\u00f6rstod att n\u00e5gonting de aldrig tidigare varit med om h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda, med de f\u00f6rstod inte vad det var. Det enda ljud som h\u00f6rdes var plasket fr\u00e5n floden n\u00e4r vattnet slog mot tr\u00e4p\u00e5larna, mullret fr\u00e5n fartygsmotorn och fiskm\u00e5sarnas rastl\u00f6sa skrin fr\u00e5n luften. Sedan h\u00f6rdes den h\u00f6ga klangen d\u00e5 bj\u00f6rnen slungade hj\u00e4lmen i backen framf\u00f6r Wills f\u00f6tter.\n\nWill lade ifr\u00e5n sig ryggs\u00e4cken och v\u00e4lte upp hj\u00e4lmen p\u00e5 h\u00f6gkant. Han kunde knappt lyfta den. Den bestod av ett enda stort stycke j\u00e4rn, m\u00f6rkt och buckligt, med \u00f6gonh\u00e5l h\u00f6gst upp, och en tung kedja nertill. Hj\u00e4lmen var lika l\u00e5ng som Wills underarm, och pl\u00e5ten var lika tjock som hans tumme.\n\n\"S\u00e5 det h\u00e4r \u00e4r din rustning\", sa han. \"Jag tycker inte den ser s\u00e4rskilt stark ut. Jag vet inte om jag litar p\u00e5 den. F\u00e5 se.\"\n\nS\u00e5 tog han kniven fr\u00e5n ryggs\u00e4cken och lade eggen mot hj\u00e4lmens framsida, och skar av ett h\u00f6rn som om han hade skurit i sm\u00f6r.\n\n\"Det var det jag trodde\", sa han och skar av en bit till, och en till, och p\u00e5 mindre \u00e4n en minut hade han f\u00f6rvandlat det v\u00e4ldiga f\u00f6rem\u00e5let till en h\u00f6g pl\u00e5tremsor. Han r\u00e4tade p\u00e5 sig och h\u00f6ll fram en handfull av dem.\n\n\"Det var din rustning\", sa han, och sl\u00e4ppte skramlande bitarna p\u00e5 resten, som l\u00e5gt runt hans f\u00f6tter, \"och det h\u00e4r \u00e4r min kniv. Och eftersom din hj\u00e4lm inte d\u00f6g \u00e5t mig f\u00e5r jag sl\u00e5ss utan den. \u00c4r du redo, bj\u00f6rn? Jag tror nog att vi \u00e4r j\u00e4mna. Jag kan ju faktiskt sk\u00e4ra av dig huvudet med ett enda svep av min kniv.\"\n\nTotal stillhet. Bj\u00f6rnens svarta \u00f6gon gl\u00f6dde som beck, och Will k\u00e4nde hur en svettdroppe rann ner f\u00f6r ryggraden.\n\nSedan r\u00f6rde bj\u00f6rnen p\u00e5 huvudet. Han skakade det och tog ett steg bak\u00e5t.\n\n\"F\u00f6r starkt vapen\", sa han. \"Jag kan inte sl\u00e5ss mot det. Du vinner, pojk.\"\n\nWill visste att folket skulle b\u00f6rja jubla och skratta och vissla bara n\u00e5gon sekund senare, s\u00e5 innan bj\u00f6rnen ens hunnit avsluta ordet \"vinner\" hade Will, f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla dem lugna, v\u00e4nt sig om och b\u00f6rjat ropa:\n\n\"Nu m\u00e5ste ni h\u00e5lla er del av avtalet. Ta hand om era s\u00e5rade och b\u00f6rja reparera husen. L\u00e5t sedan fartyget f\u00f6rt\u00f6ja och fylla p\u00e5 br\u00e4nsle.\"\n\nHan f\u00f6rstod att det skulle ta n\u00e5gon minut att \u00f6vers\u00e4tta och sprida meddelandet till alla de stadsbor som sett p\u00e5, och han f\u00f6rstod ocks\u00e5 att pausen skulle hindra deras l\u00e4ttnad och ilska fr\u00e5n att krevera, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som ett n\u00e4t av sandbankar hejdar och bryter upp en flod. Bj\u00f6rnen betraktade honom och s\u00e5g vad han gjorde och f\u00f6rstod varf\u00f6r, och f\u00f6rstod b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n Will sj\u00e4lv gjorde vad pojken hade uppn\u00e5tt.\n\nWill lade tillbaka kniven i ryggs\u00e4cken, varefter han och bj\u00f6rnen \u00e5terigen utbytte blickar, men den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen var det en annan sorts blick. De n\u00e4rmade sig varandra, och bakom dem b\u00f6rjade bj\u00f6rnarna plocka ner sin eldkastare. De tv\u00e5 andra skeppen styrde mot kajkanten.\n\nP\u00e5 kajen b\u00f6rjade en del m\u00e4nniskor att st\u00e4da upp, men m\u00e5nga fler samlades runt Will eftersom de var nyfikna p\u00e5 pojken som kunde kommendera en bj\u00f6rn. Det var dags f\u00f6r Will att bli oansenlig igen, s\u00e5 han utf\u00f6rde den magi som hade avv\u00e4rjt alla m\u00f6jliga slag av nyfikenhet riktad mot hans mamma och som hade h\u00e5llit dem trygga under flera \u00e5r. Det var naturligtvis inte magi, utan helt enkelt ett s\u00e4tt att bete sig. Han gjorde sig tyst och matt och tr\u00f6g, och p\u00e5 mindre \u00e4n en minut hade han blivit mindre intressant, mindre ben\u00e4gen att dra till sig m\u00e4nniskors uppm\u00e4rksamhet. Folk tr\u00f6ttnade helt enkelt p\u00e5 den tr\u00f6ga ungen, gl\u00f6mde honom och v\u00e4nde sig bort.\n\nMen bj\u00f6rnens uppm\u00e4rksamhet var inte m\u00e4nsklig, s\u00e5 han kunde se vad som h\u00e4nde och f\u00f6rstod att det helt enkelt var \u00e4nnu en av Wills extraordin\u00e4ra f\u00f6rm\u00e5gor. Han gick n\u00e4rmare och tilltalade honom l\u00e5gm\u00e4lt, med en r\u00f6st som tycktes vibrera lika djupt som skeppsmotorn.\n\n\"Vad heter du?\" sa han.\n\n\"Will Parry. Kan du g\u00f6ra en ny hj\u00e4lm?\"\n\n\"Ja. Vad \u00e4r du ute efter?\"\n\n\"Ni \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g uppf\u00f6r floden. Jag vill f\u00f6lja med er. Jag \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot bergen, och det h\u00e4r \u00e4r den snabbaste v\u00e4gen. Vill ni ta mig med?\"\n\n\"Ja. Jag vill titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r kniven.\"\n\n\"Jag visar den bara f\u00f6r en bj\u00f6rn jag kan lita p\u00e5. Jag har h\u00f6rt talas om en p\u00e5litlig bj\u00f6rn. Han \u00e4r bj\u00f6rnarnas kung och god v\u00e4n till flickan jag \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till bergen f\u00f6r att hitta. Hon heter Lyra Silvertunga. Bj\u00f6rnen heter Iorek Byrnison.\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r Iorek Byrnison\", sa bj\u00f6rnen.\n\n\"Det vet jag\", sa Will.\n\nB\u00e5ten lastade ombord br\u00e4nslet; kolk\u00e4rrorna drogs fram l\u00e4ngs b\u00e5tsidan och tippades s\u00e5 att kolet kunde dundra ner f\u00f6r r\u00e4nnorna till lastrummet, och det svarta dammet steg h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r dem. Utan att stadsborna lade m\u00e4rke till det, f\u00f6r de var f\u00f6r upptagna med att sopa upp glaset och pruta p\u00e5 priset f\u00f6r br\u00e4nslet, f\u00f6ljde Will bj\u00f6rnkungen uppf\u00f6r landg\u00e5ngen och gick ombord p\u00e5 skeppet.\n\n## 9\n\n## Uppstr\u00f6ms\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 EN SL\u00d6JA \u00d6VER SINNET DRAR, SOM N\u00c4R VID MIDDAGSTID ETT MOLN F\u00d6RDUNKLAR SOLEN \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nEMILY DICKINSON\n\n\"L\u00c5T MIG F\u00c5 se p\u00e5 kniven\", sa Iorek Byrnison. \"Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r mig p\u00e5 metall. Ingenting som \u00e4r gjort av j\u00e4rn eller st\u00e5l \u00e4r ett mysterium f\u00f6r en bj\u00f6rn. Men jag har aldrig sett en kniv som liknar din, s\u00e5 jag tittar g\u00e4rna n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 den.\"\n\nWill och bj\u00f6rnkungen stod p\u00e5 flod\u00e5ngarens f\u00f6rd\u00e4ck i den nedg\u00e5ende solens varma str\u00e5lar. Fartyget tog sig snabbt upp l\u00e4ngs floden, de hade gott om br\u00e4nsle, det fanns mat Will kunde \u00e4ta, och han och Iorek Byrnison tog sig en andra titt p\u00e5 varandra. Den f\u00f6rsta hade de redan klarat av.\n\nWill r\u00e4ckte fram kniven mot Iorek med handtaget f\u00f6rst, och bj\u00f6rnen tog den f\u00f6rsiktigt fr\u00e5n honom. Hans tumklo var motst\u00e5ende mot de fyra fingerklorna, vilket gjorde att han kunde hantera f\u00f6rem\u00e5l lika skickligt som en m\u00e4nniska, och nu v\u00e4nde han kniven \u00e4n \u00e5t ena och \u00e4n \u00e5t andra h\u00e5llet, f\u00f6rde den n\u00e4ra \u00f6gonen, h\u00f6ll upp den mot ljuset och provade eggen \u2013 st\u00e5leggen \u2013 p\u00e5 ett stycke j\u00e4rn.\n\n\"Det var den h\u00e4r eggen som du skar s\u00f6nder min rustning med\", sa han. \"Den andra \u00e4r mycket underlig. Jag kan inte s\u00e4ga vad den \u00e4r, vad den g\u00f6r, hur den \u00e4r tillverkad. Men jag vill f\u00f6rst\u00e5 den. Hur kom kniven i din \u00e4go?\"\n\nWill ber\u00e4ttade det mesta om vad som hade h\u00e4nt, men utel\u00e4mnade s\u00e5dant som bara ber\u00f6rde honom sj\u00e4lv: hans mamma, mannen han d\u00f6dat, hans far.\n\n\"Du stred om den h\u00e4r och f\u00f6rlorade tv\u00e5 fingrar?\" sa bj\u00f6rnen. \"Visa mig s\u00e5ret.\"\n\nWill h\u00f6ll fram handen. Tack vare hans fars salva l\u00e4kte nu de \u00f6ppna s\u00e5ren v\u00e4l, men de var fortfarande mycket \u00f6mma. Bj\u00f6rnen luktade p\u00e5 dem.\n\n\"Blodmossa\", sa han. \"Och n\u00e5got annat som jag inte k\u00e4nner igen. Vem gav dig det?\"\n\n\"En man som ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r mig vad jag ska g\u00f6ra med kniven. Sen dog han. Han hade lite salva i ett skrin av horn, och det fick s\u00e5ret att l\u00e4ka. H\u00e4xorna f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte, men deras besv\u00e4rjelse fungerade inte.\"\n\n\"Och vad sa han \u00e5t dig att g\u00f6ra med kniven?\" sa Iorek Byrnison, och l\u00e4mnade f\u00f6rsiktigt tillbaka den till Will.\n\n\"Anv\u00e4nda den i kriget p\u00e5 lord Asriels sida\", svarade Will. \"Men f\u00f6rst m\u00e5ste jag r\u00e4dda Lyra Silvertunga.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 ska vi hj\u00e4lpa dig\", sa bj\u00f6rnen, och Wills hj\u00e4rta tog ett spr\u00e5ng av gl\u00e4dje.\n\nUnder de f\u00f6ljande dagarna fick Will veta varf\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnarna f\u00f6retog denna resa till Centralasien, l\u00e5ngt bort fr\u00e5n deras hemland.\n\nEfter katastrofen som hade \u00f6ppnat v\u00e4rldarna hade den arktiska isen b\u00f6rjat sm\u00e4lta, och nya och underliga str\u00f6mmar hade dykt upp i vattnet. Bj\u00f6rnarna var beroende av isen och av djuren som levde i det kalla havet och ins\u00e5g att de skulle sv\u00e4lta om de stannade d\u00e4r de var. Eftersom de var rationella varelser gjorde de upp en handlingsplan. De skulle bli tvungna att flytta till n\u00e5got st\u00e4lle d\u00e4r det fanns gott om sn\u00f6 och is: de skulle flytta till de h\u00f6gsta bergen, till bergskedjan som r\u00f6rde vid himlen. Den l\u00e5g en halv v\u00e4rld bort, men var orubblig, evig, t\u00e4ckt av djup sn\u00f6. Fr\u00e5n att ha varit bj\u00f6rnar vid havet skulle de bli bj\u00f6rnar i bergen, s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge som det tog f\u00f6r v\u00e4rldarna att sl\u00e5 sig till ro igen.\n\n\"S\u00e5 ni f\u00f6r inte krig?\" sa Will.\n\n\"V\u00e5ra gamla fiender f\u00f6rsvann med s\u00e4larna och valrossarna. Om vi m\u00f6ter nya fiender vet vi hur man sl\u00e5ss.\"\n\n\"Jag trodde att ett stort krig var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g, som skulle ber\u00f6ra alla. Vilken sida skulle ni sl\u00e5ss p\u00e5 i s\u00e5 fall?\"\n\n\"Den sida som bj\u00f6rnarna tj\u00e4nar p\u00e5. Vad annars? Men jag har viss respekt f\u00f6r n\u00e5gra som inte \u00e4r bj\u00f6rnar. En var en man som fl\u00f6g en ballong. Han \u00e4r d\u00f6d. En annan \u00e4r h\u00e4xan Serafina Pekkala. Den tredje \u00e4r flickan Lyra Silvertunga. S\u00e5 i f\u00f6rsta hand skulle jag g\u00f6ra det som gynnar bj\u00f6rnarna, i andra hand det som gynnar flickan, eller h\u00e4xan, eller det som ger mig h\u00e4mnd f\u00f6r min d\u00f6da kamrat Lee Scoresby. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag t\u00e4nker hj\u00e4lpa dig att r\u00e4dda Lyra Silvertunga fr\u00e5n den d\u00e4r avskyv\u00e4rda kvinnan Coulter.\"\n\nHan ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r Will om hur han och n\u00e5gra av hans unders\u00e5tar hade simmat till flodmynningen och betalat f\u00f6r fartyget med guld, och hur de hade lejt bes\u00e4ttningen och v\u00e4nt t\u00f6mningen av Arktis till sin egen f\u00f6rdel genom att l\u00e5ta floden f\u00f6ra dem s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt in\u00e5t land som m\u00f6jligt \u2013 och i och med att floden hade sin k\u00e4lla i de norra utl\u00f6parna av de berg de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot, och i och med att Lyra satt f\u00e4ngslad i just de bergen, s\u00e5 hade ju allting g\u00e5tt dem v\u00e4l s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt.\n\nOch tiden gick.\n\nUnder dagen d\u00e5sade Will p\u00e5 d\u00e4ck, vilade sig och samlade krafter, f\u00f6r han var helt utmattad. Han s\u00e5g hur landskapet f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades och hur den b\u00f6ljande st\u00e4ppen \u00f6vergick i l\u00e5ga gr\u00e4sbevuxna kullar och sedan i h\u00f6gre mark, med n\u00e5gon ravin eller klyfta h\u00e4r och var. Fartyget \u00e5ngade vidare s\u00f6derut.\n\nAv ren artighet pratade han med kaptenen och bes\u00e4ttningen, men han saknade Lyras \u00f6ppna s\u00e4tt med fr\u00e4mlingar och hade sv\u00e5rt att komma p\u00e5 n\u00e5got att s\u00e4ga. De var hur som helst inte s\u00e5 intresserade av honom. Det h\u00e4r var bara ett jobb och n\u00e4r det var \u00f6ver skulle de ge sig av utan att se sig om, och dessutom gillade de inte bj\u00f6rnarna s\u00e4rskilt mycket, trots deras guld. Will var utl\u00e4nning, och s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge han betalade f\u00f6r maten struntade de i vad han sysslade med. Sedan var det ocks\u00e5 hans underliga d\u00e6mon, som var s\u00e5 lik en h\u00e4xas: ibland var den d\u00e4r, men ibland tycktes den ha f\u00f6rsvunnit. De var vidskepliga, likt m\u00e5nga andra sj\u00f6m\u00e4n, och fullt n\u00f6jda med att l\u00e4mna honom i fred.\n\nBalthamos, \u00e5 sin sida, h\u00f6ll sig ocks\u00e5 tyst. Ibland blev hans sorg en alltf\u00f6r tung b\u00f6rda, och d\u00e5 l\u00e4mnade han b\u00e5ten och fl\u00f6g upp h\u00f6gt ovan molnen, och letade efter n\u00e5gon ljusfl\u00e4ck eller smak i luften, n\u00e5gon fallande stj\u00e4rna eller n\u00e5gon tryckf\u00f6r\u00e4ndring, som kunde p\u00e5minna honom om upplevelser han haft tillsammans med Baruch. N\u00e4r han talade, om natten i m\u00f6rkret i den lilla hytten Will sov i var det bara f\u00f6r att rapportera hur l\u00e5ngt de hade kommit och hur l\u00e5ngt det var till grottan och dalen. Kanske trodde han att Will inte hade mycket medk\u00e4nsla, men hade han letat efter den skulle han ha funnit m\u00e4ngder. Han blev allt kyligare och formellare, om \u00e4n aldrig sarkastisk; det l\u00f6ftet h\u00f6ll han \u00e5tminstone.\n\nIorek, \u00e5 sin sida, unders\u00f6kte kniven som om han vore besatt. Han kunde titta p\u00e5 den i timmar \u00e5t g\u00e5ngen, han provade b\u00e5da eggarna, b\u00f6jde den, h\u00f6ll upp den mot ljuset, r\u00f6rde vid den med tungan, luktade p\u00e5 den, och lyssnade till och med till ljudet luften gav ifr\u00e5n sig d\u00e5 den gled \u00f6ver ytan. Will var inte orolig f\u00f6r kniven, f\u00f6r Iorek var uppenbarligen en ytterst skicklig hantverkare; inte heller var han orolig f\u00f6r Iorek sj\u00e4lv, eftersom ramarna r\u00f6rde sig s\u00e5 s\u00e4kert och elegant.\n\nSlutligen gick Iorek iv\u00e4g till Will och sa: \"Den h\u00e4r andra eggen. Den g\u00f6r n\u00e5got du inte har ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r mig om. Vad \u00e4r det, och hur fungerar den?\"\n\n\"Jag kan inte visa dig det h\u00e4r\", sa Will, \"eftersom b\u00e5ten \u00e4r i r\u00f6relse. S\u00e5 snart vi har stannat ska jag visa dig.\"\n\n\"Jag kan t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 det\", sa bj\u00f6rnen, \"men jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r inte vad det \u00e4r jag t\u00e4nker. Det \u00e4r det underligaste jag n\u00e5gonsin har sett.\"\n\nHan gav tillbaka kniven med en l\u00e5ng och outgrundlig blick ur de djupa svarta \u00f6gonen. Den oroade Will.\n\nVid det h\u00e4r laget hade floden \u00e4ndrat f\u00e4rg, f\u00f6r den m\u00f6tte resterna av den f\u00f6rsta flodv\u00e5gen, som hade svept ner fr\u00e5n Arktis. Will kunde se att katastrofen hade p\u00e5verkat jorden olika p\u00e5 olika platser. By efter by hade vatten upp till taken, och hundratals heml\u00f6sa m\u00e4nniskor f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte r\u00e4dda vad de kunde med hj\u00e4lp av kanoter och roddb\u00e5tar. H\u00e4r m\u00e5ste marken ha sjunkit n\u00e5got, f\u00f6r floden blev bredare och l\u00e5ngsammare, och kaptenen hade sv\u00e5rt att hitta r\u00e4tt kurs genom de stora och oroliga str\u00f6mmarna. Luften var varmare och solen stod h\u00f6gre p\u00e5 himlen, s\u00e5 bj\u00f6rnarna hade sv\u00e5rt att h\u00e5lla sig svala. N\u00e5gra av dem simmade bredvid \u00e5ngaren medan den letade sig fram\u00e5t, och smakade p\u00e5 sitt hemlands vatten i detta fr\u00e4mmande land.\n\nMen slutligen smalnade och djupnade floden igen, och snart reste sig den v\u00e4ldiga Centralasiatiska bergsplat\u00e5n framf\u00f6r dem. En dag s\u00e5g Will en vit rand vid horisonten och den v\u00e4xte medan han s\u00e5g p\u00e5 och delade sig i toppar och kammar, med pass mellan dem, s\u00e5 h\u00f6ga att det tycktes som om de m\u00e5ste vara helt n\u00e4ra \u2013 bara n\u00e5gra kilometer bort \u2013 men de var fortfarande v\u00e4ldigt avl\u00e4gsna. Bergen var ofantliga, och f\u00f6r varje timme de kom n\u00e4rmare verkade de \u00e4n mer ofattbart h\u00f6ga.\n\nDe flesta av bj\u00f6rnarna hade aldrig f\u00f6rr sett berg, bortsett fr\u00e5n klipporna p\u00e5 den egna \u00f6n Svalbard, och n\u00e4r de tittade upp mot de j\u00e4ttelika b\u00e5lverken, fortfarande s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt borta, blev de alldeles tysta.\n\n\"Vad ska vi jaga h\u00e4r, Iorek Byrnison?\" fr\u00e5gade en av dem. \"Finns det s\u00e4l i bergen? Hur ska vi leva?\"\n\n\"D\u00e4r finns det sn\u00f6 och is\", svarade kungen. \"Det passar oss bra. Och det finns gott om vilda varelser. Under ett litet tag kommer v\u00e5ra liv att vara annorlunda. Men vi kommer att \u00f6verleva och n\u00e4r saker och ting \u00e5terigen \u00e4r som de ska vara, och Arktis fryser till igen, s\u00e5 kommer vi fortfarande att vara vid liv och kan resa hem och ta tillbaka det. Hade vi stannat kvar hade vi svultit. G\u00f6r er redo f\u00f6r underliga ting och nya vanor, mina bj\u00f6rnar.\"\n\nTill slut kunde \u00e5ngaren inte komma l\u00e4ngre, f\u00f6r floden smalnade och blev grund. Skepparen stannade fartyget vid en dalbotten som normalt skulle ha varit t\u00e4ckt av gr\u00e4s och bergsblommor, och d\u00e4r floden ringlade sig fram \u00f6ver grus. Men nu var dalen en sj\u00f6, och skepparen menade att han inte v\u00e5gade forts\u00e4tta l\u00e4ngre, f\u00f6r bortom den h\u00e4r platsen skulle det inte vara djupt nog, trots den stora flodv\u00e5gen fr\u00e5n norr.\n\nS\u00e5 man styrde fartyget till dalsidan, d\u00e4r ett klipputspr\u00e5ng \u00e5stadkom en sorts brygga, och gick iland.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r vi nu?\" sa Will till kaptenen, vars engelska var begr\u00e4nsad.\n\nKaptenen tog fram en sliten gammal karta och pekade p\u00e5 den med sin pipa och sa: \"Den h\u00e4r dalen, vi nu. Ta den, var s\u00e5 god.\"\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket\", sa Will, och undrade om han borde erbjuda sig att betala f\u00f6r den, men kaptenen hade redan v\u00e4nt sig om f\u00f6r att \u00f6vervaka lossningen.\n\nInom kort stod alla de omkring trettio bj\u00f6rnarna och deras rustningar p\u00e5 den smala stranden. Kaptenen r\u00f6t ut en order och fartyget b\u00f6rjade v\u00e4nda sig tr\u00f6gt mot str\u00f6mmen och man\u00f6vrerade sig ut till mitten av str\u00f6mf\u00e5ran, och sedan gav \u00e5ngvisslan ifr\u00e5n sig ett tjut som ekade l\u00e4nge i dalen.\n\nWill satt p\u00e5 en sten och studerade kartan. Om han hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt \u00e4ngeln r\u00e4tt l\u00e5g dalen, d\u00e4r Lyra h\u00f6lls f\u00e5ngen, ett stycke s\u00f6derut och \u00f6sterut, och b\u00e4sta v\u00e4gen dit ledde genom ett pass som kallades Sungchen.\n\n\"Bj\u00f6rnar, l\u00e4gg m\u00e4rke till den h\u00e4r platsen\", sa Iorek Byrnison till sina unders\u00e5tar. \"N\u00e4r det \u00e4r dags f\u00f6r oss att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till Arktis ska vi samlas h\u00e4r. G\u00e5 iv\u00e4g nu, jaga, \u00e4t och lev. F\u00f6r inte krig. Vi \u00e4r inte h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att f\u00f6ra krig. Om krig hotar kommer jag att kalla p\u00e5 er.\"\n\nBj\u00f6rnarna levde som regel ensamma och samlades bara vid krig eller katastrofer. Nu, n\u00e4r de stod vid randen av det sn\u00f6t\u00e4ckta landet, var de ot\u00e5liga att f\u00e5 ge sig av p\u00e5 egen hand och utforska det f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lva.\n\n\"Kom nu, Will\", sa Iorek Byrnison, \"s\u00e5 ska vi hitta Lyra.\"\n\nWill hivade upp sin ryggs\u00e4ck p\u00e5 ryggen och s\u00e5 gav de sig iv\u00e4g.\n\nDet var l\u00e4tt att g\u00e5 den f\u00f6rsta biten. Solen var varm, men tallarna och rhododendronbuskarna h\u00f6ll den v\u00e4rsta hettan borta fr\u00e5n axlarna, och luften var frisk och klar. Marken var stenig, men stenarna var t\u00e4ckta av mossa och tallbarr, och sluttningarna de besteg var inte f\u00f6rr\u00e4diska. Will uppt\u00e4ckte att han nj\u00f6t av att r\u00f6ra p\u00e5 sig. Dagarna han tillbringat p\u00e5 b\u00e5ten, den p\u00e5tvingade vilan, hade f\u00f6rnyat hans krafter. Han hade varit s\u00e5 gott som slut n\u00e4r han tr\u00e4ffade p\u00e5 Iorek. Han f\u00f6rstod det inte sj\u00e4lv, men det gjorde bj\u00f6rnen.\n\nS\u00e5 snart de var ensamma visade Will hur knivens andra egg fungerade. Han \u00f6ppnade en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r en tropisk regnskog \u00e5ngade och droppade, och varifr\u00e5n starkt doftande dimsl\u00f6jor gled ut i den tunna bergsluften. Iorek s\u00e5g noga p\u00e5, och r\u00f6rde vid \u00f6ppningens kant med ramen och luktade p\u00e5 den, gick igenom till den heta fuktiga luften f\u00f6r att tyst titta sig omkring. Fr\u00e5n andra sidan kunde Will h\u00f6gt och tydligt h\u00f6ra apskrik och f\u00e5gels\u00e5ng, insekter som surrade, grodor som kv\u00e4kte och det oupph\u00f6rliga dripp-droppandet av kondenserad fukt.\n\nSedan gick Iorek tillbaka och tittade p\u00e5 n\u00e4r Will st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret. D\u00e4refter bad han att f\u00e5 se kniven igen, och studerade silvereggen p\u00e5 s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra h\u00e5ll att Will var r\u00e4dd att han skulle sk\u00e4ra sig i \u00f6gat. Han unders\u00f6kte den en l\u00e5ng stund och gav sedan tillbaka den utan ett ord, bortsett fr\u00e5n att han sa: \"Jag hade r\u00e4tt: jag kunde inte ha bek\u00e4mpat detta.\"\n\nDe fortsatte utan att s\u00e4ga mycket, vilket passade dem b\u00e5da. Iorek Byrnison f\u00e5ngade en gasell och \u00e5t det mesta av den, men l\u00e4mnade de m\u00f6raste bitarna \u00e5t Will, s\u00e5 att han kunde tillaga dem. En g\u00e5ng kom de till en by, och medan Iorek v\u00e4ntade i skogen, bytte Will ett av sina guldmynt mot lite platt, grovt br\u00f6d och torkad frukt, st\u00f6vlar av jak-l\u00e4der och en v\u00e4st av ett slags f\u00e5rskinn, f\u00f6r det b\u00f6rjade bli kallt om n\u00e4tterna.\n\nHan lyckades ocks\u00e5 fr\u00e5ga om dalen med regnb\u00e5garna. Balthamos hj\u00e4lpte till genom att ta formen av en kr\u00e5ka, samma som d\u00e6monen som tillh\u00f6rde mannen Will talade med. Det \u00f6kade f\u00f6rst\u00e5elsen mellan dem, s\u00e5 Will kunde f\u00e5 instruktioner som var b\u00e5de tydliga och hj\u00e4lpsamma.\n\nDet var ytterligare tre dagars vandring, men de var \u00e5tminstone p\u00e5 v\u00e4g.\n\nDet fanns det andra som ocks\u00e5 var.\n\nLord Asriels styrka, gyropterskvadronen med tankzeppelinaren, hade n\u00e5tt fram till \u00f6ppningen mellan v\u00e4rldarna, revan i himlen ovanf\u00f6r Svalbard. De hade fortfarande en l\u00e5ng v\u00e4g framf\u00f6r sig, men fl\u00f6g utan att stanna f\u00f6r annat \u00e4n n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt underh\u00e5ll. Bef\u00e4lhavaren, den afrikanske kung Ogunwe, hade kontakt med basaltf\u00e4stningen tv\u00e5 g\u00e5nger om dagen. Han hade en gallivespisk magnetstensoperat\u00f6r ombord p\u00e5 sin gyropter, och genom honom fick han veta vad som h\u00e4nde lika snabbt som lord Asriel sj\u00e4lv.\n\nNyheterna var bekymmersamma. Den lilla spionen lady Salmakia hade ur skuggorna sett hur kyrkans b\u00e5da m\u00e4ktigaste delar, Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden och S\u00e4llskapet f\u00f6r den Heliga Andes uppgift, hade kommit \u00f6verens om att strunta i sina meningsskiljaktigheter och ist\u00e4llet b\u00f6rja samarbeta. S\u00e4llskapets alethiometerl\u00e4sare var snabbare och skickligare \u00e4n Fra Pavel, och tack vare honom visste nu Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden exakt var Lyra befann sig, och vad mera var, de visste att lord Asriel hade s\u00e4nt en styrka f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda henne. N\u00e4mnden sl\u00f6sade ingen tid, utan kommenderade fram en styrka zeppelinare, och samma dag gick en bataljon ur schweizergardet ombord p\u00e5 zeppelinarna, som v\u00e4ntade i den stillast\u00e5ende luften bredvid Gen\u00e8vesj\u00f6n.\n\nB\u00e5da sidor visste allts\u00e5 att den andra ocks\u00e5 var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot grottan i bergen. Och de visste b\u00e5da att den som kom f\u00f6rst skulle ha \u00f6vertaget, men det var inte s\u00e5 mycket att fundera \u00f6ver: lord Asriels gyroptrar var snabbare \u00e4n Disciplinn\u00e4mndens zeppelinare, men de hade l\u00e4ngre str\u00e4cka att flyga och saktades ner av sin egen tankzeppelinare.\n\nDet fanns ytterligare en sak att r\u00e4kna med: vem som \u00e4n fick tag p\u00e5 Lyra f\u00f6rst skulle bli tvungen att sl\u00e5 sig ut genom den andra styrkan. Den saken skulle vara l\u00e4ttare f\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden, f\u00f6r de bekymrade sig inte om att f\u00f6ra Lyra i s\u00e4kerhet. De fl\u00f6g dit f\u00f6r att d\u00f6da henne.\n\nDen zeppelinare som hade ordf\u00f6randen f\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden ombord hade ocks\u00e5 andra passagerare, som han inte k\u00e4nde till. Chevalier Tialys hade f\u00e5tt ett meddelande via magnetstensresonatorn med order om att smuggla sig sj\u00e4lv och lady Salmakia ombord. N\u00e4r zeppelinarna n\u00e5tt fram till dalen skulle de ge sig av i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att p\u00e5 egen hand ta sig till grottan d\u00e4r Lyra h\u00f6lls f\u00e5ngen, och skydda henne s\u00e5 gott det gick tills kung Ogunwes styrkor kom f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda henne. Hennes s\u00e4kerhet hade h\u00f6gsta prioritet.\n\nDet var riskfyllt f\u00f6r spionerna att ta sig ombord p\u00e5 zeppelinaren, inte minst p\u00e5 grund av den utrustning de m\u00e5ste ta med sig. F\u00f6rutom magnetstensresonatorn var de viktigaste f\u00f6rem\u00e5len ett par insektslarver och deras mat. N\u00e4r de vuxna insekterna kom fram skulle de mest av allt likna trollsl\u00e4ndor, men de liknade inte n\u00e5gra trollsl\u00e4ndor som m\u00e4nniskorna i Wills eller Lyras v\u00e4rldar n\u00e5gonsin hade sett tidigare. De var bland annat mycket st\u00f6rre. Gallivespierna avlade omsorgsfullt fram dessa varelser, och varje klans insekt skilde sig fr\u00e5n de andras. Chevalier Tialys klan f\u00f6dde upp kraftfulla r\u00f6d- och gulrandiga trollsl\u00e4ndor med stark och v\u00e5ldsam matlust, medan den som lady Salmakia v\u00e5rdade skulle komma att bli en slank och snabb varelse med skimrande bl\u00e5 kropp, med f\u00f6rm\u00e5gan att kunna lysa i m\u00f6rkret.\n\nVarje spion var utrustad med ett antal s\u00e5dana larver och genom att mata dem med noggrant kontrollerade m\u00e4ngder olja och honung kunde de antingen h\u00e5lla tillbaka utvecklingen eller f\u00e5 dem att v\u00e4xa upp snabbt. Tialys och Salmakia hade trettiosex timmar p\u00e5 sig, beroende p\u00e5 vindarna, att f\u00e5 larverna att f\u00f6rpuppas och sedan kl\u00e4ckas som trollsl\u00e4ndor, f\u00f6r det var ungef\u00e4r den tid flygturen skulle ta. De beh\u00f6vde insekterna f\u00f6r att kunna ge sig av innan zeppelinarna landade.\n\nChevalier Tialys och hans kollega hittade ett f\u00f6rbisett utrymme bakom ett skott, och inr\u00e4ttade sig s\u00e5 s\u00e4kert de kunde medan farkosten fylldes med m\u00e4nniskor och br\u00e4nsle. Sedan b\u00f6rjade motorerna vr\u00e5la och den l\u00e4tta konstruktionen skakade fr\u00e5n den ena \u00e4nden till den andra n\u00e4r markpersonalen lossade f\u00f6rt\u00f6jningarna och de \u00e5tta zeppelinarna steg mot himlen.\n\nDe sj\u00e4lva skulle ha betraktat j\u00e4mf\u00f6relsen som en d\u00f6dlig f\u00f6rol\u00e4mpning, men faktum var att de kunde g\u00f6mma sig minst lika skickligt som r\u00e5ttor. Fr\u00e5n sitt g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle kunde gallivespierna h\u00f6ra en hel del, och de h\u00f6ll kontakt varje timme med lord Roke, som fanns ombord p\u00e5 kung Ogunwes gyropter.\n\nMen en sak fick de inte reda p\u00e5 ombord p\u00e5 zeppelinaren, f\u00f6r ordf\u00f6randen pratade inte om saken: och det var fr\u00e5gan om l\u00f6nnm\u00f6rdaren, fader Gomez, som hade blivit l\u00f6st fr\u00e5n den synd han skulle komma att beg\u00e5 om Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden misslyckades med sitt uppdrag. Fader Gomez var n\u00e5gon annanstans, och det var \u00f6verhuvudtaget ingen som f\u00f6ljde efter honom.\n\n## 10\n\n## Hjul\n\nNU SER JAG ETT LITET MOLN, ICKE ST\u00d6RRE \u00c4N EN MANS HAND, STIGA UPP UR HAVET.\n\nF\u00d6RSTA KONUNGABOKEN\n\n\"JO\", SA DEN r\u00f6dh\u00e5riga flickan i det \u00f6vergivna kasinots tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rd. \"Vi har sett henne, b\u00e5de jag och Paolo har sett henne. Hon kom f\u00f6rbi h\u00e4r f\u00f6r flera dar sen.\"\n\n\"Kommer du ih\u00e5g hur hon s\u00e5g ut?\" fr\u00e5gade fader Gomez.\n\n\"Hon s\u00e5g varm ut\", sa den lille pojken. \"Alldeles svettig i ansiktet.\"\n\n\"Hur gammal verkade hon vara?\"\n\n\"Ungef\u00e4r...\", sa flickan fundersamt. \"Kanske runt fyrti eller femti. Vi titta inte s\u00e5 noga. Hon kanske var tretti. Men hon var varm, som Paolo sa, och hon hade en stor ryggs\u00e4ck, mycket st\u00f6rre \u00e4n din, s\u00e5 _h\u00e4r_ stor...\"\n\nPaolo viskade n\u00e5got till henne och vindade med \u00f6gonen f\u00f6r att samtidigt kunna titta p\u00e5 pr\u00e4sten. Solen sken honom rakt i ansiktet.\n\n\"Ja\", sa flickan ot\u00e5ligt, \"jag vet. Geng\u00e5ngarna\", sa hon till fader Gomez. \"Hon var inte ett dugg r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r Geng\u00e5ngarna. Hon bara gick rakt genom stan utan att vara orolig alls. Jag har aldrig sett en vuxen g\u00f6ra s\u00e5 f\u00f6rut. Hon s\u00e5g ut som om hon inte ens visste att dom fanns. Precis som du\", tillade hon och s\u00e5g utmanande p\u00e5 pr\u00e4sten.\n\n\"Det finns mycket jag inte vet\", sa fader Gomez v\u00e4nligt.\n\nDen lille pojken drog henne i \u00e4rmen och viskade igen.\n\n\"Paolo s\u00e4ger\", ber\u00e4ttade hon f\u00f6r pr\u00e4sten, \"att han tror att du t\u00e4nker ta tillbaka kniven.\"\n\nFader Gomez k\u00e4nde hur h\u00e5ret reste sig. Han kom ih\u00e5g Fra Pavels vittnesm\u00e5l inf\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden. Pojken m\u00e5ste mena samma kniv.\n\n\"Om jag kan, s\u00e5 ska jag det\", sa han. \"Kniven kommer allts\u00e5 h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n?\"\n\n\"Fr\u00e5n Torre degli Angeli\", sa flickan och pekade p\u00e5 det fyrkantiga stentorn som h\u00f6jde sig \u00f6ver de r\u00f6dbruna hustaken. Det skimrade i middagsljuset. \"Och pojken som stal den, han d\u00f6da Tullio, v\u00e5ran brorsa. Geng\u00e5ngarna tog han. Om du t\u00e4nker d\u00f6da den d\u00e4r pojken, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det okej. Och flickan \u2013 hon var rena l\u00f6gnaren, hon var lika hemsk som han.\"\n\n\"Var det en flicka ocks\u00e5?\" sa pr\u00e4sten och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte verka ointresserad.\n\n\"En smutsig l\u00f6gnare\", spottade den r\u00f6dh\u00e5riga flickan ur sig. \"Vi lyckades n\u00e4stan d\u00f6da b\u00e5da tv\u00e5, men sen kom det n\u00e5gra kvinnor, flygande kvinnor...\"\n\n\"H\u00e4xor\", sa Paolo.\n\n\"H\u00e4xor, och vi kunde inte sl\u00e5ss mot dom. Dom f\u00f6rde bort dom, flickan och pojken. Vi vet inte vart dom tatt v\u00e4gen. Men kvinnan, hon kom sen. Vi trodde att hon kanske hade n\u00e5n sorts kniv, f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla undan Geng\u00e5ngarna. Och det kanske du ocks\u00e5 har\", tillade hon och lyfte p\u00e5 hakan f\u00f6r att kunna titta stint p\u00e5 honom.\n\n\"Jag har ingen kniv\", sa fader Gomez. \"Men jag har ett heligt uppdrag. Det kanske skyddar mig mot dessa \u2013 Geng\u00e5ngare.\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa flickan, \"kanske. Men hur som helst, om du vill ha tag i henne, s\u00e5 gick hon s\u00f6derut, mot bergen. Vi vet inte vart. Men fr\u00e5ga vem som helst, dom vet om hon har g\u00e5tt f\u00f6rbi, f\u00f6r det finns ingen annan som hon i Ci'gazze, inte f\u00f6rut och inte nu. Hon blir l\u00e4tt att hitta.\"\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket, Angelica\", sa pr\u00e4sten. \"Gud v\u00e4lsigne er, mina barn.\"\n\nHan axlade packningen, l\u00e4mnade tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden och gav sig n\u00f6jt iv\u00e4g l\u00e4ngs de heta, tysta gatorna.\n\nEfter att ha tillbringat tre dagar i s\u00e4llskap med de behjulade varelserna visste Mary Malone lite mer om dem, och de visste redan en hel del om henne.\n\nDen d\u00e4r f\u00f6rsta morgonen bar de henne i ungef\u00e4r en timme l\u00e4ngs basaltv\u00e4gen till en bos\u00e4ttning vid en flod. Resan var obekv\u00e4m, f\u00f6r hon hade ingenting att h\u00e5lla fast sig i och varelsens rygg var h\u00e5rd. De fl\u00f6g fram med en hastighet som skr\u00e4mde henne, men dundrandet fr\u00e5n hjulen p\u00e5 den h\u00e5rda v\u00e4gen och takten fr\u00e5n deras jagande f\u00f6tter gjorde henne s\u00e5 upprymd att hon struntade i obehaget.\n\nOch under f\u00e4rden blev hon mer uppm\u00e4rksam p\u00e5 varelsernas fysik. De hade rombformade skelett, precis som gr\u00e4s\u00e4tarna, med ett ben i varje h\u00f6rn. N\u00e5gon g\u00e5ng i forntiden m\u00e5ste ett sl\u00e4kte f\u00f6rf\u00e4der ha utvecklat den h\u00e4r kroppsformen och uppt\u00e4ckt att den fungerade, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som n\u00e5gon krypande sak i Marys v\u00e4rld hade utvecklat en ryggrad f\u00f6r or\u00e4kneliga generationer sedan.\n\nBasaltv\u00e4gen gick l\u00e5ngsamt ned\u00e5t och efter en stund \u00f6kade lutningen s\u00e5 att varelserna kunde rulla av bara farten. De drog upp sidobenen och styrde genom att luta sig \u00e5t det ena eller det andra h\u00e5llet, och st\u00f6rtade fram med en fart som gjorde Mary skr\u00e4ckslagen, \u00e4ven om hon m\u00e5ste erk\u00e4nna att varelsen hon red p\u00e5 aldrig gav henne n\u00e5gon som helst anledning till r\u00e4dsla. Om hon bara hade haft n\u00e5got att h\u00e5lla fast sig i skulle hon ha tyckt om det.\n\nVid foten av den drygt kilometerl\u00e5nga sluttningen fanns en dunge h\u00f6ga tr\u00e4d, och i n\u00e4rheten ringlade en flod fram \u00f6ver den j\u00e4mna, gr\u00e4sbevuxna sl\u00e4tten. En bit bort s\u00e5g Mary hur det glimmade av n\u00e5got som s\u00e5g ut som en st\u00f6rre vattensamling, men hon tittade inte l\u00e4nge efter den, f\u00f6r varelserna var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot en bos\u00e4ttning vid flodstranden, och hon brann av l\u00e4ngtan att f\u00e5 stilla sin nyfikenhet.\n\nD\u00e4r fanns tjugo eller trettio hyddor st\u00e4llda i en ungef\u00e4rlig cirkel och de hade \u2013 hon m\u00e5ste skugga \u00f6gonen mot solen f\u00f6r att kunna se tydligare \u2013 tr\u00e4bj\u00e4lkar med fl\u00e4tat ris och lera p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna och vass p\u00e5 taken. Andra behjulade varelser arbetade med att reparera tak, dra upp n\u00e4t ur floden eller med att b\u00e4ra ved till elden.\n\nS\u00e5 de hade spr\u00e5k och de hade eld och de hade ett samh\u00e4lle. Och ungef\u00e4r samtidigt m\u00e4rkte hon en f\u00f6r\u00e4ndring i sitt t\u00e4nkes\u00e4tt, d\u00e5 ordet _varelse_ byttes ut mot ordet _folk_. De var inte m\u00e4nniskor, sa hon sig, men de var folk. Det \u00e4r inte n\u00e5gra _dem_ , det \u00e4r _vi_.\n\nDe var ganska n\u00e4ra nu, och n\u00e4r bos\u00e4ttarna s\u00e5g vad som var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot dem tittade n\u00e5gra av dem upp och ropade till de andra att titta. Gruppen fr\u00e5n v\u00e4gen saktade in och stannade, s\u00e5 Mary kunde kl\u00e4ttra ner. Hon var stel i kroppen och \u00f6vertygad om att hon skulle f\u00e5 ont senare.\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket\", sa hon till sin... sin vad? Sin springare? Sin cykel? B\u00e5da uttrycken k\u00e4ndes fullkomligt fel p\u00e5 den klar\u00f6gda v\u00e4nlighet som stod bredvid henne. Hon best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r \u2013 v\u00e4n.\n\nHan lyfte sin snabel och h\u00e4rmade hennes ord:\n\n\"Tax-mycka\", sa han, och \u00e5terigen skrattade de glatt och v\u00e4nligt.\n\nHon tog sin ryggs\u00e4ck fr\u00e5n den andra varelsen (tax-mycka! tax-mycka!) och gick med dem bort fr\u00e5n basaltv\u00e4gen och fram till byns h\u00e5rdpackade jord.\n\nOch sedan uppslukades hon helt.\n\nUnder de f\u00f6ljande dagarna l\u00e4rde hon sig s\u00e5 mycket att hon k\u00e4nde sig som ett barn p\u00e5 nytt, f\u00f6rundrad av skolan. Dessutom verkade hjulfolket vara precis lika f\u00f6rundrade av henne. Hennes h\u00e4nder, till att b\u00f6rja med. De kunde inte f\u00e5 nog av dem: deras k\u00e4nsliga snablar k\u00e4nde igenom varje led, unders\u00f6kte tummar, knogar och naglar, b\u00f6jde dem f\u00f6rsiktigt och s\u00e5g f\u00f6rbluffat hur hon lyfte sin ryggs\u00e4ck, f\u00f6rde mat till munnen, kliade sig, kammade h\u00e5ret och tv\u00e4ttade sig.\n\nI geng\u00e4ld l\u00e4t de henne k\u00e4nna p\u00e5 sina snablar. De var o\u00e4ndligt b\u00f6jliga, och ungef\u00e4r lika l\u00e5nga som hennes arm, tjockare d\u00e4r de m\u00f6tte huvudet, och tillr\u00e4ckligt starka f\u00f6r att kunna krossa hennes huvud, gissade hon. De tv\u00e5 fingerlika utv\u00e4xterna vid toppen hade en enorm styrka och stor k\u00e4nslighet; varelserna tycktes kunna variera tjockleken p\u00e5 skinnet p\u00e5 insidan, p\u00e5 det som var deras motsvarighet till fingertoppar, fr\u00e5n mjuk sammet till h\u00e5rt tr\u00e4. I och med detta kunde de anv\u00e4nda dem b\u00e5de f\u00f6r k\u00e4nsliga uppgifter, som att mj\u00f6lka en v\u00e4xt\u00e4tare, och f\u00f6r h\u00e5rt arbete, som att slita av och b\u00f6ja grenar.\n\nLite i taget f\u00f6rstod Mary att deras snablar ocks\u00e5 var en del av kommunikationen. En snabelr\u00f6relse modifierade betydelsen av ett ljud, s\u00e5 att ljudet som l\u00e4t som \"chuh\" betydde vatten n\u00e4r det \u00e5tf\u00f6ljdes av en svepande r\u00f6relse av snabeln fr\u00e5n v\u00e4nster till h\u00f6ger, \"regn\" n\u00e4r snabeln kr\u00f6ktes upp\u00e5t i spetsen, \"sorg\" n\u00e4r den kr\u00f6ktes ned\u00e5t, och \"unga gr\u00e4sskott\" n\u00e4r den svepte snabbt \u00e5t v\u00e4nster. S\u00e5 fort hon s\u00e5g detta h\u00e4rmade Mary det genom att r\u00f6ra sina armar s\u00e5 gott hon kunde p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt, och n\u00e4r varelserna ins\u00e5g att hon b\u00f6rjade tala med dem, str\u00e5lade de av f\u00f6rtjusning.\n\nN\u00e4r de v\u00e4l hade b\u00f6rjat tala (mestadels p\u00e5 deras spr\u00e5k, \u00e4ven om hon lyckades l\u00e4ra dem n\u00e5gra ord p\u00e5 sitt: de kunde s\u00e4ga \"tax-mycka\" och \"gr\u00e4s\" och \"tr\u00e4d\" och \"himmel\" och \"flod\", och uttala hennes namn, men med viss sv\u00e5righet) gjorde de mycket st\u00f6rre framsteg. Deras ord f\u00f6r sitt eget folk var _mulefa_ , men en individ var en _zalif_. Mary trodde att det fanns en skillnad i ljudet f\u00f6r han- _zalif_ och hon- _zalif_ , men det var f\u00f6r subtilt f\u00f6r att hon l\u00e4tt skulle kunna s\u00e4ga det. Hon b\u00f6rjade skriva ner allting till en ordbok.\n\nMen innan hon l\u00e4t sig sj\u00e4lv uppslukas helt tog hon ut sin slitna pocketbok och r\u00f6llekestavarna, och fr\u00e5gade I Ching: Borde jag vara h\u00e4r och g\u00f6ra det h\u00e4r, eller borde jag g\u00e5 n\u00e5gon annanstans och forts\u00e4tta leta?\n\nSvaret kom: _Att h\u00e5lla sig stilla, s\u00e5 att rastl\u00f6shet uppl\u00f6ses; sedan, bortom tumultet, kan man se de stora lagarna._\n\nDet fortsatte: _S\u00e5som ett berg h\u00e5ller sig stilla inom sig sj\u00e4lvt, s\u00e5 l\u00e5ter inte en vis man sin vilja f\u00f6rirra sig bortom situationen._\n\nDet kunde knappast vara tydligare. Hon vek in stavarna i halsduken och st\u00e4ngde boken, och ins\u00e5g sedan att hon hade dragit till sig en ring av betraktande varelser.\n\nEn av dem sa: _Fr\u00e5ga? Till\u00e5telse? Nyfiken._\n\nHon sa: _Vars\u00e5god. Titta._\n\nDe r\u00f6rde sina snablar mycket f\u00f6rsiktigt och sorterade stavarna med samma sorts r\u00e4knande r\u00f6relser som hon sj\u00e4lv hade anv\u00e4nt, eller v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 bokens sidor. En sak som f\u00f6rundrade dem var hennes dubbla h\u00e4nder: att hon b\u00e5de kunde h\u00e5lla i boken och samtidigt v\u00e4nda blad. De \u00e4lskade att se p\u00e5 n\u00e4r hon v\u00e4vde ihop sina fingrar, eller lekte barnramsan \"H\u00e4r \u00e4r kyrkan och h\u00e4r \u00e4r porten\", eller gjorde den d\u00e4r upprepade tummen-mot-motsatt-pekfinger-r\u00f6relsen som Ama anv\u00e4nde som ett skydd mot onda andar, i exakt samma \u00f6gonblick i Lyras v\u00e4rld.\n\nN\u00e4r de hade unders\u00f6kt r\u00f6llekestavarna och boken vek de noggrant tyget \u00f6ver dem och lade ner dem tillsammans med boken i hennes ryggs\u00e4ck. Beskedet fr\u00e5n det antika Kina gjorde henne trygg och lycklig, f\u00f6r det betydde att det hon helst av allt ville g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r \u00f6gonblicket var vad hon borde g\u00f6ra.\n\nS\u00e5 hon h\u00e4ngav sig \u00e5t att med glatt hj\u00e4rta l\u00e4ra sig mer om muleforna.\n\nHon l\u00e4rde sig att de hade tv\u00e5 k\u00f6n och att de levde monogamt i par. Deras avkomma hade en l\u00e5ng barndom, i \u00e5tminstone tio \u00e5r, och v\u00e4xte mycket l\u00e5ngsamt, s\u00e5 vitt hon f\u00f6rstod av deras f\u00f6rklaringar. Det fanns fem sm\u00e5barn i den h\u00e4r bos\u00e4ttningen, en n\u00e4stan fullvuxen och ytterligare n\u00e5gra d\u00e4r emellan, och eftersom de var mindre \u00e4n de vuxna kunde de \u00e4nnu inte hantera fr\u00f6kapselhjulen. Barnen m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rflytta sig p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som gr\u00e4s\u00e4tarna, med alla fyra f\u00f6tterna i marken, men trots all deras energi och \u00e4ventyrslystnad (studsa fram till Mary och skygga tillbaka, f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka kl\u00e4ttra upp f\u00f6r tr\u00e4dstammarna, plaska i det grunda vattnet och s\u00e5 vidare) s\u00e5 verkade de \u00e4nd\u00e5 klumpiga, som om de r\u00f6rde sig i fel element. De vuxnas fart och kraft och smidighet var f\u00f6rbluffande i j\u00e4mf\u00f6relse, och Mary ins\u00e5g hur mycket en uppv\u00e4xande unge m\u00e5ste l\u00e4ngta efter den dag d\u00e5 hjulen skulle passa. En dag s\u00e5g hon hur det \u00e4ldsta barnet tyst och stilla gick till f\u00f6rr\u00e5dshyddan d\u00e4r ett antal fr\u00f6kapslar f\u00f6rvarades, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 sin framklo att passa i mittenh\u00e5let. Men n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte st\u00e4lla sig upp ramlade han genast omkull och fastnade, och ljudet lockade dit en vuxen. Barnet k\u00e4mpade f\u00f6r att komma loss, gn\u00e4llande av oro, och Mary kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att skratta \u00e5t synen, \u00e5t den indignerade f\u00f6r\u00e4ldern och det skuldmedvetna barnet, som i sista sekunden kunde slita sig loss och springa d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\nFr\u00f6kapselhjulen var uppenbarligen oerh\u00f6rt viktiga, och Mary ins\u00e5g snart precis hur v\u00e4rdefulla de var.\n\nTill att b\u00f6rja med \u00e4gnade muleforna mycket av sin tid \u00e5t att underh\u00e5lla sina hjul. Genom att skickligt lyfta och vrida sin klo kunde de dra ut den ur h\u00e5let, och sedan anv\u00e4nde de snabeln f\u00f6r att unders\u00f6ka hela hjulet, f\u00f6r att reng\u00f6ra kanten och f\u00f6r att leta efter sprickor. Klon var oerh\u00f6rt stark: det var en sporre av horn eller ben vinkelr\u00e4tt mot benet, och l\u00e4tt rundad s\u00e5 att den h\u00f6gsta delen, i mitten, bar upp vikten d\u00e4r den vilade inuti h\u00e5let. Mary s\u00e5g en dag p\u00e5 hur en zalif unders\u00f6kte h\u00e5let i sitt framhjul, r\u00f6rde h\u00e4r och d\u00e4r, lyfte snabeln i luften och tillbaka igen, som f\u00f6r att f\u00e5nga en doft.\n\nMary mindes oljan hon hade hittat p\u00e5 sina fingrar n\u00e4r hon unders\u00f6kte den f\u00f6rsta fr\u00f6kapseln. Med zalifens till\u00e5telse tittade hon n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 klon och s\u00e5g att ytan var mjukare och sl\u00e4tare \u00e4n n\u00e5got hon hade sett i sin egen v\u00e4rld. Hennes fingrar v\u00e4grade helt enkelt att fastna p\u00e5 ytan. Hela klon verkade impregnerad med den l\u00e4tt aromatiska oljan, och efter att hon hade sett hur ett antal av byborna samlade, provade och unders\u00f6kte tillst\u00e5ndet hos sina hjul och sina klor b\u00f6rjade hon undra vad som hade kommit f\u00f6rst: Hjul eller klo? Tr\u00e4d eller anv\u00e4ndare?\n\nDessutom spelade geologin en viktig roll. Varelser kan bara anv\u00e4nda hjul i v\u00e4rldar som har naturliga v\u00e4gar. Det m\u00e5ste finnas n\u00e5got element i mineralerna i de h\u00e4r lavastr\u00f6mmarna som f\u00e5tt dem att rinna i band \u00f6ver den stora savannen, och vara s\u00e5 motst\u00e5ndskraftiga mot f\u00f6rslitning och sprickor. Lite i taget b\u00f6rjade Mary se hur alltihop h\u00e4ngde ihop, och alltihop s\u00e5g ut att sk\u00f6tas av muleforna. De visste var varenda hjord av gr\u00e4s\u00e4tare h\u00f6ll till, var varenda dunge med hjultr\u00e4d och varenda tuva av mannagr\u00e4s fanns, och de k\u00e4nde varje enskilt djur i hjordarna, och varje enskilt tr\u00e4d, och de diskuterade deras tillst\u00e5nd och framtida \u00f6de. Vid ett tillf\u00e4lle s\u00e5g hon muleforna skilja ut n\u00e5gra djur ur en hjord av gr\u00e4s\u00e4tare, leda bort dem fr\u00e5n flocken och bryta nacken p\u00e5 dem med ett kraftfullt slag av snabeln. Ingenting gick till spillo. Med rakbladsvassa stenflisor i snabeln fl\u00e5dde muleforna gr\u00e4s\u00e4tarna och tog ut in\u00e4lvorna p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra minuter. Sedan b\u00f6rjade sj\u00e4lva slakten, och de var mycket skickliga. De skilde p\u00e5 det m\u00f6rare k\u00f6ttet och de senigare stekarna, trimmade bort fettet, tog bort horn och hovar, och arbetade s\u00e5 effektivt att Mary betraktade dem med den gl\u00e4dje hon k\u00e4nde \u00f6ver allt slags v\u00e4lgjort arbete.\n\nSnart h\u00e4ngde k\u00f6ttstrimlor p\u00e5 tork i solen, medan andra strimlor lades i salt och sveptes in i l\u00f6v. Skinnen skrapades rena fr\u00e5n fettet, som togs tillvara. Sedan lades skinnen i bl\u00f6t i vattentunnor fyllda med ekbark f\u00f6r att garvas. Det \u00e4ldsta barnet lekte med en hornkrona och l\u00e5tsades vara en gr\u00e4s\u00e4tare, vilket lockade de andra barnen till skratt. Den kv\u00e4llen fanns det f\u00e4rskt k\u00f6tt att \u00e4ta, och Mary l\u00e4t sig v\u00e4l smaka.\n\nP\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt visste muleforna var den b\u00e4sta fisken gick till och exakt var och n\u00e4r man skulle l\u00e4gga ut n\u00e4ten. Mary ville ha n\u00e5got att arbeta med, s\u00e5 hon gick till n\u00e4tmakarna och erbj\u00f6d sig att hj\u00e4lpa till. N\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g hur de arbetade, inte ensamma utan tv\u00e5 och tv\u00e5 som tillsammans kn\u00f6t knutar med sina snablar, ins\u00e5g hon hur f\u00f6rbluffade de m\u00e5ste ha blivit \u00f6ver hennes h\u00e4nder, f\u00f6r hon kunde knyta knutar p\u00e5 egen hand. F\u00f6rst tyckte hon att det gav henne ett \u00f6vertag \u2013 hon beh\u00f6vde ingen annan. Sedan ins\u00e5g hon hur det avsk\u00e4rmade henne fr\u00e5n de andra. Kanske var alla m\u00e4nniskor s\u00e5dana. Och fr\u00e5n det \u00f6gonblicket kn\u00f6t hon fibrerna med bara en hand, och delade uppgiften med den kvinnliga zalif som hade blivit hennes s\u00e4rskilda v\u00e4n, s\u00e5 fingrar och snabel r\u00f6rde sig tillsammans, fram och tillbaka.\n\nMen av alla de levande v\u00e4sen som det behjulade folket hade i sin v\u00e5rd \u00e4gnade de sig mest \u00e5t fr\u00f6hjulstr\u00e4den.\n\nDen h\u00e4r gruppen sk\u00f6tte om ett omr\u00e5de som inneh\u00f6ll ett halvdussin dungar. Det fanns fler l\u00e4ngre bort, men de sk\u00f6ttes av andra grupper. Varje dag begav sig n\u00e5gra iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att se hur de m\u00e4ktiga tr\u00e4den m\u00e5dde och f\u00f6r att sk\u00f6rda alla eventuella nerfallna fr\u00f6kapslar. Det var uppenbart vad muleforna fick ut av saken; men hur tj\u00e4nade tr\u00e4den p\u00e5 det? En dag fick hon se det. Hon var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g tillsammans med gruppen d\u00e5 det pl\u00f6tsligt h\u00f6rdes ett h\u00f6gt _knak_ , s\u00e5 alla stannade och st\u00e4llde sig runt den, vars hjul hade spruckit. Varje grupp hade med sig ett eller tv\u00e5 extrahjul, s\u00e5 zalifen med det trasiga hjulet kunde snart \u00e5ka igen. Men sj\u00e4lva det trasiga hjulet sveptes f\u00f6rsiktigt in i ett tygstycke och bars tillbaka till bos\u00e4ttningen.\n\nD\u00e4r kn\u00e4cktes det och man plockade ut alla fr\u00f6na \u2013 platta ljusa ovaler, stora som Marys lillfingernagel \u2013 och unders\u00f6kte varje fr\u00f6 noggrant. De f\u00f6rklarade att fr\u00f6kapslarna beh\u00f6vde det oupph\u00f6rliga st\u00f6tandet de fick p\u00e5 de h\u00e5rda v\u00e4garna om de alls skulle kn\u00e4ckas, och att fr\u00f6na dessutom var sv\u00e5ra att driva upp. Utan mulefornas sk\u00f6tsel skulle alla tr\u00e4den d\u00f6. B\u00e5da arterna var beroende av varandra, och det var dessutom oljan som gjorde det m\u00f6jligt. Det var sv\u00e5rt att f\u00f6rst\u00e5, men det de f\u00f6ref\u00f6ll att s\u00e4ga var att oljan var centrum f\u00f6r deras tankar och k\u00e4nslor och att de unga inte hade de \u00e4ldres visdom, eftersom de inte kunde anv\u00e4nda hjul och allts\u00e5 inte kunde absorbera n\u00e5gon olja genom klorna.\n\nOch det var d\u00e5 Mary b\u00f6rjade se kopplingen mellan muleforna och de fr\u00e5gor hon hade arbetat med under de senaste \u00e5ren av sitt liv.\n\nMen innan hon kunde unders\u00f6ka saken n\u00e4rmare (och alla samtal med muleforna var l\u00e5nga och omst\u00e4ndliga, f\u00f6r de \u00e4lskade att utveckla och f\u00f6rklara och illustrera sina argument med flera dussin exempel, som om de aldrig gl\u00f6mde n\u00e5gonting och som om allt de n\u00e5gonsin vetat omedelbart l\u00e5g tillg\u00e4ngligt och var m\u00f6jligt att referera till) blev bos\u00e4ttningen anfallen.\n\nMary var den f\u00f6rsta som s\u00e5g anfallarna, \u00e4ven om hon inte f\u00f6rstod vad de var f\u00f6r n\u00e5gra.\n\nDet h\u00e4nde mitt p\u00e5 eftermiddagen d\u00e5 hon hj\u00e4lpte till att reparera taket p\u00e5 en hydda. Muleforna byggde bara env\u00e5ningshus, f\u00f6r de kl\u00e4ttrade inte; men Mary kl\u00e4ttrade g\u00e4rna h\u00f6gt upp, och n\u00e4r de v\u00e4l hade visat henne tekniken kunde hon l\u00e4gga p\u00e5 vassen och knyta fast den med sina tv\u00e5 h\u00e4nder mycket snabbare \u00e4n de kunde g\u00f6ra det.\n\nHon stod st\u00f6dd mot takbj\u00e4lkarna p\u00e5 ett av husen och tog emot vassbuntarna som kastades upp till henne, och nj\u00f6t av den svala bris som fl\u00e4ktade fr\u00e5n vattnet och mildrade solens hetta, d\u00e5 hon fick syn p\u00e5 n\u00e5got vitt.\n\nDet kom fr\u00e5n det d\u00e4r avl\u00e4gsna glitter som hon trodde var havet. Hon skuggade \u00f6gonen och s\u00e5g en \u2013 tv\u00e5 \u2013 flera \u2013 en hel flotta av h\u00f6ga, vita segel dyka upp ur v\u00e4rmedallret en bit bort, som med tyst elegans var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot flodmynningen.\n\n_Mary!_ ropade zalifen nere p\u00e5 marken. _Vad ser du f\u00f6r n\u00e5got?_\n\nHon kunde inte orden f\u00f6r segel eller b\u00e5t, s\u00e5 hon sa _h\u00f6ga, vita, m\u00e5nga._\n\nZalifen gav genast ifr\u00e5n sig ett varningsrop. Alla inom h\u00f6rh\u00e5ll upph\u00f6rde med arbetet och skyndade sig till mitten av bos\u00e4ttningen, och ropade till sig barnen. Inom n\u00e5gra minuter var alla muleforna redo att fly.\n\nAtal, Marys v\u00e4n, ropade: _Mary! Mary! Kom! Tualapi! Tualapi!_\n\nAllt h\u00e4nde s\u00e5 snabbt att Mary knappt hade r\u00f6rt sig alls. Vid det laget hade de vita seglen, som utan anstr\u00e4ngning r\u00f6rde sig mot str\u00f6mmen, redan n\u00e5tt floden. Mary imponerades av sj\u00f6m\u00e4nnens disciplin: de slog s\u00e5 snabbt, seglen r\u00f6rde sig tillsammans som en flock sparvar, alla bytte riktning samtidigt. Och de var s\u00e5 vackra, de d\u00e4r sn\u00f6vita slanka seglen, b\u00f6ljande och bugande och sv\u00e4llande...\n\nDet var \u00e5tminstone fyrtio stycken och de kom upp f\u00f6r floden mycket snabbare \u00e4n hon hade trott. Men hon s\u00e5g inga bes\u00e4ttningar ombord, och sedan ins\u00e5g hon att det inte alls var n\u00e5gra b\u00e5tar. Det var enorma f\u00e5glar och seglen var deras vingar, en i f\u00f6ren och en i aktern, riktade upp\u00e5t, och de vreds och skotades av f\u00e5glarnas egen muskelkraft.\n\nDet fanns inte tid att stanna och studera dem, f\u00f6r de hade redan n\u00e5tt flodbanken och var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g upp ur vattnet. De hade halsar som svanar och n\u00e4bbar lika l\u00e5nga som hennes underarm. Vingarna var dubbelt s\u00e5 h\u00f6ga som hon, och n\u00e4r hon tittade \u00f6ver axeln, samtidigt som hon skr\u00e4mt sprang d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, kunde hon se att de hade kraftfulla ben. Inte underligt att de hade r\u00f6rt sig s\u00e5 fort i vattnet.\n\nHon sprang snabbt efter muleforna, som ropade hennes namn medan de str\u00f6mmade ut ur bos\u00e4ttningen och upp p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen. Hon n\u00e5dde dem precis i tid. Hennes v\u00e4n Atal v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 henne, och n\u00e4r Mary kravlade sig upp p\u00e5 hennes rygg satte hon f\u00f6tterna i marken och kastade sig iv\u00e4g upp f\u00f6r sluttningen efter sina kamrater.\n\nF\u00e5glarna kunde inte r\u00f6ra sig lika fort p\u00e5 land, s\u00e5 de gav snart upp jakten och v\u00e4nde tillbaka till bos\u00e4ttningen.\n\nDe slet upp matf\u00f6rr\u00e5den, och morrade och frustade och kastade med sina stora grymma n\u00e4bbar h\u00f6gt upp i luften d\u00e5 de svalde allt det torkade k\u00f6ttet och den lagrade frukten och s\u00e4den. Allt \u00e4tbart var borta inom en minut.\n\nOch sedan fann tualapierna hjulf\u00f6rr\u00e5det och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sl\u00e5 s\u00f6nder de stora fr\u00f6kapslarna, men detta lyckades de inte med. Mary k\u00e4nde hur hennes v\u00e4nner omkring henne blev stela av r\u00e4dsla, n\u00e4r de fr\u00e5n den l\u00e5ga kullens kr\u00f6n s\u00e5g hur kapsel efter kapsel kastades till marken, sparkades och rispades av klorna p\u00e5 dessa m\u00e4ktiga ben. Men det gjorde naturligtvis ingen skada. Det som oroade muleforna var att flera av kapslarna knuffades och puffades och sparkades mot vattnet, d\u00e4r de tungt fl\u00f6t med str\u00f6mmen ner mot havet.\n\nSedan b\u00f6rjade de stora sn\u00f6vita f\u00e5glarna f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra allt de kunde se med v\u00e5ldsamma sparkar, och genom att hacka, sl\u00e5, skaka och riva med n\u00e4bbarna. Muleforna omkring henne mumlade, n\u00e4stan gn\u00e4llde, av sorg.\n\n_Jag hj\u00e4lper_ , sa Mary. _Vi bygger upp._\n\nMen de onda varelserna var inte klara \u00e4n. De h\u00f6ll sina vackra vingar h\u00f6gt, st\u00e4llde sig p\u00e5 huk mitt bland f\u00f6r\u00f6delsen och t\u00f6mde sina tarmar. Lukten f\u00f6ljde med brisen upp f\u00f6r sluttningen; h\u00f6gar och p\u00f6lar av gr\u00f6n-svart-brun-vit dynga l\u00e5g bland de s\u00f6nderbrutna bj\u00e4lkarna och den skingrade takvassen. Sedan gick f\u00e5glarna, med de vaggande r\u00f6relser de hade p\u00e5 land, tillbaka ner till vattnet och seglade iv\u00e4g nedstr\u00f6ms mot havet.\n\nMuleforna \u00e5kte inte tillbaka ner l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4gen f\u00f6rr\u00e4n den sista vingen hade f\u00f6rsvunnit i eftermiddagsdiset. De var sorgsna och arga, men de var framf\u00f6r allt oerh\u00f6rt oroliga f\u00f6r sitt fr\u00f6kapself\u00f6rr\u00e5d.\n\nAv de femton kapslar som hade funnits d\u00e4r fanns bara tv\u00e5 kvar. Resten hade knuffats ner i vattnet och var borta. Men i n\u00e4sta flodkr\u00f6k fanns en sandbank, och Mary trodde sig se ett hjul som hade fastnat d\u00e4r. Till mulefornas stora f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning tog hon av sig kl\u00e4derna, slog en repl\u00e4ngd runt midjan och simmade \u00f6ver till sandbanken. D\u00e4r fann hon inte bara ett, utan fem av de dyrbara hjulen, och efter att ha dragit repet genom de mjuka mitth\u00e5len simmade hon tungt tillbaka med hjulen p\u00e5 sl\u00e4p.\n\nMuleforna var mycket tacksamma. De gick aldrig sj\u00e4lva ner i vattnet och fiskade bara f\u00f6rsiktigt fr\u00e5n stranden utan att bl\u00f6ta ner vare sig f\u00f6tter eller hjul. Mary k\u00e4nde att hon till slut hade lyckats g\u00f6ra n\u00e5gon nytta.\n\nSenare den kv\u00e4llen, efter en l\u00e4tt m\u00e5ltid p\u00e5 s\u00f6ta r\u00f6tter, ber\u00e4ttade de f\u00f6r henne varf\u00f6r de varit s\u00e5 oroliga f\u00f6r hjulen. Det hade funnits en tid d\u00e5 det var gott om fr\u00f6kapslar, och d\u00e5 v\u00e4rlden varit rik och full av liv, och muleforna hade l\u00e4nge levt lyckliga tillsammans med tr\u00e4den. Men n\u00e5got ont hade h\u00e4nt f\u00f6r m\u00e5nga \u00e5r sedan. N\u00e5got gott m\u00e5ste ha f\u00f6rsvunnit ur v\u00e4rlden, f\u00f6r trots alla mulefornas anstr\u00e4ngningar och trots all deras k\u00e4rlek och omv\u00e5rdnad var hjulkapseltr\u00e4den d\u00f6ende.\n\n## 11\n\n## Trollsl\u00e4ndor\n\nEN SANNING SAGD I ONT UPPS\u00c5T \u00c4R V\u00c4RRE \u00c4N ALLA T\u00c4NKBARA L\u00d6GNER.\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nAMA KL\u00c4TTRADE UPP f\u00f6r stigen till grottan. Hon hade br\u00f6d och mj\u00f6lk i v\u00e4skan p\u00e5 ryggen och var djupt bekymrad. Hur i all sin dar skulle hon kunna ta sig fram till den sovande flickan?\n\nHon n\u00e5dde fram till stenen d\u00e4r kvinnan hade sagt \u00e5t henne att l\u00e4mna maten. Hon lade den ifr\u00e5n sig, men gick inte raka v\u00e4gen hem. Hon kl\u00e4ttrade lite h\u00f6gre upp, f\u00f6rbi grottan och genom de t\u00e4ta rhododendronsn\u00e5ren, och vidare upp till den punkt d\u00e4r tr\u00e4den tunnades ut och regnb\u00e5garna tog vid.\n\nD\u00e4r b\u00f6rjade hon och hennes d\u00e6mon med en lek: de kl\u00e4ttrade upp f\u00f6r klipphyllorna och runt de sm\u00e5 gr\u00f6nvita vattenfallen, f\u00f6rbi str\u00f6mvirvlarna och genom det prismaf\u00e4rgade skummet, tills hennes h\u00e5r och \u00f6gonbryn och hans ekorrp\u00e4ls var fulla av miljontals sm\u00e5 fuktp\u00e4rlor. Leken gick ut p\u00e5 att n\u00e5 upp till toppen utan att torka sig om \u00f6gonen, trots frestelsen. Snart gnistrade och splittrades solskenet i r\u00f6tt, gult, gr\u00f6nt, bl\u00e5tt och alla f\u00e4rger d\u00e4r emellan, men hon fick inte torka av sig med handen f\u00f6r att kunna se ordentligt f\u00f6rr\u00e4n hon kommit upp till toppen, f\u00f6r annars skulle hon f\u00f6rlora.\n\nHennes d\u00e6mon Kulang skuttade upp till klippkanten intill det \u00f6versta vattenfallet. Hon visste att han skulle v\u00e4nda sig om direkt f\u00f6r att kontrollera att hon inte torkat fukten ur \u00f6gonen \u2013 men det gjorde han inte.\n\nIst\u00e4llet satt han bara d\u00e4r och tittade.\n\nAma torkade sig om \u00f6gonen, eftersom leken hade blivit avbruten av den \u00f6verraskning som hennes d\u00e6mon k\u00e4nde. N\u00e4r hon h\u00e4vt sig upp \u00f6ver kanten stannade hon med en fl\u00e4mtning, eftersom det som tittade ner p\u00e5 henne var ett djur vars like hon aldrig tidigare hade sett: en bj\u00f6rn, men gigantisk, skr\u00e4mmande, fyra g\u00e5nger s\u00e5 stor som brunbj\u00f6rnarna i skogen, och alldeles elfenbensvit, med svart nos och svarta \u00f6gon och klor l\u00e5nga som dolkar. Han stod p\u00e5 bara en arml\u00e4ngds avst\u00e5nd. Hon kunde urskilja vartenda h\u00e5rstr\u00e5 p\u00e5 hans huvud.\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r det d\u00e4r?\" sa en pojkr\u00f6st. Visserligen f\u00f6rstod hon inte orden, men hade inte sv\u00e5rt att begripa andemeningen.\n\nEfter ett \u00f6gonblick d\u00f6k pojken upp bredvid bj\u00f6rnen. Han s\u00e5g vildsint ut, med bister uppsyn och framskjuten haka. Och var det d\u00e4r en d\u00e6mon bredvid honom, formad som en f\u00e5gel? Men vilken underlig f\u00e5gel: den liknade inget hon hade sett tidigare. Den fl\u00f6g bort till Kulang och sa korthugget: _V\u00e4nner. Vi ska inte g\u00f6ra dig illa._\n\nDen stora vita bj\u00f6rnen hade inte gjort minsta r\u00f6relse.\n\n\"Kom upp hit\", sa pojken, och \u00e4n en g\u00e5ng s\u00e5g d\u00e6monen till att g\u00f6ra orden begripliga.\n\nAma s\u00e5g p\u00e5 bj\u00f6rnen i vidskeplig f\u00f6rundran n\u00e4r hon kl\u00e4ttrade upp bredvid det lilla vattenfallet och blygt st\u00e4llde sig p\u00e5 klippan. Kulang f\u00f6rvandlades till en fj\u00e4ril och slog sig hastigt ner p\u00e5 hennes kind innan han fladdrade bort till den andra d\u00e6monen, som satt stilla p\u00e5 pojkens hand.\n\n\"Will\", sa pojken och pekade p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv, s\u00e5 hon svarade: \"Ama\". Nu kunde hon se honom ordentligt och blev n\u00e4stan mer r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r pojken \u00e4n f\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnen. Han var skadad p\u00e5 ett fasansfullt s\u00e4tt: tv\u00e5 av fingrarna var borta. Hon k\u00e4nde sig l\u00e4tt vimmelkantig n\u00e4r hon uppt\u00e4ckte det.\n\nBj\u00f6rnen v\u00e4nde sig om och gick ner och lade sig i den mj\u00f6lkvita str\u00f6mmen som om den ville svalka sig. Pojkens d\u00e6mon fl\u00f6g upp i luften och flaxade omkring bland regnb\u00e5garna i s\u00e4llskap med Kulang, och l\u00e5ngsamt b\u00f6rjade de f\u00f6rst\u00e5 varandra.\n\nOch vad letade de efter, om inte en grotta med en sovande flicka? Orden snubblade snabbt ur henne som svar: \"Jag vet var den \u00e4r! Hon h\u00e5lls ners\u00f6vd av en kvinna som s\u00e4ger att hon \u00e4r hennes mamma, men inte kan det v\u00e4l finnas n\u00e5n mamma som \u00e4r s\u00e5 grym, eller hur? Hon tvingar henne att dricka n\u00e5t som h\u00e5ller henne ners\u00f6vd, men jag har n\u00e5gra \u00f6rter som kan f\u00e5 henne att vakna om jag bara kunde n\u00e5 fram till henne!\"\n\nWill kunde bara skaka p\u00e5 huvudet tills Balthamos hade \u00f6versatt. Det tog en dryg minut.\n\n\"Iorek\", ropade han. Bj\u00f6rnen lufsade fram l\u00e4ngs strandkanten och slickade sig om nosen, f\u00f6r han hade just satt i sig en fisk. \"Iorek\", sa Will, \"den h\u00e4r flickan s\u00e4ger att hon vet var Lyra \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans. Jag t\u00e4nker g\u00e5 och spana, medan du f\u00e5r stanna kvar h\u00e4r och h\u00e5lla utkik.\"\n\nIorek Byrnison stod p\u00e5 alla fyra i str\u00f6mmen och nickade tyst. Will g\u00f6mde ryggs\u00e4cken och sp\u00e4nde p\u00e5 sig kniven innan han kl\u00e4ttrade ner genom regnb\u00e5garna tillsammans med Ama. Han fick torka sig om \u00f6gonen och m\u00e5ste kisa i det gnistrande ljuset f\u00f6r att kunna avg\u00f6ra var det var s\u00e4kert att s\u00e4tta ner f\u00f6tterna. Dimman som fyllde luften var iskall.\n\nN\u00e4r han n\u00e5dde foten av vattenfallen tecknade Ama att de m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 f\u00f6rsiktigt och inte ge ifr\u00e5n sig n\u00e5gra ljud. Will gick bakom henne ner f\u00f6r sluttningen, mellan mossiga stenar och v\u00e4ldiga, knotiga tallstammar, d\u00e4r det fl\u00e4ckiga ljuset dansade med en intensivt gr\u00f6n f\u00e4rg och en miljard sm\u00e5 insekter surrade och sj\u00f6ng. De fortsatte ned\u00e5t, och \u00e4nnu l\u00e4ngre, men solskenet f\u00f6ljde dem \u00e4nnu, djupt ner i dalen, med grenarna ovanf\u00f6r dem oupph\u00f6rligt svajande i den klara skyn.\n\nSedan stannade Ama. Will sm\u00f6g upp bakom ett cedertr\u00e4ds massiva stam och spanade i den riktning hon pekade ut. Genom en h\u00e4rva av l\u00f6v och grenar kunde han se hur en brant reste sig till h\u00f6ger, och en bit upp...\n\n\"Mrs Coulter\", viskade han, och hans hj\u00e4rta bultade snabbare.\n\nKvinnan hade dykt upp bakom klippan och skakade dammet ur en l\u00f6vruska innan hon sl\u00e4ppte den ifr\u00e5n sig och b\u00f6rjade borsta av h\u00e4nderna. Hade hon sopat golvet? \u00c4rmarna var uppkavlade och hon hade satt upp h\u00e5ret med en scarf. Will hade aldrig kunnat f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig att hon kunde se s\u00e5 huslig ut.\n\nMen sedan blixtrade det till av guld och den illvilliga apan visade sig och skuttade upp p\u00e5 hennes axel. B\u00e5da tv\u00e5 s\u00e5g sig omkring som om de anade or\u00e5d, och pl\u00f6tsligt s\u00e5g mrs Coulter inte alls s\u00e4rskilt huslig ut.\n\nAma viskade entr\u00e4get: hon var r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r den gyllene apd\u00e6monen, f\u00f6r han tyckte om att slita vingarna av fladderm\u00f6ss medan de fortfarande levde.\n\n\"\u00c4r det n\u00e5n mer hos henne?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. \"Soldater eller s\u00e5?\"\n\nAma visste inte. Hon hade inte sett n\u00e5gra soldater, men folk pratade f\u00f6rst\u00e5s om underliga och skr\u00e4mmande m\u00e4n, eller s\u00e5 var det kanske andar, som kunde ses p\u00e5 bergssluttningarna om n\u00e4tterna... Men det hade alltid funnits andar i bergen, det visste ju alla. S\u00e5 de hade kanske inte n\u00e5got med kvinnan att g\u00f6ra \u00e4nd\u00e5.\n\nOm nu Lyra \u00e4r i grottan, t\u00e4nkte Will, och mrs Coulter inte t\u00e4nker l\u00e4mna den, s\u00e5 f\u00e5r v\u00e4l jag h\u00e4lsa p\u00e5 ist\u00e4llet.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r drog du har?\" fr\u00e5gade han. \"Vad m\u00e5ste man g\u00f6ra med den f\u00f6r att hon ska vakna?\"\n\nAma f\u00f6rklarade.\n\n\"Och var \u00e4r den nu?\"\n\nHemma hos henne, ber\u00e4ttade hon. Undang\u00f6md.\n\n\"V\u00e4nta h\u00e4r och h\u00e5ll dig utom synh\u00e5ll. N\u00e4r du tr\u00e4ffar henne f\u00e5r du inte ber\u00e4tta att du k\u00e4nner mig. Du har varken sett mig eller bj\u00f6rnen. N\u00e4r ska du h\u00e4mta mat \u00e5t henne n\u00e4sta g\u00e5ng?\"\n\nEn halvtimme f\u00f6re solnedg\u00e5ngen, svarade Amas d\u00e6mon.\n\n\"Ta med dig medicinen d\u00e5\", sa Will. \"Jag m\u00f6ter dig h\u00e4r.\"\n\nHon s\u00e5g oroligt p\u00e5 n\u00e4r han gav sig av l\u00e4ngs stigen. Han hade nog inte trott p\u00e5 det hon sa om apd\u00e6monen, f\u00f6r annars skulle han inte g\u00e5 s\u00e5 obekymrat upp till grottan.\n\nMen faktum var att Will var synnerligen nerv\u00f6s. Det var som om alla hans sinnen var sk\u00e4rpta, s\u00e5 att han var medveten om till och med de allra minsta insekterna som gled omkring i solskenet, om vartenda prasslande l\u00f6v och om molnens r\u00f6relser ovanf\u00f6r honom, \u00e4ven om hans blick aldrig l\u00e4mnade grott\u00f6ppningen.\n\n\"Balthamos\", viskade han och \u00e4nglad\u00e6monen fl\u00f6g upp p\u00e5 hans axel som en klar\u00f6gd liten f\u00e5gel med r\u00f6da vingar. \"H\u00e5ll dig t\u00e4tt intill mig och h\u00e5ll \u00f6gonen p\u00e5 apan.\"\n\n\"Titta \u00e5t h\u00f6ger d\u00e5\", sa Balthamos korthugget.\n\nWill s\u00e5g en fl\u00e4ck av gyllene ljus vid grott\u00f6ppningen. Fl\u00e4cken hade ett ansikte, och \u00f6gon som betraktade dem. Det var inte mer \u00e4n tjugo steg mellan betraktaren och Will. Han stannade. Den gyllene apan vred p\u00e5 huvudet f\u00f6r att titta in i grottan, sa n\u00e5got och v\u00e4nde sig sedan igen.\n\nWill lade handen p\u00e5 knivskaftet och trampade vidare.\n\nN\u00e4r han n\u00e5dde fram till grottan satt kvinnan och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 honom. Hon satt bekv\u00e4mt i sin lilla f\u00e4llstol, med en bok i kn\u00e4et och betraktade honom lugnt. Hon hade kakif\u00e4rgade friluftskl\u00e4der, men kl\u00e4derna var s\u00e5 v\u00e4lskurna och satt s\u00e5 perfekt p\u00e5 hennes figur att de s\u00e5g ut som det allra h\u00f6gsta modet, och den lilla bukett av r\u00f6da blommor hon hade n\u00e5lat fast p\u00e5 skjortan s\u00e5g ut som det mest eleganta smycke man kunde f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig. Hennes h\u00e5r gl\u00e4nste, de m\u00f6rka \u00f6gonen glittrade och de bara benen gl\u00e4nste gyllene i solskenet.\n\nHon log. Will var p\u00e5 vippen att le till svar, eftersom han var s\u00e5 ovan vid den ljuvhet och det behag som en kvinna kan l\u00e4gga in i ett leende, och det bringade honom lite ur fattningen.\n\n\"Du m\u00e5ste vara Will\", sa hon med den d\u00e4r l\u00e5ga, berusande r\u00f6sten.\n\n\"Hur vet du vad jag heter?\" fr\u00e5gade han skarpt.\n\n\"Lyra har sagt ditt namn i s\u00f6mnen.\"\n\n\"Var \u00e4r hon?\"\n\n\"I trygghet.\"\n\n\"Jag vill tr\u00e4ffa henne.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6lj med mig d\u00e5\", sa hon. Hon sl\u00e4ppte ifr\u00e5n sig boken p\u00e5 stolen n\u00e4r hon reste sig.\n\nWill s\u00e5g p\u00e5 apd\u00e6monen f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen sedan han kommit i hennes n\u00e4rhet. P\u00e4lsen var l\u00e5ng och gl\u00e4nsande och varje h\u00e5rstr\u00e5 s\u00e5g ut att vara spunnet av renaste guld. Str\u00e5na var mycket tunnare \u00e4n m\u00e4nniskoh\u00e5r och det lilla ansiktet och h\u00e4nderna var svarta. Sist Will hade sett det ansiktet hade det varit alldeles f\u00f6rvridet av hat. Det var den kv\u00e4llen n\u00e4r han och Lyra hade tagit tillbaka alethiometern fr\u00e5n sir Charles Latrom i huset i Oxford. Apan hade f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt bita honom, men Will hade farit ut med kniven och tvingat honom bak\u00e5t, s\u00e5 att han kunnat st\u00e4nga f\u00f6nstret och r\u00e4dda dem till en annan v\u00e4rld. Nu k\u00e4nde Will att det inte fanns n\u00e5got i hela v\u00e4rlden som skulle kunna f\u00e5 honom att v\u00e4nda ryggen mot den apan.\n\nMen Balthamos i f\u00e5gelskepnad var mycket vaksam. Will klev f\u00f6rsiktigt \u00f6ver golvet i grottan n\u00e4r han f\u00f6ljde mrs Coulter till den lilla kroppen som l\u00e5g alldeles stilla i skuggorna.\n\nD\u00e4r l\u00e5g hon, hans mest \u00e4lskade v\u00e4n, och sov. S\u00e5 liten hon s\u00e5g ut att vara! Han blev lite f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad \u00f6ver att Lyra kunde se s\u00e5 mjuk och mild ut n\u00e4r hon sov, trots styrkan och elden n\u00e4r hon var vaken. Pantalaimon l\u00e5g i illerskepnad vid hennes hals. Hans p\u00e4ls gl\u00e4nste och Lyras h\u00e5r l\u00e5g klistrat \u00f6ver pannan.\n\nWill kn\u00e4b\u00f6jde bredvid henne och str\u00f6k undan h\u00e5ret. Ansiktet var feberhett. Ur \u00f6gonvr\u00e5n s\u00e5g han hur den gyllene apan gjorde sig redo att hoppa, s\u00e5 han lade handen p\u00e5 kniven. Mrs Coulter skakade mycket l\u00e4tt p\u00e5 huvudet, och apan slappnade av.\n\nUtan att det syntes memorerade Will grottans exakta utseende: formen och storleken p\u00e5 varenda sten, golvets lutning, den exakta takh\u00f6jden ovanf\u00f6r den sovande flickan. Han skulle beh\u00f6va leta sig fram till platsen i m\u00f6rker och det h\u00e4r var hans enda chans att f\u00e5 se den i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g.\n\n\"Nu ser du att hon \u00e4r alldeles trygg\", sa mrs Coulter.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r h\u00e5ller du henne h\u00e4r? Och varf\u00f6r l\u00e5ter du henne inte vakna?\"\n\n\"L\u00e5t oss s\u00e4tta oss ner.\"\n\nHon satte sig inte i stolen, utan slog sig ner p\u00e5 de mossbevuxna stenarna vid grottans ing\u00e5ng. Hon l\u00e4t s\u00e5 v\u00e4nlig och det var s\u00e5 mycket sorgsen visdom i hennes \u00f6gon att Wills misstro bara \u00f6kade. Han k\u00e4nde att vartenda ord hon uttalade var en l\u00f6gn, att varje handling dolde ett hot och att varje leende var en mask av falskhet. N\u00e5, han skulle sj\u00e4lv beh\u00f6va lura henne. Han m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 henne att tro att han var ofarlig, men s\u00e5 hade han ocks\u00e5 framg\u00e5ngsrikt lurat varenda l\u00e4rare och poliskonstapel och socialarbetare och granne som n\u00e5gonsin intresserat sig f\u00f6r honom hemma \u2013 just det h\u00e4r hade han f\u00f6rberett sig p\u00e5 under hela sitt liv.\n\nJust det, t\u00e4nkte han. Dig kan jag klara av.\n\n\"Skulle du vilja ha n\u00e5got att dricka?\" fr\u00e5gade mrs Coulter. \"Jag tar lite jag ocks\u00e5... Det \u00e4r ingen fara. Titta h\u00e4r.\"\n\nHon skar itu n\u00e5gra brunaktiga och skrynkliga frukter och pressade den grumliga saften i tv\u00e5 sm\u00e5 muggar. Hon drack ur den ena och gav den andra till Will. Han tog en klunk ur muggen och uppt\u00e4ckte att drycken var b\u00e5de frisk och s\u00f6t.\n\n\"Hur hittade du v\u00e4gen hit?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"Det var inte s\u00e4rskilt sv\u00e5rt att f\u00f6lja efter dig.\"\n\n\"Uppenbarligen. Har du Lyras alethiometer?\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa han och \u00f6verl\u00e4t \u00e5t henne att r\u00e4kna ut om han kunde avl\u00e4sa den eller inte.\n\n\"Jag har f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt att du har en kniv ocks\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Var det sir Charles som ber\u00e4ttade om den?\"\n\n\"Sir Charles? \u00c5h \u2013 Carlo, f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. Jo, det gjorde han. Den verkar fascinerande. Kan jag f\u00e5 titta p\u00e5 den?\"\n\n\"Nej, naturligtvis inte\", sa han. \"Varf\u00f6r har du tagit Lyra till det h\u00e4r st\u00e4llet?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r att jag \u00e4lskar henne\", svarade hon. \"Jag \u00e4r hennes mamma. Hon \u00e4r i fruktansv\u00e4rd fara och jag t\u00e4nker inte l\u00e5ta n\u00e5got h\u00e4nda henne.\"\n\n\"Vilken sorts fara?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Tja...\", sa hon och st\u00e4llde ner muggen p\u00e5 marken och lutade sig fram\u00e5t s\u00e5 att h\u00e5ret f\u00f6ll ner p\u00e5 vardera sidan om ansiktet. N\u00e4r hon r\u00e4tade p\u00e5 sig igen stoppade hon tillbaka h\u00e5ret bakom \u00f6ronen med b\u00e5da h\u00e4nderna. N\u00e4r Will k\u00e4nde doften av den parfym hon hade p\u00e5 sig, uppblandad med den friska lukten av hennes kropp, blev han sm\u00e5tt orolig.\n\nOm mrs Coulter s\u00e5g hans reaktion, s\u00e5 visade hon det inte. Ist\u00e4llet fortsatte hon att prata. \"H\u00f6r p\u00e5, Will. Jag vet inte hur det kom sig att du tr\u00e4ffade min dotter och jag vet inte vad du redan vet. Vad jag verkligen inte vet \u00e4r om jag kan lita p\u00e5 dig, men jag \u00e4r precis lika tr\u00f6tt p\u00e5 att beh\u00f6va ljuga. S\u00e5 h\u00e4r kommer den: sanningen.\n\nJag uppt\u00e4ckte att min dotter hotas av just de m\u00e4nniskor som jag brukade tillh\u00f6ra \u2013 av kyrkan. F\u00f6r att vara uppriktig tror jag att de vill d\u00f6da henne. Jag har hamnat i ett litet dilemma, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du: lyda kyrkan eller r\u00e4dda min dotter. Jag har varit en lojal kyrkans tj\u00e4nare. Det fanns ingen som var mer h\u00e4ngiven \u00e4n jag, jag sk\u00e4nkte kyrkan mitt liv, jag tj\u00e4nade den passionerat...\n\nMen s\u00e5 hade jag ju en dotter...\n\nJag vet att jag inte tog s\u00e4rskilt bra hand om henne n\u00e4r hon var liten, men hon togs ifr\u00e5n mig och uppfostrades av fr\u00e4mlingar. Det \u00e4r kanske det som gjort det s\u00e5 sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r henne att lita p\u00e5 mig. N\u00e4r hon v\u00e4xte upp ins\u00e5g jag faran hon hotas av och tre g\u00e5nger har jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt r\u00e4dda henne fr\u00e5n den. Jag har tvingats att bryta med kyrkan och d\u00e4rf\u00f6r har jag g\u00f6mt mig p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r avl\u00e4gsna platsen. Jag trodde att vi var s\u00e4kra h\u00e4r, men nu n\u00e4r jag inser att du inte hade n\u00e5gra sv\u00e5righeter att hitta oss... Du kan s\u00e4kert f\u00f6rst\u00e5 att det g\u00f6r mig bekymrad. Kyrkan kan inte vara l\u00e5ngt bakom dig. Och de vill d\u00f6da henne, Will. De kommer inte att l\u00e5ta henne leva.\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r d\u00e5? Varf\u00f6r hatar dom henne s\u00e5 mycket?\"\n\n\"P\u00e5 grund av det de tror att hon kommer att \u00e5stadkomma. Jag vet inte vad det \u00e4r \u2013 jag \u00f6nskar att jag visste det, f\u00f6r d\u00e5 skulle jag kunna g\u00f6ra det \u00e4nnu s\u00e4krare f\u00f6r henne. Det enda jag vet \u00e4r att de hatar henne och att de \u00e4r skoningsl\u00f6sa, fullst\u00e4ndigt skoningsl\u00f6sa.\"\n\nHon lutade sig fram\u00e5t och talade intensivt, l\u00e5gt och n\u00e4ra.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r ber\u00e4ttar jag det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r dig?\" fortsatte hon. \"Kan jag lita p\u00e5 dig? Jag tror att jag m\u00e5ste. Jag kan inte fly l\u00e4ngre, det finns ingen plats jag kan fly till. Om du \u00e4r en av Lyras v\u00e4nner \u00e4r du kanske en av mina v\u00e4nner ocks\u00e5. Jag beh\u00f6ver verkligen v\u00e4nner, jag beh\u00f6ver verkligen hj\u00e4lp. Alla \u00e4r emot mig nu. Om kyrkan hittar oss kommer man att krossa mig ocks\u00e5, och inte bara Lyra. Jag \u00e4r ensam, Will, det \u00e4r bara jag i den h\u00e4r grottan tillsammans med min dotter och varenda en i hela v\u00e4rlden f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker hitta oss. S\u00e5 dyker du upp och visar hur l\u00e4tt det uppenbarligen var. Vad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra nu, Will? Vad \u00e4r det du vill?\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r h\u00e5ller du henne ners\u00f6vd?\" fr\u00e5gade han och undvek envist hennes fr\u00e5gor.\n\n\"Vad skulle h\u00e4nda om jag l\u00e4t henne vakna? Hon skulle rymma omedelbart. Hon skulle inte klara sig i fem dagar p\u00e5 egen hand.\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r f\u00f6rklarar du det inte f\u00f6r henne och ger henne chansen att v\u00e4lja?\"\n\n\"Tror du att hon skulle lyssna? Tror du att hon skulle tro mig, ens om hon lyssnade? Hon litar inte p\u00e5 mig. Hon hatar mig, Will. Du om n\u00e5gon borde veta det. Hon avskyr mig. Jag, ja... Jag vet inte hur jag ska s\u00e4ga det h\u00e4r... Jag \u00e4lskar henne s\u00e5 mycket att jag har gett upp allt jag hade \u2013 min fantastiska karri\u00e4r, min stora lycka, min position och mitt v\u00e4lst\u00e5nd \u2013 allt, f\u00f6r att bege mig till den h\u00e4r grottan bland bergen och leva p\u00e5 torrt br\u00f6d och sur frukt, bara f\u00f6r att kunna h\u00e5lla min dotter vid liv. Om jag d\u00e5 m\u00e5ste h\u00e5lla henne ners\u00f6vd f\u00f6r att lyckas, s\u00e5 f\u00e5r det bli p\u00e5 det viset. Men jag _m\u00e5ste_ h\u00e5lla henne vid liv. Skulle inte din mamma g\u00f6ra samma sak f\u00f6r din skull?\"\n\nWill k\u00e4nde en st\u00f6t av chock och vrede \u00f6ver att mrs Coulter v\u00e5gade dra in hans egen mamma som st\u00f6d f\u00f6r sina argument. Sedan komplicerades den f\u00f6rsta chocken av att hans mamma trots allt inte alls hade skyddat honom; det var han som hade skyddat henne. \u00c4lskade mrs Coulter Lyra mer \u00e4n Elaine Parry \u00e4lskade honom? Men det var inte n\u00e5gon r\u00e4ttvis j\u00e4mf\u00f6relse: hans mamma m\u00e5dde inte bra.\n\nAntingen f\u00f6rstod mrs Coulter inte den storm av k\u00e4nslor som hennes enkla ord hade gett upphov till, eller s\u00e5 var hon helt enkelt monstru\u00f6st slug. Hennes vackra \u00f6gon s\u00e5g milt p\u00e5 Will n\u00e4r han rodnande skruvade p\u00e5 sig. Under ett \u00f6gonblick var mrs Coulter f\u00f6runderligt lik sin dotter.\n\n\"Men vad _t\u00e4nker_ du g\u00f6ra?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"Tja, nu har jag ju sett Lyra\", sa Will, \"och hon lever, det \u00e4r uppenbart, och jag antar att hon \u00e4r trygg. Det var allt jag t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra. S\u00e5 nu n\u00e4r det \u00e4r gjort kan jag ge mig iv\u00e4g och hj\u00e4lpa lord Asriel, s\u00e5 som det var t\u00e4nkt fr\u00e5n b\u00f6rjan.\"\n\nDetta \u00f6verraskade henne lite grand, men hon h\u00e4mtade sig snabbt.\n\n\"Du menar inte \u2013 jag trodde att du t\u00e4nkte hj\u00e4lpa oss\", sa hon helt lugnt \u2013 inte b\u00f6nande, men ifr\u00e5gas\u00e4ttande. \"Med kniven. Jag s\u00e5g vad du gjorde hemma hos sir Charles. Visst skulle du v\u00e4l kunna hj\u00e4lpa oss? Du skulle kunna hj\u00e4lpa oss h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n?\"\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nker g\u00e5 nu\", sa Will och reste sig.\n\nHon r\u00e4ckte fram handen. Ett bedr\u00f6vat leende, en axelryckning och en nickning, som om hon hade h\u00e4lsat en duktig motst\u00e5ndare som gjort ett skickligt drag vid schackbordet: det var vad hennes kropp sa. Han fann att han b\u00f6rjade tycka om henne, eftersom hon var modig och f\u00f6r att hon verkade vara en mer komplicerad och fylligare och djupare version av Lyra. Han kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att tycka om henne.\n\nS\u00e5 han tog hennes hand och uppt\u00e4ckte att den var stadig och sval och mjuk. Hon v\u00e4nde sig till den gyllene apan, som hade suttit bakom henne hela tiden, och de utbytte en blick som Will inte kunde tolka.\n\nSedan v\u00e4nde hon sig mot honom igen med ett leende.\n\n\"Adj\u00f6\", sa han, och hon svarade: \"Adj\u00f6, Will.\"\n\nHan l\u00e4mnade grottan och visste att hon f\u00f6ljde honom med blicken, men han s\u00e5g sig inte om en enda g\u00e5ng. Ama syntes inte till. Han gick tillbaka samma v\u00e4g de hade kommit och h\u00f6ll sig till stigen tills han h\u00f6rde ljudet av vattenfallet lite l\u00e4ngre fram.\n\n\"Hon ljuger\", sa han till Iorek Byrnison trettio minuter senare. \"Det \u00e4r klart att hon ljuger. Hon skulle ljuga \u00e4ven om det st\u00e4llde till det \u00e4nnu v\u00e4rre f\u00f6r henne, bara f\u00f6r att hon tycker f\u00f6r mycket om att ljuga f\u00f6r att kunna l\u00e5ta bli.\"\n\n\"Vad har du d\u00e5 f\u00f6r plan?\" fr\u00e5gade bj\u00f6rnen, som l\u00e5g och solade sig med magen ned\u00e5t i en sn\u00f6driva bland stenarna.\n\nWill traskade fram och tillbaka och undrade om han kunde anv\u00e4nda samma trick som i Headington: att anv\u00e4nda kniven f\u00f6r att ta sig in i en annan v\u00e4rld och sedan bege sig direkt till den punkt d\u00e4r Lyra befann sig, f\u00f6r att sedan sk\u00e4ra sig tillbaka till den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, dra henne i s\u00e4kerhet och sedan st\u00e4nga f\u00f6nstret igen. Det var den sj\u00e4lvklara saken att g\u00f6ra: Men varf\u00f6r tvekade han?\n\nBalthamos visste. I sin egen \u00e4nglaform, skimrande i soldiset, sa han: \"Det var idiotiskt av dig att g\u00e5 till henne. Det enda du vill nu \u00e4r att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa henne igen.\"\n\nIorek gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett dovt och l\u00e5gt morrande. F\u00f6rst trodde Will att han varnade Balthamos, men sedan f\u00f6rstod han med en f\u00f6rl\u00e4gen chock att bj\u00f6rnen h\u00f6ll med \u00e4ngeln. De b\u00e5da hade tagit mycket lite notis om varandra fram tills nu, f\u00f6r deras levnadss\u00e4tt var s\u00e5 olika, men i den h\u00e4r fr\u00e5gan var de uppenbarligen helt \u00f6verens.\n\nWill bl\u00e4ngde, men de hade r\u00e4tt. Han hade f\u00e4ngslats av mrs Coulter. Alla hans tankar \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till henne: n\u00e4r han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 Lyra undrade han hur lik sin mor hon skulle vara n\u00e4r hon blivit vuxen; om han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 kyrkan undrade han hur m\u00e5nga pr\u00e4ster och kardinaler hon hade trollbundit; om han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 sin d\u00f6da pappa undrade han om han skulle ha avskytt eller beundrat henne; och om han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 sin egen mamma...\n\nHan k\u00e4nde hur han grimaserade inv\u00e4rtes. Han drog sig bort fr\u00e5n bj\u00f6rnen och st\u00e4llde sig p\u00e5 en sten s\u00e5 att han kunde se hela dalen. I den klara och kyliga luften kunde han h\u00f6ra ett avl\u00e4gset knack-knack fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gon som h\u00f6gg ved; han kunde h\u00f6ra den dova j\u00e4rnklockan runt halsen p\u00e5 ett f\u00e5r; han kunde h\u00f6ra prasslet fr\u00e5n tr\u00e4dtopparna l\u00e5ngt d\u00e4r nere. Minsta ravin var tydlig och skarp f\u00f6r hans blick, liksom gamarna som kretsade \u00f6ver n\u00e5gon d\u00f6ende varelse m\u00e5nga kilometer l\u00e4ngre bort.\n\nDet r\u00e5dde inget tvivel: Balthamos hade r\u00e4tt. Kvinnan hade f\u00f6rh\u00e4xat honom. Det var njutningsfullt och lockande att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 de vackra \u00f6gonen och den ljuva r\u00f6sten, och att minnas hur hon lyfte h\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r att stryka undan det gl\u00e4nsande h\u00e5ret...\n\nHan samlade sig med en anstr\u00e4ngning och uppt\u00e4ckte d\u00e5 ett helt annorlunda ljud: det var ett avl\u00e4gset surrande.\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig \u00e5t \u00e4n det ena och \u00e4n det andra h\u00e5llet f\u00f6r att lokalisera ljudet och hittade det till slut i norr, fr\u00e5n samma h\u00e5ll som han och Iorek hade kommit.\n\n\"Zeppelinare\", sa bj\u00f6rnen, vilket fick Will att hoppa till, f\u00f6r han hade inte h\u00f6rt den enorma varelsen dyka upp. Iorek stod bredvid honom och spanade \u00e5t samma h\u00e5ll, men reste sig sedan p\u00e5 bakbenen och tornade upp sig dubbelt s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt som Will under ett intensivt stirrande.\n\n\"Hur m\u00e5nga?\"\n\n\"\u00c5tta stycken\", sa Iorek efter n\u00e5gon minut och sedan s\u00e5g \u00e4ven Will zeppelinarna som sm\u00e5 prickar p\u00e5 en rad.\n\n\"Har du n\u00e5gon aning om n\u00e4r dom \u00e4r h\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"De \u00e4r framme strax efter m\u00f6rkrets inbrott.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 f\u00e5r vi inte s\u00e5 mycket skydd av m\u00f6rkret. Det var synd.\"\n\n\"Vad har du f\u00f6r plan?\"\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra en \u00f6ppning och dra in Lyra till en annan v\u00e4rld och st\u00e4nga \u00f6ppningen igen innan hennes mamma hinner f\u00f6lja efter. Flickan fr\u00e5n byn har ett medel som kan v\u00e4cka Lyra, men kunde inte f\u00f6rklara s\u00e5 bra hur det skulle anv\u00e4ndas. Hon f\u00e5r f\u00f6lja med in i grottan hon ocks\u00e5, men jag vill inte uts\u00e4tta henne f\u00f6r n\u00e5n fara. Du kanske kan distrahera mrs Coulter medan vi h\u00e5ller p\u00e5.\"\n\nBj\u00f6rnen grymtade till och sl\u00f6t \u00f6gonen. Will s\u00e5g sig om efter \u00e4ngeln och uppt\u00e4ckte hans skepnad som en silhuett mot dimdropparna i det sena kv\u00e4llsljuset.\n\n\"Balthamos\", sa han, \"jag ger mig ner till skogen nu f\u00f6r att hitta ett s\u00e4kert st\u00e4lle d\u00e4r jag kan g\u00f6ra en \u00f6ppning. Jag beh\u00f6ver din hj\u00e4lp f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla vakt och f\u00f6r att varna om hon kommer i n\u00e4rheten \u2013 hon eller hennes d\u00e6mon.\"\n\nBalthamos nickade och lyfte vingarna f\u00f6r att skaka bort fukten. Sedan for han rakt upp i den kalla luften och sv\u00e4vade ut \u00f6ver dalen medan Will b\u00f6rjade leta efter n\u00e5gon v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r Lyra kunde vara i s\u00e4kerhet.\n\nInuti den ledande zeppelinarens knarrande, vibrerande skrov h\u00f6ll trollsl\u00e4ndorna p\u00e5 att l\u00e4mna sina kokonger. Lady Salmakia lutade sig \u00f6ver den gnistrande bl\u00e5 kokongen n\u00e4r den sprack och sedan hj\u00e4lpte hon de fuktiga, tunna vingarna att komma loss, samtidigt som hon var noga med att l\u00e5ta sitt eget ansikte vara det f\u00f6rsta som de m\u00e5ngfacetterade \u00f6gonen f\u00f6ll p\u00e5. Hon lugnade de tunt utt\u00e4njda nerverna och viskade varelsens namn, s\u00e5 att den skimrande trollsl\u00e4ndan skulle f\u00e5 veta vem den var.\n\nOm n\u00e5gra minuter skulle chevalier Tialys g\u00f6ra samma sak med sin trollsl\u00e4nda. Just nu h\u00f6ll han dock p\u00e5 att skicka ett meddelande med magnetstensresonatorn, s\u00e5 hela hans uppm\u00e4rksamhet var koncentrerad p\u00e5 b\u00e5gens och fingrarnas r\u00f6relser.\n\nHan s\u00e4nde:\n\n_\"Till lord Roke:_\n\n_Det \u00e4r tre timmar kvar till den uppskattade ankomsttiden till dalen. Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden planerar att skicka trupper till grottan s\u00e5 snart man landat._\n\n_Truppen kommer att dela upp sig i tv\u00e5 grupper. Den f\u00f6rsta gruppen ska sl\u00e5 sig fram till grottan och d\u00f6da flickan, varefter man har order om att hugga av henne huvudet som bevis p\u00e5 att hon \u00e4r d\u00f6d. Om m\u00f6jligt t\u00e4nker de ta kvinnan till f\u00e5nga, men om det \u00e4r om\u00f6jligt kommer de att d\u00f6da henne._\n\n_Den andra gruppen ska f\u00e5nga pojken levande._\n\n_Resten av styrkan kommer att ta upp kampen med kung Ogunwes gyroptrar. Man uppskattar att gyroptrarna kommer att anl\u00e4nda strax efter zeppelinarna. I enlighet med v\u00e5ra order kommer lady Salmakia och jag sj\u00e4lv strax att l\u00e4mna zeppelinaren f\u00f6r att flyga direkt till grottan, d\u00e4r vi ska f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00f6rsvara flickan mot den f\u00f6rsta soldattruppen och h\u00e5lla st\u00e5nd tills f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkningarna anl\u00e4nder._\n\n_Vi v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 ert svar.\"_\n\nSvaret kom n\u00e4stan omedelbart.\n\n_\"Till chevalier Tialys:_\n\n_I ljuset av er rapport \u00e4ndrar vi planen._\n\n_F\u00f6r att hindra fienden fr\u00e5n att d\u00f6da barnet, vilket vore det s\u00e4msta m\u00f6jliga resultatet, s\u00e5 ska ni och lady Salmakia samarbeta med pojken. S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge han har kniven har han initiativet, s\u00e5 om han g\u00f6r en \u00f6ppning till en annan v\u00e4rld och tar flickan dit, l\u00e5t honom g\u00f6ra det och f\u00f6lj efter. Stanna hos dem hela tiden.\"_\n\nChevalier Tialys svarade:\n\n_\"Till lord Roke:_\n\n_Ordern \u00e4r uppfattad. Lady Salmakia och jag sj\u00e4lv kommer att ge oss av omedelbart.\"_\n\nDen lilla spionen st\u00e4ngde av resonatorn och samlade ihop utrustningen.\n\n\"Tialys\", h\u00f6rdes en viskning ur m\u00f6rkret, \"den h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att kl\u00e4ckas. Du m\u00e5ste komma nu.\"\n\nHan hoppade upp till staget d\u00e4r hans trollsl\u00e4nda h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att k\u00e4mpa sig ut i v\u00e4rlden och hj\u00e4lpte den ut ur den trasiga kokongen. Han smekte det stora och vildsinta huvudet och r\u00e4tade ut de tunga antennerna, som fortfarande var fuktiga och hoprullade, och l\u00e4t varelsen k\u00e4nna smaken av hans hud, tills den helt och h\u00e5llet stod under hans kontroll.\n\nSalmakia h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att sp\u00e4nna f\u00f6r trollsl\u00e4ndan med det seldon hon alltid f\u00f6rde med sig: spindelv\u00e4vstyglar, stigbyglar av titan och en sadel av kolibriskinn. Det var n\u00e4stan helt viktl\u00f6st. Tialys gjorde samma sak med sin egen och drog remmarna runt insektskroppen, sp\u00e4nde och r\u00e4ttade till. Seldonen skulle den ha p\u00e5 sig tills den dog.\n\nSedan sp\u00e4nde han snabbt p\u00e5 sig ryggs\u00e4cken och skar en \u00f6ppning i zeppelinarens oljedukshud. Bredvid honom satt lady Salmakia upp p\u00e5 sin egen trollsl\u00e4nda och lotsade den genom den smala springan ut i de piskande kastvindarna. De l\u00e5nga spr\u00f6da vingarna darrade n\u00e4r hon kl\u00e4mde sig igenom, men sedan tog gl\u00e4djen \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 flyga \u00f6verhanden och varelsen kastade sig ut i luften. N\u00e5gra sekunder senare ansl\u00f6t Tialys sig till henne i den rasande vinden och hans riddjur var ivrigt att f\u00e5 ta sig an till och med det snabbt fallande m\u00f6rkret.\n\nDe b\u00e5da virvlade upp\u00e5t i de iskalla luftstr\u00f6mmarna och \u00e4gnade n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick \u00e5t att ta ut b\u00e4ringen, innan de satte kurs mot dalen.\n\n## 12\n\n## Brytningen\n\n\u2022 I SIN FLYKT HAN BAK\u00c5T SPANADE, SOM OM FRUKTAN \u00c4NNU F\u00d6LJDE I HANS SP\u00c5R \u2022\n\nEDMUND SPENSER\n\nDETTA VAR L\u00c4GET n\u00e4r m\u00f6rkret f\u00f6ll.\n\nLord Asriel vankade av och an i sitt torn av adamant. Han hade sin uppm\u00e4rksamhet f\u00e4stad p\u00e5 den lilla figuren bredvid magnetstensresonatorn. Alla andra rapporter hade lagts \u00e5t sidan och alla tankar var fokuserade p\u00e5 de nyheter som f\u00f6rmedlades av det lilla fyrkantiga stenblocket i lampskenet.\n\nKung Ogunwe satt i kabinen till sin gyropter och arbetade snabbt ut en plan f\u00f6r hur han skulle kunna motarbeta Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden, vars avsikter han precis blivit informerad om av gallivespiern i den egna luftfarkosten. Navigat\u00f6ren klottrade n\u00e5gra siffror p\u00e5 en papperslapp, som han gav till piloten. Just nu var hastigheten det viktigaste: att f\u00e5 ner trupperna p\u00e5 marken f\u00f6rst skulle vara helt avg\u00f6rande. Gyroptrarna var snabbare \u00e4n zeppelinarna, men de l\u00e5g fortfarande l\u00e5ngt efter.\n\nI Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mndens zeppelinare h\u00f6ll schweizergardet p\u00e5 att g\u00e5 igenom sin utrustning. Deras armborst var d\u00f6dliga p\u00e5 upp till femhundra meters h\u00e5ll och varje skytt kunde ladda och avfyra femton sk\u00e4ktor i minuten. Spiralfenorna av horn fick sk\u00e4ktorna att rotera och gjorde vapnet lika tr\u00e4ffs\u00e4kert som ett gev\u00e4r. Ett armborst var naturligtvis ljudl\u00f6st, vilket borde vara en stor f\u00f6rdel.\n\nMrs Coulter l\u00e5g vaken i grott\u00f6ppningen. Den gyllene apan var rastl\u00f6s och frustrerad: fladderm\u00f6ssen hade l\u00e4mnat grottan n\u00e4r m\u00f6rkret f\u00f6ll, s\u00e5 det fanns inget att pl\u00e5ga. Han str\u00f6k omkring runt mrs Coulters sovs\u00e4ck och tryckte med sitt valkiga lilla finger ihj\u00e4l de enstaka eldflugor som slagit sig ner i grottan och smetade ut deras lyskraft \u00f6ver stengolvet.\n\nLyra var varm och n\u00e4stan lika rastl\u00f6s d\u00e4r hon l\u00e5g, men djupt, djupt i s\u00f6mn, inst\u00e4ngd i gl\u00f6mskan av den dryck som hennes mor hade tvingat i henne bara en timme tidigare. Den dr\u00f6m som hade sysselsatt henne under l\u00e5ng tid hade nu \u00e5terv\u00e4nt. Sm\u00e5 snyftningar av sj\u00e4lv\u00f6mkan och vrede och Lyrisk beslutsamhet fick hennes br\u00f6stkorg och l\u00e4ppar att darra och gjorde att Pantalaimon gnisslade sina illert\u00e4nder i sympati med henne.\n\nInte l\u00e5ngt d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n letade Will och Ama sig fram mot grottan l\u00e4ngs skogsstigen mellan de vindpinade tallarna. Will hade f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt f\u00f6rklara f\u00f6r Ama vad han t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra, men d\u00e6monen lyckades inte f\u00e5 n\u00e5gon r\u00e4tsida p\u00e5 vad han sa, s\u00e5 n\u00e4r han gjorde en \u00f6ppning och visade henne blev hon s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd att hon var n\u00e4ra att svimma. Han m\u00e5ste upptr\u00e4da lugnt och tala l\u00e5gt f\u00f6r att hon skulle stanna hos honom, eftersom hon v\u00e4grade att l\u00e5ta honom ta pulvret ifr\u00e5n henne eller ens ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r honom hur det skulle anv\u00e4ndas. \"Var bara v\u00e4ldigt tyst och f\u00f6lj efter mig\", sa han till slut och kunde bara hoppas att hon skulle f\u00f6lja uppmaningen.\n\nIorek i sin rustning var n\u00e5gonstans i n\u00e4rheten och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att f\u00e5 jaga bort soldaterna som skulle lands\u00e4ttas fr\u00e5n zeppelinarna, f\u00f6r att Will skulle f\u00e5 tid att hinna med sin uppgift. Det ingen av dem anade var att \u00e4ven lord Asriels styrka var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g: till och fr\u00e5n kunde Iorek h\u00f6ra det avl\u00e4gsna smattrandet. Han visste hur en zeppelinarmotor l\u00e4t, men eftersom han aldrig hade h\u00f6rt en gyropter tidigare f\u00f6rstod han inte vad det var.\n\nBalthamos kunde ha ber\u00e4ttat om dem, men Will var orolig f\u00f6r honom. Nu n\u00e4r de hade hittat Lyra hade \u00e4ngeln b\u00f6rjat dra sig undan i sin sorg: han var tyst, tankspridd och nedst\u00e4md. Och det i sin tur gjorde det sv\u00e5rare att prata med Ama.\n\nN\u00e4r de stannade till p\u00e5 stigen sa Will r\u00e4tt ut i luften: \"Balthamos? \u00c4r du d\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Ja\", svarade \u00e4ngeln h\u00e5gl\u00f6st.\n\n\"Balthamos, sn\u00e4lla, stanna hos mig. Stanna hos mig och varna mig f\u00f6r alla faror. Jag beh\u00f6ver dig.\"\n\n\"\u00c4n har jag inte \u00f6vergett dig\", svarade \u00e4ngeln.\n\nDet var det b\u00e4sta svar Will lyckades f\u00e5 ur honom.\n\nTialys och Salmakia sv\u00e4vade h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r dalen i den st\u00f6tiga luften och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte hitta grottan. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna gjorde precis som de blev tillsagda, men deras kroppar led av kylan och dessutom kastades de fram och tillbaka p\u00e5 ett farligt s\u00e4tt av den byiga vinden. Deras ryttare manade dem ned\u00e5t, in bland tr\u00e4dens skydd, och fl\u00f6g sedan fr\u00e5n gren till gren i det t\u00e4tnande m\u00f6rkret.\n\nWill och Ama sm\u00f6g vidare upp\u00e5t i det bl\u00e5siga m\u00e5nskenet tills de kommit s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra grott\u00f6ppningen som m\u00f6jligt, men fortfarande var utom synh\u00e5ll. Det r\u00e5kade vara bakom en buske med t\u00e4ta blad strax bredvid stigen, och h\u00e4r skar han en \u00f6ppning i luften.\n\nDen enda v\u00e4rld han kunde hitta med samma sorts sluttning var en kal och stenig plats. Fr\u00e5n sin stj\u00e4rnbestr\u00f6dda himmel lyste m\u00e5nen klart p\u00e5 den blekt benvita marken, d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 insekter kr\u00f6p omkring och fyllde den v\u00e4ldiga tystnaden med sina skrapande och gnisslande ljud.\n\nAma f\u00f6ljde honom igenom och tecknade samtidigt hastigt med fingrar och tummar som skydd mot de dj\u00e4vlar som m\u00e5ste hems\u00f6ka denna sp\u00f6klika plats. Hennes d\u00e6mon anpassade sig omedelbart och f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en \u00f6dla som p\u00e5 snabba f\u00f6tter kilade iv\u00e4g \u00f6ver stenarna.\n\nDet fanns en hake. Det klara m\u00e5nskenet p\u00e5 de benf\u00e4rgade klipporna skulle lysa som en lykta s\u00e5 snart han gjort en \u00f6ppning till mrs Coulters grotta. Han skulle bli tvungen att \u00f6ppna den snabbt, dra igenom Lyra och st\u00e4nga den omedelbart. Sedan kunde de v\u00e4cka Lyra i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, d\u00e4r det var s\u00e4krare.\n\nHan stannade p\u00e5 den bl\u00e4ndvita sluttningen. \"Vi m\u00e5ste vara mycket snabba och absolut tysta. Inga ljud, inte ens n\u00e5gra viskningar\", sa han till Ama.\n\nHon f\u00f6rstod, trots att hon var r\u00e4dd. Det lilla paketet med pulver l\u00e5g i hennes br\u00f6stficka: hon hade kontrollerat det ett dussin g\u00e5nger och hon och hennes d\u00e6mon hade g\u00e5tt igenom vad de skulle g\u00f6ra s\u00e5 ofta att hon var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att kunna klara det till och med i kolm\u00f6rker.\n\nDe kl\u00e4ttrade upp f\u00f6r de benvita klipporna. Will m\u00e4tte avst\u00e5ndet noga tills han uppskattade att de befann sig djupt inne i grottan.\n\nSedan tog han ut kniven och skar upp minsta m\u00f6jliga f\u00f6nster att titta igenom, och det var inte st\u00f6rre \u00e4n den ring han kunde \u00e5stadkomma mellan tummen och pekfingret.\n\nHan lade snabbt \u00f6gat mot \u00f6ppningen f\u00f6r att utest\u00e4nga m\u00e5nskenet och tittade in. D\u00e4r var det: han hade r\u00e4knat ut det bra. En bit bort kunde han se grott\u00f6ppningen och klipporna utanf\u00f6r, som var m\u00f6rka mot natthimlen; han kunde se mrs Coulters sovande skepnad, med den gyllene apan bredvid sig; han kunde till och med se apsvansen, som l\u00e5g nonchalant utlagd \u00f6ver sovs\u00e4cken.\n\nHan bytte vinkel och tittade n\u00e4rmare och s\u00e5g stenen bakom vilken Lyra l\u00e5g. Men han kunde inte se henne. Var han f\u00f6r n\u00e4ra? Han st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret och tog ett eller tv\u00e5 steg bak\u00e5t innan han gjorde en ny \u00f6ppning.\n\nHon var inte d\u00e4r.\n\n\"H\u00f6r p\u00e5\", sa han till Ama, \"kvinnan har flyttat henne och jag ser inte var hon \u00e4r. Jag m\u00e5ste ta mig igenom och leta efter henne i grottan, och sk\u00e4ra mig tillbaka hit s\u00e5 snart jag hittat henne. S\u00e5 kliv \u00e5t sidan \u2013 h\u00e5ll dig ur v\u00e4gen s\u00e5 att jag inte sk\u00e4r i dig av misstag n\u00e4r jag kommer tillbaka. Om jag blir kvar d\u00e4r av n\u00e5gon anledning, s\u00e5 g\u00e5 tillbaka till det andra f\u00f6nstret, d\u00e4r vi tog oss igenom.\"\n\n\"Vi borde g\u00e5 igenom b\u00e5da tv\u00e5\", sa Ama, \"eftersom jag vet hur man ska v\u00e4cka henne, och det g\u00f6r inte du, och dessutom kan jag grottan b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n du.\"\n\nHon s\u00e5g envis ut, l\u00e4pparna var h\u00e5rt hoppressade och n\u00e4varna var knutna. Hennes \u00f6dled\u00e6mon skaffade sig en halskrage som den l\u00e5ngsamt vecklade ut.\n\n\"Visst\", sa Will. \"Men vi f\u00e5r krypa igenom snabbt och alldeles tyst, och du g\u00f6r exakt som jag s\u00e4ger med en g\u00e5ng, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du?\"\n\nHon nickade och klappade \u00e4n en g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 fickan f\u00f6r att kontrollera att hon hade medicinen med sig.\n\nWill gjorde en liten och l\u00e5gt placerad \u00f6ppning och kikade in. Sedan f\u00f6rstorade han den snabbt och kr\u00f6p igenom p\u00e5 h\u00e4nder och f\u00f6tter, t\u00e4tt f\u00f6ljd av Ama. F\u00f6nstret stod \u00f6ppet i mindre \u00e4n tio sekunder.\n\nDe kr\u00f6p ihop p\u00e5 grottgolvet bakom en stor sten, med Balthamos i f\u00e5gelskepnad bredvid. Det tog en liten stund f\u00f6r \u00f6gonen att anpassa sig fr\u00e5n den andra v\u00e4rldens m\u00e5ndr\u00e4nkta ljus. Det var mycket m\u00f6rkare inuti grottan och det var ocks\u00e5 mycket bullrigare: det mesta av ljudet \u00e5stadkoms av vinden i tr\u00e4den, men bortom detta h\u00f6rdes \u00e4ven ett annat ljud. Det var d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n en zeppelinarmotor och den var inte l\u00e5ngt borta.\n\nWill hade kniven i h\u00f6gerhanden. Han reste sig f\u00f6rsiktigt och s\u00e5g sig om.\n\nAma gjorde detsamma och hennes uggled\u00e6mon kikade b\u00e5de h\u00e4r och d\u00e4r; men Lyra fanns helt enkelt inte i den h\u00e4r \u00e4nden av grottan. Den saken r\u00e5dde det inga tvivel om.\n\nWill tittade fram \u00f6ver stenen och spanade l\u00e4nge mot ing\u00e5ngen, d\u00e4r mrs Coulter och hennes d\u00e6mon l\u00e5g och sov djupt. Sedan sj\u00f6nk modet. D\u00e4r l\u00e5g Lyra, utstr\u00e4ckt i sin djupa s\u00f6mn, alldeles bredvid mrs Coulter. Deras konturer gick ihop i m\u00f6rkret och nu f\u00f6rstod han varf\u00f6r han inte hade sett henne.\n\nWill nuddade vid Amas hand och pekade.\n\n\"Vi f\u00e5r helt enkelt vara v\u00e4ldigt f\u00f6rsiktiga\", viskade han.\n\nN\u00e5got h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda utanf\u00f6r. D\u00e5net fr\u00e5n zeppelinarna var nu mycket h\u00f6gre \u00e4n ljudet av vinden i tr\u00e4den och flera r\u00f6rliga ljusk\u00e4glor sken ner fr\u00e5n grenarna ovanf\u00f6r. Ju snabbare de fick ut Lyra, desto b\u00e4ttre, och det innebar att de m\u00e5ste kila fram nu innan mrs Coulter vaknade, sk\u00e4ra upp en \u00f6ppning och dra in Lyra i s\u00e4kerhet och sedan st\u00e4nga efter sig.\n\nHan viskade detta till Ama. Hon nickade.\n\nMen precis n\u00e4r han skulle s\u00e4tta ig\u00e5ng vaknade mrs Coulter.\n\nHon r\u00f6rde sig och sa n\u00e5got och omedelbart var den gyllene apan p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter. Will kunde se hans silhuett i grott\u00f6ppningen, hopkrupen, uppm\u00e4rksam, och sedan satte mrs Coulter sig upp och skuggade \u00f6gonen mot ljuset utanf\u00f6r.\n\nWill h\u00f6ll handen h\u00e5rt om Amas handled. Mrs Coulter reste sig, fullt p\u00e5kl\u00e4dd, smidig, alert, inte alls som om hon precis hade sovit. Hon hade kanske varit vaken hela tiden. Hon och den gyllene apan satt hopkrupna innanf\u00f6r grott\u00f6ppningen, spanande och lyssnande, medan ljuset fr\u00e5n zeppelinarna svepte fr\u00e5n den ena till den andra sidan ovanf\u00f6r tr\u00e4dtopparna, samtidigt som motorerna d\u00e5nade. Rop, mansr\u00f6ster som varnade eller uttalade befallningar, gjorde det tydligt att de m\u00e5ste handla snabbt, mycket snabbt.\n\nWill kl\u00e4mde till om Amas handled och kilade fram\u00e5t med blicken mot marken f\u00f6r att inte snubbla. Han sprang snabbt och hopkrupet.\n\nSedan var han vid Lyras sida. Hon sov djupt med Pantalaimon runt halsen. Will h\u00f6ll upp kniven och trevade f\u00f6rsiktigt. En sekund senare skulle det finnas en \u00f6ppning s\u00e5 att han kunde dra Lyra i s\u00e4kerhet...\n\nMen ist\u00e4llet tittade han upp. Han s\u00e5g p\u00e5 mrs Coulter. Hon hade v\u00e4nt sig en aning och ljusskenet fr\u00e5n himlen \u00e5terspeglades p\u00e5 den fuktiga grottv\u00e4ggen och lyste upp hennes ansikte. Under ett \u00f6gonblick var det inte l\u00e4ngre hennes ansikte, utan hans egen mammas, med en f\u00f6rebr\u00e5ende min, s\u00e5 hans hj\u00e4rta skrek h\u00f6gt av sorg. N\u00e4r han d\u00e4refter tryckte till med kniven hade hans medvetande l\u00e4mnat spetsen, s\u00e5 med en st\u00f6t och ett krasande f\u00f6ll kniven i bitar p\u00e5 marken.\n\nDen hade g\u00e5tt s\u00f6nder.\n\nNu kunde han inte sk\u00e4ra sig ut alls.\n\n\"V\u00e4ck henne nu\", sa han till Ama. \"G\u00f6r det nu.\"\n\nSedan reste han sig upp, beredd p\u00e5 strid. Han skulle b\u00f6rja med att strypa apan. Han sp\u00e4nde sig inf\u00f6r dess angrepp och fann att han fortfarande hade knivskaftet i handen: det skulle han \u00e5tminstone kunna sl\u00e5ss med.\n\nMen det kom inget anfall, varken fr\u00e5n den gyllene apan eller fr\u00e5n mrs Coulter. Hon flyttade sig bara n\u00e5got s\u00e5 att ljuset utifr\u00e5n visade pistolen hon hade i handen. Samtidigt kom lite av ljuset att lysa upp det Ama sysslade med: hon pudrade Lyras \u00f6verl\u00e4pp med pulvret och n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g hur Lyra andades in det hj\u00e4lpte hon det p\u00e5 traven genom att anv\u00e4nda sin d\u00e6mons svans som borste.\n\nWill h\u00f6rde hur ljuden utifr\u00e5n f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades: d\u00e4r fanns nu en annan ton ut\u00f6ver d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n zeppelinaren. Det l\u00e4t bekant, likt ett intr\u00e5ng fr\u00e5n hans egen v\u00e4rld, men s\u00e5 k\u00e4nde han pl\u00f6tsligt igen det typiska smattrandet fr\u00e5n en helikopter. Sedan kom det en till och \u00e4nnu en och fler ljusk\u00e4glor spelade \u00f6ver de b\u00f6ljande tr\u00e4den utanf\u00f6r, och bestr\u00f6dde skogen med ett lysande gr\u00f6nt skimmer.\n\nMrs Coulter v\u00e4nde sig hastigt n\u00e4r det nya ljudet d\u00f6k upp, men alltf\u00f6r kortvarigt f\u00f6r att Will skulle kunna hoppa p\u00e5 henne och ta ifr\u00e5n henne pistolen. Apd\u00e6monen satt och bl\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 Will utan att blinka. Den hade krupit ihop och var redo att hoppa p\u00e5 honom.\n\nLyra r\u00f6rde p\u00e5 sig och b\u00f6rjade muttra. Will b\u00f6jde sig ner och tryckte hennes hand. Den andra d\u00e6monen puttade p\u00e5 Pantalaimon, lyfte det tunga huvudet och viskade till honom.\n\nUtanf\u00f6r h\u00f6rdes ett rop och en man f\u00f6ll ner ur himlen och landade med en ot\u00e4ck duns inte mer \u00e4n fem meter fr\u00e5n grott\u00f6ppningen. Mrs Coulter ryckte inte ens till; hon s\u00e5g bara kyligt p\u00e5 mannen och v\u00e4nde sedan blicken mot Will igen. Ett \u00f6gonblick senare h\u00f6rdes ett gev\u00e4rsskott uppifr\u00e5n och en sekund senare br\u00f6t det ut en storm av skottlossning och himlen fylldes av explosioner, av sprakande l\u00e5gor och gev\u00e4rssalvor.\n\nLyra k\u00e4mpade f\u00f6r att vakna, fl\u00e4mtande, suckande, gnyende, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte resa sig upp, men f\u00f6ll matt bak\u00e5t. Pantalaimon g\u00e4spade, str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 sig och h\u00f6gg efter den andra d\u00e6monen, men f\u00f6ll klumpigt \u00f6ver p\u00e5 ena sidan n\u00e4r musklerna inte ville fungera.\n\nWill sj\u00e4lv s\u00f6kte med st\u00f6rsta f\u00f6rsiktighet \u00f6ver grottgolvet efter den trasiga knivens alla delar. Det fanns inte tid att fundera \u00f6ver hur det hade g\u00e5tt till eller om den kunde lagas, men han var knivb\u00e4raren och m\u00e5ste samla ihop bitarna ordentligt. Varje bit han hittade lyfte han upp med st\u00f6rsta f\u00f6rsiktigt och sl\u00e4ppte ner i skidan, f\u00f6r varenda nerv i kroppen var v\u00e4l medveten om de saknade fingrarna. Det var l\u00e4tt att hitta bitarna, eftersom metallen reflekterade ljuset utifr\u00e5n: det var sju stycken och den minsta var sj\u00e4lva spetsen. Han plockade upp allihop och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sedan r\u00e4kna ut vad som h\u00e4nde i striden utanf\u00f6r.\n\nZeppelinarna h\u00e4ngde n\u00e5gonstans ovanf\u00f6r tr\u00e4den och m\u00e4n h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att glida ner f\u00f6r en m\u00e4ngd rep, men vinden gjorde det sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r piloterna att h\u00e5lla luftskeppen p\u00e5 plats. Under tiden hade de f\u00f6rsta gyroptrarna anl\u00e4nt ovanf\u00f6r klippan. Det fanns bara plats f\u00f6r dem att landa en i taget, och sedan m\u00e5ste de afrikanska gev\u00e4rsskyttarna leta sig ner f\u00f6r klippsluttningen. Det var en av dessa som hade tr\u00e4ffats av ett slumpskott fr\u00e5n de svajande zeppelinarna.\n\nVid det h\u00e4r laget hade b\u00e5da sidor landsatt en del av sina soldater. N\u00e5gra hade d\u00f6dats mellan himlen och marken, ytterligare n\u00e5gra hade s\u00e5rats och l\u00e5g p\u00e5 klipporna eller bland tr\u00e4den, men ingendera styrkan hade \u00e4nnu n\u00e5tt fram till grottan, s\u00e5 makten d\u00e4r inne l\u00e5g fortfarande hos mrs Coulter.\n\nOvanf\u00f6r ov\u00e4sendet sa Will:\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra?\"\n\n\"H\u00e5lla er f\u00e5ngna.\"\n\n\"Vad\u00e5, som gisslan? Varf\u00f6r skulle dom bry sig om den saken? Dom vill ju \u00e4nd\u00e5 bara ha ihj\u00e4l oss.\"\n\n\"Ena sidan, \u00e5tminstone\", sa hon, \"men jag \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 den andra. Vi f\u00e5r hoppas att afrikanerna vinner.\"\n\nHon l\u00e4t som om hon var p\u00e5 gott hum\u00f6r och i ljuset utifr\u00e5n s\u00e5g Will att hennes ansikte var uppt\u00e4nt av gl\u00e4dje och liv och energi.\n\n\"Du hade s\u00f6nder kniven\", sa hon.\n\n\"Nej, det hade jag inte. Jag ville att den skulle vara hel, s\u00e5 att vi kunde komma undan. Det var du som hade s\u00f6nder den.\"\n\nLyras r\u00f6st var entr\u00e4gen: \"Will?\" sluddrade hon. \"\u00c4r det du, Will?\"\n\n\"Lyra!\" sa han och kn\u00e4b\u00f6jde hastigt vid hennes sida. Ama hj\u00e4lpte henne att s\u00e4tta sig upp.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra. \"Var \u00e4r vi? \u00c5h, Will, jag hade en s\u00e5 konstig dr\u00f6m...\"\n\n\"Vi \u00e4r i en grotta. R\u00f6r dig inte f\u00f6r snabbt, f\u00f6r d\u00e5 blir du bara yr. Ta det lugnt bara. Vakna ordentligt. Du har sovit hur l\u00e4nge som helst.\"\n\nHennes \u00f6gonlock var fortfarande tunga och de v\u00e4ldiga g\u00e4spningarna fick kroppen att skaka. Men hon l\u00e4ngtade s\u00e5 desperat efter att f\u00e5 vakna att han hj\u00e4lpte henne upp och lade armen om hennes axel och bar upp en hel del av hennes tyngd. Ama s\u00e5g skyggt p\u00e5, f\u00f6r nu n\u00e4r den underliga flickan var vaken gjorde hon henne nerv\u00f6s. Will andades in doften av Lyras kropp med lycklig tillfredsst\u00e4llelse: hon var h\u00e4r, hon var verklig.\n\nDe satte sig p\u00e5 en sten. Lyra h\u00f6ll i hans hand och gned sig i \u00f6gonen med den andra handen.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det som p\u00e5g\u00e5r, Will?\" viskade hon.\n\n\"Ama h\u00e4r hade ett pulver som v\u00e4ckte dig\", sa han v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e5gt, s\u00e5 Lyra v\u00e4nde sig mot flickan och s\u00e5g p\u00e5 henne f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen. Hon lade handen p\u00e5 hennes axel som tack. \"Jag tog mig hit s\u00e5 snabbt jag kunde\", fortsatte Will, \"men det gjorde n\u00e5gra soldater ocks\u00e5. Jag vet inte vilka dom \u00e4r. Vi m\u00e5ste ge oss av s\u00e5 fort vi kan.\"\n\nUtanf\u00f6r n\u00e5dde bullret och f\u00f6rvirringen sin kulmen. En av gyroptrarna tr\u00e4ffades av en k\u00e4rve fr\u00e5n en kulspruta p\u00e5 en av zeppelinarna, samtidigt som soldaterna h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att hoppa ut p\u00e5 klippan. Gyroptern exploderade i ett eldklot, som inte bara d\u00f6dade bes\u00e4ttningen, utan \u00e4ven hindrade de \u00f6vriga gyroptrarna fr\u00e5n att landa.\n\n\u00c4nnu en zeppelinare hade hittat en \u00f6ppen plats l\u00e4ngre ner i dalen och de armborstskyttar som landsattes fr\u00e5n den rusade nu upp f\u00f6r stigen som f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkning \u00e5t dem som redan var i strid. Mrs Coulter f\u00f6ljde kampen s\u00e5 gott hon kunde fr\u00e5n grott\u00f6ppningen. Nu h\u00f6jde hon pistolen och st\u00f6dde den med b\u00e5da h\u00e4nderna och tog noga sikte innan hon sk\u00f6t. Will s\u00e5g eldskenet fr\u00e5n pipan, men h\u00f6rde inget \u00f6ver d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n explosionerna och skottlossningen utifr\u00e5n.\n\nOm hon g\u00f6r det d\u00e4r en g\u00e5ng till, t\u00e4nkte han, s\u00e5 ska jag rusa fram och knuffa omkull henne. Han v\u00e4nde sig mot Balthamos f\u00f6r att viska detta till honom, men \u00e4ngeln var inte i n\u00e4rheten. Ist\u00e4llet uppt\u00e4ckte Will till sin best\u00f6rtning att han sk\u00e4lvande och j\u00e4mrande hade krupit ihop mot grottv\u00e4ggen.\n\n\"Balthamos!\" sa Will entr\u00e4get. \"Kom hit, dom kan inte skada dig! Och du m\u00e5ste hj\u00e4lpa oss! Du kan sl\u00e5ss \u2013 det vet du \u2013 du \u00e4r ingen fegis \u2013 och vi beh\u00f6ver dig...\"\n\nMen innan \u00e4ngeln kunde svara h\u00e4nde n\u00e5got annat.\n\nMrs Coulter tj\u00f6t till och str\u00e4ckte handen mot vristen, och i samma \u00f6gonblick snappade den gyllene apan \u00e5t sig n\u00e5got ur luften med ett skadeglatt morrande.\n\nEn r\u00f6st \u2013 en kvinnas r\u00f6st \u2013 men p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt minimal \u2013 kom fr\u00e5n saken i apans tass:\n\n\"Tialys! Tialys!\"\n\nDet var en mycket liten kvinna, inte st\u00f6rre \u00e4n Lyras hand, och apan h\u00f6ll redan p\u00e5 att dra och dra i en av hennes armar, s\u00e5 att hon tj\u00f6t av sm\u00e4rta. Ama visste att han inte skulle sluta f\u00f6rr\u00e4n han hade dragit loss armen, men Will hoppade fram s\u00e5 snart han s\u00e5g pistolen falla ur mrs Coulters hand.\n\nHan f\u00e5ngade upp pistolen \u2013 men mrs Coulter hade stelnat till, och Will uppt\u00e4ckte pl\u00f6tsligt det underliga d\u00f6dl\u00e4ge som r\u00e5dde.\n\nB\u00e5de den gyllene apan och mrs Coulter var fullst\u00e4ndigt or\u00f6rliga. Hennes ansikte var f\u00f6rvridet av sm\u00e4rta och ilska, men hon v\u00e5gade inte r\u00f6ra sig, eftersom en mycket liten man stod p\u00e5 hennes axel med h\u00e4len pressad mot hennes hals och h\u00e4nderna invirade i hennes h\u00e5r. Till sin f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning s\u00e5g Will att det satt en gnistrande och benh\u00e5rd sporre p\u00e5 hans h\u00e4l och f\u00f6rstod nu vad det var som hade f\u00e5tt henne att ropa till \u00f6gonblicket tidigare. Han m\u00e5ste ha stuckit henne i vristen.\n\nMen den lille mannen kunde inte skada mrs Coulter p\u00e5 grund av den fara som hans partner befann sig i, i h\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 apan; och apan kunde inte skada henne, f\u00f6r i s\u00e5 fall skulle den lille mannen trycka in sin giftsporre i mrs Coulters puls\u00e5der. Ingen av dem kunde r\u00f6ra sig.\n\nMrs Coulter andades djupt. Hon svalde h\u00e5rt f\u00f6r att bem\u00e4stra sm\u00e4rtan. D\u00e4refter v\u00e4nde hon sina t\u00e5rfyllda \u00f6gon mot Will och fr\u00e5gade lugnt: \"Jaha, Will, vad tycker du att vi ska g\u00f6ra nu?\"\n\n## 13\n\n## Tialys och Salmakia\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 F\u00d6R DIN M\u00c5NES B\u00c5T, STR\u00c4NGA NATT, FRAM\u00c5T, H\u00c4R D\u00c4R JAG G\u00c5TT VILL! NU M\u00c5 JAG SLUMRA STILL \u2022\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nMED DEN TUNGA pistolen i ett stadigt grepp slog Will ut med handen s\u00e5 att han slog ner den gyllene apan fr\u00e5n dess sittplats \u2013 mrs Coulter st\u00f6nade h\u00f6gt n\u00e4r apan f\u00f6rlorade sansen. Samtidigt slappnade greppet tillr\u00e4ckligt mycket f\u00f6r att den lilla kvinnan skulle kunna slita sig loss ur aptassen.\n\n\u00d6gonblicket senare hoppade hon upp p\u00e5 en sten och mannen tog ett spr\u00e5ng bort fr\u00e5n mrs Coulter. B\u00e5da r\u00f6rde sig lika snabbt som gr\u00e4shoppor. De tre barnen hann inte ens bli f\u00f6rv\u00e5nade. Mannen var bekymrad: han k\u00e4nde f\u00f6rsiktigt p\u00e5 sin kamrats axel och arm och omfamnade henne hastigt innan han ropade p\u00e5 Will.\n\n\"Du! Pojk!\" sa han, och trots att r\u00f6sten var l\u00e5g i volymen, s\u00e5 var den lika djup som hos en vuxen man. \"Har du kniven?\"\n\n\"Visst\", sa Will. Om de inte visste att den var trasig, s\u00e5 hade han inga planer p\u00e5 att ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dem.\n\n\"Du och Lyra m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja med oss. Vem \u00e4r den andra flickan?\"\n\n\"Ama. Hon kommer fr\u00e5n byn\", sa Will.\n\n\"S\u00e4g \u00e5t henne att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda dit. S\u00e4tt fart nu, innan schweizarna dyker upp.\"\n\nWill tvekade inte. Oavsett vad de h\u00e4r b\u00e5da hade f\u00f6r planer, s\u00e5 kunde han och Lyra alltid fly genom det f\u00f6nster han hade \u00f6ppnat bakom busken l\u00e4ngre ner l\u00e4ngs stigen.\n\nHan hj\u00e4lpte Lyra p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter och tittade nyfiket n\u00e4r de sm\u00e5 figurerna hoppade upp p\u00e5 \u2013 vad? F\u00e5glar? Nej, trollsl\u00e4ndor, som var n\u00e4stan lika l\u00e5nga som hans underarm. De hade v\u00e4ntat i m\u00f6rkret och susade nu bort till grott\u00f6ppningen, d\u00e4r mrs Coulter l\u00e5g. Hon var bed\u00f6vad och halvt ifr\u00e5n sig av sm\u00e4rta av det stick hon hade f\u00e5tt fr\u00e5n chevalier Tialys, men str\u00e4ckte \u00e4nd\u00e5 ut handen n\u00e4r de gick f\u00f6rbi henne.\n\n\"Lyra! Lyra, min dotter, min \u00e4lskade! Lyra, g\u00e5 inte! G\u00e5 inte!\" ropade hon.\n\nLyra s\u00e5g p\u00e5 henne med pl\u00e5gad min, men sedan klev hon \u00f6ver hennes kropp och lossade hennes svaga grepp om vristen. Nu snyftade kvinnan \u2013 Will kunde se t\u00e5rar som glittrade p\u00e5 hennes kinder.\n\nDe tre barnen kr\u00f6p ihop bredvid grott\u00f6ppningen och v\u00e4ntade tills det blev ett kort uppeh\u00e5ll i skottlossningen. Sedan f\u00f6ljde de efter trollsl\u00e4ndorna n\u00e4r de sk\u00f6t iv\u00e4g l\u00e4ngs stigen. Ljuset hade f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats: det bestod inte l\u00e4ngre bara av det kalla anbariska skenet fr\u00e5n zeppelinarnas s\u00f6karljus, utan nu f\u00e4rgades det \u00e4ven brandgult av de dansande l\u00e5gorna.\n\nWill s\u00e5g sig bara om en g\u00e5ng. Mrs Coulters ansikte var en mask av f\u00f6rtvivlan i ljuset och d\u00e6monen klamrade sig \u00f6mkligt fast vid henne d\u00e4r hon l\u00e5g p\u00e5 kn\u00e4 och gr\u00e5tande str\u00e4ckte ut armarna:\n\n\"Lyra! Lyra, min \u00e4lskade! Min hj\u00e4rteskatt, mitt lilla barn, mitt allt! \u00c5h, Lyra, Lyra, g\u00e5 inte, l\u00e4mna mig inte! Min \u00e4lskade dotter... du krossar mitt hj\u00e4rta...\"\n\nEn v\u00e4ldig och v\u00e5ldsam snyftning fick Lyra att skaka, f\u00f6r trots allt var mrs Coulter den enda mamma hon n\u00e5gonsin hade haft, och Will s\u00e5g en str\u00f6m av t\u00e5rar rinna ner f\u00f6r flickans kinder.\n\nMen han m\u00e5ste vara skoningsl\u00f6s. Han drog i Lyras hand, och n\u00e4r trollsl\u00e4nderyttaren pilade fram i n\u00e4rheten av hans huvud och sa \u00e5t dem att skynda p\u00e5 ledde han henne i en hukande spr\u00e5ngmarsch ner f\u00f6r stigen och bort fr\u00e5n grottan. Mrs Coulters pistol l\u00e5g nu i Wills hand, som bl\u00f6dde p\u00e5 nytt efter slaget mot apan.\n\n\"Kl\u00e4ttra upp till toppen av klippan\", sa trollsl\u00e4nderyttaren, \"och ge er till afrikanerna. Det \u00e4r det b\u00e4sta ni kan g\u00f6ra.\"\n\nWill t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 de vassa sporrarna, men sa inget, f\u00f6r han hade inte minsta tanke p\u00e5 att lyda. Det fanns bara en plats han hade i tankarna och det var f\u00f6nstret bakom busken; s\u00e5 han h\u00f6ll huvudet l\u00e5gt och sprang snabbt. Lyra och Ama f\u00f6ljde t\u00e4tt efter honom.\n\n\"Halt!\"\n\nEn man, tre m\u00e4n, blockerade stigen framf\u00f6r dem \u2013 de var uniformerade \u2013 vita m\u00e4n med armborst och morrande varghundsd\u00e6moner \u2013 schweizergardet.\n\n\"Iorek!\" ropade Will omedelbart. \"Iorek Byrnison!\" Han kunde h\u00f6ra hur bj\u00f6rnen r\u00f6t och slogs alldeles i n\u00e4rheten, och h\u00f6rde skriken och tjuten fr\u00e5n de soldater som haft oturen att springa ihop med honom.\n\nMen det var n\u00e5gon annan som d\u00f6k upp ur intet f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa dem: Balthamos, som i suddig f\u00f6rtvivlan slungade sig mellan barnen och soldaterna. M\u00e4nnen backade f\u00f6rbluffat n\u00e4r uppenbarelsen skimrade till framf\u00f6r dem.\n\nMen m\u00e4nnen var v\u00e4ltr\u00e4nade krigare och \u00f6gonblicket senare kastade d\u00e6monerna sig mot \u00e4ngeln. Deras grymma huggt\u00e4nder blixtrade vita i dunklet. Balthamos ryggade undan: han gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett tjut av r\u00e4dsla och skam n\u00e4r han backade och sedan h\u00e4vde han sig upp\u00e5t med kraftiga vingslag. Will s\u00e5g i f\u00f6rf\u00e4ran hur hans v\u00e4n och v\u00e4gvisare sk\u00f6t iv\u00e4g i luften och f\u00f6rlorade sig bland tr\u00e4dtopparna.\n\nLyra f\u00f6ljde h\u00e4ndelsen med l\u00e4tt f\u00f6rvirrad blick. Det hade inte tagit mer \u00e4n ett par tre sekunder, men det r\u00e4ckte f\u00f6r att schweizarna skulle hinna samla sig. N\u00e4r ledaren h\u00f6jde armborstet hade Will inget annat val: han sv\u00e4ngde upp pistolen, kl\u00e4mde h\u00f6gerhanden h\u00e5rt om kolven och tryckte av. Rekylen fick hela honom att skaka, men kulan tr\u00e4ffade mannen rakt i hj\u00e4rtat.\n\nSoldaten slungades bak\u00e5t som om han hade blivit sparkad av en h\u00e4st. Samtidigt for de sm\u00e5 spionerna iv\u00e4g mot de b\u00e5da andra soldaterna. De hade kastat sig av trollsl\u00e4ndorna och angripit sina offer innan Will ens hunnit blinka. Kvinnan hittade en hals, mannen en handled, och b\u00e5da gjorde varsitt snabbt bak\u00e5triktat hugg med h\u00e4len. En kv\u00e4vd, \u00e5ngestfylld fl\u00e4mtning, och sedan dog de b\u00e5da schweizarna, och deras d\u00e6moner f\u00f6rsvann mitt i d\u00f6dstjuten.\n\nWill tog ett skutt \u00f6ver kropparna och Lyra f\u00f6ljde efter. De sprang snabbt vidare med Pantalaimon som en vildkatt hack i h\u00e4l. _Vart hade Ama tagit v\u00e4gen?_ t\u00e4nkte Will. I samma \u00f6gonblick s\u00e5g han att hon sprang nerhukad l\u00e4ngs en annan stig. Nu klarar hon sig, t\u00e4nkte han, och sekunden senare s\u00e5g han det bleka skimret fr\u00e5n f\u00f6nstret l\u00e5ngt inne bland buskarna. Han grep tag i Lyras arm och drog henne mot f\u00f6nstret. De var rivna i ansiktet, kl\u00e4derna var trasiga, de snavade p\u00e5 r\u00f6tter och stenar, men de n\u00e5dde till slut f\u00f6nstret och tumlade igenom. De f\u00f6ll in i den andra v\u00e4rlden, in till de benvita klipporna under den skinande m\u00e5nen, d\u00e4r det bara var insekternas surrande som br\u00f6t den v\u00e4ldiga tystnaden.\n\nDet f\u00f6rsta Will gjorde var att sl\u00e5 armarna om magen och kr\u00e4kas. Han spydde g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng i d\u00f6dsf\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckt fasa. Nu hade han d\u00f6dat tv\u00e5 m\u00e4n, f\u00f6rutom ton\u00e5ringen i \u00c4nglarnas torn... Det h\u00e4r var inte vad Will hade \u00f6nskat sig. Hela hans kropp v\u00e4nde sig mot den instinkt som hade f\u00e5tt honom att g\u00f6ra det, och resultatet var en torr, sur, pl\u00e5gsam omg\u00e5ng p\u00e5 kn\u00e4, spyende, tills b\u00e5de mage och hj\u00e4rta var t\u00f6mda p\u00e5 inneh\u00e5ll.\n\nLyra kunde bara se p\u00e5 utan att kunna hj\u00e4lpa, s\u00e5 hon tog ist\u00e4llet hand om Pan och vaggade honom mot br\u00f6stet.\n\nTill slut hade Will \u00e5terh\u00e4mtat sig tillr\u00e4ckligt f\u00f6r att kunna se sig om. Han uppt\u00e4ckte omedelbart att de inte var ensamma i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, eftersom de sm\u00e5 spionerna ocks\u00e5 var d\u00e4r, med sin utrustning utbredd p\u00e5 marken i n\u00e4rheten. Deras trollsl\u00e4ndor for fram \u00f6ver klipporna och snappade \u00e5t sig nattfj\u00e4rilar. De b\u00e5da spionerna tittade str\u00e4ngt p\u00e5 barnen samtidigt som mannen masserade kvinnans axel. Deras \u00f6gon var s\u00e5 klara och deras drag s\u00e5 skarpa att det inte r\u00e5dde n\u00e5gon tvekan om deras k\u00e4nslor. Will f\u00f6rstod att de var ett formidabelt par, vad de \u00e4n var f\u00f6r n\u00e5gra.\n\n\"Alethiometern ligger i min ryggs\u00e4ck d\u00e4r borta\", sa han till Lyra.\n\n\"\u00c5h, Will \u2013 jag hoppades verkligen att du skulle hitta den \u2013 vad var det som _h\u00e4nde_? Hittade du din pappa? Och min _dr\u00f6m_ , Will \u2013 det \u00e4r n\u00e4stan obegripligt, det som vi m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra, \u00e5h, jag v\u00e5gar inte ens t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 saken... Den \u00e4r i _s\u00e4kerhet_! Har du tagit den med dig hela v\u00e4gen hit bara f\u00f6r min skull...?\"\n\nOrden tumlade ur henne s\u00e5 snabbt att inte ens hon v\u00e4ntade sig n\u00e5gra svar. Hon v\u00e4nde och vred p\u00e5 alethiometern. Fingrarna smekte det tunga guldskalet, den sl\u00e4ta kristallen och de r\u00e4fflade uppdragningsskruvarna, som hon k\u00e4nde s\u00e5 v\u00e4l, t\u00e4nkte Will.\n\nMen det f\u00f6rsta han sa var: \"M\u00e5r du bra? \u00c4r du hungrig eller t\u00f6rstig?\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte... jo. Men inte s\u00e4rskilt. Hur som helst...\"\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste nog flytta oss fr\u00e5n f\u00f6nstret\", sa Will, \"om dom skulle r\u00e5ka hitta det och ta sig igenom.\"\n\n\"Jo, det \u00e4r nog b\u00e4st\", sa hon, s\u00e5 de gav sig av upp f\u00f6r sluttningen. Will bar sin ryggs\u00e4ck och Lyra bar lyckligt sin lilla v\u00e4ska med alethiometern. Ur \u00f6gonvr\u00e5n s\u00e5g Will att de b\u00e5da sm\u00e5 spionerna f\u00f6ljde efter, men att de h\u00f6ll sig p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd och inte verkade hotfulla.\n\nUppe p\u00e5 kullens topp fanns en klippkant som gav ett visst skydd, och d\u00e4r slog de sig ner efter att noga ha unders\u00f6kt om det fanns n\u00e5gra ormar d\u00e4r, och delade sedan p\u00e5 lite torkad frukt och drack lite vatten ur Wills flaska.\n\nL\u00e5gt sa Will: \"Kniven har g\u00e5tt s\u00f6nder. Jag vet inte hur det gick till. Mrs Coulter gjorde n\u00e5t, eller sa n\u00e5t, och sen t\u00e4nkte jag p\u00e5 min mamma och det fick kniven att rycka till eller fastna eller \u2013 jag vet inte vad som h\u00e4nde. Men nu \u00e4r vi fast h\u00e4r tills vi kan f\u00e5 den lagad. Jag ville inte att dom d\u00e4r b\u00e5da sm\u00e5 varelserna skulle f\u00e5 veta det, f\u00f6r s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge dom tror att jag fortfarande kan anv\u00e4nda den, s\u00e5 har jag ett \u00f6vertag. Jag t\u00e4nkte att du kunde fr\u00e5ga alethiometern, kanske, och...\"\n\n\"Javisst!\" sa hon. \"Javisst, det ska jag g\u00f6ra.\"\n\nHon halade snabbt fram det gyllene instrumentet och flyttade ut i m\u00e5nskenet f\u00f6r att l\u00e4ttare kunna se urtavlan. Hon str\u00f6k tillbaka h\u00e5ret bakom \u00f6ronen precis som Will hade sett hennes mor g\u00f6ra, och b\u00f6rjade vrida p\u00e5 skruvarna p\u00e5 det gamla vanliga s\u00e4ttet. Pantalaimon satt i musskepnad i hennes kn\u00e4. Men det var inte s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt som hon hade trott. Kanske m\u00e5nljuset f\u00f6rvillade henne? Hon fick vrida den n\u00e5gra varv, och blinka tills hon kunde se klart. F\u00f6rst d\u00e5 blev symbolerna tydliga och hon kunde l\u00e4sa instrumentet igen.\n\nHon hade n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt b\u00f6rjat innan hon gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett litet tjut av upphetsning. S\u00e5 tittade hon upp p\u00e5 Will med lysande \u00f6gon, alltmedan visaren snurrade. Men den var inte klar \u00e4n, s\u00e5 hon f\u00f6ljde den med rynkad panna tills den hade stannat helt.\n\nHon stoppade undan alethiometern och sa: \"Iorek? \u00c4r han h\u00e4r, Will? Jag tyckte jag h\u00f6rde dig ropa p\u00e5 honom, men sen trodde jag att det bara var en \u00f6nskedr\u00f6m. \u00c4r han _verkligen_ h\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Ja. Kan han laga kniven? Sa alethiometern det?\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, han kan g\u00f6ra vad som helst med metall, Will! Inte bara rustningar \u2013 han kan g\u00f6ra sm\u00e5 uts\u00f6kta saker ocks\u00e5...\" Hon ber\u00e4ttade om den lilla pl\u00e5tasken som Iorek hade gjort till den lilla spionflugan. \"Men var \u00e4r han?\"\n\n\"I n\u00e4rheten. Han borde ha kommit n\u00e4r jag ropade, men han var nog i strid... Balthamos! Han m\u00e5ste ha varit fullst\u00e4ndigt vettskr\u00e4md...\"\n\n\"Vem?\"\n\nHan f\u00f6rklarade snabbt och k\u00e4nde sj\u00e4lv hur kinderna hettade av den skam som \u00e4ngeln m\u00e5ste ha k\u00e4nt.\n\n\"Jag f\u00e5r ber\u00e4tta mer om honom sen\", sa han. \"Det \u00e4r s\u00e5 underligt... Han ber\u00e4ttade s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga saker f\u00f6r mig, och jag tror att jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r dom ocks\u00e5...\" Han str\u00f6k handen genom h\u00e5ret och gnuggade sig i \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"Du m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta allt f\u00f6r mig\", sa hon best\u00e4mt. \"Allt du gjort sen hon fick tag p\u00e5 mig. \u00c5h, Will, du bl\u00f6der v\u00e4l inte fortfarande? Din stackars hand...\"\n\n\"Nej. Min pappa botade mig. Jag slog bara upp s\u00e5ret n\u00e4r jag klappade till den gyllene apan, men det \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre nu. Han gav mig lite salva som han hade blandat till...\"\n\n\" _Hittade_ du din pappa?\"\n\n\"Ja, den d\u00e4r natten uppe p\u00e5 berget...\"\n\nHan l\u00e4t henne g\u00f6ra rent s\u00e5ret och l\u00e4gga p\u00e5 lite ny salva fr\u00e5n den lilla asken av horn medan han ber\u00e4ttade om vad som hade h\u00e4nt: striden med fr\u00e4mlingen, insikten de slogs av bara sekunden innan pappan genomborrades av h\u00e4xans pil, hans m\u00f6te med \u00e4nglarna, f\u00e4rden till grottan och m\u00f6tet med Iorek.\n\n\"Och allt det d\u00e4r h\u00e4nde medan jag l\u00e5g och sov\", sa hon f\u00f6rundrat. \"Vet du, Will, jag tror hon var sn\u00e4ll mot mig \u2013 jag _tror_ hon var det \u2013 jag tror inte att hon n\u00e5nsin ville g\u00f6ra mig illa... Hon gjorde en massa hemska saker, men...\"\n\nHon gnuggade sig i \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"\u00c5h, men min _dr\u00f6m_ , Will \u2013 jag kan knappt ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dig hur konstig den var! Det var som n\u00e4r jag l\u00e4ser alethiometern, all den d\u00e4r tydligheten och f\u00f6rst\u00e5elsen som g\u00e5r s\u00e5 djupt att man inte kan se botten, men \u00e4nd\u00e5 \u00e4r det s\u00e5 klart och tydligt hela v\u00e4gen ner.\n\nDet var... Kommer du ih\u00e5g att jag ber\u00e4ttade om min v\u00e4n Roger, och om hur Slukarna f\u00e5ngade honom och att jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte r\u00e4dda honom, men att det gick \u00e5t skogen sen, n\u00e4r lord Asriel d\u00f6dade honom?\n\nJag s\u00e5g honom. I dr\u00f6mmen s\u00e5g jag honom igen, det var bara det att han var d\u00f6d, han var en ande, men han liksom ropade p\u00e5 mig. Det var bara det att jag inte kunde h\u00f6ra honom. Han ville inte att jag skulle d\u00f6, det var inte det, men han ville prata med mig.\n\nOch... Det var jag som tog med honom till Svalbard d\u00e4r han dog. Det var mitt fel att han dog. Jag t\u00e4nkte tillbaka p\u00e5 n\u00e4r vi lekte p\u00e5 Jordan College, Roger och jag, p\u00e5 taken, runt om i stan, p\u00e5 torgen och vid floden och nere vid Lerbankarna... Jag och Roger och alla dom andra... Jag gav mig iv\u00e4g till Bolvangar f\u00f6r att h\u00e4mta hem honom, men ist\u00e4llet gjorde jag det bara v\u00e4rre, och om jag inte kan be om f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse, s\u00e5 kommer det inte att vara v\u00e4rt n\u00e5nting, det kommer bara att vara ett enda stort sl\u00f6seri med tid. Jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra det h\u00e4r, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du, Will. Jag m\u00e5ste ner till dom d\u00f6das land och hitta honom... och be om f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse. Jag struntar fullst\u00e4ndigt i vad som h\u00e4nder sen. Men sen kan vi... Jag kan... Det har ingen betydelse sen.\"\n\n\"Den d\u00e4r platsen d\u00e4r dom d\u00f6da finns. \u00c4r det en v\u00e4rld som den h\u00e4r, som din eller min eller n\u00e5n av dom andra?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. \"\u00c4r det en v\u00e4rld jag kan ta mig till med hj\u00e4lp av kniven?\"\n\nHon s\u00e5g p\u00e5 honom, slagen av en tanke.\n\n\"Du skulle ju kunna fr\u00e5ga\", fortsatte han. \"G\u00f6r det nu. Fr\u00e5ga var det ligger och hur vi tar oss dit.\"\n\nHon lutade sig \u00f6ver alethiometern och fingrarna r\u00f6rde sig snabbt. En minut senare hade hon f\u00e5tt svar.\n\n\"Ja\", sa hon, \"men det \u00e4r en underlig plats, Will... V\u00e4ldigt underlig... Skulle vi verkligen kunna g\u00f6ra det? Skulle vi verkligen kunna ta oss till dom d\u00f6das land? Men \u2013 vilken del av oss skulle n\u00e5 fram? D\u00e6monerna f\u00f6rsvinner n\u00e4r vi d\u00f6r \u2013 jag har sett det h\u00e4nda \u2013 och v\u00e5ra kroppar. Dom stannar v\u00e4l i graven bara och ruttnar bort?\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 m\u00e5ste det finnas en tredje del. En del som \u00e4r annorlunda.\"\n\n\"Vet du\", sa hon och blev alldeles upphetsad, \"jag tror att det m\u00e5ste vara s\u00e5! F\u00f6r jag kan t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 min kropp och jag kan t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 min d\u00e6mon \u2013 s\u00e5 det m\u00e5ste finnas ytterligare en del, den del som st\u00e5r f\u00f6r t\u00e4nkandet!\"\n\n\"Ja, det m\u00e5ste vara anden.\"\n\nLyras \u00f6gon gnistrade. \"Vi kanske kan f\u00e5 ut Rogers ande\", sa hon. \"Vi kanske kan r\u00e4dda honom.\"\n\n\"Kanske. Vi kan i alla fall f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka.\"\n\n\"Ja, det g\u00f6r vi!\" sa hon genast. \"Vi ger oss av tillsammans! Det \u00e4r just det vi ska g\u00f6ra!\"\n\nMen om de inte kunde f\u00e5 kniven lagad, t\u00e4nkte Will, s\u00e5 skulle de inte kunna g\u00f6ra n\u00e5gonting alls.\n\nS\u00e5 snart hans huvud hade klarnat och magen k\u00e4ndes lite lugnare satte han sig upp och ropade p\u00e5 de b\u00e5da sm\u00e5 spionerna. De var sysselsatta i n\u00e4rheten med en mycket liten apparat.\n\n\"Vilka \u00e4r ni?\" fr\u00e5gade han. \"Och vilken sida st\u00e5r ni p\u00e5?\"\n\nMannen slutade med det han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med och kn\u00e4ppte igen en tr\u00e4l\u00e5da, som liknade ett fiolfodral och inte var st\u00f6rre \u00e4n en valn\u00f6t. Det var kvinnan som b\u00f6rjade prata.\n\n\"Vi \u00e4r gallivespier\", sa hon. \"Jag heter lady Salmakia och min f\u00f6ljeslagare heter chevalier Tialys. Vi \u00e4r lord Asriels spioner.\"\n\nHon stod p\u00e5 en sten tre, fyra steg fr\u00e5n Will och Lyra, skarp och skimrande i m\u00e5nskenet. Hennes l\u00e5ga r\u00f6st var fullst\u00e4ndigt klar och tydlig, hennes ansiktsuttryck var sj\u00e4lvs\u00e4kert. Hon bar en l\u00f6st sittande kjol av ett silvrigt material och en \u00e4rml\u00f6s gr\u00f6n blus. De sporrf\u00f6rsedda f\u00f6tterna var bara, precis som p\u00e5 mannen. Hans kl\u00e4der hade liknande f\u00e4rger, men \u00e4rmarna var l\u00e5nga, och de vida byxorna n\u00e5dde ner p\u00e5 halva vaden. B\u00e5da tv\u00e5 s\u00e5g ut att vara starka, skickliga, skoningsl\u00f6sa och stolta.\n\n\"Vilken v\u00e4rld kommer ni ifr\u00e5n?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra. \"Jag har aldrig sett n\u00e5gra som ni f\u00f6rut.\"\n\n\"V\u00e5r v\u00e4rld har samma problem som er\", svarade Tialys. \"Vi \u00e4r rebeller. V\u00e5r ledare lord Roke h\u00f6rde talas om lord Asriels uppror och lovade v\u00e5rt st\u00f6d.\"\n\n\"Vad ska ni g\u00f6ra med mig?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6ra dig till din far\", sa lady Salmakia. \"Lord Asriel s\u00e4nde ut en styrka under kung Ogunwes ledning f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda dig och pojken och f\u00f6r att f\u00f6ra er b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 till hans f\u00e4stning. Vi \u00e4r h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa er.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, men t\u00e4nk om jag inte vill tr\u00e4ffa min pappa? T\u00e4nk om jag inte litar p\u00e5 honom?\"\n\n\"Det var tr\u00e5kigt att h\u00f6ra\", svarade hon, \"men det var v\u00e5ra order: att f\u00f6ra er till honom.\"\n\nLyra kunde inte hejda sig: hon skrattade h\u00f6gt vid tanken p\u00e5 att de h\u00e4r sm\u00e5 varelserna skulle kunna tvinga henne att g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got. Men det var ett misstag. Med en hastig r\u00f6relse hade kvinnan f\u00e5tt tag p\u00e5 Pantalaimon och h\u00f6ll hans muskropp i ett h\u00e5rt grepp och nuddade vid hans ben med sporrspetsen. Lyra fl\u00e4mtade till: det var precis som chocken n\u00e4r m\u00e4nnen i Bolvangar hade tagit honom. Ingen hade till\u00e5telse att r\u00f6ra vid en annan m\u00e4nniskas d\u00e6mon \u2013 det var en kr\u00e4nkning.\n\nMen s\u00e5 s\u00e5g hon att Will hade svept upp mannen i sin h\u00f6gerhand och h\u00f6ll honom h\u00e5rt runt benen s\u00e5 att han inte kunde anv\u00e4nda sina sporrar. Will h\u00f6ll mannen h\u00f6gt i luften.\n\n\"D\u00f6dl\u00e4ge igen\", sa lady Salmakia lugnt. \"Sl\u00e4pp chevalier Tialys, pojk.\"\n\n\"Sl\u00e4pp Lyras d\u00e6mon f\u00f6rst\", sa Will. \"Jag \u00e4r inte p\u00e5 hum\u00f6r att diskutera.\"\n\nLyra s\u00e5g med kylig upphetsning att Will var fullt redo att d\u00e4nga gallivespierns huvud mot stenen. De b\u00e5da sm\u00e5 varelserna f\u00f6rstod det ocks\u00e5.\n\nSalmakia flyttade ena foten fr\u00e5n Pantalaimons ben, och s\u00e5 snart han hade slitit sig ur hennes grepp f\u00f6rvandlade han sig till en vildkatt, vildsint fr\u00e4sande, med p\u00e4lsen p\u00e5 \u00e4nda och piskande svans. Hans blottade huggt\u00e4nder var bara ett par centimeter fr\u00e5n lady Salmakias ansikte, men hon betraktade honom utan att blinka. Efter ett \u00f6gonblick v\u00e4nde han sig om och flydde i minkform till Lyras br\u00f6st. Will st\u00e4llde f\u00f6rsiktigt ner Tialys p\u00e5 stenen bredvid hans kollega.\n\n\"Det vore b\u00e4st f\u00f6r dig sj\u00e4lv om du visade lite mer respekt\", sa chevalier Tialys till Lyra. \"Du \u00e4r ett tankl\u00f6st och uppstudsigt barn och flera modiga m\u00e4n har d\u00f6tt i kv\u00e4ll f\u00f6r att kunna r\u00e4dda dig. Ett visst m\u00e5tt av \u00f6dmjukhet skulle vara kl\u00e4dsamt.\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa hon kuvat. \"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t, jag ska. Jag lovar.\"\n\n\"Vad dig anbelangar...\", fortsatte han och v\u00e4nde sig mot Will.\n\nMen Will avbr\u00f6t honom. \"Vad mig anbelangar, s\u00e5 vill jag inte bli tilltalad p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet, s\u00e5 f\u00f6rs\u00f6k inte ens. Respekt g\u00e5r \u00e5t b\u00e5da h\u00e5llen. H\u00f6r p\u00e5 nu. Det \u00e4r inte ni som best\u00e4mmer h\u00e4r, det g\u00f6r vi. Om ni vill stanna och hj\u00e4lpa oss, s\u00e5 g\u00f6r ni som vi s\u00e4ger. Annars kan ni sticka tillbaka till lord Asriel med en g\u00e5ng. Det \u00e4r inget att diskutera.\"\n\nLyra kunde se hur spionerna stelnade av ilska, men Tialys s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Wills hand, som vilade p\u00e5 skidan vid b\u00e4ltet. Hon f\u00f6rstod att spionen t\u00e4nkte att s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge Will hade kniven, s\u00e5 skulle han vara starkare \u00e4n dem. De fick inte p\u00e5 minsta villkor ber\u00e4tta att kniven var trasig.\n\n\"Utm\u00e4rkt\", sa chevalier Tialys. \"D\u00e5 kommer vi att hj\u00e4lpa er, eftersom det \u00e4r den uppgift vi har f\u00e5tt oss tilldelad. Men nu m\u00e5ste ni ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss vad ni t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra.\"\n\n\"Det kan jag g\u00e5 med p\u00e5\", sa Will. \"Jag ska ber\u00e4tta. Vi t\u00e4nker \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till Lyras v\u00e4rld s\u00e5 snart vi har vilat oss, och sedan ska vi leta reda p\u00e5 en v\u00e4n till oss, en bj\u00f6rn. Han \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt borta.\"\n\n\"Bj\u00f6rnen i rustning?\" sa Salmakia. \"Vi s\u00e5g honom sl\u00e5ss. Det ska vi hj\u00e4lpa er med. Men sedan m\u00e5ste ni f\u00f6lja med oss till lord Asriel.\"\n\n\"Ja\", lj\u00f6g Lyra med allvarlig r\u00f6st, \"oh, ja, det g\u00f6r vi sen.\"\n\nPantalaimon var lugnare nu och ganska nyfiken, s\u00e5 hon l\u00e4t honom kl\u00e4ttra upp p\u00e5 axeln och byta form. Han f\u00f6rvandlades till en trollsl\u00e4nda, lika stor som de b\u00e5da andra, som nu for fram genom luften. Pantalaimon pilade iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att ansluta sig till dem.\n\n\"Det d\u00e4r giftet\", sa Lyra och v\u00e4nde sig till gallivespierna, \"i era sporrar, menar jag, \u00e4r det d\u00f6dligt? Ni stack min mamma med det \u2013 mrs Coulter? Kommer hon att d\u00f6?\"\n\n\"Det var bara ett l\u00e4ttare sting\", sa Tialys. \"En full dos skulle ha d\u00f6dat henne, men en s\u00e5dan liten skr\u00e5ma kommer bara att g\u00f6ra henne illam\u00e5ende och d\u00e5sig i en halv dag eller s\u00e5.\"\n\nOch utsatt f\u00f6r sv\u00e5ra pl\u00e5gor, men det ber\u00e4ttade han inte f\u00f6r Lyra.\n\n\"Jag m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 prata p\u00e5 egen hand med Lyra\", sa Will. \"Vi t\u00e4nker bara g\u00e5 undan en liten stund.\"\n\n\"St\u00e4mmer det att du kan sk\u00e4ra dig igenom till andra v\u00e4rldar med hj\u00e4lp av kniven?\" fr\u00e5gade chevalier Tialys.\n\n\"Litar du inte p\u00e5 mig?\"\n\n\"Nej.\"\n\n\"Okej, i s\u00e5 fall l\u00e4mnar jag kniven h\u00e4r. Om jag inte har den kan jag inte anv\u00e4nda den.\"\n\nHan lossade skidan och lade den ifr\u00e5n sig p\u00e5 klippan, och sedan promenerade han och Lyra bort och satte sig p\u00e5 en plats d\u00e4r de fortfarande kunde se gallivespierna. Tialys tittade n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 knivskaftet, men r\u00f6rde inte vid det.\n\n\"Vi f\u00e5r helt enkelt st\u00e5 ut med dom\", sa Will. \"Men vi sticker s\u00e5 snart kniven \u00e4r lagad.\"\n\n\"Dom \u00e4r s\u00e5 himla _snabba_ , Will\", sa hon. \"Och dom skulle inte bry sig om dom hade ihj\u00e4l dig.\"\n\n\"Vi f\u00e5r hoppas att Iorek kan laga den. Jag hade inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt innan hur mycket vi beh\u00f6ver den.\"\n\n\"Han klarar det\", sa hon, full av tillit till bj\u00f6rnen.\n\nHon satt och tittade p\u00e5 Pantalaimon n\u00e4r han pilade fram och tillbaka genom luften och snappade \u00e5t sig nattfj\u00e4rilar p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som de b\u00e5da andra trollsl\u00e4ndorna. Han kunde inte ge sig iv\u00e4g lika l\u00e5ngt, men han var minst lika snabb och hade \u00e4nnu starkare f\u00e4rger. Hon str\u00e4ckte upp handen, och han fl\u00f6g ner och satte sig p\u00e5 den. De l\u00e5nga och genomskinliga vingarna vibrerade.\n\n\"Tror du att vi kan lita p\u00e5 dom medan vi sover?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Jo. Dom \u00e4r farliga, men jag tror att dom \u00e4r \u00e4rliga.\"\n\nDe gick tillbaka till klippan. \"Jag t\u00e4nker g\u00e5 och l\u00e4gga mig nu\", sa han till gallivespierna. \"Vi ger oss av i morgon bitti.\"\n\nChevalier Tialys nickade, varefter Will rullade ihop sig och genast somnade.\n\nLyra satte sig bredvid honom med Pantalaimon i famnen, kattformad och varm. Vilken tur Will hade nu att hon var vaken och kunde ta hand om honom! Han var verkligen fullst\u00e4ndigt or\u00e4dd, och det var n\u00e5got hon beundrade bortom allt f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd, men han var inte s\u00e4rskilt bra p\u00e5 att ljuga och f\u00f6rr\u00e5da och luras, saker som var lika naturliga f\u00f6r henne som att andas. N\u00e4r hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 saken k\u00e4nde hon sig alldeles varm och dygdig inombords, eftersom hon gjorde det f\u00f6r Wills skull, aldrig f\u00f6r sin egen del.\n\nHon hade t\u00e4nkt titta p\u00e5 alethiometern igen, men till hennes oerh\u00f6rda f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning var hon lika tr\u00f6tt som om hon hade varit vaken hela tiden ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r medvetsl\u00f6s. Hon lade sig ner f\u00f6r att sluta \u00f6gonen under bara ett kort \u00f6gonblick, intalade hon sig, men sov djupt redan efter en kort stund.\n\n## 14\n\n## Veta vad du ber om\n\nARBETE UTAN GL\u00c4DJE \u00c4R TARVLIGT, ARBETE UTAN SORG \u00c4R TARVLIGT, SORG UTAN ARBETE \u00c4R TARVLIGT, GL\u00c4DJE UTAN ARBETE \u00c4R TARVLIGT.\n\nJOHN RUSKIN\n\nWILL OCH LYRA sov natten igenom och vaknade f\u00f6rst n\u00e4r \u00f6gonlocken tr\u00e4ffades av solskenet. De vaknade n\u00e4stan samtidigt, och med samma tanke i huvudet: men n\u00e4r de s\u00e5g sig om stod chevalier Tialys p\u00e5 vakt alldeles bredvid.\n\n\"Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mndens styrka har dragit sig tillbaka\", ber\u00e4ttade han f\u00f6r dem. \"Mrs Coulter har fallit i kung Ogunwes h\u00e4nder och \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till lord Asriel.\"\n\n\"Hur vet du det?\" sa Will och satte sig stelt upp. \"Har du varit p\u00e5 andra sidan f\u00f6nstret?\"\n\n\"Nej. Vi kommunicerar genom magnetstensresonatorn. Jag rapporterade v\u00e5rt samtal till v\u00e5r bef\u00e4lhavare lord Roke\", sa Tialys till Lyra, \"och han har g\u00e5tt med p\u00e5 att vi g\u00f6r s\u00e4llskap med er till bj\u00f6rnen och att ni sedan f\u00f6ljer med oss s\u00e5 snart ni har tr\u00e4ffat honom. S\u00e5 nu \u00e4r vi allierade och ska hj\u00e4lpa er s\u00e5 gott vi kan.\"\n\n\"Bra\", sa Will. \"D\u00e5 \u00e4ter vi frukost. \u00c4ter ni v\u00e5r mat?\"\n\n\"Jad\u00e5. Tack s\u00e5 mycket\", sa lady Salmakia.\n\nWill plockade fram sina sista torkade persikor och det torra platta r\u00e5gbr\u00f6det, som var allt han hade kvar, och delade det mellan dem, men naturligtvis \u00e5t spionerna inte s\u00e4rskilt mycket.\n\n\"Det verkar inte finnas n\u00e5t vatten i n\u00e4rheten i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden\", sa Will. \"Vi f\u00e5r v\u00e4nta tills vi g\u00e5tt tillbaka innan vi f\u00e5r n\u00e5t att dricka.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 \u00e4r det b\u00e4st att vi g\u00f6r det s\u00e5 snart som m\u00f6jligt\", sa Lyra. Men f\u00f6rst tog hon fram alethiometern och fr\u00e5gade om det fanns n\u00e5gra farligheter kvar i dalen. Till skillnad fr\u00e5n natten f\u00f6re kunde hon l\u00e4sa den klart och tydligt, men efter att ha sovit s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge var hon l\u00e5ngsam och stel i fingrarna. Nej, kom svaret, alla soldaterna hade gett sig av och byborna befann sig i sina hem. De gjorde sig redo att ge sig av.\n\nF\u00f6nstret s\u00e5g underligt ut i den gnistrande \u00f6kenluften, d\u00e4r det \u00f6ppnade sig mot den m\u00f6rktonade busken. Det var en fyrkant av t\u00e4t gr\u00f6n v\u00e4xtlighet, som h\u00e4ngde som en tavla i luften, s\u00e5 gallivespierna ville titta n\u00e4rmare. De f\u00f6rv\u00e5nades n\u00e4r de uppt\u00e4ckte att f\u00f6nstret inte syntes fr\u00e5n baksidan och att det bara d\u00f6k upp n\u00e4r man rundade det.\n\n\"Jag m\u00e5ste st\u00e4nga det n\u00e4r vi har tagit oss igenom\", sa Will.\n\nLyra f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte nypa ihop kanterna, men hennes fingrar kunde helt enkelt inte hitta dem och det kunde inte spionerna heller, trots att deras h\u00e4nder var s\u00e5 mycket mindre. Det var bara Will som kunde k\u00e4nna exakt var kanterna befann sig, och han st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret snyggt och prydligt.\n\n\"Hur m\u00e5nga v\u00e4rldar kan du bes\u00f6ka med hj\u00e4lp av kniven?\" fr\u00e5gade Tialys.\n\n\"S\u00e5 m\u00e5nga som det finns\", sa Will. \"Ingen skulle n\u00e5gonsin hinna uppt\u00e4cka allihop.\"\n\nHan hivade upp ryggs\u00e4cken p\u00e5 ryggen och tog t\u00e4ten l\u00e4ngs skogsstigen. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna nj\u00f6t av den friska och fuktiga luften och pilade fram mellan solstr\u00e5larna. Tr\u00e4dens r\u00f6relser ovanf\u00f6r dem var inte lika v\u00e5ldsamma som f\u00f6rut och luften var sval och stilla. Det kom d\u00e4rf\u00f6r som en kraftig chock n\u00e4r de uppt\u00e4ckte det f\u00f6rvridna gyroptervraket, som satt fastkilat mellan grenarna, med den afrikanske pilotens kropp intrasslad i s\u00e4kerhetsb\u00e4ltet men halvv\u00e4gs ute genom d\u00f6rren, och n\u00e4r de hittade de f\u00f6rbr\u00e4nda resterna av zeppelinaren lite l\u00e4ngre upp \u2013 sotsvarta tygremsor, sv\u00e4rtade stag och r\u00f6r, krossat glas och sedan de f\u00f6rkolnade kropparna av tre m\u00e4n. Lemmarna var f\u00f6rvridna och uppdragna, som om de fortfarande var stridsberedda.\n\nDet h\u00e4r var bara de soldater som hade stupat i n\u00e4rheten av stigen. Det fanns fler kroppar och mer vrakdelar uppe p\u00e5 klippan och bland tr\u00e4den l\u00e4ngre ner. De tv\u00e5 barnen r\u00f6rde sig chockade och tysta genom blodbadet, medan spionerna p\u00e5 sina trollsl\u00e4ndor s\u00e5g sig om med kyligare blickar, eftersom de var vana vid strid. De noterade hur det hade g\u00e5tt och vem som hade f\u00f6rlorat mest.\n\nN\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde dalens \u00f6vre \u00e4nde, d\u00e4r tr\u00e4den tunnades ut och de regnb\u00e5gsfyllda vattenfallen b\u00f6rjade, stannade de f\u00f6r att dricka djupt av det iskalla vattnet.\n\n\"Jag hoppas att den lilla flickan klarade sig\", sa Will. \"Vi skulle aldrig ha f\u00e5tt iv\u00e4g dig om hon inte hade v\u00e4ckt dig. Hon gick till en helig man f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 det d\u00e4r pulvret.\"\n\n\"Hon m\u00e5r bra\", sa Lyra. \"Det vet jag, f\u00f6r jag fr\u00e5gade alethiometern ig\u00e5r kv\u00e4ll. Men hon tror att vi \u00e4r dj\u00e4vlar. Hon \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r oss. Hon \u00f6nskar nog att hon aldrig hade st\u00f6tt ihop med oss, men hon \u00e4r \u00e5tminstone i s\u00e4kerhet.\"\n\nDe kl\u00e4ttrade upp bredvid vattenfallen och fyllde Wills f\u00e4ltflaska innan de gav sig iv\u00e4g \u00f6ver plat\u00e5n mot den \u00e5s d\u00e4r alethiometern sa att Iorek skulle befinna sig.\n\nSedan f\u00f6ljde en dag fylld av en l\u00e5ng och arbetsam vandring: det var inte speciellt besv\u00e4rligt f\u00f6r Will, men en verklig pl\u00e5ga f\u00f6r Lyra, vars muskler var f\u00f6rsvagade efter den l\u00e5nga s\u00f6mnen. Men hon skulle hellre ha l\u00e5tit sk\u00e4ra av sig tungan \u00e4n erk\u00e4nt hur illa hon m\u00e5dde: utan ett ord, haltande och sammanbitet, h\u00f6ll hon samma takt som Will. Det var f\u00f6rst vid middagstid, n\u00e4r de stannade f\u00f6r att rasta, som hon gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett litet kvidande, och d\u00e5 bara n\u00e4r Will hade g\u00e5tt \u00e5t sidan f\u00f6r att l\u00e4tta p\u00e5 trycket.\n\n\"Vila dig\", sa lady Salmakia. \"Det \u00e4r ingen skam att vara tr\u00f6tt.\"\n\n\"Men jag vill inte svika Will! Jag vill inte att han ska tycka att jag \u00e4r svag och att jag f\u00f6rsenar honom.\"\n\n\"Det vore det sista han skulle tycka.\"\n\n\"Det vet du inget om\", sa Lyra h\u00e5rt. \"Du vet lika lite om honom som du vet om mig.\"\n\n\"Jag vet \u00e5tminstone vad n\u00e4svishet \u00e4r\", sa lady Salmakia lugnt. \"G\u00f6r nu som jag s\u00e4ger och vila dig. Spara krafterna till vandringen.\"\n\nLyra k\u00e4nde sig upprorisk, men lady Salmakias glittrande sporrar var v\u00e4ldigt tydliga i solskenet, s\u00e5 hon sa inget.\n\nHennes kamrat, chevalier Tialys, \u00f6ppnade l\u00e5dan med magnetstensresonatorn. Nyfikenheten vann \u00f6ver f\u00f6rtrytelsen, s\u00e5 Lyra tittade p\u00e5 f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 veta vad han gjorde. Instrumentet p\u00e5minde lite om en penna gjord av matt gr\u00e5svart sten, som vilade p\u00e5 ett st\u00f6d av tr\u00e4. Chevalier Tialys spelade med n\u00e5got som liknade en liten fiolstr\u00e5ke \u00f6ver ena \u00e4nden, samtidigt som han tryckte fingrarna mot olika punkter p\u00e5 ytan. Platserna var inte utm\u00e4rkta, s\u00e5 han tycktes vidr\u00f6ra dem helt slumpm\u00e4ssigt, men utifr\u00e5n hans intensiva ansiktsuttryck och flytet i r\u00f6relserna f\u00f6rstod Lyra att det var en process som kr\u00e4vde lika mycket skicklighet och var lika kr\u00e4vande som hennes eget avl\u00e4sande av alethiometern.\n\nEfter n\u00e5gra minuter lade spionen ifr\u00e5n sig str\u00e5ken och plockade fram ett par h\u00f6rlurar, som inte var st\u00f6rre \u00e4n Lyras lillfingernaglar, och virade ena \u00e4nden av tr\u00e5den h\u00e5rt runt en st\u00e4mskruv vid stenens ena \u00e4nde och sedan runt en annan i den andra \u00e4nden. Genom att vrida p\u00e5 st\u00e4mskruvarna och f\u00f6r\u00e4ndra sp\u00e4nningen p\u00e5 tr\u00e5den mellan dem kunde han uppenbarligen h\u00f6ra ett svar p\u00e5 sitt eget meddelande.\n\n\"Hur fungerar det?\" fr\u00e5gade hon n\u00e4r han var f\u00e4rdig.\n\nTialys betraktade henne som om han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte avg\u00f6ra om hon var verkligt intresserad eller inte, men sa sedan: \"Era vetenskapsm\u00e4n, vad \u00e4r det du kallar dem, era experimentella teologer, k\u00e4nner till n\u00e5got som kallas f\u00f6r kvantumh\u00e4rvor. Det inneb\u00e4r att tv\u00e5 partiklar kan existera som har helt gemensamma egenskaper, s\u00e5 att allt som h\u00e4nder den ena \u00e4ven h\u00e4nder den andra i samma \u00f6gonblick, oavsett hur l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n varandra de befinner sig. I v\u00e5r v\u00e4rld k\u00e4nner vi till ett s\u00e4tt att f\u00e5 samtliga partiklar i en vanlig magnetsten att sn\u00e4rja ihop sig, och sedan delar vi stenen s\u00e5 att b\u00e5da delarna ger resonans hos varandra. Den andra halvan av den h\u00e4r stenen finns hos lord Roke, v\u00e5r bef\u00e4lhavare. N\u00e4r jag spelar p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r med min str\u00e5ke, s\u00e5 kommer den andra att \u00e5terskapa ljuden exakt, och p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet kan vi kommunicera med varandra.\"\n\nHan packade undan alltihop och sa n\u00e5got till lady Salmakia. Tillsammans drog de sig undan ett litet stycke och samtalade alltf\u00f6r l\u00e5gt f\u00f6r att Lyra skulle kunna h\u00f6ra n\u00e5got, trots att Pantalaimon f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en uggla och v\u00e4nde sina k\u00e4nsliga \u00f6ron \u00e5t deras h\u00e5ll.\n\nTill slut kom Will tillbaka s\u00e5 att de kunde forts\u00e4tta, l\u00e5ngsammare allteftersom dagen gick och stigen blev brantare och sn\u00f6gr\u00e4nsen n\u00e4rmade sig. De vilade \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng vid den \u00f6vre \u00e4nden av en stenig dalg\u00e5ng, f\u00f6r Will s\u00e5g att Lyra var s\u00e5 gott som helt f\u00e4rdig: hon haltade sv\u00e5rt och ansiktet var alldeles askgr\u00e5tt.\n\n\"F\u00e5r jag titta p\u00e5 dina f\u00f6tter\", sa han till henne, \"f\u00f6r om du har bl\u00e5sor p\u00e5 dom, s\u00e5 ska jag l\u00e4gga p\u00e5 lite salva.\"\n\nDet var fullt med bl\u00e5sor. Hon blundade och bet ihop n\u00e4r han gned in henne med lite blodmossesalva.\n\nUnder tiden var chevalier Tialys upptagen med sitt. Efter n\u00e5gra minuter stoppade han undan magnetstenen och sa: \"Jag har angett v\u00e5r position f\u00f6r lord Roke, och man kommer att skicka ut en gyropter som h\u00e4mtar oss s\u00e5 snart ni har pratat med er v\u00e4n.\"\n\nWill nickade. Lyra gjorde inte en min. Till slut reste hon sig m\u00f6dosamt upp och drog p\u00e5 sig strumpor och skor, varefter de gav sig iv\u00e4g p\u00e5 nytt.\n\nEfter \u00e4nnu en timme l\u00e5g det mesta av dalen i skugga och Will undrade om de skulle hitta n\u00e5got skydd innan natten f\u00f6ll, men just d\u00e5 gav Lyra ifr\u00e5n sig ett rop av l\u00e4ttnad och gl\u00e4dje.\n\n\"Iorek! Iorek!\"\n\nHon uppt\u00e4ckte honom innan Will gjorde det. Bj\u00f6rnkungen var fortfarande ett stycke l\u00e4ngre bort och den vita p\u00e4lsen var sv\u00e5r att se mot sn\u00f6drivan, men han v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 huvudet n\u00e4r han h\u00f6rde Lyras ekande r\u00f6st. Han v\u00e4drade i luften och st\u00f6rtade sedan ner f\u00f6r bergssidan f\u00f6r att m\u00f6ta dem.\n\nHan tog ingen notis om Will utan l\u00e4t Lyra kasta sig om halsen p\u00e5 honom och begrava ansiktet i p\u00e4lsen. Han morrade s\u00e5 l\u00e5gt att Will kunde k\u00e4nna det genom f\u00f6tterna, men Lyra uppfattade det som tillfredsst\u00e4llelse och gl\u00f6mde p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick bort b\u00e5de bl\u00e5sorna och sin tr\u00f6tthet.\n\n\"\u00c5h, Iorek, min \u00e4lskade v\u00e4n, jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 glad \u00f6ver att du \u00e4r h\u00e4r! Jag trodde aldrig att jag skulle f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa dig igen \u2013 efter den d\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen p\u00e5 Svalbard \u2013 och allt det som h\u00e4nde sen \u2013 hur m\u00e5r mr Scoresby? Hur st\u00e5r det till med ditt kungarike? \u00c4r du alldeles ensam h\u00e4r?\"\n\nDe sm\u00e5 spionerna hade f\u00f6rsvunnit. Just nu verkade det som om det bara var de tre som fanns p\u00e5 den m\u00f6rknande bergssidan, pojken och flickan och den stora vita bj\u00f6rnen. N\u00e4r Iorek erbj\u00f6d sin rygg kl\u00e4ttrade Lyra upp som om hon aldrig hade velat vara n\u00e5gon annanstans och red stolt och lyckligt n\u00e4r hennes v\u00e4n bar henne den sista biten upp till sin grotta.\n\nWill var upptagen av sina egna tankar och lyssnade inte medan Lyra pratade med Iorek, trots att han h\u00f6rde ett utrop av best\u00f6rtning vid ett tillf\u00e4lle.\n\n\"Mr Scoresby \u2013 \u00e5h, nej! \u00c5h, det \u00e4r f\u00f6r hemskt! \u00c4r han d\u00f6d? Verkligen d\u00f6d? \u00c4r du s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 det, Iorek?\" sa hon h\u00f6gt.\n\n\"H\u00e4xan ber\u00e4ttade att han gav sig av f\u00f6r att hitta mannen som kallades Grumman\", sa bj\u00f6rnen. Will lyssnade med lite st\u00f6rre uppm\u00e4rksamhet, f\u00f6r Baruch och Balthamos hade ber\u00e4ttat lite om det h\u00e4r.\n\n\"Vad h\u00e4nde? Vem d\u00f6dade honom?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra med sk\u00e4lvande r\u00f6st.\n\n\"Han f\u00f6ll i strid. Han h\u00f6ll st\u00e5nd mot ett helt kompani muskoviter s\u00e5 att mannen kunde undkomma. Jag hittade hans kropp. Han dog en tapper d\u00f6d. Jag ska h\u00e4mnas honom.\"\n\nLyra gr\u00e4t \u00f6ppet och Will visste inte vad han skulle s\u00e4ga, f\u00f6r den h\u00e4r ok\u00e4nde mannen hade d\u00f6tt f\u00f6r att kunna r\u00e4dda hans far. B\u00e5de Lyra och bj\u00f6rnen hade k\u00e4nt och \u00e4lskat Lee Scoresby, men det hade inte han.\n\nStrax efter\u00e5t sv\u00e4ngde Iorek och trampade bort till en grott\u00f6ppning, som var alldeles m\u00f6rk mot sn\u00f6n. Will hade ingen aning om var spionerna befann sig, men var helt \u00f6vertygad om att de var i n\u00e4rheten. Han ville ha ett privat samtal med Lyra, men inte f\u00f6rr\u00e4n han kunde se gallivespierna och vara s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att de inte h\u00f6rde honom.\n\nHan lade ryggs\u00e4cken i grottmynningen och satte sig m\u00f6dosamt ner. Bakom honom h\u00f6ll bj\u00f6rnen p\u00e5 att t\u00e4nda en brasa och Lyra tittade nyfiket p\u00e5, trots sorgen. Iorek hade en sten av n\u00e5gon sorts j\u00e4rnmalm i v\u00e4nster framtass och slog den h\u00f6gst tre, fyra g\u00e5nger mot en liknande sten p\u00e5 golvet. Varje g\u00e5ng slog det ut en sky av gnistor och de hamnade exakt d\u00e4r Iorek ville ha dem: mitt i en h\u00f6g av avbrutna kvistar och torrt gr\u00e4s. Strax d\u00e4rp\u00e5 flammade det upp och Iorek lade lugnt p\u00e5 vedtr\u00e4 efter vedtr\u00e4 tills elden hade tagit sig ordentligt.\n\nBarnen v\u00e4lkomnade den, eftersom luften nu var v\u00e4ldigt kall, och sedan d\u00f6k det upp n\u00e5got \u00e4nnu b\u00e4ttre: en sk\u00e5nk av n\u00e5got som kunde ha varit en get. Iorek \u00e5t f\u00f6rst\u00e5s sitt k\u00f6tt r\u00e5tt, men stack fast sk\u00e5nken p\u00e5 en vass pinne och lade den till grillning tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver elden \u00e5t de b\u00e5da barnen.\n\n\"\u00c4r det l\u00e4tt att jaga i de h\u00e4r bergen, Iorek?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Nej. Mitt folk kan inte leva h\u00e4r. Jag hade fel, men hade tur i oturen, eftersom jag hittade er b\u00e5da. Vad har ni f\u00f6r planer nu?\"\n\nWill s\u00e5g sig om i grottan. De satt t\u00e4tt intill brasan och eldskenet kastade ett varmt och gult och orange ljus mot bj\u00f6rnkungens p\u00e4ls. Will s\u00e5g inga sp\u00e5r av spionerna, men det hj\u00e4lpte inte: han m\u00e5ste fr\u00e5ga.\n\n\"Kung Iorek\", b\u00f6rjade han, \"min kniv \u00e4r trasig...\" men sedan s\u00e5g han f\u00f6rbi bj\u00f6rnen och sa: \"Ett \u00f6gonblick.\" Han pekade mot v\u00e4ggen. \"Om ni lyssnar\", fortsatte han, men mycket h\u00f6gre, \"s\u00e5 kom ut och g\u00f6r det \u00e4rligt. Spionera inte p\u00e5 oss.\"\n\nLyra och Iorek Byrnison v\u00e4nde sig om f\u00f6r att se vem han talade med. Den lille mannen kom ut ur skuggorna och stod lugnt i ljusskenet uppe p\u00e5 en hylla, som var placerad h\u00f6gre \u00e4n barnens huvuden. Iorek morrade.\n\n\"Du har inte bett Iorek Byrnison om till\u00e5telse att g\u00e5 in i hans grotta\", sa Will. \"Han \u00e4r kung och du \u00e4r bara en spion. Det vore b\u00e4st f\u00f6r dig om du visade lite respekt.\"\n\nLyra \u00e4lskade att h\u00f6ra det h\u00e4r. Hon tittade n\u00f6jt p\u00e5 Will och s\u00e5g att han var b\u00e5de bister och f\u00f6raktfull.\n\nMen chevalier Tialys uttryck, n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Will, visade bara missn\u00f6je.\n\n\"Vi har varit \u00e4rliga mot er\", sa han. \"Det var van\u00e4rande att lura oss.\"\n\nWill reste sig. Hans d\u00e6mon, t\u00e4nkte Lyra, m\u00e5ste vara i tigerskepnad. Hon kr\u00f6p ihop inf\u00f6r den vrede som hon f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde sig att det stora djuret m\u00e5ste visa.\n\n\"Om vi lurade er, s\u00e5 var det n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt\", sa han. \"Skulle ni ha l\u00e5tit oss komma hit om ni visste att kniven var trasig? Naturligtvis inte. Ni skulle ha anv\u00e4nt ert gift f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra oss medvetsl\u00f6sa och sedan skulle ni ha kallat p\u00e5 hj\u00e4lp och sedan kidnappat oss och tagit oss till lord Asriel. Vi var tvungna att lura er, Tialys, s\u00e5 du f\u00e5r helt enkelt st\u00e5 ut med det.\"\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r det d\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade Iorek Byrnison.\n\n\"Spioner\", svarade Will. \"Lord Asriel har skickat ut dom. Dom hj\u00e4lpte oss att fly ig\u00e5r, men om dom \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e5r sida s\u00e5 ska dom inte g\u00f6mma sig och tjuvlyssna p\u00e5 oss. Och om dom h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med s\u00e5nt, s\u00e5 har dom verkligen ingen anledning att prata om van\u00e4ra.\"\n\nSpionens blick var s\u00e5 argsint att han s\u00e5g ut att kunna ge sig p\u00e5 Iorek sj\u00e4lv, f\u00f6r att inte tala om den obev\u00e4pnade Will, men Tialys hade fel och det visste han. Det enda som \u00e5terstod var att buga sig och be om urs\u00e4kt.\n\n\"Ers majest\u00e4t\", sa han till Iorek, som morrade till svar.\n\nChevalier Tialys \u00f6gon blixtrade av hat mot Will, av trots och varning mot Lyra, och av kylig och vaksam respekt mot Iorek. Dragens klarhet gjorde alla de h\u00e4r uttrycken levande och tydliga, som om ett ljus hade lyst upp honom. Bredvid honom d\u00f6k lady Salmakia upp ur skuggorna. Hon ignorerade barnen fullst\u00e4ndigt och gjorde en hovnigning mot bj\u00f6rnen.\n\n\"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t oss\", sa hon till Iorek. \"Vanan att g\u00f6mma sig \u00e4r sv\u00e5r att bryta. Min f\u00f6ljeslagare chevalier Tialys och jag, lady Salmakia, har befunnit oss bland v\u00e5ra fiender s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge att vi f\u00f6rsummade att betyga er den r\u00e4tta v\u00f6rdnaden. Vi g\u00f6r s\u00e4llskap med den h\u00e4r pojken och flickan f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00e4kra oss om att de anl\u00e4nder tryggt i lord Asriels v\u00e5rd. Vi har inget annat syfte och har sannerligen inga fientliga intentioner mot er, kung Iorek Byrnison.\"\n\nOm Iorek undrade \u00f6ver hur s\u00e5 sm\u00e5 varelser skulle kunna utg\u00f6ra n\u00e5gon fara, s\u00e5 visade han det inte. Det var inte bara sv\u00e5rt att avl\u00e4sa hans ansiktsuttryck i vanliga fall, han hade ocks\u00e5 sin v\u00e4rdighet. Lady Salmakia hade visat tillb\u00f6rlig respekt.\n\n\"Kom ner hit till brasan\", sa han. \"Det finns mat s\u00e5 det r\u00e4cker och blir \u00f6ver om ni \u00e4r hungriga. Will, du b\u00f6rjade s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got om kniven.\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa Will, \"och jag trodde aldrig att det skulle kunna h\u00e4nda, men nu \u00e4r den trasig. Alethiometern ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r Lyra att du skulle kunna laga den. Jag hade t\u00e4nkt fr\u00e5ga p\u00e5 ett artigare s\u00e4tt, men nu s\u00e4ger jag det rakt ut: Kan du laga den, Iorek?\"\n\n\"Visa mig.\"\n\nWill skakade ut alla bitarna ur skidan, lade dem p\u00e5 stengolvet och puttade dem f\u00f6rsiktigt i l\u00e4ge tills alla var p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt plats och han kunde se att allihop var d\u00e4r. Lyra h\u00f6ll upp en brinnande gren. Iorek lutade sig fram i ljusskenet f\u00f6r att kunna titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 varje bit. Han petade f\u00f6rsiktigt p\u00e5 dem med de kraftiga klorna och plockade upp och v\u00e4nde och vred p\u00e5 dem n\u00e4r han ville studera brottytorna. Will f\u00f6rundrades \u00f6ver hur smidiga de enorma svarta krokarna var.\n\nSedan satte Iorek sig upp igen och huvudet tornade upp sig bland skuggorna.\n\n\"Ja\", sa han och besvarade fr\u00e5gan och inget mer.\n\nEftersom Lyra f\u00f6rstod vad han menade fr\u00e5gade hon: \"\u00c5h, men t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra det, Iorek? Du kan inte ana hur viktigt det h\u00e4r \u00e4r \u2013 om vi inte kan f\u00e5 den lagad blir det fruktansv\u00e4rt sv\u00e5rt och inte bara f\u00f6r oss...\"\n\n\"Jag tycker inte om den d\u00e4r kniven\", sa Iorek. \"Jag \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r vad den kan g\u00f6ra. Jag har aldrig f\u00f6rr st\u00f6tt p\u00e5 n\u00e5got lika farligt. De d\u00f6dligaste av alla krigsmaskiner \u00e4r som sm\u00e5 leksaker bredvid den h\u00e4r kniven. Den skada den kan \u00e5stadkomma k\u00e4nner inga gr\u00e4nser. Det hade varit o\u00e4ndligt mycket b\u00e4ttre om den aldrig hade tillverkats.\"\n\n\"Men med den...\", b\u00f6rjade Will.\n\nIorek l\u00e4t honom inte avsluta meningen, utan fortsatte: \"Med den kan du g\u00f6ra m\u00e4rkliga saker, men det du inte vet \u00e4r vad kniven g\u00f6r p\u00e5 egen hand. F\u00f6r din del har du kanske bara goda avsikter, men du ska veta att \u00e4ven kniven har avsikter.\"\n\n\"Hur d\u00e5?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Ett verktygs avsikt \u00e4r vad det g\u00f6r. En hammare har f\u00f6r avsikt att sl\u00e5, en tving att h\u00e5lla fast, en h\u00e4vst\u00e5ng att lyfta. De \u00e4r vad de \u00e4r gjorda f\u00f6r. Men ibland kan ett verktyg ha anv\u00e4ndningsomr\u00e5den som man inte k\u00e4nner till. Ibland n\u00e4r kniven g\u00f6r vad _du_ vill att den ska g\u00f6ra, s\u00e5 kanske den ocks\u00e5 g\u00f6r vad _den_ vill, utan att du vet n\u00e5got om det. Kan du se knivens yttersta egg?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Will, f\u00f6r det var sant: den yttersta eggen var s\u00e5 tunn att den inte kunde uppfattas med blotta \u00f6gat.\n\n\"Hur kan du d\u00e5 veta allt den g\u00f6r?\"\n\n\"Det kan jag inte, men jag m\u00e5ste \u00e4nd\u00e5 anv\u00e4nda den och g\u00f6ra vad jag kan f\u00f6r att dom goda sakerna ska intr\u00e4ffa. Om jag inte gjorde n\u00e5got alls skulle jag vara s\u00e4mre \u00e4n v\u00e4rdel\u00f6s. Jag skulle vara medskyldig.\"\n\nLyra f\u00f6ljde noga samtalet och n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g att Iorek fortfarande var ovillig sa hon:\n\n\"Iorek, du vet hur elaka dom d\u00e4r Bolvangarm\u00e4nniskorna var. Om vi inte vinner, s\u00e5 kommer dom att kunna forts\u00e4tta i all evighet. Och om vi inte har kniven, s\u00e5 skulle dom kanske f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 den sj\u00e4lva. Vi visste ingenting om den n\u00e4r jag tr\u00e4ffade dig f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen, Iorek, och det gjorde ingen annan heller, men nu n\u00e4r vi k\u00e4nner till den, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi anv\u00e4nda den \u2013 vi kan bara inte l\u00e5ta bli. Det skulle vara ynkligt och det skulle dessutom vara fel. Det skulle vara som att langa \u00f6ver den till dom andra och s\u00e4ga var s\u00e5 god, anv\u00e4nd den, vi kommer inte att hindra er. Visst, vi vet inte vad den g\u00f6r, men jag kan ju fr\u00e5ga alethiometern. D\u00e5 skulle vi veta s\u00e4kert och d\u00e5 kan vi fundera p\u00e5 allvar ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att bara gissa och vara r\u00e4dda.\"\n\nWill v\u00e5gade inte n\u00e4mna sitt eget h\u00f6gst p\u00e5tr\u00e4ngande sk\u00e4l: om kniven inte lagades skulle han aldrig kunna \u00e5terv\u00e4nda hem, han skulle aldrig f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa sin mamma igen och hon skulle aldrig f\u00e5 veta vad som hade h\u00e4nt. Hon skulle tro att han hade \u00f6vergett henne, precis som hans pappa. Kniven hade varit direkt ansvarig f\u00f6r b\u00e5das f\u00f6rsvinnande. Han _m\u00e5ste_ ha den f\u00f6r att kunna \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till henne, f\u00f6r annars skulle han aldrig kunna f\u00f6rl\u00e5ta sig sj\u00e4lv.\n\nIorek Byrnison sa inget p\u00e5 en l\u00e5ng stund, men v\u00e4nde ist\u00e4llet ansiktet mot m\u00f6rkret. Sedan kom han l\u00e5ngsamt p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter och trampade bort till grott\u00f6ppningen och tittade upp mot stj\u00e4rnorna: n\u00e5gra av dem var s\u00e5dana han k\u00e4nde till fr\u00e5n Norden, medan andra var fr\u00e4mmande f\u00f6r honom.\n\nBakom honom v\u00e4nde Lyra k\u00f6ttet \u00f6ver elden och Will unders\u00f6kte sina skador f\u00f6r att se hur de l\u00e4kte. Tialys och Salmakia satt tysta p\u00e5 sin klipphylla.\n\nSedan v\u00e4nde Iorek sig om.\n\n\"N\u00e5, jag ska g\u00f6ra det p\u00e5 ett villkor\", sa han. \"Trots att jag anser att det \u00e4r ett misstag. Mitt folk har inga gudar, inga andar eller d\u00e6moner. Vi lever och vi d\u00f6r och det \u00e4r allt. M\u00e4nniskornas aff\u00e4rer har inte inneburit annat \u00e4n sorg och bekymmer, men vi har ett spr\u00e5k och vi f\u00f6r krig och vi anv\u00e4nder verktyg \u2013 det \u00e4r kanske dags att v\u00e4lja sida. Hel kunskap \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n halv. Lyra, l\u00e4s av ditt instrument, men du ska veta vad du ber om. Sedan t\u00e4nker jag laga kniven om du fortfarande vill det.\"\n\nLyra plockade genast fram alethiometern och drog sig n\u00e4rmare elden f\u00f6r att kunna se urtavlan. Hon hade sv\u00e5rt att urskilja den eftersom ljuset fr\u00e5n elden fladdrade, eller om det var f\u00f6r att hon fick r\u00f6k i \u00f6gonen. L\u00e4sningen tog l\u00e4ngre tid \u00e4n vanligt och n\u00e4r hon l\u00e4mnade transen med en blinkning och en suck hade hon en bekymrad min i ansiktet.\n\n\"Jag har aldrig sett den s\u00e5 f\u00f6rvirrad tidigare\", sa hon. \"Den sa en massa saker. Jag _tror_ att jag fick ett tydligt svar. Det tror jag \u00e5tminstone. F\u00f6rst sa den n\u00e5t om balans. Den sa att kniven kunde vara farlig eller s\u00e5 kunde den vara god, men det var en s\u00e5 tunn skiljelinje, en s\u00e5n \u00f6mt\u00e5lig balans, att minsta tanke eller \u00f6nskan skulle kunna f\u00e5 det att tippa \u00f6ver \u00e5t ena eller andra h\u00e5llet... Och den syftade p\u00e5 _dig_ , Will, den menade det du \u00f6nskar dig eller t\u00e4nker p\u00e5, men den sa inte om det skulle vara bra eller d\u00e5ligt.\n\nSen... sa den ja\", sa hon och \u00f6gonen blixtrade mot spionerna. \"Den sa ja, g\u00f6r det, laga kniven.\"\n\nIorek s\u00e5g p\u00e5 henne med stadig blick och nickade sedan en g\u00e5ng.\n\nTialys och Salmakia kl\u00e4ttrade ner f\u00f6r att kunna titta n\u00e4rmare och Lyra sa: \"Beh\u00f6ver du mer br\u00e4nsle, Iorek? Jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att jag och Will kan h\u00e4mta lite mer.\"\n\nWill f\u00f6rstod vad hon menade: de m\u00e5ste bort fr\u00e5n spionerna f\u00f6r att kunna prata ost\u00f6rt med varandra.\n\n\"Nedanf\u00f6r den f\u00f6rsta kr\u00f6ken p\u00e5 stigen finns det en buske med k\u00e5drik ved. H\u00e4mta s\u00e5 mycket ni kan b\u00e4ra.\"\n\nHon skuttade genast upp och Will f\u00f6ljde efter.\n\nM\u00e5nen lyste klart, stigen var ett sp\u00e5r av utsmetade fotsp\u00e5r i sn\u00f6n och kylan var knivskarp. B\u00e5da tv\u00e5 k\u00e4nde sig upplivade och hoppfulla och levande. De sa inget f\u00f6rr\u00e4n de kommit en bra bit fr\u00e5n grottan.\n\n\"Vad sa den mer?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Den sa en del saker som jag inte f\u00f6rstod just d\u00e5 och jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r dom inte nu heller. Den sa att kniven skulle bli Stoftets d\u00f6d, men sen sa den att det var det enda s\u00e4ttet att h\u00e5lla Stoftet vid liv. Jag f\u00f6rstod det inte, Will, men den sa \u00e5terigen att den var farlig, det sa den hela tiden. Den sa att om vi \u2013 du vet \u2013 vad jag hade t\u00e4nkt...\"\n\n\"Om vi ger oss av till dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld...\"\n\n\"Ja \u2013 om vi g\u00f6r det \u2013 s\u00e5 sa den att vi kanske aldrig kommer tillbaka, Will. Vi kanske inte \u00f6verlever.\"\n\nHan sa inget och de gick vidare mycket nyktrare och spanade efter den buske som Iorek hade beskrivit. Tanken p\u00e5 vad de kanske skulle g\u00f6ra gjorde dem alldeles tysta.\n\n\"Men vi m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra det\", sa han, \"eller hur?\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte.\"\n\n\"Men nu _vet_ vi, menar jag. Du m\u00e5ste prata med Roger och jag m\u00e5ste prata med min pappa. Vi m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra det nu.\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r r\u00e4dd\", sa hon.\n\nHan f\u00f6rstod att hon aldrig skulle erk\u00e4nna den saken f\u00f6r n\u00e5gon annan.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4ttade den vad som skulle h\u00e4nda om vi _inte_ gjorde det?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Bara tomhet. Ett enda ingenting. Jag f\u00f6rstod det inte riktigt, Will, men det jag _tror_ att den menade \u00e4r, att \u00e4ven om det verkligen \u00e4r precis s\u00e5 farligt, s\u00e5 b\u00f6r vi \u00e4nd\u00e5 f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka r\u00e4dda Roger. Men det kommer inte att vara samma sak som n\u00e4r jag r\u00e4ddade honom fr\u00e5n Bolvangar. D\u00e5 visste jag egentligen inte vad jag gjorde, jag bara gav mig iv\u00e4g och hade tur. Jag tr\u00e4ffade ju alla m\u00f6jliga m\u00e4nniskor som kunde hj\u00e4lpa mig, som gyptierna och h\u00e4xorna. Det kommer inte att finnas n\u00e5n hj\u00e4lp att f\u00e5 dit vi m\u00e5ste bege oss. Och jag kan se... I min dr\u00f6m s\u00e5g jag... Platsen var... Det var v\u00e4rre \u00e4n Bolvangar. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd.\"\n\n\"Det _jag_ \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r\", sa Will efter ett \u00f6gonblick och utan att titta p\u00e5 henne, \"\u00e4r att fastna n\u00e5nstans och inte f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa min mamma igen.\"\n\nEtt minne d\u00f6k upp fr\u00e5n ingenstans: han var v\u00e4ldigt liten och var sjuk, men det var innan hennes besv\u00e4r b\u00f6rjade. Det verkade som om hans mamma hade suttit vid hans s\u00e4ng hela natten och hade sjungit vaggvisor och ber\u00e4ttat sagor. S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hennes \u00e4lskade r\u00f6st hade funnits d\u00e4r hade han varit trygg. Han kunde bara inte \u00f6verge henne nu. Det kunde han bara inte! Han skulle ta hand om henne under hela sitt liv om hon beh\u00f6vde det.\n\nOch som om Lyra hade vetat vad han t\u00e4nkte sa hon varmt:\n\n\"Jo, det \u00e4r sant, det skulle vara fruktansv\u00e4rt... Vet du, n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller min mamma, jag f\u00f6rstod det aldrig... Jag v\u00e4xte upp p\u00e5 egen hand, praktiskt taget. Jag kan inte komma ih\u00e5g att n\u00e5gon n\u00e5nsin h\u00f6ll om mig eller vaggade mig, f\u00f6r det var bara jag och Pan s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge jag kan minnas... Jag kan inte komma ih\u00e5g att mrs Lonsdale n\u00e5nsin var p\u00e5 det viset mot mig. Hon var husmor p\u00e5 Jordan College och det enda hon gjorde var att se till att jag var ren. Det var det enda hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5, och att jag uppf\u00f6rde mig ordentligt... Men i grottan, Will, s\u00e5 k\u00e4nde jag det verkligen \u2013 \u00e5h, det \u00e4r s\u00e5 _konstigt_ , jag vet att hon har gjort hemska saker, men jag k\u00e4nde verkligen att hon \u00e4lskade mig och tog hand om mig... Hon m\u00e5ste ha trott att jag var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att d\u00f6, n\u00e4r jag sov hela tiden \u2013 jag antar att jag hade smittats av n\u00e5n sorts sjukdom \u2013 men hon slutade aldrig att ta hand om mig. Jag kommer ih\u00e5g att jag vaknade ett par g\u00e5nger och att hon h\u00f6ll mig i famnen... Jag \u00e4r _s\u00e4ker_ p\u00e5 att jag minns det... Det \u00e4r i alla fall vad jag skulle ha gjort om jag hade haft ett barn.\"\n\nS\u00e5 hon visste inte varf\u00f6r hon hade sovit hela tiden. Skulle han ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r henne och f\u00f6rr\u00e5da minnet, \u00e4ven om det var falskt? Nej, det skulle han f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte g\u00f6ra.\n\n\"\u00c4r det den busken?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\nM\u00e5nskenet var tillr\u00e4ckligt starkt f\u00f6r att vartenda blad skulle synas. Will br\u00f6t av en kvist och lukten av k\u00e5da dr\u00f6jde kvar p\u00e5 fingrarna.\n\n\"Och vi ska inte s\u00e4ga ett endaste dugg till de d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 spionerna\", tillade hon.\n\nDe samlade ihop varsin famn med kvistar och bar upp dem till grottan.\n\n## 15\n\n## Smedjan\n\nD\u00c4R JAG VANDRADE BLAND HELVETETS ELDAR, FR\u00d6JDADE MIG \u00c5T SNILLETS GL\u00c4DJE\u00c4MNEN.\n\nWILLIAM BLAKEB\n\nJUST D\u00c5 PRATADE gallivespierna om exakt samma sak. Efter att ha uppn\u00e5tt en vaksam fred med Iorek Byrnison kl\u00e4ttrade de tillbaka till sin klipphylla f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla sig ur v\u00e4gen. N\u00e4r sprakandet fr\u00e5n l\u00e5gorna \u00f6kade och eldens kn\u00e4ppande och d\u00e5nande fyllde luften sa Tialys: \"Vi f\u00e5r aldrig l\u00e4mna hans sida. S\u00e5 snart kniven \u00e4r lagad m\u00e5ste vi h\u00e5lla oss n\u00e4rmare \u00e4n hans egen skugga.\"\n\n\"Han \u00e4r f\u00f6r alert. Han spanar \u00f6verallt efter oss\", sa Salmakia. \"Flickan \u00e4r mer godtrogen. Jag tror att vi kan vinna \u00f6ver henne till v\u00e5r sida. Hon \u00e4r oskuldsfull och har l\u00e4tt f\u00f6r att \u00e4lska. Vi kan bearbeta henne. Det tror jag att vi b\u00f6r g\u00f6ra, Tialys.\"\n\n\"Men det \u00e4r han som har kniven. Det \u00e4r han som kan anv\u00e4nda den.\"\n\n\"Han g\u00e5r ingenstans utan henne.\"\n\n\"Men hon m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja honom, om han har kniven. S\u00e5 snart kniven \u00e4r lagad tror jag att han kommer att ge sig iv\u00e4g till n\u00e5gon annan v\u00e4rld f\u00f6r att komma bort fr\u00e5n oss. S\u00e5g du hur han hindrade henne fr\u00e5n att prata n\u00e4r hon var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got mer? De har ett hemligt m\u00e5l och det \u00e4r n\u00e5got helt annat \u00e4n det vi vill att de ska g\u00f6ra.\"\n\n\"Vi f\u00e5r se. Men jag tror du har r\u00e4tt, Tialys. Vi m\u00e5ste till varje pris h\u00e5lla oss t\u00e4tt intill pojken.\"\n\nDe s\u00e5g p\u00e5 med viss skepsis n\u00e4r Iorek Byrnison plockade fram verktygen i sin improviserade smedja. De skickliga arbetarna i vapenfabrikerna under lord Asriels f\u00e4stning, med sina masugnar och valsverk, sina anbariska smedjor och hydrauliska pressar, skulle ha skrattat \u00e5t den \u00f6ppna brasan, stenhammaren och st\u00e4det, som egentligen var en del av Ioreks rustning. Men det var bj\u00f6rnen som hade gjort den r\u00e4tta bed\u00f6mningen och de b\u00e5da spionernas f\u00f6rakt d\u00e4mpades n\u00e4r de b\u00f6rjade se skickligheten i hans s\u00e4kra r\u00f6relser.\n\nN\u00e4r Lyra och Will kom in med grenarna visade Iorek var de f\u00f6rsiktigt skulle placera dem p\u00e5 elden. Han studerade varje enskild gren och v\u00e4nde och vred p\u00e5 den, och talade sedan om f\u00f6r Will eller Lyra hur de skulle l\u00e4gga den i den eller den vinkeln, eller bryta av en bit och l\u00e4gga den f\u00f6r sig l\u00e4ngs kanten. Resultatet blev en brasa av enast\u00e5ende intensitet, med all sin energi koncentrerad till ena sidan.\n\nVid det laget var hettan mycket intensiv i grottan. Iorek fortsatte att mata elden och fick barnen att g\u00f6ra tv\u00e5 turer till l\u00e4ngs stigen, tills det fanns tillr\u00e4ckligt med br\u00e4nsle f\u00f6r hela f\u00f6retaget.\n\nSedan v\u00e4nde bj\u00f6rnen p\u00e5 en liten sten p\u00e5 golvet och bad Lyra att hitta fler av samma sort. Han sa att den sortens stenar gav ifr\u00e5n sig en gas n\u00e4r de hettades upp. Gasen skulle omge klingan och h\u00e5lla luften borta, f\u00f6r om den heta metallen kom i kontakt med luft skulle den dra till sig n\u00e5got av luften och d\u00e4rmed bli svagare.\n\nLyra satte genast ig\u00e5ng med letandet och hade hj\u00e4lp av den uggle\u00f6gda Pantalaimon, och snart hade de hittat ett drygt dussin stenar till. Iorek talade om f\u00f6r henne hur hon skulle placera dem, och var, och visade henne exakt vilken sorts drag hon skulle \u00e5stadkomma med hj\u00e4lp av en bladrik gren, f\u00f6r att gasen skulle fl\u00f6da s\u00e5 j\u00e4mnt som m\u00f6jligt \u00f6ver arbetsstycket.\n\nWill fick ansvaret f\u00f6r brasan och Iorek \u00e4gnade flera minuter \u00e5t att ge honom anvisningar och f\u00f6rs\u00e4kra sig om att han f\u00f6rstod vilka principer han skulle g\u00e5 efter. Det var s\u00e5 mycket som h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 att allt var exakt r\u00e4tt placerat och Iorek skulle inte kunna avbryta arbetet f\u00f6r att korrigera n\u00e5got. Will var tvungen att fatta omedelbart och m\u00e5ste sedan g\u00f6ra allt p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt s\u00e4tt.\n\nDessutom fick han inte v\u00e4nta sig att kniven skulle se exakt likadan ut n\u00e4r den var lagad. Den skulle bli kortare, eftersom varje del av klingan m\u00e5ste \u00f6verlappa n\u00e4sta del en aning f\u00f6r att de skulle kunna smidas samman. Ytan skulle dessutom oxidera, s\u00e5 n\u00e5got av f\u00e4rgspelet skulle g\u00e5 f\u00f6rlorat, och helt s\u00e4kert fanns det risk f\u00f6r att handtaget skulle bli br\u00e4nt. Men klingan skulle vara lika vass som f\u00f6rut och den skulle fungera.\n\nWill betraktade l\u00e5gorna som d\u00e5nade l\u00e4ngs de k\u00e5drika kvistarna. Han hade t\u00e5rar i \u00f6gonen och hans svedda h\u00e4nder petade in varje f\u00e4rsk gren i r\u00e4tt l\u00e4ge f\u00f6r att hettan skulle fokuseras p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt Iorek ville.\n\nUnder tiden h\u00f6ll Iorek sj\u00e4lv p\u00e5 att slipa och hamra till en knytn\u00e4vsstor sten, efter att ha f\u00f6rkastat flera stycken innan han hittade en som hade r\u00e4tt vikt. Han formade och j\u00e4mnade till den med massiva slag och krutlukten fr\u00e5n den krossade stenen blandades med r\u00f6ken i de b\u00e5da spionernas n\u00e4sborrar, d\u00e4r de satt och spanade fr\u00e5n ovan. Till och med Pantalaimon tog del och f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en kr\u00e5ka, s\u00e5 att han kunde flaxa med vingarna f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 brasan att brinna snabbare.\n\nTill slut hade hammaren f\u00e5tt en form som Iorek var n\u00f6jd med, s\u00e5 han placerade de f\u00f6rsta tv\u00e5 bitarna av den vassa knivens klinga i det hastigt brinnande tr\u00e4et i eldens hj\u00e4rta och sa till Lyra att b\u00f6rja fl\u00e4kta fram stengasen \u00f6ver dem. Bj\u00f6rnen s\u00e5g p\u00e5 och det l\u00e5nga vita ansiktet var brandr\u00f6tt i det bl\u00e4ndande eldskenet. Will s\u00e5g hur metallytan b\u00f6rjade gl\u00f6da i r\u00f6tt och sedan i gult och sist i vitt.\n\nIorek studerade det hela noga och var redo att snappa \u00e5t sig bitarna med tassen. Efter ytterligare n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades metallen igen och ytan blev blank och gl\u00e4nsande, samtidigt som det sprutade gnistor fr\u00e5n den som fr\u00e5n ett fyrverkeri.\n\nSedan satte Iorek ig\u00e5ng. H\u00f6gertassen for in och plockade \u00e5t sig f\u00f6rst den ena biten och sedan den andra. Han h\u00f6ll dem mellan de kraftiga klospetsarna och lade dem p\u00e5 det j\u00e4rnstycke som var rustningens ryggpl\u00e5t. Will k\u00e4nde lukten av br\u00e4nda klor, men Iorek brydde sig inte om den saken, f\u00f6r han r\u00f6rde sig ist\u00e4llet med utomordentlig hastighet och justerade bitarnas \u00f6verlappningsvinkel och h\u00f6jde sedan v\u00e4nstertassen h\u00f6gt i luften och slog till med stenhammaren.\n\nKnivspetsen studsade p\u00e5 stenen av det v\u00e4ldiga slaget. Will t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att \u00e5terstoden av hans liv berodde p\u00e5 vad som h\u00e4nde i den lilla metalltriangeln, i den spets som s\u00f6kte efter mellanrummen inuti atomerna. Varenda nerv darrade och han anade varenda fl\u00e4mtning av varenda l\u00e5ga och hur varenda atom i metallens gallerverk l\u00f6sgjordes. Innan Iorek satte ig\u00e5ng hade han trott att det bara var en fullskalig smedja, med de allra b\u00e4sta verktygen och utrustningen, som skulle kunna bearbeta den d\u00e4r klingan, men nu s\u00e5g han att det h\u00e4r verkligen var de b\u00e4sta verktygen och att Ioreks skicklighet hade skapat den b\u00e4sta smedja som gick att \u00e5stadkomma.\n\n\"H\u00e5ll den stilla i dina tankar!\" vr\u00e5lade Iorek \u00f6ver d\u00e5net. \"Du m\u00e5ste ocks\u00e5 smida ihop den! Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r lika mycket din uppgift som min!\"\n\nWill k\u00e4nde hur hela hans varelse darrade under slagen fr\u00e5n stenhammaren i bj\u00f6rnens n\u00e4ve. Klingans andra del h\u00f6ll nu p\u00e5 att hettas upp och Lyras bladruska fick den heta gasen att rinna \u00f6ver b\u00e5da delarna f\u00f6r att den j\u00e4rn\u00e4tande luften skulle h\u00e5llas borta. Will kunde uppfatta alltihop och k\u00e4nde hur metallens atomer l\u00e4nkades samman \u00f6ver brottytan och bildade nya kristaller, som st\u00e4rkte och r\u00e4tade p\u00e5 sig i det osynliga gallerverk d\u00e4r ytorna sammanfogades.\n\n\"Eggen!\" r\u00f6t Iorek. \"H\u00e5ll eggen rak!\"\n\nHan menade _med dina tankar_ , och Will lydde omedelbart och k\u00e4nde de minimala hacken och sedan den minimala l\u00e4ttnaden n\u00e4r eggen bildade en perfekt linje. Sedan var fogen klar, s\u00e5 Iorek tog sig an n\u00e4sta bit.\n\n\"Ny sten\", ropade han till Lyra, som puttade undan den f\u00f6rsta och lade en ny p\u00e5 plats f\u00f6r upphettning.\n\nWill kontrollerade br\u00e4nslet och br\u00f6t en gren i tv\u00e5 bitar f\u00f6r att kunna rikta l\u00e5gorna b\u00e4ttre och Iorek b\u00f6rjade arbeta med hammaren igen. Will k\u00e4nde hur uppgiften fick en ny komplexitet, f\u00f6r han m\u00e5ste h\u00e5lla den nya biten exakt r\u00e4tt i f\u00f6rh\u00e5llande till de b\u00e5da tidigare. Han f\u00f6rstod att han bara kunde hj\u00e4lpa Iorek att laga kniven om han gjorde det p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt s\u00e4tt.\n\nS\u00e5 fortsatte arbetet. Han hade ingen aning om hur l\u00e5ng tid det tog. Lyra, \u00e5 sin sida, fann att armarna v\u00e4rkte, t\u00e5rarna rann i str\u00f6mmar, huden var svedd och r\u00f6d, och vartenda ben i kroppen v\u00e4rkte av tr\u00f6tthet, men hon placerade \u00e4nd\u00e5 ut varje sten s\u00e5 som Iorek sa \u00e5t henne och Pantalaimon fortsatte att piska med vingarna mot l\u00e5gorna.\n\nN\u00e4r de var framme vid den sista fogen ringde det i Wills huvud och han var s\u00e5 utmattad av den intellektuella anstr\u00e4ngningen att han n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt orkade l\u00e4gga n\u00e4sta gren p\u00e5 elden. Han var tvungen att f\u00f6rst\u00e5 varenda koppling, f\u00f6r annars skulle kniven inte h\u00e5lla ihop; och n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde den allra mest komplexa, den sista, som skulle f\u00e4sta det n\u00e4stan f\u00e4rdiga bladet vid den lilla stump som satt fast vid handtaget \u2013 om han inte kunde h\u00e5lla den helt och h\u00e5llet i sitt medvetande tillsammans med alla de \u00f6vriga bitarna, skulle kniven bara falla s\u00f6nder som om Iorek inte ens hade f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt.\n\n\u00c4ven bj\u00f6rnen anade detta och tog en paus innan han hettade upp den sista biten. Han betraktade Will, men Will kunde inte se n\u00e5got i hans blick, inget uttryck, bara ett bottenl\u00f6st svart sken. Men \u00e4nd\u00e5 f\u00f6rstod han: det var ett h\u00e5rt och sv\u00e5rt arbete, men alla tre var redo f\u00f6r det.\n\nDet r\u00e4ckte f\u00f6r Will, s\u00e5 han v\u00e4nde ryggen mot elden och l\u00e4t sin fantasi l\u00f6pa l\u00e4ngs knivens brutna klinga och tog st\u00f6d inf\u00f6r den sista och v\u00e5ldsammaste delen av arbetet.\n\nHan och Iorek och Lyra smidde tillsammans ihop kniven, och hur l\u00e5ng tid den sista fogen tog hade han ingen aning om; men n\u00e4r Iorek slog det sista slaget och Will k\u00e4nde den minimala r\u00f6relsen n\u00e4r de sista atomerna kopplades ihop \u00f6ver brottytan, s\u00e5 sj\u00f6nk han ner p\u00e5 grottgolvet och l\u00e4t utmattningen ta \u00f6verhanden. Lyra befann sig i samma tillst\u00e5nd strax intill. Hennes \u00f6gon var glansiga och r\u00f6dkantade, h\u00e5ret var fullt av sot och r\u00f6k, och Iorek sj\u00e4lv stod med h\u00e4ngande ramar och sotsvedd p\u00e4ls. M\u00f6rka askstrimmor ritade streck p\u00e5 flera st\u00e4llen i allt det gr\u00e4ddvita.\n\nTialys och Salmakia hade turats om att sova och en av dem hade st\u00e4ndigt varit p\u00e5 vakt. Nu var hon vaken och han sov, men n\u00e4r klingan svalnade fr\u00e5n r\u00f6tt till gr\u00e5tt och slutligen till silver och Will str\u00e4ckte sig efter handtaget, s\u00e5 v\u00e4ckte hon sin kompanjon med handen p\u00e5 hans axel. Han vaknade omedelbart.\n\nMen Will r\u00f6rde inte vid kniven: han h\u00f6ll handflatan strax bredvid, f\u00f6r hettan var fortfarande f\u00f6r stark f\u00f6r hans hand. Spionerna slappnade av p\u00e5 sin klipphylla n\u00e4r Iorek sa till Will:\n\n\"F\u00f6lj med ut.\"\n\nSedan v\u00e4nde han sig till Lyra: \"Stanna h\u00e4r och r\u00f6r inte kniven.\"\n\nLyra satt bredvid st\u00e4det d\u00e4r kniven l\u00e5g och svalnade. Iorek sa \u00e5t henne att mata elden, s\u00e5 att den inte skulle slockna, f\u00f6r det var en sista sak som \u00e5terstod.\n\nWill f\u00f6ljde den v\u00e4ldiga bj\u00f6rnen ut till den m\u00f6rka bergsbranten. Kylan var bitter och omedelbar efter infernot inne i grottan.\n\n\"Man skulle aldrig ha tillverkat den d\u00e4r kniven\", sa Iorek sedan de hade g\u00e5tt ett litet stycke. \"Jag borde kanske aldrig ha lagat den. Jag \u00e4r bekymrad och det har jag aldrig varit f\u00f6rut, jag har aldrig tvivlat. Nu \u00e4r jag full av tvivel. Tvivel \u00e4r n\u00e5got m\u00e4nskligt och passar inte bj\u00f6rnarna. Om jag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att bli m\u00e4nsklig \u00e4r det n\u00e5got som \u00e4r fel, n\u00e5got som \u00e4r mycket d\u00e5ligt. Jag har f\u00f6rv\u00e4rrat saken.\"\n\n\"Men n\u00e4r den f\u00f6rsta bj\u00f6rnen gjorde den f\u00f6rsta rustningsdelen, var inte det d\u00e5ligt det ocks\u00e5, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt?\"\n\nIorek var tyst. De gick vidare tills de kom till en stor sn\u00f6driva, som Iorek lade sig i. Han v\u00e4nde sig \u00e5t f\u00f6rst det ena och sedan \u00e5t det andra h\u00e5llet och skickade upp sn\u00f6virvlar i den m\u00f6rka luften tills hela han s\u00e5g ut att vara gjord av sn\u00f6, som om han vore en personifiering av all sn\u00f6 i hela v\u00e4rlden.\n\nN\u00e4r han hade rullat klart reste han sig upp och ruskade kraftigt p\u00e5 sig. N\u00e4r han s\u00e5g att Will v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 ett svar p\u00e5 sin fr\u00e5ga sa han:\n\n\"Jo, det tror jag att det kan ha varit ocks\u00e5. Men innan den f\u00f6rsta rustade bj\u00f6rnen fanns det inga andra. Vi vet inget om n\u00e5gon dessf\u00f6rinnan. Det var d\u00e5 v\u00e5ra seder b\u00f6rjade. Vi k\u00e4nner v\u00e5ra sedv\u00e4njor och de \u00e4r starka och solida och vi f\u00f6ljer dem utan f\u00f6r\u00e4ndring. Bj\u00f6rnnaturen \u00e4r svag utan sina sedv\u00e4njor, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som bj\u00f6rnk\u00f6ttet \u00e4r oskyddat utan sin rustning.\n\nMen jag tror att jag klev utanf\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnnaturen n\u00e4r jag lagade kniven. Jag tror att jag var lika d\u00e5raktig som Iofur Raknison. Tiden kommer att avg\u00f6ra den saken, men jag \u00e4r \u00e4nd\u00e5 os\u00e4ker och tvivlande. Nu m\u00e5ste du ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig: Varf\u00f6r gick kniven s\u00f6nder?\"\n\nWill gned med b\u00e5da h\u00e4nderna om sitt v\u00e4rkande huvud.\n\n\"Kvinnan s\u00e5g p\u00e5 mig och jag tyckte att hon hade min mammas ansikte\", sa han och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte minnas upplevelsen s\u00e5 \u00e4rligt han kunde. \"D\u00e5 st\u00f6tte kniven till n\u00e5t som jag inte kunde sk\u00e4ra igenom och eftersom min hj\u00e4rna b\u00e5de knuffade igenom den och tvingade tillbaka den i samma \u00f6gonblick, s\u00e5 sprack den. Det \u00e4r vad jag tror. Kvinnan visste vad hon gjorde, det \u00e4r jag s\u00e4ker p\u00e5. Hon \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt listig.\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r du pratar om kniven, s\u00e5 pratar du om din mor och far.\"\n\n\"G\u00f6r jag? Jo... det kanske jag g\u00f6r.\"\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra med den?\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte.\"\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt kastade Iorek sig mot Will och dunkade till honom h\u00e5rt med v\u00e4nstertassen, s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt att Will f\u00f6ll halvt bed\u00f6vad i sn\u00f6n och rullade runt g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng tills han, med ringande huvud, stannade ett stycke l\u00e4ngre ner p\u00e5 sluttningen.\n\nIorek lufsade l\u00e5ngsamt ner till Will, som k\u00e4mpade sig upp p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter, och sa: \"Svara mig sanningsenligt.\"\n\nWill var frestad att s\u00e4ga: \"Du skulle aldrig ha gjort det d\u00e4r om jag haft kniven i handen.\" Men han f\u00f6rstod att Iorek f\u00f6rstod det, och f\u00f6rstod att han f\u00f6rstod det, och att det skulle ha varit vanhedrande och dumt att s\u00e4ga en s\u00e5dan sak; men hur som helst var han djupt frestad.\n\nHan h\u00f6ll tyst tills han stod upp igen och v\u00e4nde sig direkt till Iorek:\n\n\"Jag sa att jag inte vet\", sa han och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla r\u00f6sten lugn, \"f\u00f6r jag har inte t\u00e4nkt s\u00e5 noga p\u00e5 vad det \u00e4r jag t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra. P\u00e5 vad det inneb\u00e4r. Det g\u00f6r mig r\u00e4dd. Och det g\u00f6r Lyra r\u00e4dd ocks\u00e5. Hur som helst s\u00e5 lovade jag att g\u00f6ra det s\u00e5 snart jag fick veta vad hon ville.\"\n\n\"Och vad var det?\"\n\n\"Vi t\u00e4nker ge oss iv\u00e4g till dom d\u00f6das land f\u00f6r att prata med Lyras v\u00e4n Rogers ande, den d\u00e4r pojken som d\u00f6dades p\u00e5 Svalbard. Och om dom d\u00f6das land verkligen finns, s\u00e5 kommer min far att vara d\u00e4r ocks\u00e5, och om det g\u00e5r att prata med andarna, s\u00e5 vill jag prata med honom.\n\nMen jag vet inte, jag slits \u00e5t olika h\u00e5ll, f\u00f6r jag vill ocks\u00e5 \u00e5ka hem och ta hand om min mamma, eftersom jag _kan_. \u00c4ngeln Balthamos sa att jag borde ge mig av till lord Asriel och erbjuda honom kniven, och jag tror att det ocks\u00e5 \u00e4r r\u00e4tt...\"\n\n\"Han flydde\", sa bj\u00f6rnen.\n\n\"Han var inte n\u00e5n krigare. Han gjorde s\u00e5 gott han kunde, och sen kunde han inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5t mer. Han var inte den enda som var r\u00e4dd. Jag \u00e4r r\u00e4dd jag ocks\u00e5. S\u00e5 jag m\u00e5ste t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 saken. Ibland g\u00f6r vi kanske inte r\u00e4tt sak, eftersom fel sak verkar farligare och vi inte vill verka r\u00e4dda, s\u00e5 d\u00e5 g\u00e5r vi och g\u00f6r fel sak _bara_ f\u00f6r att den \u00e4r farligare. Vi \u00e4r mer upptagna med att inte verka r\u00e4dda \u00e4n att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka ta reda p\u00e5 vad som \u00e4r r\u00e4tt. Det var d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag inte svarade p\u00e5 fr\u00e5gan.\"\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r\", sa bj\u00f6rnen.\n\nDe stod i tystnad i vad som k\u00e4ndes som en mycket l\u00e5ng stund, i synnerhet f\u00f6r Will, som hade ganska lite skydd mot den bitande kylan. Men Iorek var inte klar \u00e4n och Will var fortfarande f\u00f6r svag och yr av slaget och litade inte riktigt p\u00e5 sina f\u00f6tter, s\u00e5 de stannade d\u00e4r de var.\n\n\"Jag har kanske kompromissat med mig sj\u00e4lv p\u00e5 m\u00e5nga s\u00e4tt\", sa bj\u00f6rnkungen. \"Det kan vara s\u00e5 att min hj\u00e4lp till dig kommer att leda till mitt kungarikes slutgiltiga underg\u00e5ng. Och det kan vara s\u00e5 att den \u00e4nd\u00e5 var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g; och kanske har jag undanr\u00f6jt hotet. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r \u00e4r jag bekymrad \u00f6ver att jag har varit tvungen att g\u00f6ra saker en bj\u00f6rn inte g\u00f6r och \u00f6ver att beh\u00f6va spekulera och tvivla, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som en m\u00e4nniska.\n\nJag ska ber\u00e4tta en sak f\u00f6r dig. Du vet det redan, men du vill det inte, vilket \u00e4r sk\u00e4let till varf\u00f6r jag s\u00e4ger det rakt ut, s\u00e5 att du inte misstar dig. Om du ska lyckas med den h\u00e4r uppgiften, s\u00e5 f\u00e5r du inte l\u00e4ngre t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 din mamma. Du m\u00e5ste s\u00e4tta henne \u00e5t sidan. Om ditt sinne \u00e4r kluvet kommer kniven att spr\u00e4ckas.\n\nNu t\u00e4nker jag s\u00e4ga farv\u00e4l till Lyra. Du f\u00e5r v\u00e4nta i grottan, f\u00f6r de b\u00e5da spionerna kommer inte att l\u00e4mna dig ur sikte och jag vill inte att de ska h\u00f6ra vad jag har att s\u00e4ga till henne.\"\n\nWill var m\u00e5ll\u00f6s, trots att b\u00e5de br\u00f6stet och strupen var fulla av ord som ville ut. Det enda han lyckades f\u00e5 ur sig var: \"Tack, Iorek Byrnison\", och det var allt.\n\nHan gick tillbaka upp f\u00f6r sluttningen mot grottan i s\u00e4llskap med Iorek, och d\u00e4r inne lyste eldgl\u00f6den fortfarande varmt i det v\u00e4ldiga omgivande m\u00f6rkret.\n\nD\u00e4r genomf\u00f6rde Iorek det sista momentet i lagningen av den vassa kniven. Han lade kniven i den ljusaste gl\u00f6den tills bladet b\u00f6rjade lysa, och Will och Lyra kunde se hundra f\u00e4rger som virvlade i metallens r\u00f6kiga djup. N\u00e4r Iorek bed\u00f6mde att \u00f6gonblicket var det r\u00e4tta beordrade han Will att ta kniven och trycka ner den i sn\u00f6drivan utanf\u00f6r.\n\nSkaftet av rosentr\u00e4 var \u00e4rrat och br\u00e4nt, men Will virade in handen i flera lager skjorttyg och gjorde som Iorek sagt \u00e5t honom. Medan \u00e5ngan v\u00e4ste och fr\u00e4ste k\u00e4nde han hur atomerna till slut lade sig till r\u00e4tta och f\u00f6rstod att kniven var lika vass som tidigare och att spetsen var lika o\u00e4ndligt s\u00e4llsam.\n\nMen den s\u00e5g annorlunda ut. Den var kortare och inte alls lika elegant och det l\u00e5g en matt silveryta \u00f6ver var och en av fogarna. Nu s\u00e5g den ful ut; den s\u00e5g ut att vara precis vad den var, s\u00e5rad.\n\nN\u00e4r den hade svalnat tillr\u00e4ckligt packade han ner den i ryggs\u00e4cken och satt och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att Lyra skulle komma tillbaka. Han l\u00e5tsades inte om spionerna.\n\nIorek hade dragit iv\u00e4g med Lyra lite l\u00e4ngre upp f\u00f6r sluttningen, till en plats som l\u00e5g utom synh\u00e5ll f\u00f6r grottan. D\u00e4r l\u00e4t han henne sitta i skyddet av sina v\u00e4ldiga armar, med Pantalaimon hopkurad i musskepnad vid hennes br\u00f6st. Iorek b\u00f6jde huvudet \u00f6ver henne och gned nosen mot hennes svedda och r\u00f6kiga h\u00e4nder. Utan ett ord b\u00f6rjade han slicka dem rena. Hans tunga lindrade svedan och hon k\u00e4nde sig tryggare \u00e4n hon n\u00e5gonsin gjort i hela sitt liv.\n\nN\u00e4r hennes h\u00e4nder var befriade fr\u00e5n sot och smuts b\u00f6rjade Iorek att tala. Hon k\u00e4nde hur hans r\u00f6st vibrerade mot hennes rygg.\n\n\"Lyra Silvertunga, vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r plan du har, att bes\u00f6ka de d\u00f6da?\"\n\n\"Den kom till mig i en dr\u00f6m, Iorek. Jag s\u00e5g Rogers ande, och jag f\u00f6rstod att han ropade p\u00e5 mig... Du minns v\u00e4l Roger; ja, han d\u00f6dades efter att vi hade l\u00e4mnat dig, och det var mitt fel, jag k\u00e4nde \u00e5tminstone att det var mitt fel. Jag tror att jag helt enkelt bara m\u00e5ste avsluta det jag har p\u00e5b\u00f6rjat: jag m\u00e5ste ge mig iv\u00e4g dit och be om f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse, och om det g\u00e5r s\u00e5 vill jag r\u00e4dda honom d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. Om Will kan \u00f6ppna v\u00e4gen till dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi bege oss dit.\"\n\n\"Kan \u00e4r inte samma sak som m\u00e5ste.\"\n\n\"Men om du b\u00e5de m\u00e5ste och kan, s\u00e5 finns det ingen urs\u00e4kt.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge du lever, s\u00e5 handlar din uppgift om att leva.\"\n\n\"Nej, Iorek\", sa hon mjukt, \"v\u00e5r uppgift \u00e4r att h\u00e5lla v\u00e5ra l\u00f6ften, oavsett hur sv\u00e5rt det \u00e4r. Vet du, i hemlighet \u00e4r jag fruktansv\u00e4rt r\u00e4dd och jag \u00f6nskar att jag aldrig haft den d\u00e4r dr\u00f6mmen och jag \u00f6nskar att Will inte hade t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 att anv\u00e4nda kniven f\u00f6r att komma dit. Men nu har vi gjort det, s\u00e5 det \u00e4r inget vi kan slippa ifr\u00e5n.\"\n\nLyra k\u00e4nde hur Pantalaimon darrade, s\u00e5 hon klappade honom med sina \u00f6mmande h\u00e4nder.\n\n\"Vi vet bara inte hur vi ska ta oss dit\", fortsatte hon. \"Vi vet inte f\u00f6rr\u00e4n vi har f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt. Vad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra, Iorek?\"\n\n\"Jag ska \u00e5terv\u00e4nda norrut med mitt folk. Vi klarar oss inte i de h\u00e4r bergen. Till och med sn\u00f6n \u00e4r annorlunda. Jag trodde att vi kunde leva h\u00e4r, men vi klarar oss mycket b\u00e4ttre i havet, trots att det blivit varmt. Det var viktigt att f\u00e5 l\u00e4ra sig det. Dessutom tror jag att vi kommer att beh\u00f6vas. Jag kan k\u00e4nna kriget, Lyra Silvertunga; jag kan lukta det; jag kan h\u00f6ra det. Jag talade med Serafina Pekkala innan jag gav mig iv\u00e4g hit och hon ber\u00e4ttade att hon t\u00e4nker s\u00f6ka upp lord Faa och gyptierna. Om det blir krig, s\u00e5 kommer vi att beh\u00f6vas.\"\n\nLyra satte sig upp, uppeggad av att f\u00e5 h\u00f6ra namnen p\u00e5 sina gamla v\u00e4nner, men Iorek var inte klar \u00e4nnu.\n\n\"Om du inte hittar v\u00e4gen ut ur de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld kommer vi inte att tr\u00e4ffas igen\", fortsatte han, \"f\u00f6r jag har ingen ande. Min kropp kommer att stanna kvar i jorden och bli en del av den. Men om det visar sig att b\u00e5de du och jag \u00f6verlever, s\u00e5 kommer du alltid att vara en v\u00e4lkommen g\u00e4st p\u00e5 Svalbard och detsamma g\u00e4ller Will. Har han ber\u00e4ttat vad som h\u00e4nde n\u00e4r vi tr\u00e4ffades?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Lyra, \"inte mer \u00e4n att det var vid en flod.\"\n\n\"Han stirrade ner mig. Jag trodde aldrig att n\u00e5gon skulle lyckas med den saken, men den h\u00e4r halvvuxna pojken var alltf\u00f6r or\u00e4dd f\u00f6r mig, och alltf\u00f6r listig. Jag jublar inte \u00f6ver det du t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra, men det finns ingen annan jag skulle v\u00e5ga sl\u00e4ppa iv\u00e4g dig med \u00e4n den pojken. Ni \u00e4r v\u00e4rdiga varandra. All lycka p\u00e5 er f\u00e4rd, Lyra Silvertunga, min \u00e4lskade v\u00e4n.\"\n\nHon str\u00e4ckte sig upp och slog armarna om hans hals, sedan borrade hon ner ansiktet i hans p\u00e4ls utan att kunna s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got.\n\nEfter n\u00e5gon minut reste han sig, lossade f\u00f6rsiktigt hennes armar och v\u00e4nde sig sedan och gick tyst bort i m\u00f6rkret. Lyra tyckte att hans silhuett f\u00f6rsvann n\u00e4stan genast mot den sn\u00f6t\u00e4ckta markens blekhet, men det kunde lika g\u00e4rna ha varit f\u00f6r att hennes \u00f6gon var fyllda av t\u00e5rar.\n\nN\u00e4r Will h\u00f6rde hennes fotsteg p\u00e5 stigen tittade han upp p\u00e5 spionerna och sa: \"R\u00f6r er inte. Se h\u00e4r \u2013 h\u00e4r \u00e4r kniven \u2013 jag ska inte anv\u00e4nda den. Stanna h\u00e4r.\"\n\nHan gick ut och hittade Lyra d\u00e4r hon stod stilla och gr\u00e4t, med Pantalaimon som en varg med ansiktet lyft mot den svarta himlen. Hon var helt tyst. Det enda ljuset kom fr\u00e5n den falnande eldens bleka \u00e5tersken i sn\u00f6drivan, och det i sin tur \u00e5terspeglades av hennes fuktiga kinder, och t\u00e5rarna speglade sig i Wills \u00f6gon, och p\u00e5 s\u00e5 s\u00e4tt v\u00e4vde fotonerna dem samman i en v\u00e4v utan ljud.\n\n\"Jag \u00e4lskar honom s\u00e5 mycket, Will!\" lyckades hon viska med en sk\u00e4lvning. \"Och han s\u00e5g s\u00e5 _gammal_ ut! Han s\u00e5g s\u00e5 hungrig och gammal och sorgsen ut... Nu \u00e4r det bara vi tv\u00e5, Will. Det finns ingen annan vi kan lita p\u00e5... Det \u00e4r bara vi tv\u00e5. Men vi \u00e4r inte tillr\u00e4ckligt gamla \u00e4n. Vi \u00e4r ju s\u00e5 sm\u00e5... _Alldeles_ f\u00f6r sm\u00e5... Om stackars mr Scoresby \u00e4r d\u00f6d och Iorek \u00e4r gammal... Det \u00e4r bara vi tv\u00e5 nu, som kan ta hand om det som m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras.\"\n\n\"Vi klarar det\", sa han. \"Jag t\u00e4nker inte titta bak\u00e5t n\u00e5t mer. Vi klarar det. Men vi m\u00e5ste sova nu och om vi stannar i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden kanske dom d\u00e4r gyroptrarna dyker upp, dom d\u00e4r som spionerna skickade efter... Jag t\u00e4nker sk\u00e4ra mig igenom nu och hitta n\u00e5n annan v\u00e4rld att sova i, och om spionerna f\u00f6ljer med oss, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det synd, men vi f\u00e5r f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka bli av med dom vid n\u00e5t annat tillf\u00e4lle.\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa hon och snyftade och torkade sig sedan om n\u00e4san med handens baksida och gned sig i \u00f6gonen med b\u00e5da handflatorna. \"S\u00e5 g\u00f6r vi. \u00c4r du s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att kniven fungerar? Har du testat den?\"\n\n\"Jag vet att den fungerar.\"\n\nWill och Lyra \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till grottan och plockade upp sina ryggs\u00e4ckar. Pantalaimon var i tigerskepnad, s\u00e5 de hoppades att han skulle kunna h\u00e5lla spionerna p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd.\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker ni g\u00f6ra?\" fr\u00e5gade Salmakia.\n\n\"Ge oss iv\u00e4g till en annan v\u00e4rld\", svarade Will och plockade fram kniven. Det k\u00e4ndes som att vara hel p\u00e5 nytt; han hade inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt hur mycket han \u00e4lskade kniven.\n\n\"Ni m\u00e5ste v\u00e4nta p\u00e5 lord Asriels gyroptrar\", sa Tialys med h\u00e5rd st\u00e4mma.\n\n\"Det t\u00e4nker vi inte g\u00f6ra\", sa Will. \"Om ni kommer i n\u00e4rheten av kniven d\u00f6dar jag er. F\u00f6lj med oss om ni m\u00e5ste, men ni kan inte tvinga oss att stanna h\u00e4r. Vi t\u00e4nker ge oss av.\"\n\n\"Du lj\u00f6g!\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Lyra. \"Jag lj\u00f6g. Will ljuger inte. Det t\u00e4nkte ni inte p\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Men vad ska ni g\u00f6ra?\"\n\nWill svarade inte. Han trevade sig fram\u00e5t i dunklet och gjorde en \u00f6ppning.\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ett misstag\", sa Salmakia. \"Ni borde inse det och lyssna p\u00e5 oss. Ni har inte t\u00e4nkt...\"\n\n\"Jo, det har vi\", sa Will. \"Vi har t\u00e4nkt mycket och noga och vi ska ber\u00e4tta vad vi har kommit fram till i morgon. Ni kan antingen f\u00f6lja med oss, eller s\u00e5 kan ni \u00e5ka tillbaka till lord Asriel.\"\n\nF\u00f6nstret \u00f6ppnade sig mot den v\u00e4rld dit han flydde med Baruch och Balthamos, d\u00e4r han hade sovit i trygghet: den varma, o\u00e4ndliga stranden med de ormbunksliknande tr\u00e4den bakom sanddynerna.\n\nHan sa:\n\n\"H\u00e4r \u2013 vi t\u00e4nker sova h\u00e4r \u2013 den h\u00e4r platsen blir bra.\"\n\nHan sl\u00e4ppte igenom dem och st\u00e4ngde omedelbart f\u00f6nstret efter sig. Medan han och Lyra lade sig d\u00e4r de var, helt utmattade, h\u00f6ll lady Salmakia vakt och chevalier Tialys \u00f6ppnade magnetstensresonatorn och b\u00f6rjade spela sitt meddelande genom m\u00f6rkret.\n\n## 16\n\n## Intentionsfarkosten\n\nFR\u00c5N VALVENS H\u00d6JD RAD INVID RAD AV LAMPOR H\u00c4NGDE NED MED UNDERBAR MAGI LIKT STJ\u00c4RNLJUS, N\u00c4RDA AV NAFTAOLJOR...\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\n\"MITT BARN! MIN dotter! Var \u00e4r hon? Vad har du gjort? Min Lyra \u2013 du kan lika g\u00e4rna slita hj\u00e4rtat ur kroppen p\u00e5 mig \u2013 hon var trygg hos mig, trygg, men var \u00e4r hon nu?\"\n\nMrs Coulters rop fyllde den lilla kammaren vid adamanttornets topp. Hon satt fastbunden vid en stol, med h\u00e5ret i oreda, kl\u00e4derna i trasor och \u00f6gonen blixtrande. Hennes apd\u00e6mon slet och k\u00e4mpade p\u00e5 golvet fastsurrad i en silverkedja.\n\nLord Asriel satt i n\u00e4rheten och klottrade p\u00e5 ett papper, utan att bry sig om henne. En ordonnans stod bredvid och sneglade nerv\u00f6st p\u00e5 kvinnan. N\u00e4r lord Asriel gett honom papperet gjorde mannen honn\u00f6r och skyndade ut. Hans terrierd\u00e6mon sprang hack i h\u00e4l med svansen mellan benen.\n\nLord Asriel v\u00e4nde sig till mrs Coulter:\n\n\"Lyra? \u00c4rligt talat, s\u00e5 bryr jag mig inte\", sa han med l\u00e5g och hes r\u00f6st. \"Den f\u00f6rbaskade ungen borde ha stannat d\u00e4r hon var och gjort som hon blivit tillsagd. Jag kan inte sl\u00f6sa mer tid och resurser p\u00e5 henne; om hon v\u00e4grar ta emot den hj\u00e4lp hon f\u00e5r, s\u00e5 f\u00e5r hon sj\u00e4lv st\u00e5 f\u00f6r konsekvenserna.\"\n\n\"Det kan du inte mena, Asriel, f\u00f6r annars skulle du inte ha...\"\n\n\"Jag menar vartenda ord. Den oreda hon har st\u00e4llt till med st\u00e5r inte i proportion till hennes f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nster. En helt vanlig engelsk flicka, inte ens speciellt klyftig...\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r hon visst!\" sa mrs Coulter.\n\n\"N\u00e5ja; beg\u00e5vad, men inte intellektuell; impulsiv, o\u00e4rlig, girig...\"\n\n\"Modig, gener\u00f6s, tillgiven.\"\n\n\"En alldeles vanlig flicka, som inte utm\u00e4rks av n\u00e5gonting...\"\n\n\"Alldeles vanlig? Lyra? Hon \u00e4r ju unik. T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 vad hon redan har uppn\u00e5tt. Du f\u00e5r tycka illa om henne om du vill, Asriel, men v\u00e5ga inte m\u00e4stra din egen dotter. Och hon var trygg hos mig \u00e4nda tills...\"\n\n\"Du har r\u00e4tt\", sa han och reste sig. \"Hon _\u00e4r_ unik. Att ha t\u00e4mjt och mjukat upp dig \u2013 det \u00e4r inte n\u00e5gon enkel match. Hon har t\u00f6mt dig p\u00e5 ditt gift, Marisa. Hon har dragit ut t\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 dig. Din eld har dr\u00e4nkts i en skur av sentimental fromhet. Vem kunde ha trott n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant? Den skoningsl\u00f6sa kyrkotribunen, den fanatiska barnar\u00f6verskan, uppfinnaren av gr\u00e4sliga maskiner f\u00f6r att kunna skiva barn och titta in i deras skr\u00e4ckslagna sj\u00e4lar p\u00e5 jakt efter minsta bevis p\u00e5 _synd_ \u2013 och r\u00e4tt som det \u00e4r dyker det upp en ovettig och okunnig liten skitunge med smuts under naglarna, och genast b\u00f6rjar du flaxa med vingarna och klucka som vilken h\u00f6nsmamma som helst. N\u00e5, det m\u00e5ste jag erk\u00e4nna: flickan m\u00e5ste ha n\u00e5gon sorts g\u00e5va som jag sj\u00e4lv inte lagt m\u00e4rke till. Men om det enda den har \u00e5stadkommit \u00e4r att f\u00f6rvandla dig till en \u00f6mmande moder, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det en ganska blek och intets\u00e4gande g\u00e5va. Nu \u00e4r det b\u00e4st f\u00f6r dig att du h\u00e5ller tyst. Jag har bett mina h\u00f6gsta bef\u00e4lhavare att komma hit f\u00f6r en br\u00e5dskande \u00f6verl\u00e4ggning, och om du inte kan beh\u00e4rska dig, s\u00e5 ska jag se till att du bel\u00e4ggs med munkavle.\"\n\nMrs Coulter var mer lik sin dotter \u00e4n hon visste sj\u00e4lv. Hennes svar p\u00e5 detta var att spotta lord Asriel i ansiktet. Han torkade lugnt bort saliven och sa: \"En munkavle skulle \u00e4ven s\u00e4tta stopp f\u00f6r den sortens upptr\u00e4dande.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, f\u00f6rl\u00e5t mig, Asriel\", sa hon, \"du har r\u00e4tt. Den som visar upp en f\u00e5nge bunden vid en stol f\u00f6r sina underofficerare \u00e4r naturligtvis en h\u00f6viskhetens f\u00f6rk\u00e4mpe. Sl\u00e4pp loss mig, f\u00f6r annars kommer jag att _tvinga_ dig att s\u00e4tta munkavle p\u00e5 mig!\"\n\n\"Som du vill\", sa han och plockade fram en sidenhalsduk ur en l\u00e5da, men innan han kunde binda den runt hennes mun skakade hon p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\"Nej, nej\", sa hon, \"Asriel, sn\u00e4lla, jag ber dig, f\u00f6r\u00f6dmjuka mig inte.\"\n\nIlskna t\u00e5rar v\u00e4llde upp ur \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"Visst, jag kan sl\u00e4ppa loss dig, men han f\u00e5r beh\u00e5lla kedjorna\", sa han och sl\u00e4ppte ner halsduken i l\u00e5dan igen, innan han skar av hennes rep med en f\u00e4llkniv.\n\nHon gned sig om handlederna, reste sig, str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 sig och lade f\u00f6rst d\u00e5 m\u00e4rke till hur det stod till med hennes kl\u00e4der och h\u00e5r. Hon s\u00e5g t\u00e4rd och blek ut; det sista av gallivespierns gift dr\u00f6jde kvar i kroppen och gav henne sv\u00e5ra sm\u00e4rtor i lederna, men det var inget hon t\u00e4nkte visa f\u00f6r honom.\n\n\"Du kan tv\u00e4tta av dig d\u00e4r inne\", sa lord Asriel och pekade p\u00e5 ett litet rum, som inte var mycket st\u00f6rre \u00e4n en garderob.\n\nHon plockade upp sin kedjade d\u00e6mon. Hans illvilliga \u00f6gon bl\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 lord Asriel \u00f6ver hennes axel n\u00e4r hon gick f\u00f6r att snygga till sig.\n\nOrdonnansen \u00e5terv\u00e4nde.\n\n\"Hans majest\u00e4t kung Ogunwe och lord Roke\", ropade han ut.\n\nDen afrikanske generalen och gallivespiern kom in i rummet: kung Ogunwe hade en ren uniform p\u00e5 sig och ett nyligen ompl\u00e5strat s\u00e5r i tinningen, och lord Roke gled snabbt in till bordet gr\u00e4nsle \u00f6ver sin falk.\n\nLord Asriel h\u00e4lsade dem varmt v\u00e4lkomna och bj\u00f6d p\u00e5 vin. F\u00e5geln l\u00e4t ryttaren stiga av och fl\u00f6g sedan upp till en hylla vid d\u00f6rren n\u00e4r ordonnansen ropade ut den tredje av lord Asriels h\u00f6gsta bef\u00e4lhavare, en \u00e4ngel vid namn Xaphania. Hon hade mycket h\u00f6gre rang \u00e4n Baruch och Balthamos och syntes genom ett skimrande och f\u00f6rvirrande ljus, som tycktes komma n\u00e5gon annanstans ifr\u00e5n.\n\nVid det h\u00e4r laget hade mrs Coulter dykt upp igen, betydligt prydligare, och alla tre bef\u00e4lhavarna bugade sig f\u00f6r henne. Hon visade inget tecken p\u00e5 om hon f\u00f6rv\u00e5nades \u00f6ver deras uppenbarelser, utan b\u00f6jde l\u00e4tt p\u00e5 huvudet. Hon satte sig lugnt ner och h\u00f6ll sin kedjade apa i famnen.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta vad som h\u00e4nde, kung Ogunwe\", sa lord Asriel utan att sl\u00f6sa n\u00e5gon tid.\n\n\"Vi d\u00f6dade sjutton schweizergardister och f\u00f6rst\u00f6rde tv\u00e5 zeppelinare\", svarade han med sin kraftfulla och djupa afrikanska st\u00e4mma. \"Vi f\u00f6rlorade fem m\u00e4n och en gyropter. Flickan och pojken undkom. Vi tog lady Coulter till f\u00e5nga, trots hennes tappra motst\u00e5nd, och f\u00f6rde henne hit. Jag hoppas det \u00e4r hennes uppfattning att vi behandlade henne med all tillb\u00f6rlig heder.\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r helt n\u00f6jd med er behandling, sir\", sa hon med en knappt m\u00e4rkbar betoning av ordet _er_.\n\n\"N\u00e5gra skador p\u00e5 de andra gyroptrarna? N\u00e5gra s\u00e5rade?\" fr\u00e5gade lord Asriel.\n\n\"En del skador och n\u00e5gra s\u00e5rade, men enbart l\u00e4ttare.\"\n\n\"Utm\u00e4rkt. Tack, kung Ogunwe, er styrka gjorde v\u00e4l ifr\u00e5n sig. Lord Roke, vad har ni h\u00f6rt?\"\n\n\"Mina spioner \u00e4r hos pojken och flickan i en annan v\u00e4rld\", sa gallivespiern. \"B\u00e5da barnen \u00e4r i s\u00e4kerhet och m\u00e5r bra, \u00e4ven om flickan har h\u00e5llits ners\u00f6vd i m\u00e5nga dagar. Pojken f\u00f6rlorade kniven n\u00e4r de var i grottan: genom n\u00e5gon olycksh\u00e4ndelse br\u00f6ts den i bitar. Men den \u00e4r nu hel igen, tack vare en varelse fr\u00e5n de norra delarna av _er_ v\u00e4rld, lord Asriel, en v\u00e4ldig bj\u00f6rn, som \u00e4r mycket skicklig i smide. S\u00e5 snart kniven blivit lagad skar pojken upp ett f\u00f6nster till en annan v\u00e4rld, d\u00e4r de nu befinner sig. Mina spioner \u00e4r f\u00f6rst\u00e5s hos dem, men d\u00e4ri ligger en sv\u00e5righet: s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge pojken har kniven kan han inte tvingas att g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got, men om de fick i uppgift att d\u00f6da honom i s\u00f6mnen, s\u00e5 skulle kniven bli oanv\u00e4ndbar f\u00f6r oss. F\u00f6r stunden kommer chevalier Tialys och lady Salmakia att f\u00f6lja med dem, oavsett vart de beger sig, s\u00e5 att vi \u00e5tminstone kan h\u00e5lla kontakten med dem, f\u00f6r de tycks ha n\u00e5gon plan i sinnet. Hur som helst v\u00e4grar de att komma hit. Mitt par kommer inte att tappa bort dem.\"\n\n\"\u00c4r de s\u00e4kra i den v\u00e4rld de \u00e4r i nu?\" fr\u00e5gade lord Asriel.\n\n\"De befinner sig p\u00e5 en strand vid randen av en ormbunksskog. Det finns inga sp\u00e5r av djur i n\u00e4rheten. Just i detta \u00f6gonblick ligger b\u00e5de pojken och flickan och sover \u2013 jag talade med chevalier Tialys f\u00f6r knappa fem minuter sedan.\"\n\n\"Tack\", sa lord Asriel. \"Nu n\u00e4r era b\u00e5da agenter f\u00f6ljer med barnen har vi f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte l\u00e4ngre n\u00e5gra \u00f6gon hos Magisteriet. Vi f\u00e5r helt enkelt f\u00f6rlita oss p\u00e5 alethiometern. Hur som helst...\"\n\nTill deras f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning yttrade sig mrs Coulter.\n\n\"Jag vet inte hur l\u00e4get \u00e4r hos de \u00f6vriga grenarna\", sa hon, \"men n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden, s\u00e5 f\u00f6rlitar de sig p\u00e5 Fra Pavel Rasek. Han \u00e4r noggrann, men l\u00e5ngsam. De kommer inte att f\u00e5 veta var Lyra befinner sig f\u00f6rr\u00e4n om ytterligare n\u00e5gra timmar.\"\n\n\"Tack, Marisa\", sa lord Asriel. \"Har du n\u00e5gon aning om vad Lyra och den h\u00e4r pojken har f\u00f6r planer?\"\n\n\"Nej\", svarade hon, \"ingen alls. Jag har pratat med pojken och han gav intryck av att vara ett envist barn, och mycket erfaren n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde att bevara hemligheter. Jag vill inte ens f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka gissa vad han t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra. N\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller Lyra, s\u00e5 \u00e4r hon helt om\u00f6jlig att tolka.\"\n\n\"Ers n\u00e5d\", sa kung Ogunwe, \"skulle vi kunna f\u00e5 veta varf\u00f6r lady Coulter nu tycks vara en del av det h\u00e4r r\u00e5det? Om s\u00e5 \u00e4r fallet, vilken \u00e4r hennes funktion? Om inte, borde hon inte f\u00f6ras n\u00e5gon annanstans?\"\n\n\"Hon \u00e4r v\u00e5r f\u00e5nge och min g\u00e4st, och s\u00e5som en framst\u00e5ende f\u00f6re detta agent f\u00f6r kyrkan, s\u00e5 kan hon besitta v\u00e4rdefull information.\"\n\n\"Kommer hon att avsl\u00f6ja n\u00e5got frivilligt? Eller m\u00e5ste hon torteras?\" fr\u00e5gade lord Roke och betraktade henne direkt medan han talade.\n\nMrs Coulter skrattade.\n\n\"Jag hade nog trott att lord Asriels bef\u00e4lhavare skulle veta b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n att v\u00e4nta sig n\u00e5gra sanningar serverade under tortyr\", sa hon.\n\nLord Asriel kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att roas av hennes skaml\u00f6sa hyckleri.\n\n\"Jag kan garantera mrs Coulters upptr\u00e4dande\", sa han. \"Hon vet vad som h\u00e4nder om hon f\u00f6rr\u00e5der oss, men den chansen kommer hon inte att f\u00e5. Men om n\u00e5gon av er hyser n\u00e5gra tvivel, s\u00e5 uttala dem nu, utan n\u00e5gon fruktan.\"\n\n\"Jag g\u00f6r det\", sa kung Ogunwe, \"men det \u00e4r er jag tvivlar p\u00e5, inte henne.\"\n\n\"Hur s\u00e5?\" fr\u00e5gade lord Asriel.\n\n\"Om hon frestade er skulle ni inte kunna st\u00e5 emot. Det var r\u00e4tt och riktigt att ta henne till f\u00e5nga, men fel att bjuda in henne till det h\u00e4r r\u00e5dslaget. Behandla henne med all heder, f\u00f6rse henne med alla bekv\u00e4mligheter, men f\u00f6rvara henne n\u00e5gon annanstans, och h\u00e5ll er borta fr\u00e5n henne.\"\n\n\"N\u00e5, jag bad er att tala fritt\", sa lord Asriel, \"s\u00e5 jag m\u00e5ste godta er tillr\u00e4ttavisning. Jag v\u00e4rdes\u00e4tter er n\u00e4rvaro mycket h\u00f6gre \u00e4n hennes, kung Ogunwe. Jag ska l\u00e5ta f\u00f6ra bort henne.\"\n\nHan str\u00e4ckte sig efter klockan.\n\n\"Sn\u00e4lla\", sa mrs Coulter entr\u00e4get innan han kunde ringa i den, \"lyssna p\u00e5 mig f\u00f6rst. Jag kan hj\u00e4lpa er. Jag har befunnit mig n\u00e4rmare Magisteriets hj\u00e4rta \u00e4n n\u00e5gon annan ni kommer att hitta. Jag vet hur de t\u00e4nker, jag kan gissa mig till vad de t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra. Ni undrar varf\u00f6r ni borde lita p\u00e5 mig, vad det var som fick mig att \u00f6verge dem? Det \u00e4r enkelt: de t\u00e4nkte d\u00f6da min dotter. De v\u00e5gar inte l\u00e5ta henne leva. I samma \u00f6gonblick som jag fick veta vem hon \u00e4r \u2013 vad hon \u00e4r \u2013 vad h\u00e4xornas profetia om henne handlar om \u2013 s\u00e5 f\u00f6rstod jag att jag m\u00e5ste l\u00e4mna kyrkan. Jag f\u00f6rstod att jag var deras fiende och de var min. Jag visste inte var jag hade er, eller vad jag betydde f\u00f6r er \u2013 det var ett mysterium, men jag f\u00f6rstod att jag m\u00e5ste s\u00e4tta mig upp mot kyrkan, mot allt den tror p\u00e5, och om det var n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt \u00e4ven mot Auktoriteten sj\u00e4lv. Jag...\"\n\nHon hejdade sig. Alla bef\u00e4lhavarna lyssnade intensivt. Nu s\u00e5g hon rakt p\u00e5 lord Asriel och tycktes tala enbart till honom. Hennes r\u00f6st var l\u00e5g och passionerad och \u00f6gonen glittrade.\n\n\"Jag har varit v\u00e4rldens s\u00e4msta mor. Jag till\u00e4t att mitt enda barn togs ifr\u00e5n mig som nyf\u00f6dd, eftersom jag inte brydde mig om henne. Jag var helt uppslukad av min egen karri\u00e4r. Jag t\u00e4nkte inte p\u00e5 henne p\u00e5 flera \u00e5r och om jag gjorde det, s\u00e5 var det bara i \u00e5nger \u00f6ver f\u00f6r\u00f6dmjukelsen i samband med hennes f\u00f6dsel.\n\nMen n\u00e4r kyrkan b\u00f6rjade intressera sig f\u00f6r Stoft och f\u00f6r barnen var det n\u00e5got som r\u00f6rde sig i mitt hj\u00e4rta och jag mindes att \u00e4ven jag var en mor och att Lyra var... _mitt_ barn.\n\nDet f\u00f6rel\u00e5g ett hot, s\u00e5 jag r\u00e4ddade henne fr\u00e5n det. Jag har redan g\u00e5tt in och r\u00e4ddat henne fr\u00e5n faror vid tre olika tillf\u00e4llen. F\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen n\u00e4r Oblatbyr\u00e5n inledde sitt arbete: jag \u00e5kte ut till Jordan College och h\u00e4mtade henne, s\u00e5 att hon kunde bo hos mig i London, d\u00e4r hon skulle vara trygg fr\u00e5n Byr\u00e5n... hoppades jag i alla fall. Men s\u00e5 rymde hon.\n\nDen andra g\u00e5ngen var vid Bolvangar, n\u00e4r jag hittade henne i absolut sista \u00f6gonblicket, under... under klingan till... Mitt hj\u00e4rta var n\u00e4ra att stanna... Det var vad de \u2013 _vi_ \u2013 vad jag hade gjort mot andra barn, men n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde _mitt eget_... \u00c5h, ni kan inte f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla er skr\u00e4cken i just det \u00f6gonblicket. Jag hoppas att ni aldrig beh\u00f6ver lida som jag gjorde d\u00e5. Jag tog henne d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. Jag r\u00e4ddade henne en andra g\u00e5ng.\n\nMen samtidigt k\u00e4nde jag mig fortfarande som en del av kyrkan, som en av dess tj\u00e4nare, en lojal och trogen och h\u00e4ngiven tj\u00e4nare, eftersom jag utf\u00f6rde Auktoritetens arbete.\n\nSedan fick jag h\u00f6ra h\u00e4xornas profetia. Lyra kommer p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt, n\u00e5gon g\u00e5ng snart, att frestas, precis som Eva \u2013 det \u00e4r vad de s\u00e4ger. Vilken form den h\u00e4r frestelsen kommer att ta vet jag inte, men hon h\u00e5ller trots allt p\u00e5 att v\u00e4xa upp. Den \u00e4r inte sv\u00e5r att f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig. Nu n\u00e4r \u00e4ven kyrkan vet det t\u00e4nker de d\u00f6da henne. Hur skulle de kunna ta risken att l\u00e5ta henne leva, om allt beror p\u00e5 henne? Skulle de v\u00e5ga ta chansen att hon skulle v\u00e4gra l\u00e5ta sig frestas, oavsett vad det r\u00f6r sig om?\n\nNej, de \u00e4r tvungna att d\u00f6da henne. Om de bara hade kunnat skulle de ha \u00e5terv\u00e4nt till Edens lustg\u00e5rd och d\u00f6dat Eva innan _hon_ frestades. Det \u00e4r inte sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r dem att d\u00f6da; Calvin sj\u00e4lv gav order om att barn skulle d\u00f6das. De skulle d\u00f6da henne \u00e5tf\u00f6ljt av pompa och ceremonier och b\u00f6ner och klagovisor och psalmer och hymner, men de skulle likv\u00e4l d\u00f6da henne. Faller hon i deras h\u00e4nder \u00e4r hon s\u00e5 gott som d\u00f6d.\n\nS\u00e5 n\u00e4r jag h\u00f6rde vad h\u00e4xan hade att s\u00e4ga r\u00e4ddade jag min dotter en tredje g\u00e5ng. Jag tog henne till en plats d\u00e4r jag kunde vaka \u00f6ver henne i trygghet, och d\u00e4r t\u00e4nkte jag stanna.\"\n\n\"Ni drogade henne\", sa kung Ogunwe. \"Ni h\u00f6ll henne ners\u00f6vd.\"\n\n\"Jag var tvungen\", sa mrs Coulter, \"eftersom hon hatar mig.\" Vid det laget f\u00f6rvandlades hennes r\u00f6st, som tills nu varit k\u00e4nslosam men \u00e4nd\u00e5 beh\u00e4rskad, till en snyftning. R\u00f6sten skalv till n\u00e4r hon fortsatte: \"Hon \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r mig och avskyr mig och hon skulle ha flytt fr\u00e5n mig som en f\u00e5gel fr\u00e5n en katt om jag inte hade s\u00f6vt ner henne. F\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni vad det inneb\u00e4r f\u00f6r en mor? Men det var mitt enda s\u00e4tt att h\u00e5lla henne s\u00e4ker! Hela den d\u00e4r tiden i grottan... sovande, med slutna \u00f6gon, kroppen hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6s, hennes d\u00e6mon hoprullad vid nacken... \u00c5h, jag k\u00e4nde en s\u00e5dan k\u00e4rlek, en s\u00e5dan \u00f6mhet, en s\u00e5dan djup, djup... Mitt eget barn, den f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ng jag n\u00e5gonsin kunnat g\u00f6ra alla de d\u00e4r sakerna f\u00f6r henne, min lilla... Jag tv\u00e4ttade henne och matade henne och s\u00e5g till att hon var varm och trygg, jag s\u00e5g till att hennes kropp fick n\u00e4ring medan hon sov... Jag l\u00e5g bredvid henne p\u00e5 n\u00e4tterna och h\u00f6ll henne i min famn, jag gr\u00e4t i hennes h\u00e5r, jag kysste hennes sovande \u00f6gon, min lilla...\"\n\nHon var helt utan skam i kroppen. Hon talade l\u00e5gt. Hon varken orerade eller h\u00f6jde r\u00f6sten och n\u00e4r snyftningarna skakade henne d\u00e4mpades dessa till n\u00e5got som n\u00e4rmast f\u00f6rvandlades till sm\u00e5 hickningar, som om hon bem\u00e4strade sina k\u00e4nslor av ren omtanke och artighet. Det som gjorde hennes of\u00f6rst\u00e4llda l\u00f6gner \u00e4nnu effektivare, t\u00e4nkte lord Asriel med avsmak, var att hon lj\u00f6g \u00e4nda in i m\u00e4rgen.\n\nHon riktade sina ord huvudsakligen till kung Ogunwe, men utan att tyckas g\u00f6ra det, men lord Asriel s\u00e5g \u00e4ven detta. Kungen var inte bara hennes fr\u00e4msta anklagare, han var \u00e4ven m\u00e4nsklig, till skillnad fr\u00e5n \u00e4ngeln eller lord Roke, och hon visste hur hon skulle spela p\u00e5 hans k\u00e4nslor.\n\nMen faktum var att hon gjorde starkast intryck p\u00e5 gallivespiern. Lord Roke anade i henne en natur som var s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra skorpionens som han n\u00e5gonsin st\u00f6tt p\u00e5 hos n\u00e5gon varelse, och han var v\u00e4l medveten om styrkan i den giftgadd han kunde ana bakom hennes mjuka s\u00e4tt. Skorpioner f\u00f6rvaras b\u00e4st d\u00e4r man kan h\u00e5lla ett \u00f6ga p\u00e5 dem, t\u00e4nkte han.\n\nD\u00e4rf\u00f6r st\u00f6dde han kung Ogunwe n\u00e4r denne senare \u00e4ndrade sig och argumenterade f\u00f6r att hon skulle f\u00e5 stanna, och lord Asriel fann sig vara utman\u00f6vrerad: just nu ville han ha henne n\u00e5gon annanstans, men han hade redan lovat att g\u00e5 med p\u00e5 sina bef\u00e4lhavares \u00f6nskem\u00e5l.\n\nMrs Coulter s\u00e5g p\u00e5 honom med ett uttryck av mild och dygdig oro. Han var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att ingen annan s\u00e5g bl\u00e4nket av listig triumf i djupet av hennes vackra \u00f6gon.\n\n\"Stanna d\u00e5\", sa han. \"Men du har pratat tillr\u00e4ckligt. Var tyst nu. Jag vill diskutera f\u00f6rslaget om en garnison l\u00e4ngs den s\u00f6dra gr\u00e4nsen. Ni har sett rapporten: \u00c4r det genomf\u00f6rbart? \u00c4r det \u00f6nskv\u00e4rt? D\u00e4refter vill jag titta p\u00e5 rustkammaren. Och sedan vill jag h\u00f6ra Xaphania rapportera om \u00e4nglatruppernas uppst\u00e4llning. Garnisonen f\u00f6rst. Kung Ogunwe?\"\n\nDen afrikanske ledaren b\u00f6rjade. De talade ett bra tag och mrs Coulter imponerades av deras omfattande kunskap om kyrkans f\u00f6rsvar och deras tydliga bild av ledarnas styrka.\n\nMen nu n\u00e4r Tialys och Salmakia var hos barnen och lord Asriel inte l\u00e4ngre hade n\u00e5gon spion i Magisteriet skulle deras kunskap snabbt bli farligt f\u00f6r\u00e5ldrad. Mrs Coulter fick en id\u00e9. Hon utbytte en blick med sin apd\u00e6mon och det k\u00e4ndes som en kraftig anbarisk st\u00f6t; men hon sa inget, utan klappade bara hans gyllene p\u00e4ls medan hon fortsatte att lyssna p\u00e5 bef\u00e4lhavarna.\n\n\"Det r\u00e4cker\", sa lord Asriel sedan. \"Det problemet f\u00e5r vi ta itu med senare. Nu g\u00e5r vi ner till rustkammaren. Jag har f\u00e5tt veta att de \u00e4r redo att testa intentionsfarkosten. L\u00e5t oss ta en titt p\u00e5 den.\"\n\nHan plockade upp en silvernyckel ur fickan och l\u00e5ste upp kedjan runt den gyllene apans f\u00f6tter och h\u00e4nder, och var noga med att inte ens nudda spetsen av n\u00e5got av de gyllene str\u00e5na.\n\nLord Roke satt upp p\u00e5 sin falk och f\u00f6ljde de \u00f6vriga n\u00e4r lord Asriel ledde v\u00e4gen ner f\u00f6r torntrappan och ut p\u00e5 murkr\u00f6net.\n\nEn kylig vind bl\u00e5ste och slet i dem och den m\u00f6rkbl\u00e5 falken seglade upp\u00e5t i den starka uppvinden, girande och skrikande i den oroliga luften. Kung Ogunwe svepte rocken t\u00e4tare om sig och l\u00e4t handen vila p\u00e5 gepardd\u00e6monens huvud.\n\nMrs Coulter v\u00e4nde sig \u00f6dmjukt till \u00e4ngeln:\n\n\"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t mig, mylady: \u00c4r ert namn Xaphania?\"\n\n\"Ja\", svarade \u00e4ngeln.\n\nHennes uppenbarelse gjorde starkt intryck p\u00e5 mrs Coulter, precis som hennes kamrater hade gjort p\u00e5 h\u00e4xan Ruta Skadi n\u00e4r hon fann dem i himlen: hon lyste inte sj\u00e4lv, men var \u00e4nd\u00e5 upplyst, trots att det inte fanns n\u00e5gon ljusk\u00e4lla. Hon var l\u00e5ng, naken, bevingad och hennes f\u00e5rade ansikte var \u00e4ldre \u00e4n n\u00e5gon annan varelse mrs Coulter n\u00e5gonsin hade st\u00f6tt p\u00e5.\n\n\"\u00c4r ni en av de \u00e4nglar som gjorde uppror f\u00f6r s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga \u00e5r sedan?\"\n\n\"Ja. Och sedan dess har jag vandrat mellan m\u00e5nga olika v\u00e4rldar. Nu har jag f\u00f6rsvurit mig \u00e5t lord Asriel, eftersom jag i hans f\u00f6retag ser det st\u00f6rsta hoppet att \u00e4ntligen krossa tyranniet.\"\n\n\"Men om ni misslyckas?\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 kommer vi att krossas och grymheten kommer att h\u00e4rska f\u00f6r evigt.\"\n\nMedan de samtalade f\u00f6ljde de lord Asriels raska steg l\u00e4ngs det vindpinade murkr\u00f6net mot en v\u00e4ldig trappa, som str\u00e4ckte sig s\u00e5 djupt ner att inte ens de fladdrande ljusen i v\u00e4ggh\u00e5llarna kunde avsl\u00f6ja dess botten. Den bl\u00e5 falken svepte f\u00f6rbi dem och f\u00f6rsvann djupare och djupare ner i dunklet och vartenda flammande ljus fick hans fj\u00e4drar att glittra till n\u00e4r han passerade, tills han bara var en minimal gnista innan han f\u00f6rsvann helt.\n\n\u00c4ngeln hade glidit bort till lord Asriels sida, s\u00e5 mrs Coulter hamnade bredvid den afrikanske kungen p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen ner f\u00f6r trappan.\n\n\"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t min okunnighet\", sa hon, \"men jag har aldrig sett eller h\u00f6rt n\u00e5got om s\u00e5dana varelser som mannen p\u00e5 den bl\u00e5 falken f\u00f6rr\u00e4n vid striden i grottan ig\u00e5r... Var kommer han ifr\u00e5n? Kan ni ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5got om hans folk? Jag skulle inte vilja f\u00f6rol\u00e4mpa honom f\u00f6r allt i v\u00e4rlden, men jag \u00e4r kanske oavsiktligt oartig om jag s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got utan att veta n\u00e5got om honom.\"\n\n\"Ni g\u00f6r r\u00e4tt i att fr\u00e5ga\", svarade kung Ogunwe. \"Hans folk \u00e4r mycket stolt. Deras v\u00e4rld utvecklades annorlunda \u00e4n v\u00e5r; det finns tv\u00e5 slags medvetna varelser d\u00e4r, m\u00e4nniskor och gallivespier. De flesta av m\u00e4nniskorna tj\u00e4nar Auktoriteten och de har f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt utrota hela det lilla folket s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge n\u00e5gon kan minnas. Man betraktar dem som diaboliska, och d\u00e4rf\u00f6r kan gallivespierna inte helt lita p\u00e5 varelser i v\u00e5r storlek. Men de \u00e4r stolta och farliga krigare, d\u00f6dliga fiender och v\u00e4rdefulla spioner.\"\n\n\"\u00c4r hela hans folk p\u00e5 er sida eller \u00e4r de lika splittrade som vi m\u00e4nniskor?\"\n\n\"Det finns n\u00e5gra som st\u00e5r p\u00e5 fiendens sida, men de flesta \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e5r.\"\n\n\"Och \u00e4nglarna? Vet ni, \u00e4nda tills helt nyligen trodde jag att \u00e4nglarna var ett p\u00e5fund fr\u00e5n medeltiden, att de bara var fantasifoster... Att helt pl\u00f6tsligt konfronteras med dem kan l\u00e4tt bringa en ur fattningen... Hur m\u00e5nga tj\u00e4nar lord Asriel?\"\n\n\"Mrs Coulter\", sa kungen, \"de h\u00e4r fr\u00e5gorna \u00e4r av just det slag som en spion skulle vilja ta reda p\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Vilken lysande spion jag \u00e4r, d\u00e5, som st\u00e4ller dem s\u00e5 genomskinligt\", svarade hon. \"Jag \u00e4r er f\u00e5nge, ers n\u00e5d. Jag kan inte ta mig h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n \u00e4ven om jag hade n\u00e5gon trygg plats att fly till. Fr\u00e5n och med nu \u00e4r jag oskadliggjord, ni har mitt ord p\u00e5 den saken.\"\n\n\"Det gl\u00e4der mig att kunna tro p\u00e5 er\", sa kungen. \"\u00c4nglarna \u00e4r mycket sv\u00e5rare att f\u00f6rst\u00e5 \u00e4n n\u00e5gra m\u00e4nskliga varelser. Till att b\u00f6rja med finns det inte bara en sort; n\u00e5gra har st\u00f6rre krafter \u00e4n andra. Det finns komplicerade allianser mellan dem och ur\u00e5ldriga fiendskaper, som vi vet mycket lite om. Auktoriteten har undertryckt dem \u00e4nda sedan han blev till.\"\n\nHon hejdade sig. Hon blev genuint chockad. Den afrikanske kungen stannade till f\u00f6r att han trodde att hon inte m\u00e5dde bra. Den fladdrande facklan ovanf\u00f6r henne kastade sp\u00f6klika skuggor \u00f6ver hennes ansikte.\n\n\"Ni s\u00e4ger det s\u00e5 i f\u00f6rbig\u00e5ende\", sa hon, \"som om det var n\u00e5got jag ocks\u00e5 borde veta, men... Hur kan det vara s\u00e5? Det var v\u00e4l Auktoriteten som skapade v\u00e4rldarna? Han existerade innan allting annat. Hur kan han d\u00e5 ha _blivit till_?\"\n\n\"Den kunskapen har vi f\u00e5tt fr\u00e5n \u00e4nglarna\", sa Ogunwe. \"Det chockade n\u00e5gra av oss ocks\u00e5 att f\u00e5 veta att Auktoriteten inte \u00e4r Skaparen. Kanske fanns det en skapare, eller s\u00e5 gjorde det inte det: vi vet inte. Det enda vi vet \u00e4r att Auktoriteten tog \u00f6ver vid n\u00e5gon tidpunkt, och \u00e4nda sedan dess har \u00e4nglarna gjort uppror mot honom, och \u00e4ven m\u00e4nniskorna har bek\u00e4mpat honom. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r det sista upproret. Aldrig f\u00f6rr har m\u00e4nniskor och \u00e4nglar och varelser fr\u00e5n alla v\u00e4rldar gjort gemensam sak. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r den st\u00f6rsta styrka som n\u00e5gonsin har samlats. Men det kanske \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte r\u00e4cker. Det l\u00e4r visa sig.\"\n\n\"Men vad har lord Asriel f\u00f6r m\u00e5l? Vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r v\u00e4rld, och varf\u00f6r har han kommit hit?\"\n\n\"Han ledde oss hit f\u00f6r att den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden \u00e4r tom. Tom p\u00e5 medvetet liv, vill s\u00e4ga. Vi \u00e4r inte n\u00e5gra kolonisat\u00f6rer, mrs Coulter. Vi har inte kommit hit f\u00f6r att er\u00f6vra, utan f\u00f6r att bygga.\"\n\n\"T\u00e4nker han anfalla Himmelriket?\"\n\nOgunwe s\u00e5g stadigt p\u00e5 henne.\n\n\"Vi t\u00e4nker inte invadera Himmelriket\", svarade han, \"men om Himmelriket invaderar oss g\u00f6r de b\u00e4st i att vara beredda p\u00e5 strid, f\u00f6r vi \u00e4r redo. Mrs Coulter, jag \u00e4r kung, men det var min stoltaste handling n\u00e5gonsin n\u00e4r jag ansl\u00f6t mig till lord Asriel f\u00f6r att bygga en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r det inte finns n\u00e5gra kungariken. Inga kungar, inga biskopar, inga pr\u00e4ster. Himmelriket har varit k\u00e4nt under det namnet \u00e4nda sedan Auktoriteten f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen st\u00e4llde sig \u00f6ver \u00e4nglarna. Vi vill inte vara en del av det. Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden \u00e4r annorlunda. V\u00e5rt m\u00e5l \u00e4r att bli fria medborgare i Himmelsrepubliken.\"\n\nMrs Coulter ville s\u00e4ga mer, hon ville st\u00e4lla det dussin fr\u00e5gor som tr\u00e4ngdes bakom hennes l\u00e4ppar, men kungen hade g\u00e5tt vidare och ville og\u00e4rna l\u00e5ta sin bef\u00e4lhavare v\u00e4nta, s\u00e5 hon var tvungen att skynda efter.\n\nTrappan ledde s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt ner att himlen bakom dem vid toppen inte l\u00e4ngre var synlig n\u00e4r de \u00e4ntligen n\u00e5dde botten. L\u00e5ngt innan de n\u00e5tt halvv\u00e4gs hade hon n\u00e4stan tappat andan, men klagade inte utan fortsatte ner tills trappan \u00f6ppnade sig i en v\u00e4ldig hall, upplyst av gl\u00f6dande kristaller i de pelare som bar upp taket. Stegar, traversbanor, balkar och g\u00e5ngbord genomkorsade dunklet ovanf\u00f6r, d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 figurer r\u00f6rde sig m\u00e5lmedvetet.\n\nLord Asriel talade med sina bef\u00e4lhavare n\u00e4r mrs Coulter anl\u00e4nde och utan att l\u00e5ta henne vila f\u00f6rflyttade han sig tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver den stora hallen, d\u00e4r emellan\u00e5t n\u00e5gon lysande figur svepte fram genom luften eller landade p\u00e5 golvet f\u00f6r hastiga \u00f6verl\u00e4ggningar med honom. Luften var kvalmig och varm. Mrs Coulter lade m\u00e4rke till att varje pelare hade ett st\u00f6d i h\u00f6jd med m\u00e4nniskornas huvuden. F\u00f6rmodligen var det en artighet mot lord Roke, s\u00e5 att hans falk kunde sl\u00e5 sig ner d\u00e4r och l\u00e5ta gallivespiern ta del av alla samtal.\n\nDe stannade dock inte l\u00e4nge i den stora hallen. I den bortre \u00e4nden drog en uppsyningsman upp en tung dubbeld\u00f6rr f\u00f6r att kunna sl\u00e4ppa igenom dem till en j\u00e4rnv\u00e4gsperrong. D\u00e4r v\u00e4ntade en liten t\u00e4ckt vagn dragen av ett anbariskt lok.\n\nLokf\u00f6raren bugade sig och hans bruna apd\u00e6mon g\u00f6mde sig bakom hans ben n\u00e4r hon fick syn p\u00e5 den gyllene apan. Lord Asriel sa n\u00e5gra ord till mannen och bad de \u00f6vriga att stiga in i vagnen, som i likhet med hallen var upplyst av gl\u00f6dande kristaller p\u00e5 silverst\u00f6d f\u00e4stade i spegelblanka mahognypaneler.\n\nS\u00e5 snart lord Asriel hade anslutit sig b\u00f6rjade t\u00e5get att rulla. Det gled mjukt, accelererade snabbt och fortsatte bort fr\u00e5n perrongen in i en tunnel. Det var bara ljudet av hjulen mot det j\u00e4mna sp\u00e5ret som gav en antydan om hastigheten.\n\n\"Vart \u00e4r vi p\u00e5 v\u00e4g?\" fr\u00e5gade mrs Coulter.\n\n\"Till rustkammaren\", svarade lord Asriel korthugget och v\u00e4nde sig f\u00f6r att kunna samtala l\u00e5gt med \u00e4ngeln.\n\n\"Min herre\", sa mrs Coulter till lord Roke, \"s\u00e4nder ni alltid ut era spioner i par?\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r fr\u00e5gar ni?\"\n\n\"Av ren nyfikenhet. Min d\u00e6mon och jag hamnade i ett d\u00f6dl\u00e4ge n\u00e4r vi tr\u00e4ffade dem nyligen i den d\u00e4r grottan, och jag fascinerades av hur v\u00e4l de stred.\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r _fascinerades_ ni? V\u00e4ntade ni er inte att personer i v\u00e5r storlek kunde vara utm\u00e4rkta k\u00e4mpar?\"\n\nHon s\u00e5g kyligt p\u00e5 honom och var v\u00e4l medveten om hans oerh\u00f6rda stolthet.\n\n\"Nej\", sa hon. \"Jag trodde att vi skulle kunna besegra er l\u00e4tt och det var ytterst n\u00e4ra att ni besegrade oss. Jag erk\u00e4nner glatt mitt misstag. Men sl\u00e5ss ni alltid i par?\"\n\n\"Ni \u00e4r ju ett par, eller hur, ni och er d\u00e6mon? V\u00e4ntade ni er att vi skulle avst\u00e5 fr\u00e5n den f\u00f6rdelen?\" sa han. Hans h\u00f6gdragna blick, som var lysande klar \u00e4ven i kristallernas mjuka sken, hindrade henne fr\u00e5n att st\u00e4lla fler fr\u00e5gor.\n\nHon slog blygt ner blicken och sa inget mer.\n\nFlera minuter gick och sedan k\u00e4nde mrs Coulter hur t\u00e5get f\u00f6rde dem ned\u00e5t och \u00e4nnu djupare in i bergets hj\u00e4rta. Hon hade ingen aning om hur l\u00e5ngt de f\u00e4rdades, men n\u00e4r minst en kvart hade g\u00e5tt b\u00f6rjade t\u00e5get att sakta in och efter ett litet tag stannade det vid en perrong d\u00e4r de anbariska lamporna lyste med ett starkt sken efter tunnelns m\u00f6rker.\n\nLord Asriel \u00f6ppnade d\u00f6rrarna och de klev ut i en luft som var s\u00e5 het och svavelluktande att mrs Coulter fl\u00e4mtade till. Luften genlj\u00f6d av d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n v\u00e4ldiga hammare och det skr\u00e4llande tjutet av metall mot sten.\n\nEn vakt drog upp d\u00f6rren fr\u00e5n perrongen, ov\u00e4sendet f\u00f6rdubblades omedelbart och hettan sk\u00f6ljde \u00f6ver dem som en havsv\u00e5g. Det starka ljuset tvingade dem att skydda \u00f6gonen och det var bara Xaphania som s\u00e5g ut att inte ber\u00f6ras av det v\u00e5ldsamma ljudet, ljuset och hettan. N\u00e4r mrs Coulters sinnen hade anpassat sig tittade hon sig om, full av nyfikenhet.\n\nHon hade sett smedjor, j\u00e4rnverk och fabriker i sin egen v\u00e4rld, men de st\u00f6rsta k\u00e4ndes som sm\u00e5 bysmedjor bredvid den h\u00e4r. Hammare stora som hus lyftes p\u00e5 n\u00e5got \u00f6gonblick mot det avl\u00e4gsna taket och slungades sedan ned\u00e5t f\u00f6r att platta ut j\u00e4rnbalkar tjocka som tr\u00e4dstammar och p\u00e5 n\u00e5got \u00f6gonblick f\u00f6rvandla dem till pl\u00e5tar med slag som fick sj\u00e4lva berget att skaka. Fr\u00e5n en \u00f6ppning i klippv\u00e4ggen rann en flod av svavelosande sm\u00e4lt metall tills den skars itu av en port av adamant. Den lysande, sjudande floden forsade genom kanaler och slussar och \u00f6ver f\u00f6rd\u00e4mningar och vidare ut \u00f6ver rad efter rad av gjutformar, d\u00e4r metallen stelnade och svalnade i moln av stickande r\u00f6k. V\u00e4ldiga sk\u00e4rmaskiner och valsverk skar och vek och pressade pl\u00e5tar av tumstjockt j\u00e4rn som om det varit hush\u00e5llspapper, och de monstru\u00f6sa hamrarna bultade det platt igen och pressade ihop lager efter lager av metall med en s\u00e5dan kraft att de olika lagren blev till en \u00e4nnu h\u00e5rdare helhet.\n\nOm Iorek Byrnison hade f\u00e5tt se den h\u00e4r rustkammaren skulle han kanske ha erk\u00e4nt att de h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna visste \u00e5tminstone n\u00e5got om hur man arbetade med metall. Mrs Coulter kunde bara titta p\u00e5 och f\u00f6rundras. Det var om\u00f6jligt att samtala eller bli f\u00f6rst\u00e5dd, s\u00e5 ingen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte. Nu tecknade lord Asriel \u00e5t den lilla gruppen att de skulle f\u00f6lja honom l\u00e4ngs ett g\u00e5ngbord upph\u00e4ngt \u00f6ver en \u00e4nnu st\u00f6rre sal nedanf\u00f6r, d\u00e4r gruvarbetarna slet med spett och spadar f\u00f6r att kunna hacka loss den gnistrande metallen ur huvud\u00e5dern.\n\nDe passerade \u00f6ver g\u00e5ngbordet och fortsatte l\u00e4ngs en l\u00e5ng stenig korridor, d\u00e4r stalaktiterna h\u00e4ngde gnistrande i underliga f\u00e4rger och d\u00e4r d\u00e5nandet och gnisslandet och hamrandet gradvis tonade bort. Mrs Coulter kunde k\u00e4nna en sval bris mot sitt blossande ansikte. Ljuskristallerna satt inte f\u00e4stade i h\u00e5llare eller infattade i n\u00e5gra gl\u00f6dande pelare, utan l\u00e5g utspridda p\u00e5 golvet. Det fanns inte l\u00e4ngre n\u00e5gra fladdrande facklor som bidrog till hettan, s\u00e5 lite i taget b\u00f6rjade gruppen m\u00e4rka av kylan igen. Helt pl\u00f6tsligt var de ute i nattluften igen.\n\nDe befann sig p\u00e5 en plats d\u00e4r en del av berget hade hackats bort f\u00f6r att skapa en \u00f6ppning som var bred som en exercisplats. L\u00e4ngre bort kunde de ana n\u00e5gra svagt upplysta, men v\u00e4ldiga j\u00e4rnd\u00f6rrar i bergssidan. N\u00e5gra var \u00f6ppna, andra var st\u00e4ngda. Ett antal m\u00e4n h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att sl\u00e4pa ut n\u00e5got, som var \u00f6vert\u00e4ckt av en presenning, genom en av de v\u00e4ldiga portarna.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det d\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade mrs Coulter den afrikanske kungen.\n\n\"Intentionsfarkosten\", svarade han.\n\nMrs Coulter hade ingen aning om vad det kunde betyda, s\u00e5 hon s\u00e5g p\u00e5 med intensiv nyfikenhet n\u00e4r man gjorde sig redo att dra bort presenningen.\n\nHon stod bredvid kung Ogunwe som om hon s\u00f6kt skydd hos honom och fr\u00e5gade: \"Hur fungerar den? Vad g\u00f6r den?\"\n\n\"Vi kommer strax att f\u00e5 veta\", svarade kungen.\n\nDet s\u00e5g ut som n\u00e5gon sorts komplicerad borrutrustning, eller cockpiten p\u00e5 en gyropter, eller hytten till n\u00e5gon v\u00e4ldig kran. Den hade en glashuv \u00f6ver ett s\u00e4te med minst ett dussin spakar och handtag framf\u00f6r. Den stod p\u00e5 sex ben, som vart och ett var ledat och fastsatt i n\u00e5gon ny vinkel mot kroppen, s\u00e5 att den s\u00e5g b\u00e5de energisk och klumpig ut. Sj\u00e4lva kroppen var en h\u00e4rva av r\u00f6r, cylindrar, kolvar, slingrande kablar, str\u00f6mbrytare, ventiler och m\u00e4tare. Det var sv\u00e5rt att avg\u00f6ra vad som utgjorde dess skrov och vad som inte var det, eftersom den var upplyst bakifr\u00e5n och det mesta av den doldes i dunklet.\n\nLord Roke gled direkt fram till den p\u00e5 sin falk och slog en lov runt den och unders\u00f6kte den fr\u00e5n alla sidor. Lord Asriel och \u00e4ngeln stod i n\u00e4ra samspr\u00e5k med ingenj\u00f6rerna och m\u00e4n h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att kl\u00e4ttra ner fr\u00e5n sj\u00e4lva farkosten. En av dem hade en skrivskiva i handen och den andre ett stycke kabel.\n\nMrs Coulters blick s\u00f6kte sig hungrigt till farkosten. Hon memorerade varenda del av den och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte hitta sammanhangen i dess invecklade beskaffenhet. Samtidigt hoppade lord Asriel sj\u00e4lv upp i s\u00e4tet och sp\u00e4nde ett l\u00e4derb\u00e4lte runt midjan och axlarna och satte en hj\u00e4lm ordentligt p\u00e5 huvudet. Hans d\u00e6mon, sn\u00f6leoparden, hoppade upp bredvid honom, och han v\u00e4nde sig om och r\u00e4ttade till n\u00e5got bredvid henne. Ingenj\u00f6ren ropade till honom och lord Asriel svarade. M\u00e4nnen drog sig tillbaka till d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen.\n\nIntentionsfarkosten r\u00f6rde sig, \u00e4ven om mrs Coulter inte var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 hur. Det var n\u00e4stan som om den skalv till, trots att den stod kvar, helt or\u00f6rlig, och var redo till spr\u00e5ng p\u00e5 de d\u00e4r sex insektsbenen med hj\u00e4lp av n\u00e5gon underlig energi. Medan hon tittade p\u00e5 den r\u00f6rde den sig p\u00e5 nytt, och d\u00e5 s\u00e5g hon vad som h\u00e4nde: olika delar snurrade, vred sig hit eller dit och l\u00e4ste av den m\u00f6rka himlen ovanf\u00f6r. Lord Asriel var upptagen med att man\u00f6vrera en spak, att avl\u00e4sa en m\u00e4tare, att finjustera en kontroll; och sedan f\u00f6rsvann pl\u00f6tsligt intentionsfarkosten.\n\nP\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt hade den farit rakt upp i luften. Nu sv\u00e4vade den ovanf\u00f6r dem i h\u00f6jd med tr\u00e4dtopparna och vred sig l\u00e5ngsamt \u00e5t v\u00e4nster. Det h\u00f6rdes inget motorljud och det gavs ingen antydan om hur den kunde motverka gravitationen. Den bara h\u00e4ngde d\u00e4r mitt i luften.\n\n\"Lyssna\", sa kung Ogunwe. \"I s\u00f6der.\"\n\nHon vred p\u00e5 huvudet och anstr\u00e4ngde sig f\u00f6r att h\u00f6ra. Vinden tj\u00f6t runt bergssidan och genom fotsulorna kunde hon uppfatta de dova hammarslagen fr\u00e5n pressarna, och hon h\u00f6rde ljudet av r\u00f6ster fr\u00e5n den upplysta d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen, men som p\u00e5 en given signal tystnade r\u00f6sterna och ljusen sl\u00e4cktes. I tystnaden kunde mrs Coulter mycket svagt h\u00f6ra gyroptrarnas rytmiska _chop-chop-chop_ -ljud \u00f6ver kastvindarna.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r n\u00e5gra?\" fr\u00e5gade hon l\u00e5gt.\n\n\"Lockbeten\", svarade kungen. \"Mina piloter, som har varit ute p\u00e5 ett uppdrag f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka locka till sig fienden. Titta nu.\"\n\nHon sp\u00e4rrade upp \u00f6gonen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte uppt\u00e4cka n\u00e5got mot det djupa m\u00f6rkret med dess f\u00e5 stj\u00e4rnor. Intentionsfarkosten sv\u00e4vade ovanf\u00f6r dem lika stadigt som om den varit f\u00f6rankrad och suttit fastnitad. Kastvindarna hade ingen effekt p\u00e5 den. Inga ljus syntes fr\u00e5n cockpiten, s\u00e5 den var mycket sv\u00e5r att uppfatta, och lord Asriels skepnad gick inte alls att se.\n\nSedan fick hon syn p\u00e5 den f\u00f6rsta gruppen av ljus l\u00e5gt p\u00e5 himlen och i samma \u00f6gonblick blev motorljudet tillr\u00e4ckligt h\u00f6gt f\u00f6r att hon skulle h\u00f6ra det riktigt tydligt. Sex snabbflygande gyroptrar, varav en s\u00e5g ut att ha problem, f\u00f6r det v\u00e4llde ut r\u00f6k ur den och den fl\u00f6g l\u00e4gre \u00e4n de \u00f6vriga. De var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot berget, men p\u00e5 en kurs som skulle f\u00f6ra dem f\u00f6rbi det och bortom.\n\nOch bakom dem, t\u00e4tt efter, kom en blandad samling flygare. Det var inte l\u00e4tt att avg\u00f6ra vad de var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got, men mrs Coulter s\u00e5g en tung gyropter av n\u00e5got s\u00e4llsamt slag, tv\u00e5 rakvingade flygplan, en v\u00e4ldig f\u00e5gel som fl\u00f6g med obesv\u00e4rad fart med tv\u00e5 bev\u00e4pnade ryttare, samt tre eller fyra \u00e4nglar.\n\n\"Ett attackkommando\", sa kung Ogunwe.\n\nDe n\u00e4rmade sig gyroptrarna. Sedan syntes ett ljusstreck fr\u00e5n ett av de rakvingade flygplanen, f\u00f6ljt n\u00e5gon sekund senare av en dov knall. Men granaten fann inte sitt m\u00e5l, den skadade gyroptern, f\u00f6r i samma \u00f6gonblick som \u00e5sk\u00e5darna p\u00e5 berget s\u00e5g ljuset \u2013 men innan de h\u00f6rde knallen \u2013 uppfattade de en blixt fr\u00e5n intentionsfarkosten, och sedan exploderade granaten i luften.\n\nMrs Coulter hade n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt tid att begripa den n\u00e4rmast \u00f6gonblickliga sekvensen av ljus och ljud innan striden redan var l\u00e5ngt g\u00e5ngen. Den var heller inte l\u00e4tt att f\u00f6lja, eftersom himlen var s\u00e5 m\u00f6rk och flygarnas alla r\u00f6relser var s\u00e5 snabba, men en serie av n\u00e4rmast ljudl\u00f6sa blixtar lyste upp bergssidan, \u00e5tf\u00f6ljda av korta v\u00e4sanden likt ljudet av utsl\u00e4ppt \u00e5nga. Varenda blixt lyckades p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt tr\u00e4ffa en ny anfallare: flygplanen fattade eld eller exploderade, den v\u00e4ldiga f\u00e5geln gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett tjut som om n\u00e5gon hade slitit ner en bergsh\u00f6g gardin, och st\u00f6rtade mot klipporna l\u00e5ngt nedanf\u00f6r. Var och en av \u00e4nglarna f\u00f6rsvann i ett moln av gl\u00f6dande luft, en myriad sm\u00e5 glittrande och gl\u00f6dande partiklar som blinkade bort likt d\u00f6ende fyrverkeripj\u00e4ser.\n\nSedan blev det tyst. Vinden bar bort ljudet av lockbetena, som nu hade f\u00f6rsvunnit runt bergssidan, och det var ingen av \u00e5sk\u00e5darna som sa n\u00e5got. L\u00e5gorna l\u00e5ngt d\u00e4r nedanf\u00f6r gl\u00f6dde mot intentionsfarkostens undersida. Den h\u00e4ngde fortfarande i luften p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt och vred sig nu l\u00e5ngsamt, som om den ville se sig om. Angreppsstyrkans f\u00f6rintelse var s\u00e5 fullst\u00e4ndig att mrs Coulter, som hade sett mycket att chockas av, \u00e4nd\u00e5 var djupt tagen. N\u00e4r hon tittade upp mot intentionsfarkosten tycktes den skimra till eller liksom l\u00f6sg\u00f6ra sig, och sedan stod den d\u00e4r, p\u00e5 fast mark igen.\n\nKung Ogunwe skyndade fram, vilket \u00e4ven de andra bef\u00e4lhavarna och ingenj\u00f6rerna gjorde. De senare hade slagit upp d\u00f6rrarna s\u00e5 att ljuset \u00e5terigen fl\u00f6dade \u00f6ver testomr\u00e5det. Mrs Coulter stannade d\u00e4r hon var och funderade \u00f6ver hur intentionsfarkosten kunde fungera.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r visar han den f\u00f6r oss?\" fr\u00e5gade d\u00e6monen l\u00e5gt.\n\n\"Han kan v\u00e4l knappast ha l\u00e4st v\u00e5ra tankar\", svarade hon i samma tonfall.\n\nDe t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 \u00f6gonblicket i adamanttornet d\u00e5 den gnistrande id\u00e9n hade blixtrat fram mellan dem. De hade t\u00e4nkt ge lord Asriel ett f\u00f6rslag: att erbjuda sig att bege sig till Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden f\u00f6r att spionera \u00e5t honom. Hon k\u00e4nde vartenda maktcentrum, hon kunde manipulera varenda medlem. Till en b\u00f6rjan kunde det bli sv\u00e5rt att \u00f6vertyga dem om hennes goda vilja, men hon visste att hon skulle kunna lyckas. Nu n\u00e4r de gallivespiska spionerna hade gett sig av f\u00f6r att f\u00f6lja med Will och Lyra kunde Asriel knappast motst\u00e5 ett s\u00e5dant erbjudande.\n\nMen nu, n\u00e4r de betraktade den underliga flygfarkosten, slogs de av en annan id\u00e9, men den h\u00e4r hade s\u00e5 mycket st\u00f6rre kraft att hon jublande kramade sin apa.\n\n\"Asriel\", ropade hon oskuldsfullt, \"vill du inte visa mig hur maskinen fungerar?\"\n\nHan tittade ner p\u00e5 henne med en distraherad och ot\u00e5lig min, men som samtidigt var v\u00e4ldigt n\u00f6jd. Han var f\u00f6rtjust \u00f6ver sin intentionsfarkost: hon f\u00f6rstod att han inte kunde avst\u00e5 fr\u00e5n att skryta med den.\n\nKung Ogunwe steg \u00e5t sidan och lord Asriel str\u00e4ckte ner handen och drog upp henne i f\u00f6rarhytten. Han hj\u00e4lpte henne ner i s\u00e4tet och betraktade henne medan hon studerade kontrollerna.\n\n\"Hur fungerar den? Vad drivs den av?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"Dina intentioner eller avsikter\", sa han. \"D\u00e4rav namnet. Om det \u00e4r din avsikt att f\u00f6rflytta dig fram\u00e5t, s\u00e5 \u00e5ker den fram\u00e5t.\"\n\n\"Det d\u00e4r \u00e4r inget svar. Ber\u00e4tta nu. Vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r sorts motor? Hur flyger den? Jag kunde inte se n\u00e5got som var det minsta aerodynamiskt p\u00e5 den. De h\u00e4r kontrollerna... H\u00e4r inifr\u00e5n ser det n\u00e4stan ut som en gyropter.\"\n\nHan fann att det var sv\u00e5rt att inte ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r henne, och eftersom hon ju var i hans v\u00e5ld, s\u00e5 gjorde han det. Han h\u00f6ll ut en ledning med ett l\u00e4derhandtag i \u00e4nden. Det hade djupa bitm\u00e4rken efter hans d\u00e6mons t\u00e4nder.\n\n\"Din d\u00e6mon m\u00e5ste h\u00e5lla i det h\u00e4r handtaget\", f\u00f6rklarade han, \"om det \u00e4r med t\u00e4nderna eller en hand spelar ingen roll. Och du m\u00e5ste ha den h\u00e4r hj\u00e4lmen p\u00e5 dig. Det g\u00e5r en str\u00f6m mellan dem, som f\u00f6rst\u00e4rks av en kapacitator. Det \u00e4r mycket mer komplicerat \u00e4n s\u00e5, men den \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e4tt att flyga. Vi satte in de gyropterliknande kontrollerna f\u00f6r igenk\u00e4nnandets skull, men s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom kommer vi inte att beh\u00f6va n\u00e5gra kontroller alls. Det \u00e4r f\u00f6rst\u00e5s bara m\u00e4nniskor med d\u00e6moner som kan flyga den.\"\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r\", sa hon.\n\nS\u00e5 knuffade hon honom s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt att han ramlade ut ur maskinen.\n\nI samma \u00f6gonblick l\u00e4t hon hj\u00e4lmen glida ner \u00f6ver huvudet och den gyllene apan snappade \u00e5t sig l\u00e4derhandtaget. Hon str\u00e4ckte sig efter den spak som i en gyropter skulle ha vinklat rotorbladen, och sk\u00f6t spaken fram\u00e5t. Intentionsfarkosten steg genast rakt upp i luften.\n\nHon hade \u00e4nnu inte full kontroll \u00f6ver den. Farkosten h\u00e4ngde stilla under n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick, aningen fram\u00e5tlutande, tills hon hittade spaken som fick den att r\u00f6ra sig fram\u00e5t. Under de f\u00e5 sekunderna gjorde lord Asriel tre saker samtidigt. Han kom hastigt p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter; han h\u00f6jde armen och hindrade kung Ogunwe fr\u00e5n att beordra soldaterna att \u00f6ppna eld mot intentionsfarkosten; samt sa: \"Lord Roke, vill ni vara s\u00e5 v\u00e4nlig att f\u00f6lja med henne?\"\n\nGallivespiern manade genast p\u00e5 den bl\u00e5 falken och f\u00e5geln fl\u00f6g rakt mot den fortfarande \u00f6ppna kabind\u00f6rren. \u00c5sk\u00e5darna nedanf\u00f6r kunde se hur kvinnans ansikte tittade \u00e4n hit och \u00e4n dit och att den gyllene apan gjorde samma sak, och de lade \u00e4ven m\u00e4rke till att ingen av de b\u00e5da uppt\u00e4ckte hur lord Rokes lilla skepnad hoppade av falken och f\u00f6rsvann in bakom dem i kabinen.\n\n\u00d6gonblicket senare b\u00f6rjade intentionsfarkosten att r\u00f6ra sig, varp\u00e5 falken girade bort fr\u00e5n den och landade p\u00e5 lord Asriels handled. Ett par sekunder senare hade farkosten f\u00f6rsvunnit ur sikte i den fuktiga och stj\u00e4rnklara luften.\n\nLord Asriel betraktade det hela med bedr\u00f6vad beundran.\n\n\"N\u00e5, ers majest\u00e4t, ni hade helt r\u00e4tt\", sa han, \"och jag borde ha lyssnat p\u00e5 er direkt. Hon \u00e4r Lyras mor. Jag borde ha v\u00e4ntat mig n\u00e5got liknande.\"\n\n\"T\u00e4nker ni inte f\u00f6rf\u00f6lja henne?\" fr\u00e5gade kung Ogunwe.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r d\u00e5, f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra en utm\u00e4rkt flygfarkost? Verkligen inte.\"\n\n\"Vart tror ni hon beger sig? P\u00e5 jakt efter flickan?\"\n\n\"Inte till en b\u00f6rjan. Hon vet inte var hon ska leta efter henne, men jag vet precis vad hon t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra: hon kommer att bege sig till Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden och \u00f6verl\u00e4mna intentionsfarkosten som ett bevis p\u00e5 sin goda vilja, och sedan kommer hon att spionera. Hon kommer att spionera p\u00e5 dem f\u00f6r v\u00e5r r\u00e4kning. Hon har testat alla andra former av f\u00f6rst\u00e4llning: det h\u00e4r borde kunna ge nya erfarenheter, men s\u00e5 snart hon uppt\u00e4ckt vart flickan har tagit v\u00e4gen kommer hon att ge sig iv\u00e4g dit, och d\u00e5 f\u00f6ljer vi efter.\"\n\n\"Och n\u00e4r kommer lord Roke att avsl\u00f6ja att han har f\u00f6ljt med?\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, jag tror nog att han l\u00e5ter det bli en \u00f6verraskning, eller vad tror ni?\"\n\nDe skrattade och gick tillbaka in i verkstaden, d\u00e4r en senare och mer utvecklad modell av intentionsfarkosten v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att de skulle inspektera den.\n\n## 17\n\n## Lack och olja\n\nMEN ORMEN VAR LISTIGARE \u00c4N ALLA ANDRA MARKENS DJUR SOM HERREN GUD HADE GJORT.\n\nF\u00d6RSTA MOSEBOKEN\n\nMARY MALONE H\u00d6LL p\u00e5 att tillverka en spegel. Inte f\u00f6r att hon var f\u00e5f\u00e4ng, f\u00f6r s\u00e5dant hade hon inte mycket till \u00f6vers f\u00f6r, utan f\u00f6r att hon ville pr\u00f6va en id\u00e9 hon hade f\u00e5tt. Hon ville f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00e5nga Skuggorna och i avsaknad av sina laboratorieinstrument fick hon improvisera med hj\u00e4lp av det hon hade till hands.\n\nMulefornas teknik hade inte mycket bruk f\u00f6r metall. De \u00e5stadkom fantastiska arbeten med hj\u00e4lp av sten och tr\u00e4 och sn\u00f6re och sn\u00e4ckskal och horn, men den metall de hade var uthamrad ur naturligt f\u00f6rekommande klumpar av koppar och andra metaller som de hittade i flodsanden. Metallen anv\u00e4ndes aldrig till verktyg, utan enbart som prydnad. Mulefaparen utbytte till exempel blanka kopparremsor med varandra n\u00e4r de gifte sig. Remsorna b\u00f6jdes sedan runt basen p\u00e5 n\u00e5got av deras horn med ungef\u00e4r samma betydelse som en vigselring.\n\nD\u00e4rf\u00f6r fascinerades de av den schweiziska arm\u00e9kniv som var Marys v\u00e4rdefullaste \u00e4godel.\n\nDen zalif som var hennes speciella v\u00e4n och gick under namnet Atal uttryckte stor f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning en dag n\u00e4r Mary vek ut alla verktygen p\u00e5 kniven och s\u00e5 gott hon kunde med sitt begr\u00e4nsade ordf\u00f6rr\u00e5d f\u00f6rklarade vad de var till f\u00f6r. Ett av verktygen var ett minimalt f\u00f6rstoringsglas, som hon b\u00f6rjade br\u00e4nna in ett m\u00f6nster med i en torr gren, och det var detta som fick henne att b\u00f6rja t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 Skuggorna.\n\nDe fiskade vid tillf\u00e4llet, men vattenst\u00e5ndet i floden var l\u00e5gt och fisken m\u00e5ste ha varit n\u00e5gon annanstans, s\u00e5 de l\u00e4t n\u00e4tet ligga tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver vattnet och satt och pratade p\u00e5 den gr\u00e4sbevuxna stranden, tills Mary hade f\u00e5tt syn p\u00e5 den torra grenen och dess sl\u00e4ta vita yta. Hon br\u00e4nde in m\u00f6nstret \u2013 en enkel pr\u00e4stkrage \u2013 i tr\u00e4et, vilket gjorde Atal alldeles f\u00f6rtjust. N\u00e4r den tunna r\u00f6kslingan s\u00f6kte sig upp\u00e5t fr\u00e5n den punkt d\u00e4r det fokuserade solskenet tr\u00e4ffade tr\u00e4et, t\u00e4nkte Mary: Om den h\u00e4r grenen fossiliseras och n\u00e5gon vetenskapsman hittar den om tio miljoner \u00e5r, s\u00e5 skulle man \u00e4nd\u00e5 kunna hitta Skuggor runt den, bara f\u00f6r att jag har bearbetat den.\n\nHon gled bort i solvarma dagdr\u00f6mmar tills Atal fr\u00e5gade:\n\n_Vad dr\u00f6mmer du om?_\n\nMary f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ber\u00e4tta om sitt arbete, sin forskning, laboratoriet, uppt\u00e4ckten av Skuggpartiklarna, det fantastiska avsl\u00f6jandet att de var medvetna, och fann att hela ber\u00e4ttelsen grep henne s\u00e5 mycket att hon l\u00e4ngtade efter att f\u00e5 \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till sin utrustning.\n\nHon v\u00e4ntade sig inte att Atal skulle f\u00f6rst\u00e5 hennes f\u00f6rklaring, delvis p\u00e5 grund av hennes ofullst\u00e4ndiga kunskap om deras spr\u00e5k, och delvis f\u00f6r att muleforna verkade s\u00e5 praktiska, s\u00e5 starkt rotade i den fysiska vardagen, och att mycket av det hon ber\u00e4ttade handlade om matematik, men Atal f\u00f6rv\u00e5nade henne med orden: _Jo \u2013 vi vet vad du menar \u2013 vi kallar det..._ och sedan anv\u00e4nde hon ett ord som l\u00e4t som deras ord f\u00f6r ljus.\n\n_Ljus?_ hade Mary fr\u00e5gat, men Atal svarade: _Inte ljus, men..._ och sa ordet mycket l\u00e5ngsammare, s\u00e5 att Mary kunde uppfatta det, och f\u00f6rklarade: _Likt ljuset p\u00e5 vatten n\u00e4r det \u00e5stadkommer sm\u00e5 v\u00e5gor, vid solnedg\u00e5ngen, n\u00e4r ljuset l\u00f6sg\u00f6rs i ljusa gnistor, vi kallar det s\u00e5, men det \u00e4r ett lik-som._\n\nMary hade uppt\u00e4ckt att lik-som var deras ord f\u00f6r metafor.\n\nS\u00e5 hon sa: _Det \u00e4r inte riktigt ljus, men man kan se det och det ser ut som ljuset mot vatten vid solnedg\u00e5ngen?_\n\n_Ja_ , svarade Atal. _Alla muleforna har det. Du har det ocks\u00e5. Det var d\u00e4rf\u00f6r vi kunde se att du var som vi och inte som de betande djuren, som inte har det. Trots att du s\u00e5g s\u00e5 underlig och fruktansv\u00e4rd ut, s\u00e5 \u00e4r du som vi, eftersom du har..._ och \u00e5terigen kom det d\u00e4r ordet som Mary inte kunde uppfatta tillr\u00e4ckligt v\u00e4l f\u00f6r att kunna upprepa det: ungef\u00e4r som _sraf_ , eller _sarf_ , \u00e5tf\u00f6ljt av ett kast \u00e5t v\u00e4nster med snabeln.\n\nMary blev alldeles upplivad. Hon m\u00e5ste beh\u00e4rska sig f\u00f6r att kunna hitta de r\u00e4tta orden.\n\n_Vad vet ni om det? Varifr\u00e5n kommer det?_\n\n_Fr\u00e5n oss och fr\u00e5n oljan_ , var Atals svar, och Mary f\u00f6rstod att hon menade oljan i de stora fr\u00f6kapselhjulen.\n\n_Fr\u00e5n er?_\n\n_N\u00e4r vi \u00e4r vuxna. Men utan tr\u00e4den skulle det bara f\u00f6rsvinna igen. Med hjulen och oljan stannar det hos oss._\n\n_N\u00e4r vi \u00e4r vuxna..._ \u00c5terigen m\u00e5ste Mary beh\u00e4rska sig f\u00f6r att inte bli osammanh\u00e4ngande. En av de saker som hon hade b\u00f6rjat ana n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde Skuggorna var att barn och vuxna reagerade olika p\u00e5 dem, eller drog till sig olika sorters Skuggaktivitet. Hade inte Lyra sagt n\u00e5got om att vetenskapsm\u00e4nnen i hennes v\u00e4rld hade uppt\u00e4ckt n\u00e5got liknande om Stoft, som var deras namn p\u00e5 Skuggorna? Nu d\u00f6k det upp igen.\n\nDet h\u00e4ngde ocks\u00e5 ihop med vad Skuggorna hade sagt till henne p\u00e5 datask\u00e4rmen alldeles innan hon l\u00e4mnade sin egen v\u00e4rld: vad det \u00e4n var, den h\u00e4r fr\u00e5gan, s\u00e5 hade den att g\u00f6ra med den stora f\u00f6r\u00e4ndringen i m\u00e4nniskornas historia, som symboliserades av ber\u00e4ttelsen om Adam och Eva, med Frestelsen, Syndafallet, Arvsynden. I sina unders\u00f6kningar av fossiliserade kranier hade hennes kollega Oliver Payne uppt\u00e4ckt att det blev en v\u00e4ldig \u00f6kning av antalet Skuggpartiklar runt alla m\u00e4nskliga l\u00e4mningar f\u00f6r omkring trettiotusen \u00e5r sedan. N\u00e5got intr\u00e4ffade d\u00e5, n\u00e5got steg i utvecklingen, som f\u00f6rvandlade den m\u00e4nskliga hj\u00e4rnan till en idealisk f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkare.\n\n_Hur l\u00e4nge har det funnits mulefor?_ fr\u00e5gade hon Atal.\n\nOch Atal svarade:\n\n_I trettiotretusen \u00e5r._\n\nVid det h\u00e4r laget kunde hon l\u00e4sa Marys ansiktsuttryck, i alla fall de mest uppenbara, s\u00e5 hon skrattade n\u00e4r Marys haka f\u00f6ll s\u00e5 pl\u00f6tsligt. Skrattet var glatt och gl\u00e4djerikt och s\u00e5 smittande att Mary vanligtvis brukade dela det, men nu slutade hon inte att vara allvarlig och f\u00f6rbluffad, utan sa:\n\n_Hur kan du veta det s\u00e5 exakt? Har ni en historia som str\u00e4cker sig s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt tillbaka i tiden?_\n\n_Oh, ja, svarade Atal. S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge vi har haft sraf har vi haft minne och vakenhet. Innan dess visste vi inget._\n\n_Vad h\u00e4nde n\u00e4r ni fick sraf?_\n\n_Vi uppt\u00e4ckte hur vi skulle anv\u00e4nda hjulen. En dag var det en varelse utan namn som uppt\u00e4ckte en fr\u00f6kapsel och b\u00f6rjade leka med den och n\u00e4r hon lekte..._\n\n_Hon?_\n\n_Hon, ja. Hon hade inget namn innan dess. Hon s\u00e5g en orm som slingrade sig genom fr\u00f6kapselns h\u00e5l och ormen sa..._\n\n_Talade ormen med henne?_\n\n_Nej! Nej! Det \u00e4r en lik-som. Legenden s\u00e4ger oss att ormen sa: \"Vad vet du? Vad minns du? Vad ser du framf\u00f6r dig?\" Och hon svarade: \"Ingenting, ingenting, ingenting.\" Och ormen sa: \"S\u00e4tt din fot i h\u00e5let d\u00e4r jag slingrade mig, och du ska f\u00e5 visdom.\" S\u00e5 hon satte sin fot d\u00e4r ormen hade varit. D\u00e5 kom oljan in i hennes fot och fick henne att se tydligare \u00e4n innan, och det f\u00f6rsta hon s\u00e5g var sraf. Det var s\u00e5 underligt och underbart att hon genast ville dela det med hela sin sl\u00e4kt. S\u00e5 hon och hennes make tog de f\u00f6rsta fr\u00f6kapslarna och uppt\u00e4ckte att de visste vilka de var, de visste att de var mulefor och inte betesdjur. De gav varandra namn. De kallade sig sj\u00e4lva mulefor. De gav namn \u00e5t fr\u00f6tr\u00e4det och \u00e5t alla djur och v\u00e4xter._\n\n_F\u00f6r att de var olika_ , sa Mary.\n\n_Ja, det var de. Och s\u00e5 var det med deras barn, f\u00f6r n\u00e4r det f\u00f6ll fler fr\u00f6kapslar visade de f\u00f6r sina barn hur de skulle anv\u00e4ndas. Och n\u00e4r barnen var tillr\u00e4ckligt stora b\u00f6rjade de ocks\u00e5 skapa sraf, och n\u00e4r de var tillr\u00e4ckligt gamla f\u00f6r att kunna rida p\u00e5 hjulen kom sraf tillbaka med oljan och stannade hos dem. S\u00e5 de s\u00e5g att de m\u00e5ste plantera fler hjulkapseltr\u00e4d, f\u00f6r oljans skull, men kapslarna var s\u00e5 h\u00e5rda att de s\u00e4llan grodde. De f\u00f6rsta muleforna f\u00f6rstod d\u00e4rf\u00f6r vad de m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa tr\u00e4den, vilket var att rida p\u00e5 hjulen f\u00f6r att kunna bryta s\u00f6nder dem, s\u00e5 muleforna och hjulkapseltr\u00e4den har alltid levt tillsammans._\n\nMary f\u00f6rstod direkt ungef\u00e4r en fj\u00e4rdedel av det Atal ber\u00e4ttade, men genom att fr\u00e5ga och gissa f\u00f6rstod hon resten ganska bra, samtidigt som hennes egen f\u00f6rst\u00e5else f\u00f6r spr\u00e5ket hela tiden \u00f6kade. Ju mer hon l\u00e4rde sig, desto sv\u00e5rare blev det, eftersom varje ny uppt\u00e4ckt antydde ett halvdussin nya fr\u00e5gor, som var och en ledde \u00e5t n\u00e5got nytt h\u00e5ll.\n\nMen tankarna drog iv\u00e4g till _sraf_ eftersom det var den st\u00f6rsta fr\u00e5gan, och det var d\u00e4rf\u00f6r hon hade kommit att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 spegeln.\n\nDet var j\u00e4mf\u00f6relsen mellan _sraf_ och vattenreflexerna som pekade ut v\u00e4gen. Det ljus som reflekteras fr\u00e5n vatten \u00e4r polariserat: det kanske gick att polarisera Skuggpartiklarna ocks\u00e5, om de betedde sig som ljusv\u00e5gor.\n\n_Jag kan inte se sraf som du_ , sa hon, _s\u00e5 jag skulle vilja tillverka en spegel av savlack, f\u00f6r jag tror att en s\u00e5dan kan hj\u00e4lpa mig att se det._\n\nAtal blev entusiastisk \u00f6ver id\u00e9n, s\u00e5 de drog genast in n\u00e4tet och b\u00f6rjade skaffa det som Mary beh\u00f6vde. Som ett tecken p\u00e5 god tur fanns det tre fina fiskar i n\u00e4tet.\n\nSavlacket kom fr\u00e5n ett annat och mycket mindre tr\u00e4d, som muleforna odlade. Genom att koka saven och sedan l\u00f6sa upp den i alkohol de f\u00e5tt fr\u00e5n destillerad fruktsaft \u00e5stadkom muleforna en v\u00e4tska som liknade mj\u00f6lk till konsistensen och var ljust b\u00e4rnstensf\u00e4rgat. V\u00e4tskan anv\u00e4ndes som fernissa och de kunde l\u00e4gga p\u00e5 upp till tjugo lager p\u00e5 en bas av tr\u00e4 eller skal. Varje lager fick h\u00e4rda under en fuktig duk innan n\u00e4sta lager lades p\u00e5, och gradvis byggde man upp en utomordentligt h\u00e5rd och gl\u00e4nsande yta. Vanligtvis gjordes den ogenomskinlig med hj\u00e4lp av olika oxider, men ibland l\u00e4t man den vara genomskinlig. Det var detta som intresserade Mary, eftersom det klart b\u00e4rnstensf\u00e4rgade lacket hade samma m\u00e4rkliga egenskap som det material som var k\u00e4nt som islandsspat; det br\u00f6t ljuset p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5dant s\u00e4tt att man s\u00e5g dubbelt n\u00e4r man tittade genom det.\n\nHon var inte riktigt s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 vad hon ville g\u00f6ra, men hon visste att om hon bara pysslade p\u00e5 tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e4nge, utan att direkt bekymra sig, utan att hetsa, s\u00e5 skulle hon nog komma p\u00e5 n\u00e5got. Hon mindes hur hon hade citerat poeten Keats f\u00f6r Lyra och Lyras omedelbara insikt om att det var s\u00e5 hennes egen hj\u00e4rna fungerade n\u00e4r hon l\u00e4ste av alethiometern \u2013 det var vad Mary m\u00e5ste ta reda p\u00e5 nu.\n\nHon b\u00f6rjade med att leta reda p\u00e5 ett mer eller mindre plant stycke tr\u00e4 som liknade furu, och slipade sedan ytan med en bit sandsten (ingen metall \u2013 inga hyvlar) tills den var s\u00e5 plan som det gick att f\u00e5 den. Det var den metod som muleforna anv\u00e4nde och den fungerade ganska bra med lite tid och anstr\u00e4ngning.\n\nSedan bes\u00f6kte hon lacklunden med Atal, efter att noga ha f\u00f6rklarat f\u00f6r henne vad hon t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra och bett om till\u00e5telse att ta lite sav. Muleforna hade inget emot detta, men var sj\u00e4lva f\u00f6r upptagna f\u00f6r att bekymra sig om saken. Med Atals hj\u00e4lp tappade hon ett tr\u00e4d p\u00e5 lite av den klibbiga och k\u00e5drika saven, och sedan f\u00f6ljde den l\u00e5nga processen att koka, l\u00f6sa upp och koka igen, tills lacket var klart att anv\u00e4nda.\n\nMuleforna lade p\u00e5 lacket med hj\u00e4lp av dynor gjorda av de bomullsliknande fibrerna fr\u00e5n en annan v\u00e4xt. Efter att ha f\u00e5tt instruktioner av en hantverkare m\u00e5lade hon m\u00f6dosamt sin spegel g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng och s\u00e5g knappt n\u00e5gon skillnad mellan varven, eftersom varje nytt lacklager var s\u00e5 tunt. Hon l\u00e4t dock lagren torka utan hets och fann att tjockleken gradvis \u00f6kade. Hon lade p\u00e5 mer \u00e4n fyrtio lager \u2013 hon tappade till slut r\u00e4kningen \u2013 men n\u00e4r lacket tog slut var ytan minst fem millimeter tjock.\n\nEfter det sista lagret var det dags f\u00f6r polering: hon \u00e4gnade en hel dag \u00e5t ett mjukt gnidande av ytan i j\u00e4mna, cirkelformiga r\u00f6relser, tills armarna v\u00e4rkte och huvudet bultade och hon inte l\u00e4ngre stod ut med arbetet.\n\nSedan sov hon.\n\nN\u00e4sta morgon gick gruppen iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att arbeta i en dunge av vad de kallade f\u00f6r knuttr\u00e4, f\u00f6r att se till att skotten v\u00e4xte p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt de hade blivit ordnade p\u00e5, och sp\u00e4nde \u00e5t n\u00e4tverket f\u00f6r att de f\u00e4rdigvuxna grenarna skulle f\u00e5 r\u00e4tt form. De uppskattade Marys hj\u00e4lp med den h\u00e4r uppgiften, eftersom hon p\u00e5 egen hand kunde kl\u00e4mma sig igenom smalare springor \u00e4n tv\u00e5 mulefor. Med sina dubbla h\u00e4nder kunde hon komma \u00e5t att arbeta i tr\u00e4ngre utrymmen.\n\nDet var f\u00f6rst n\u00e4r det arbetet var avklarat och de b\u00e5da hade \u00e5terv\u00e4nt till boplatsen som Mary kunde b\u00f6rja experimentera \u2013 eller snarare leka, eftersom hon fortfarande inte hade n\u00e5gon klar uppfattning om vad hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med.\n\nF\u00f6rst f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte hon anv\u00e4nda lackskivan som en vanlig spegel, men eftersom baksidan inte var silverf\u00e4rgad s\u00e5g hon ingenting annat \u00e4n en svag dubbelbild i tr\u00e4et.\n\nSedan kom hon p\u00e5 att vad hon verkligen beh\u00f6vde var lacket utan tr\u00e4et, men bleknade inf\u00f6r tanken p\u00e5 att tillverka \u00e4nnu en skiva, f\u00f6r hur skulle hon kunna g\u00f6ra den plan om hon inte kunde bygga upp den p\u00e5 n\u00e5got?\n\nHon fick en id\u00e9 som gick ut p\u00e5 att helt enkelt sk\u00e4ra bort tr\u00e4et tills bara lacket var kvar. Det skulle ocks\u00e5 ta tid, men till det hade hon \u00e5tminstone sin schweiziska arm\u00e9kniv. Hon b\u00f6rjade med att klyva tr\u00e4et v\u00e4ldigt f\u00f6rsiktigt fr\u00e5n kanten och var utomordentligt noga med att inte repa lacket fr\u00e5n baksidan. Till slut hade hon f\u00e5tt bort det mesta av tr\u00e4et, men kvar fanns en h\u00e4rva av trasiga och splittrade tr\u00e4flisor, som var om\u00f6jliga att f\u00e5 bort fr\u00e5n den h\u00e5rda och genomskinliga lackskivan.\n\nHon undrade vad som skulle h\u00e4nda om hon lade skivan i bl\u00f6t. Skulle lacket mjukna om det blev v\u00e5tt? _Nej_ , sa hantverksm\u00e4staren, _det kommer att vara h\u00e5rt i all evighet, men g\u00f6r s\u00e5 h\u00e4r_. Han visade Mary en v\u00e4tska som f\u00f6rvarades i en stensk\u00e5l, eftersom den kunde \u00e4ta sig igenom vilket tr\u00e4slag som helst p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra timmar. Mary tyckte att det b\u00e5de luktade och s\u00e5g ut som n\u00e5gon sorts syra.\n\nDen skulle knappt skada lacket alls, hade han sagt, och det skulle vara l\u00e4tt f\u00f6r henne att reparera eventuella skador. Han fascinerades av projektet och hj\u00e4lpte henne att f\u00f6rsiktigt droppa syran p\u00e5 tr\u00e4et och ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r henne hur de tillverkade syran genom att mala och l\u00f6sa upp ett mineral som de hade hittat l\u00e4ngs kanten av n\u00e5gra grunda sj\u00f6ar, som hon \u00e4nnu inte hade bes\u00f6kt. Tr\u00e4et mjuknade lite i taget och lossnade sedan. Och till slut hade Mary en enda skiva av genomskinligt brungult lack av ungef\u00e4r samma storlek som en pocketbokssida.\n\nHon slipade baksidan lika noga som framsidan, tills b\u00e5da var lika plana och sl\u00e4ta som den finaste spegel.\n\nOch sedan tittade hon genom den...\n\nInget s\u00e4rskilt. Den var helt genomskinlig, men visade en dubbelbild, d\u00e4r den h\u00f6gra l\u00e5g t\u00e4tt intill den v\u00e4nstra, men f\u00f6rskjuten cirka femton grader upp\u00e5t.\n\nHon undrade vad som skulle h\u00e4nda om hon kunde titta genom tv\u00e5 skivor, d\u00e4r den ena l\u00e5g framf\u00f6r den andra.\n\nS\u00e5 hon tog \u00e5terigen sin schweiziska arm\u00e9kniv och ritsade ett streck tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver skivan f\u00f6r att kunna bryta den i tv\u00e5. Genom att ritsa strecket g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng och emellan\u00e5t v\u00e4ssa kniven mot en sl\u00e4t sten lyckades hon \u00e5stadkomma en tillr\u00e4ckligt djup sk\u00e5ra f\u00f6r att v\u00e5ga kn\u00e4cka skivan. Hon lade en tunn kvist under ritsen och pressade h\u00e5rt mot lacket p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som hon sett en glasm\u00e4stare g\u00f6ra n\u00e4r han skar glas, och det fungerade: nu hade hon tv\u00e5 skivor.\n\nHon lade ihop dem och tittade genom dem. B\u00e4rnstensf\u00e4rgen var djupare och precis som ett kamerafilter f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkte det vissa f\u00e4rger och d\u00e4mpade andra, vilket gav hela landskapet en n\u00e5got annorlunda nyans. Det m\u00e4rkliga var att dubbelexponeringen hade f\u00f6rsvunnit och alla bilder var enkla igen, men det fanns inga sp\u00e5r av n\u00e5gra Skuggor.\n\nHon s\u00e4rade p\u00e5 de b\u00e5da skivorna och s\u00e5g hur saker och ting f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades. N\u00e4r skivorna var ungef\u00e4r en handsbredd ifr\u00e5n varandra h\u00e4nde n\u00e5got egenartat: den b\u00e4rnstensgula f\u00e4rgen f\u00f6rsvann och allt antog sin normala f\u00e4rg, men klarare och mycket mer levande.\n\nJust d\u00e5 kom Atal f\u00f6rbi f\u00f6r att ta reda p\u00e5 vad hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med.\n\n_Kan du se sraf nu?_ fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n_Nej, men jag kan se andra saker,_ sa Mary och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte visa henne.\n\nAtal var intresserad, men p\u00e5 ett artigt s\u00e4tt som saknade den k\u00e4nsla av uppt\u00e4ckt som gjorde Mary alldeles h\u00e4nf\u00f6rd. Till slut tr\u00f6ttnade zalifen p\u00e5 att titta genom de sm\u00e5 lackskivorna och slog sig ist\u00e4llet ner p\u00e5 gr\u00e4set f\u00f6r att ta hand om sina hjul. Ibland tog muleforna hand om varandras klor av ren s\u00e4llskaplighet och vid ett par tillf\u00e4llen hade Atal bett Mary ta hand om hennes. Mary hade \u00e5 sin sida l\u00e5tit Atal reda ut hennes h\u00e5r och nj\u00f6t n\u00e4r den mjuka snabeln hade lyft h\u00e5ret och l\u00e5tit det falla, och smekt och masserat hennes h\u00e5rbotten.\n\nHon anade att Atal ville att hon skulle hj\u00e4lpa henne nu, s\u00e5 hon lade ner de b\u00e5da lackskivorna och l\u00e4t h\u00e4nderna l\u00f6pa \u00f6ver Atals f\u00f6rbluffande sl\u00e4ta klor. Ytan var sl\u00e4tare och glattare \u00e4n teflon och vilade mot mitth\u00e5lets nedre kant och fungerade som lager n\u00e4r hjulet vreds runt. Konturerna matchade f\u00f6rst\u00e5s varandra perfekt, och n\u00e4r Mary l\u00e4t h\u00e4nderna glida runt hjulets insida kunde hon inte k\u00e4nna n\u00e5gon som helst skillnad p\u00e5 ytan: det var som om muleforna och fr\u00f6kapslarna verkligen var en enda varelse, som p\u00e5 n\u00e5got mirakul\u00f6st s\u00e4tt kunde plockas is\u00e4r och sedan s\u00e4ttas ihop igen.\n\nAtal blev lugnad av kontakten, och det blev \u00e4ven Mary. Hennes v\u00e4n var ung och ogift, men det fanns inga ynglingar i den h\u00e4r gruppen. Hon skulle bli tvungen att gifta sig med en zalif utifr\u00e5n, men det var sv\u00e5rt med kontakterna och ibland undrade Mary om inte Atal oroade sig lite f\u00f6r framtiden. S\u00e5 hon var inte missn\u00f6jd med tiden hon tillbringade med henne och nu var hon glad \u00e5t att kunna rensa hjulh\u00e5len fr\u00e5n allt det damm och smuts som samlats d\u00e4r och att noggrant stryka ut den v\u00e4ldoftande oljan \u00f6ver v\u00e4nnens klor, samtidigt som Atals snabel lyfte och redde ut hennes eget h\u00e5r.\n\nN\u00e4r Atal var klar satte hon p\u00e5 sig hjulen igen och rullade iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa till med kv\u00e4llsmaten. Mary \u00e5tergick till sina lackskivor och gjorde n\u00e4stan \u00f6gonblickligen en ny uppt\u00e4ckt.\n\nHon h\u00f6ll de b\u00e5da skivorna en handsbredd fr\u00e5n varandra, s\u00e5 att de visade den klara, ljusa bild hon hade sett f\u00f6rut, men n\u00e5got hade h\u00e4nt.\n\nN\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g genom skivorna uppt\u00e4ckte hon att en sv\u00e4rm av gyllene gnistor omgav Atal. De var bara synliga genom en liten del av lacket, men sedan f\u00f6rstod Mary varf\u00f6r: just d\u00e4r hade hon vidr\u00f6rt ytan med sina oljiga fingrar.\n\n\"Atal!\" ropade hon. \"Kom tillbaka! Kvickt!\"\n\nAtal v\u00e4nde sig om och rullade tillbaka.\n\n\"L\u00e5t mig ta lite av oljan\", sa Mary, \"bara tillr\u00e4ckligt f\u00f6r att stryka ut p\u00e5 lacket.\"\n\nAtal l\u00e4t henne dra fingrarna runt hjulh\u00e5len igen och s\u00e5g nyfiket p\u00e5 medan Mary str\u00f6k p\u00e5 en tunn hinna av det klara och s\u00f6ta \u00e4mnet p\u00e5 den ena skivan.\n\nSedan pressade hon ihop skivorna och drog runt dem s\u00e5 att oljan blev j\u00e4mnt utsmetad och h\u00f6ll dem sedan en handsbredd fr\u00e5n varandra igen.\n\nN\u00e4r hon tittade genom dem hade allt f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats. Hon kunde se Skuggorna. Om hon hade befunnit sig i S\u00e4llskapsrummet p\u00e5 Jordan College n\u00e4r lord Asriel visade fotogrammen han hade \u00e5stadkommit med hj\u00e4lp av den speciella l\u00f6sningen, s\u00e5 skulle hon ha k\u00e4nt igen effekten. Vart hon \u00e4n tittade kunde hon se guldet, precis som Atal hade beskrivit det: ljusgnistor, som fl\u00f6t omkring och ibland r\u00f6rde sig i m\u00e5lmedvetna str\u00f6mmar. Mitt ibland alltihop fanns den v\u00e4rld hon kunde se med blotta \u00f6gat, gr\u00e4set, floden, tr\u00e4den; men \u00f6verallt d\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g en medveten varelse, n\u00e5gon av muleforna, var ljuset t\u00e4tare och fullt av r\u00f6relse. Det dolde inte deras form p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt, utan gjorde dem om n\u00e5got \u00e4nnu tydligare.\n\n_Jag f\u00f6rstod inte att det var s\u00e5 vackert_ , sa Mary till Atal.\n\n_Det \u00e4r ju klart att det \u00e4r_ , svarade hennes v\u00e4n. _Det \u00e4r konstigt att t\u00e4nka sig att du inte kunde se det. Titta p\u00e5 den lilla..._\n\nHon pekade p\u00e5 ett av de sm\u00e5 barnen som lekte i gr\u00e4set och klumpigt skuttade efter gr\u00e4shoppor. Pl\u00f6tsligt stannade barnet till f\u00f6r att unders\u00f6ka ett l\u00f6v, f\u00f6ll omkull, tog sig p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter och rusade iv\u00e4g till sin mamma f\u00f6r att ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5got, men distraherades p\u00e5 nytt av en pinne, f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte plocka upp den och uppt\u00e4ckte att han hade f\u00e5tt myror p\u00e5 snabeln och b\u00f6rjade trumpeta indignerat... Det fanns ett gyllene dis omkring honom, precis som runt hyddorna, fiskn\u00e4ten och kv\u00e4llsbrasan: det var starkare \u00e4n deras, men inte mycket. Men till skillnad fr\u00e5n deras var det fullt av sm\u00e5 virvlande str\u00f6mmar av avsikter, som snurrade och br\u00f6ts upp och gled omkring, f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rsvinna s\u00e5 snart nya virvlar uppst\u00e5tt.\n\nRunt modern, \u00e5 andra sidan, var de gyllene gnistorna mycket starkare och str\u00f6mmarna de r\u00f6rde sig i var stabilare och kraftfullare. Hon lagade mat, h\u00e4llde ut mj\u00f6l p\u00e5 en platt sten och bakade ett tunt br\u00f6d som liknade chapati eller tortilla, samtidigt som hon hade uppsikt \u00f6ver sitt barn. De Skuggor eller sraf eller Stoft som omgav henne s\u00e5g ut som sj\u00e4lva sinnebilden av ansvar och klok omv\u00e5rdnad.\n\n_\u00c4ntligen kan du se_ , sa Atal. _N\u00e5, nu m\u00e5ste du f\u00f6lja med mig._\n\nMary tittade f\u00f6rbryllat p\u00e5 sin v\u00e4n. Atals tonfall var underligt: det var som om hon hade sagt: _Nu \u00e4r du redo till slut; vi har v\u00e4ntat; nu m\u00e5ste saker och ting f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras._\n\nAndra individer d\u00f6k upp \u00f6ver \u00e5skanten, fr\u00e5n hyddorna, fr\u00e5n floden: medlemmar av gruppen, men \u00e4ven fr\u00e4mlingar, mulefor som var nya f\u00f6r henne och som nyfiket tittade \u00e5t hennes h\u00e5ll. Ljudet av deras hjul mot den h\u00e5rdpackade jorden var l\u00e5gt och stadigt.\n\n_Vart ska jag g\u00e5?_ sa Mary. _Varf\u00f6r \u00e4r alla p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hit?_\n\n_Oroa dig inte_ , sa Atal, _f\u00f6lj med mig, vi t\u00e4nker inte g\u00f6ra dig illa._\n\nDet verkade som om det h\u00e4r m\u00f6tet hade planerats l\u00e4nge, f\u00f6r alla visste vart de skulle bege sig och vad de hade att v\u00e4nta sig. Det fanns en l\u00e5g kulle vid byns utkant. Den hade en regelbunden form och en yta av h\u00e5rdpackad jord, med ramper i vardera \u00e4nden. Folksamlingen \u2013 minst femtio stycken, uppskattade Mary \u2013 var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g dit. R\u00f6ken fr\u00e5n kokeldarna h\u00e4ngde i kv\u00e4llsluften och den sjunkande solen spred sitt eget gyllene dis \u00f6ver allting. Mary blev medveten om lukten av br\u00f6d som bakades och den varma lukten av muleforna sj\u00e4lva \u2013 delvis olja, delvis varm hud, en s\u00f6taktigt h\u00e4stliknande lukt.\n\nAtal dirigerade henne mot kullen.\n\n_Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder?_ fr\u00e5gade Mary. _Ber\u00e4tta!_\n\n_Nej, nej... Inte jag. Sattamax kommer att ber\u00e4tta..._\n\nMary k\u00e4nde inte igen namnet Sattamax, och den zalif som Atal pekade p\u00e5 var fr\u00e4mmande f\u00f6r henne. Han var \u00e4ldre \u00e4n n\u00e5gon annan hon hade sett hittills: snabelns bas var bestr\u00f6dd med n\u00e5gra vita h\u00e5rstr\u00e5n och han r\u00f6rde sig stelt, som om han hade ledg\u00e5ngsreumatism. De \u00f6vriga r\u00f6rde sig f\u00f6rsiktigt runt honom och n\u00e4r Mary tog en hastig titt genom lackskivorna f\u00f6rstod hon varf\u00f6r: den gamle zalifens Skuggmoln var s\u00e5 rikt och komplext att Mary sj\u00e4lv k\u00e4nde v\u00f6rdnad, \u00e4ven om hon inte f\u00f6rstod s\u00e5 mycket av dess inneb\u00f6rd.\n\nN\u00e4r Sattamax var redo att tala tystnade resten av f\u00f6rsamlingen. Mary stod strax intill kullen med Atal t\u00e4tt intill som st\u00f6d, men hon visste att allas blickar var p\u00e5 henne och k\u00e4nde sig som om hon hade kommit som ny elev till skolan.\n\nSattamax b\u00f6rjade tala. R\u00f6sten var djup, tonfallet rikt och varierat och snabelns r\u00f6relser var l\u00e5ga och graci\u00f6sa.\n\n_Vi har alla samlats h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att h\u00e4lsa fr\u00e4mlingen Mary v\u00e4lkommen. De av oss som k\u00e4nner henne har sk\u00e4l att k\u00e4nna tacksamhet f\u00f6r hennes handlingar sedan hon anl\u00e4nde till oss. Vi har v\u00e4ntat tills hon har kunnat tillr\u00e4ckligt mycket av v\u00e5rt spr\u00e5k. Med hj\u00e4lp av m\u00e5nga av oss, men framf\u00f6r allt zalifen Atal, kan fr\u00e4mlingen Mary nu f\u00f6rst\u00e5 oss._\n\n_Men det fanns en sak till hon m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rst\u00e5, och det var sraf. Hon k\u00e4nde till det, men kunde inte se det p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som vi, f\u00f6rr\u00e4n hon tillverkat ett instrument att se det genom._\n\n_Nu n\u00e4r hon har lyckats \u00e4r hon redo att l\u00e4ra sig mer om det som hon har kommit hit f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa oss med._\n\n_Mary, kom upp hit till mig._\n\nHon k\u00e4nde sig yr, sj\u00e4lvmedveten och f\u00f6rvirrad, men gjorde som han sagt och klev upp bredvid den gamle zalifen. Hon k\u00e4nde att det vore b\u00e4st om hon sa n\u00e5got, s\u00e5 hon tog till orda:\n\n_Ni har alla f\u00e5tt mig att k\u00e4nna mig som er v\u00e4n. Ni \u00e4r v\u00e4nliga och g\u00e4stfria. Jag kommer fr\u00e5n en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r livet \u00e4r mycket annorlunda, men n\u00e5gra av oss \u00e4r medvetna om sraf, precis som ni, och jag \u00e4r tacksam f\u00f6r er hj\u00e4lp med att tillverka den h\u00e4r kikaren, genom vilken jag kan se det. Om det finns n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt jag kan hj\u00e4lpa er p\u00e5, s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag g\u00f6ra det med gl\u00e4dje._\n\nHon talade mer besv\u00e4rat \u00e4n n\u00e4r hon pratade med Atal, och var r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r att hon inte skulle f\u00e5 fram det hon ville ha sagt. Det var sv\u00e5rt att veta vart man skulle v\u00e4nda sig n\u00e4r man m\u00e5ste gestikulera samtidigt som man talade, men de tycktes ha f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt henne.\n\nSattamax sa: _Det g\u00f6r mig gott att h\u00f6ra dig tala. Vi hoppas att du kommer att kunna hj\u00e4lpa oss. Om inte, s\u00e5 kan jag inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 hur vi ska kunna \u00f6verleva. Tualapierna kommer att d\u00f6da oss alla. Det finns fler av dem \u00e4n n\u00e5gonsin tidigare och deras antal \u00f6kar f\u00f6r varje \u00e5r. N\u00e5got har blivit fel med v\u00e4rlden. Under st\u00f6rre delen av de trettiotretusen \u00e5r d\u00e5 det har funnits mulefor har vi tagit hand om jorden. Allt var i balans. Tr\u00e4den blomstrade, gr\u00e4s\u00e4tarna var friska och \u00e4ven om tualapierna d\u00f6k upp ibland, s\u00e5 har deras och v\u00e5rt antal varit konstant._\n\n_Men f\u00f6r trehundra \u00e5r sedan b\u00f6rjade tr\u00e4den att insjukna. Vi studerade dem oroligt och v\u00e5rdade dem, men \u00e4nd\u00e5 s\u00e5g vi hur de producerade allt f\u00e4rre fr\u00f6kapslar och tappade sina l\u00f6v i f\u00f6rtid. N\u00e5gra av dem dog med en g\u00e5ng, vilket aldrig har h\u00e4nt f\u00f6rut. Genom v\u00e5ra minnen kunde vi inte finna orsaken till detta._\n\n_Det gick visserligen l\u00e5ngsamt, men s\u00e5 \u00e4r \u00e4ven v\u00e5r livsrytm. Den saken k\u00e4nde vi inte till f\u00f6rr\u00e4n du anl\u00e4nde. Vi har sett fj\u00e4rilarna och f\u00e5glarna, men de har ingen sraf. Det har du, hur underlig du \u00e4n ser ut; men du \u00e4r snabb och omedelbar, precis som f\u00e5glarna, precis som fj\u00e4rilarna. Du inser att du beh\u00f6ver n\u00e5got som kan hj\u00e4lpa dig att se sraf och omedelbart s\u00e4tter du ihop ett instrument f\u00f6r att kunna g\u00f6ra det ur de material som vi har k\u00e4nt till i tusentals \u00e5r. J\u00e4mf\u00f6rt med oss t\u00e4nker och handlar du lika snabbt som en f\u00e5gel. Det \u00e4r s\u00e5 det verkar, vilket \u00e4r sk\u00e4let till att vi vet att v\u00e5r rytm m\u00e5ste se l\u00e5ngsam ut f\u00f6r dig._\n\n_Men detta faktum \u00e4r v\u00e5rt hopp. Du kan se saker som vi inte kan uppfatta, du kan se kopplingar och m\u00f6jligheter och alternativ som \u00e4r osynliga f\u00f6r oss, precis som sraf \u00e4r osynligt f\u00f6r dig. Samtidigt som vi inte kan se n\u00e5gon m\u00f6jlighet f\u00f6r oss att \u00f6verleva, s\u00e5 hoppas vi att du kan g\u00f6ra det. Vi hoppas att du snabbt kommer att hitta orsaken till tr\u00e4dens sjukdom och hitta ett botemedel, vi hoppas att du kan uppfinna ett s\u00e4tt att hantera tualapierna, som nu \u00e4r s\u00e5 talrika och m\u00e4ktiga._\n\n_Och vi hoppas att du kan g\u00f6ra detta snart, f\u00f6r annars kommer vi alla att d\u00f6._\n\nDet h\u00f6rdes ett mummel av samst\u00e4mmighet och gillande fr\u00e5n f\u00f6rsamlingen. Allihop tittade p\u00e5 Mary, som k\u00e4nde sig \u00e4nnu mer som den nya eleven p\u00e5 en skola d\u00e4r alla hade mycket h\u00f6ga f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntningar p\u00e5 henne. Hon k\u00e4nde sig samtidigt m\u00e4rkligt smickrad: tanken p\u00e5 henne sj\u00e4lv som snabb och framilande och f\u00e5gelliknande var b\u00e5de ny och tilltalande, f\u00f6r hon hade alltid betraktat sig sj\u00e4lv som envis och str\u00e4vsam. Men tillsammans med detta kom k\u00e4nslan av att de hade f\u00e5tt det hela fruktansv\u00e4rt om bakfoten, om de s\u00e5g saken p\u00e5 det viset. De f\u00f6rstod inte alls; hon kunde om\u00f6jligen uppfylla deras desperata hopp.\n\nMen sak samma, hon m\u00e5ste. De v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 henne.\n\n_Sattamax_ , sa hon, _mulefor, ni har satt er tilltro till mig och jag ska g\u00f6ra mitt b\u00e4sta. Ni har varit v\u00e4nliga och era liv \u00e4r goda och vackra, s\u00e5 jag ska g\u00f6ra mitt allra b\u00e4sta f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa er, och nu n\u00e4r jag har sett sraf vet jag vad jag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med. Tack f\u00f6r att ni litar p\u00e5 mig._\n\nDe nickade och mumlade och smekte henne med sina snablar n\u00e4r hon steg ner. Hon var helt f\u00f6rstummad av det hon hade g\u00e5tt med p\u00e5.\n\nI samma \u00f6gonblick i Citt\u00e0gazzes v\u00e4rld var l\u00f6nnm\u00f6rdarpr\u00e4sten fader Gomez p\u00e5 v\u00e4g upp f\u00f6r en ol\u00e4ndig bergsstig mellan knotiga olivtr\u00e4d. Kv\u00e4llsljuset f\u00f6ll snett genom de silverf\u00e4rgade bladen och luften var full av ljuden fr\u00e5n syrsor och cikador.\n\nFramf\u00f6r sig kunde han se en liten bondg\u00e5rd ligga i skydd bakom vinrankorna, d\u00e4r en get stod och br\u00e4kte och en k\u00e4lla rann upp bland de gr\u00e5 klipporna. En gammal man var sysselsatt med n\u00e5got bredvid huset och en gammal kvinna ledde geten mot en pall och en hink.\n\nI byn ett stycke bakom honom hade man ber\u00e4ttat att kvinnan han f\u00f6ljde hade passerat den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen och att hon hade pratat om att ge sig upp i bergen. Det h\u00e4r gamla paret hade kanske sett henne. Om inte annat, s\u00e5 skulle det kanske finnas ost och oliver att k\u00f6pa och k\u00e4llvatten att dricka. Fader Gomez var mycket van vid att leva sparsamt och hade gott om tid.\n\n## 18\n\n## De d\u00f6das f\u00f6rst\u00e4der\n\n\u00c5H, OM DET VORE M\u00d6JLIGT ATT F\u00c5 ETT PAR DAGARS SAMTAL MED DE D\u00d6DA.\n\nJOHN WEBSTER\n\nLYRA VAKNADE F\u00d6RE gryningen, med Pantalaimon darrande vid br\u00f6stet. Hon steg upp och gick omkring f\u00f6r att kunna v\u00e4rma sig medan det gr\u00e5 ljuset sakta spred sig \u00f6ver himlen. Hon hade aldrig upplevt en s\u00e5dan tystnad f\u00f6rut, inte ens i det sn\u00f6t\u00e4ckta Arktis. Det var vindstilla, havet var s\u00e5 lugnt att inte ens minsta krusning br\u00f6ts mot sanden. Hela v\u00e4rlden verkade befinna sig mitt emellan en in- och en utandning.\n\nWill l\u00e5g hoprullad och sov fortfarande djupt. Huvudet vilade mot ryggs\u00e4cken f\u00f6r att skydda kniven. Manteln hade fallit ner fr\u00e5n axeln, s\u00e5 hon stoppade om honom, men l\u00e5tsades samtidigt att hon m\u00e5ste vara f\u00f6rsiktig f\u00f6r att inte nudda vid hans d\u00e6mon och att hon hade formen av en katt och l\u00e5g hoprullad p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som han. _Hon m\u00e5ste vara h\u00e4r i n\u00e4rheten,_ t\u00e4nkte hon.\n\nHon bar den fortfarande s\u00f6mniga Pantalaimon i famnen och traskade bort fr\u00e5n Will och slog sig ner p\u00e5 en sanddynssluttning lite l\u00e4ngre bort, f\u00f6r att deras r\u00f6ster inte skulle v\u00e4cka honom.\n\n\"Dom d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 varelserna\", sa Pantalaimon.\n\n\"Jag tycker inte om dom\", sa Lyra best\u00e4mt. \"Jag tycker vi ska f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka komma bort fr\u00e5n dom s\u00e5 snart det g\u00e5r. Jag tror att om vi kan f\u00e5nga dom i ett n\u00e4t eller n\u00e5t liknande, s\u00e5 hinner Will sk\u00e4ra sig igenom och sedan st\u00e4nga och s\u00e5 \u00e4r vi fria.\"\n\n\"Vi har inget n\u00e4t\", svarade han, \"eller n\u00e5t annat heller. Jag tror hur som helst att dom \u00e4r smartare \u00e4n s\u00e5. _Han_ h\u00e5ller ett \u00f6ga p\u00e5 oss just nu.\"\n\nPantalaimon var en falk n\u00e4r han sa detta, s\u00e5 hans \u00f6gon var b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n hennes. F\u00f6r var minut som gick f\u00f6rvandlades den m\u00f6rka himlen till blekaste himmelsbl\u00e5tt och medan hon satt och spanade \u00f6ver sanden steg solskivans kant \u00f6ver horisonten och bl\u00e4ndade henne. Eftersom hon befann sig uppe p\u00e5 sanddynen n\u00e5dde ljuset henne n\u00e5gra sekunder innan det nuddade vid stranden. Hon s\u00e5g hur ljuset bredde ut sig runt omkring henne och n\u00e4rmade sig Will, och sedan s\u00e5g hon en figur h\u00f6g som en hand. Det var chevalier Tialys, och han stod p\u00e5 vakt vid Wills huvud. Han var klarvaken och betraktade dem.\n\n\"Saken \u00e4r den\", sa Lyra, \"att dom inte kan tvinga oss att g\u00f6ra som dom vill. Dom m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja med oss. Jag sl\u00e5r vad om att dom \u00e4r helt utless.\"\n\n\"Om dom f\u00e5r tag p\u00e5 oss\", sa Pan och syftade p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv och Lyra, \"och f\u00e5r sina gaddar s\u00e5 att dom kan sticka oss, s\u00e5 skulle Will bli _tvungen_ att g\u00f6ra som dom s\u00e4ger.\"\n\nLyra t\u00e4nkte \u00f6ver saken. Hon mindes tydligt det fruktansv\u00e4rda skriket av sm\u00e4rta fr\u00e5n mrs Coulter, skakningarna som fick \u00f6gonen att rulla, och hur den gyllene apan b\u00f6rjade dregla p\u00e5 ett alldeles avskyv\u00e4rt s\u00e4tt n\u00e4r giftet spred sig i hennes blod... Och det var \u00e4nd\u00e5 bara en skr\u00e5ma, vilket modern nyligen hade blivit p\u00e5mind om p\u00e5 en annan plats. Will skulle bli tvungen att ge sig och g\u00f6ra som de ville.\n\n\"Men t\u00e4nk om dom trodde att han inte t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra det\", sa hon, \"t\u00e4nk om dom tror att han \u00e4r s\u00e5 h\u00e5rdhudad att han hellre skulle l\u00e5ta oss d\u00f6. Om det \u00e4r m\u00f6jligt \u00e4r det kanske b\u00e4st att f\u00e5 dom att tro just det.\"\n\nHon hade tagit med sig alethiometern och det var nu tillr\u00e4ckligt ljust f\u00f6r att hon skulle kunna l\u00e4sa den. Hon plockade fram det \u00e4lskade instrumentet och lade det p\u00e5 det svarta sammetstyget hon hade brett ut i kn\u00e4et. Hon gled gradvis in i transstadiet, d\u00e4r de m\u00e5nga betydelseniv\u00e5erna var uppenbara f\u00f6r henne och d\u00e4r hon kunde se den komplicerade v\u00e4ven av kopplingar mellan dem. N\u00e4r hennes fingrar fann symbolerna hittade hennes hj\u00e4rna de r\u00e4tta orden: Hur ska vi bli av med spionerna?\n\nSedan b\u00f6rjade visaren pila iv\u00e4g hit och dit, n\u00e4stan f\u00f6r snabbt f\u00f6r att \u00f6gat skulle hinna med. Det gick s\u00e5 snabbt att hon f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen fruktade att hon skulle missa n\u00e5gra svep eller stopp. Men n\u00e5gon del av Lyras medvetande h\u00f6ll r\u00e4kningen och s\u00e5g genast vad r\u00f6relserna betydde.\n\nDen sa: _F\u00f6rs\u00f6k inte, f\u00f6r era liv beror p\u00e5 dem._\n\nDet var ju en \u00f6verraskning och inte n\u00e5gon speciellt glad s\u00e5dan. Men hon fortsatte med sitt fr\u00e5gande: _Hur kan vi ta oss till de d\u00f6das land?_\n\nSvaret blev: _G\u00e5 ned\u00e5t. F\u00f6lj kniven. G\u00e5 vidare. F\u00f6lj kniven._\n\nTill slut fr\u00e5gade hon l\u00e4tt tvekande, l\u00e4tt skamset: _\u00c4r det r\u00e4tt sak att g\u00f6ra?_\n\n_Ja_ , svarade alethiometern omedelbart. _Ja_.\n\nHon suckade och l\u00e4mnade transen, stoppade in h\u00e5ret bakom \u00f6ronen och k\u00e4nde solens f\u00f6rsta v\u00e4rme mot ansiktet och axlarna. Nu fanns d\u00e4r \u00e4ven ljud i v\u00e4rlden: insekterna b\u00f6rjade r\u00f6ra p\u00e5 sig och en mycket svag vind fick det att susa i de torra gr\u00e4sstr\u00e5na som v\u00e4xte h\u00f6gre upp p\u00e5 sanddynen.\n\nHon stoppade ner alethiometern och gick tillbaka till Will, med Pantalaimon s\u00e5 stor han kunde g\u00f6ra sig och dessutom i lejonskepnad i hopp om att kunna skr\u00e4mma gallivespierna.\n\nMannen var upptagen med magnetstensapparaten och n\u00e4r han var klar sa Lyra:\n\n\"Har du pratat med lord Asriel?\"\n\n\"Med hans representant\", sa Tialys.\n\n\"Vi f\u00f6ljer inte med.\"\n\n\"Det var vad jag ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r honom.\"\n\n\"Vad sa han?\"\n\n\"Det var \u00e4mnat f\u00f6r mina \u00f6ron, inte era.\"\n\n\"G\u00f6r som du vill\", sa hon. \"\u00c4r du gift med lady Salmakia?\"\n\n\"Nej. Vi \u00e4r kollegor.\"\n\n\"Har ni n\u00e5gra barn?\"\n\n\"Nej.\"\n\nTialys fortsatte att packa ner magnetstensresonatorn. Medan han var sysselsatt med detta vaknade lady Salmakia strax intill och satte sig graci\u00f6st och l\u00e5ngsamt upp ur den lilla f\u00f6rdjupning hon hade gjort i sanden. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna sov fortfarande, tjudrade med spindelv\u00e4vstunna linor. Vingarna var fuktiga av daggen.\n\n\"Finns det stora m\u00e4nniskor i er v\u00e4rld, eller \u00e4r alla lika sm\u00e5 som ni?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Vi vet hur vi ska hantera det stora folket\", svarade Tialys, vilket inte var s\u00e4rskilt hj\u00e4lpsamt. Han gick iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att prata med lady Salmakia. De talade f\u00f6r l\u00e5gt f\u00f6r att Lyra skulle h\u00f6ra n\u00e5got, men ist\u00e4llet nj\u00f6t hon av att se dem suga i sig daggdroppar fr\u00e5n marhalmen som f\u00f6rfriskning. Vatten m\u00e5ste vara annorlunda f\u00f6r dom, t\u00e4nkte hon till Pantalaimon: T\u00e4nk dig droppar stora som knytn\u00e4var! Dom m\u00e5ste vara sv\u00e5ra att ta sig igenom, dom skulle ha n\u00e5n sorts elastiskt skal, n\u00e4stan som p\u00e5 en ballong.\n\nVid det h\u00e4r laget h\u00f6ll \u00e4ven Will p\u00e5 att vakna, men han var v\u00e4ldigt tr\u00f6tt. Det f\u00f6rsta han gjorde var att titta p\u00e5 gallivespierna, som tittade tillbaka och pl\u00f6tsligt var helt koncentrerade p\u00e5 honom.\n\nHan tittade bort och hittade Lyra.\n\n\"Jag har n\u00e5t att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dig\", sa hon. \"Kom bort hit och h\u00e5ll dig undan fr\u00e5n...\"\n\n\"Om du l\u00e4mnar oss\", sa Tialys med stark r\u00f6st, \"s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste du l\u00e4mna kniven. Om du inte vill l\u00e4mna ifr\u00e5n dig kniven, s\u00e5 f\u00e5r ni samtala h\u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Kan vi inte f\u00e5 vara ensamma?\" sa Lyra indignerat. \"Vi vill inte att ni ska lyssna p\u00e5 vad vi pratar om!\"\n\n\"Ge er iv\u00e4g d\u00e5, men l\u00e4mna kvar kniven.\"\n\nDet fanns \u00e4nd\u00e5 ingen annan d\u00e4r och gallivespierna kunde i vilket fall som helst inte anv\u00e4nda kniven. Will rotade runt i ryggs\u00e4cken efter vattenflaskan och ett par kakor och gav en av dem till Lyra. Sedan f\u00f6ljde han med henne upp f\u00f6r sanddynen.\n\n\"Jag fr\u00e5gade alethiometern\", ber\u00e4ttade hon, \"och den sa att vi inte skulle f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka fly fr\u00e5n dom d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskorna, eftersom dom kommer att r\u00e4dda v\u00e5ra liv. S\u00e5 vi f\u00e5r nog st\u00e5 ut med dom.\"\n\n\"Har du ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r dom om vad vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra?\"\n\n\"Nej! Och det t\u00e4nker jag inte g\u00f6ra heller. F\u00f6r d\u00e5 kommer dom bara att ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r lord Asriel p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r pratfiolen och d\u00e5 kommer han bara hit f\u00f6r att stoppa oss \u2013 s\u00e5 vi f\u00e5r helt enkelt ge oss av och inte prata om det n\u00e4r dom \u00e4r i n\u00e4rheten.\"\n\n\"Dom \u00e4r ju trots allt spioner\", p\u00e5pekade Will. \"D\u00e5 \u00e4r dom nog r\u00e4tt bra p\u00e5 att lyssna och h\u00e5lla sig g\u00f6mda. Det \u00e4r kanske b\u00e4st att inte n\u00e4mna det \u00f6verhuvudtaget. Vi vet vart vi ska, s\u00e5 vi ger oss bara iv\u00e4g och pratar inte om saken, och d\u00e5 f\u00e5r dom helt enkelt acceptera det och bara f\u00f6lja med.\"\n\n\"Just nu kan dom inte h\u00f6ra oss, f\u00f6r dom \u00e4r f\u00f6r l\u00e5ngt borta. Will, jag fr\u00e5gade ocks\u00e5 om hur vi tar oss dit. Den sa att vi bara skulle f\u00f6lja kniven.\"\n\n\"L\u00e5ter ju enkelt\", sa han. \"Men jag kan sl\u00e5 vad om att det inte \u00e4r det. Vet du vad Iorek ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r mig?\"\n\n\"Nej. Han sa \u2013 n\u00e4r jag gick f\u00f6r att s\u00e4ga adj\u00f6 \u2013 han sa att det skulle bli v\u00e4ldigt sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r dig, men han trodde att du skulle klara det. Men han sa aldrig varf\u00f6r...\"\n\n\"Kniven gick s\u00f6nder f\u00f6r att jag t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 min mamma\", f\u00f6rklarade han. \"Vilket betyder att jag m\u00e5ste sluta t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 henne. Men... Det \u00e4r som n\u00e4r n\u00e5n s\u00e4ger \u00e5t en att inte t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 en krokodil, och sen kan man inte l\u00e5ta bli att g\u00f6ra det...\"\n\n\"Du anv\u00e4nde ju kniven ig\u00e5r\", sa hon.\n\n\"Visst, men det tror jag var f\u00f6r att jag var tr\u00f6tt. Men vi f\u00e5r se. F\u00f6lj kniven bara?\"\n\n\"Det var allt den sa.\"\n\n\"Vi kan v\u00e4l lika g\u00e4rna b\u00f6rja med en g\u00e5ng. Vi har bara inte s\u00e5 mycket mat kvar. Vi m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka hitta n\u00e5t att ta med oss, br\u00f6d och frukt eller n\u00e5t. Det f\u00f6rsta jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra \u00e4r att hitta en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r vi kan f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 mat och sen b\u00f6rjar vi leta p\u00e5 allvar.\"\n\n\"Visst\", sa Lyra och blev v\u00e4ldigt glad \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 ge sig iv\u00e4g igen med b\u00e5de Pan och Will, vakna och vid liv.\n\nDe traskade tillbaka till spionerna, som satt och vaktade vid kniven. De hade sina packningar p\u00e5 ryggen.\n\n\"Vi vill g\u00e4rna veta vad ni har f\u00f6r avsikter\", sa Salmakia.\n\n\"Tja, vi t\u00e4nker i alla fall inte f\u00f6lja med till lord Asriel\", sa Will. \"Det \u00e4r en annan sak vi m\u00e5ste ta hand om f\u00f6rst.\"\n\n\"T\u00e4nker ni ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss vad det \u00e4r, eftersom det \u00e4r uppenbart att vi inte kan hindra er fr\u00e5n att genomf\u00f6ra det?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Lyra, \"eftersom ni bara skulle ge er iv\u00e4g och ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dom. Ni f\u00e5r helt enkelt f\u00f6lja med utan att veta vart vi \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g. Men ni kan ju alltid ge upp och \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till dom.\"\n\n\"Sj\u00e4lvfallet inte\", svarade Tialys.\n\n\"Vi vill ha n\u00e5n sorts garanti\", sa Will. \"Ni \u00e4r spioner, s\u00e5 d\u00e5 m\u00e5ste ni vara o\u00e4rliga, det \u00e4r ert yrke. Vi m\u00e5ste vara s\u00e4kra p\u00e5 att vi kan lita p\u00e5 er. Ig\u00e5r kv\u00e4ll var vi f\u00f6r tr\u00f6tta f\u00f6r att kunna t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 saken, men det \u00e4r inget som hindrar er fr\u00e5n att v\u00e4nta tills vi sover och sen sticka oss och g\u00f6ra oss hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6sa och sen anropa lord Asriel p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r magnetstenssaken. Det skulle vara l\u00e4tt f\u00f6r er. Det vi beh\u00f6ver \u00e4r en verklig garanti f\u00f6r att ni inte t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra det. Bara ett l\u00f6fte r\u00e4cker inte.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da gallivespierna darrade av vrede f\u00f6r att han hade ifr\u00e5gasatt deras heder.\n\nMen Tialys beh\u00e4rskade sig och sa: \"Vi kommer inte att acceptera ensidiga krav. Ni m\u00e5ste ge oss n\u00e5got i utbyte. Ni m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta vilka avsikter ni har, och sedan ska jag l\u00e5ta er ta hand om magnetstensresonatorn. Ni m\u00e5ste \u00e5terl\u00e4mna den n\u00e4r jag beh\u00f6ver skicka meddelanden, men ni kommer alltid att veta n\u00e4r det h\u00e4nder och vi kommer inte att kunna anv\u00e4nda den utan er till\u00e5telse. Det f\u00e5r bli v\u00e5r garanti. Nu f\u00e5r ni ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss vart ni t\u00e4nker ta v\u00e4gen och varf\u00f6r.\"\n\nWill och Lyra utbytte blickar som bekr\u00e4ftelse.\n\n\"Visst\", sa Lyra, \"det \u00e4r bara r\u00e4ttvist. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r vad vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra: vi t\u00e4nker ge oss iv\u00e4g till dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld. Vi vet inte var det ligger, men kniven kommer att hitta dit. Det \u00e4r vad vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da spionerna s\u00e5g klentroget p\u00e5 henne.\n\nSedan blinkade Salmakia och sa: \"Det du s\u00e4ger \u00e4r inte rimligt. De d\u00f6da \u00e4r d\u00f6da, det \u00e4r bara s\u00e5. Det finns ingen v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r de d\u00f6da h\u00e5ller till.\"\n\n\"Det trodde jag ocks\u00e5 var sant\", sa Will, \"men nu \u00e4r jag inte l\u00e4ngre s\u00e5 s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 det. Jag kan i alla fall ta reda p\u00e5 saken med hj\u00e4lp av kniven.\"\n\n\"Men varf\u00f6r?\"\n\nLyra tittade p\u00e5 Will och s\u00e5g att han nickade.\n\n\"Innan jag tr\u00e4ffade Will\", sa hon, \"l\u00e5ngt innan jag somnade, s\u00e5 ledde jag en v\u00e4n i d\u00f6den. Jag trodde att jag r\u00e4ddade honom, men jag st\u00e4llde bara till det \u00e4nnu v\u00e4rre. Men medan jag sov dr\u00f6mde jag om honom och jag trodde att jag kunde r\u00e4tta till alltihop om jag bara kunde s\u00f6ka upp honom och be om f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse. Och Will vill hitta sin pappa, som dog precis n\u00e4r han hade hittat honom. Lord Asriel skulle inte komma p\u00e5 n\u00e5t s\u00e5nt. Det skulle inte mrs Coulter heller. Om vi s\u00f6kte upp honom skulle vi bli tvungna att g\u00f6ra det han vill och han skulle inte ha en tanke p\u00e5 Roger \u2013 det var min v\u00e4n som dog \u2013 det skulle inte vara viktigt f\u00f6r honom. Men det \u00e4r viktigt f\u00f6r mig. F\u00f6r oss. S\u00e5 det \u00e4r vad vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra.\"\n\n\"Barn\", sa Tialys. \"N\u00e4r vi d\u00f6r tar allting slut. Det finns inget andra liv. Du har sett d\u00f6den. Du har sett d\u00f6da kroppar och du har sett vad som h\u00e4nder med d\u00e6monerna n\u00e4r d\u00f6den kommer. De f\u00f6rsvinner. Vad finns det mer som kan leva vidare efter\u00e5t?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r vad vi t\u00e4nker ta reda p\u00e5\", sa Lyra. \"Och nu n\u00e4r vi har ber\u00e4ttat det f\u00f6r er, s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag ta hand om er magnetstensresonator.\"\n\nHon h\u00f6ll ut handen och leopard-Pantalaimon stod bredvid henne med l\u00e5ngsamt piskande svans, som f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rst\u00e4rka hennes krav. Tialys tog av sig packningen och lade den i hennes hand. Den var f\u00f6rv\u00e5nansv\u00e4rt tung, men givetvis inte n\u00e5gon st\u00f6rre b\u00f6rda f\u00f6r hennes del, men samtidigt fick den henne att f\u00f6rundras \u00f6ver hans styrka.\n\n\"Hur l\u00e5ng tid r\u00e4knar ni med att den h\u00e4r expeditionen kommer att ta?\" fr\u00e5gade chevalier Tialys.\n\n\"Vi vet inte\", svarade Lyra. \"Vi vet inte mer \u00e4n vad ni g\u00f6r. Vi t\u00e4nker helt enkelt bara ge oss iv\u00e4g och ta reda p\u00e5 den saken.\"\n\n\"Det f\u00f6rsta vi ska g\u00f6ra\", sa Will, \"\u00e4r att skaffa vatten och lite mer mat, n\u00e5t som \u00e4r l\u00e4tt att b\u00e4ra med sig. S\u00e5 jag ska f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka hitta en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r vi kan g\u00f6ra just det och sen ger vi oss iv\u00e4g.\"\n\nTialys och Salmakia satt upp p\u00e5 sina trollsl\u00e4ndor och h\u00f6ll dem sk\u00e4lvande p\u00e5 marken. De stora insekterna var ivriga att f\u00e5 flyga iv\u00e4g, men ryttarna hade fullst\u00e4ndig kontroll \u00f6ver dem. N\u00e4r Lyra betraktade dem f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen i dagsljus lade hon m\u00e4rke till den fantastiska elegansen hos de gr\u00e5 silkestyglarna, de silverf\u00e4rgade stigbyglarna och de sm\u00e5 sadlarna.\n\nWill plockade fram kniven och slogs av en sv\u00e5r frestelse att leta efter sin egen v\u00e4rld: han hade fortfarande kvar kreditkortet, han kunde k\u00f6pa v\u00e4lbekant mat, han kunde till och med ringa mrs Cooper och fr\u00e5ga om sin mamma...\n\nKniven ryckte till med ljudet av en nagel som dras \u00f6ver en sten och det var n\u00e4ra att hj\u00e4rtat stannade. Om kniven gick av p\u00e5 nytt skulle det vara slut med dem.\n\nEfter n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick provade han igen. Ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka l\u00e5ta bli att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 sin mamma, sa han till sig sj\u00e4lv: _Ja, jag vet att hon \u00e4r d\u00e4r, men jag f\u00e5r helt enkelt titta bort medan jag g\u00f6r det h\u00e4r..._\n\nNu fungerade det. Han hittade en ny v\u00e4rld och l\u00e4t kniven glida fram och g\u00f6ra en \u00f6ppning, och n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick senare vandrade hela gruppen omkring i vad som s\u00e5g ut som en prydlig och v\u00e4lm\u00e5ende bondg\u00e5rd i n\u00e5got nordligt land, som till exempel Holland eller Danmark. Den stenlagda g\u00e5rden var sopad och ren och en rad stalld\u00f6rrar stod \u00f6ppna. Solen sken fr\u00e5n en disig himmel och det l\u00e5g en br\u00e4nd lukt i luften, uppblandad med n\u00e5got annat som var mindre behagligt. Det h\u00f6rdes inga ljud av m\u00e4nsklig aktivitet, men fr\u00e5n stallet kom ett kraftigt surrande, som var s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt och livligt att det l\u00e4t som om det kom fr\u00e5n en maskin.\n\nLyra gick dit och tittade efter, men kom omedelbart tillbaka med blek uppsyn.\n\n\"Det ligger fyra...\", svalde hon med handen vid strupen, men h\u00e4mtade sig snabbt, \"... fyra d\u00f6da h\u00e4star d\u00e4r inne. Och det \u00e4r miljontals flugor...\"\n\n\"Titta d\u00e4r\", sa Will och svalde, \"men det \u00e4r nog b\u00e4st att l\u00e5ta bli.\"\n\nHan pekade p\u00e5 hallonsn\u00e5ret som kantade k\u00f6kstr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden. Han hade just f\u00e5tt syn p\u00e5 ett par mansben, som stack ut ur den t\u00e4taste delen av buskaget. Det ena benet hade en sko p\u00e5 foten och det andra var barfota.\n\nLyra var inte s\u00e5 pigg p\u00e5 att titta, men Will ville ta reda p\u00e5 om mannen fortfarande levde och beh\u00f6vde hj\u00e4lp. Han skakade p\u00e5 huvudet n\u00e4r han kom tillbaka och s\u00e5g ut att inte m\u00e5 s\u00e5 bra sj\u00e4lv.\n\nDe b\u00e5da spionerna var redan framme vid den \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rren till boningshuset.\n\nTialys pilade tillbaka och sa: \"Det luktar b\u00e4ttre d\u00e4r inne\", och fl\u00f6g sedan tillbaka \u00f6ver tr\u00f6skeln, medan Salmakia s\u00f6kte vidare bland uthusen.\n\nWill f\u00f6ljde efter chevalier Tialys. Han steg in i ett stort fyrkantigt k\u00f6k. Det var ett gammaldags st\u00e4lle med vitt porslin i ett tr\u00e4sk\u00e5p, ett skrubbat furubord och en h\u00e4rd d\u00e4r det stod en kall svart kittel. N\u00e4sta d\u00f6rr ledde till skafferiet, d\u00e4r tv\u00e5 hyllor fulla med \u00e4pplen fyllde rummet med sin doft. Tystnaden var tryckande.\n\n\"Will, \u00e4r det h\u00e4r dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra l\u00e5gt.\n\nSamma tanke hade slagit honom, men han svarade: \"Nej, jag tror inte det. Det \u00e4r en v\u00e4rld vi inte har varit i tidigare. Nu samlar vi ihop s\u00e5 mycket vi kan b\u00e4ra. Det finns n\u00e5n sorts r\u00e5gbr\u00f6d h\u00e4r, det blir bra \u2013 det v\u00e4ger inte s\u00e5 mycket \u2013 och h\u00e4r \u00e4r lite ost...\"\n\nN\u00e4r de hade plockat p\u00e5 sig s\u00e5 mycket de kunde b\u00e4ra sl\u00e4ppte Will ner ett guldmynt i furubordets l\u00e5da.\n\n\"Och?\" sa Lyra n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g Tialys h\u00f6jda \u00f6gonbryn. \"Man ska alltid betala f\u00f6r det man tar.\"\n\nI det \u00f6gonblicket kom Salmakia in genom bakd\u00f6rren och l\u00e4t trollsl\u00e4ndan landa p\u00e5 bordet i ett skimmer av gnistrande bl\u00e5tt.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r m\u00e4n p\u00e5 v\u00e4g\", sa hon, \"till fots, med vapen. De \u00e4r bara n\u00e5gra minuters g\u00e5ngv\u00e4g bort. Och det finns en brinnande by p\u00e5 andra sidan \u00e5krarna.\"\n\nMedan hon talade kunde de h\u00f6ra ljudet av st\u00f6vlar mot grus, klirret av metall och en r\u00f6st som ropade ut befallningar.\n\n\"D\u00e5 ska vi nog ge oss iv\u00e4g\", sa Will.\n\nHan trevade i luften med knivspetsen. Han blev omedelbart medveten om en ny sorts k\u00e4nsla. Klingan tycktes glida l\u00e4ngs en mycket sl\u00e4t yta, som till exempel en spegel, varefter den sj\u00f6nk in v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e5ngsamt tills han kunde sk\u00e4ra igenom. Men det tog emot, som om det var ett kraftigt tyg, och n\u00e4r han hade gjort \u00f6ppningen blinkade han till av \u00f6verraskning och oro: f\u00f6r den v\u00e4rld som \u00f6ppnade sig var i varje liten detalj likadan som den de redan befann sig i.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\nSpionerna tittade f\u00f6rundrat genom \u00f6ppningen, men de k\u00e4nde mer \u00e4n bara f\u00f6rundran. Precis som luften hade motst\u00e5tt kniven, s\u00e5 var det n\u00e5got i \u00f6ppningen som tog emot n\u00e4r de gick igenom. Will m\u00e5ste pressa sig mot n\u00e5got osynligt och fick sedan dra Lyra efter sig. Gallivespierna var n\u00e4ra att misslyckas helt. De fick landa med trollsl\u00e4ndorna p\u00e5 barnens h\u00e4nder och till och med d\u00e5 var det som att k\u00e4mpa mot ett kraftigt lufttryck. Trollsl\u00e4ndornas tunna vingar b\u00f6jdes och knycklades till, s\u00e5 de sm\u00e5 ryttarna m\u00e5ste smeka deras huvuden och viska lugnande till dem f\u00f6r att kunna d\u00e4mpa deras r\u00e4dsla.\n\nEfter n\u00e5gra sekunders anstr\u00e4ngning hade alla kommit igenom och Will hittade f\u00f6nsterkanten (\u00e4ven om den var om\u00f6jlig att se), st\u00e4ngde \u00f6ppningen, och utest\u00e4ngde samtidigt ljudet av soldaterna i deras egen v\u00e4rld.\n\n\"Will\", sa Lyra, s\u00e5 han v\u00e4nde sig om och uppt\u00e4ckte en annan figur i k\u00f6ket.\n\nHj\u00e4rtat hoppade \u00f6ver ett slag, f\u00f6r det var samme man han hade sett bara tio minuter tidigare ligga stend\u00f6d i buskarna med halsen avskuren.\n\nHan var medel\u00e5lders, smal, och s\u00e5g ut som om han hade tillbringat st\u00f6rre delen av sin tid utomhus. Men nu s\u00e5g han n\u00e4rmast vansinnig ut, eller paralyserad av chock. \u00d6gonen var s\u00e5 uppsp\u00e4rrade att vitan syntes hela v\u00e4gen runt iris och han h\u00f6ll h\u00e5rt i bordskanten med en skakande hand. Will blev glad n\u00e4r han uppt\u00e4ckte att mannens hals s\u00e5g hel ut.\n\nMannen \u00f6ppnade munnen f\u00f6r att s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got, men det kom inga ord. Det enda han lyckades med var att peka p\u00e5 Will och Lyra.\n\n\"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t att vi har g\u00e5tt in i ditt hus\", sa Lyra, \"men vi m\u00e5ste fly fr\u00e5n soldaterna som \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g. Det var inte meningen att skr\u00e4mma dig. Jag heter Lyra och det h\u00e4r \u00e4r Will, och dom h\u00e4r \u00e4r v\u00e5ra v\u00e4nner, chevalier Tialys och lady Salmakia. Kan du ber\u00e4tta vad du heter och var vi \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans?\"\n\nHennes fullst\u00e4ndigt normala beg\u00e4ran tycktes f\u00e5 mannen att samla sig och en rysning genomfor honom, n\u00e4stan som om han var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att vakna ur en dr\u00f6m.\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r d\u00f6d\", sa han. \"Jag ligger d\u00e4r ute, d\u00f6d. Jag vet att jag \u00e4r det. Men ni \u00e4r inte d\u00f6da. Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder? Herre Gud, dom skar halsen av mig. Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder?\"\n\nLyra tog ett steg n\u00e4rmare Will n\u00e4r mannen sa _Jag \u00e4r d\u00f6d_ , och Pantalaimon flydde i musskepnad upp till hennes br\u00f6st. Gallivespierna f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6r sin del att kontrollera sina trollsl\u00e4ndor, f\u00f6r de stora insekterna tycktes k\u00e4nna en stark motvilja mot mannen och pilade \u00e4n hit och \u00e4n dit i k\u00f6ket f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka ta sig ut.\n\nMen mannen lade inte m\u00e4rke till dem. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte fortfarande f\u00e5 grepp om det som hade h\u00e4nt.\n\n\"\u00c4r du ett sp\u00f6ke?\" fr\u00e5gade Will f\u00f6rsiktigt.\n\nMannen r\u00e4ckte ut handen och Will f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ta den, men fingrarna sl\u00f6t sig bara runt luften. Det enda han k\u00e4nde var en kall kittling.\n\nN\u00e4r mannen s\u00e5g detta tittade han f\u00f6rf\u00e4rat p\u00e5 handen. Bed\u00f6vningen s\u00e5g ut att b\u00f6rja sl\u00e4ppa s\u00e5 att han kunde b\u00f6rja f\u00f6rst\u00e5 sitt tillst\u00e5nd.\n\n\"Sannerligen\", sa han, \"jag \u00e4r verkligen d\u00f6d... Jag _\u00e4r_ d\u00f6d och kommer att sluta i helvetet...\"\n\n\"Schh\", sa Lyra, \"vi ger oss iv\u00e4g dit tillsammans. Vad heter du?\"\n\n\"Mitt namn var Dirk Jansen\", sa han, \"men nu... Jag vet inte vad jag ska g\u00f6ra... Vet inte vart jag ska ta v\u00e4gen...\"\n\nWill \u00f6ppnade d\u00f6rren. G\u00e5rdsplanen s\u00e5g likadan ut, k\u00f6kstr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden var of\u00f6r\u00e4ndrad, samma disiga sol lyste ner. Och d\u00e4r l\u00e5g mannens kropp, or\u00f6rd.\n\nEtt litet st\u00f6nande h\u00f6rdes fr\u00e5n Dirk Jansens strupe, som om det inte gick att f\u00f6rneka saken l\u00e4ngre. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna f\u00f6rsvann ut genom d\u00f6rren och for iv\u00e4g \u00f6ver marken ett stycke innan de sk\u00f6t upp i luften, snabbare \u00e4n f\u00e5glar. Mannen s\u00e5g sig hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st omkring, lyfte h\u00e4nderna, s\u00e4nkte dem p\u00e5 nytt och st\u00f6tte ifr\u00e5n sig sm\u00e5 tjut.\n\n\"Jag kan inte stanna h\u00e4r... Kan inte stanna\", sa han. \"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r inte den g\u00e5rd jag k\u00e4nde till. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r fel. Jag m\u00e5ste ge mig iv\u00e4g...\"\n\n\"Vart ska ni ta v\u00e4gen, herr Jansen?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Bort l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4gen. Vet inte. M\u00e5ste ge mig av. Kan inte stanna h\u00e4r...\"\n\nSalmakia fl\u00f6g ner och landade p\u00e5 Lyras hand. Trollsl\u00e4ndans sm\u00e5 klor stack henne n\u00e4r lady Salmakia sa: \"Det kommer folk fr\u00e5n byn \u2013 m\u00e4nniskor som den h\u00e4r mannen \u2013 alla \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u00e5t samma h\u00e5ll.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 f\u00f6ljer vi med dem\", sa Will och hivade upp ryggs\u00e4cken \u00f6ver axeln.\n\nDirk Jansen var redan p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att passera sin egen kropp och slog undan blicken. Han s\u00e5g n\u00e4stan ut som om han var berusad. Han stannade, gick vidare, sv\u00e4ngde \u00e5t v\u00e4nster eller h\u00f6ger och snubblade i gropar och p\u00e5 stenar p\u00e5 den stig som hans levande f\u00f6tter hade k\u00e4nt s\u00e5 v\u00e4l.\n\nLyra f\u00f6ljde efter Will. Pantalaimon f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en tornfalk och fl\u00f6g s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt han kunde, vilket fick Lyra att fl\u00e4mta till.\n\n\"Det st\u00e4mmer\", sa han n\u00e4r han \u00e5terv\u00e4nde. \"Det \u00e4r rader av m\u00e4nniskor p\u00e5 v\u00e4g fr\u00e5n byn. D\u00f6da m\u00e4nniskor...\"\n\nSnart fick de syn p\u00e5 dem ocks\u00e5: runt tjugo m\u00e4n, kvinnor och barn, som alla r\u00f6rde sig p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som Dirk Jansen, os\u00e4kert och chockat. Byn l\u00e5g en knapp kilometer bort och m\u00e4nniskorna var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u00e5t deras h\u00e5ll, t\u00e4tt tillsammans i mitten av v\u00e4gen. N\u00e4r Dirk Jansen s\u00e5g de andra sp\u00f6kena b\u00f6rjade han snubblande att halvspringa och de andra h\u00f6ll ut sina h\u00e4nder f\u00f6r att ta emot honom.\n\n\"\u00c4ven om dom inte vet vart dom \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g, s\u00e5 g\u00e5r dom i alla fall tillsammans\", sa Lyra. \"Det \u00e4r nog b\u00e4st om vi bara f\u00f6ljer med.\"\n\n\"Tror du att dom hade d\u00e6moner i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Vet inte. Skulle du veta om det var en ande om du s\u00e5g n\u00e5n av dom h\u00e4r i din v\u00e4rld?\"\n\n\"Sv\u00e5rt att s\u00e4ga. Dom ser inte helt normala ut... Hemma fanns det en man jag s\u00e5g ibland. Han brukade g\u00e5 omkring utanf\u00f6r aff\u00e4rerna och h\u00f6ll alltid i samma gamla plastp\u00e5se, men han pratade aldrig med n\u00e5n eller gick in. Och det var aldrig n\u00e5n som tittade p\u00e5 honom. Jag brukade l\u00e5tsas att han var ett sp\u00f6ke. Dom ser lite ut som han. Min v\u00e4rld var kanske full av sp\u00f6ken utan att jag hade en aning om det.\"\n\n\"Jag tror inte att min \u00e4r det\", sa Lyra tveksamt.\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r m\u00e5ste i vilket fall som helst vara dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld. Dom h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna har just blivit d\u00f6dade \u2013 dom d\u00e4r soldaterna m\u00e5ste ha gjort det \u2013 och nu \u00e4r dom h\u00e4r, men det ser precis ut som den v\u00e4rld dom levde i. Jag trodde det skulle vara v\u00e4ldigt annorlunda...\"\n\n\"Nja, den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att blekna bort\", sa hon. \"Titta!\"\n\nHon h\u00f6ll h\u00e5rt i hans hand. Will stannade och s\u00e5g sig om, men hon hade r\u00e4tt. Innan han hade hittat f\u00f6nstret till Citt\u00e0gazzes v\u00e4rld hade han varit med om en solf\u00f6rm\u00f6rkelse, s\u00e5 han hade i likhet med miljoner andra st\u00e5tt utomhus vid middagstid och sett p\u00e5 medan det klara dagsljuset bleknade och f\u00f6rm\u00f6rkades tills bara ett kusligt skymningsljus t\u00e4ckte husen, tr\u00e4den, parken. Allt var precis lika klart som vid fullt dagsljus, men det fanns mindre ljus att se med, som om kraften h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att rinna ut ur den d\u00f6ende solen.\n\nDet som h\u00e4nde nu var n\u00e5got liknande, men p\u00e5 ett underligare s\u00e4tt, f\u00f6r alla konturer h\u00f6ll dessutom p\u00e5 att bli otydliga och f\u00f6rlora sk\u00e4rpan.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inte som om vi \u00e4r v\u00e4g att bli blinda\", sa Lyra skr\u00e4mt. \"Det \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 att vi inte kan se sakerna, det \u00e4r som om sakerna sj\u00e4lva h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att f\u00f6rsvinna...\"\n\nF\u00e4rgerna h\u00f6ll l\u00e5ngsamt p\u00e5 att blekna bort ur v\u00e4rlden. En svag gr\u00e5gr\u00f6n nyans ersatte tr\u00e4dens och gr\u00e4sets klargr\u00f6na, en svag sandgr\u00e5 f\u00e4rg kom ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r vetef\u00e4ltens levande gula, en svag r\u00f6dgr\u00e5 ton ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r de prydliga husens r\u00f6da tegel...\n\nM\u00e4nniskorna sj\u00e4lva, som var n\u00e4rmare nu, hade ocks\u00e5 lagt m\u00e4rke till detta och pekade och h\u00f6ll varandra i h\u00e4nderna som tr\u00f6st och uppmuntran.\n\nDet enda som lyste klart i hela landskapet var trollsl\u00e4ndornas och deras sm\u00e5 ryttares klara r\u00f6da och gula och skimrande bl\u00e5 f\u00e4rger, samt Will och Lyra och Pantalaimon. D\u00e6monen fl\u00f6g strax ovanf\u00f6r dem i skepnad av en tornfalk.\n\nNu var de helt n\u00e4ra de f\u00f6rsta m\u00e4nniskorna, och det var inget tvivel om saken: allihop var andar. Will och Lyra tog ett steg n\u00e4rmare varandra, men det fanns inget att vara r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r, f\u00f6r andarna var mer r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r dem och h\u00f6ll sig p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd, ovilliga att n\u00e4rma sig.\n\n\"Var inte r\u00e4dda\", ropade Will. \"Vi ska inte g\u00f6ra er illa. Vart \u00e4r ni p\u00e5 v\u00e4g?\"\n\nDe tittade p\u00e5 den \u00e4ldste mannen i gruppen, som om han var deras v\u00e4gvisare.\n\n\"Vi \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g dit alla andra \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g\", sa han. \"Det verkar som om jag vet vart, men jag kan inte minnas att jag n\u00e5nsin f\u00e5tt l\u00e4ra mig det. Det verkar som om det \u00e4r l\u00e4ngs den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen. Vi vet n\u00e4r vi kommit fram.\"\n\n\"Mamma\", sa ett barn, \"varf\u00f6r \u00e4r det s\u00e5 m\u00f6rkt mitt p\u00e5 dagen?\"\n\n\"Schh, min \u00e4lskling, kinka inte\", sa mamman. \"Det blir inte b\u00e4ttre av att kinka. Jag skulle tro att vi allihop \u00e4r d\u00f6da.\"\n\n\"Men vart \u00e4r vi p\u00e5 v\u00e4g?\" fr\u00e5gade barnet. \"Jag vill inte vara d\u00f6d, mamma!\"\n\n\"Vi ska g\u00e5 och h\u00e4lsa p\u00e5 farfar\", sa mamman desperat.\n\nMen barnet l\u00e4t sig inte tr\u00f6stas, utan gr\u00e4t hj\u00e4rtsk\u00e4rande. Andra i gruppen s\u00e5g medlidsamt eller irriterat p\u00e5 mamman, men det fanns inget de kunde g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa, utan alla traskade lika otr\u00f6stligt genom det allt blekare landskapet medan barnets spr\u00f6da gr\u00e5t bara fortsatte och fortsatte och fortsatte.\n\nChevalier Tialys hade pratat med Salmakia innan han fl\u00f6g i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g. B\u00e5de Will och Lyra betraktade trollsl\u00e4ndan med \u00f6gon som l\u00e4ngtade efter dess klarhet och livfullhet medan den blev till en allt mindre och mindre prick. Lady Salmakia fl\u00f6g ner och landade sin insekt p\u00e5 Wills hand.\n\n\"Chevalier Tialys har flugit i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att se vad som v\u00e4ntar oss\", sa hon. \"Vi tror att landskapet bleknar f\u00f6r att de h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att gl\u00f6mma det. Ju l\u00e4ngre bort de kommer fr\u00e5n sina hem, desto m\u00f6rkare kommer det att bli.\"\n\n\"Men vart tror du att dom \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra. \"Om jag var en ande, s\u00e5 skulle jag hellre vilja stanna p\u00e5 platser jag k\u00e4nner till och inte vandra omkring och g\u00e5 vilse.\"\n\n\"Dom \u00e4r v\u00e4l alltf\u00f6r olyckliga d\u00e4r borta\", gissade Will. \"Det \u00e4r d\u00e4r dom just har d\u00f6tt. Dom \u00e4r v\u00e4l r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r den platsen.\"\n\n\"Nej, de dras fram\u00e5t av n\u00e5got\", sa lady Salmakia. \"Det \u00e4r n\u00e5gon instinkt som f\u00e5r dem att dra fram l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4gen.\"\n\nFaktum var att andarna r\u00f6rde sig mer m\u00e5lmedvetet s\u00e5 snart de kommit utom synh\u00e5ll fr\u00e5n den egna byn. Himlen var m\u00f6rk som inf\u00f6r ett \u00e5skv\u00e4der, men d\u00e4r fanns inget av den elektriska sp\u00e4nning man k\u00e4nner strax innan ov\u00e4dret bryter ut. Andarna traskade p\u00e5 med god fart och v\u00e4gen l\u00f6pte spikrakt genom det n\u00e4rmast forml\u00f6sa landskapet.\n\nTill och fr\u00e5n kastade n\u00e5gon en blick p\u00e5 Will eller Lyra eller p\u00e5 den f\u00e4rgstarka trollsl\u00e4ndan och dess ryttare, som om de var nyfikna. Till slut fr\u00e5gade den \u00e4ldste av m\u00e4nnen:\n\n\"H\u00f6r ni, barn. Ni \u00e4r inte d\u00f6da. Ni \u00e4r inte n\u00e5gra andar. Varf\u00f6r f\u00f6ljer ni med oss?\"\n\n\"Vi trillade igenom av misstag\", sa Lyra innan Will hann svara. \"Jag vet inte hur det gick till. Vi f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte komma undan fr\u00e5n soldaterna och pl\u00f6tsligt var vi bara h\u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Hur vet ni n\u00e4r ni \u00e4r framme vid den d\u00e4r platsen ni m\u00e5ste bege er till?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6rmodar att man kommer att ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r oss\", sa mannen f\u00f6rtr\u00f6stansfullt. \"Man kommer att skilja ut syndarna fr\u00e5n de r\u00e4ttf\u00e4rdiga, skulle jag v\u00e5ga s\u00e4ga. Nu hj\u00e4lper det inte att be l\u00e4ngre. Nu \u00e4r det f\u00f6r sent f\u00f6r den saken. Det borde ni ha gjort n\u00e4r ni levde. Det \u00e4r ingen mening med det l\u00e4ngre.\"\n\nDet var helt uppenbart vilken grupp han f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntade sig tillh\u00f6ra och lika uppenbart att han inte v\u00e4ntade sig att gruppen skulle vara s\u00e4rskilt stor. De \u00f6vriga andarna blev illa till mods av att lyssna p\u00e5 honom, men han var den enda ledning de hade, s\u00e5 de f\u00f6ljde honom utan vidare diskussion.\n\nDe vandrade vidare och trampade p\u00e5 i tystnad under en himmel som till slut tonade \u00f6ver i en matt j\u00e4rngr\u00e5 nyans utan att bli s\u00e4rskilt m\u00f6rkare. De levande uppt\u00e4ckte att de spanade \u00e5t v\u00e4nster och \u00e5t h\u00f6ger, upp\u00e5t och bak\u00e5t efter minsta f\u00f6rem\u00e5l som var ljust eller levande eller glatt, men de blev hela tiden besvikna, \u00e4nda tills en liten gnista d\u00f6k upp framf\u00f6r dem och kom rusande emot dem genom luften. Det var chevalier Tialys, s\u00e5 Salmakia manade p\u00e5 sin egen trollsl\u00e4nda och fl\u00f6g med ett gl\u00e4djerop iv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att m\u00f6ta honom.\n\nDe \u00f6verlade och ilade sedan tillbaka till barnen.\n\n\"Det finns en stad l\u00e4ngre fram\", sa Tialys. \"Den ser ut som ett flyktingl\u00e4ger, men har uppenbarligen funnits d\u00e4r i hundratals \u00e5r eller mer, och jag tror att jag kan se ett hav eller en sj\u00f6 bortom staden, men den \u00e4r h\u00f6ljd i dimma. Jag kunde h\u00f6ra f\u00e5glars skrin. Hundratals m\u00e4nniskor anl\u00e4nder i varje \u00f6gonblick, fr\u00e5n alla h\u00e5ll, m\u00e4nniskor som de h\u00e4r \u2013 andar...\"\n\nAndarna sj\u00e4lva lyssnade n\u00e4r han talade, men utan st\u00f6rre nyfikenhet. De tycktes ha f\u00f6rsjunkit i n\u00e5gon sorts l\u00e5ngsam trans, och Lyra ville ruska om dem, f\u00e5 dem att k\u00e4mpa och vakna upp och b\u00f6rja leta efter v\u00e4gen ut.\n\n\"Hur kan vi hj\u00e4lpa dom h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna, Will?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\nHan v\u00e5gade inte ens gissa. N\u00e4r de trampade vidare kunde de se r\u00f6relser vid horisonten till h\u00f6ger och till v\u00e4nster. Rakt framf\u00f6r dem s\u00e5g de hur smutsig r\u00f6k l\u00e5ngsamt steg upp och bidrog med sitt m\u00f6rker till den dystra luften. R\u00f6relsen var m\u00e4nniskor, eller andar: i rader eller par eller grupper eller ensamma, men alltid tomh\u00e4nta. Hundratals och tusentals m\u00e4n, kvinnor och barn drev fram \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot r\u00f6kk\u00e4llan.\n\nNu sluttade marken ned\u00e5t och f\u00f6rvandlades mer och mer till en avskr\u00e4desh\u00f6g. Luften var tung och full av r\u00f6k, men \u00e4ven av andra lukter: skarpa kemikalier, ruttnande v\u00e4xtlighet, avlopp. Ju l\u00e4ngre ner de kom, desto v\u00e4rre blev det. Det fanns inte en ren fl\u00e4ck inom synh\u00e5ll, och de enda v\u00e4xter som fanns d\u00e4r var t\u00e4tt ogr\u00e4s, och grovt och gr\u00e5aktigt gr\u00e4s.\n\nFramf\u00f6r dem, ovanf\u00f6r vattnet, h\u00e4ngde dimman. Den reste sig som en klippbrant innan den gick ihop med den dystra himlen. N\u00e5gonstans inifr\u00e5n dimman kom de d\u00e4r f\u00e5gelskriken som Tialys hade ber\u00e4ttat om.\n\nMellan soph\u00f6garna och dimman l\u00e5g den f\u00f6rsta av de d\u00f6das st\u00e4der.\n\n## 19\n\n## Lyra och hennes d\u00f6d\n\nJAG VAR OND P\u00c5 MIN V\u00c4N OCH GAV MIN VREDE LUFT, OCH MIN VREDE TOG AV \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE SONGS OF EXPERIENCE\n\nH\u00c4R OCH VAR bland ruinerna hade man t\u00e4nt eldar. Staden var rena virrvarret, inga gator, inga torg och inga \u00f6ppna platser, utom d\u00e4r n\u00e5gon byggnad hade st\u00f6rtat in. N\u00e5gra kyrkor och allm\u00e4nna byggnader h\u00f6jde sig \u00e4nnu ovanf\u00f6r de \u00f6vriga, \u00e4ven om taken var fulla av h\u00e5l och v\u00e4ggarna fulla av sprickor. P\u00e5 ett st\u00e4lle hade en hel pelarg\u00e5ng rasat samman. Mellan de urbl\u00e5sta stenhusen fanns ett gytter av skjul och k\u00e5kar som satts samman av allt fr\u00e5n takbj\u00e4lkar, uthamrade oljefat och kakburkar, plastskynken, till bitar av plywood och masonit.\n\nDe andar som de haft f\u00f6lje med skyndade vidare mot staden. Det kom \u00e4nnu fler fr\u00e5n alla h\u00e5ll, s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga att de liknade sandkorn som rinner genom h\u00e5let i ett timglas. Andarna vandrade rakt in i stadens el\u00e4ndiga f\u00f6rvirring, som om de visste exakt vart de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g. Lyra och Will var p\u00e5 vippen att f\u00f6lja efter dem, men stoppades p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen.\n\nEn figur steg ut genom en hoplappad d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppning och sa: \"V\u00e4nta, v\u00e4nta.\"\n\nEtt svagt ljus lyste bakom honom och det var inte l\u00e4tt att se hans drag, men de f\u00f6rstod att han inte var n\u00e5got sp\u00f6ke. Han var levande, precis som de. Det var en mager karl, som kunde ha varit hur gammal eller ung som helst. Han var kl\u00e4dd i en matt och sliten kostym och i h\u00e4nderna hade han en blyertspenna och en bunt papper hopsatta med en kl\u00e4mma. Huset han klev ut ur p\u00e5minde vagt om en postering vid n\u00e5gon s\u00e4llan passerad gr\u00e4ns.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r st\u00e4lle?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. \"Varf\u00f6r f\u00e5r vi inte forts\u00e4tta?\"\n\n\"Ni \u00e4r inte d\u00f6da\", svarade mannen med tr\u00f6tt r\u00f6st. \"Ni m\u00e5ste v\u00e4nta i uppsamlingsomr\u00e5det. Forts\u00e4tt l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4gen till v\u00e4nster och ge de h\u00e4r papperen till tj\u00e4nstemannen vid grinden.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t mig\", sa Lyra. \"Jag hoppas att det inte g\u00f6r n\u00e5t att jag fr\u00e5gar, men hur kunde vi komma s\u00e5 h\u00e4r l\u00e5ngt om vi inte \u00e4r d\u00f6da? F\u00f6r det h\u00e4r \u00e4r v\u00e4l d\u00f6dsriket, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r en f\u00f6rort till d\u00f6dsriket. Ibland dyker de levande upp h\u00e4r av misstag, och d\u00e5 m\u00e5ste de v\u00e4nta i uppsamlingsomr\u00e5det innan de kan forts\u00e4tta.\"\n\n\"V\u00e4nta hur l\u00e4nge d\u00e5?\"\n\n\"Tills de d\u00f6r.\"\n\nWill k\u00e4nde hur det snurrade i huvudet. Han kunde se att Lyra t\u00e4nkte s\u00e4ga emot, men innan hon hann s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got sa han: \"Kan du inte bara f\u00f6rklara vad som h\u00e4nder sen? Andarna kommer ju hit, menar jag, stannar dom i den h\u00e4r stan f\u00f6r evigt?\"\n\n\"Nej, nej\", svarade tj\u00e4nstemannen. \"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r bara en genomfartsstation. H\u00e4rifr\u00e5n forts\u00e4tter de med b\u00e5t.\"\n\n\"Vart d\u00e5?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inget jag kan ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dig\", svarade mannen. Ett bittert leende drog ner hans mungipor. \"Ni f\u00e5r vara s\u00e5 v\u00e4nliga och forts\u00e4tta. Ni m\u00e5ste ge er iv\u00e4g till uppsamlingsplatsen.\"\n\nWill tog emot de papper mannen r\u00e4ckte honom och tog sedan tag i Lyras arm och drog iv\u00e4g med henne.\n\nTrollsl\u00e4ndorna fl\u00f6g v\u00e4ldigt tr\u00f6gt. Tialys f\u00f6rklarade att de beh\u00f6vde vila, s\u00e5 de fick sl\u00e5 sig ner p\u00e5 Wills ryggs\u00e4ck, och Lyra l\u00e4t spionerna s\u00e4tta sig p\u00e5 hennes axlar. Pantalaimon i leopardskepnad tittade svartsjukt p\u00e5 dem, men sa inget. De gav sig iv\u00e4g l\u00e4ngs stigen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte undvika avloppsp\u00f6larna och de sammanst\u00f6rtade skjulen, samtidigt som de betraktade den \u00e4ndl\u00f6sa str\u00f6mmen av andar, som utan att hindras fortsatte in i staden.\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste ta oss \u00f6ver vattnet, precis som dom andra\", sa Will. \"Dom d\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna i uppsamlingsomr\u00e5det kan kanske ber\u00e4tta hur vi ska g\u00f6ra. Dom verkar ju i alla fall inte arga eller farliga. Det \u00e4r bara s\u00e5 underligt. Och dom h\u00e4r papperen...\"\n\nDet var helt enkelt bara n\u00e5gra papperslappar utrivna ur en anteckningsbok, d\u00e4r slumpm\u00e4ssiga ord fanns nerklottrade med blyerts, ord som sedan blivit \u00f6verstrukna. Det var som om de h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna spelade ett spel och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att resen\u00e4rerna skulle syna dem eller ge upp och b\u00f6rja skratta. Men samtidigt s\u00e5g allting s\u00e5 verkligt ut.\n\nDet blev allt m\u00f6rkare och kallare, s\u00e5 det blev sv\u00e5rare att h\u00e5lla reda p\u00e5 tiden. Lyra trodde att de hade g\u00e5tt i en halvtimme, eller s\u00e5 var det kanske dubbelt s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge. Ingenting \u00e4ndrade utseende, men till slut n\u00e5dde de fram till ett litet tr\u00e4skjul som liknade det som de hade blivit stoppade vid tidigare. Ovanf\u00f6r d\u00f6rren h\u00e4ngde en svag gl\u00f6dlampa p\u00e5 en avskalad eltr\u00e5d.\n\nN\u00e4r de n\u00e4rmade sig klev en likadant kl\u00e4dd man ut ur skjulet. Han hade en sm\u00f6rg\u00e5s i ena handen och utan s\u00e5 mycket som ett ord tittade han p\u00e5 deras papper och nickade.\n\nHan l\u00e4mnade tillbaka dem och var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att g\u00e5 tillbaka in n\u00e4r Will fr\u00e5gade: \"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t, men vart g\u00e5r vi nu?\"\n\n\"Leta reda p\u00e5 ett st\u00e4lle d\u00e4r ni kan stanna\", sa mannen, inte alls ov\u00e4nligt. \"Det \u00e4r bara att fr\u00e5ga. Alla h\u00e4r v\u00e4ntar, precis som ni.\"\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig om och st\u00e4ngde d\u00f6rren mot kylan, och f\u00e4rdkamraterna fortsatte mot k\u00e5kstadens hj\u00e4rta, d\u00e4r de levande m\u00e4nniskorna m\u00e5ste stanna.\n\nDen liknade resten av staden: usla sm\u00e5 hyddor, som reparerats dussintals g\u00e5nger och lagats med plastbitar eller korrugerad pl\u00e5t. De lutade vettl\u00f6st mot varandra \u00f6ver de leriga gr\u00e4nderna. P\u00e5 n\u00e5gra st\u00e4llen h\u00e4ngde elsladdar ner fr\u00e5n n\u00e5got f\u00e4ste och gav precis tillr\u00e4ckligt med svag str\u00f6m f\u00f6r att ge kraft \u00e5t de enstaka gl\u00f6dlampor som h\u00e4ngde mellan de n\u00e4rmaste hyddorna. Det mesta av ljuset kom dock fr\u00e5n eldarna. Den r\u00f6kiga gl\u00f6den fladdrade r\u00f6tt \u00f6ver byggnadernas slitna och trasiga best\u00e5ndsdelar, som om de var de sista kvarvarande l\u00e5gorna fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gon v\u00e4ldig storbrand, som h\u00f6ll sig vid liv av ren illvilja.\n\nMen n\u00e4r Will och Lyra och gallivespierna kom n\u00e4rmare och s\u00e5g fler detaljer fick de syn p\u00e5 fler \u2013 \u00e4nnu fler \u2013 m\u00e5nga figurer, som satt i m\u00f6rkret f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lva eller lutade sig mot v\u00e4ggarna eller stod samlade i sm\u00e5grupper d\u00e4r man samtalade l\u00e5gt med varandra.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r \u00e4r dom d\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna inte inomhus?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra. \"Det \u00e4r ju kallt ute.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inte m\u00e4nniskor\", sa lady Salmakia. \"Det \u00e4r inte ens andar. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5got annat, men jag vet inte vad.\"\n\nVandrarna n\u00e5dde fram till den f\u00f6rsta gruppen av skjul. Skjulen lystes upp av en av de d\u00e4r svaga elektriska gl\u00f6dlamporna. Lampan h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 en sladd som gungade l\u00e4tt i den kalla vinden. Will lade handen p\u00e5 kniven vid b\u00e4ltet. Det fanns en grupp av de m\u00e4nniskoformade sakerna utanf\u00f6r. De satt p\u00e5 huk och spelade t\u00e4rning och n\u00e4r barnen kom n\u00e4rmare reste de sig upp: fem stycken, allihop var m\u00e4n. Ansiktena l\u00e5g i skugga och kl\u00e4derna var slitna, och alla var tysta.\n\n\"Vad heter den h\u00e4r staden?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\nDet kom inget svar. N\u00e5gra av dem tog ett steg bak\u00e5t och alla fem r\u00f6rde sig lite n\u00e4rmare varandra, som om de var r\u00e4dda. Lyra k\u00e4nde hur det kr\u00f6p i skinnet och hur alla de sm\u00e5 h\u00e5rstr\u00e5na p\u00e5 armarna stod p\u00e5 \u00e4nda, trots att hon inte visste varf\u00f6r. Innanf\u00f6r skjortan satt Pantalaimon och darrade och viskade: \"Nej, nej, Lyra, nej, ge dig iv\u00e4g, l\u00e5t oss g\u00e5 tillbaka, sn\u00e4lla...\"\n\n\"M\u00e4nniskorna\" gav inget svar, s\u00e5 till slut ryckte Will p\u00e5 axlarna. \"Tja, god kv\u00e4ll hur som helst\", sa han och fortsatte. De fick samma reaktion fr\u00e5n alla andra de pratade med och hela tiden v\u00e4xte deras oro.\n\n\"Will, \u00e4r det Geng\u00e5ngare?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra l\u00e5gt. \"\u00c4r vi tillr\u00e4ckligt vuxna nu f\u00f6r att kunna se Geng\u00e5ngarna?\"\n\n\"Jag tror inte det. Om vi var det, s\u00e5 skulle dom ha anfallit oss, men dom ser sj\u00e4lva ut att vara r\u00e4dda. Jag vet inte vad dom \u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5t.\"\n\nEn d\u00f6rr \u00f6ppnades och ett ljussken lyste upp den leriga marken. En man \u2013 en riktig man, en m\u00e4nsklig varelse \u2013 stod i d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen och s\u00e5g dem n\u00e4rma sig. Den lilla f\u00f6rsamlingen av figurer runt d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen drog sig tillbaka ett steg eller tv\u00e5, som om de visade respekt, och sedan s\u00e5g de mannens ansikte: likgiltigt, harml\u00f6st och milt.\n\n\"Vilka \u00e4r ni?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Vandrare\", svarade Will. \"Vi vet inte var vi \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans. Vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r stad?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r uppsamlingsomr\u00e5det\", sa mannen. \"Har ni vandrat l\u00e5ngt?\"\n\n\"Ja, ganska l\u00e5ngt, och vi \u00e4r tr\u00f6tta\", sa Will. \"Kan vi f\u00e5 k\u00f6pa lite mat och betala f\u00f6r n\u00e5nstans att sova?\"\n\nMannen s\u00e5g f\u00f6rbi dem, bort genom m\u00f6rkret, och klev sedan ut f\u00f6r att titta n\u00e4rmare, som om det var n\u00e5got som saknades. Sedan v\u00e4nde han sig mot de underliga figurerna bredvid och fr\u00e5gade:\n\n\"S\u00e5g _ni_ n\u00e5gon d\u00f6d?\"\n\nDe skakade p\u00e5 huvudena och barnen kunde h\u00f6ra ett mumlande: \"Nej, nej, ingen.\"\n\nMannen v\u00e4nde sig igen. Ansikten tittade ut genom d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen bakom honom: en kvinna, tv\u00e5 sm\u00e5 barn, \u00e4nnu en man. De var allihop nerv\u00f6sa och \u00e4ngsliga.\n\n\"D\u00f6d?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. \"Vi har ingen d\u00f6d med oss.\"\n\nMen det verkade vara just det som gjorde dem s\u00e5 nerv\u00f6sa, f\u00f6r n\u00e4r Will talade kom ett l\u00e5gt fl\u00e4mtande fr\u00e5n de levande m\u00e4nniskorna, och till och med figurerna utanf\u00f6r kr\u00f6p ihop lite grand.\n\n\"Urs\u00e4kta mig\", sa Lyra och tog ett steg fram\u00e5t p\u00e5 sitt allra artigaste s\u00e4tt, ungef\u00e4r som om hush\u00e5llerskan p\u00e5 Jordan College hade st\u00e5tt och bl\u00e4ngt p\u00e5 henne. \"Jag kunde inte undg\u00e5 att l\u00e4gga m\u00e4rke till det, men \u00e4r dom d\u00e4r herrarna d\u00f6da? F\u00f6rl\u00e5t om jag fr\u00e5gar om det \u00e4r oartigt, men d\u00e4r vi kommer ifr\u00e5n \u00e4r det v\u00e4ldigt ovanligt och vi har aldrig sett n\u00e5t liknande f\u00f6rut. Om jag \u00e4r oartig, s\u00e5 ber jag om urs\u00e4kt. I min v\u00e4rld har vi d\u00e6moner, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni, alla har varsin d\u00e6mon, och vi blir alldeles chockade om vi ser n\u00e5n utan d\u00e6mon, precis som ni blev chockade av att se oss. Nu n\u00e4r vi har varit ute och rest, Will och jag \u2013 det h\u00e4r \u00e4r Will och jag heter Lyra \u2013 s\u00e5 har jag l\u00e4rt mig att det finns en del m\u00e4nniskor som inte har d\u00e6moner, som till exempel Will, och jag blev alldeles vettskr\u00e4md tills jag uppt\u00e4ckte att dom var lika normala som jag sj\u00e4lv. Det \u00e4r kanske s\u00e5 att personer fr\u00e5n er v\u00e4rld blir lite nerv\u00f6sa av att st\u00f6ta p\u00e5 oss, om dom tycker att vi \u00e4r annorlunda.\"\n\n\"Lyra? Och Will?\" sa mannen.\n\n\"Ja, herrn\", sa hon \u00f6dmjukt.\n\n\"\u00c4r det d\u00e4r era d\u00e6moner?\" sa han och pekade p\u00e5 spionerna p\u00e5 hennes axlar.\n\n\"Nej\", sa Lyra, och hon var frestad att s\u00e4ga: \"Dom \u00e4r v\u00e5ra tj\u00e4nare\", men anade att Will skulle ha tyckt att det vore en d\u00e5lig id\u00e9, s\u00e5 hon sa ist\u00e4llet: \"Dom \u00e4r v\u00e5ra v\u00e4nner, chevalier Tialys och lady Salmakia, mycket ryktbara och kloka personer som reser med oss. Och det h\u00e4r \u00e4r min d\u00e6mon\", sa hon och plockade ut mus-Pantalaimon ur fickan. \"Vi \u00e4r helt ofarliga, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni. Vi lovar att inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5n illa, men vi beh\u00f6ver verkligen mat och husrum. Vi t\u00e4nker forts\u00e4tta i morgon. Jag lovar.\"\n\nAlla v\u00e4ntade. Mannens nervositet d\u00e4mpades n\u00e5got av hennes \u00f6dmjuka tonfall och spionerna var f\u00f6rnuftiga nog att se blygsamma och ofarliga ut. Efter en paus sa mannen:\n\n\"Tja, \u00e4ven om det \u00e4r underligt, s\u00e5 f\u00f6rmodar jag att det h\u00e4r \u00e4r en underlig tid... Stig p\u00e5 d\u00e5, och k\u00e4nn er som hemma...\"\n\nFigurerna utanf\u00f6r nickade, en eller tv\u00e5 bugade l\u00e4tt, men allihop steg \u00e5t sidan n\u00e4r Will och Lyra klev in i v\u00e4rmen och ljuset. Mannen st\u00e4ngde d\u00f6rren bakom dem och hakade fast en bit st\u00e5ltr\u00e5d \u00f6ver en spik f\u00f6r att d\u00f6rren skulle h\u00e5llas p\u00e5 plats.\n\nDe kom in i ett enda rum upplyst av en naftalampa p\u00e5 bordet. Rummet var rent, men slitet. Plywoodv\u00e4ggarna var prydda med bilder p\u00e5 filmstj\u00e4rnor utklippta ur skvallertidningar, och fl\u00e4ckiga av sotiga fingeravtryck. Det stod en j\u00e4rnspis mot ena v\u00e4ggen, med en kl\u00e4dh\u00e4ngare framf\u00f6r d\u00e4r n\u00e5gra slitna skjortor h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 tork. P\u00e5 ett litet bord som s\u00e5g ut som ett altare stod plastblommor, sn\u00e4ckskal, f\u00e4rgade parfymflaskor och andra f\u00e4rggranna sm\u00e5saker. Alltihop omgav en bild p\u00e5 ett sorgl\u00f6st skelett med h\u00f6g hatt och solglas\u00f6gon.\n\nSkjulet var fullt av folk: f\u00f6rutom mannen och kvinnan och de b\u00e5da sm\u00e5barnen fanns det ett sp\u00e4dbarn i en vagga och en \u00e4ldre man, och i det ena h\u00f6rnet l\u00e5g en mycket gammal kvinna i en h\u00f6g med filtar och betraktade allt med glittrande \u00f6gon i ett ansikte som var lika skrynkligt som filtarna. N\u00e4r Lyra tittade p\u00e5 henne fick hon en rej\u00e4l chock, f\u00f6r filtarna r\u00f6rde p\u00e5 sig och sedan str\u00e4cktes en mycket smal, svartkl\u00e4dd arm fram, f\u00f6ljt av \u00e4nnu ett ansikte. Ansiktet tillh\u00f6rde en man, som var s\u00e5 ur\u00e5ldrig att han n\u00e4stan s\u00e5g ut som ett skelett. Faktum var att han liknade mer skelettet p\u00e5 bilden \u00e4n en levande m\u00e4nniska. Sedan lade \u00e4ven Will m\u00e4rke till det och alla vandrarna ins\u00e5g samtidigt att han var likadan som de skuggliknande men artiga figurerna, som v\u00e4ntade utanf\u00f6r. Allihop k\u00e4nde sig lika f\u00f6rbryllade som mannen hade varit, n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rst fick syn p\u00e5 dem.\n\nFaktum var att samtliga personer som befann sig i det lilla skjulet, utom sp\u00e4dbarnet, som l\u00e5g och sov \u2013 var lika svarsl\u00f6sa. Det var Lyra som f\u00f6rst \u00e5tervann talf\u00f6rm\u00e5gan.\n\n\"Det var v\u00e4ldigt v\u00e4nligt av er\", sa hon. \"Tack, god kv\u00e4ll, vi \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt glada \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 komma hit. Som jag sa, s\u00e5 \u00e4r vi ledsna f\u00f6r att vi har kommit hit utan n\u00e5n d\u00f6d, om det \u00e4r s\u00e5 att det \u00e4r det normala s\u00e4ttet i den h\u00e4r trakten. Men vi t\u00e4nker inte st\u00f6ra er mer \u00e4n vi m\u00e5ste. Vi letar efter d\u00f6dsriket, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni, det var d\u00e4rf\u00f6r vi r\u00e5kade dyka upp h\u00e4r. Vi vet bara inte var det ligger, eller om det h\u00e4r st\u00e4llet \u00e4r en del av det, eller hur vi ska ta oss dit, eller n\u00e5t annat. Om ni kan ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5t om saken, s\u00e5 \u00e4r vi v\u00e4ldigt tacksamma.\"\n\nM\u00e4nniskorna i skjulet fortsatte att stirra, men Lyras ord fick st\u00e4mningen att bli lite mindre tryckt och kvinnan bj\u00f6d dem att sl\u00e5 sig ner vid bordet och drog ut en b\u00e4nk. Will och Lyra lyfte upp de sovande trollsl\u00e4ndorna p\u00e5 en hylla i ett m\u00f6rkt h\u00f6rn, d\u00e4r Tialys sa \u00e5t dem att vila tills det blev ljust. Sedan kom \u00e4ven gallivespierna ner till bordet.\n\nKvinnan hade lagat till en gryta, och skalade och lade ner ytterligare n\u00e5gra potatisar f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 maten att r\u00e4cka l\u00e4ngre. Samtidigt sa hon \u00e5t sin make att bjuda vandrarna p\u00e5 n\u00e5got uppfriskande medan maten kokade. Han plockade fram en flaska med stark och genomskinlig sprit, som Lyra tyckte luktade lite grand som gyptiernas jenniver. De b\u00e5da spionerna tog emot ett glas som de doppade egna sm\u00e5 k\u00e4rl i.\n\nLyra hade v\u00e4ntat sig att familjen skulle stirra mest p\u00e5 gallivespierna, men hon tyckte att deras nyfikenhet var lika mycket riktad mot henne och Will. Hon dr\u00f6jde inte l\u00e4nge med att fr\u00e5ga varf\u00f6r.\n\n\"Ni \u00e4r dom f\u00f6rsta m\u00e4nniskor vi n\u00e5nsin sett utan en d\u00f6d\", svarade mannen, som ber\u00e4ttade att han hette Peter. \"Sen vi kom hit, vill s\u00e4ga. Vi \u00e4r som ni, vi kom hit innan vi dog, p\u00e5 grund av n\u00e5t sammantr\u00e4ffande eller n\u00e5n olycka. Vi m\u00e5ste v\u00e4nta tills v\u00e5r d\u00f6d s\u00e4ger att det \u00e4r dags.\"\n\n\"S\u00e4ger er _d\u00f6d_ \u00e5t er det?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Ja. Det vi fick reda p\u00e5 n\u00e4r vi kom hit f\u00f6r, \u00e5h, s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan f\u00f6r dom flesta av oss, \u00e4r att vi hade v\u00e5ra d\u00f6dar med oss. Det fick vi reda p\u00e5 h\u00e4r. Vi har haft dom med oss hela tiden utan att veta om det. Alla har en d\u00f6d, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni. Den f\u00f6ljer med hela tiden, hela livet ut, och \u00e4r alldeles i n\u00e4rheten. V\u00e5ra d\u00f6dar, dom \u00e4r d\u00e4r ute och tar en nypa luft; dom kommer in lite d\u00e5 och d\u00e5. Mormors d\u00f6d, han \u00e4r d\u00e4r hos henne, han st\u00e5r henne v\u00e4ldigt n\u00e4ra, v\u00e4ldigt n\u00e4ra.\"\n\n\"Skr\u00e4mmer det er inte att ha er d\u00f6d s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra inp\u00e5 hela tiden?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r skulle det g\u00f6ra det? Om han \u00e4r h\u00e4r, s\u00e5 kan man h\u00e5lla ett \u00f6ga p\u00e5 honom. Jag skulle bli mycket oroligare om jag inte visste var han befann sig.\"\n\n\"Har alla sin egen d\u00f6d?\" fr\u00e5gade Will f\u00f6rundrat.\n\n\"Javisst, i samma \u00f6gonblick som du f\u00f6ds tr\u00e4der din d\u00f6d in i v\u00e4rlden tillsammans med dig och det \u00e4r din d\u00f6d som leder dig ut ur v\u00e4rlden.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h\", sa Lyra, \"det var det vi beh\u00f6vde veta, f\u00f6r vi f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker hitta till dom d\u00f6das land, men vi vet inte hur man tar sig dit. Vart tar vi v\u00e4gen sen, n\u00e4r vi d\u00f6r?\"\n\n\"Din d\u00f6d knackar dig p\u00e5 axeln eller tar dig i handen och talar om f\u00f6r dig att du ska f\u00f6lja med, att det \u00e4r dags. Det kan h\u00e4nda n\u00e4r du ligger febersjuk eller n\u00e4r du satt en bit torrt br\u00f6d i halsen eller ramlat ner fr\u00e5n ett h\u00f6gt hus. Mitt i sm\u00e4rtan och sv\u00e5righeterna kommer din d\u00f6d v\u00e4nligt till dig och s\u00e4ger att det \u00e4r bra, lilla barn, f\u00f6lj med mig nu, och d\u00e5 f\u00f6ljer man med p\u00e5 en b\u00e5t \u00f6ver sj\u00f6n och in i dimman. Vad som h\u00e4nder sen \u00e4r det ingen som vet. Ingen har n\u00e5nsin \u00e5terv\u00e4nt.\"\n\nKvinnan sa \u00e5t ett av barnen att kalla in d\u00f6darna, och pojken sprang iv\u00e4g till d\u00f6rren och pratade med dem. Will och Lyra tittade f\u00f6rundrat, och gallivespierna drog sig n\u00e4rmare varandra, n\u00e4r d\u00f6darna \u2013 en f\u00f6r var och en i familjen \u2013 steg in genom d\u00f6rren: bleka, intets\u00e4gande figurer i schabbiga kl\u00e4der, gr\u00e5, trista och tysta.\n\n\"\u00c4r det h\u00e4r era d\u00f6dar?\" sa Tialys.\n\n\"I sanning, herrn\", svarade Peter.\n\n\"Vet ni n\u00e4r de kommer att tala om f\u00f6r er att det \u00e4r dags?\"\n\n\"Nej. Men man vet att dom \u00e4r i n\u00e4rheten och det \u00e4r en tr\u00f6st.\"\n\nTialys sa inget, men det var uppenbart att han tyckte att det inte var mycket till tr\u00f6st. D\u00f6darna stod artigt l\u00e4ngs v\u00e4ggen och det var m\u00e4rkligt att se hur lite utrymme de tog upp och att uppt\u00e4cka hur lite uppm\u00e4rksamhet de tilldrog sig. Det dr\u00f6jde inte l\u00e4nge f\u00f6rr\u00e4n Lyra och Will struntade helt i dem, men Will t\u00e4nkte: de d\u00e4r m\u00e4nnen jag d\u00f6dade \u2013 deras d\u00f6dar var t\u00e4tt intill dem hela tiden \u2013 de visste inget och det gjorde inte jag heller...\n\nKvinnan, Martha, serverade grytan p\u00e5 kantst\u00f6tta emaljfat och lade lite i en sk\u00e5l som d\u00f6darna kunde skicka mellan sig. De \u00e5t inget, men den goda doften gjorde dem n\u00f6jda. Strax var hela familjen och g\u00e4sterna fullt upptagna med att \u00e4ta glupskt, och Peter fr\u00e5gade barnen var de hade kommit ifr\u00e5n och hur deras v\u00e4rld s\u00e5g ut.\n\n\"Jag ska ber\u00e4tta allt jag vet\", sa Lyra.\n\nN\u00e4r hon sa detta, n\u00e4r hon tog kommandot, k\u00e4nde en del av henne hur en liten str\u00f6m av njutning steg upp i br\u00f6stet som champagnebubblor. Hon visste att Will lyssnade, och hon var lycklig \u00f6ver att han fick se henne g\u00f6ra det hon var b\u00e4st p\u00e5. Hon gjorde det f\u00f6r hans skull och f\u00f6r alla de andras.\n\nHon b\u00f6rjade med att ber\u00e4tta om sina f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar. De var en hertig och en hertiginna, och de var oerh\u00f6rt viktiga och rika. De hade blivit avlurade sina egendomar av en politisk fiende och hade kastats i f\u00e4ngelse, men lyckades fly genom att kl\u00e4ttra ner f\u00f6r ett rep, samtidigt som fadern bar den nyf\u00f6dda Lyra i famnen. De \u00e5tertog familjef\u00f6rm\u00f6genheten, men blev ist\u00e4llet anfallna och m\u00f6rdade av banditer. Lyra skulle ocks\u00e5 ha blivit m\u00f6rdad, stekt och upp\u00e4ten, om inte Will hade r\u00e4ddat henne i sista \u00f6gonblicket och tagit med henne till vargarna i skogen d\u00e4r han uppfostrades som en av dem. Som sp\u00e4dbarn hade han fallit \u00f6verbord fr\u00e5n sin fars skepp och hade spolats iland p\u00e5 en \u00f6vergiven strand, d\u00e4r en varghona hade gett honom di och h\u00e5llit honom vid liv.\n\nM\u00e4nniskorna s\u00f6g i sig tramset med mild godtrogenhet, och till och med d\u00f6darna drog sig n\u00e4rmare f\u00f6r att lyssna. De glodde p\u00e5 henne med sina milda och artiga ansikten medan hon spann vidare p\u00e5 ber\u00e4ttelsen om sitt liv med Will i skogen.\n\nDe stannade hos vargarna ett tag och flyttade sedan till Oxford, d\u00e4r de b\u00f6rjade arbeta i k\u00f6ket p\u00e5 Jordan College. D\u00e4r tr\u00e4ffade de Roger, och n\u00e4r Jordan anf\u00f6lls av tegelbr\u00e4nnarna, som levde vid lerbankarna, var de tvungna att fly hastigt d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, s\u00e5 Will och Roger kapade en av gyptiernas kanalb\u00e5tar och seglade ner f\u00f6r Themsen. De var n\u00e4ra att bli tillf\u00e5ngatagna vid Abingdonslussen och fick till slut b\u00e5ten s\u00e4nkt av Wappingpiraterna, varefter de simmande tog sig i s\u00e4kerhet p\u00e5 ett tremastat klipperskepp, som precis var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till Hang Chow i Cathay f\u00f6r att handla med te.\n\nP\u00e5 klippern st\u00f6tte de p\u00e5 gallivespierna, som var fr\u00e4mlingar fr\u00e5n M\u00e5nen. De hade bl\u00e5st ner p\u00e5 jorden under en v\u00e5ldsam storm fr\u00e5n Vintergatan och hade tagit sin tillflykt i utkiken, s\u00e5 hon, Will och Roger turades om att ge sig upp dit f\u00f6r att prata med dem, men en dag tappade Roger fotf\u00e4stet och st\u00f6rtade ner i havet.\n\nDe f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte \u00f6vertala kaptenen att v\u00e4nda skeppet och leta efter honom, men det var en h\u00e5rd karl som bara var intresserad av den vinst han skulle g\u00f6ra om han snabbt n\u00e5dde fram till Cathay, s\u00e5 han slog dem i j\u00e4rn ist\u00e4llet. Men gallivespierna d\u00f6k upp med en fil och...\n\nOch s\u00e5 vidare. Emellan\u00e5t v\u00e4nde hon sig till Will eller spionerna f\u00f6r bekr\u00e4ftelse, och Salmakia lade till n\u00e5gon detalj eller tv\u00e5, eller s\u00e5 nickade Will inst\u00e4mmande. Till slut n\u00e5dde ber\u00e4ttelsen fram till den punkt d\u00e5 barnen och deras v\u00e4nner fr\u00e5n M\u00e5nen var tvungna att leta sig fram till de d\u00f6das land f\u00f6r att be hennes f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar ber\u00e4tta hemligheten om var familjef\u00f6rm\u00f6genheten l\u00e5g begravd.\n\n\"Och om vi hade vetat n\u00e5t om v\u00e5ra d\u00f6dar i v\u00e5rt land\", sa hon, \"p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt som ni g\u00f6r h\u00e4r, s\u00e5 skulle det f\u00f6rmodligen ha varit l\u00e4ttare, men jag tror att vi hade en v\u00e4ldig tur som hittade v\u00e4gen hit f\u00f6r att kunna fr\u00e5ga er om r\u00e5d. Jag vill tacka s\u00e5 v\u00e4ldigt mycket f\u00f6r att ni varit v\u00e4nliga och lyssnat, och f\u00f6r att ni gett oss n\u00e5t att \u00e4ta, det var verkligen v\u00e4ldigt sn\u00e4llt.\n\nMen det vi beh\u00f6ver nu, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni, eller kanske i morgon bitti, \u00e4r att f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5 hur vi tar oss \u00f6ver vattnet till den plats dit dom d\u00f6da \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g och ta reda p\u00e5 om vi ocks\u00e5 kan ta oss dit. Finns det n\u00e5n b\u00e5t man skulle kunna hyra?\"\n\nDe andra s\u00e5g tvivlande ut. Barnen var r\u00f6da i ansiktet av tr\u00f6tthet och tittade med s\u00f6mniga \u00f6gon p\u00e5 de vuxna, men ingen av dem hade en aning om var man kunde f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 en b\u00e5t.\n\nSedan h\u00f6rdes en r\u00f6st som inte hade sagt n\u00e5got innan. Ur djupet av s\u00e4ngkl\u00e4derna i h\u00f6rnet kom en nasalt torrsprucken r\u00f6st \u2013 det var inte kvinnans r\u00f6st \u2013 det var inte n\u00e5gon levande r\u00f6st: det var mormoderns d\u00f6ds r\u00f6st.\n\n\"Det finns bara ett s\u00e4tt att ta sig \u00f6ver sj\u00f6n och komma till d\u00f6dsriket\", sa han och lutade sig p\u00e5 ena armb\u00e5gen och pekade med ett magert finger p\u00e5 Lyra, \"och det \u00e4r i s\u00e4llskap med era egna d\u00f6dar. Ni m\u00e5ste kalla till er era egna d\u00f6dar. Jag har h\u00f6rt talas om m\u00e4nniskor som ni, som h\u00e5ller sina d\u00f6dar p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd. Ni tycker inte om dem och av ren artighet h\u00e5ller de sig ur v\u00e4gen. Men de \u00e4r aldrig l\u00e5ngt borta. Varje g\u00e5ng ni vrider p\u00e5 huvudet smiter era d\u00f6dar in bakom er. Vart ni \u00e4n tittar, s\u00e5 g\u00f6mmer de sig. De kan g\u00f6mma sig i en tekopp. Eller i en daggdroppe. Eller i en vindpust. Det \u00e4r inte som med gamla Magda och jag h\u00e4r\", sa han och n\u00f6p hennes f\u00f6rtorkade kind, men hon sk\u00f6t undan hans hand. \"Vi lever tillsammans i v\u00e4nskap. Det \u00e4r svaret du \u00e4r ute efter, det \u00e4r vad du m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra, h\u00e4lsa den v\u00e4lkommen, bli v\u00e4nner, visa den v\u00e4nlighet, bjuda in din d\u00f6d att vara i din n\u00e4rhet och d\u00e4refter f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5 vad du kan f\u00e5 den att g\u00e5 med p\u00e5.\"\n\nHans ord f\u00f6ll som tunga stenar i Lyras sinne. \u00c4ven Will kunde k\u00e4nna den d\u00f6dliga tyngden.\n\n\"Hur g\u00e5r det till?\" sa han.\n\n\"Du beh\u00f6ver bara \u00f6nska att det ska ske, s\u00e5 sker det.\"\n\n\"V\u00e4nta\", sa Tialys.\n\nAllas uppm\u00e4rksamhet v\u00e4ndes mot honom och de d\u00f6dar som l\u00e5g p\u00e5 golvet satte sig upp och v\u00e4nde sina tomma och milda blickar mot hans passionerade. Han stod t\u00e4tt intill Salmakia med handen p\u00e5 hennes axel. Lyra kunde se vad han t\u00e4nkte: han t\u00e4nkte s\u00e4ga att det h\u00e4r hade g\u00e5tt f\u00f6r l\u00e5ngt, att de m\u00e5ste \u00e5terv\u00e4nda, att de for iv\u00e4g med de h\u00e4r d\u00e5rskaperna till oansvariga h\u00f6jder.\n\nS\u00e5 hon avbr\u00f6t honom: \"Urs\u00e4kta mig\", sa hon till Peter, \"men jag och min v\u00e4n chevalier Tialys beh\u00f6ver g\u00e5 ut ett \u00f6gonblick, f\u00f6r han m\u00e5ste prata med sina v\u00e4nner p\u00e5 M\u00e5nen med hj\u00e4lp av mitt speciella instrument. Det tar inte l\u00e5ng stund.\"\n\nHon plockade f\u00f6rsiktigt upp honom och undvek noga sporrarna n\u00e4r hon bar ut honom i m\u00f6rkret. Ett stycke korrugerad pl\u00e5t satt l\u00f6st och sm\u00e4llde med ett melankoliskt ljud i den kyliga vinden.\n\n\"Du m\u00e5ste sluta\", sa han n\u00e4r hon st\u00e4llde ner honom p\u00e5 ett omkullv\u00e4lt oljefat. De stod i det svaga skenet fr\u00e5n en av de elektriska gl\u00f6dlamporna som sv\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 sin ledning ovanf\u00f6r dem. \"Det har g\u00e5tt tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e5ngt. Nu r\u00e4cker det.\"\n\n\"Vi hade ju en \u00f6verenskommelse\", sa Lyra.\n\n\"Nej, nej. Den str\u00e4ckte sig inte s\u00e5 h\u00e4r l\u00e5ngt.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5. L\u00e4mna oss d\u00e5. Ni kan flyga tillbaka. Will kan sk\u00e4ra upp ett f\u00f6nster till er egen v\u00e4rld eller till vilken v\u00e4rld som helst, s\u00e5 kan ni flyga igenom och klara er, det g\u00f6r detsamma, vi har inget emot det.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6rst\u00e5r du vad du h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med?\"\n\n\"Ja.\"\n\n\"Det g\u00f6r du inte. Du \u00e4r ett tankl\u00f6st och oansvarigt och l\u00f6gnaktigt barn. Du har s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt att ta till fantasier att hela din personlighet \u00e4r genomborrad av o\u00e4rlighet, och du vill inte ens acceptera sanningen n\u00e4r den stirrar dig r\u00e4tt i ansiktet. N\u00e5, om du sj\u00e4lv inte kan se det, s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag s\u00e4ga det rakt ut: Du f\u00e5r inte, du f\u00e5r inte riskera din egen d\u00f6d. Du m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja med oss tillbaka nu. Jag t\u00e4nker anropa lord Asriel, och sedan kan vi vara i s\u00e4kerhet i f\u00e4stningen inom n\u00e5gra timmar.\"\n\nLyra k\u00e4nde hur en oerh\u00f6rd vrede v\u00e4llde upp i br\u00f6stet. Hon stampade med foten utan att kunna st\u00e5 still.\n\n\"Du vet _ingenting_ \", tj\u00f6t hon, \"du vet ingenting om vad jag k\u00e4nner i mitt huvud eller i mitt hj\u00e4rta! Jag vet inte om ni n\u00e5nsin f\u00e5r barn, ni kanske l\u00e4gger _\u00e4gg_ eller n\u00e5t, det skulle inte f\u00f6rv\u00e5na mig, f\u00f6r ni \u00e4r inte s\u00e4rskilt v\u00e4nliga. Ni \u00e4r inte gener\u00f6sa, ni \u00e4r inte omt\u00e4nksamma \u2013 ni \u00e4r inte ens _grymma_ \u2013 det skulle ha varit _b\u00e4ttre_ om ni hade varit grymma, f\u00f6r d\u00e5 skulle det ha inneburit att ni tog oss p\u00e5 allvar, d\u00e5 hade ni inte bara f\u00f6ljt med oss f\u00f6r att det passade er... \u00c5h, jag kan inte lita p\u00e5 er l\u00e4ngre! Ni sa att ni skulle hj\u00e4lpa oss och att vi skulle g\u00f6ra det tillsammans, men nu vill ni bara hindra oss \u2013 det \u00e4r du som \u00e4r ohederlig, Tialys!\"\n\n\"Jag skulle aldrig l\u00e5ta n\u00e5got av mina barn tala till mig p\u00e5 det fr\u00e4cka och \u00f6vermodiga s\u00e4tt som du talar p\u00e5, Lyra \u2013 varf\u00f6r jag inte har straffat dig tidigare...\"\n\n\"Men s\u00e4tt ig\u00e5ng d\u00e5! Straffa mig d\u00e5, eftersom du _kan_! Ta dina f\u00f6rbaskade sporrar och k\u00f6r ner dom djupt och h\u00e5rt, s\u00e4tt ig\u00e5ng! H\u00e4r \u00e4r min hand \u2013 g\u00f6r det! Du har ingen aning om vad som r\u00f6r sig i mitt hj\u00e4rta, din stolta och sj\u00e4lviska varelse \u2013 du har ingen aning om hur sorgsen och elak och ledsen jag k\u00e4nner mig p\u00e5 grund av min v\u00e4n Roger \u2013 ni d\u00f6dar ju folk bara _s\u00e5 d\u00e4r_ \", sa hon och kn\u00e4ppte med fingrarna, \"dom betyder inget f\u00f6r er \u2013 men f\u00f6r mig \u00e4r det en pl\u00e5ga och en sorg att jag aldrig fick ta farv\u00e4l av min v\u00e4n Roger, och jag vill be om f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse och st\u00e4lla allt till r\u00e4tta s\u00e5 gott jag kan \u2013 men det skulle du aldrig f\u00f6rst\u00e5 p\u00e5 grund av all din stolthet, p\u00e5 grund av all din vuxna beg\u00e5vning \u2013 och \u00e4ven om jag m\u00e5ste _d\u00f6_ f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra det p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt s\u00e4tt, s\u00e5 ska jag _g\u00f6ra_ det, och jag kommer att vara glad under tiden. Jag har varit med om v\u00e4rre saker \u00e4n det. S\u00e5 om du vill d\u00f6da mig, du h\u00e5rda man, du starka man, du giftb\u00e4rare, chevalier Tialys, s\u00e5 g\u00f6r det, s\u00e4tt ig\u00e5ng, d\u00f6da mig. Sen kan jag och Roger leka i dom d\u00f6das land i all evighet och skratta \u00e5t dig, din \u00f6mkliga varelse.\"\n\nVad Tialys kunde ha gjort just d\u00e5 var inte sv\u00e5rt att f\u00f6rst\u00e5, f\u00f6r han var uppt\u00e4nd fr\u00e5n topp till t\u00e5 av passionerad vrede och den fick honom att skaka, men han hann inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got, f\u00f6r en r\u00f6st b\u00f6rjade tala bakom Lyra och b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 k\u00e4nde hur de omsl\u00f6ts av kyla. Lyra v\u00e4nde sig om. Hon visste vad hon skulle f\u00e5 se och fruktade det samtidigt, trots sitt \u00f6vermod.\n\nD\u00f6den stod mycket n\u00e4ra och log v\u00e4nligt. Ansiktet var likadant som p\u00e5 de andra hon hade sett: men den h\u00e4r var hennes, hennes egen d\u00f6d och Pantalaimon tj\u00f6t och darrade vid hennes br\u00f6st och hans minkskepnad for upp runt hennes hals och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte knuffa bort henne fr\u00e5n d\u00f6den. Men ist\u00e4llet knuffade han sig sj\u00e4lv n\u00e4rmare. N\u00e4r han ins\u00e5g detta kr\u00f6p han ihop och slingrade sig t\u00e4tt runt hennes varma hals och runt den starka rytmen fr\u00e5n hennes hj\u00e4rta.\n\nLyra h\u00f6ll i honom och v\u00e4nde sig rakt mot sin d\u00f6d. Hon kunde inte minnas vad han hade sagt och ur \u00f6gonvr\u00e5n kunde hon se hur Tialys var fullt upptagen med att snabbt g\u00f6ra i ordning magnetstensresonatorn.\n\n\"Du \u00e4r min d\u00f6d, eller hur?\" sa hon.\n\n\"Ja, k\u00e4ra du\", sa han.\n\n\"Du har v\u00e4l inte kommit f\u00f6r att h\u00e4mta mig \u00e4n?\"\n\n\"Du s\u00f6kte mig. Jag \u00e4r alltid h\u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Jo, men... Det _gjorde_ jag, men... Jag vill ta mig till d\u00f6dsriket, det \u00e4r sant. Men inte f\u00f6r att d\u00f6. Jag vill inte d\u00f6. Jag \u00e4lskar att leva och jag \u00e4lskar min d\u00e6mon och... D\u00e6monerna f\u00e5r inte f\u00f6lja med dit ner, eller hur? Jag har sett hur dom f\u00f6rsvinner som sl\u00e4ckta ljus n\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskor d\u00f6r. Finns det d\u00e6moner i d\u00f6dsriket?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa han. \"Din d\u00e6mon f\u00f6rsvinner i tomma intet och du f\u00f6rsvinner ner under marken.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 vill jag ta med mig min d\u00e6mon n\u00e4r jag ger mig iv\u00e4g till d\u00f6dsriket\", sa hon best\u00e4mt. \"Och sen vill jag komma tillbaka. Har det n\u00e5nsin h\u00e4nt att m\u00e4nniskor har gjort n\u00e5t s\u00e5nt?\"\n\n\"Inte p\u00e5 m\u00e5nga, m\u00e5nga tids\u00e5ldrar. Till slut, mitt barn, s\u00e5 kommer du utan anstr\u00e4ngning till d\u00f6dsriket, utan sv\u00e5righet, det blir en trygg och lugn resa i s\u00e4llskap med din egen d\u00f6d, din egen speciella h\u00e4ngivna v\u00e4n, som har varit hos dig i vartenda \u00f6gonblick under hela livet, som k\u00e4nner dig b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n du sj\u00e4lv...\"\n\n\"Men _Pantalaimon_ \u00e4r min speciella och h\u00e4ngivna v\u00e4n! Jag k\u00e4nner inte dig, d\u00f6d, jag k\u00e4nner Pan och jag \u00e4lskar Pan och om han n\u00e5nsin \u2013 om vi n\u00e5nsin...\"\n\nD\u00f6den nickade. Han verkade intresserad och v\u00e4nlig, men hon kunde inte f\u00f6r ett \u00f6gonblick gl\u00f6mma bort vad han var: hennes alldeles egen d\u00f6d och att han var s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra.\n\n\"Jag _vet_ att det kommer att bli sv\u00e5rt att ge sig iv\u00e4g dit nu\", sa hon lite stadigare, \"och att det \u00e4r farligt, men jag vill dit, D\u00f6d, det vill jag verkligen. Och det g\u00f6r Will ocks\u00e5. Vi har b\u00e5da m\u00e4nniskor som tagits ifr\u00e5n oss f\u00f6r tidigt och vi m\u00e5ste gottg\u00f6ra dom, det m\u00e5ste i alla fall jag.\"\n\n\"Alla \u00f6nskar att de kunde tala p\u00e5 nytt med dem som redan gett sig iv\u00e4g till de d\u00f6das land. Varf\u00f6r skulle det g\u00f6ras n\u00e5got undantag f\u00f6r dig?\"\n\n\"D\u00e4rf\u00f6r\", b\u00f6rjade hon att ljuga, \"d\u00e4rf\u00f6r att det \u00e4r n\u00e5t jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra d\u00e4r, inte bara tr\u00e4ffa min v\u00e4n Roger, det \u00e4r n\u00e5t annat. Det var en uppgift jag fick av en \u00e4ngel och det \u00e4r ingen annan som kan g\u00f6ra det, bara jag. Det \u00e4r f\u00f6r viktigt f\u00f6r att kunna v\u00e4nta tills jag d\u00f6r p\u00e5 det naturliga s\u00e4ttet, det m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras nu. \u00c4ngeln _befallde_ mig att g\u00f6ra det, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r vi \u00e4r h\u00e4r nu, jag och Will. Vi _m\u00e5ste_ helt enkelt g\u00f6ra det.\"\n\nBakom henne stoppade Tialys undan instrumentet och satt och tittade p\u00e5 medan flickan b\u00f6nf\u00f6ll sin egen d\u00f6d om att f\u00e5 bli f\u00f6rd dit ingen borde bege sig.\n\nD\u00f6den kliade sig i huvudet och h\u00f6ll sedan upp h\u00e4nderna, men det var inget som kunde f\u00e5 stopp p\u00e5 Lyra, inget som kunde f\u00e5 henne att ge upp sin \u00f6nskan, inte ens r\u00e4dsla: hon hade sett v\u00e4rre saker \u00e4n d\u00f6den, h\u00e4vdade hon, och det hade hon ju ocks\u00e5.\n\nS\u00e5 till slut sa hennes d\u00f6d:\n\n\"Om ingenting kan hindra dig, s\u00e5 kan jag bara s\u00e4ga detta: f\u00f6lj med mig, s\u00e5 ska jag f\u00f6ra dig dit, till de d\u00f6das land. Jag ska vara din v\u00e4gvisare. Jag kan visa dig v\u00e4gen in, men n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller att ta sig ut igen, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste du klara det p\u00e5 egen hand.\"\n\n\"Och mina v\u00e4nner\", sa Lyra. \"Min v\u00e4n Will och dom andra?\"\n\n\"Lyra\", sa Tialys, \"mot varje instinkt, s\u00e5 kommer vi att f\u00f6lja med dig. Jag var arg f\u00f6r ett \u00f6gonblick sedan. Men du g\u00f6r det v\u00e4ldigt sv\u00e5rt...\"\n\nLyra f\u00f6rstod att det var dags att f\u00f6rlika sig med honom och det var hon glad \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 g\u00f6ra, nu n\u00e4r hon hade f\u00e5tt sin vilja igenom.\n\n\"Ja\", sa hon, \"jag \u00e4r verkligen ledsen, Tialys, men om du inte hade gjort mig s\u00e5 arg, s\u00e5 skulle vi aldrig ha f\u00e5tt den h\u00e4r gentlemannen som v\u00e4gvisare. Jag \u00e4r glad \u00f6ver att du \u00e4r h\u00e4r, du och lady Salmakia. Jag \u00e4r verkligen v\u00e4ldigt tacksam \u00f6ver att ni \u00e4r h\u00e4r hos oss.\"\n\nSedan \u00f6vertalade Lyra sin egen d\u00f6d att leda henne och de \u00f6vriga till det land dit Roger hade g\u00e5tt, och Wills far och Tony Makarios och s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga andra. Hennes d\u00f6d sa \u00e5t henne att g\u00e5 ner till bryggan s\u00e5 snart det ljusnade och att g\u00f6ra sig redo att ge sig av.\n\nMen Pantalaimon darrade och skalv och det fanns inget som Lyra kunde g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att lugna honom, eller tysta den l\u00e5ga och stilla j\u00e4mmer han inte kunde hejda. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r blev hennes s\u00f6mn splittrad och inte s\u00e4rskilt djup, d\u00e4r hon l\u00e5g p\u00e5 golvet i skjulet med alla de \u00f6vriga sovande, medan hennes d\u00f6d vakade bredvid henne.\n\n## 20\n\n## Kl\u00e4ttring\n\nJAG VANN DEN S\u00c5 \u2013 I L\u00c5NGSAM KL\u00c4TTRING \u2013 OCH GREP DE KVISTAR SOM V\u00c4XTE MELLAN LYCKAN \u2013 OCH MIG.\n\nEMILY DICKINSON\n\nMULEFORNA TILLVERKADE M\u00c5NGA slags rep och sn\u00f6ren och Mary Malone \u00e4gnade en morgon \u00e5t att inspektera och prova de rep som Atals familj hade i sina f\u00f6rr\u00e5d innan hon valde ut det hon ville ha. Tekniken att vrida och tvinna hade inte slagit igenom i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, s\u00e5 alla rep och sn\u00f6ren var fl\u00e4tade, men alla var starka och b\u00f6jliga, s\u00e5 Mary hittade snart exakt den sort hon var ute efter.\n\n_Vad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra?_ fr\u00e5gade Atal.\n\nMuleforna hade inget ord f\u00f6r kl\u00e4ttra, s\u00e5 Mary m\u00e5ste anv\u00e4nda en m\u00e4ngd gester och omst\u00e4ndliga f\u00f6rklaringar. Atal blev f\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckt.\n\n_Ska du ge dig upp i tr\u00e4dens h\u00f6ga delar?_\n\n_Jag m\u00e5ste ta reda p\u00e5 vad som h\u00e4nder_ , f\u00f6rklarade Mary. _Nu kan du hj\u00e4lpa mig att g\u00f6ra i ordning repet._\n\nEn g\u00e5ng i Kalifornien hade Mary tr\u00e4ffat en matematiker som \u00e4gnade varenda helg \u00e5t att kl\u00e4ttra i tr\u00e4d. Mary hade kl\u00e4ttrat i berg lite grand, s\u00e5 hon hade lyssnat ivrigt n\u00e4r han pratade om tekniker och utrustning, och hade best\u00e4mt sig f\u00f6r att prova sj\u00e4lv s\u00e5 snart hon fick chansen. D\u00e5 hade hon f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte v\u00e4ntat sig att hon skulle kl\u00e4ttra i tr\u00e4d i ett annat universum, och hon lockades inte heller av tanken p\u00e5 att kl\u00e4ttra helt p\u00e5 egen hand, men det kunde inte hj\u00e4lpas. Det hon kunde g\u00f6ra var att se till att kl\u00e4ttringen blev s\u00e5 s\u00e4ker som m\u00f6jligt genom noggranna f\u00f6rberedelser.\n\nHon tog ett rep som var tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e5ngt f\u00f6r att n\u00e5 \u00f6ver en av grenarna p\u00e5 ett av de h\u00f6ga tr\u00e4den och sedan ner till marken igen, och var starkt nog att b\u00e4ra hennes vikt flera g\u00e5nger om. Sedan skar hon till ett stort antal kortare bitar av ett tunnare, men mycket starkt rep, och gjorde slingor av dessa: korta \u00f6glor med en l\u00f6pknut, som kunde bli f\u00e4sten f\u00f6r h\u00e4nder och f\u00f6tter n\u00e4r hon kn\u00f6t fast dem vid huvudlinan.\n\nSedan m\u00e5ste hon komma p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt att f\u00e5 repet \u00f6ver grenen. Efter n\u00e5gon timmes experimenterande med lite tunt och starkt sn\u00f6re och en fj\u00e4drande gren hade hon en pilb\u00e5ge, och med hj\u00e4lp av sin schweiziska arm\u00e9kniv \u00e5stadkom hon n\u00e5gra pilar med styva l\u00f6v f\u00f6r styrningen ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r fj\u00e4drar. Efter en hel dags arbete var Mary klar att b\u00f6rja, men solen var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g ner och hon var tr\u00f6tt i h\u00e4nderna, s\u00e5 hon \u00e5t och gick sedan och lade sig, helt upptagen av sina tankar, medan muleforna oupph\u00f6rligt diskuterade henne i l\u00e5ga musikaliska viskningar.\n\nDet f\u00f6rsta hon gjorde p\u00e5 morgonen var att skjuta en pil \u00f6ver en av grenarna. N\u00e5gra av muleforna hade samlats f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 eftersom de var oroliga f\u00f6r hennes s\u00e4kerhet. Att kl\u00e4ttra var s\u00e5 fullst\u00e4ndigt fr\u00e4mmande f\u00f6r varelser med hjul att bara tanken gjorde dem f\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckta.\n\nMary visste precis hur de k\u00e4nde sig. Hon svalde nervositeten och kn\u00f6t ena \u00e4nden av den tunnaste och l\u00e4ttaste linan vid en av pilarna och skickade iv\u00e4g den med b\u00e5gen.\n\nHon blev av med den f\u00f6rsta pilen: den fastnade i barken ett stycke upp och ville inte lossna. Hon f\u00f6rlorade den andra f\u00f6r att den inte f\u00f6ll tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e5ngt ner p\u00e5 andra sidan, trots att den for iv\u00e4g \u00f6ver grenen. N\u00e4r hon skulle dra tillbaka pilen fastnade den och gick av. Den l\u00e5nga linan f\u00f6ll ner, f\u00e4stad vid det avbrutna skaftet, s\u00e5 hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte igen med den tredje och sista pilen, och den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen lyckades det.\n\nHon drog f\u00f6rsiktigt, med lugna tag, f\u00f6r att linan inte skulle fastna och g\u00e5 av och kunde sedan hala upp repet med \u00f6glorna tills b\u00e5da \u00e4ndarna m\u00f6ttes nere vid marken. Sedan band hon fast b\u00e5da \u00e4ndarna ordentligt vid en av de massiva r\u00f6tterna. Roten hade samma omkrets som hennes egna h\u00f6fter, s\u00e5 hon trodde att den skulle vara tillr\u00e4ckligt stark. Det m\u00e5ste den vara. Det hon f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte kunde avg\u00f6ra fr\u00e5n marken var hur grenen som allting h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5, inklusive hon sj\u00e4lv, s\u00e5g ut. Till skillnad fr\u00e5n bergsbestigning, d\u00e4r man kunde f\u00e4sta repet vid spikar som slogs in i berget p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra meters avst\u00e5nd, s\u00e5 att man aldrig beh\u00f6vde falla s\u00e4rskilt l\u00e5ngt, s\u00e5 handlade det h\u00e4r om ett enda fritt h\u00e4ngande rep och ett enda l\u00e5ngt fall om n\u00e5got gick p\u00e5 tok. F\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra det hela n\u00e5got s\u00e4krare fl\u00e4tade hon ihop tre korta repstumpar till en sele och f\u00e4ste den runt huvudlinans b\u00e5da nedh\u00e4ngande \u00e4ndar med en l\u00f6s knut, som skulle sp\u00e4nnas i samma \u00f6gonblick som hon b\u00f6rjade glida.\n\nMary stack foten i den f\u00f6rsta \u00f6glan och b\u00f6rjade kl\u00e4ttra.\n\nHon n\u00e5dde upp till l\u00f6vverket p\u00e5 kortare tid \u00e4n hon hade v\u00e4ntat sig. Kl\u00e4ttringen var ganska enkel, repet var skonsamt mot h\u00e4nderna och \u00e4ven om hon inte hade velat t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 sv\u00e5righeten att komma upp p\u00e5 den f\u00f6rsta grenen, s\u00e5 uppt\u00e4ckte hon att de djupa sk\u00e5rorna i barken hj\u00e4lpte henne att f\u00e5 bra grepp och att k\u00e4nna sig s\u00e4ker. Faktum var att det bara tog femton minuter fr\u00e5n det att hon hade l\u00e4mnat marken till dess att hon stod uppe p\u00e5 den f\u00f6rsta grenen och planerade hur hon skulle ta sig till n\u00e4sta.\n\nHon hade tagit med sig tv\u00e5 extra reprullar och hade t\u00e4nkt \u00e5stadkomma ett n\u00e4t av fasta linor ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r de spikar, f\u00f6rankringar och \"v\u00e4nner\" och annan utrustning som hon f\u00f6rlitade sig p\u00e5 n\u00e4r hon kl\u00e4ttrade i berg. Att knyta fast dem tog ytterligare n\u00e5gra minuter, och s\u00e5 snart hon hade f\u00f6rankrat sig valde hon ut den mest lovande grenen, rullade ihop extrarepet igen och satte av.\n\nEfter tio minuters f\u00f6rsiktigt kl\u00e4ttrande befann hon sig mitt i den t\u00e4taste delen av l\u00f6vverket. Hon kunde str\u00e4cka sig efter de l\u00e5nga bladen och dra dem genom h\u00e4nderna; hon hittade blomma efter blomma, benvita och ofattbart sm\u00e5, men i var och en v\u00e4xte de myntsm\u00e5 saker som s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom skulle f\u00f6rvandlas till de stora j\u00e4rnh\u00e5rda fr\u00f6kapslarna.\n\nHon n\u00e5dde fram till en bekv\u00e4m plats d\u00e4r tre grenar delade sig, kn\u00f6t fast repet ordentligt, f\u00e4ste selen och vilade sig.\n\nGenom luckorna i grenverket kunde hon se det bl\u00e5 havet, klart och gnistrande \u00e4nda bort till horisonten. \u00c5t det andra h\u00e5llet, \u00f6ver h\u00f6geraxeln, kunde hon se en r\u00e4cka av l\u00e5ga kullar p\u00e5 den guldbruna pr\u00e4rien, som i sin tur var genomkorsad av de svarta v\u00e4garna.\n\nDet bl\u00e5ste en l\u00e4tt bris som lyfte fram en svag doft ur blommorna och ruskade om de styva bladen. Mary f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde sig hur en v\u00e4ldig men otydlig v\u00e4lvilja bar upp henne, som ett par j\u00e4ttelika h\u00e4nder. N\u00e4r hon l\u00e5g i grenklykan k\u00e4nde hon en lycka hon bara hade k\u00e4nt en g\u00e5ng tidigare, och det hade inte varit n\u00e4r hon avlade sina nunnel\u00f6ften.\n\nS\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom \u00e5terf\u00f6rdes hon till sin normala sinnesst\u00e4mning av att hon fick kramp i h\u00f6gerankeln, som vilade p\u00e5 ett klumpigt s\u00e4tt i klykan. Hon drog f\u00f6rsiktigt ut foten och tog sig an sin uppgift igen, fortfarande vimmelkantig av den k\u00e4nsla av oceanisk gl\u00e4dje som omgav henne.\n\nHon hade f\u00f6rklarat f\u00f6r muleforna hur hon m\u00e5ste h\u00e5lla savlacksskivorna en handl\u00e4ngd fr\u00e5n varandra f\u00f6r att kunna se sraf, och s\u00e5 snart de hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt problemet hade de tillverkat en kort tub av bambu och satt fast de b\u00e4rnstensf\u00e4rgade skivorna i vardera \u00e4nden s\u00e5 att det blev som ett teleskop. Kikaren hade hon nerstoppad i br\u00f6stfickan, och nu plockade hon fram den. N\u00e4r hon tittade genom kikaren s\u00e5g hon de omkringglidande gyllene gnistorna, sraf, Skuggorna, Lyras Stoft, likt ett v\u00e4ldigt moln av miniatyrvarelser som bars fram p\u00e5 vinden. St\u00f6rre delen av tiden drev de runt lika planl\u00f6st som dammpartiklarna i en solstr\u00e5le, eller som molekylerna i ett vattenglas.\n\nSt\u00f6rre delen av tiden.\n\nJu l\u00e4ngre hon tittade, desto tydligare b\u00f6rjade hon se en annan sorts r\u00f6relse. Bakom det slumpm\u00e4ssiga omkringglidandet fanns en djupare, l\u00e5ngsammare, mer allm\u00e4n r\u00f6relse fr\u00e5n land och ut mot havet.\n\nN\u00e5, det var ju besynnerligt. Hon f\u00e4ste sig ordentligt vid en av de fasta linorna och kr\u00f6p ut p\u00e5 en av de horisontella grenarna och tittade noga p\u00e5 alla de blommor hon kunde hitta. S\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom b\u00f6rjade hon se vad som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda. Hon tittade och v\u00e4ntade tills hon var helt s\u00e4ker och b\u00f6rjade sedan den f\u00f6rsiktiga, l\u00e5ngsamma och anstr\u00e4ngande processen att kl\u00e4ttra ner.\n\nMary fann muleforna i uppl\u00f6sningstillst\u00e5nd efter att ha genomlidit tusen farh\u00e5gor och bekymmer f\u00f6r sin v\u00e4n, som befann sig s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt \u00f6ver marken.\n\nI synnerhet Atal var l\u00e4ttad och r\u00f6rde nerv\u00f6st vid henne g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng med snabeln och gav ifr\u00e5n sig mjuka gn\u00e4ggningar av lycka f\u00f6r att hon var i s\u00e4kerhet och bar henne sedan tillbaka till bos\u00e4ttningen i s\u00e4llskap med runt ett dussin av de andra.\n\nS\u00e5 snart de hade kommit \u00f6ver \u00e5sryggen spreds budet ut bland byborna och n\u00e4r de hade n\u00e5tt fram till talarplatsen var folksamlingen s\u00e5 t\u00e4t att Mary gissade att det var m\u00e5nga bes\u00f6kare fr\u00e5n andra st\u00e4llen p\u00e5 plats, och att de kommit f\u00f6r att h\u00f6ra vad hon hade att s\u00e4ga. Hon \u00f6nskade att hon hade haft b\u00e4ttre nyheter att komma med.\n\nDen gamle zalifen, Sattamax, klev upp p\u00e5 podiet och v\u00e4lkomnade henne varmt, och hon svarade med all den mulefaartighet hon kunde minnas. S\u00e5 snart h\u00e4lsningarna var avklarade b\u00f6rjade hon tala.\n\nMed m\u00e5nga indirekta f\u00f6rklaringar och fraser sa hon:\n\n_Mina goda v\u00e4nner, jag har varit uppe i tr\u00e4dens h\u00f6ga l\u00f6vverk och tittat noga p\u00e5 de v\u00e4xande l\u00f6ven och de sp\u00e4da blommorna och fr\u00f6kapslarna._\n\n_Jag kunde se en str\u00f6m av sraf h\u00f6gt uppe bland tr\u00e4dtopparna, fortsatte hon, och den r\u00f6r sig mot vinden. Luften bl\u00e5ser in \u00f6ver land fr\u00e5n havet, men sraf \u00e4r l\u00e5ngsamt p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot vinden. Kan ni se det fr\u00e5n marken? F\u00f6r jag kan det inte._\n\n_Nej,_ sa Sattamax. _Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen vi h\u00f6rt n\u00e5got om detta._\n\n_N\u00e5_ , fortsatte hon, _tr\u00e4den filtrerar sraf n\u00e4r det r\u00f6r sig genom dem och n\u00e5got av det dras till blommorna. Jag kunde se vad som h\u00e4nder: blommorna \u00e4r v\u00e4nda upp\u00e5t och om sraf f\u00f6ll rakt ner skulle det s\u00f6ka sig in i deras kronblad och befrukta dem, likt pollen fr\u00e5n stj\u00e4rnorna._\n\n_Men sraf faller inte ner, det r\u00f6r sig ut mot havet. N\u00e4r en blomma r\u00e5kar vara v\u00e4nd mot land kan sraf komma in i den. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r som det fortfarande finns n\u00e5gra v\u00e4xande fr\u00f6kapslar. Men de flesta \u00e4r v\u00e4nda upp\u00e5t och sraf driver bara f\u00f6rbi utan att komma in i dem. Blommorna m\u00e5ste ha utvecklats p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet, eftersom all sraf f\u00f6ll rakt ner i det f\u00f6rflutna. N\u00e5got har h\u00e4nt med sraf, inte med tr\u00e4den. Man kan bara se str\u00f6mmen h\u00f6gt d\u00e4r uppe, och det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r ni inte vetat n\u00e5got om saken._\n\n_Om ni vill r\u00e4dda tr\u00e4den och mulefornas liv, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi komma p\u00e5 varf\u00f6r sraf reagerar p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet. Jag kan inte komma p\u00e5 varf\u00f6r \u00e4n, men jag t\u00e4nker f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka._\n\nHon s\u00e5g hur m\u00e5nga av dem str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 nacken f\u00f6r att spana efter det framdrivande Stoftet, men det gick inte att se fr\u00e5n marken: hon sj\u00e4lv spanade genom kikaren, men det enda hon kunde se var himlens kompakta bl\u00e5 f\u00e4rg.\n\nDe talade under en l\u00e5ng stund och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte minnas eventuella omn\u00e4mnanden av sraf-vinden i sina legender och ber\u00e4ttelser, men d\u00e4r fanns inga. Det enda de n\u00e5gonsin hade vetat var att sraf kom fr\u00e5n stj\u00e4rnorna, som det alltid hade gjort.\n\nTill slut fr\u00e5gade de om hon hade n\u00e5gra fler id\u00e9er och hon svarade:\n\n_Jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra fler observationer. Jag m\u00e5ste ta reda p\u00e5 om vinden alltid bl\u00e5ser i den riktningen eller om den \u00e4ndrar sig likt luftstr\u00f6mmarna under dag och natt, vilket inneb\u00e4r att jag m\u00e5ste tillbringa mer tid bland tr\u00e4dtopparna och sova d\u00e4r uppe och g\u00f6ra observationer \u00e4ven under n\u00e4tterna. Jag kommer att beh\u00f6va er hj\u00e4lp att bygga en plattform av n\u00e5got slag, s\u00e5 att jag kan sova tryggt, f\u00f6r vi beh\u00f6ver verkligen fler observationer._\n\nDe praktiska muleforna var angel\u00e4gna om att ta reda p\u00e5 svaret, s\u00e5 de erbj\u00f6d sig genast att bygga vad hon \u00e4n beh\u00f6vde. De k\u00e4nde till tekniken att anv\u00e4nda block och taljor och strax var det n\u00e5gon som f\u00f6reslog ett enkelt s\u00e4tt att lyfta upp Mary bland grenarna f\u00f6r att hon skulle slippa den farliga och m\u00f6dosamma kl\u00e4ttringen.\n\nDe var glada \u00f6ver att ha n\u00e5got att g\u00f6ra och satte genast ig\u00e5ng med att samla ihop materialet. Sedan fl\u00e4tade och surrade och kn\u00f6t de ihop ribbor och rep och linor under hennes ledning, tills de hade satt ihop allt hon beh\u00f6vde till observationsplattformen uppe bland tr\u00e4dtopparna.\n\nEfter att ha pratat med det gamla paret i olivlunden tappade fader Gomez sp\u00e5ret. Han \u00e4gnade flera dagar \u00e5t att s\u00f6ka och fr\u00e5ga i varje riktning i en vid cirkel, men kvinnan tycktes ha f\u00f6rsvunnit sp\u00e5rl\u00f6st.\n\nHan skulle aldrig ge upp, \u00e4ven om det var nedsl\u00e5ende. Krucifixet runt halsen och gev\u00e4ret p\u00e5 ryggen var de b\u00e5da tecknen p\u00e5 hans absoluta beslutsamhet att slutf\u00f6ra uppgiften.\n\nDet skulle dock ha tagit honom mycket l\u00e4ngre tid om det inte hade varit f\u00f6r en skillnad i v\u00e4dret. Den v\u00e4rld han befann sig i var varm och torr, s\u00e5 han blev allt t\u00f6rstigare. N\u00e4r han fick syn p\u00e5 en v\u00e5t sten h\u00f6gst uppe p\u00e5 en sluttning med l\u00f6sa stenar kl\u00e4ttrade han upp f\u00f6r att se om det fanns en k\u00e4lla d\u00e4r. Det gjorde det inte, men i hjulkapseltr\u00e4dens v\u00e4rld hade det just regnat. Det var s\u00e5 han uppt\u00e4ckte f\u00f6nstret och fick reda p\u00e5 vart Mary hade tagit v\u00e4gen.\n\n## 21\n\n## Harpyorna\n\nJAG HATAR ALLA P\u00c5HITT... DET M\u00c5STE ALLTID FINNAS N\u00c5GON GRUND AV FAKTA.\n\nBYRON\n\nN\u00c4R LYRA OCH Will vaknade k\u00e4nde b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 en stark r\u00e4dsla: det k\u00e4ndes som att vara en d\u00f6dsd\u00f6md f\u00e5nge p\u00e5 avr\u00e4ttningsdagens morgon. Tialys och Salmakia pysslade om sina trollsl\u00e4ndor och utfodrade dem med nattfj\u00e4rilar som de hade f\u00e5ngat med lasso vid den anbariska lampan ovanf\u00f6r oljefatet utanf\u00f6r, flugor som skurits ur spindelv\u00e4var, samt gav dem vatten p\u00e5 en pl\u00e5ttallrik. N\u00e4r lady Salmakia s\u00e5g Lyras ansiktsuttryck och hur Pantalaimon i musskepnad h\u00e5rt pressade sig mot hennes br\u00f6st, sl\u00e4ppte hon det hon hade f\u00f6r h\u00e4nder f\u00f6r att prata med henne. Will, \u00e5 sin sida, l\u00e4mnade skjulet f\u00f6r att ta en promenad utomhus.\n\n\"Ni kan fortfarande fatta ett annat beslut\", sa Salmakia.\n\n\"Nej, det kan vi inte. Vi har redan best\u00e4mt oss\", sa Lyra och var b\u00e5de envis och r\u00e4dd p\u00e5 samma g\u00e5ng.\n\n\"Och om vi inte kan \u00e5terv\u00e4nda?\"\n\n\"Ni m\u00e5ste inte f\u00f6lja med\", p\u00e5pekade Lyra.\n\n\"Vi t\u00e4nker inte \u00f6verge er.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 vad h\u00e4nder om _ni_ inte kommer tillbaka?\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 har vi d\u00f6tt medan vi gjorde n\u00e5got viktigt.\"\n\nLyra tystnade. Hon hade aldrig tittat ordentligt p\u00e5 lady Salmakia tidigare, men nu kunde hon se henne mycket tydligt i naftalampans osande sken, d\u00e4r hon stod p\u00e5 bordet p\u00e5 arml\u00e4ngds avst\u00e5nd. Hennes ansikte var lugnt och v\u00e4nligt; inte vackert, inte s\u00f6tt, utan det var just den sortens ansikte man g\u00e4rna vill se n\u00e4r man \u00e4r sjuk, olycklig eller r\u00e4dd. Hennes r\u00f6st var l\u00e5g och uttrycksfull, och det fanns en antydan till skratt och gl\u00e4dje under den klara ytan. Under hela den del av sitt liv som Lyra kunde minnas hade ingen n\u00e5gonsin l\u00e4st h\u00f6gt f\u00f6r henne i s\u00e4ngen; ingen hade ber\u00e4ttat sagor eller sjungit vaggvisor f\u00f6r henne innan hon f\u00e5tt sin godnattpuss och lampan hade sl\u00e4ckts. Men nu t\u00e4nkte hon pl\u00f6tsligt att om det n\u00e5gonsin funnits en r\u00f6st som kunde svepa in henne i trygghet och v\u00e4rma henne med k\u00e4rlek, s\u00e5 skulle det vara en r\u00f6st som lady Salmakias. Hon k\u00e4nde en l\u00e4ngtan i hj\u00e4rtat efter ett eget barn, som hon kunde vagga och tr\u00f6sta och sjunga f\u00f6r, n\u00e5gon g\u00e5ng, med just en s\u00e5dan r\u00f6st.\n\n\"Tja\", sa Lyra och k\u00e4nde hur det kn\u00f6t sig i strupen, s\u00e5 hon svalde ist\u00e4llet och ryckte p\u00e5 axlarna.\n\n\"Det visar sig\", sa lady Salmakia och v\u00e4nde sig om.\n\nS\u00e5 snart de hade \u00e4tit det tunna och torra br\u00f6d och druckit det bittra te som var det enda de h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna kunde erbjuda dem, tackade de v\u00e4rdfolket, tog p\u00e5 sig ryggs\u00e4ckarna och gav sig iv\u00e4g genom k\u00e5kstaden till sj\u00f6stranden. Lyra s\u00e5g sig om efter sin d\u00f6d, och mycket riktigt, d\u00e4r var den och den promenerade artigt ett litet stycke framf\u00f6r dem. Han ville inte komma n\u00e4rmare, men ist\u00e4llet v\u00e4nde han sig om g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng f\u00f6r att vara s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att de f\u00f6ljde efter.\n\nDagen var mulen med en dyster dimma. Det hela liknade mer skymning \u00e4n dagsljus och dimmans sl\u00f6jor och slingor steg upp fr\u00e5n p\u00f6larna p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen eller h\u00e4ngde likt \u00f6mkliga \u00e4lskare runt de anbariska ledningarna ovanf\u00f6r dem. De s\u00e5g inga m\u00e4nniskor och bara n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 d\u00f6dar. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna ilade fram genom den fuktiga luften som om de sydde ihop allting med osynliga tr\u00e5dar. Det var en ren fr\u00f6jd att kunna f\u00f6lja deras skarpa f\u00e4rger med blicken n\u00e4r de blixtrade fram och tillbaka.\n\nKort d\u00e4rp\u00e5 n\u00e5dde de gr\u00e4nsen f\u00f6r bos\u00e4ttningen och fick bana sig fram genom kala och risiga buskar bredvid en tr\u00f6gflytande \u00e5. Ibland kunde de h\u00f6ra ett str\u00e4vt kv\u00e4kande eller plaskande n\u00e4r de hade st\u00f6rt n\u00e5got vattendjur, men den enda varelse de s\u00e5g var en padda stor som Wills ena fot. Den kunde bara ta sig fram genom sm\u00e4rtfyllda sidoh\u00e4vningar, som om den var fruktansv\u00e4rt skadad. Den l\u00e5g tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver stigen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte komma ur v\u00e4gen, och tittade p\u00e5 dem som om den f\u00f6rstod att de t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra den illa.\n\n\"Det skulle vara barmh\u00e4rtigast att d\u00f6da den\", sa Tialys.\n\n\"Hur vet vi det?\" sa Lyra. \"Den kanske fortfarande tycker om att leva, trots allt.\"\n\n\"Om vi d\u00f6dade den skulle vi ta den med oss\", sa Will. \"Den vill stanna h\u00e4r. Jag har d\u00f6dat tillr\u00e4ckligt m\u00e5nga levande varelser. Till och med en smutsig och stillast\u00e5ende g\u00f6l \u00e4r kanske b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n att vara d\u00f6d.\"\n\n\"Men om den har ont?\" sa Tialys.\n\n\"Om den kunde ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r oss, s\u00e5 skulle vi veta det. Men eftersom vi inte kan f\u00e5 n\u00e5t svar fr\u00e5n den, s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag inte d\u00f6da den. Det skulle vara att bry sig mer om v\u00e5ra k\u00e4nslor \u00e4n om paddans.\"\n\nDe traskade vidare. Kort d\u00e4rp\u00e5 lj\u00f6d deras fotsteg annorlunda, och de f\u00f6rstod att det fanns en \u00f6ppen plats i n\u00e4rheten, fast\u00e4n dimman nu var \u00e4nnu t\u00e4tare. Pantalaimon var en lemur med s\u00e5 stora \u00f6gon han kunde \u00e5stadkomma och klamrade sig fast p\u00e5 Lyras axel, pressade sig in i hennes dimfuktiga h\u00e5r och spanade \u00f6verallt, men s\u00e5g inte mycket mer \u00e4n hon. Han darrade hela tiden.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt h\u00f6rde de ett svagt v\u00e5gskvalp. Ljudet var l\u00e5gt, men helt n\u00e4ra. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till barnen med sina ryttare och Pantalaimon sm\u00f6g ner mot Lyras br\u00f6st n\u00e4r hon och Will r\u00f6rde sig lite n\u00e4rmare varandra. De trampade f\u00f6rsiktigt vidare l\u00e4ngs den dyiga stigen.\n\nS\u00e5 var de framme vid stranden. Det oljiga och skumt\u00e4ckta vattnet l\u00e5g helt stilla framf\u00f6r dem, med bara enstaka sm\u00e5 krusningar, som l\u00e5ngsamt br\u00f6ts mot strandgruset.\n\nStigen sv\u00e4ngde till v\u00e4nster och lite l\u00e4ngre bort fanns en tr\u00e4brygga som vanskligt str\u00e4cktes ut \u00f6ver vattnet. Bryggan s\u00e5g mer ut som en f\u00f6rt\u00e4tning av dimman \u00e4n som ett solitt f\u00f6rem\u00e5l. Stolparna h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att ruttna och plankorna var gr\u00f6na av slem, och sedan var det inget mer. Det fanns ingenting bortom bryggan, f\u00f6r stigen tog slut d\u00e4r bryggan b\u00f6rjade och d\u00e4r bryggan tog slut b\u00f6rjade dimman. Lyras d\u00f6d bugade sig mot henne efter att ha lett dem dit och klev sedan ut i dimman och f\u00f6rsvann innan hon hann fr\u00e5ga vad de skulle g\u00f6ra sedan.\n\n\"Lyssna\", sa Will.\n\nDe h\u00f6rde ett l\u00e5ngsamt ljud ute p\u00e5 det osynliga vattnet: knarrandet av tr\u00e4 och ett l\u00e5gt, men regelbundet plaskande. Will lade handen p\u00e5 kniven vid b\u00e4ltet och r\u00f6rde sig f\u00f6rsiktigt fram\u00e5t \u00f6ver de ruttnande plankorna. Lyra f\u00f6ljde t\u00e4tt efter. Trollsl\u00e4ndorna landade p\u00e5 de b\u00e5da \u00f6vervuxna f\u00f6rt\u00f6jningsstolparna och s\u00e5g ut som heraldiska v\u00e4ktare. Barnen stod l\u00e4ngst ute vid bryggans \u00e4nde och spanade ut i dimman, emellan\u00e5t m\u00e5ste de torka fukten ur \u00f6gonen. Det enda ljud som h\u00f6rdes var det l\u00e5ngsamma knarrandet och plaskandet, som kom n\u00e4rmare och n\u00e4rmare.\n\n\"G\u00f6r det inte, l\u00e5t oss g\u00e5 tillbaka!\" viskade Pantalaimon.\n\n\"M\u00e5ste\", viskade Lyra tillbaka.\n\nHon s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Will. Hans ansikte var h\u00e5rt och bistert och angel\u00e4get: han skulle inte v\u00e4nda om. Gallivespierna, Tialys p\u00e5 Wills axel och Salmakia p\u00e5 Lyras, var lugna och vaksamma. Trollsl\u00e4ndornas vingar skimrade av dimp\u00e4rlor s\u00e5 att de s\u00e5g ut som spindelv\u00e4v. Emellan\u00e5t slog de hastigt med vingarna f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 bort vattnet. F\u00f6rmodligen gjorde dropparna att vingarna blev tunga, t\u00e4nkte Lyra. Hon hoppades att det skulle finnas n\u00e5gon mat \u00e5t dem i de d\u00f6das land.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt d\u00f6k b\u00e5ten upp.\n\nDet var en ur\u00e5ldrig roddb\u00e5t, sliten, lappad, ruttnande, och figuren som rodde den var bortom all \u00e5lder, insvept i en k\u00e5pa av s\u00e4ckv\u00e4v, som var f\u00e4stad med en sn\u00f6rstump. Skepnaden var krumryggad, de beniga h\u00e4nderna hade kroknat av att h\u00e5lla i \u00e5rorna och de fuktiga och bleka \u00f6gonen var djupt insjunkna i det gr\u00e5 skinnets veck och rynkor.\n\nHan sl\u00e4ppte taget om ena \u00e5ran och str\u00e4ckte upp sin krokiga hand till j\u00e4rnringen som var f\u00e4stad i stolpen vid bryggans ena h\u00f6rn. Med den andra handen f\u00f6rde han \u00e5ran s\u00e5 att b\u00e5ten kunde l\u00e4gga till mot plankorna.\n\nDet fanns ingen anledning att prata. Will klev i f\u00f6rst och sedan tog Lyra ett steg fram\u00e5t f\u00f6r att kliva i.\n\nMen b\u00e5tkarlen h\u00f6ll upp ena handen.\n\n\"Inte han\", sa han med en str\u00e4v viskning.\n\n\"Inte vem?\"\n\n\"Inte han.\"\n\nHan str\u00e4ckte ut ett gulgr\u00e5tt finger och pekade rakt mot Pantalaimon, vars r\u00f6dbruna vessla snabbt blev minkvit.\n\n\"Han \u00e4r ju jag!\" sa Lyra.\n\n\"Om du ska med, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste han stanna kvar.\"\n\n\"Det kan vi inte! Vi skulle d\u00f6!\"\n\n\"\u00c4r det inte det du vill?\"\n\nD\u00e5 ins\u00e5g Lyra f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen p\u00e5 allvar vad hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med. Det h\u00e4r var den verkliga konsekvensen. Hon stod alldeles f\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckt, darrande, och kramade sin d\u00e6mon s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt att han gn\u00e4llde av sm\u00e4rta.\n\n\" _Dom_...\", sa Lyra hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st, men tystnade sedan: det var inte r\u00e4ttvist att p\u00e5peka att de \u00f6vriga tre inte hade n\u00e5got att avst\u00e5 fr\u00e5n.\n\nWill tittade \u00e4ngsligt p\u00e5 henne. Hon s\u00e5g sig om \u00e5t alla h\u00e5ll, tittade p\u00e5 sj\u00f6n, p\u00e5 bryggan, p\u00e5 den gropiga stigen, p\u00e5 de stillast\u00e5ende p\u00f6larna, p\u00e5 de d\u00f6da och vattensjuka buskarna... Hennes Pan, ensam h\u00e4r: hur skulle han kunna \u00f6verleva utan henne? Han skalv innanf\u00f6r hennes skjorta, mot hennes bara hud, hans p\u00e4ls beh\u00f6vde hennes v\u00e4rme. Om\u00f6jligt! Aldrig!\n\n\"Han m\u00e5ste stanna h\u00e4r om du ska f\u00f6lja med\", sa b\u00e5tkarlen p\u00e5 nytt.\n\nLady Salmakia ryckte i tyglarna, s\u00e5 att hennes trollsl\u00e4nda for iv\u00e4g fr\u00e5n Lyras axel och landade p\u00e5 b\u00e5tens reling, d\u00e4r Tialys ansl\u00f6t sig. De sa n\u00e5got till b\u00e5tkarlen. Lyra s\u00e5g p\u00e5 dem likt en d\u00f6dsd\u00f6md f\u00e5nge som spanar mot en r\u00f6relse i r\u00e4tteg\u00e5ngssalens bortre \u00e4nde, f\u00f6r att det kanske kunde vara en budb\u00e4rare med ett n\u00e5debrev.\n\nB\u00e5tkarlen b\u00f6jde sig fram f\u00f6r att lyssna, men skakade sedan p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\"Nej\", sa han. \"Om hon f\u00f6ljer med, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste han stanna.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inte r\u00e4ttvist\", sa Will. \"Vi beh\u00f6ver inte l\u00e4mna n\u00e5n del av oss kvar h\u00e4r. Varf\u00f6r ska Lyra beh\u00f6va g\u00f6ra det?\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, men det g\u00f6r ni\", sa b\u00e5tkarlen. \"Det \u00e4r hennes olycka att hon kan se och tala med den del hon m\u00e5ste l\u00e4mna. Ni kommer inte att veta det f\u00f6rr\u00e4n ni \u00e4r ute p\u00e5 vattnet, och d\u00e5 \u00e4r det f\u00f6r sent. Ni m\u00e5ste alla l\u00e4mna den delen av er sj\u00e4lva h\u00e4r. Det finns ingen m\u00f6jlighet f\u00f6r s\u00e5dana som han att ta sig till de d\u00f6das land.\"\n\n_Nej_ , t\u00e4nkte Lyra, och Pantalaimon t\u00e4nkte tanken med henne. _Vi klarade oss inte fr\u00e5n Bolvangar bara f\u00f6r att drabbas av det h\u00e4r; hur ska vi n\u00e5nsin hitta varandra igen?_\n\nHon tittade tillbaka mot den gr\u00e4sliga och m\u00f6rka stranden, som var s\u00e5 dyster och s\u00e5 hems\u00f6kt av sjukdom och gifter, och t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att hennes \u00e4lskade Pan skulle bli tvungen att v\u00e4nta ensam h\u00e4r, hennes sj\u00e4ls f\u00f6ljeslagare, och se henne f\u00f6rsvinna i dimman. Hon b\u00f6rjade gr\u00e5ta hejdl\u00f6st, men de hj\u00e4rtsk\u00e4rande snyftningarna gav inget eko, f\u00f6r dimman kv\u00e4vde dem, men l\u00e4ngs hela stranden, i de otaliga g\u00f6larna och p\u00f6larna, i de el\u00e4ndiga och s\u00f6nderbrutna stubbarna, h\u00f6rde de skadade varelserna som lurade d\u00e4r hennes hj\u00e4rtsk\u00e4rande gr\u00e5t, och allihop pressade sig lite n\u00e4rmare marken av r\u00e4dsla inf\u00f6r den k\u00e4nslostormen.\n\n\"Om han kunde komma med...\", ropade Will, som desperat f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte g\u00f6ra slut p\u00e5 hennes sorg, men b\u00e5tkarlen skakade bara p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\"Han kan komma med i b\u00e5ten, men om han g\u00f6r det, s\u00e5 stannar b\u00e5ten h\u00e4r\", sa han.\n\n\"Men hur ska hon kunna hitta honom igen?\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte.\"\n\n\"Kommer vi tillbaka den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen n\u00e4r vi ger oss av?\"\n\n\"Ger er av?\"\n\n\"Vi t\u00e4nker \u00e5terv\u00e4nda. Vi ska bege oss till dom d\u00f6das land och sen ska vi tillbaka igen.\"\n\n\"Inte den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 f\u00e5r det bli n\u00e5n annan v\u00e4g, men det kommer vi att g\u00f6ra.\"\n\n\"Jag har fraktat miljoner, men ingen har \u00e5terv\u00e4nt.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 ska vi bli dom f\u00f6rsta. Vi kommer att hitta v\u00e4gen ut. Och eftersom vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra det, s\u00e5 kan ni v\u00e4l vara lite v\u00e4nlig, b\u00e5tkarl, visa lite medk\u00e4nsla och l\u00e5ta henne ta med sig sin d\u00e6mon!\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa han och skakade sitt ur\u00e5ldriga huvud. \"Det \u00e4r inte en regel som g\u00e5r att bryta. Det \u00e4r en lag som den h\u00e4r...\" Han lutade sig \u00f6ver sidan och skopade upp en handfull vatten, och vred handen s\u00e5 att vattnet rann ut igen. \"Den lag som f\u00e5r vattnet att rinna tillbaka ner i sj\u00f6n, det \u00e4r en lag som den. Jag kan inte vrida handen och f\u00e5 vattnet att flyga upp\u00e5t. Lika lite kan jag ta med mig hennes d\u00e6mon till d\u00f6dsriket. Vare sig _hon_ f\u00f6ljer med eller inte, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste han stanna kvar.\"\n\nLyra kunde inte se n\u00e5got, f\u00f6r ansiktet var begravt i Pantalaimons kattp\u00e4ls. Men Will s\u00e5g Tialys stiga av sin trollsl\u00e4nda och g\u00f6ra sig beredd att hoppa p\u00e5 b\u00e5tkarlen. Han h\u00f6ll halvt med om spionens avsikter, men den gamle mannen hade sett honom och v\u00e4nde sitt urgamla ansikte mot honom.\n\n\"Hur m\u00e5nga \u00e5ldrar tror du jag har skeppat \u00f6ver m\u00e4nniskor till de d\u00f6das land? Tror du inte att om n\u00e5got hade kunnat skada mig, s\u00e5 skulle det ha skett redan? Tror du att de m\u00e4nniskor jag fraktar f\u00f6ljer med frivilligt? De k\u00e4mpar och gr\u00e5ter, de f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker muta mig, de hotar och de sl\u00e5ss, men ingenting hj\u00e4lper. Du kan inte skada mig, hur mycket du \u00e4n stinger mig. Du g\u00f6r st\u00f6rre nytta om du tr\u00f6star flickan; hon kommer; bry dig inte om mig.\"\n\nWill kunde n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt titta p\u00e5. Lyra var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att beg\u00e5 sin grymmaste handling n\u00e5gonsin och hatade sig sj\u00e4lv, hatade det hon skulle g\u00f6ra, led f\u00f6r Pan och med Pan och p\u00e5 grund av Pan; f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte s\u00e4tta ner honom p\u00e5 den kalla stigen och lossade hans kattklor fr\u00e5n sina kl\u00e4der, och gr\u00e4t hejdl\u00f6st. Will f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte st\u00e4nga igen \u00f6ronen: ljudet var alltf\u00f6r olyckligt f\u00f6r att han skulle kunna st\u00e5 ut med det. G\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng knuffade hon ifr\u00e5n sig d\u00e6monen, men han fortsatte att tjuta och klamra sig fast vid henne.\n\nHon kunde \u00e5ngra sig.\n\nHon kunde s\u00e4ga nej, det h\u00e4r \u00e4r en dum id\u00e9, vi m\u00e5ste inte g\u00f6ra det.\n\nHon kunde vara trogen det sj\u00e4lsdjupa, livsdjupa bandet mellan henne och Pantalaimon, hon kunde s\u00e4tta det fr\u00e4mst, hon kunde skjuta resten ur sinnet...\n\nMen det gick inte.\n\n\"Pan, ingen har gjort det h\u00e4r f\u00f6rut\", viskade hon sk\u00e4lvande, \"men Will s\u00e4ger att vi ska \u00e5terv\u00e4nda och det sv\u00e4r jag p\u00e5, Pan. Jag \u00e4lskar dig, jag sv\u00e4r p\u00e5 att vi ska komma tillbaka \u2013 jag ska \u2013 sk\u00f6t om dig, min \u00e4lskade \u2013 du kommer att klara dig \u2013 vi kommer tillbaka, och om jag s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste \u00e4gna vartenda \u00f6gonblick under resten av mitt liv \u00e5t det, s\u00e5 ska jag det, jag t\u00e4nker inte sluta, jag t\u00e4nker inte vila, jag t\u00e4nker inte \u2013 \u00e5h, Pan \u2013 \u00e4lskade Pan \u2013 jag m\u00e5ste ge mig av, jag m\u00e5ste...\"\n\nS\u00e5 sk\u00f6t hon honom ifr\u00e5n sig och han kr\u00f6p ihop p\u00e5 den leriga marken, bitter och kall och r\u00e4dd.\n\nVilket djur han var nu kunde Will n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt avg\u00f6ra. Han s\u00e5g s\u00e5 liten ut, som en valp, en unge, som n\u00e5got hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st och misshandlat. Det var en varelse som var s\u00e5 f\u00f6rtvivlad att det var mer f\u00f6rtvivlan \u00e4n varelse. Hans \u00f6gon l\u00e4mnade aldrig Lyras ansikte och Will kunde se hur hon tvingade sig att inte titta bort, att inte undvika skulden, och han beundrade hennes \u00e4rlighet och mod, samtidigt som chocken n\u00e4r de skildes \u00e5t gjorde fruktansv\u00e4rt ont. Det var s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga levande k\u00e4nslostr\u00f6mmar mellan dem att sj\u00e4lva luften k\u00e4ndes elektrisk.\n\nPantalaimon fr\u00e5gade inte: \"Varf\u00f6r?\" f\u00f6r han visste svaret, och han fr\u00e5gade inte om Lyra \u00e4lskade Roger mer \u00e4n honom, f\u00f6r han visste det sanna svaret \u00e4ven p\u00e5 den fr\u00e5gan. Han visste att om han sa n\u00e5got, s\u00e5 skulle hon inte kunna motst\u00e5 honom, s\u00e5 d\u00e6monen var tyst f\u00f6r att inte g\u00f6ra m\u00e4nniskan som \u00f6vergav honom \u00e4nnu olyckligare, nu n\u00e4r de b\u00e5da l\u00e5tsades att det inte skulle g\u00f6ra ont, att det inte skulle dr\u00f6ja l\u00e4nge innan de var tillsammans igen, att det var b\u00e4st att det skedde p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r viset. Men Will f\u00f6rstod att den lilla flickans hj\u00e4rta var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att slitas ur br\u00f6stet p\u00e5 henne.\n\nS\u00e5 steg hon ner i b\u00e5ten. Hon var s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt att den inte gungade till det minsta. Hon satte sig bredvid Will, men blicken l\u00e4mnade aldrig Pantalaimon, som stod darrande vid bryggans landf\u00e4ste, men precis n\u00e4r b\u00e5tkarlen sl\u00e4ppte taget om j\u00e4rnringen och lade ut \u00e5rorna f\u00f6r att kunna skjuta ifr\u00e5n, travade den lilla hundd\u00e6monen \u00e4nda ut till bryggans \u00e4nde. Klorna klapprade l\u00e5gt mot de mjuka plankorna och d\u00e4r stod han hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st och tittade, bara tittade, \u00e4nda tills b\u00e5ten hade f\u00f6rsvunnit i dimman och bryggan hade bleknat bort.\n\nD\u00e5 gav Lyra ifr\u00e5n sig ett tjut, som var s\u00e5 desperat att det gav upphov till ett eko till och med i den h\u00e4r d\u00e4mpade och dimh\u00f6ljda v\u00e4rlden, men det var naturligtvis inte ett riktigt eko, utan det var hennes andra del som tj\u00f6t fr\u00e5n de levandes land, n\u00e4r Lyra f\u00e4rdades bort till de d\u00f6das land.\n\n\"Min _sj\u00e4l_ , Will...\", st\u00f6nade hon och klamrade sig fast vid honom. Hennes gr\u00e5tfuktiga ansikte var helt f\u00f6rvridet av sm\u00e4rta.\n\nS\u00e5lunda uppfylldes den profetia som rektorn f\u00f6r Jordan College hade ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r bibliotekarien, att Lyra skulle beg\u00e5 ett v\u00e4ldigt f\u00f6rr\u00e4deri och att det skulle g\u00f6ra fruktansv\u00e4rt ont.\n\nMen \u00e4ven Will k\u00e4nde hur en v\u00e4ldig sm\u00e4rta h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att byggas upp inom honom och genom sm\u00e4rtan s\u00e5g han att \u00e4ven de b\u00e5da gallivespierna, som klamrade sig fast vid varandra p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som han och Lyra, utsattes f\u00f6r samma pl\u00e5ga.\n\nEn del av den var fysisk. Det k\u00e4ndes som om en v\u00e4ldig j\u00e4rnhand hade gripit tag om hj\u00e4rtat och hade dragit ut det mellan revbenen, s\u00e5 han pressade h\u00e4nderna mot st\u00e4llet och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rg\u00e4ves h\u00e5lla tillbaka. Det h\u00e4r l\u00e5g mycket djupare och var mycket v\u00e4rre \u00e4n sm\u00e4rtan n\u00e4r han blev av med fingrarna. Sm\u00e4rtan fanns \u00e4ven i sinnet: n\u00e5got som var hemligt och privat h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att sl\u00e4pas ut i det fria d\u00e4r han inte ville att det skulle befinna sig. Will var n\u00e4ra att \u00f6verv\u00e4ldigas av en blandning av sm\u00e4rta och skam och r\u00e4dsla och sj\u00e4lvf\u00f6rebr\u00e5elser, eftersom det var han sj\u00e4lv som hade orsakat det hela.\n\nMen det var v\u00e4rre \u00e4n s\u00e5. Det var som om han hade sagt: \"Nej, d\u00f6da mig inte, jag \u00e4r r\u00e4dd, d\u00f6da min mamma ist\u00e4llet, hon betyder inget, jag \u00e4lskar henne inte\", och som om hon hade h\u00f6rt honom s\u00e4ga det och l\u00e5tsades att hon inte hade gjort det f\u00f6r att skona honom och sj\u00e4lvklart erbj\u00f6d sig sj\u00e4lv i hans st\u00e4lle, eftersom hon \u00e4lskade honom. Just s\u00e5 hemsk k\u00e4nde han sig. Det var helt enkelt inte m\u00f6jligt att m\u00e5 s\u00e4mre.\n\nWill f\u00f6rstod att det berodde p\u00e5 att \u00e4ven han hade en d\u00e6mon, och att oavsett hur hon s\u00e5g ut, s\u00e5 var ocks\u00e5 hon kvar p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r f\u00f6rgiftade och \u00f6de stranden tillsammans med Pantalaimon. Tanken slog Will och Lyra i samma \u00f6gonblick och de utbytte t\u00e5rfyllda blickar. F\u00f6r andra g\u00e5ngen i sina liv, men inte den sista, kunde var och en se sitt eget uttryck speglas i den andres ansikte.\n\nDet var bara b\u00e5tkarlen och trollsl\u00e4ndorna som tycktes ober\u00f6rda av f\u00e4rden. De stora insekterna var fullst\u00e4ndigt levande och lyste av sk\u00f6nhet till och med i den klibbande dimman. Emellan\u00e5t ruskade de sina tunna vingar f\u00f6r att kunna skaka bort fukten. Den gamle mannen i sin s\u00e4ckv\u00e4vsk\u00e5pa lutade sig fram\u00e5t och sedan bak\u00e5t, fram\u00e5t och bak\u00e5t, och tog st\u00f6d med de nakna f\u00f6tterna mot den v\u00e5thala durken.\n\nF\u00e4rden tog l\u00e4ngre tid \u00e4n Lyra ville m\u00e4ta. Trots att en del av henne var uppriven av sm\u00e4rta n\u00e4r hon f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde sig Pantalaimon \u00f6vergiven p\u00e5 stranden, s\u00e5 h\u00f6ll en annan del av henne p\u00e5 att anpassa sig till sm\u00e4rtan och m\u00e4tte ist\u00e4llet den egna styrkan och var nyfiken p\u00e5 vad som skulle h\u00e4nda och var de skulle landa.\n\nWills arm var stark runt henne, men \u00e4ven han spanade fram\u00e5t och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte genomtr\u00e4nga den fuktgr\u00e5 dysterheten f\u00f6r att kunna h\u00f6ra n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n det r\u00e5kalla plaskandet fr\u00e5n \u00e5rorna. S\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom blev det verkligen en f\u00f6r\u00e4ndring: framf\u00f6r dem d\u00f6k det upp en klippa eller en \u00f6. F\u00f6rst h\u00f6rde de hur ljudet liksom blev omslutet innan sj\u00e4lva dimman fick en m\u00f6rkare nyans.\n\nB\u00e5tkarlen tog ett kraftigt tag med ena \u00e5ran f\u00f6r att kunna sv\u00e4nga b\u00e5ten lite \u00e5t v\u00e4nster.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r vi?\" h\u00f6rdes chevalier Tialys r\u00f6st. Den var liten, men lika stark som alltid. R\u00f6sten hade en str\u00e4v biton, som om \u00e4ven han hade k\u00e4nt stor sm\u00e4rta.\n\n\"N\u00e4ra \u00f6n\", sa b\u00e5tkarlen. \"Om ytterligare fem minuter \u00e4r vi framme vid b\u00e5tbryggan.\"\n\n\"Vilken \u00f6?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. Han uppt\u00e4ckte att \u00e4ven hans egen r\u00f6st var sp\u00e4nd, s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt att den knappt verkade tillh\u00f6ra honom.\n\n\"Porten till de d\u00f6das land finns p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r \u00f6n\", sa b\u00e5tkarlen. \"Alla kommer hit, kungar, drottningar, m\u00f6rdare, poeter, barn: alla passerar h\u00e4r, men ingen \u00e5terv\u00e4nder n\u00e5gonsin.\"\n\n\" _Vi_ t\u00e4nker \u00e5terv\u00e4nda\", viskade Lyra trotsigt.\n\nHan sa inget, men de ur\u00e5ldriga \u00f6gonen var fulla av medk\u00e4nsla.\n\nN\u00e4r b\u00e5ten hade kommit lite n\u00e4rmare kunde de se cypress- och idegransgrenar som h\u00e4ngde l\u00e5gt \u00f6ver vattnet, m\u00f6rkgr\u00f6na, t\u00e4ta och dystra. Landet h\u00f6jde sig brant och tr\u00e4den v\u00e4xte s\u00e5 t\u00e4tt att inte ens en vessla skulle kunna kila in mellan dem, och vid tanken p\u00e5 detta gav Lyra ifr\u00e5n sig en liten hickning eller snyftning, f\u00f6r Pan skulle ha visat henne att han kunde klara det, men inte nu, kanske aldrig mer.\n\n\"\u00c4r vi d\u00f6da nu?\" sa Will till b\u00e5tkarlen.\n\n\"Det har ingen betydelse\", sa han. \"N\u00e5gra av alla de som kommit hit trodde aldrig att de var d\u00f6da. De insisterade hela v\u00e4gen p\u00e5 att de var vid liv, att det var ett stort misstag, att n\u00e5gon skulle f\u00e5 betala, men det hade ingen betydelse. Det finns andra som l\u00e4ngtat efter att f\u00e5 vara d\u00f6da medan de levde, stackars sj\u00e4lar, med liv fulla av sm\u00e4rta eller sorg. De d\u00f6dade sig sj\u00e4lva f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 den v\u00e4lsignade vilan, men uppt\u00e4ckte att inget hade f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats, utom till det s\u00e4mre, och att det inte fanns n\u00e5gon mer utv\u00e4g, att det inte g\u00e5r att g\u00f6ra sig sj\u00e4lv levande igen. Det har funnits andra som varit sk\u00f6ra och sjukliga, ibland har de inte varit mer \u00e4n sm\u00e5barn, som knappt f\u00f6tts till v\u00e4rlden innan de f\u00f6rdes ner hit till de d\u00f6da. Jag har rott den h\u00e4r b\u00e5ten med sm\u00e5 gr\u00e5tande sp\u00e4dbarn i famnen m\u00e5nga, m\u00e5nga g\u00e5nger, utan att de n\u00e5gonsin f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt skillnaden mellan d\u00e4r uppe och h\u00e4r nere. Gamla m\u00e4nniskor ocks\u00e5, de rika \u00e4r v\u00e4rst. De morrar och sv\u00e4r och f\u00f6rbannar mig, de skriker och ryar: Vem trodde jag att jag var? Hade de inte samlat och sparat s\u00e5 mycket guld de kunnat f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5? Kunde jag inte ta emot lite nu, f\u00f6r att s\u00e4tta tillbaka dem p\u00e5 stranden? De skulle skicka myndigheterna p\u00e5 mig, de hade m\u00e4ktiga v\u00e4nner, de k\u00e4nde p\u00e5ven och kungen av det eller hertigen av det d\u00e4r, de hade en s\u00e5dan position att de kunde se till att jag straffades och n\u00e4psades... Men till slut ins\u00e5g de alltid sanningen: den enda position de hade kvar var i min b\u00e5t p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till de d\u00f6das land, och n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde de d\u00e4r kungarna och p\u00e5varna, s\u00e5 skulle de ocks\u00e5 komma hit, i sinom tid, och tidigare \u00e4n de sj\u00e4lva ville. Jag l\u00e4t dem gr\u00e5ta och rya, f\u00f6r de kan inte skada mig, och till slut tystnar alla.\n\nS\u00e5 om ni inte vet om ni \u00e4r d\u00f6da eller inte, och den lilla flickan sv\u00e4r sig blind p\u00e5 att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda ut till de levande, s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag inte s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got som mots\u00e4ger er. Ni kommer snart nog att f\u00e5 veta vad ni \u00e4r.\"\n\nUnder hela talet hade han rott stadigt vidare mot stranden och halade nu in \u00e5rorna och lade ner dem innanf\u00f6r relingarna och str\u00e4ckte ut h\u00f6gerhanden efter den f\u00f6rsta av de tr\u00e4stolpar som h\u00f6jde sig ur sj\u00f6n.\n\nHan drog in b\u00e5ten till en smal kaj och h\u00f6ll den stilla \u00e5t dem. Lyra ville inte kliva ur: s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hon var i n\u00e4rheten av b\u00e5ten skulle Pantalaimon kunna forts\u00e4tta att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 henne ordentligt, f\u00f6r det var s\u00e5 hon s\u00e5g ut n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g henne sist, men n\u00e4r hon r\u00f6rde sig bort fr\u00e5n b\u00e5ten skulle han inte l\u00e4ngre kunna ha hennes bild i huvudet. Hon tvekade, men trollsl\u00e4ndorna fl\u00f6g upp och Will klev ur b\u00e5ten, alldeles blek och med h\u00e4nderna h\u00e5rt mot br\u00f6stet. Hon blev helt enkelt tvungen att stiga ur, hon ocks\u00e5.\n\n\"Tack\", sa hon till b\u00e5tkarlen. \"N\u00e4r du \u00e5terv\u00e4nder, om du skulle tr\u00e4ffa p\u00e5 min d\u00e6mon, s\u00e5 s\u00e4g \u00e5t honom att jag \u00e4lskar honom mer \u00e4n n\u00e5t annat i b\u00e5de dom levandes och dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rldar och att jag sv\u00e4r p\u00e5 att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till honom, \u00e4ven om ingen annan har gjort det f\u00f6rut. Det sv\u00e4r jag p\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Ja, det ska jag ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r honom\", sa den gamle b\u00e5tkarlen.\n\nHan sk\u00f6t ifr\u00e5n och ljudet av de l\u00e5ngsamma \u00e5rtagen f\u00f6rsvann i dimman.\n\nGallivespierna fl\u00f6g tillbaka efter att ha gett sig av ett litet stycke och slog sig som vanligt ner p\u00e5 barnens axlar, hon p\u00e5 Lyras, han p\u00e5 Wills. D\u00e4r stod s\u00e5 f\u00e4rdkamraterna, vid utkanten av de d\u00f6das land. Framf\u00f6r dem fanns inget annat \u00e4n dimman, men n\u00e4r de s\u00e5g hur denna m\u00f6rknade f\u00f6rstod de att en v\u00e4ldig mur m\u00e5ste torna upp sig lite l\u00e4ngre fram.\n\nLyra darrade. Hon k\u00e4nde sig som om hennes hud hade blivit alldeles genomborrad och att den fuktiga och bittra luften skulle kunna bl\u00e5sa som den ville mellan hennes revben och att den var br\u00e4nnande kall mot det \u00f6ppna s\u00e5r d\u00e4r Pantalaimon hade funnits. Precis s\u00e5 d\u00e4r, t\u00e4nkte hon, m\u00e5ste Roger ha k\u00e4nt sig n\u00e4r han st\u00f6rtade ner f\u00f6r bergssidan och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla sig kvar i hennes desperata grepp.\n\nDe stod stilla och lyssnade. Det enda ljudet var det oupph\u00f6rliga dropp-dropp-droppandet av vattnet fr\u00e5n bladen och n\u00e4r de tittade upp k\u00e4nde de hur ett par droppar plaskade kallt p\u00e5 deras kinder.\n\n\"Vi kan inte stanna h\u00e4r\", sa Lyra.\n\nDe l\u00e4mnade kajen och h\u00f6ll sig t\u00e4tt tillsammans medan de s\u00f6kte sig fram till muren. J\u00e4ttelika stenblock, som var gr\u00f6na av ur\u00e5ldriga alger, str\u00e4ckte sig h\u00f6gre upp i dimman \u00e4n de kunde se. Nu n\u00e4r de hade kommit n\u00e4rmare kunde de h\u00f6ra ljudet av skrik bakom muren, men om det var m\u00e4nskliga r\u00f6ster som skrek var om\u00f6jligt att avg\u00f6ra: det var h\u00f6ga, sorgsna tjut och ylanden som h\u00e4ngde kvar i luften likt en manets omkringdrivande tr\u00e5dar, och som sm\u00e4rtade varje g\u00e5ng de nuddade vid n\u00e5got.\n\n\"D\u00e4r sitter en d\u00f6rr\", sa Will med str\u00e4v och sp\u00e4nd r\u00f6st.\n\nDet var en sliten sidod\u00f6rr av tr\u00e4 nedanf\u00f6r ett stort stenblock. Innan Will hann lyfta handen f\u00f6r att kunna \u00f6ppna den h\u00f6rdes ett av de d\u00e4r h\u00f6ga, str\u00e4va skriken mycket n\u00e4ra och det skorrade mot deras \u00f6ron och skr\u00e4mde dem fruktansv\u00e4rt.\n\nGallivespierna pilade omedelbart upp i luften, med trollsl\u00e4ndorna som sm\u00e5 stridsh\u00e4star ivriga att f\u00e5 komma i strid. Men den sak som fl\u00f6g ner svepte dem \u00e5t sidan med ett kraftigt slag fr\u00e5n den ena vingen och slog sig sedan ner p\u00e5 en hylla alldeles ovanf\u00f6r barnens huvuden. Tialys och Salmakia samlade sig och lugnade sina omskakade riddjur.\n\nVarelsen var en f\u00e5gel stor som en gam, med ansikte och br\u00f6st som en kvinna. Will hade sett bilder av varelser som hon, s\u00e5 ordet _harpya_ d\u00f6k upp i hans medvetande s\u00e5 snart han sett henne tillr\u00e4ckligt tydligt. Ansiktet var sl\u00e4tt och utan rynkor, men l\u00e5ngt mycket \u00e4ldre \u00e4n till och med h\u00e4xorna: hon hade sett tusentals \u00e5r passera och alla de \u00e5rens grymheter och lidande hade gett hennes drag ett hatfyllt uttryck, men n\u00e4r resen\u00e4rerna s\u00e5g henne tydligare blev hon \u00e4nnu mer avskyv\u00e4rd. \u00d6gonh\u00e5lorna var igengrodda av ett smutsigt slem och de r\u00f6da l\u00e4pparna var t\u00e4ckta av en h\u00e5rd skorpa, som om hon g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng hade spytt upp urgammalt blod. Det matta, smutsiga, svarta h\u00e5ret h\u00e4ngde ner till axlarna, de skarpa klorna hade ett h\u00e5rt grepp om stenen, de kraftfulla, m\u00f6rka vingarna var hopf\u00e4llda l\u00e4ngs ryggen och en rutten dunst slog ut fr\u00e5n henne varje g\u00e5ng hon r\u00f6rde sig.\n\nB\u00e5de Will och Lyra blev alldeles illam\u00e5ende, men f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte \u00e4nd\u00e5 st\u00e5 kvar och konfrontera henne.\n\n\"Men ni lever ju!\" h\u00e5nade harpyan dem med sin str\u00e4va r\u00f6st.\n\nWill ins\u00e5g att han hatade och fruktade henne mer \u00e4n n\u00e5gon m\u00e4nsklig varelse han n\u00e5gonsin hade tr\u00e4ffat.\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r du?\" sa Lyra, som var precis lika \u00e4cklad som Will.\n\nHarpyan gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett skrik till svar. Hon \u00f6ppnade munnen och riktade en str\u00f6m av ljud rakt mot deras ansikten, s\u00e5 att huvudena ringde och barnen var n\u00e4ra att ramla omkull. Will h\u00f6gg tag i Lyra och b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 kramade varandra medan skriket \u00f6vergick i en vild och h\u00e5nfull skrattsalva, som besvarades av andra harpyer\u00f6ster i dimman runt stranden. Det f\u00f6raktfulla, hatfyllda ljudet p\u00e5minde Will om barnens skoningsl\u00f6sa grymheter p\u00e5 skolg\u00e5rden, men h\u00e4r fanns inga l\u00e4rare som kunde reda upp saken, ingen att v\u00e4nda sig till, ingenstans att g\u00f6mma sig.\n\nHan lade handen p\u00e5 kniven vid b\u00e4ltet och s\u00e5g henne i \u00f6gonen, trots att det ringde i hela huvudet och trots att kraften i skriket hade gjort honom vimmelkantig.\n\n\"Om du f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker stoppa oss\", sa han, \"s\u00e5 \u00e4r det b\u00e4st f\u00f6r dig att du \u00e4r lika beredd p\u00e5 att sl\u00e5ss som du \u00e4r p\u00e5 att skrika, f\u00f6r vi t\u00e4nker g\u00e5 in genom den d\u00e4r d\u00f6rren.\"\n\nHarpyans sjukligt r\u00f6da mun r\u00f6rde sig igen, men den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen var det f\u00f6r att forma l\u00e4pparna till en l\u00e5tsad kyss.\n\nSedan sa hon: \"Din mamma \u00e4r ensam. Vi ska skicka mardr\u00f6mmar till henne. Vi ska skrika \u00e5t henne i s\u00f6mnen!\"\n\nWill r\u00f6rde sig inte, f\u00f6r i \u00f6gonvr\u00e5n kunde han se hur lady Salmakia f\u00f6rsiktigt f\u00f6rflyttade sig l\u00e4ngs den gren som var n\u00e4rmast harpyan. Vingarna darrade p\u00e5 hennes trollsl\u00e4nda, som Tialys h\u00f6ll i nere p\u00e5 marken, och sedan h\u00e4nde tv\u00e5 saker samtidigt: lady Salmakia hoppade mot harpyan och snurrade runt f\u00f6r att kunna sticka sporren djupt i varelsens fj\u00e4lliga ben och Tialys for iv\u00e4g upp\u00e5t med trollsl\u00e4ndan. P\u00e5 mindre \u00e4n en sekund hade Salmakia snurrat iv\u00e4g och hoppat av grenen, r\u00e4tt ner p\u00e5 ryggen p\u00e5 sitt skimrande bl\u00e5 riddjur och flugit iv\u00e4g upp\u00e5t.\n\nEffekten p\u00e5 harpyan var omedelbar. \u00c4nnu ett tjut trasade s\u00f6nder tystnaden och det var mycket h\u00f6gre \u00e4n det f\u00f6rra. Hon piskade s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt med vingarna att b\u00e5de Will och Lyra vacklade av vinddraget. Men hon klamrade sig fast vid stenen med klorna. Ansiktet var m\u00f6rkr\u00f6tt av vrede och h\u00e5ret stod ut fr\u00e5n henne som en krona av ormar.\n\nWill ryckte tag i Lyras hand och b\u00e5da f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte rusa mot d\u00f6rren, men harpyan kastade sig mot dem i ett v\u00e5ldsamt utfall och avbr\u00f6t dykningen f\u00f6rst n\u00e4r Will v\u00e4nde sig om, knuffade Lyra bakom sig och h\u00f6ll upp kniven.\n\nGallivespierna var omedelbart p\u00e5 henne och pilade fram alldeles n\u00e4ra hennes ansikte, men m\u00e5ste flyga undan utan att kunna stinga henne, men de lyckades \u00e4nd\u00e5 distrahera henne tillr\u00e4ckligt mycket, f\u00f6r slaget med vingarna var klumpigt och hon sj\u00e4lv var n\u00e4ra att ramla ner p\u00e5 marken.\n\n\"Tialys! Salmakia!\" ropade Lyra. \"Sluta! Sluta!\"\n\nSpionerna tyglade sina trollsl\u00e4ndor och fl\u00f6g upp ovanf\u00f6r barnens huvuden. Fler m\u00f6rka skepnader samlades i dimman och de h\u00e5nfulla skriken fr\u00e5n ytterligare hundra harpyor kunde h\u00f6ras l\u00e4ngre bort l\u00e4ngs stranden. Den f\u00f6rsta skakade sina vingar, skakade ut h\u00e5ret, str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 vart och ett av benen i tur och ordning och \u00f6ppnade och st\u00e4ngde klorna. Hon var helt oskadad, vilket var vad Lyra hade uppt\u00e4ckt.\n\nGallivespierna sv\u00e4vade ett \u00f6gonblick och d\u00f6k sedan ner mot Lyra. Hon h\u00f6ll ut b\u00e5da h\u00e4nderna s\u00e5 att de kunde landa p\u00e5 dem. Salmakia f\u00f6rstod vad Lyra hade menat och talade om det f\u00f6r Tialys. \"Hon har r\u00e4tt. Av n\u00e5gon anledning kan vi inte skada henne.\"\n\n\"Min fru\", sa Lyra, \"vad heter ni?\"\n\nHarpyan skakade ut vingarna till deras fulla bredd, och vandrarna var n\u00e4ra att svimma av den fruktansv\u00e4rda stanken av f\u00f6rruttnelse och f\u00f6rd\u00e4rv som slog emot dem.\n\n\"Inget-Namn!\" skrek hon.\n\n\"Vad vill ni ha av oss?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Vad kan ni ge mig?\"\n\n\"Vi skulle kunna ber\u00e4tta var vi har varit, och det kan kanske intressera er, jag vet inte. Vi har upplevt alla m\u00f6jliga konstiga saker p\u00e5 resan hit.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, s\u00e5 ni erbjuder er att ber\u00e4tta en historia?\"\n\n\"Om ni vill.\"\n\n\"Det kanske jag g\u00f6r. Och sedan?\"\n\n\"Ni skulle kunna sl\u00e4ppa in oss genom den d\u00e4r d\u00f6rren s\u00e5 att vi kan leta reda p\u00e5 den ande vi har kommit hit f\u00f6r att s\u00f6ka upp. Det hoppades jag i alla fall. Om ni skulle vilja vara s\u00e5 v\u00e4nlig.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6rs\u00f6k d\u00e5\", sa Inget-Namn.\n\nTrots illam\u00e5endet och sm\u00e4rtan k\u00e4nde Lyra det som om hon just hade f\u00e5tt trumf\u00e4sset p\u00e5 handen.\n\n\"\u00c5h, var f\u00f6rsiktig\", viskade Salmakia, men Lyras hj\u00e4rna h\u00f6ll redan p\u00e5 att kasta sig fram genom den ber\u00e4ttelse hon hade dragit kv\u00e4llen innan och h\u00f6ll nu p\u00e5 att forma och sk\u00e4ra till, att f\u00f6rb\u00e4ttra och ut\u00f6ka: _f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrarna d\u00f6da, familjens f\u00f6rm\u00f6genhet, skeppsbrottet, flykten..._\n\n\"Tja\", sa hon och gick in i sin historieber\u00e4ttarst\u00e4mning, \"det b\u00f6rjade egentligen redan n\u00e4r jag var nyf\u00f6dd. Min far och mor var hertigen och hertiginnan av Abingdon, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni, och dom var hur rika som helst. Min far var en av kungens r\u00e5dgivare och det h\u00e4nde ofta att kungen sj\u00e4lv kom f\u00f6rbi, \u00e5h, j\u00e4tteofta. D\u00e5 var dom ute och jagade i skogen. Huset d\u00e4r jag f\u00f6ddes var det st\u00f6rsta huset i hela s\u00f6dra England. Det kallades...\"\n\nUtan minsta varningsrop kastade harpyan sig mot Lyra med utstr\u00e4ckta klor. Lyra lyckades n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt ducka, men en av klorna hann \u00e4nd\u00e5 f\u00e5 grepp om hennes huvud och rev loss en h\u00e5rtuss.\n\n\"L\u00f6gner! L\u00f6gner!\" skrek harpyan. \"L\u00f6gner!\"\n\nHon fl\u00f6g runt igen och siktade rakt mot Lyras ansikte, men Will hade kniven framme och kastade sig i v\u00e4gen. I sista sekunden girade Inget-Namn bort ur hans r\u00e4ckvidd. Will knuffade iv\u00e4g Lyra mot d\u00f6rren, eftersom hon var bed\u00f6vad av chocken och halvt f\u00f6rblindad av blodet som rann ner i ansiktet. Will hade ingen aning om var gallivespierna befann sig, men harpyan fl\u00f6g emot dem igen och skrek och tj\u00f6t av vrede och hat:\n\n\" _L\u00f6gner! L\u00f6gner! L\u00f6gner!_ \"\n\nDet l\u00e4t som om hennes r\u00f6st kom fr\u00e5n alla h\u00e5ll och ordet ekade tillbaka fr\u00e5n den h\u00f6ga muren i dimman, d\u00e4mpat och f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrat, s\u00e5 att hon tycktes skrika ut Lyras namn, s\u00e5 att Lyra och l\u00f6gner blev ett och samma.\n\nWill tryckte flickan mot br\u00f6stet och h\u00f6jde axeln som skydd \u00f6ver henne. Han k\u00e4nde hur hon skakade och snyftade i hans famn. Han k\u00f6rde kniven genom d\u00f6rrens ruttna tr\u00e4 och skar bort l\u00e5set med ett snabbt svep med kniven.\n\nSedan ramlade han och Lyra, med spionerna bredvid p\u00e5 sina framilande trollsl\u00e4ndor, in genom d\u00f6rren till andarnas rike. P\u00e5 den dimmiga stranden bakom dem f\u00f6rdubblades harpyans rop g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng av andra r\u00f6ster.\n\n## 22\n\n## Viskarna\n\nT\u00c4TT, LIKSOM H\u00d6STL\u00d6V, STR\u00d6TT L\u00c4NGS VALLOMBROSAS \u00c4LV, D\u00c4R TUSKISKT GRENVERK BYGGT SKUGGVALV.\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\nDET F\u00d6RSTA WILL gjorde var att tvinga Lyra att s\u00e4tta sig ner, och sedan plockade han fram den lilla burken med blodmossesalva och tog hand om s\u00e5ret p\u00e5 hennes huvud. Det bl\u00f6dde ymnigt, precis som s\u00e5r p\u00e5 huvudet brukar g\u00f6ra, men det var inte s\u00e4rskilt djupt. Han rev av en remsa fr\u00e5n sin skjorta och torkade rent och str\u00f6k sedan ut lite salva \u00f6ver s\u00e5ret och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte l\u00e5ta bli att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 hur smutsig klon som hade \u00e5stadkommit s\u00e5ret var.\n\nLyras \u00f6gon var glansiga och ansiktet var alldeles askblekt.\n\n\"Lyra! Lyra!\" sa han och ruskade henne f\u00f6rsiktigt. \"Kom nu, vi m\u00e5ste forts\u00e4tta.\"\n\nHon r\u00f6s till och drog ett l\u00e5ngt, sk\u00e4lvande andetag, men sedan tittade hon stadigt p\u00e5 honom, med en blick full av f\u00f6rtvivlan.\n\n\"Will \u2013 jag klarar det inte l\u00e4ngre \u2013 jag klarar det inte! Jag kan inte ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5gra l\u00f6gner! Jag trodde att det var s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt \u2013 men det gick inte \u2013 det \u00e4r det enda jag kan, men det gick inte!\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r _inte_ det enda du kan g\u00f6ra. Du kan l\u00e4sa alethiometern, eller hur? S\u00e4tt fart, vi m\u00e5ste ta reda p\u00e5 var vi \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans. Nu letar vi reda p\u00e5 Roger.\"\n\nHan hj\u00e4lpte henne upp och f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen s\u00e5g de sig om i det land d\u00e4r andarna levde.\n\nDe uppt\u00e4ckte att de befann sig p\u00e5 en v\u00e4ldig sl\u00e4tt som str\u00e4ckte sig l\u00e5ngt bort i dimman. Det enda ljuset var ett matt sken som tycktes lysa \u00f6verallt med samma styrka, s\u00e5 att det inte blev n\u00e5gra riktiga skuggor och inget riktigt ljus, utan allt fick samma gr\u00e5daskiga nyans.\n\nUte p\u00e5 den v\u00e4ldiga sl\u00e4tten stod b\u00e5de vuxna och barn \u2013 sp\u00f6km\u00e4nniskor \u2013 s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga att Lyra inte kunde f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig deras antal. De flesta stod i alla fall upp, \u00e4ven om n\u00e5gra satt ner och n\u00e5gra l\u00e5g apatiskt eller s\u00e5g ut att sova. Ingen r\u00f6rde sig eller sprang omkring eller lekte, \u00e4ven om m\u00e5nga av dem v\u00e4nde sig om f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 nykomlingarna med skr\u00e4md nyfikenhet i de vid\u00f6ppna \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"Andar\", viskade hon. \"Det \u00e4r hit alla kommer, alla som n\u00e5nsin d\u00f6tt...\"\n\nDet var f\u00f6rmodligen f\u00f6r att hon inte hade Pantalaimon med sig som hon klamrade sig fast vid Wills arm, men han var glad \u00f6ver att hon gjorde det. Gallivespierna hade flugit i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g och han kunde se hur de lysande skepnaderna for fram \u00f6ver andarnas huvuden. Andarna tittade upp och f\u00f6ljde dem f\u00f6rundrat med blicken, men tystnaden var oerh\u00f6rd och tryckande och det gr\u00e5 ljuset fyllde honom med skr\u00e4ck. Lyras varma n\u00e4rvaro bredvid honom var det enda som k\u00e4ndes som liv.\n\nBakom honom, utanf\u00f6r muren, ekade harpyornas tjut fortfarande upp och ner l\u00e4ngs stranden. N\u00e5gra av sp\u00f6km\u00e4nniskorna tittade \u00e4ngsligt upp, men \u00e4nnu fler stirrade p\u00e5 Will och Lyra och b\u00f6rjade sedan tr\u00e4nga sig fram mot dem. Lyra kr\u00f6p ihop, f\u00f6r just nu hade hon inte tillr\u00e4ckligt med styrka f\u00f6r att kunna m\u00f6ta dem p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt hon hade f\u00f6redragit, s\u00e5 det var Will som m\u00e5ste prata f\u00f6rst.\n\n\"Talar ni v\u00e5rt spr\u00e5k?\" sa han. \"Kan ni prata \u00f6verhuvudtaget?\"\n\nTrots att b\u00e5de han och Lyra darrade och var r\u00e4dda och uppfyllda av sm\u00e4rta hade de st\u00f6rre auktoritet \u00e4n hela massan av d\u00f6da tillsammans. De h\u00e4r stackars andarna hade mycket lite egen kraft och n\u00e4r de h\u00f6rde Wills r\u00f6st, som var den f\u00f6rsta tydliga r\u00f6st som n\u00e5gonsin hade h\u00f6rts bland de d\u00f6da, var det m\u00e5nga av dem som steg fram och var ivriga att f\u00e5 svara.\n\nMen de kunde bara viska. Svaga och tunna ljud, inte mer \u00e4n mjuka andetag, var det enda de kunde f\u00e5 fram. N\u00e4r de tog sig fram\u00e5t, knuffande och desperata, fl\u00f6g gallivespierna ner och pilade fram och tillbaka framf\u00f6r dem f\u00f6r att hindra att de kom f\u00f6r n\u00e4ra. Sp\u00f6kbarnen tittade upp med en brinnande l\u00e4ngtan och Lyra f\u00f6rstod genast varf\u00f6r: de trodde att trollsl\u00e4ndorna var d\u00e6moner, och de \u00f6nskade av hela sitt hj\u00e4rta att de kunde f\u00e5 h\u00e5lla i sina egna d\u00e6moner igen.\n\n\"\u00c5h, det \u00e4r inga d\u00e6moner\", ropade Lyra, fylld av medk\u00e4nsla, \"men om min egen d\u00e6mon hade varit h\u00e4r, s\u00e5 hade allihop f\u00e5tt smeka honom och r\u00f6ra vid honom, jag lovar...\"\n\nHon h\u00f6ll ut h\u00e4nderna mot barnen. De vuxna andarna v\u00e4ntade i bakgrunden, likgiltiga eller r\u00e4dda, men alla barnen tr\u00e4ngde sig fram. De hade lika lite substans som dimma, de stackars krakarna, och Lyras h\u00e4nder passerade rakt igenom dem, vilket \u00e4ven Wills gjorde. De tr\u00e4ngde sig fram\u00e5t, l\u00e4tta och livl\u00f6sa, f\u00f6r att kunna v\u00e4rma sig mot de b\u00e5da vandrarnas pulserande blod och starkt bultande hj\u00e4rtan, och b\u00e5de Will och Lyra k\u00e4nde en serie av kalla, spr\u00f6tt svepande ber\u00f6ringar n\u00e4r andarna passerade genom deras kroppar och v\u00e4rmde sig litt p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen. De b\u00e5da levande barnen f\u00f6rstod att de sj\u00e4lva h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att d\u00f6 en liten bit i taget, f\u00f6r de hade inte n\u00e5gon o\u00e4ndlig m\u00e4ngd liv och v\u00e4rme att ge ifr\u00e5n sig, och de var redan ofattbart frusna. Den \u00e4ndl\u00f6sa folkmassan som pressade p\u00e5 s\u00e5g ut som om den aldrig t\u00e4nkte upph\u00f6ra.\n\nTill slut m\u00e5ste Lyra be dem att h\u00e5lla sig undan.\n\nHon h\u00f6ll upp handen och sa: \"Sn\u00e4lla \u2013 vi \u00f6nskar att vi kunde r\u00f6ra vid er allihop, men vi kom ner hit f\u00f6r att leta efter en viss person och jag beh\u00f6ver hj\u00e4lp f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5 var han \u00e4r och hur jag ska hitta honom. \u00c5h, Will\", sa hon och lutade sitt huvud mot hans, \"jag \u00f6nskar att jag visste vad jag skulle g\u00f6ra!\"\n\nAndarna fascinerades av blodet p\u00e5 Lyras panna. Det gl\u00f6dde klart som ett j\u00e4rneksb\u00e4r i dunklet och flera av dem hade svept igenom det och l\u00e4ngtat efter att f\u00e5 kontakt med n\u00e5got som var s\u00e5 vibrerande levande. En sp\u00f6kflicka, som m\u00e5ste ha varit runt nio eller tio \u00e5r n\u00e4r hon dog, str\u00e4ckte sig blygt upp och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte r\u00f6ra vid blodet, men kr\u00f6p sedan ihop av r\u00e4dsla. \"Var inte r\u00e4dd\", sa Lyra, \"vi har inte kommit hit f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra er illa \u2013 prata med oss, om du kan!\"\n\nSp\u00f6kflickan talade, men den tunna, svaga r\u00f6sten var bara en viskning:\n\n\"Var det harpyorna som gjorde det d\u00e4r? F\u00f6rs\u00f6kte dom skada er?\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa Lyra, \"men om det \u00e4r allt dom kan st\u00e4lla till med, s\u00e5 \u00e4r jag inte s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r dom.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, det \u00e4r det inte \u2013 \u00e5h, dom kan g\u00f6ra mycket v\u00e4rre saker...\"\n\n\"Vad\u00e5? Vad kan dom g\u00f6ra?\"\n\nMen andarna ville inte ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r henne. De skakade p\u00e5 huvudena och var tysta, \u00e4nda tills en pojke sa: \"Det \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 hemskt f\u00f6r dom som har varit h\u00e4r i hundratals \u00e5r, f\u00f6r dom tr\u00f6ttnar p\u00e5 en efter s\u00e5 l\u00e5ng tid, dom kan inte skr\u00e4mma en lika mycket...\"\n\n\"Dom gillar mest att prata med dom nya\", sa den f\u00f6rsta flickan. \"Det \u00e4r bara... \u00c5h, det \u00e4r bara s\u00e5 avskyv\u00e4rt. Dom... Jag kan inte ber\u00e4tta.\"\n\nDeras r\u00f6ster l\u00e4t inte h\u00f6gre \u00e4n torra l\u00f6v som f\u00f6ll fr\u00e5n sina grenar, och det var bara barnen som pratade. De vuxna tycktes f\u00f6rsjunkna i en dvala som var s\u00e5 ur\u00e5ldrig att de aldrig tycktes kunna r\u00f6ra sig eller s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got igen.\n\n\"H\u00f6r p\u00e5\", sa Lyra, \"var sn\u00e4lla och lyssna. Vi har kommit hit, jag och mina v\u00e4nner, f\u00f6r att vi m\u00e5ste hitta en pojke som heter Roger. Han har inte varit h\u00e4r s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge, bara n\u00e5gra veckor, s\u00e5 han k\u00e4nner inte s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga, men om ni vet var han \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans...\"\n\nSamtidigt som hon sa detta ins\u00e5g hon att de kunde stanna h\u00e4r tills de blev gamla och att de kunde leta \u00f6verallt och titta p\u00e5 vartenda ansikte och \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte se mer \u00e4n en br\u00e5kdel av alla de d\u00f6da. Hon k\u00e4nde hur hennes f\u00f6rtvivlan tyngde ner axlarna, lika tungt som om harpyan sj\u00e4lv hade suttit d\u00e4r.\n\nMen hon bet ihop och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla huvudet h\u00f6gt. Vi tog oss hit, t\u00e4nkte hon, det \u00e4r i alla fall en bit p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen.\n\nDen f\u00f6rsta sp\u00f6kflickan sa n\u00e5got med sin \u00f6vergivna lilla viskning.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r vill vi hitta honom?\" sa Will. \"Lyra vill prata med honom. Men det \u00e4r en person som jag vill hitta ocks\u00e5. Jag vill hitta min pappa, John Parry. Han finns ocks\u00e5 h\u00e4r n\u00e5nstans, och jag vill prata med honom innan jag \u00e5terv\u00e4nder till v\u00e4rlden. S\u00e5 om ni kan, vill ni vara s\u00e5 sn\u00e4lla och fr\u00e5ga efter Roger och efter John Parry och be dom komma och prata med Lyra och Will. Fr\u00e5ga dom...\"\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt v\u00e4nde alla andarna p\u00e5 klacken och flydde, \u00e4ven de vuxna, likt torra l\u00f6v som sopades bort av en pl\u00f6tslig vindil. P\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick t\u00f6mdes omr\u00e5det runt barnen och sedan f\u00f6rstod de varf\u00f6r: skrik, tjut och ylanden h\u00f6rdes fr\u00e5n luften ovanf\u00f6r dem och sedan var harpyorna p\u00e5 dem med dunster fr\u00e5n sin ruttnande stank, sina piskande vingar och de skrovliga tjuten, h\u00e5nande, h\u00e4cklande, kacklande, f\u00f6rl\u00f6jligande.\n\nLyra sj\u00f6nk ihop p\u00e5 marken och slog h\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r \u00f6ronen. Will stod lutad \u00f6ver henne med kniven i handen. Han kunde se att Tialys och Salmakia var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot dem, men de var fortfarande ett stycke bort och han hade fortfarande n\u00e5got \u00f6gonblick eller tv\u00e5 p\u00e5 sig att se hur harpyorna girade och d\u00f6k. Han s\u00e5g hur deras m\u00e4nskliga ansikten snappade i luften, som om de \u00e5t insekter, och h\u00f6rde orden de skrek ut \u2013 h\u00e5nande ord, smutsiga ord \u2013 och allt handlade om hans mamma. Det var ord som skakade honom \u00e4nda in i sj\u00e4len, men en del av honom var helt kall och avskild, den t\u00e4nkte, ber\u00e4knade, observerade. Ingen av dem ville komma i n\u00e4rheten av kniven.\n\nF\u00f6r att ta reda p\u00e5 vad som skulle h\u00e4nda reste han sig upp. En av dem \u2013 det kunde ha varit Inget-Namn sj\u00e4lv \u2013 m\u00e5ste gira tungt ur v\u00e4gen, eftersom hon hade gjort en l\u00e5g dykning och hade haft f\u00f6r avsikt att stryka fram rakt \u00f6ver hans huvud. Hennes tunga vingar slog klumpigt och det var n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt att hon klarade av att sv\u00e4nga. Han kunde ha str\u00e4ckt ut handen och skurit huvudet av henne med kniven.\n\nVid det laget hade gallivespierna anl\u00e4nt och b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 var redo att g\u00e5 till anfall, men Will ropade p\u00e5 dem: \"Tialys! Kom hit! Salmakia, flyg ner till min hand!\"\n\nDe landade p\u00e5 hans axlar och han sa: \"Spana. H\u00e5ll ett \u00f6ga p\u00e5 vad dom g\u00f6r. Dom kommer bara hit och skriker. Jag tror det var ett misstag n\u00e4r hon slog till Lyra. Jag tror inte dom vill r\u00f6ra vid oss alls. Vi kan strunta i dom.\"\n\nLyra tittade stor\u00f6gt upp. Varelserna fl\u00f6g runt Wills huvud, ibland en knapp halvmeter bort, men de girade alltid undan eller \u00e5t sidan i sista \u00f6gonblicket. Han kunde k\u00e4nna hur ivriga de b\u00e5da spionerna var p\u00e5 att f\u00e5 g\u00e5 i strid. Trollsl\u00e4ndornas vingar darrade av l\u00e4ngtan att f\u00e5 pila fram genom luften med sina d\u00f6dliga ryttare, men de h\u00f6lls tillbaka: ryttarna kunde se att han hade r\u00e4tt.\n\nDet hade \u00e4ven inverkan p\u00e5 andarna: n\u00e4r de s\u00e5g Will st\u00e5 d\u00e4r, or\u00e4dd och oskadd, b\u00f6rjade de glida tillbaka mot vandrarna. De spanade vaksamt mot harpyorna, men det varma k\u00f6ttets och blodets lockelse, de starka hj\u00e4rtslagen, var f\u00f6r mycket f\u00f6r att kunna motst\u00e5s.\n\nLyra reste sig upp bredvid Will. Hennes s\u00e5r hade slagits upp p\u00e5 nytt och f\u00e4rskt blod droppade ner f\u00f6r kinden, men hon torkade bort det.\n\n\"Will\", sa hon, \"jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 glad \u00f6ver att vi kom ner hit tillsammans...\"\n\nHan h\u00f6rde ett tonfall i hennes r\u00f6st och s\u00e5g ett uttryck i hennes ansikte som han f\u00f6rstod och tyckte om mer \u00e4n n\u00e5got annat han n\u00e5gonsin hade f\u00e5tt uppleva: det antydde att hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 n\u00e5got riktigt v\u00e5ghalsigt, men att hon inte var redo att prata om det \u00e4n.\n\nHan nickade f\u00f6r att visa att han hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt.\n\nSp\u00f6kflickan sa: \"Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen \u2013 f\u00f6lj med oss \u2013 vi ska hitta dom!\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da barnen k\u00e4nde n\u00e5got underligt, som om sm\u00e5 sp\u00f6kh\u00e4nder str\u00e4ckte sig in i dem och drog i deras revben f\u00f6r att de skulle f\u00f6lja med.\n\nDe gav sig av \u00f6ver den v\u00e4ldiga och \u00f6dsliga sl\u00e4tten och harpyorna girade allt h\u00f6gre och h\u00f6gre ovanf\u00f6r dem, tjutande och ylande. Men de h\u00f6ll sig p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd och gallivespierna fl\u00f6g ovanf\u00f6r och h\u00f6ll vakt.\n\nMedan de gick talade andarna med dem.\n\n\"F\u00f6rl\u00e5t mig\", sa en sp\u00f6kflicka, \"men var \u00e4r era d\u00e6moner? F\u00f6rl\u00e5t att jag fr\u00e5gar. Men...\"\n\nLyra var varenda sekund medveten om sin \u00e4lskade \u00f6vergivna Pantalaimon. Hon hade sv\u00e5rt att prata, s\u00e5 Will svarade ist\u00e4llet:\n\n\"Vi l\u00e4mnade v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner utanf\u00f6r\", sa han, \"d\u00e4r dom \u00e4r i s\u00e4kerhet. Vi ska h\u00e4mta dom sen. Hade du en d\u00e6mon?\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa flickan, \"han hette Sandling... \u00c5h, vad jag \u00e4lskade honom...\"\n\n\"Hade han f\u00e5tt sin slutliga form?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Nej, inte \u00e4n. Han brukade tro att han skulle bli en f\u00e5gel, men jag hoppades att han inte skulle bli det, f\u00f6r jag tyckte om att ha honom p\u00e4lskl\u00e4dd i s\u00e4ngen p\u00e5 n\u00e4tterna. Men han blev allt oftare en f\u00e5gel. Vad heter din d\u00e6mon?\"\n\nLyra ber\u00e4ttade och andarna pressade sig ivrigt n\u00e4rmare igen. Alla ville prata om sina d\u00e6moner, varenda en.\n\n\"Min hette Matipan...\"\n\n\"Vi brukade leka kurrag\u00f6mma, hon f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en kameleont, s\u00e5 att jag inte kunde se henne alls, hon var alltid s\u00e5 duktig...\"\n\n\"En g\u00e5ng gjorde jag illa mig i \u00f6gat, s\u00e5 att jag inte kunde se och d\u00e5 ledde han mig hela v\u00e4gen hem...\"\n\n\"Han ville aldrig ta fast form, men jag ville v\u00e4xa upp, s\u00e5 vi gr\u00e4lade ofta...\"\n\n\"Han brukade rulla ihop sig i min hand och somna...\"\n\n\"\u00c4r de fortfarande d\u00e4r, n\u00e5n annanstans? Kommer vi att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa dom igen?\"\n\n\"Nej. N\u00e4r man d\u00f6r slocknar ens d\u00e6mon som ett ljus. Jag har sett det h\u00e4nda. Jag s\u00e5g aldrig min Castor \u2013 jag hann aldrig ta farv\u00e4l...\"\n\n\"Finns dom _ingenstans_? Dom m\u00e5ste finnas _n\u00e5nstans_! Min d\u00e6mon finns fortfarande d\u00e4r ute n\u00e5nstans, det vet jag att han g\u00f6r!\"\n\nAndarnas knuffande var livligt och ivrigt och \u00f6gonen gl\u00e4nste och kinderna var varma, som om de l\u00e5nade lite liv fr\u00e5n vandrarna.\n\n\"Finns det n\u00e5n h\u00e4r fr\u00e5n min v\u00e4rld, d\u00e4r vi inte har n\u00e5gra d\u00e6moner?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\nEn smal sp\u00f6kpojke i hans egen \u00e5lder nickade, s\u00e5 Will v\u00e4nde sig mot honom.\n\n\"Oh, ja\", kom svaret. \"Vi visste inte vad d\u00e6moner var f\u00f6r n\u00e5t, men vi vet alla hur det k\u00e4nns att vara utan dom. Det finns m\u00e4nniskor h\u00e4r fr\u00e5n alla m\u00f6jliga v\u00e4rldar.\"\n\n\"Jag k\u00e4nde min d\u00f6d\", sa en flicka. \"Jag k\u00e4nde honom hela tiden medan jag v\u00e4xte upp. N\u00e4r jag h\u00f6rde dom prata om d\u00e6moner trodde jag att dom menade n\u00e5t som v\u00e5ra d\u00f6dar. Nu saknar jag honom. Jag kommer aldrig att tr\u00e4ffa honom igen. _Nu \u00e4r jag klar och f\u00e4rdig_ , var det sista han sa till mig och sen f\u00f6rsvann han f\u00f6r evigt. N\u00e4r han var hos mig visste jag att det alltid fanns n\u00e5n som jag kunde lita p\u00e5, n\u00e5n som visste vart vi var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g och vad vi skulle g\u00f6ra. Men jag har honom inte l\u00e4ngre. Jag kommer aldrig n\u00e5nsin mer att f\u00e5 veta vad som ska h\u00e4nda.\"\n\n\"Det kommer inte att h\u00e4nda _n\u00e5nting_!\" sa n\u00e5gon annan. \"Ingenting, i all evighet!\"\n\n\"Det vet du inget om\", sa n\u00e5gon annan. \"Dom kom ju hit, eller hur? Det var ingen som hade n\u00e5n aning om att det skulle h\u00e4nda.\"\n\nHon menade Will och Lyra.\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r det f\u00f6rsta som n\u00e5nsin har h\u00e4nt h\u00e4r\", sa en sp\u00f6kpojke. \"Nu h\u00e5ller kanske allt p\u00e5 att f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras.\"\n\n\"Vad skulle du g\u00f6ra om du kunde g\u00f6ra vad som helst?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Ge mig ut i v\u00e4rlden igen!\"\n\n\"Skulle du fortfarande vilja g\u00f6ra det, \u00e4ven om det betydde att du bara fick se den en enda g\u00e5ng?\"\n\n\"Ja! Ja! Ja!\"\n\n\"Jag m\u00e5ste i vilket fall som helst hitta Roger\", sa Lyra och brann av en ny id\u00e9, men det var Will som skulle f\u00e5 h\u00f6ra den f\u00f6rst.\n\nEn v\u00e4ldig och l\u00e5ngsam r\u00f6relse sattes ig\u00e5ng bland de or\u00e4kneliga andarna p\u00e5 botten av den o\u00e4ndliga sl\u00e4tten. Barnen kunde inte se r\u00f6relsen, men Tialys och Salmakia, som fl\u00f6g ovanf\u00f6r, kunde se hur de sm\u00e5 bleka figurerna r\u00f6rde sig p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt som p\u00e5minde om n\u00e4r v\u00e4ldiga f\u00e5gelflockar eller renhjordar f\u00f6rflyttar sig. I r\u00f6relsens centrum fanns de b\u00e5da barnen, som inte var n\u00e5gra andar och som r\u00f6rde sig stadigt fram\u00e5t, de ledde inte och de f\u00f6ljde inte, men p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt fokuserade de r\u00f6relsen till att bli alla de d\u00f6das egen avsikt.\n\nSpionerna, vars tankar r\u00f6rde sig \u00e4nnu snabbare \u00e4n deras frampilande riddjur, utbytte blickar och landade sina trollsl\u00e4ndor sida vid sida p\u00e5 en torr och vissen gren.\n\n\"Har vi n\u00e5gra d\u00e6moner, Tialys?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"Sedan vi klev ner i b\u00e5ten har det k\u00e4nts som om mitt hj\u00e4rta slets ut ur kroppen och fortfarande ligger och sl\u00e5r p\u00e5 stranden\", sa han. \"Men det har inte skett, det sl\u00e5r fortfarande i mitt br\u00f6st. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r m\u00e5ste det vara n\u00e5gon annan del av mig som finns d\u00e4r ute tillsammans med den lilla flickans d\u00e6mon, och n\u00e5gon del av dig ocks\u00e5, Salmakia, f\u00f6r ditt ansikte \u00e4r sp\u00e4nt och dina h\u00e4nder \u00e4r bleka och h\u00e5rt knutna. Jo, vi har d\u00e6moner, vad de \u00e4n \u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5got. Kanske \u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna i Lyras v\u00e4rld de enda levande varelser som vet att de har dem. Det \u00e4r kanske d\u00e4rf\u00f6r som det var en av dem som startade upproret.\"\n\nHan gled av trollsl\u00e4ndans rygg och tjudrade den ordentligt, och sedan plockade han fram magnetstensresonatorn. Men han hade knappt b\u00f6rjat r\u00f6ra vid den innan han slutade.\n\n\"Inget svar\", sa han allvarligt.\n\n\"S\u00e5 vi \u00e4r bortom allt?\"\n\n\"Bortom all hj\u00e4lp, \u00e5tminstone. N\u00e5, vi visste ju att vi skulle bege oss till de d\u00f6das land.\"\n\n\"Pojken skulle f\u00f6lja henne till v\u00e4rldens \u00e4nde.\"\n\n\"Kommer hans kniv att kunna \u00f6ppna en v\u00e4g ut, tror du?\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att han tror det. Men, \u00e5h, Tialys, jag vet inte.\"\n\n\"Han \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt ung. N\u00e5, de \u00e4r b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 v\u00e4ldigt unga. Om hon inte \u00f6verlever det h\u00e4r, vet du, s\u00e5 kommer fr\u00e5gan om hon ska v\u00e4lja r\u00e4tt n\u00e4r hon v\u00e4l blir frestad inte l\u00e4ngre att vara aktuell. Den kommer inte l\u00e4ngre att ha n\u00e5gon betydelse.\"\n\n\"Tror du att hon kan ha valt redan? N\u00e4r hon valde att l\u00e4mna sin d\u00e6mon p\u00e5 stranden? Var det det val hon m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra?\"\n\nChevalier Tialys tittade ner p\u00e5 de l\u00e5ngsamt framflytande miljonerna p\u00e5 botten av de d\u00f6das land, som allihop cirklade runt den ljusa och levande gnista som var Lyra Silvertunga. Han kunde precis se hennes h\u00e5r, som var det ljusaste som fanns i dunklet, och bredvid henne s\u00e5g han pojkens huvud, svarth\u00e5rigt, solitt och starkt.\n\n\"Nej\", sa han, \"inte \u00e4n. Det ligger fortfarande i framtiden, hur nu den kommer att se ut.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi se till att hon kommer ut i tryggheten.\"\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 ut b\u00e5da tv\u00e5. De \u00e4r bundna till varandra nu.\"\n\nLady Salmakia ryckte i de spindelv\u00e4vstunna tyglarna och trollsl\u00e4ndan l\u00e4ttade genast fr\u00e5n grenen och ilade iv\u00e4g mot de levande barnen, med chevalier Tialys t\u00e4tt bakom.\n\nMen de stannade inte hos dem, f\u00f6r s\u00e5 snart de hade strukit fram t\u00e4tt \u00f6ver dem f\u00f6r att ta reda p\u00e5 om de m\u00e5dde bra, fl\u00f6g de vidare fram\u00e5t, delvis f\u00f6r att trollsl\u00e4ndorna var rastl\u00f6sa och delvis f\u00f6r att de ville veta hur l\u00e5ngt den h\u00e4r dystra platsen str\u00e4ckte sig.\n\nLyra s\u00e5g hur de blixtrade f\u00f6rbi d\u00e4r uppe och k\u00e4nde ett styng av l\u00e4ttnad \u00f6ver att det fortfarande fanns n\u00e5got som kunde ila omkring och gl\u00f6da av sk\u00f6nhet. Sedan kunde hon inte h\u00e5lla id\u00e9n f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv l\u00e4ngre utan v\u00e4nde sig till Will, men hon var tvungen att viska. Hon satte l\u00e4pparna till hans \u00f6ra och i bullret fr\u00e5n hennes varma utandning h\u00f6rde han henne s\u00e4ga:\n\n\"Will, jag vill ta med mig _alla_ dom h\u00e4r stackars d\u00f6da sp\u00f6kungarna till utsidan \u2013 dom vuxna ocks\u00e5 \u2013 vi skulle kunna befria dom! Vi letar reda p\u00e5 Roger och din pappa och sedan \u00f6ppnar vi v\u00e4gen till v\u00e4rlden utanf\u00f6r och befriar allihop!\"\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig mot henne och gav henne ett stort leende, s\u00e5 varmt och lyckligt att hon k\u00e4nde hur n\u00e5got snubblade till och hakade upp sig inuti henne, det var i alla fall s\u00e5 det k\u00e4ndes, men utan Pan kunde hon inte fr\u00e5ga sig vad det betydde. Det kunde ha varit ett nytt s\u00e4tt f\u00f6r hennes hj\u00e4rta att sl\u00e5 p\u00e5. Djupt f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad intalade hon sig att hon m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 rakt igen och sluta k\u00e4nna sig s\u00e5 yr.\n\nDe r\u00f6rde sig vidare. Viskningen _Roger_ spreds snabbare \u00e4n de kunde g\u00e5, orden \"Roger \u2013 Lyra har kommit \u2013 Roger \u2013 Lyra \u00e4r h\u00e4r...\", skickades fr\u00e5n den ena anden till n\u00e4sta likt de elektriska meddelanden som cellerna i kroppen skickar till varandra.\n\nTialys och Salmakia, som kretsade h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r p\u00e5 sina outtr\u00f6ttliga trollsl\u00e4ndor, spanade \u00f6verallt d\u00e4r de fl\u00f6g och lade till slut m\u00e4rke till en ny sorts r\u00f6relse, f\u00f6r en bit l\u00e4ngre bort syntes en liten str\u00f6mvirvel av aktivitet. N\u00e4r de str\u00f6k n\u00e4rmare var det f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen ingen som brydde sig om dem, f\u00f6r n\u00e5got annat och intressantare hade gripit alla andarna. De pratade upphetsat i sina n\u00e4stan ljudl\u00f6sa viskningar, de pekade och de uppmanade n\u00e5gon att skynda fram\u00e5t.\n\nSalmakia fl\u00f6g l\u00e5gt men kunde inte landa: tr\u00e4ngseln var f\u00f6r stor och ingen av andarnas h\u00e4nder eller axlar skulle kunna b\u00e4ra upp henne, \u00e4ven om hon v\u00e5gade pr\u00f6va. Hon s\u00e5g en ung sp\u00f6kpojke med ett uppriktigt olyckligt ansikte. Han var bed\u00f6vad och f\u00f6rbryllad av det man ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r honom, s\u00e5 hon ropade h\u00f6gt:\n\n\"Roger? \u00c4r du Roger?\"\n\nHan tittade upp, omt\u00f6cknat och nerv\u00f6st, och nickade.\n\nSalmakia \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till sin f\u00f6ljeslagare och tillsammans ilade de tillbaka till Lyra. Det var l\u00e5ngt och dessutom sv\u00e5rt att navigera, men genom att studera r\u00f6relsem\u00f6nstren hittade de henne till slut.\n\n\"D\u00e4r \u00e4r hon\", sa Tialys och ropade: \"Lyra! Lyra! Din v\u00e4n \u00e4r h\u00e4r!\"\n\nLyra tittade upp och h\u00f6ll ut handen \u00e5t trollsl\u00e4ndan. Den stora insekten landade genast och dess r\u00f6da och gula f\u00e4rger bl\u00e4nkte som emalj och de tunna vingarna var styva p\u00e5 vardera sidan. Tialys h\u00f6ll balansen medan hon h\u00f6ll honom i \u00f6gonh\u00f6jd.\n\n\"Var?\" fr\u00e5gade hon, andl\u00f6s av sp\u00e4nning. \"\u00c4r han l\u00e5ngt borta?\"\n\n\"En timmes promenad\", sa chevalier Tialys, \"men han vet att du \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g. De andra har ber\u00e4ttat det f\u00f6r honom och vi kontrollerade att det var han. Forts\u00e4tt \u00e5t det h\u00e4r h\u00e5llet, s\u00e5 kommer du snart att hitta honom.\"\n\nTialys s\u00e5g hur Will gjorde en anstr\u00e4ngning att r\u00e4ta p\u00e5 sig och tvinga sig att hitta mer energi. Lyra var redan h\u00e4nf\u00f6rd av nyheten och \u00f6ver\u00f6ste gallivespierna med fr\u00e5gor: Hur hade Roger verkat? Hade han pratat med dem? Hade han verkat glad? Var de andra barnen medvetna om vad som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda och hj\u00e4lpte de till, eller var de bara i v\u00e4gen?\n\nOch s\u00e5 vidare. Tialys f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte besvara alla hennes fr\u00e5gor, b\u00e5de sanningsenligt och t\u00e5lmodigt, och steg f\u00f6r steg drogs den levande flickan allt n\u00e4rmare den pojke hon hade lett in i d\u00f6den.\n\n## 23\n\n## Ingen v\u00e4g ut\n\nOCH I SKOLEN D\u00c5 F\u00d6RST\u00c5 SANNINGEN, OCH SANNINGEN SKALL G\u00d6RA EDER FRIA \u2022\n\nEVANGELIUM ENLIGT JOHANNES\n\n\"WILL\", SA LYRA, \"vad tror du harpyorna g\u00f6r n\u00e4r vi sl\u00e4pper ut alla andarna?\"\n\nVarelserna blev allt h\u00f6gljuddare och fl\u00f6g allt n\u00e4rmare och det d\u00f6k upp fler och fler av dem, som om dunklet h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att klumpa ihop sig i sm\u00e5 fl\u00e4ckar av illvilja och gav dem vingar. Andarna spanade f\u00f6rskr\u00e4mt upp\u00e5t.\n\n\"N\u00e4rmar vi oss?\" ropade Lyra till lady Salmakia.\n\n\"Inte l\u00e5ngt kvar\", ropade hon d\u00e4r hon sv\u00e4vade ovanf\u00f6r dem. \"Du skulle kunna se honom om du kl\u00e4ttrade upp p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r klippan.\"\n\nMen Lyra ville inte sl\u00f6sa n\u00e5gon tid. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte s\u00e5 gott hon kunde att anl\u00e4gga en glad min inf\u00f6r m\u00f6tet med Roger, men inf\u00f6r hennes inre blick fanns i varje \u00f6gonblick den fruktansv\u00e4rda bilden av den lilla hund-Pan \u00f6vergiven p\u00e5 bryggan n\u00e4r dimman sl\u00f6t sig omkring honom. Det var med n\u00f6d och n\u00e4ppe hon kunde l\u00e5ta bli att gr\u00e5ta h\u00f6gt, f\u00f6r hon m\u00e5ste ge Roger hopp p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt som hon alltid hade gjort.\n\nN\u00e4r de till slut m\u00f6ttes skedde det helt pl\u00f6tsligt. D\u00e4r stod han mitt i tr\u00e4ngseln bland alla andarna. De v\u00e4lbekanta dragen var bleka, men ansiktet var s\u00e5 glatt som det kunde vara p\u00e5 en ande. Han rusade fram f\u00f6r att omfamna henne.\n\nMen han passerade likt kall r\u00f6k genom hennes armar och \u00e4ven om hon kunde k\u00e4nna hur hans lilla hand grep efter hennes hj\u00e4rta, s\u00e5 var den inte stark nog att kunna h\u00e5lla i henne. De skulle aldrig kunna r\u00f6ra vid varandra p\u00e5 riktigt igen.\n\nMen han kunde viska och hans r\u00f6st sa: \"Lyra, jag trodde aldrig att jag skulle f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa dig igen \u2013 jag trodde att \u00e4ven om du skulle komma ner hit n\u00e4r du har d\u00f6tt, s\u00e5 skulle du vara mycket \u00e4ldre. Jag trodde att du skulle vara vuxen och att du inte ville prata med mig...\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r skulle jag inte vilja det?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r att jag gjorde helt fel sak n\u00e4r Pan fick bort min d\u00e6mon fr\u00e5n lord Asriels! Vi skulle ha sprungit d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, vi skulle inte ha f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt sl\u00e5ss med henne! Vi skulle ha sprungit bort till dig! D\u00e5 skulle hon inte ha f\u00e5tt tag p\u00e5 min d\u00e6mon igen och d\u00e5 skulle hon fortfarande ha varit hos mig n\u00e4r klippan rasade!\"\n\n\"Det var ju inte _ditt_ fel, dumskalle!\" sa Lyra. \"Det var ju jag som s\u00e5g till att du var d\u00e4r till att b\u00f6rja med. Jag skulle ha l\u00e5tit dig \u00e5ka tillbaka med dom andra ungarna och gyptierna. Det var mitt fel och jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 ledsen, Roger, jag lovar, det var mitt fel, du skulle inte ha varit h\u00e4r annars...\"\n\n\"Nja\", sa han, \"jag vet inte. Jag hade kanske d\u00f6tt p\u00e5 n\u00e5t annat s\u00e4tt, men det var inte ditt _fel_ , Lyra.\"\n\nHon k\u00e4nde att hon b\u00f6rjade tro p\u00e5 det, men samtidigt var det s\u00e5 hj\u00e4rtsk\u00e4rande att se den stackars kalla lilla varelsen, som var s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra men \u00e4nd\u00e5 s\u00e5 helt utom r\u00e4ckh\u00e5ll. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ta ett grepp om hans handled, men fingrarna sl\u00f6t sig bara runt tom luft. Men Roger f\u00f6rstod och satte sig ner bredvid henne.\n\nDe \u00f6vriga andarna drog sig undan ett litet stycke och l\u00e4mnade dem ensamma. \u00c4ven Will flyttade lite p\u00e5 sig och satte sig ner f\u00f6r att sk\u00f6ta om sin hand, f\u00f6r den hade b\u00f6rjat bl\u00f6da igen. Tialys gjorde v\u00e5ldsamma utfall mot andarna f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla dem borta, samtidigt som Salmakia hj\u00e4lpte Will att ta hand om s\u00e5ret.\n\nDet h\u00e4r var n\u00e5got som Lyra och Roger var helt omedvetna om.\n\n\"Och du \u00e4r inte d\u00f6d\", sa han. \"Hur kunde du ta dig hit om du fortfarande lever? Och var \u00e4r Pan?\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, Roger \u2013 jag var tvungen att l\u00e4mna honom p\u00e5 stranden \u2013 det var det v\u00e4rsta jag n\u00e5nsin tvingats g\u00f6ra, f\u00f6r det gjorde s\u00e5 fruktansv\u00e4rt ont \u2013 du vet precis hur ont det g\u00f6r \u2013 och han bara stod d\u00e4r, och bara tittade, \u00e5h, jag k\u00e4nde mig som en m\u00f6rdare, Roger \u2013 men jag var _tvungen_ , f\u00f6r annars skulle jag inte kunnat ta mig hit!\"\n\n\"Jag har l\u00e5tsats att jag har pratat med dig \u00e4nda sen jag dog\", sa han. \"Jag har \u00f6nskat att jag kunde och jag har \u00f6nskat s\u00e5 mycket... \u00d6nskat att jag kunnat ta mig ut, jag och alla dom andra d\u00f6da, f\u00f6r det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ett fruktansv\u00e4rt st\u00e4lle, Lyra, det \u00e4r hoppl\u00f6st, det finns inte l\u00e4ngre n\u00e5got som f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras n\u00e4r man \u00e4r d\u00f6d, och dom d\u00e4r f\u00e5gelsakerna... Vet du vad dom g\u00f6r? Dom v\u00e4ntar tills man vilar sig \u2013 det g\u00e5r aldrig att sova ordentligt, man liksom slumrar bara \u2013 och d\u00e5 dyker dom upp tyst och stilla bredvid en och viskar alla dom d\u00e5liga saker man n\u00e5nsin gjorde n\u00e4r man levde, s\u00e5 att man aldrig f\u00e5r gl\u00f6mma dom. Dom k\u00e4nner till allt det v\u00e4rsta om en. Dom vet hur dom ska g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att man ska k\u00e4nna sig hemsk och f\u00e5 en att bara t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 alla dom dumma och d\u00e5liga saker man n\u00e5nsin gjort. Och alla dom giriga och elaka tankar man n\u00e5nsin haft, dom vet allt om en, och dom sk\u00e4mmer ut en och f\u00e5r en att m\u00e5 illa \u00f6ver vem man \u00e4r... Och man blir aldrig fri fr\u00e5n dom.\"\n\n\"Lyssna\", sa hon.\n\nHon s\u00e4nkte r\u00f6sten och lutade sig n\u00e4rmare den lilla anden, precis som hon brukade g\u00f6ra n\u00e4r de planerade n\u00e5got bus p\u00e5 Jordan, och fortsatte:\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r k\u00e4nner du nog inte till, men h\u00e4xorna \u2013 du kommer v\u00e4l ih\u00e5g Serafina Pekkala? \u2013 h\u00e4xorna har en profetia om mig. Dom vet inte att jag vet om det \u2013 det \u00e4r det ingen som g\u00f6r. Jag har aldrig pratat med n\u00e5n om det h\u00e4r tidigare, men n\u00e4r jag var i Trollesund och Farder Coram och gyptierna tog mig med till h\u00e4xkonsuln, doktor Lanselius, s\u00e5 gav han mig ett litet prov. Han sa att jag skulle g\u00e5 ut och v\u00e4lja r\u00e4tt bit molntall bland alla dom andra, f\u00f6r att visa att jag verkligen kunde l\u00e4sa alethiometern.\n\nJag klarade det och kom in r\u00e4tt snabbt, f\u00f6r jag fr\u00f6s och det tog bara n\u00e5n sekund, s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt var det. Konsuln pratade med Farder Coram, men dom visste inte att jag kunde h\u00f6ra dom. Han sa att h\u00e4xorna hade en profetia om mig, att jag skulle g\u00f6ra n\u00e5t stort och viktigt och att det skulle ske i en annan v\u00e4rld...\n\nMen jag har inte pratat om det. Jag tror jag m\u00e5ste ha gl\u00f6mt bort det, f\u00f6r det var s\u00e5 mycket annat p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng. Det liksom f\u00f6rsvann ur tankarna. Jag har inte ens pratat om det med Pan, f\u00f6r jag tror att han bara skulle ha skrattat \u00e5t saken.\n\nMen sen fick mrs Coulter tag p\u00e5 mig och hon h\u00f6ll mig i trans, s\u00e5 jag dr\u00f6mde, jag dr\u00f6mde om det och jag dr\u00f6mde om dig. Jag kom ih\u00e5g den gyptiska b\u00e5tmamman, Ma Costa \u2013 kommer du ih\u00e5g henne? \u2013 det var deras b\u00e5t vi \u00e5kte med fr\u00e5n Jericho med Simon och Hugh och dom...\"\n\n\"Ja! Vi kom n\u00e4stan till Abingdon med den! Det \u00e4r det b\u00e4sta vi n\u00e5nsin gjort, Lyra! Jag kommer aldrig att gl\u00f6mma det, \u00e4ven om jag skulle vara h\u00e4r nere i tusen \u00e5r...\"\n\n\"Jo, men _lyssna_ nu \u2013 n\u00e4r jag rymde fr\u00e5n mrs Coulter den d\u00e4r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen hittade jag gyptierna igen och dom tog hand om mig och... \u00c5h, Roger, jag har f\u00e5tt veta s\u00e5 _mycket_ att du knappt skulle tro mig \u2013 men det \u00e4r det h\u00e4r som \u00e4r det viktiga: Ma Costa sa till mig, hon sa att jag hade h\u00e4xolja i sj\u00e4len, hon sa att gyptierna var vattenm\u00e4nniskor, men att jag var en eldm\u00e4nniska.\n\nDet jag tror \u00e4r att hon p\u00e5 n\u00e5t s\u00e4tt h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att f\u00f6rbereda mig p\u00e5 h\u00e4xprofetian. Jag _vet_ att jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra n\u00e5t viktigt och konsuln, dr Lanselius, sa att det var viktigt att jag inte fick reda p\u00e5 vad mitt \u00f6de var f\u00f6r n\u00e5t f\u00f6rr\u00e4n det intr\u00e4ffade, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du \u2013 jag f\u00e5r inte ens _fr\u00e5ga_ om det... S\u00e5 det har jag aldrig gjort. Jag har inte ens t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 vad det skulle kunna vara. Jag har inte ens fr\u00e5gat alethiometern.\n\nMen _nu_ tror jag att jag vet. Att hitta dig igen \u00e4r bara en sorts bevis p\u00e5 det. Det jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra, Roger, mitt \u00f6de, \u00e4r att jag m\u00e5ste hj\u00e4lpa alla andarna att l\u00e4mna dom d\u00f6das land f\u00f6r all evighet. Jag och Will \u2013 vi m\u00e5ste r\u00e4dda er allihop. Det m\u00e5ste det vara. Det var n\u00e5t som lord Asriel sa ocks\u00e5, n\u00e5t som min pappa sa... _D\u00f6den kommer att d\u00f6_ , sa han, men jag vet inte vad som kommer att h\u00e4nda. Du f\u00e5r inte ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dom andra \u00e4n, lova det. Ni kanske inte kan _klara_ er d\u00e4r uppe, menar jag. Men...\"\n\nHan var desperat angel\u00e4gen om att f\u00e5 s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got, s\u00e5 hon tystnade.\n\n\"Det var _precis_ det jag ville ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dig!\" sa han. \"Jag sa det till dom, alla dom andra d\u00f6ingarna, jag sa till dom att du skulle komma! Precis som du kom och r\u00e4ddade ungarna fr\u00e5n Bolvangar! Jag sa att om n\u00e5n kan g\u00f6ra det, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det Lyra. Dom \u00f6nskade att det skulle vara sant, dom ville tro p\u00e5 mig, men det gjorde dom egentligen inte \u2013 jag kunde se det p\u00e5 dom.\n\nEtt sk\u00e4l\", fortsatte han, \"\u00e4r att varenda unge som kommer hit, precis varenda en, b\u00f6rjar med att sl\u00e5 vad om att deras pappa ska komma och h\u00e4mta dom, eller att deras mamma ska g\u00f6ra det, s\u00e5 snart hon bara f\u00e5tt veta var ungen \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans, s\u00e5 kommer hon f\u00f6r att h\u00e4mta hem ungen igen. Om det inte \u00e4r pappa eller mamma, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det deras v\u00e4nner eller deras morfar, men n\u00e5n kommer att dyka upp f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda dom. Men det g\u00f6r dom aldrig. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r var det ingen som trodde mig n\u00e4r jag sa att du skulle komma. Men jag fick r\u00e4tt!\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa hon, \"men jag skulle aldrig ha klarat det utan Will. Det \u00e4r Will d\u00e4r borta, och det d\u00e4r \u00e4r chevalier Tialys och lady Salmakia. Det \u00e4r s\u00e5 mycket jag vill ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dig, Roger...\"\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r Will? Var kommer han ifr\u00e5n?\"\n\nLyra b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6rklara och var sj\u00e4lv helt omedveten om hur hennes r\u00f6st f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades, hur hon r\u00e4tade p\u00e5 sig och hur till och med hennes \u00f6gon s\u00e5g annorlunda ut n\u00e4r hon ber\u00e4ttade om sitt m\u00f6te med Will och om striden om den vassa kniven. Hur skulle hon ha kunnat se det? Men Roger lade m\u00e4rke till det med de of\u00f6r\u00e4nderligt d\u00f6das sorgset r\u00f6stl\u00f6sa avund.\n\nUnder tiden satt Will och gallivespierna en liten bit l\u00e4ngre bort och pratade l\u00e5gt med varandra.\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker du och flickan g\u00f6ra?\" sa Tialys.\n\n\"\u00d6ppna den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden och sl\u00e4ppa ut andarna. Det \u00e4r vad jag har f\u00e5tt kniven till.\"\n\nHan hade aldrig f\u00f6rr sett en s\u00e5 stor f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning i n\u00e5gons ansikte, och allra minst hos personer vars goda omd\u00f6me han v\u00e4rdesatte. Han hade f\u00e5tt mycket stor respekt f\u00f6r de h\u00e4r b\u00e5da. De satt tysta under n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick, men sedan sa Tialys:\n\n\"Det kommer att g\u00f6ra allt ogjort. Det \u00e4r det v\u00e4rsta slag du n\u00e5gonsin skulle kunna utdela. Efter det h\u00e4r kommer Auktoriteten att vara helt maktl\u00f6s.\"\n\n\"Hur skulle de n\u00e5gonsin kunnat ana n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant?\" sa lady Salmakia. \"Det skulle komma som en blixt fr\u00e5n klar himmel!\"\n\n\"Och vad h\u00e4nder sedan?\" fr\u00e5gade Tialys.\n\n\"Vad h\u00e4nder sen? Tja, d\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka ta oss ut sj\u00e4lva och hitta v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner, antar jag. T\u00e4nk inte p\u00e5 _sen._ Det r\u00e4cker med att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 nu. Jag har inte sagt n\u00e5t till andarna av den h\u00e4ndelse att... av den h\u00e4ndelse att det inte fungerar. S\u00e5 ni f\u00e5r inte s\u00e4ga n\u00e5t heller. Nu t\u00e4nker jag leta efter en v\u00e4rld som jag kan g\u00f6ra en \u00f6ppning till, men dom d\u00e4r harpyorna tittar p\u00e5. Om ni vill hj\u00e4lpa till, s\u00e5 kan ni ge er iv\u00e4g och distrahera dom medan jag \u00e4gnar mig \u00e5t mitt.\"\n\nGallivespierna manade omedelbart p\u00e5 sina trollsl\u00e4ndor och fl\u00f6g upp i dunklet ovanf\u00f6r d\u00e4r harpyorna sv\u00e4rmade likt spyflugor. Will s\u00e5g p\u00e5 n\u00e4r de stora insekterna utan minsta fruktan stormade iv\u00e4g upp\u00e5t, som om harpyorna verkligen var flugor som de kunde snappa \u00e5t sig med sina stora k\u00e4ftar. Han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 hur f\u00f6rtjusta de lysande varelserna skulle bli n\u00e4r himlen \u00e5terigen l\u00e5g \u00f6ppen ovanf\u00f6r dem, s\u00e5 att de \u00e5terigen kunde stryka fram \u00f6ver det glittrande vattnet.\n\nSedan tog han fram kniven, men de ord harpyorna hade kastat mot honom kom omedelbart tillbaka \u2013 spydigheterna om hans mamma \u2013 s\u00e5 han hejdade sig. Han lade ifr\u00e5n sig kniven och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte t\u00f6mma huvudet p\u00e5 tankar.\n\nHan f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte igen, men med samma resultat. Han kunde h\u00f6ra hur de skr\u00e4nade d\u00e4r uppe, trots gallivespiernas vildsinthet. Det var s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga harpyor att de b\u00e5da flygarna inte kunde g\u00f6ra s\u00e5 mycket f\u00f6r att stoppa dem p\u00e5 egen hand.\n\nN\u00e5, det var s\u00e5 det var. Det skulle inte bli l\u00e4ttare, s\u00e5 Will l\u00e4t tankarna komma till ro och kopplade bort och bara satt med kniven l\u00f6st i handen tills han var redo igen.\n\nDen h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen skar kniven rakt genom luften \u2013 och m\u00f6ttes av sten. Han hade \u00f6ppnat ett f\u00f6nster fr\u00e5n den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden till underjorden i en annan. Han st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte en g\u00e5ng till.\n\nSamma sak h\u00e4nde igen, \u00e4ven om han visste att det var en annan v\u00e4rld. Han hade \u00f6ppnat f\u00f6nster f\u00f6rut och uppt\u00e4ckt att han befunnit sig h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r marken i n\u00e5gon annan v\u00e4rld, s\u00e5 han borde inte bli f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad om han f\u00f6r omv\u00e4xlings skull uppt\u00e4ckte att han befann sig under markniv\u00e5n, men det var f\u00f6rbryllande.\n\nN\u00e4sta g\u00e5ng k\u00e4nde han f\u00f6rsiktigt p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt han hade l\u00e4rt sig och l\u00e4t spetsen s\u00f6ka efter resonansen som avsl\u00f6jade en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r marken l\u00e5g p\u00e5 samma niv\u00e5, men det k\u00e4ndes fel, var han \u00e4n s\u00f6kte. Det fanns ingen v\u00e4rld n\u00e5gonstans som han kunde \u00f6ppna, vart han \u00e4n f\u00f6rde kniven st\u00f6tte han p\u00e5 solitt berg.\n\nLyra anade att n\u00e5got var p\u00e5 tok, s\u00e5 hon hoppade upp fr\u00e5n sitt l\u00e5gm\u00e4lda samtal med Rogers v\u00e5lnad och skyndade ist\u00e4llet bort till Will.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det?\" fr\u00e5gade hon l\u00e5gt.\n\nHan ber\u00e4ttade det f\u00f6r henne och tillade: \"Vi m\u00e5ste ge oss iv\u00e4g n\u00e5gon annanstans innan jag kan hitta en v\u00e4rld vi kan ta oss in i, men dom d\u00e4r harpyorna kommer inte att l\u00e5ta oss g\u00f6ra det. Har du ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r andarna om vad vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra?\"\n\n\"Nej. Bara f\u00f6r Roger och jag har bett honom h\u00e5lla tyst. \u00c5h, Will, jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd. Vi kanske aldrig kommer ut. T\u00e4nk om vi fastnar h\u00e4r f\u00f6r evigt!\"\n\n\"Kniven kan sk\u00e4ra genom sten. Om vi m\u00e5ste, s\u00e5 kan vi helt enkelt sk\u00e4ra en tunnel, men det kommer att ta l\u00e5ng tid och jag hoppas att vi inte ska beh\u00f6va g\u00f6ra det, men det g\u00e5r. Oroa dig inte.\"\n\n\"Ja, du har r\u00e4tt. Klart vi kan.\"\n\nMen hon tyckte \u00e4nd\u00e5 att han s\u00e5g v\u00e4ldigt sjuk ut, ansiktet var h\u00e5rt sp\u00e4nt av sm\u00e4rta och han hade m\u00f6rka ringar under \u00f6gonen. H\u00e4nderna skakade och fingrarna bl\u00f6dde p\u00e5 nytt; han s\u00e5g ut att vara lika illa d\u00e4ran som hon k\u00e4nde sig. De kunde inte klara sig mycket l\u00e4ngre utan sina d\u00e6moner. Hon k\u00e4nde hur hennes egen ande tappade modet inuti hennes kropp, s\u00e5 hon slog armarna om sig och l\u00e4ngtade efter Pan.\n\nUnder tiden pressade andarna sig n\u00e4rmare, de stackars krakarna. I synnerhet barnen kunde inte l\u00e4mna Lyra i fred.\n\n\"Sn\u00e4lla\", sa en flicka, \"du kommer v\u00e4l inte att gl\u00f6mma oss n\u00e4r du \u00e5terv\u00e4nder?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Lyra, \"aldrig.\"\n\n\"Du ber\u00e4ttar v\u00e4l om oss?\"\n\n\"Jag lovar. Vad heter du?\"\n\nDen lilla flickan var generad och skamsen: hon hade gl\u00f6mt det. Hon v\u00e4nde sig bort och dolde ansiktet, men en pojke sa:\n\n\"Jag tror det \u00e4r b\u00e4st att gl\u00f6mma. Jag har gl\u00f6mt mitt. N\u00e5gra har inte varit h\u00e4r s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge, s\u00e5 dom vet fortfarande vilka dom \u00e4r. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5gra ungar som har varit h\u00e4r i tusentals \u00e5r. Dom \u00e4r inte \u00e4ldre \u00e4n vi, men dom har gl\u00f6mt v\u00e4ldigt mycket. Utom solskenet. Det gl\u00f6mmer ingen. Och vinden.\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa n\u00e5gon annan, \"ber\u00e4tta om det!\"\n\nAllt fler b\u00f6rjade ropade p\u00e5 Lyra och bad henne ber\u00e4tta om allt som de mindes, om solen och vinden och himlen och om alla de saker de hade gl\u00f6mt, som till exempel lekar, s\u00e5 hon v\u00e4nde sig till Will och viskade: \"Vad ska jag g\u00f6ra, Will?\"\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dom.\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r r\u00e4dd. Efter det som h\u00e4nde d\u00e4r borta \u2013 harpyorna...\"\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta sanningen. Vi f\u00e5r se till att harpyorna h\u00e5ller sig undan.\"\n\nHon s\u00e5g tvivlande p\u00e5 honom. Faktum var att hennes oro gjorde henne riktigt illam\u00e5ende. Hon v\u00e4nde sig p\u00e5 nytt mot andarna, som nu tr\u00e4ngde sig allt n\u00e4rmare.\n\n\"Sn\u00e4lla!\" viskade de. \"Du har ju precis kommit fr\u00e5n v\u00e4rlden! Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss, ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss! Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss om v\u00e4rlden!\"\n\nDet stod ett tr\u00e4d inte s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt bort \u2013 det var bara en d\u00f6d tr\u00e4dstam med benvita grenar som str\u00e4ckte sig ut i den kyliga gr\u00e5 luften \u2013 men eftersom Lyra k\u00e4nde sig svag och f\u00f6r att hon inte kunde g\u00e5 och prata samtidigt gav hon sig iv\u00e4g mot tr\u00e4det f\u00f6r att hitta en plats att sitta p\u00e5. Massan av andar knuffade och drog sig ur v\u00e4gen f\u00f6r att l\u00e4mna plats \u00e5t henne.\n\nN\u00e4r de n\u00e4stan var framme vid tr\u00e4det landade Tialys p\u00e5 Wills hand och tecknade \u00e5t Will att han skulle luta huvudet n\u00e4rmare och lyssna.\n\n\"De kommer tillbaka\", sa han l\u00e5gt, \"de d\u00e4r harpyorna. Det kommer fler och fler. Var beredd med kniven. Lady Salmakia och jag ska h\u00e5lla dem borta s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge vi kan, men du kan komma att beh\u00f6va sl\u00e5ss.\"\n\nUtan att oroa Lyra lossade Will kniven i slidan och h\u00f6ll handen i n\u00e4rheten av den. Tialys for iv\u00e4g p\u00e5 nytt. Samtidigt n\u00e5dde Lyra fram till tr\u00e4det och slog sig ner p\u00e5 en av de tjocka r\u00f6tterna.\n\nDet var s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga d\u00f6da skepnader som samlade sig runt henne och pressade sig hoppfullt, stor\u00f6gt n\u00e4rmare att Will m\u00e5ste se till att de backade och l\u00e4mnade plats, men han l\u00e4t Roger stanna, d\u00e4r han satt och tittade h\u00e4nf\u00f6rt p\u00e5 Lyra samtidigt som han lyssnade intensivt.\n\nLyra b\u00f6rjade ber\u00e4tta om den v\u00e4rld hon k\u00e4nde.\n\nHon ber\u00e4ttade om n\u00e4r hon och Roger hade kl\u00e4ttrat omkring p\u00e5 Jordan Colleges tak och hittade en r\u00e5ka med brutet ben och om hur de hade tagit hand om den tills den var flygf\u00e4rdig igen, och om hur de hade utforskat vink\u00e4llaren, som varit full av damm och spindelv\u00e4v, och druckit lite kanariesekt, eller om det hade varit tokajer, hon kunde inte avg\u00f6ra den saken, och om hur berusade de hade blivit. Rogers v\u00e5lnad lyssnade, stolt och desperat, nickande och viskande om att \"Jo, ja! Det var just det som h\u00e4nde, det st\u00e4mmer allt!\"\n\nSedan ber\u00e4ttade hon om det stora slaget mellan Oxfords stadsungar och tegelbr\u00e4nnarna.\n\nF\u00f6rst beskrev hon Lerbankarna och var noga med att f\u00e5 med allt hon kunde komma ih\u00e5g: de stora ockraf\u00e4rgade sk\u00f6ljgroparna, sl\u00e4plinan, br\u00e4nnugnarna som s\u00e5g ut som stora bikupor av tegel. Hon ber\u00e4ttade om piltr\u00e4den l\u00e4ngs flodstranden, med blad som var alldeles silvriga p\u00e5 undersidan, och hon ber\u00e4ttade om hur leran sprack i stora fina plattor med springor emellan n\u00e4r solen hade lyst i mer \u00e4n ett par dagar, och om hur det k\u00e4ndes att kl\u00e4mma ner fingrarna i springorna och l\u00e5ngsamt vicka loss en torr lerplatta och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00e5 den s\u00e5 stor som m\u00f6jligt utan att den gick s\u00f6nder. Plattorna var fortfarande fuktiga p\u00e5 undersidan och var perfekta att kasta p\u00e5 folk.\n\nS\u00e5 beskrev hon hur st\u00e4llet luktade, r\u00f6ken fr\u00e5n br\u00e4nnugnarna, flodens ruttna l\u00f6vm\u00f6gellukt n\u00e4r vinden l\u00e5g p\u00e5 fr\u00e5n sydv\u00e4st, den varma doften fr\u00e5n de bakade potatisar som tegelmakarna brukade \u00e4ta, och ljudet av vattnet som rann med ett sjukligt ljud \u00f6ver dammluckorna och ner i sk\u00f6ljgroparna, och det l\u00e5ngsamma och stabbiga sugandet n\u00e4r man f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte lyfta foten fr\u00e5n marken, och det tunga, v\u00e5ta plaskandet fr\u00e5n skovelhjulen i det leriga vattnet.\n\nUnder ber\u00e4ttelsens g\u00e5ng spelade hon p\u00e5 andarnas alla sinnen, s\u00e5 de tr\u00e4ngde sig allt n\u00e4rmare och livn\u00e4rde sig p\u00e5 hennes ord och mindes den tid n\u00e4r de sj\u00e4lva hade muskler och hud och nerver och sinnen och \u00f6nskade att hon aldrig skulle tystna.\n\nSedan ber\u00e4ttade hon om hur tegelmakarnas ungar alltid l\u00e5g i fejd med stadsbarnen och om att de alltid varit l\u00e5ngsamma och tr\u00f6ga, med hj\u00e4rnorna fulla av lera, medan stadsbarnen var lika snabba och klipska som sparvar i j\u00e4mf\u00f6relse och om hur stadsungarna en dag hade lagt alla sina inb\u00f6rdes of\u00f6rr\u00e4tter \u00e5t sidan och hade planerat och anfallit Lerbankarna fr\u00e5n tre sidor och pressat tillbaka tegelbruksungarna mot floden och om hur de hade kastat n\u00e4ve efter n\u00e4ve av tung och kladdig lera p\u00e5 varandra, hur stadsungarna hade stormat och rivit ner deras lerfort och f\u00f6rvandlat bef\u00e4stningen till missiler, tills luften och marken och vattnet var ouppl\u00f6sligt hopblandade och varenda unge s\u00e5g likadan ut, med lera fr\u00e5n topp till t\u00e5, och att ingen n\u00e5gonsin hade upplevt n\u00e5got roligare \u00e4n den dagen.\n\nN\u00e4r hon slutade s\u00e5g hon utmattat p\u00e5 Will. Sedan fick hon en chock.\n\nF\u00f6rutom andarna, som satt tysta runtom kring henne, och hennes f\u00f6ljeslagare, n\u00e4ra och levande, fanns det en publik till, f\u00f6r varenda en av tr\u00e4dets alla grenar var full av de m\u00f6rka f\u00e5gelskepnaderna, och kvinnoansiktena blickade ner mot henne, allvarliga och trollbundna.\n\nHon reste sig upp av pl\u00f6tslig r\u00e4dsla, men de r\u00f6rde sig inte.\n\n\"Du\", sa hon med desperat st\u00e4mma, \"du fl\u00f6g p\u00e5 mig f\u00f6rut n\u00e4r jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5t f\u00f6r dig. Vad \u00e4r det som hindrar dig nu? S\u00e4tt ig\u00e5ng, riv i mig med dina klor och f\u00f6rvandla mig ocks\u00e5 till en ande!\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r det minsta vi ska g\u00f6ra\", sa harpyan i mitten, som var Inget-Namn sj\u00e4lv. \"Lyssna p\u00e5 mig. F\u00f6r tusentals \u00e5r sedan, n\u00e4r de f\u00f6rsta andarna f\u00f6rdes ner hit, gav Auktoriteten oss kraften att se det v\u00e4rsta i var och en, och vi har livn\u00e4rt oss p\u00e5 det v\u00e4rsta \u00e4nda sedan dess, tills v\u00e5rt blod har surnat och vi har blivit sjuka \u00e4nda in i sj\u00e4len.\n\nMen det \u00e4r det enda vi har haft att livn\u00e4ra oss p\u00e5. Det \u00e4r allt vi har haft. Nu f\u00e5r vi veta att ni t\u00e4nker \u00f6ppna en v\u00e4g till ytterv\u00e4rlden och att ni t\u00e4nker leda alla andarna ut i fria luften...\"\n\nNu dr\u00e4nktes hennes str\u00e4va r\u00f6st av en miljon viskningar n\u00e4r varenda ande som kunde h\u00f6ra hennes ord ropade ut i gl\u00e4dje och hopp, men alla harpyorna skrek och slog med vingarna tills andarna hade tystnat igen.\n\n\"Ja\", skrek Inget-Namn, \"f\u00f6r att f\u00f6ra ut dem! Vad ska vi g\u00f6ra nu? Jag ska ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r er vad vi ska g\u00f6ra nu: fr\u00e5n och med nu ska vi inte h\u00e5lla tillbaka n\u00e5gonting. Vi ska s\u00e5ra och smutsa och riva och slita i varenda ande som kommer hit och vi ska driva dem galna av r\u00e4dsla och samvetskval och sj\u00e4lvhat. Just nu \u00e4r den h\u00e4r platsen en \u00f6ken, men vi ska f\u00f6rvandla den till ett helvete!\"\n\nVarenda en av harpyorna tj\u00f6t och h\u00e5nade och m\u00e5nga av dem fl\u00f6g upp fr\u00e5n tr\u00e4det och for rakt mot andarna och fick dem att skingras och rusa iv\u00e4g av skr\u00e4ck. Lyra klamrade sig fast vid Wills arm och sa: \"Nu har dom avsl\u00f6jat oss och nu kommer vi inte att kunna g\u00f6ra det \u2013 dom kommer att hata oss \u2013 dom kommer att tro att vi har f\u00f6rr\u00e5tt dom! Vi har bara gjort allting v\u00e4rre, inte b\u00e4ttre!\"\n\n\"Tyst\", sa Tialys. \"Bli inte f\u00f6rtvivlad. Ropa tillbaka dem och f\u00e5 dem att lyssna p\u00e5 oss.\"\n\n\"Kom tillbaka! Kom tillbaka, varenda en av er och lyssna p\u00e5 oss!\" ropade Will h\u00f6gt.\n\nEn efter en v\u00e4nde harpyorna och fl\u00f6g tillbaka till tr\u00e4det. Deras ansikten var hungriga och uppfyllda av en l\u00e4ngtan efter lidande. \u00c4ven andarna kom glidande tillbaka. Chevalier Tialys l\u00e4t Salmakia ta hand om hans trollsl\u00e4nda, varefter den sp\u00e4nda lilla figuren, gr\u00f6nkl\u00e4dd och m\u00f6rkh\u00e5rig, hoppade upp p\u00e5 en sten d\u00e4r alla kunde se honom.\n\n\"Harpyor\", sa han, \"vi kan erbjuda er n\u00e5got som \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre. Besvara mina fr\u00e5gor sanningsenligt och lyssna p\u00e5 vad jag har att s\u00e4ga, och d\u00f6m sedan. N\u00e4r Lyra talade utanf\u00f6r muren fl\u00f6g ni p\u00e5 henne. Varf\u00f6r gjorde ni det?\"\n\n\"L\u00f6gner!\" skrek alla harpyorna. \"L\u00f6gner och fantasier!\"\n\n\"Men n\u00e4r hon talade alldeles nyss, s\u00e5 satt ni alla och lyssnade, varenda en av er, och ni var tysta och stilla. \u00c5terigen fr\u00e5gar jag varf\u00f6r?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r att det var sant\", sa Inget-Namn. \"F\u00f6r att hon talade sanning. F\u00f6r att det var n\u00e4ringsrikt. F\u00f6r att det gav oss f\u00f6da. F\u00f6r att vi inte kunde l\u00e5ta bli. F\u00f6r att det var sant. F\u00f6r att vi inte hade en aning om att det fanns n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n ondska. F\u00f6r att det gav oss nyheter om v\u00e4rlden och om solen och vinden och regnet. F\u00f6r att det var sant.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5\", sa Tialys, \"l\u00e5t oss g\u00f6ra ett avtal med er. Ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att bara se ondskan och grymheten och girigheten hos de andar som f\u00f6rs ner hit, s\u00e5 har ni fr\u00e5n och med nu r\u00e4tten att be varje ande ber\u00e4tta sitt livs historia f\u00f6r er och de m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta sanningen om vad de har sett och h\u00f6rt och r\u00f6rt och \u00e4lskat och kunnat i v\u00e4rlden. Varenda en av dessa andar har en ber\u00e4ttelse; varenda en av alla dem som kommer ner hit i framtiden kommer att ha saker att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r er om v\u00e4rlden. Och ni kommer att ha r\u00e4tt att f\u00e5 lyssna p\u00e5 dem och de m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r er.\"\n\nLyra h\u00e4pnade \u00f6ver den lilla spionens fr\u00e4ckhet. Hur v\u00e5gade han tilltala de h\u00e4r varelserna som om han hade makt att ge dem n\u00e5gra r\u00e4ttigheter? Vem som helst av dem kunde ha snappat upp honom i ett nafs och slitit honom i stycken med sina klor eller burit honom h\u00f6gt upp i luften och sedan slungat ner honom p\u00e5 marken igen och slagit honom i sm\u00e5bitar. Och \u00e4nd\u00e5 stod han d\u00e4r, stolt och or\u00e4dd, och tr\u00e4ffade avtal med dem! Och de lyssnade och konfererade, med ansiktena v\u00e4nda mot varandra, och talade med l\u00e5gm\u00e4lda r\u00f6ster.\n\nAlla andarna tittade p\u00e5, skr\u00e4mda och tysta.\n\nSedan v\u00e4nde Inget-Namn sig om igen.\n\n\"Det r\u00e4cker inte\", sa hon. \"Vi kr\u00e4ver mer \u00e4n s\u00e5. Vi hade en _uppgift_ under den gamla ordningen. Vi hade en plats och en plikt. Vi uppfyllde flitigt Auktoritetens bud och f\u00f6r detta hedrades vi. Vi hatades och fruktades, men hedrades ocks\u00e5. Vad ska nu ske med v\u00e5r heder? Varf\u00f6r skulle andarna ens l\u00e4gga m\u00e4rke till oss om de helt enkelt kan promenera ut i v\u00e4rlden igen? Vi har v\u00e5r stolthet och ni kan inte l\u00e5ta den g\u00f6ras \u00f6verfl\u00f6dig. Vi beh\u00f6ver en hederv\u00e4rd plats! Vi beh\u00f6ver en plikt och en uppgift att utf\u00f6ra, som kommer att ge oss den respekt vi f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nar!\"\n\nDe skruvade p\u00e5 sig p\u00e5 grenarna, flaxade till med vingarna och muttrade, men \u00f6gonblicket senare hoppade Salmakia upp till chevalier Tialys och ropade:\n\n\"Ni har helt r\u00e4tt. Alla b\u00f6r ha n\u00e5gon viktig uppgift att utf\u00f6ra, en som bringar heder, en som kan utf\u00f6ras med stolthet. H\u00e4r \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r er uppgift, och det \u00e4r en uppgift som bara ni kan utf\u00f6ra, f\u00f6r att ni \u00e4r den h\u00e4r platsens v\u00e4ktare och bevarare. Er uppgift kommer att vara att leda andarna fr\u00e5n b\u00e5tbryggan vid sj\u00f6n genom de d\u00f6das land till den nya \u00f6ppningen ut till v\u00e4rlden. I utbyte kommer de att ber\u00e4tta sina historier f\u00f6r er som en r\u00e4ttvis och rimlig ers\u00e4ttning f\u00f6r att ni leder dem. Tycker ni att detta verkar r\u00e4ttvist?\"\n\nInget-Namn tittade p\u00e5 sina systrar och de nickade. Hon svarade:\n\n\"Och vi ska ha r\u00e4tten att v\u00e4gra leda dem om de ljuger eller om de undanh\u00e5ller n\u00e5got eller om de inte har n\u00e5got att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r oss. Om de lever i v\u00e4rlden, s\u00e5 _b\u00f6r_ de se och h\u00f6ra och r\u00f6ra och \u00e4lska och l\u00e4ra sig saker. Vi t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra undantag f\u00f6r sp\u00e4dbarn som inte hunnit l\u00e4ra sig n\u00e5got, men n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller alla \u00f6vriga, s\u00e5 kommer vi inte att leda dem ut om de kommer ner hit utan att ha n\u00e5got med sig.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r r\u00e4ttvist\", sa Salmakia och de \u00f6vriga vandrarna h\u00f6ll med.\n\nS\u00e5 ingick de ett f\u00f6rbund. I utbyte mot Lyras ber\u00e4ttelse, som de redan hade h\u00f6rt, erbj\u00f6d harpyorna sig att f\u00f6ra vandrarna och deras kniv till en plats i de d\u00f6das land som l\u00e5g n\u00e4ra den \u00f6vre v\u00e4rlden. Den l\u00e5g en bra bit bort, genom tunnlar och grottor, men harpyorna skulle leda dem troget och alla andarna kunde f\u00f6lja efter.\n\nMen innan allt kunde p\u00e5b\u00f6rjas h\u00f6rdes en r\u00f6st ropa s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt som en viskning kan h\u00f6ras. Det var anden efter en mager karl med ett argsint, k\u00e4nslosamt ansikte, och han ropade:\n\n\"Vad kommer att h\u00e4nda med oss nu? Kommer vi att b\u00f6rja leva igen n\u00e4r vi har l\u00e4mnat de d\u00f6das land? Eller kommer vi att f\u00f6rsvinna som v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner? Br\u00f6der, systrar, vi b\u00f6r inte f\u00f6lja det h\u00e4r barnet f\u00f6rr\u00e4n vi vet vad som kommer att h\u00e4nda med oss!\"\n\nAndra upprepade fr\u00e5gan. \"Ja, ber\u00e4tta vart vi \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g! Tala om vad vi kan v\u00e4nta oss! Vi t\u00e4nker inte g\u00e5 f\u00f6rr\u00e4n vi vet vad som kommer att h\u00e4nda!\"\n\nLyra v\u00e4nde sig desperat mot Will, men han sa: \"Ber\u00e4tta sanningen. Fr\u00e5ga alethiometern och ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dom vad den s\u00e4ger.\"\n\n\"Det ska jag g\u00f6ra\", sa hon.\n\nHon plockade fram det gyllene instrumentet. Svaret kom omedelbart. Hon stoppade undan alethiometern och reste sig.\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r vad som kommer att h\u00e4nda\", sa hon, \"och det \u00e4r sant, fullst\u00e4ndigt sant. N\u00e4r ni l\u00e4mnar det h\u00e4r st\u00e4llet kommer alla dom partiklar som ni best\u00e5r av att l\u00f6sas upp och glida is\u00e4r, samma sak som h\u00e4nde med era d\u00e6moner. Om ni har sett m\u00e4nniskor som d\u00f6tt, s\u00e5 vet ni hur det ser ut. Men era d\u00e6moner \u00e4r inte bara ingenting nu, dom \u00e4r en del av allting. Alla dom atomer som fanns i dom har g\u00e5tt vidare till luften och vinden och tr\u00e4den och jorden och alla levande ting. Dom kommer aldrig att f\u00f6rsvinna. Dom \u00e4r bara en del av allt. Och det \u00e4r exakt det som kommer att h\u00e4nda med er, det sv\u00e4r jag p\u00e5, jag lovar det p\u00e5 min heder. Det \u00e4r sant att ni kommer att glida is\u00e4r, men ni kommer att vara ute i fria luften och bli en del av allt som lever igen.\"\n\nIngen sa n\u00e5got. De som hade sett hur d\u00e6monerna l\u00f6stes upp mindes det och de som aldrig hade upplevt det f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig saken. Ingen sa n\u00e5got f\u00f6rr\u00e4n en kvinna steg fram. Hon hade d\u00f6tt som martyr f\u00f6r m\u00e5nga \u00e5rhundraden sedan. Hon s\u00e5g sig om och sa:\n\n\"N\u00e4r vi levde sa man oss att vi skulle fara till himlen n\u00e4r vi dog. Och man sa att himlen var en plats full av gl\u00e4dje och \u00e4ra och att vi skulle tillbringa evigheten i s\u00e4llskap med helgon och \u00e4nglar och hylla den Allsm\u00e4ktige i ett tillst\u00e5nd av v\u00e4lsignelse. Det var vad man sa. Och det var vad som fick n\u00e5gra av oss att offra v\u00e5ra liv och andra att tillbringa hela livet i enskild b\u00f6n, samtidigt som livsgl\u00e4djen f\u00f6rsl\u00f6sades runt omkring oss utan att vi f\u00f6rstod det.\n\nDe d\u00f6das land \u00e4r inte en plats d\u00e4r vi blir bel\u00f6nade eller straffade. Det \u00e4r en plats av ingenting. B\u00e5de de goda och de onda f\u00f6rs hit och alla f\u00f6rsm\u00e4ktar vi f\u00f6r evigt i dysterheten, utan hopp om frihet, gl\u00e4dje, s\u00f6mn eller sinnesfrid.\n\nMen nu har det h\u00e4r barnet kommit hit och hon har erbjudit oss en v\u00e4g ut och jag t\u00e4nker f\u00f6lja henne. \u00c4ven om det inneb\u00e4r gl\u00f6mska, mina v\u00e4nner, s\u00e5 kommer jag att v\u00e4lkomna den, f\u00f6r den kommer inte att vara ingenting, vi kommer att leva igen i tusen gr\u00e4sstr\u00e5n och i miljoner blad, vi kommer att falla i regndropparna och bl\u00e5sa i den friska brisen, vi kommer att glittra i daggdropparna under stj\u00e4rnorna och m\u00e5nen d\u00e4r ute i den fysiska v\u00e4rlden, som \u00e4r v\u00e5rt r\u00e4tta hem och som alltid har varit det.\n\nS\u00e5 jag uppmanar er: F\u00f6lj flickan ut till himlen!\"\n\nMen hennes ande knuffades \u00e5t sidan av anden efter en man som s\u00e5g ut som en munk: mager och blek, till och med i d\u00f6den, med m\u00f6rka och brinnande \u00f6gon. Han korsade sig och mumlade en b\u00f6n, varefter han sa:\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ett bittert budskap, ett sorgligt och grymt sk\u00e4mt. Kan ni inte se sanningen? Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r inte n\u00e5gon liten flicka. Det \u00e4r en uts\u00e4nd fr\u00e5n den Onde sj\u00e4lv! V\u00e4rlden vi levde i var en j\u00e4mmerdal full av t\u00e5rar och korruption. Det fanns inget d\u00e4r som kunde tillfredsst\u00e4lla oss, men den Allsm\u00e4ktige har sk\u00e4nkt oss den h\u00e4r v\u00e4lsignade platsen f\u00f6r all evighet, detta paradis, som f\u00f6r fallna sj\u00e4lar tycks s\u00e5 dyster och \u00f6dslig, men de som ser den med trons blick ser att den fl\u00f6dar av mj\u00f6lk och honung och genljuder av \u00e4nglarnas sk\u00f6na hymner. _Detta_ \u00e4r i sanning Himmelriket! Det som den h\u00e4r ondskefulla flickan lovar \u00e4r inget annat \u00e4n l\u00f6gner. Hon vill leda er till helvetet! F\u00f6lj henne p\u00e5 er egen risk. Jag och mina f\u00f6ljeslagare i den sanna tron kommer att stanna kvar h\u00e4r i detta v\u00e4lsignade paradis och tillbringa evigheten med hymner till den Allsm\u00e4ktige, som har gett oss f\u00f6rm\u00e5gan att skilja falskt fr\u00e5n sant.\"\n\nHan gjorde korstecknet p\u00e5 nytt, varefter han och hans f\u00f6ljeslagare v\u00e4nde sig bort i avsmak och fasa.\n\nLyra k\u00e4nde sig f\u00f6rvirrad. Hade hon fel? Begick hon ett stort misstag? Hon s\u00e5g sig om: dunkel och \u00f6dslighet omgav henne p\u00e5 varje sida. Men hon hade haft fel om saker och ting f\u00f6rut och hade litat p\u00e5 mrs Coulter p\u00e5 grund av hennes vackra leende och hennes v\u00e4ldoftande charm. Det var s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt att f\u00e5 saker om bakfoten och utan sin d\u00e6mons v\u00e4gledning hade hon kanske fel om det h\u00e4r ocks\u00e5.\n\nMen Will ryckte henne i armen. Sedan lade han sina h\u00e4nder om hennes ansikte och h\u00f6ll h\u00e5rt i henne.\n\n\"Du vet att det inte \u00e4r sant\", sa han, \"precis som du kan k\u00e4nna det h\u00e4r. Bry dig inte om det! _Dom andra_ kan ocks\u00e5 se att han ljuger och dom litar p\u00e5 oss. Kom nu, s\u00e5 s\u00e4tter vi ig\u00e5ng.\"\n\nHon nickade. Hon m\u00e5ste lita p\u00e5 sin kropp och den sanning som hennes sinnen f\u00f6rmedlade till henne. Hon visste vad Pan skulle ha gjort.\n\nS\u00e5 satte de av och de or\u00e4kneliga miljonerna andar f\u00f6ljde efter dem. Bakom dem, alltf\u00f6r l\u00e5ngt bak f\u00f6r att barnen skulle kunna se det, hade andra inv\u00e5nare i de d\u00f6das land h\u00f6rt vad som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda och hade kommit f\u00f6r att ansluta sig till den v\u00e4ldiga marschen. Tialys och Salmakia fl\u00f6g tillbaka f\u00f6r att titta och blev \u00f6verlyckliga n\u00e4r de \u00e4ven hittade sitt eget folk och varenda slags medveten varelse som n\u00e5gonsin straffats av Auktoriteten med exil och d\u00f6d. Bland dem fanns varelser som inte s\u00e5g det minsta m\u00e4nskliga ut, varelser som muleforna, som Mary Malone skulle ha k\u00e4nt igen, och \u00e4nnu m\u00e4rkligare andar \u00e4n dessa.\n\nMen Will och Lyra var inte tillr\u00e4ckligt starka f\u00f6r att orka titta bak\u00e5t. Det enda de f\u00f6rm\u00e5dde var att h\u00e5lla sig t\u00e4tt bakom harpyorna.\n\n\"\u00c4r vi n\u00e4stan klara, Will?\" viskade Lyra. \"\u00c4r det n\u00e4stan \u00f6ver?\"\n\nHan visste inte svaret, men de var s\u00e5 svaga och illam\u00e5ende att han sa: \"Ja, det \u00e4r n\u00e4stan \u00f6ver, vi har n\u00e4stan klarat det. Vi kommer snart h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\"\n\n## 24\n\n## Mrs Coulter i Gen\u00e8ve\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 S\u00c5DAN MODER, \u2022 \u2022 \u2022 S\u00c5DAN DOTTER.\n\nHESEKIEL\n\nMRS COULTER V\u00c4NTADE till m\u00f6rkrets inbrott innan hon n\u00e4rmade sig S:t Jeromes College. S\u00e5 snart det hade m\u00f6rknat f\u00f6rde hon ner intentionsfarkosten genom molnen och fl\u00f6g l\u00e5ngsamt l\u00e4ngs sj\u00f6stranden i h\u00f6jd med tr\u00e4dtopparna. Colleget var ett avvikande inslag bland Gen\u00e8ves alla andra ur\u00e5ldriga byggnader, s\u00e5 det dr\u00f6jde inte l\u00e4nge f\u00f6rr\u00e4n hon k\u00e4nde igen tornspiran, korsg\u00e5ngarnas m\u00f6rka h\u00e5ligheter och det fyrkantiga tornet, d\u00e4r ordf\u00f6randen f\u00f6r Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden hade sin bostad. Hon hade bes\u00f6kt colleget vid tre tidigare tillf\u00e4llen, s\u00e5 hon visste att tak\u00e5sarna och gavlarna och skorstenarna h\u00f6gt d\u00e4r uppe hade m\u00e4ngder av g\u00f6mst\u00e4llen, till och med f\u00f6r n\u00e5got s\u00e5 stort som intentionsfarkosten.\n\nHon fl\u00f6g l\u00e5ngsamt fram \u00f6ver takpannorna, som glittrade blankt efter en regnskur, och makade in maskinen i en liten r\u00e4nna mellan ett brant tegeltak och sj\u00e4lva tornv\u00e4ggen. Platsen var synlig fr\u00e5n klocktornet p\u00e5 Helgabotf\u00e4rdighetens kapell i n\u00e4rheten, men bara d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, s\u00e5 den fick duga.\n\nHon s\u00e4nkte f\u00f6rsiktigt ner flygfarkosten och l\u00e4t de sex benen sj\u00e4lva hitta fotf\u00e4sten och anpassa sig, f\u00f6r att styrhytten inte skulle luta. Hon hade b\u00f6rjat \u00e4lska den h\u00e4r maskinen: den gjorde precis som hon \u00f6nskade och gjorde det lika snabbt som hon hann t\u00e4nka varje tanke, och den var fullst\u00e4ndigt ljudl\u00f6s. Den kunde sv\u00e4va rakt ovanf\u00f6r n\u00e5gons huvud, s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra personen att han skulle kunnat vidr\u00f6ra maskinen om han bara hade vetat att den fanns d\u00e4r. Under de dagar som g\u00e5tt sedan hon stulit den hade mrs Coulter l\u00e4rt sig att man\u00f6vrera den, men hade fortfarande ingen aning om vad den anv\u00e4nde som drivmedel. Det var det enda hon oroade sig f\u00f6r: hon hade ingen aning om n\u00e4r br\u00e4nslet eller batterierna som drev den skulle ta slut.\n\nS\u00e5 snart hon var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att den hade landat ordentligt och att taket var tillr\u00e4ckligt stabilt f\u00f6r att b\u00e4ra upp tyngden tog hon av sig hj\u00e4lmen och kl\u00e4ttrade ner.\n\nHennes d\u00e6mon h\u00f6ll redan p\u00e5 att b\u00e4nda upp en av de tunga gamla tegelpannorna, och s\u00e5 snart de hade lyft bort ett halvdussin av dem och hon hade kn\u00e4ckt tr\u00e4ribborna som de h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 hade de \u00e5stadkommit ett tillr\u00e4ckligt stort h\u00e5l att ta sig in genom.\n\n\"Kl\u00e4ttra ner och se dig om\", viskade hon till d\u00e6monen, som hoppade ner i m\u00f6rkret.\n\nHon h\u00f6rde hur klorna raspade n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rsiktigt r\u00f6rde sig \u00f6ver vindsgolvet och sedan d\u00f6k hans guldkantade svarta ansikte upp i \u00f6ppningen igen. Hon f\u00f6rstod genast och f\u00f6ljde honom ner och v\u00e4ntade tills \u00f6gonen hade anpassat sig. I det svaga ljuset kunde hon s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom se en l\u00e5ng vind, med en rad m\u00f6rka skuggor av undanst\u00e4llda sk\u00e5p, bord, bokhyllor och alla slags andra m\u00f6bler.\n\nDet f\u00f6rsta hon gjorde var att skjuta fram ett h\u00f6gt sk\u00e5p framf\u00f6r h\u00e5let d\u00e4r tegelpannorna hade suttit. Sedan sm\u00f6g hon fram till d\u00f6rren i den bortre \u00e4nden och k\u00e4nde p\u00e5 handtaget. Den var f\u00f6rst\u00e5s l\u00e5st, men hon hade med sig en h\u00e5rn\u00e5l och l\u00e5set var l\u00e4ttforcerat. Tre minuter senare stod hon och hennes d\u00e6mon i den ena \u00e4nden av en l\u00e5ng korridor, d\u00e4r ett dammigt takf\u00f6nster gjorde att de kunde se den smala trappan i den andra \u00e4nden.\n\nEfter ytterligare fem minuter hade de \u00f6ppnat ett f\u00f6nster i skafferiet intill k\u00f6ket tv\u00e5 v\u00e5ningar l\u00e4ngre ner, och kl\u00e4ttrat ut i gr\u00e4nden. Collegets grindstuga l\u00e5g precis runt h\u00f6rnet, och som hon sa till den gyllene apan, s\u00e5 var det viktigt att anl\u00e4nda p\u00e5 det normala s\u00e4ttet, oavsett hur de sedan t\u00e4nkte ta sig d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\n\"Sl\u00e4pp mig\", sa hon lugnt till vakten, \"och visa mig lite respekt, f\u00f6r annars ska jag f\u00e5 dig hudfl\u00e4ngd. Tala om f\u00f6r ordf\u00f6randen att mrs Coulter har anl\u00e4nt och att hon \u00f6nskar tr\u00e4ffa honom omedelbart.\"\n\nMannen ryggade tillbaka och hans pinscherd\u00e6mon, som precis hade visat t\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r den stillsamma apan, kr\u00f6p omedelbart ihop och stack svansstumpen mellan benen, s\u00e5 gott det nu gick.\n\nVakten vred om veven p\u00e5 telefonen och efter mindre \u00e4n en minut kom en ung pr\u00e4st med barnsligt ansikte skyndande till vakten. Han torkade handflatorna mot k\u00e5pan f\u00f6r den h\u00e4ndelse hon ville skaka hand. Det ville hon inte.\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r du?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"Broder Louis\", sa mannen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte lugna sin kanind\u00e6mon, \"sammankallande i Disciplinn\u00e4mndens sekretariat. Om ni skulle vilja vara s\u00e5 v\u00e4nlig...\"\n\n\"Jag har inte kommit hit f\u00f6r att \u00f6verl\u00e4gga med en skrivare\", sa hon. \"Ta mig till fader MacPhail. Och g\u00f6r det nu.\"\n\nMannen bugade hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st, men ledde sedan v\u00e4gen. Vakten bakom henne andades ut av l\u00e4ttnad.\n\nBroder Louis gjorde ett par tre f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att inleda ett samtal. Sedan gav han upp och ledde henne sedan under tystnad till ordf\u00f6randens v\u00e5ning i tornet. Fader MacPhail h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att f\u00f6rr\u00e4tta sin kv\u00e4llsb\u00f6n, s\u00e5 den stackars broder Louis hand skakade v\u00e5ldsamt n\u00e4r han knackade p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren. De h\u00f6rde en suck och ett st\u00f6nande och sedan ljudet av tunga fotsteg som gick \u00f6ver golvet.\n\nOrdf\u00f6randens \u00f6gon sp\u00e4rrades upp n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g vem det var, men gav henne sedan ett ordentligt varggrin.\n\n\"Mrs Coulter\", sa han och str\u00e4ckte fram handen. \"Jag \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt glad \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa er. Min studiekammare \u00e4r kylig och v\u00e5r g\u00e4stfrihet enkel, men stig in, stig in.\"\n\n\"God kv\u00e4ll\", sa hon och f\u00f6ljde honom \u00f6ver tr\u00f6skeln till det dystra rummet med stenv\u00e4ggarna och l\u00e4t honom fj\u00e4ska lite medan han visade henne till en stol. \"Tack\", sa hon till broder Louis, som fortfarande h\u00e4ngde oroligt vid d\u00f6rren. \"Jag tar g\u00e4rna ett glas chocolatl.\"\n\nInget hade erbjudits och hon visste hur f\u00f6rol\u00e4mpande det var att behandla honom som en tj\u00e4nare, men hans upptr\u00e4dande var s\u00e5 krypande att han f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nade det. Ordf\u00f6randen nickade, s\u00e5 broder Louis blev till sin stora f\u00f6rtrytelse tvungen att ta hand om saken.\n\n\"Ni \u00e4r f\u00f6rst\u00e5s gripen\", sa ordf\u00f6randen och satte sig i den andra stolen och skruvade upp lampan.\n\n\"\u00c5h, varf\u00f6r f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra v\u00e5rt samtal innan vi ens har b\u00f6rjat?\" sa mrs Coulter. \"Jag kom hit frivilligt s\u00e5 snart jag lyckats fly fr\u00e5n lord Asriels f\u00e4stning. Faktum \u00e4r, fader ordf\u00f6rande, att jag har en hel del information om hans styrkor och om flickan, som jag har kommit hit f\u00f6r att \u00f6verl\u00e4mna till er.\"\n\n\"Flickan f\u00f6rst. B\u00f6rja med flickan.\"\n\n\"Min dotter \u00e4r nu tolv \u00e5r gammal. Mycket snart kommer hon att n\u00e5 ungdomstidens h\u00f6jdpunkt och d\u00e5 \u00e4r det f\u00f6r sent f\u00f6r oss att hindra katastrofen; naturen och tillf\u00e4lligheterna kommer att f\u00f6renas likt fn\u00f6sket och gnistan. Tack vare er inblandning \u00e4r det nu mycket mer sannolikt att det kommer att intr\u00e4ffa. Jag hoppas att ni \u00e4r n\u00f6jd.\"\n\n\"Det var er plikt att f\u00f6ra henne hit och placera henne under v\u00e5rt beskydd. Ist\u00e4llet valde ni att slinka undan till en bergsgrotta \u2013 men hur en kvinna med er intelligens kunde hoppas p\u00e5 att klara sig undan \u00f6verg\u00e5r mitt f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r f\u00f6rmodligen en hel del som \u00f6verg\u00e5r ert f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd, herr ordf\u00f6rande, exempelvis relationen mellan en mor och hennes dotter. Om ni f\u00f6r ett enda \u00f6gonblick trodde att jag t\u00e4nkte \u00f6verl\u00e4mna min dotter i ert beskydd \u2013 beskydd! \u2013 till en grupp m\u00e4n med en febrig besatthet av allt som har med sexualiteten att g\u00f6ra, till m\u00e4n med smutsiga naglar och stinkande av urgammal svett, till m\u00e4n vars dolska fantasier skulle kr\u00e4la fram \u00f6ver hennes kropp likt kackerlackor \u2013 om ni n\u00e5gonsin trodde att jag skulle uts\u00e4tta min dotter f\u00f6r _det_ , herr ordf\u00f6rande, s\u00e5 \u00e4r ni mer korkad \u00e4n ni tror _mig_ om att vara.\"\n\nDet h\u00f6rdes en knackning p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren innan han hann svara, varefter broder Louis steg in med tv\u00e5 glas chocolatl p\u00e5 en tr\u00e4bricka. Han st\u00e4llde ner brickan med en nerv\u00f6s bugning och log mot ordf\u00f6randen i hopp om att bli ombedd att stanna, men fader MacPhail nickade mot d\u00f6rren, och den unge mannen gick motvilligt d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\n\"Vad var det d\u00e5 ni t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra?\" fr\u00e5gade ordf\u00f6randen.\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nkte h\u00e5lla henne i s\u00e4kerhet tills faran var \u00f6ver.\"\n\n\"Vilken fara skulle det vara?\" sa han och gav henne ett glas.\n\n\"\u00c5h, jag tror att ni vet vad jag menar. Det finns en frestare n\u00e5gonstans, en orm, om man s\u00e4ger s\u00e5, s\u00e5 jag var tvungen att hindra dem fr\u00e5n att m\u00f6tas.\"\n\n\"Hon har en pojke med sig.\"\n\n\"Ja, och om ni inte hade lagt er i skulle jag ha haft kontroll \u00f6ver b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 nu. Just nu kan de befinna sig var som helst. De \u00e4r i alla fall inte hos lord Asriel.\"\n\n\"Jag tvivlar inte p\u00e5 att han letar efter dem. Pojken har en kniv med extraordin\u00e4ra krafter. Det skulle vara v\u00e4rt att jaga dem av bara det sk\u00e4let.\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r medveten om den saken\", sa mrs Coulter. \"Jag lyckades bryta s\u00f6nder kniven, men han har f\u00e5tt den lagad igen.\"\n\nHon log. Inte kunde hon v\u00e4l sympatisera med den d\u00e4r el\u00e4ndige pojken?\n\n\"Vi vet\", svarade han korthugget.\n\n\"\u00c5h\", sa hon. \"Fra Pavel tycks bli allt snabbare. N\u00e4r jag tr\u00e4ffade honom senast skulle det ha tagit honom minst en m\u00e5nad att f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5 allt det d\u00e4r.\"\n\nHon smuttade p\u00e5 sin chocolatl, som var tunn och svag. Det var s\u00e5 typiskt f\u00f6r de usla pr\u00e4sterna, t\u00e4nkte hon, att \u00e4ven tvinga p\u00e5 sina bes\u00f6kare den egna sj\u00e4lvr\u00e4ttf\u00e4rdiga avh\u00e5llsamheten.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta om lord Asriel\", sa ordf\u00f6randen. \"Ber\u00e4tta allt.\"\n\nMrs Coulter lutade sig bekv\u00e4mt tillbaka och b\u00f6rjade ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r honom \u2013 inte allt, men det trodde han inte f\u00f6r ett \u00f6gonblick att hon skulle. Hon ber\u00e4ttade om f\u00e4stningen, om hans allierade, om \u00e4nglarna, om gruvorna och om smedjorna.\n\nFader MacPhail satt utan att r\u00f6ra en muskel. Hans \u00f6dled\u00e6mon s\u00f6g \u00e5t sig vartenda ord hon sa och lade det p\u00e5 minnet.\n\n\"Hur tog ni er hit?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Jag stal en gyropter. Den fick slut p\u00e5 br\u00e4nsle, s\u00e5 jag var tvungen att \u00f6verge den ute p\u00e5 landsbygden ett kort stycke h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. Resten av v\u00e4gen har jag g\u00e5tt.\"\n\n\"Letar lord Asriel aktivt efter flickan och pojken?\"\n\n\"Sj\u00e4lvklart.\"\n\n\"Jag utg\u00e5r fr\u00e5n att han \u00e4r ute efter kniven. Ni vet v\u00e4l att den har ett namn? Klippgastarna i norr kallar den Gudakrossaren\", fortsatte han och gick bort till f\u00f6nstret och tittade ner \u00f6ver korsg\u00e5ngarna. \"Det \u00e4r v\u00e4l vad lord Asriel t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra, eller hur? Krossa Auktoriteten? Det finns en del m\u00e4nniskor som h\u00e4vdar att Gud redan \u00e4r d\u00f6d. Jag utg\u00e5r fr\u00e5n att lord Asriel inte \u00e4r en av dessa, om han h\u00e5ller fast vid sin ambition att d\u00f6da honom.\"\n\n\"Tja, var \u00e4r Gud\", fr\u00e5gade mrs Coulter, \"om han lever? Och varf\u00f6r talar han inte l\u00e4ngre? I tidens b\u00f6rjan vandrade Gud i lustg\u00e5rden och talade med Adam och Eva. Sedan b\u00f6rjade han dra sig tillbaka, s\u00e5 Moses h\u00f6rde bara hans r\u00f6st. Senare, under Daniels tid, var han gammal \u2013 han var Den gamle. Var \u00e4r han nu? Lever han fortfarande och har uppn\u00e5tt en helt ofattbar \u00e5lder, orkesl\u00f6s och vansinnig, utan att kunna t\u00e4nka eller handla eller tala eller d\u00f6, som ett ruttnande skal? Om det \u00e4r hans tillst\u00e5nd, skulle det d\u00e5 inte vara den mest barmh\u00e4rtiga handlingen, det sannaste beviset p\u00e5 v\u00e5r k\u00e4rlek till Gud, att s\u00f6ka upp honom och sk\u00e4nka honom d\u00f6dens g\u00e5va?\"\n\nMrs Coulter k\u00e4nde en stilla upphetsning n\u00e4r hon talade. Hon undrade om hon n\u00e5gonsin skulle kunna ta sig ut levande, men det var berusande att f\u00e5 tala p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet inf\u00f6r just den h\u00e4r mannen.\n\n\"Stoft, d\u00e5?\" sa han. \"Vad \u00e4r er uppfattning om Stoft ur djupet av ert k\u00e4tteri?\"\n\n\"Jag har ingen uppfattning om Stoft\", sa hon. \"Jag vet inte vad det \u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5got. Ingen vet.\"\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r. N\u00e5, jag b\u00f6rjade med att p\u00e5minna er om att ni \u00e4r gripen. Jag tror det \u00e4r dags att hitta en plats \u00e5t er n\u00e5gonstans d\u00e4r ni kan f\u00e5 sova. Ni kommer att f\u00e5 tillg\u00e5ng till alla bekv\u00e4mligheter, ingen kommer att vilja g\u00f6ra er illa, men ni kommer inte att f\u00e5 ge er av. Vi f\u00e5r prata mer i morgon.\"\n\nHan ringde i en klocka och broder Louis d\u00f6k upp n\u00e4stan omedelbart.\n\n\"Visa mrs Coulter till det allra b\u00e4sta g\u00e4strummet\", sa ordf\u00f6randen. \"Och l\u00e5s in henne.\"\n\nDet b\u00e4sta g\u00e4strummet var sjaskigt och m\u00f6blerna var billiga, men det var \u00e5tminstone rent. S\u00e5 snart nyckeln hade vridits om bakom henne letade mrs Coulter genast efter mikrofoner och hittade en i den utsirade takkronan och ytterligare en under s\u00e4ngbotten. Hon kopplade ur b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 och fick sedan en fruktansv\u00e4rd \u00f6verraskning.\n\nH\u00f6gst uppe p\u00e5 byr\u00e5n bakom d\u00f6rren satt lord Roke.\n\nHon skrek till och satte handen mot v\u00e4ggen f\u00f6r att st\u00f6dja sig. Gallivespiern satt med korslagda ben, helt obesv\u00e4rat, och varken hon eller den gyllene apan hade sett honom. S\u00e5 snart hj\u00e4rtat hade slutat bulta s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt och andningen var n\u00e4stan normal igen sa hon: \"Och n\u00e4r hade ni t\u00e4nkt best\u00e5 mig med artigheten att tala om att ni fanns h\u00e4r, min herre? Innan jag kl\u00e4dde av mig eller efter\u00e5t?\"\n\n\"Innan\", sa han. \"S\u00e4g \u00e5t er d\u00e6mon att lugna sig, f\u00f6r annars m\u00e5ste jag s\u00e4tta honom ur spel.\"\n\nDen gyllene apan visade t\u00e4nder och p\u00e4lsen stod p\u00e5 \u00e4nda. Ansiktsuttryckets br\u00e4nnheta illvilja var nog f\u00f6r att vilken normal m\u00e4nniska som helst skulle rygga tillbaka, men lord Roke bara log. Hans sporrar glittrade i det svaga ljuset.\n\nDen lilla spionen st\u00e4llde sig upp och str\u00e4ckte sedan p\u00e5 sig.\n\n\"Jag har precis pratat med min agent i lord Asriels f\u00e4stning\", fortsatte han. \"Lord Asriel s\u00e4nder sina komplimanger och ber er h\u00f6ra av er till honom s\u00e5 snart ni f\u00e5tt veta vad de h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna har f\u00f6r avsikter.\"\n\nHon k\u00e4nde sig helt andf\u00e5dd, som om lord Asriel hade slagit omkull henne i en brottningsmatch. Med uppsp\u00e4rrade \u00f6gon satte hon sig l\u00e5ngsamt p\u00e5 s\u00e4ngen.\n\n\"F\u00f6ljde ni med hit f\u00f6r att spionera p\u00e5 mig eller f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa mig?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"B\u00e5de och, och det var tur f\u00f6r er att jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r. S\u00e5 snart ni anl\u00e4nde satte de n\u00e5got slags anbariskt verk i r\u00f6relse nere i k\u00e4llaren. Jag vet inte vad det \u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5got, men ett helt lag av vetenskapsm\u00e4n \u00e4r d\u00e4r nere och arbetar med det just nu. Ni verkar ha satt fart p\u00e5 dem.\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte om jag ska k\u00e4nna mig smickrad eller oroad. F\u00f6r att s\u00e4ga sanningen \u00e4r jag fullst\u00e4ndigt utmattad och t\u00e4nker d\u00e4rf\u00f6r g\u00e5 och l\u00e4gga mig. Om ni har kommit hit f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa mig kan ni ju h\u00e5lla vakt. Ni kan b\u00f6rja med att v\u00e4nda bort blicken.\"\n\nHan bugade sig och v\u00e4nde sig mot v\u00e4ggen tills hon hade tv\u00e4ttat av sig i den kantst\u00f6tta baljan, torkat sig med den tunna handduken, kl\u00e4tt av sig och g\u00e5tt och lagt sig. Hennes d\u00e6mon patrullerade runt i rummet och kontrollerade garderoben, tavellisten, gardinerna och utsikten fr\u00e5n f\u00f6nstret \u00f6ver de m\u00f6rka korsg\u00e5ngarna. Lord Roke h\u00f6ll noga vakt p\u00e5 honom hela tiden. Till slut gick den gyllene apan och lade sig bredvid mrs Coulter och b\u00e5da somnade genast.\n\nLord Roke ber\u00e4ttade inte allt han hade f\u00e5tt veta fr\u00e5n lord Asriel. De allierade h\u00f6ll uppsikt \u00f6ver alla slags varelser som r\u00f6rde sig i luften ovanf\u00f6r republikens gr\u00e4nser och hade lagt m\u00e4rke till en koncentration v\u00e4sterut av vad som skulle kunna vara \u00e4nglar, men som lika g\u00e4rna kunde vara n\u00e5got helt annat. De hade skickat ut patruller f\u00f6r att unders\u00f6ka saken, men \u00e4n s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hade de inte f\u00e5tt veta n\u00e5got: vad det \u00e4n var som h\u00e4ngde d\u00e4r, s\u00e5 hade det svept in sig i en ogenomtr\u00e4nglig dimma.\n\nSpionen tyckte dock att det var b\u00e4st att inte besv\u00e4ra mrs Coulter med den saken, f\u00f6r hon var helt utmattad. L\u00e5t henne sova, t\u00e4nkte han och r\u00f6rde sig tyst runt rummet och lyssnade vid d\u00f6rren och spanade ut genom f\u00f6nstren, vaken och alert.\n\nHan h\u00f6rde ett l\u00e5gt buller utanf\u00f6r d\u00f6rren en timme efter att hon hade kommit in i rummet: en svag skrapning och en viskning. I samma \u00f6gonblick lyste ett svagt ljus upp springorna runt d\u00f6rren. Lord Roke flyttade sig till rummets bortersta h\u00f6rn och st\u00e4llde sig bakom ett av benen till den stol d\u00e4r mrs Coulter hade sl\u00e4ngt sina kl\u00e4der.\n\nEn minut gick och sedan vreds nyckeln om i l\u00e5set, men mycket tyst och f\u00f6rsiktigt. D\u00f6rren \u00f6ppnades ett par centimeter, inte mer, och sedan slocknade ljuset.\n\nLord Roke kunde se tillr\u00e4ckligt tydligt med hj\u00e4lp av det svaga ljus som tr\u00e4ngde igenom de tunna gardinerna, men inkr\u00e4ktaren m\u00e5ste v\u00e4nta ett slag f\u00f6r att \u00f6gonen skulle anpassa sig. Till slut \u00f6ppnades d\u00f6rren ytterligare, mycket l\u00e5ngsamt, och den unge pr\u00e4sten, broder Louis, steg in.\n\nHan gjorde korstecknet och sm\u00f6g fram till s\u00e4ngen. Lord Roke gjorde sig beredd att hoppa p\u00e5 honom, men pr\u00e4sten lyssnade bara p\u00e5 mrs Coulters j\u00e4mna andetag och kontrollerade noga att hon sov, f\u00f6r sedan v\u00e4nde han sig mot s\u00e4ngbordet.\n\nHan h\u00f6ll handen \u00f6ver lampan p\u00e5 sitt batteriljus. Sedan slog han p\u00e5 det och l\u00e4t bara en smal str\u00e5le slippa ut mellan fingrarna. Han kikade p\u00e5 bordet s\u00e5 noga att n\u00e4san n\u00e4stan nuddade vid bordsytan, men han hittade det inte, vad det \u00e4n var han letade efter. Mrs Coulter hade lagt n\u00e5gra sm\u00e5saker d\u00e4r innan hon gick och lade sig: ett par mynt, en ring, sin klocka; men broder Louis var inte intresserad av de f\u00f6rem\u00e5len.\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig mot henne igen och s\u00e5g sedan vad han letade efter, f\u00f6r han gav ifr\u00e5n sig en l\u00e5g, sammanbiten v\u00e4sning. Lord Roke f\u00f6rstod hans bryderi: det f\u00f6rem\u00e5l han letat efter var medaljongen som h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 en guldkedja runt mrs Coulters hals.\n\nLord Roke r\u00f6rde sig tyst l\u00e4ngs golvlisten mot d\u00f6rren.\n\nPr\u00e4sten gjorde korstecknet p\u00e5 nytt, f\u00f6r han skulle bli tvungen att r\u00f6ra vid henne. Han h\u00f6ll andan och b\u00f6jde sig \u00f6ver s\u00e4ngen \u2013 och d\u00e5 r\u00f6rde den gyllene apan p\u00e5 sig.\n\nDen unge mannen stelnade till med h\u00e4nderna utstr\u00e4ckta. Hans kanind\u00e6mon darrade vid hans f\u00f6tter och var inte till minsta nytta: hon kunde \u00e5tminstone ha h\u00e5llit vakt \u00e5t den stackars mannen, t\u00e4nkte lord Roke. Apan v\u00e4nde sig i s\u00f6mnen och l\u00e5g sedan stilla igen.\n\nEfter en minut, d\u00e5 han st\u00e5tt stilla som en vaxdocka, s\u00e4nkte broder Louis sina skakande h\u00e4nder mot mrs Coulters hals. Han fumlade s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge att lord Roke trodde att gryningen skulle hinna anl\u00e4nda innan pr\u00e4sten lyckats kn\u00e4ppa upp kedjan, men till slut lyfte han f\u00f6rsiktigt upp medaljongen och kunde sedan str\u00e4cka p\u00e5 sig.\n\nLord Roke, som var snabb och tyst som en mus, hade hunnit ut genom d\u00f6rren innan pr\u00e4sten hade v\u00e4nt sig om. Han v\u00e4ntade i den m\u00f6rka korridoren och n\u00e4r den unge mannen sm\u00f6g ut och vred om nyckeln f\u00f6ljde gallivespiern efter.\n\nBroder Louis begav sig mot tornet och n\u00e4r ordf\u00f6randen \u00f6ppnade d\u00f6rren pilade lord Roke in och satte av mot b\u00f6nepallen i rummets ena h\u00f6rn. D\u00e4r hittade han en dunkel list d\u00e4r han kunde krypa ihop och lyssna.\n\nFader MacPhail var inte ensam: alethiometrikern, Fra Pavel, var fullt upptagen med sina b\u00f6cker, och ytterligare en figur stod nerv\u00f6st vid f\u00f6nstret. Det h\u00e4r var dr Cooper, den experimentella teologen fr\u00e5n Bolvangar. B\u00e5da tittade upp.\n\n\"Bra gjort, broder Louis\", sa ordf\u00f6randen. \"Ta hit den, s\u00e4tt dig, visa mig, visa mig. Bra gjort!\"\n\nFra Pavel flyttade p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra av sina b\u00f6cker och den unge pr\u00e4sten lade guldkedjan p\u00e5 bordet. De \u00f6vriga lutade sig \u00f6ver den f\u00f6r att titta n\u00e4rmare medan fader MacPhail pysslade med l\u00e5set. Dr Cooper gav honom en pennkniv, och sedan h\u00f6rdes ett mjukt klickande.\n\n\"Ah!\" suckade ordf\u00f6randen.\n\nLord Roke kl\u00e4ttrade upp till skrivbordets ovansida f\u00f6r att kunna se b\u00e4ttre. I naftalampans sken uppfattade han n\u00e5got som bl\u00e4nkte m\u00f6rkt i guld: det var en h\u00e5rlock. Ordf\u00f6randen snurrade den mellan sina fingrar och v\u00e4nde och vred p\u00e5 den.\n\n\"\u00c4r vi s\u00e4kra p\u00e5 att den kommer fr\u00e5n flickan?\" sa han.\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r helt s\u00e4ker\", sa Fra Pavel med tr\u00f6tt r\u00f6st.\n\n\"\u00c4r det tillr\u00e4ckligt, dr Cooper?\"\n\nDen bleksiktige mannen lutade sig fram och tog locken ur fader MacPhails hand. Han h\u00f6ll upp den mot ljuset.\n\n\"Oh, ja\", sa han. \"Ett enda h\u00e5rstr\u00e5 skulle r\u00e4cka. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r mer \u00e4n tillr\u00e4ckligt.\"\n\n\"Det gl\u00e4der mig mycket att h\u00f6ra det\", sa ordf\u00f6randen. \"Nu, broder Louis, m\u00e5ste du s\u00e4tta tillbaka medaljongen runt lady Coulters hals.\"\n\nPr\u00e4sten sj\u00f6nk ihop en aning, f\u00f6r han hade hoppats att hans uppgift nu var avslutad. Ordf\u00f6randen lade Lyras h\u00e5rlock i ett kuvert, som han klistrade igen. Samtidigt tittade han upp, s\u00e5 att lord Roke m\u00e5ste ducka ur sikte.\n\n\"Fader ordf\u00f6rande\", sa broder Louis, \"jag ska givetvis g\u00f6ra som ni befaller, men g\u00e5r det att f\u00e5 veta varf\u00f6r ni beh\u00f6ver flickans h\u00e5r?\"\n\n\"Nej, broder Louis, f\u00f6r det skulle bara oroa dig. L\u00e5t oss ta hand om det h\u00e4r \u00e4rendet. Ge dig iv\u00e4g nu.\"\n\nDen unge mannen tog medaljongen och gick och fick d\u00e4rmed f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka kv\u00e4va sin f\u00f6rtrytelse. Lord Roke funderade p\u00e5 att f\u00f6lja efter honom och v\u00e4cka mrs Coulter precis n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte s\u00e4tta tillbaka medaljongen, f\u00f6r att se vad hon skulle g\u00f6ra, men det var viktigare att ta reda p\u00e5 vad de h\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna hade f\u00f6r sig.\n\nN\u00e4r d\u00f6rren st\u00e4ngts \u00e5terv\u00e4nde gallivespiern till skuggorna f\u00f6r att lyssna.\n\n\"Hur visste ni var hon f\u00f6rvarade locken?\" fr\u00e5gade vetenskapsmannen.\n\n\"Varje g\u00e5ng hon n\u00e4mnde flickan\", sa ordf\u00f6randen, \"for handen upp till medaljongen. N\u00e5, hur snart kan vi vara redo?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r en fr\u00e5ga om n\u00e5gra timmar\", sa dr Cooper.\n\n\"Och h\u00e5rlocken? Vad t\u00e4nker ni g\u00f6ra med den?\"\n\n\"Vi ska l\u00e4gga den i resonanskammaren. Ni vet att varje individ \u00e4r unik och att de genetiska partiklarna \u00e4r synnerligen tydliga... N\u00e5, s\u00e5 snart den har analyserats, s\u00e5 kommer informationen att kodas till en serie anbariska pulser och f\u00f6ras \u00f6ver till m\u00e5ls\u00f6kningsapparaten. Den lokaliserar ursprunget till materialet, h\u00e5ret, var flickan \u00e4n r\u00e5kar befinna sig. Det \u00e4r en process som faktiskt drar nytta av Barnard-Stokes k\u00e4tteri, tanken p\u00e5 m\u00e5nga v\u00e4rldar...\"\n\n\"Oroa er inte, doktorn. Fra Pavel har ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r mig att flickan befinner sig i en annan v\u00e4rld. Var sn\u00e4ll och forts\u00e4tt. Bombens styrka riktas allts\u00e5 in med hj\u00e4lp av h\u00e5ret?\"\n\n\"Ja. P\u00e5 vart och ett av de h\u00e5rstr\u00e5n som de h\u00e4r har skurits av fr\u00e5n. Det \u00e4r korrekt.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 n\u00e4r den detonerar kommer flickan att f\u00f6rintas, var hon \u00e4n befinner sig?\"\n\nDet h\u00f6rdes en hastig inandning fr\u00e5n vetenskapsmannen, och sedan ett motvilligt \"Ja\". Han svalde och fortsatte sedan: \"Kraften som beh\u00f6vs \u00e4r enorm. Den anbariska kraften. Precis som en atombomb beh\u00f6ver en h\u00f6gexplosiv kraft som tvingar ihop uranet och s\u00e4tter ig\u00e5ng kedjereaktionen, s\u00e5 beh\u00f6ver den h\u00e4r anordningen en kolossal m\u00e4ngd str\u00f6m f\u00f6r att s\u00e4tta ig\u00e5ng den mycket st\u00f6rre kraft som beh\u00f6vs f\u00f6r avskiljningsprocessen. Jag undrade...\"\n\n\"Det har ingen betydelse var den detoneras, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Nej. Det \u00e4r hela po\u00e4ngen. Var som helst g\u00e5r bra.\"\n\n\"Och den \u00e4r helt klar?\"\n\n\"Nu n\u00e4r vi har h\u00e5ret, ja. Men kraften, ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r...\"\n\n\"Jag har ordnat med den saken. Den hydroanbariska kraftstationen vid Saint-Jean-les-Eaux har rekvirerats f\u00f6r v\u00e5rt syfte. Den producerar v\u00e4l tillr\u00e4ckligt med kraft, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Jo\", sa vetenskapsmannen.\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e4tter vi ig\u00e5ng genast. Var sn\u00e4ll och ta hand om era apparater, dr Cooper. Se till att de \u00e4r redo att flyttas s\u00e5 snart som m\u00f6jligt. V\u00e4dret v\u00e4xlar snabbt i bergen och det \u00e4r ov\u00e4der p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng.\"\n\nVetenskapsmannen tog det lilla kuvertet med Lyras h\u00e5r och bugade sig nerv\u00f6st n\u00e4r han gick. Lord Roke gav sig av samtidigt och gjorde inte mer v\u00e4sen ifr\u00e5n sig \u00e4n en skugga.\n\nS\u00e5 snart de var utom h\u00f6rh\u00e5ll fr\u00e5n ordf\u00f6randens rum slog gallivespiern till. Dr Cooper, som befann sig nedanf\u00f6r honom i trappan, k\u00e4nde ett sm\u00e4rtsamt hugg i axeln och grep tag i r\u00e4cket: men armen var underligt svag, s\u00e5 han halkade och tumlade ner f\u00f6r hela trappan och landade halvt medvetsl\u00f6s l\u00e4ngst ner.\n\nLord Roke halade med viss sv\u00e5righet ut kuvertet ur mannens ryckande hand, f\u00f6r det var h\u00e4lften s\u00e5 stort som han sj\u00e4lv, och pilade sedan bort i skuggorna mot det rum d\u00e4r mrs Coulter l\u00e5g och sov.\n\nSpringan vid d\u00f6rrens nederkant var tillr\u00e4ckligt bred f\u00f6r att han skulle kunna tr\u00e4nga sig igenom. Broder Louis hade kommit och g\u00e5tt, men hade inte v\u00e5gat f\u00e4sta kedjan runt mrs Coulters hals, utan hade lagt den bredvid henne p\u00e5 kudden.\n\nLord Roke kl\u00e4mde p\u00e5 hennes hand f\u00f6r att hon skulle vakna. Hon var sv\u00e5rt utmattad, men f\u00e4ste omedelbart blicken p\u00e5 honom och satte sig upp medan hon gnuggade sig i \u00f6gonen.\n\nHan f\u00f6rklarade vad som hade h\u00e4nt och gav henne kuvertet.\n\n\"Ni b\u00f6r f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra det omedelbart\", sa han till henne, \"mannen sa att ett enda h\u00e5rstr\u00e5 \u00e4r fullt tillr\u00e4ckligt.\"\n\nHon tittade p\u00e5 den lilla locken av m\u00f6rkblont h\u00e5r och skakade p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r f\u00f6r sent\", sa hon. \"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r bara halva locken jag skar fr\u00e5n Lyras h\u00e5r. Han m\u00e5ste ha beh\u00e5llit en del av den.\"\n\nLord Roke v\u00e4ste av ilska.\n\n\"N\u00e4r han s\u00e5g sig om!\" sa han. \"Ach \u2013 jag flyttade p\u00e5 mig f\u00f6r att komma ur hans synf\u00e4lt \u2013 han m\u00e5ste ha stoppat undan det d\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Och det g\u00e5r inte att ta reda p\u00e5 var han kan ha lagt det\", sa mrs Coulter. \"Men om vi kan hitta bomben...\"\n\n\"Sch!\"\n\nDet var den gyllene apan. Han satt hopkrupen vid d\u00f6rren och sedan kunde de b\u00e5da andra ocks\u00e5 h\u00f6ra vad det var fr\u00e5gan om: tunga fotsteg som skyndade mot rummet.\n\nMrs Coulter sk\u00f6t \u00f6ver kuvertet med h\u00e5rlocken till lord Roke, som tog emot det och hoppade upp mot garderobens ovansida. Sedan lade hon sig ner bredvid sin d\u00e6mon n\u00e4r nyckeln slamrande vreds om i l\u00e5set.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r det? Var har ni gjort av det? Hur kunde ni angripa dr Cooper?\" sa ordf\u00f6randen med str\u00e4v r\u00f6st n\u00e4r ljuset f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver s\u00e4ngen.\n\nMrs Coulter sl\u00e4ngde upp armen f\u00f6r att skydda \u00f6gonen mot ljuset och anstr\u00e4ngde sig f\u00f6r att s\u00e4tta sig upp.\n\n\"Ni tycker verkligen om att underh\u00e5lla era g\u00e4ster\", sa hon s\u00f6mnigt. \"\u00c4r det h\u00e4r en ny lek? Vad m\u00e5ste jag g\u00f6ra? Och vem \u00e4r dr Cooper?\"\n\nVakten fr\u00e5n porten kom in i s\u00e4llskap med fader MacPhail och lyste med en ficklampa i rummets alla h\u00f6rn och under s\u00e4ngen. Ordf\u00f6randen hade bringats n\u00e5got ur fattningen: mrs Coulters \u00f6gon var tunga av s\u00f6mn och hon kunde knappt se i det starka ljuset fr\u00e5n korridoren. Det var uppenbart att hon inte hade l\u00e4mnat s\u00e4ngen.\n\n\"Ni har en medbrottsling\", sa han. \"N\u00e5gon har angripit en av collegets g\u00e4ster. Vem \u00e4r det? Vem kom hit i s\u00e4llskap med er? Var \u00e4r han?\"\n\n\"Jag har inte den blekaste aning om vad ni talar om. Men vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r...?\"\n\nHennes hand, som hon hade satt ner p\u00e5 s\u00e4ngen f\u00f6r att kunna resa sig upp, hade hittat medaljongen p\u00e5 kudden. Hon hejdade sig och plockade upp den, varefter hon tittade p\u00e5 ordf\u00f6randen med uppsp\u00e4rrat s\u00f6mniga \u00f6gon. Lord Roke underh\u00f6lls med ett stycke superb sk\u00e5despelarkonst n\u00e4r hon f\u00f6rbryllat sa: \"Men det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ju min... Vad g\u00f6r den h\u00e4r? Fader MacPhail, vem har varit h\u00e4r inne? N\u00e5gon har tagit den h\u00e4r fr\u00e5n min hals. Och \u2013 _var \u00e4r Lyras h\u00e5r?_ Det fanns en lock av mitt barns h\u00e5r i den. Vem har tagit det? Varf\u00f6r? Vad \u00e4r det som h\u00e4nder?\"\n\nNu stod hon upp, h\u00e5ret var i oordning, r\u00f6sten var full av heta k\u00e4nslor \u2013 och hon var till synes lika f\u00f6rbryllad som ordf\u00f6randen sj\u00e4lv.\n\nFader MacPhail tog ett steg bak\u00e5t och tog sig f\u00f6r pannan.\n\n\"N\u00e5gon mer m\u00e5ste ha kommit samtidigt som ni. Det m\u00e5ste finnas en medbrottsling\", sa han med r\u00f6sten raspande mot luften. \"Var g\u00f6mmer han sig?\"\n\n\"Jag har ingen medbrottsling\", sa hon argt. \"Om det finns n\u00e5gon osynlig l\u00f6nnm\u00f6rdare p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r st\u00e4llet, s\u00e5 kan jag bara t\u00e4nka mig att det m\u00e5ste vara Dj\u00e4vulen sj\u00e4lv. Jag skulle vilja p\u00e5st\u00e5 att han antagligen k\u00e4nner sig ganska hemma.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r ner henne till k\u00e4llaren\", sa fader MacPhail till vakten. \"Kedja fast henne. Jag vet precis vad vi ska g\u00f6ra med den h\u00e4r kvinnan. Jag borde ha t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 den saken s\u00e5 snart hon d\u00f6k upp.\"\n\nHon s\u00e5g sig vildsint om och m\u00f6tte lord Rokes blick under br\u00e5kdelen av en sekund, glittrande i m\u00f6rkret alldeles under taket. Han uppfattade genast hennes ansiktsuttryck och f\u00f6rstod exakt vad hon ville att han skulle g\u00f6ra.\n\n## 25\n\n## Saint-Jean-les-Eaux\n\nEN KRANS AV LJUST H\u00c5R RUNT SKALLEN \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nJOHN DONNE\n\nSAINT-JEAN-LES-EAUX' VATTENFALL ST\u00d6RTADE ner mellan spetsiga bergstoppar i den \u00f6stra \u00e4nden av en av Alpernas utl\u00f6pare och vattenkraftverket klamrade sig fast vid bergssidan ovanf\u00f6r det. Det var en vild region, en dyster och vindpinad vildmark, d\u00e4r ingen n\u00e5gonsin skulle ha byggt n\u00e5got om det inte hade varit f\u00f6r m\u00f6jligheten att kunna driva de v\u00e4ldiga anbariska generatorerna med hj\u00e4lp av kraften fr\u00e5n de tusentals ton vatten som d\u00e5nade genom klyftan.\n\nDet var kv\u00e4llen efter mrs Coulters gripande och det var storm i luften. En zeppelinare saktade in och h\u00e4ngde sv\u00e4vande i den piskande vinden alldeles intill generatorstationens avskalade stenfasad. S\u00f6karljusen under farkosten fick den att se ut som om den stod p\u00e5 ett otal ben av ljus och l\u00e5ngsamt h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att s\u00e4nka sig ner f\u00f6r att kunna l\u00e4gga sig till ro.\n\nMen piloten var inte n\u00f6jd. Bergssidorna gjorde att vinden drog runt i virvlar och kastbyar, och dessutom var kablarna, masterna och transformatorerna alldeles f\u00f6r n\u00e4ra: sveptes man in bland dem med en zeppelinare fylld med brandfarlig gas skulle det leda till en omedelbar katastrof. Sn\u00f6blandat regn trummade snett mot farkostens v\u00e4ldiga och styva h\u00f6lje och \u00e5stadkom ett ov\u00e4sen som n\u00e4stan lyckades \u00f6verr\u00f6sta bullret och tjuten fr\u00e5n de \u00f6veranstr\u00e4ngda motorerna. Dessutom doldes marken effektivt av regnet.\n\n\"Inte h\u00e4r\", ropade piloten \u00f6ver ov\u00e4sendet. \"Vi m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 runt utl\u00f6paren.\"\n\nFader MacPhail bl\u00e4ngde ilsket p\u00e5 piloten medan denne sk\u00f6t fram gasreglaget och balanserade motorerna. Zeppelinaren steg med ett ryck och gled fram \u00f6ver kanten. Benen av ljus blev pl\u00f6tsligt l\u00e4ngre och tycktes treva sig fram l\u00e4ngs bergskammen innan de nedre \u00e4ndarna f\u00f6rlorade sig i det virvlande sn\u00f6gloppet.\n\n\"G\u00e5r det inte att komma n\u00e4rmare stationen \u00e4n s\u00e5 h\u00e4r?\" sa ordf\u00f6randen och lutade sig fram f\u00f6r att piloten skulle kunna h\u00f6ra honom.\n\n\"Inte om ni vill landa\", svarade piloten.\n\n\"Ja, vi vill landa. D\u00e5 s\u00e5, s\u00e4tt ner oss nedanf\u00f6r bergskammen d\u00e5.\"\n\nPiloten gav order till bes\u00e4ttningen att f\u00f6rbereda f\u00f6r landning. Eftersom utrustningen som skulle lossas var b\u00e5de tung och \u00f6mt\u00e5lig, var det viktigt att man kunde f\u00f6rankra farkosten ordentligt. Ordf\u00f6randen lutade sig tillbaka i stolen, trummade med fingrarna mot armst\u00f6det, bet sig i l\u00e4ppen, men sa inget utan l\u00e4t piloten arbeta vidare utan fler st\u00f6rningar.\n\nLord Roke spanade fr\u00e5n sitt g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle i den tv\u00e4rg\u00e5ende skiljev\u00e4ggen l\u00e4ngst bak i kabinen. Flera g\u00e5nger under flygturen hade den skuggiga lilla skepnaden r\u00f6rt sig fram\u00e5t bakom metalln\u00e4tet och varit fullt synlig f\u00f6r alla som r\u00e5kat titta \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet, om n\u00e5gon bara hade vridit p\u00e5 huvudet, men f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 veta vad som h\u00e4nde var han tvungen att bege sig till en punkt d\u00e4r han riskerade att bli sedd. Det var en risk som inte gick att undvika.\n\nHan sm\u00f6g sig fram\u00e5t och lyssnade sp\u00e4nt genom motorvr\u00e5let, smattrandet fr\u00e5n regnet och haglet, vindens g\u00e4lla ton i vajrarna och slamret av st\u00f6vlar mot g\u00e5ngborden av metall. Maskinisten ropade ut n\u00e5gra siffror till piloten, som bekr\u00e4ftade dem, varefter lord Roke \u00e5terigen f\u00f6rsvann in bland skuggorna och klamrade sig fast vid st\u00f6den och balkarna n\u00e4r luftskeppet tippade fram\u00e5t inf\u00f6r landningen.\n\nN\u00e4r han till slut k\u00e4nde att r\u00f6relsen hade stabiliserats och att farkosten var s\u00e5 gott som helt f\u00f6rt\u00f6jd letade han sig tillbaka genom kabinens skal till sittplatserna p\u00e5 styrbordssidan.\n\nM\u00e4n passerade i b\u00e5da riktningarna: bes\u00e4ttningsmedlemmar, tekniker, pr\u00e4ster. M\u00e5nga av deras d\u00e6moner var hundar, som var fyllda till br\u00e4dden av nyfikenhet. P\u00e5 andra sidan mittg\u00e5ngen satt mrs Coulter vaken och tyst. Hennes gyllene d\u00e6mon betraktade aktiviteten fr\u00e5n hennes kn\u00e4 och uts\u00f6ndrade ren illvilja.\n\nLord Roke v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt tillf\u00e4lle och pilade sedan bort till mrs Coulters stol och befann sig i n\u00e4sta \u00f6gonblick i skuggan av hennes axel.\n\n\"Vad h\u00e5ller de p\u00e5 med?\" mumlade hon.\n\n\"Landar. Vi \u00e4r helt n\u00e4ra kraftverket.\"\n\n\"Stannar ni hos mig eller ger ni er iv\u00e4g p\u00e5 egen hand?\" viskade hon.\n\n\"Jag stannar hos er. Jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6mma mig under er kappa.\"\n\nHon hade en tung f\u00e5rskinnskappa p\u00e5 sig och den var obehagligt varm i den uppv\u00e4rmda kabinen, men med handbojor om h\u00e4nderna kunde hon inte ta den av sig.\n\n\"G\u00f6r det nu\", sa hon och s\u00e5g sig om, och han pilade in vid br\u00f6stet och hittade en p\u00e4lskantad ficka d\u00e4r han kunde sitta tryggt. Den gyllene apan stoppade ivrigt in mrs Coulters sidenkrage och gav intryck av att vara en omt\u00e4nksam modeskapare som pysslar om sin favoritmodell, samtidigt som han s\u00e5g till att lord Roke helt doldes av kappvecken.\n\nHan blev klar i sista \u00f6gonblicket. Knappt en minut senare steg en gev\u00e4rsbev\u00e4pnad soldat fram till mrs Coulter och beordrade henne att l\u00e4mna luftskeppet.\n\n\"M\u00e5ste jag ha p\u00e5 mig de h\u00e4r handbojorna?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\"Jag har inte f\u00e5tt order om att ta bort dem\", svarade han. \"Upp p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter, \u00e4r ni sn\u00e4ll.\"\n\n\"Jag har s\u00e5 sv\u00e5rt att r\u00f6ra mig om jag inte kan h\u00e5lla i mig. Jag \u00e4r alldeles stel \u2013 jag har suttit ner st\u00f6rre delen av dagen utan att kunna r\u00f6ra mig \u2013 och ni vet ju att jag inte har n\u00e5gra vapen, f\u00f6r ni har redan visiterat mig. G\u00e5 och fr\u00e5ga ordf\u00f6randen om handbojorna verkligen \u00e4r n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndiga. Tror ni att jag t\u00e4nker f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka springa min v\u00e4g i den h\u00e4r vildmarken?\"\n\nLord Roke var helt ok\u00e4nslig f\u00f6r hennes charm, men var intresserad av dess effekt p\u00e5 andra. Vakten var en ung man: de skulle ha skickat en gammal gr\u00e5h\u00e5rskrigare.\n\n\"Tja\", sa vakten, \"jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att ni inte kommer att g\u00f6ra det, frun, men jag kan inte g\u00f6ra det jag inte f\u00e5tt order om. Jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r det. Var sn\u00e4ll och res er, frun, men jag lovar att f\u00e5nga upp er om ni skulle snubbla.\"\n\nHon reste sig och lord Roke k\u00e4nde hur hon r\u00f6rde sig klumpigt fram\u00e5t. Mrs Coulter var den graci\u00f6saste m\u00e4nniska gallivespiern n\u00e5gonsin hade sett: den h\u00e4r klumpigheten var inte \u00e4kta. N\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde fram till landg\u00e5ngen k\u00e4nde lord Roke hur hon snubblade till och gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett rop av r\u00e4dsla, och k\u00e4nde sedan hur vakten fick tag i hennes arm. Han noterade \u00e4ven hur ljuden runt omkring dem f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades, tjutet fr\u00e5n vinden, motorerna som arbetade med ett j\u00e4mnt varvtal f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rse str\u00e5lkastarna med str\u00f6m, r\u00f6ster i n\u00e4rheten som ropade ut order.\n\nDe r\u00f6rde sig vidare ner f\u00f6r landg\u00e5ngen och mrs Coulter lutade sig tungt mot soldaten. Hon pratade l\u00e5gt och lord Roke kunde n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt h\u00f6ra hans svar:\n\n\"Sergeanten, frun \u2013 d\u00e4r borta vid den stora packl\u00e5ren \u2013 det \u00e4r han som har nycklarna, men jag v\u00e5gar inte fr\u00e5ga honom, frun, tyv\u00e4rr.\"\n\n\"N\u00e5v\u00e4l\", sa hon med en beklagande liten suck. \"Tack ska du ha, \u00e4nd\u00e5.\"\n\nLord Roke h\u00f6rde hur de st\u00f6velkl\u00e4dda f\u00f6tterna r\u00f6rde sig bort \u00f6ver den steniga marken och sedan viskade hon: \"H\u00f6rde ni det d\u00e4r om nycklarna?\"\n\n\"Tala om var sergeanten st\u00e5r n\u00e5gonstans. Jag beh\u00f6ver veta var han \u00e4r och hur l\u00e5ngt det \u00e4r till honom.\"\n\n\"Ungef\u00e4r tio steg bort. Till h\u00f6ger. En storvuxen karl. Jag kan se nycklarna i en knippa vid b\u00e4ltet.\"\n\n\"Duger inte om jag inte vet vilken. S\u00e5g ni vilken det var n\u00e4r de satte p\u00e5 er handbojorna?\"\n\n\"Ja. En kort och bred nyckel med en svart tejpbit.\"\n\nLord Roke kl\u00e4ttrade ner i rockens t\u00e4ta p\u00e4ls tills han n\u00e5dde nederf\u00e5llen i h\u00f6jd med hennes kn\u00e4n. D\u00e4r h\u00e4ngde han sig kvar och s\u00e5g sig omkring.\n\nJust nu lystes de regnv\u00e5ta klipporna upp av en uppst\u00e4lld str\u00e5lkastare. N\u00e4r han tittade p\u00e5 marken och letade efter skuggor s\u00e5g han hur ljusstr\u00e5len b\u00f6rjade sv\u00e4nga \u00e5t sidan i en kastby. Han h\u00f6rde ett rop och sedan slocknade pl\u00f6tsligt ljuset.\n\nHan hoppade omedelbart ner p\u00e5 marken och rusade iv\u00e4g genom det plaskande sn\u00f6gloppet mot sergeanten, som hade h\u00e4vt sig fram\u00e5t f\u00f6r att f\u00e5nga den fallande str\u00e5lkastaren.\n\nLord Roke hoppade i f\u00f6rvirringen upp p\u00e5 mannens ben n\u00e4r detta svepte f\u00f6rbi honom och h\u00f6gg tag i kamouflagebyxornas bomullstyg \u2013 det var redan tungt och genombl\u00f6tt av regnet \u2013 och k\u00f6rde in ena sporren i huden strax ovanf\u00f6r k\u00e4ngan.\n\nSergeanten gav ifr\u00e5n sig en grymtning, f\u00f6ll klumpigt ihop och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ta sig om benet. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte andas, f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ropa. Lord Roke sl\u00e4ppte taget och hoppade bort fr\u00e5n den fallande kroppen.\n\nIngen hade sett n\u00e5got: ov\u00e4sendet fr\u00e5n vinden och motorerna och den kraftiga hagelskuren \u00f6verr\u00f6stade mannens rop och i m\u00f6rkret var det ingen som s\u00e5g kroppen. Men det fanns andra i n\u00e4rheten, s\u00e5 lord Roke m\u00e5ste arbeta snabbt. Han sprang fram till mannens sida, d\u00e4r nyckelknippan l\u00e5g i en p\u00f6l av iskallt vatten. Han halade undan de v\u00e4ldiga st\u00e5lst\u00e4ngerna, som var lika tjocka som hans armar och ungef\u00e4r h\u00e4lften s\u00e5 l\u00e5nga som han sj\u00e4lv, tills han hittade nyckeln med den svarta tejpen. D\u00e4refter m\u00e5ste han brottas med nyckelringens sp\u00e4nne och l\u00f6pte samtidigt en st\u00e4ndig risk att tr\u00e4ffas av hagel, som f\u00f6r gallivespiern var en d\u00f6dlig fara, f\u00f6r de var isblock stora som hans b\u00e5da knutna n\u00e4var.\n\n\"M\u00e5r ni bra, sergeant?\" sa sedan en r\u00f6st ovanf\u00f6r honom.\n\nSoldatens d\u00e6mon morrade och nosade p\u00e5 sergeantens d\u00e6mon, som hade fallit i halvdvala. Lord Roke kunde inte v\u00e4nta: ett hopp och en spark, och den andre mannen f\u00f6ll bredvid sergeanten.\n\nLord Roke halade, brottade och h\u00e4vde och kunde till slut f\u00e5 upp nyckelringen och m\u00e5ste sedan lyfta bort sex andra nycklar innan han fick loss den med svart tejp. I vilket \u00f6gonblick som helst skulle de f\u00e5 ig\u00e5ng str\u00e5lkastaren igen, men inte ens i halvm\u00f6rkret skulle de kunna missa de b\u00e5da utslagna m\u00e4nnen...\n\nN\u00e4r han drog fram nyckeln h\u00f6rdes ett rop. Han halade upp det massiva skaftet med all den styrka han f\u00f6rm\u00e5dde, och drog, h\u00e4vde, sl\u00e4pade, lyfte, och g\u00f6mde sig bredvid en liten stenbumling precis n\u00e4r de trampande f\u00f6tterna anl\u00e4nde och r\u00f6ster ropade om ljus.\n\n\"Skjutna?\"\n\n\"Har inte h\u00f6rt ett knyst...\"\n\n\"Andas de?\"\n\nSedan slogs den f\u00f6rankrade str\u00e5lkastaren p\u00e5 igen. Lord Roke var fast ute i det fria, lika synlig som en r\u00e4v som f\u00e5ngats av en bilstr\u00e5lkastare. Han stod absolut stilla och blicken r\u00f6rde sig fr\u00e5n v\u00e4nster till h\u00f6ger. S\u00e5 snart han var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att allas uppm\u00e4rksamhet var koncentrerad p\u00e5 de b\u00e5da m\u00e4nnen, som hade fallit p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5 mystiskt s\u00e4tt, hivade han upp nyckeln p\u00e5 axeln och sprang runt vattenp\u00f6larna och stenbumlingarna tills han var tillbaka hos mrs Coulter.\n\nSekunden senare hade hon l\u00e5st upp handbojorna och tyst lagt ifr\u00e5n sig dem p\u00e5 marken. Lord Roke kastade sig mot rockf\u00e5llen och kl\u00e4ttrade snabbt upp till hennes axel.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r bomben?\" fr\u00e5gade han, t\u00e4tt intill hennes \u00f6ra.\n\n\"De har precis b\u00f6rjat lasta av den. Den ligger i den stora packl\u00e5ren p\u00e5 marken d\u00e4r borta. Jag kan inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got f\u00f6rr\u00e4n de har lyft ut den och inte ens d\u00e5...\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5\", sa han, \"spring. G\u00f6m dig. Jag stannar h\u00e4r och h\u00e5ller utkik. Spring!\"\n\nHan hoppade ner till hennes \u00e4rm och skuttade iv\u00e4g. Utan ett ljud r\u00f6rde hon sig bort fr\u00e5n ljuset, till en b\u00f6rjan l\u00e5ngsamt f\u00f6r att vakterna inte skulle l\u00e4gga m\u00e4rke till henne, men sedan hukade hon sig ner och sprang bort i det regnpiskade m\u00f6rkret l\u00e4ngre upp f\u00f6r sluttningen. Den gyllene apan ilade iv\u00e4g framf\u00f6r henne f\u00f6r att spana.\n\nBakom sig kunde hon h\u00f6ra det konstanta d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n motorerna, de f\u00f6rvirrade ropen, ordf\u00f6randens kraftfulla r\u00f6st n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skapa n\u00e5got slags ordning. Hon mindes den utdragna och fruktansv\u00e4rda sm\u00e4rtan och hallucinationerna hon hade drabbats av efter att ha blivit stungen av chevalier Tialys sporre, s\u00e5 hon avundades knappast de b\u00e5da m\u00e4nnen deras uppvaknande.\n\nSnart hade hon kommit h\u00f6gre upp och kl\u00e4ttrade fram \u00f6ver de v\u00e5ta klipporna. Det enda hon s\u00e5g bakom sig var det fladdrande skenet fr\u00e5n str\u00e5lkastaren, som reflekterades mot zeppelinarens enorma v\u00e4lvda undersida. Efter ett tag slocknade ljuset igen och det enda hon kunde h\u00f6ra var motorvr\u00e5let, som f\u00e5f\u00e4ngt t\u00e4vlade mot vinden och d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n vattenfallet nedanf\u00f6r henne.\n\nIngenj\u00f6rerna fr\u00e5n den hydroanbariska kraftstationen stretade fram l\u00e4ngs klyftkanten med sin str\u00f6mkabel till bomben.\n\nMrs Coulters problem handlade inte om att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka ta sig levande ur situationen: det var en sekund\u00e4r fr\u00e5ga. Problemet var att f\u00e5 bort Lyras h\u00e5r ur bomben innan den avfyrades. Lord Roke hade br\u00e4nt h\u00e5ret fr\u00e5n kuvertet efter hennes gripande och l\u00e5tit vinden b\u00e4ra iv\u00e4g askan i natten. Sedan hade han letat sig bort till laboratoriet och sett p\u00e5 n\u00e4r man placerade resten av den lilla m\u00f6rkblonda locken i resonanskammaren. Han visste exakt var den befann sig och hur man skulle \u00f6ppna kammaren, men den starka belysningen och laboratoriets alla blanka ytor, f\u00f6r att inte tala om den st\u00e4ndiga trafiken av tekniker fram och tillbaka, gjorde det om\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r honom att g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got \u00e5t saken d\u00e4r inne.\n\nDe m\u00e5ste helt enkelt f\u00e5 bort locken efter det att bomben var iordningst\u00e4lld.\n\nOch den saken skulle bli \u00e4nnu sv\u00e5rare att genomf\u00f6ra, med tanke p\u00e5 vad ordf\u00f6randen t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra med mrs Coulter. Bombens energi skapades n\u00e4r man br\u00f6t l\u00e4nken mellan m\u00e4nniska och d\u00e6mon och det innebar att man skulle anv\u00e4nda sig av den fruktansv\u00e4rda avskiljningsprocessen med hj\u00e4lp av n\u00e4tburarna och silvergiljotinen. Ordf\u00f6randen t\u00e4nkte l\u00e5ta sk\u00e4ra av det livsl\u00e5nga bandet mellan mrs Coulter och hennes gyllene apa och utnyttja den frigjorda kraften n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rintade hennes dotter. B\u00e5de hon och Lyra skulle d\u00f6 genom den apparat som hon sj\u00e4lv hade uppfunnit. Det var \u00e5tminstone prydligt, t\u00e4nkte hon.\n\nLord Roke var hennes enda hopp, men under deras framviskade samtal inne i zeppelinaren hade han ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r henne om sina giftsporrar: han kunde inte anv\u00e4nda dem hur mycket som helst, f\u00f6r giftet f\u00f6rsvagades f\u00f6r varje nytt stick. Det tog ett dygn innan den fulla styrkan var \u00e5terst\u00e4lld. Det skulle inte dr\u00f6ja l\u00e4nge innan hans viktigaste vapen var oanv\u00e4ndbart, och d\u00e4refter skulle de bara ha sin f\u00f6rslagenhet att f\u00f6rlita sig p\u00e5.\n\nHon hittade en klippa som stack ut n\u00e5got bredvid r\u00f6tterna till en gran som klamrade sig fast vid klyftans sida. D\u00e4r slog hon sig ner en stund f\u00f6r att skaffa sig en \u00f6verblick \u00f6ver l\u00e4get.\n\nBakom och ovanf\u00f6r henne fanns kraftverket. Det h\u00e4ngde ut \u00f6ver ravinens kant och m\u00f6tte vindens fulla styrka. Ingenj\u00f6rerna h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att rigga upp en serie lampor som hj\u00e4lp f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 ner kabeln till bomben: hon kunde h\u00f6ra hur deras r\u00f6ster ropade ut order alldeles i n\u00e4rheten och hon s\u00e5g hur lampskenet fladdrade mellan tr\u00e4den. Sj\u00e4lva kabeln, som var tjock som en mansarm, ringlades ut fr\u00e5n en enorm trumma p\u00e5 en lastbil vid toppen av sluttningen. Med tanke p\u00e5 hur snabbt de tog sig ner f\u00f6r klipporna skulle de n\u00e5 fram till bomben p\u00e5 h\u00f6gst fem minuter.\n\nFader MacPhail \u00e5tersamlade soldaterna nere vid zeppelinaren. Flera m\u00e4n stod p\u00e5 vakt och spanade ut i det sn\u00f6fyllda m\u00f6rkret med gev\u00e4ren skjutklara, medan andra \u00f6ppnade den stora packl\u00e5ren med bomben och f\u00f6rberedde den f\u00f6r kabeln. Mrs Coulter kunde tydligt se den i ljuset fr\u00e5n str\u00e5lkastarna. Regnet forsade \u00f6ver det klumpiga maskineriet med alla dess ledningar. Maskinen lutade svagt p\u00e5 den steniga marken. Hon h\u00f6rde sprakandet fr\u00e5n h\u00f6gsp\u00e4nningsledningen och surrandet fr\u00e5n lamporna, vars ledningar sv\u00e4ngde i vinden och kastade skuggor fram och tillbaka \u00f6ver klipporna, som groteska hopprep.\n\nMrs Coulter var obehagligt v\u00e4lbekant med konstruktionens ena del: n\u00e4tburarna och silverklingan ovanf\u00f6r. De stod uppst\u00e4llda vid apparatens ena \u00e4nde, men det \u00f6vriga var nytt och fr\u00e4mmande f\u00f6r henne. Hon kunde inte uppfatta n\u00e5got system bakom alla spolarna, burkarna, raderna av isolatorer eller n\u00e4tverket av r\u00f6r. N\u00e5gonstans i det komplicerade arrangemanget fanns dock den lilla h\u00e5rlock som allting berodde p\u00e5.\n\nTill v\u00e4nster om henne f\u00f6rsvann sluttningen i m\u00f6rkret, och l\u00e5ngt nedanf\u00f6r s\u00e5g hon bl\u00e4nket av vitt och h\u00f6rde vattend\u00e5net fr\u00e5n Saint-Jean-les-Eaux' vattenfall.\n\nS\u00e5 h\u00f6rdes ett rop. En soldat tappade gev\u00e4ret, stapplade fram\u00e5t och f\u00f6ll sedan till marken, sparkande och flaxande och st\u00f6nande av sm\u00e4rta. Som svar tittade ordf\u00f6randen upp mot himlen, satte h\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r munnen och gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett genomtr\u00e4ngande tjut.\n\nVad h\u00f6ll han p\u00e5 med?\n\n\u00d6gonblicket senare fick mrs Coulter svaret. Av alla osannolika saker fl\u00f6g en h\u00e4xa ner och landade bredvid ordf\u00f6randen, som skrek f\u00f6r att \u00f6verr\u00f6sta vinden:\n\n\"S\u00f6k i n\u00e4rheten! Det finns en varelse av n\u00e5got slag som hj\u00e4lper kvinnan. Den har redan angripit flera av mina m\u00e4n. Du kan se i m\u00f6rkret. Hitta den och d\u00f6da den!\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r n\u00e5got p\u00e5 v\u00e4g\", sa h\u00e4xan i ett tonfall som bar \u00e4nda bort till mrs Coulters g\u00f6msle. \"Jag kan se det i norr.\"\n\n\"Strunt i det. Hitta varelsen och f\u00f6rinta den\", sa ordf\u00f6randen. \"Den kan inte vara l\u00e5ngt borta. Leta samtidigt efter kvinnan. S\u00e4tt fart!\"\n\nH\u00e4xan for upp i luften igen.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt tog apan tag i mrs Coulters hand och pekade.\n\nDet var lord Roke. Han l\u00e5g helt \u00f6ppet p\u00e5 ett stycke mossa. Hur kunde de ha missat honom? N\u00e5got hade h\u00e4nt, f\u00f6r han r\u00f6rde sig inte.\n\n\"Ge dig iv\u00e4g och h\u00e4mta honom\", sa hon till apan, som hukade sig ner och pilade iv\u00e4g fr\u00e5n en sten till n\u00e4sta p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot den lilla fl\u00e4cken av gr\u00f6nt bland klipporna. Den gyllene p\u00e4lsen hade m\u00f6rknat av regnet och klibbade fast vid kroppen, vilket gjorde honom \u00e4nnu mindre och \u00e4nnu sv\u00e5rare att uppt\u00e4cka, men han var \u00e4nd\u00e5 fruktansv\u00e4rt i\u00f6gonenfallande.\n\nUnder tiden hade fader MacPhail v\u00e4nt sig mot bomben igen. Ingenj\u00f6rerna fr\u00e5n kraftverket hade n\u00e5tt fram till den med sin kabel och teknikerna var fullt upptagna med att koppla in den och g\u00f6ra i ordning terminalerna.\n\nMrs Coulter undrade vad han t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra, nu n\u00e4r hans offer hade kommit undan. D\u00e5 v\u00e4nde ordf\u00f6randen sig om och tittade sig \u00f6ver axeln, s\u00e5 att hon kunde se hans ansiktsuttryck. Det var s\u00e5 sp\u00e4nt och intensivt att det mer s\u00e5g ut som en mask \u00e4n en m\u00e4nniska. L\u00e4pparna r\u00f6rde sig i b\u00f6n, \u00f6gonen var vitt uppsp\u00e4rrade och piskades av regnet. Allt sammantaget gjorde att han s\u00e5g ut som n\u00e5gon av de dystra spanska m\u00e5lningarna av helgon, som i extas led martyrd\u00f6den. Mrs Coulter k\u00e4nde ett pl\u00f6tsligt styng av r\u00e4dsla, f\u00f6r hon f\u00f6rstod exakt vad han t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra: han t\u00e4nkte offra sig sj\u00e4lv. Bomben skulle brisera, oavsett om hon var en del av den eller inte.\n\nDen gyllene apan n\u00e5dde lord Roke efter att ha skyndat fram fr\u00e5n sten till sten.\n\n\"Mitt v\u00e4nstra ben \u00e4r brutet\", sa gallivespiern lugnt. \"Den siste mannen trampade p\u00e5 mig. Lyssna noga...\"\n\nN\u00e4r apan bar bort lord Roke ur lampskenet talade denne om exakt var resonanskammaren satt och hur den \u00f6ppnades. De befann sig praktiskt taget mitt framf\u00f6r \u00f6gonen p\u00e5 soldaterna, men d\u00e6monen sm\u00f6g vidare, steg f\u00f6r steg, fr\u00e5n skugga till skugga, med sin lilla b\u00f6rda.\n\nMrs Coulter bet sig i underl\u00e4ppen medan hon betraktade det hela. S\u00e5 h\u00f6rde hon en susning i luften och k\u00e4nde en kraftig duns \u2013 inte i den egna kroppen, utan i tr\u00e4det bredvid. En pil stack sk\u00e4lvande ut ur tr\u00e4det mindre \u00e4n en handsbredd fr\u00e5n hennes v\u00e4nsterarm. Hon kastade sig omedelbart \u00e5t sidan innan h\u00e4xan hann skjuta \u00e4nnu en pil, och tumlade ner f\u00f6r sl\u00e4nten mot apan.\n\nSedan h\u00e4nde allting p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng, alltf\u00f6r snabbt: en skottsalva h\u00f6rdes och ett moln av skarp r\u00f6k b\u00f6ljade fram \u00f6ver sluttningen, men hon s\u00e5g inga l\u00e5gor. Den gyllene apan lade ifr\u00e5n sig lord Roke n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g att mrs Coulter blivit angripen och skuttade fram till hennes f\u00f6rsvar, samtidigt som h\u00e4xan fl\u00f6g ner med sin kniv i h\u00f6gsta hugg. Lord Roke knuffade sig i skydd intill n\u00e4rmaste sten och mrs Coulter gick i n\u00e4rkamp med h\u00e4xan. De brottades v\u00e5ldsamt bland stenarna, medan den gyllene apan b\u00f6rjade rycka loss barren fr\u00e5n h\u00e4xans molntallsgren.\n\nUnder tiden tryckte ordf\u00f6randen in sin \u00f6dled\u00e6mon i den mindre av silverburarna. Hon slingrade sig och tj\u00f6t och sparkade och bet, men han slog bort henne fr\u00e5n handen och sm\u00e4llde snabbt igen d\u00f6rren. Teknikerna gjorde de sista inst\u00e4llningarna och kontrollerade sina m\u00e4tare och instrument.\n\nEn fiskm\u00e5s kom nerflygande ur m\u00f6rkret med ett vildsint tjut och f\u00e5ngade gallivespiern med klorna. Det var h\u00e4xans d\u00e6mon. Lord Roke k\u00e4mpade emot, men f\u00e5geln hade ett alltf\u00f6r h\u00e5rt grepp och sedan slet h\u00e4xan sig loss fr\u00e5n mrs Coulter, ryckte \u00e5t sig sin s\u00f6nderslitna tallgren och fl\u00f6g upp i luften till sin d\u00e6mon.\n\nMrs Coulter kastade sig iv\u00e4g mot bomben och k\u00e4nde hur r\u00f6kmolnet rev som klor i hennes n\u00e4sa och hals: det var t\u00e5rgas. De flesta av soldaterna hade fallit omkull eller stapplade halvkv\u00e4vda omkring, men b\u00f6rjade samla sig igen n\u00e4r vinden bl\u00e5ste bort gasen (men varifr\u00e5n hade den kommit, undrade hon?). Zeppelinarens v\u00e4ldiga, randiga buk fyllde himlen ovanf\u00f6r bomben, de silvergl\u00e4nsande sidorna dr\u00f6p av fukt och vinden fick den att rycka och slita i f\u00f6rt\u00f6jningsvajrarna.\n\nMen sedan gjorde ett ljud h\u00f6gt d\u00e4r uppe att det b\u00f6rjade ringa i mrs Coulters \u00f6ron: det var ett tjut som var s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt och fasansfullt att det till och med fick den gyllene apan att hugga tag i henne av r\u00e4dsla. Sekunden senare f\u00f6ll h\u00e4xan ner rakt framf\u00f6r f\u00f6tterna p\u00e5 fader MacPhail i en virvel av vita lemmar, svart silke och gr\u00f6na grenar, och hennes ben krasade h\u00f6gt mot klippan.\n\nMrs Coulter ilade fram f\u00f6r att se om lord Roke hade \u00f6verlevt fallet, men gallivespiern var d\u00f6d. Hans h\u00f6gra sporre satt djupt nerk\u00f6rd i h\u00e4xans nacke.\n\nH\u00e4xan sj\u00e4lv var n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt vid liv och hennes mun r\u00f6rde sig med en sk\u00e4lvning: \"N\u00e5got \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u2013 n\u00e5got annat \u2013 p\u00e5 v\u00e4g...\"\n\nDet var bara f\u00f6rvirrat. Ordf\u00f6randen klev redan \u00f6ver hennes kropp f\u00f6r att n\u00e5 den st\u00f6rre buren. Hans d\u00e6mon sprang fram och tillbaka inne i den andra buren. Hennes sm\u00e5 klor fick silvern\u00e4tet att ringa, samtidigt som hennes r\u00f6st tj\u00f6t om f\u00f6rbarmande.\n\nDen gyllene apan skuttade fram till fader MacPhail, men inte f\u00f6r att angripa honom: han kl\u00e4ttrade upp och \u00f6ver mannens axlar f\u00f6r att n\u00e5 resonanskammaren, ledningarnas och r\u00f6rens komplicerade nervcentrum. Ordf\u00f6randen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5nga honom, men mrs Coulter fick tag i mannens arm och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte dra ner honom. Hon s\u00e5g inget: regnet piskade i hennes \u00f6gon och det var fortfarande gas i luften.\n\nRunt omkring henne smattrade det av skottlossning: Vad var det som h\u00e4nde?\n\nStr\u00e5lkastarna gungade i vinden s\u00e5 att ingenting verkade stadigt, inte ens bergssidans svarta klippor. Ordf\u00f6randen och mrs Coulter brottades med varandra, de rev, slogs, slet, drog, bet. Hon var tr\u00f6tt och han var stark, men hon var samtidigt helt desperat och skulle kanske ha lyckats dra undan honom, men en del av henne h\u00f6ll ett \u00f6ga p\u00e5 d\u00e6monen, som var fullt upptagen med reglagen. De snabba, svarta tassarna ryckte mekanismen \u00e5t \u00e4n det ena h\u00e5llet, \u00e4n det andra, de drog, vred, str\u00e4ckte sig in...\n\nS\u00e5 fick hon ett slag i tinningen. Hon f\u00f6ll ihop och ordf\u00f6randen slet sig loss och sl\u00e4pade sig bl\u00f6dande in i buren och drog igen d\u00f6rren efter sig.\n\nApan hade f\u00e5tt upp kammaren \u2013 det var en glasd\u00f6rr p\u00e5 tunga g\u00e5ngj\u00e4rn \u2013 och str\u00e4ckte in handen \u2013 d\u00e4r var h\u00e5rlocken: fasth\u00e5llen mellan gummidynor i ett metallf\u00e4ste! \u00c4nnu n\u00e5got kvar att g\u00f6ra ogjort, s\u00e5 mrs Coulter drog sig upp p\u00e5 darrande h\u00e4nder. Hon ruskade i silvern\u00e4tet allt vad hon orkade och tittade upp mot klingan, de sprakande terminalerna, mannen d\u00e4r inne. Apan h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att skruva loss f\u00e4stet medan ordf\u00f6randen tvinnade samman n\u00e5gra eltr\u00e5dar. Hans ansikte var som en mask av bister skadegl\u00e4dje.\n\nDet kom en blixt av intensivt vitt, en piskande sm\u00e4ll, och sedan slungades apan h\u00f6gt upp i luften, och han \u00e5tf\u00f6ljdes av ett litet gyllene moln: Var det Lyras h\u00e5r? Var det hans egen p\u00e4ls? Vad det \u00e4n var, s\u00e5 bl\u00e5ste det omedelbart bort i m\u00f6rkret. Mrs Coulters h\u00f6gerhand hade sp\u00e4nt sig s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt att den satt fast vid silvern\u00e4tet, s\u00e5 att hon till h\u00e4lften l\u00e5g bredvid det, till h\u00e4lften h\u00e4ngde i det. Det ringde i huvudet och hj\u00e4rtat bultade h\u00e5rt.\n\nMen n\u00e5got hade h\u00e4nt med hennes syn. En fruktansv\u00e4rd klarhet hade kommit \u00f6ver hennes \u00f6gon, hon hade f\u00e5tt kraften att se de allra minsta detaljerna och nu fokuserades synen p\u00e5 den enda lilla detalj i hela universum som hade n\u00e5gon betydelse: f\u00e4stat vid en av dynorna i resonanskammaren satt ett enda m\u00f6rkblont h\u00e5rstr\u00e5.\n\nHon gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett kvalfyllt rop och ruskade i buren och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skaka loss h\u00e5rstr\u00e5et med sin absolut sista kraftreserv. Ordf\u00f6randen torkade sig i ansiktet med handen och str\u00f6k bort regnet. Munnen r\u00f6rde sig som om han talade, men hon kunde inte h\u00f6ra ett enda ljud. Hon slet hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st i n\u00e4tet och kastade sig sedan med all sin kraft mot maskinen samtidigt som han f\u00f6rde samman de tv\u00e5 ledningarna till en gnista. I den kompakta tystnaden f\u00f6ll silverklingan.\n\nN\u00e5gonstans exploderade n\u00e5got, men mrs Coulter var bortom all f\u00f6rm\u00e5ga att k\u00e4nna n\u00e5got.\n\nH\u00e4nder lyfte upp henne: det var lord Asriels h\u00e4nder. Ingenting f\u00f6rv\u00e5nade henne l\u00e4ngre, intentionsfarkosten stod bredvid honom, balanserad och fullst\u00e4ndigt v\u00e5gr\u00e4t p\u00e5 sluttningen. Han lyfte henne i sina armar och bar bort henne till farkosten, helt ober\u00f6rd av skottlossningen, den b\u00f6ljande r\u00f6ken, ropen av r\u00e4dsla och f\u00f6rvirring.\n\n\"\u00c4r han d\u00f6d? Avfyrades den?\" lyckades hon f\u00e5 ur sig.\n\nLord Asriel kl\u00e4ttrade in bredvid henne och sedan hoppade \u00e4ven sn\u00f6leoparden in med den halvt bed\u00f6vade apan i munnen. Lord Asriel satte sig vid kontrollerna, varefter farkosten omedelbart steg upp i luften. Mrs Coulter tittade ner p\u00e5 bergssluttningen genom \u00f6gon som bed\u00f6vats av sm\u00e4rtan. M\u00e4n sprang fram och tillbaka likt myror, n\u00e5gra l\u00e5g d\u00f6da, medan andra kr\u00f6p skadade \u00f6ver klipporna. Den kraftiga kabeln fr\u00e5n kraftverket ringlade sig genom kaoset och var det enda meningsfulla f\u00f6rem\u00e5let inom synh\u00e5ll, och n\u00e5dde fram till den glittrande bomben, d\u00e4r ordf\u00f6randens kropp l\u00e5g i en h\u00f6g inuti den ena buren.\n\n\"Lord Roke?\" sa lord Asriel.\n\n\"D\u00f6d\", viskade hon.\n\nHan tryckte p\u00e5 en knapp, varefter en lans av l\u00e5gor sprutade ut mot den ryckande, svajande zeppelinaren. Ett \u00f6gonblick senare blommade hela luftskeppet upp likt en ros av vit eld och omsl\u00f6t intentionsfarkosten, som h\u00e4ngde or\u00f6rlig och oskadd i mitten. Lord Asriel l\u00e4t farkosten glida iv\u00e4g utan n\u00e5gon br\u00e5dska, och de betraktade sk\u00e5despelet n\u00e4r den flammande zeppelinaren l\u00e5ngsamt, l\u00e5ngsamt f\u00f6ll ner \u00f6ver hela sceneriet, och bomben, kabeln, soldaterna och allt annat b\u00f6rjade tumla ner f\u00f6r bergssidan i ett virrvarr av r\u00f6k och l\u00e5gor. Farten \u00f6kade och de k\u00e5drika tr\u00e4den p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen flammade upp, \u00e4nda tills alltihop st\u00f6rtade ner i fallets vitskummande vatten, och virvlade bort i m\u00f6rkret.\n\nLord Asriel r\u00f6rde p\u00e5 nytt vid kontrollerna, s\u00e5 att intentionsfarkosten skyndade norrut. Men mrs Coulter kunde inte ta blicken fr\u00e5n scenen, hon spanade bak\u00e5t under en l\u00e5ng stund och stirrade med t\u00e5rfyllda \u00f6gon p\u00e5 elden, tills den inte var mer \u00e4n ett vertikalt streck av orange etsat mot m\u00f6rkret, omv\u00e4rvt av r\u00f6k och \u00e5nga, innan det helt och h\u00e5llet f\u00f6rsvann.\n\n## 26\n\n## Avgrunden\n\nSOLEN HAR GETT UPP SIN SV\u00c4RTA & OCH FUNNIT EN FRISKARE MORGON, & DEN SK\u00d6NA M\u00c5NEN JUBLAR I KLAR & MOLNL\u00d6S NATT.\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nM\u00d6RKRETS OMSLUTANDE SV\u00c4RTA pressade s\u00e5 tungt mot Lyras \u00f6gon att hon n\u00e4stan kunde k\u00e4nna tyngden av de tusentals ton sten som fanns ovanf\u00f6r dem. Det enda ljuset kom fr\u00e5n den sj\u00e4lvlysande stj\u00e4rten p\u00e5 lady Salmakias trollsl\u00e4nda, men \u00e4ven det h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att blekna, f\u00f6r de stackars insekterna hade inte hittat n\u00e5gon f\u00f6da i de d\u00f6das land och chevalier Tialys trollsl\u00e4nda hade d\u00f6tt strax innan.\n\nMedan Tialys satt p\u00e5 Wills axel h\u00f6ll Lyra den andra trollsl\u00e4ndan i famnen. Salmakia tr\u00f6stade den darrande varelsen och viskade till den och matade den, f\u00f6rst med kaksmulor och sedan med sitt eget blod. Om Lyra hade sett henne g\u00f6ra detta skulle hon ha erbjudit sitt eget, eftersom hon hade mer att ge, men hon hade allt sj\u00e5 i v\u00e4rlden att bara koncentrera sig p\u00e5 att hitta s\u00e4kra st\u00e4llen att s\u00e4tta ner f\u00f6tterna p\u00e5 och att undvika de l\u00e4gsta delarna av taket.\n\nHarpyan Inget-Namn hade lett in dem i ett grottsystem som enligt henne skulle f\u00f6ra dem till den punkt i d\u00f6dsriket som l\u00e5g b\u00e4st till f\u00f6r att de skulle kunna \u00f6ppna ett f\u00f6nster till n\u00e5gon annan v\u00e4rld. Bakom dem f\u00f6ljde den o\u00e4ndliga str\u00f6mmen av andar. Tunneln var full av viskningar, f\u00f6r de som hade kommit l\u00e4ngst muntrade upp alla som f\u00f6ljde efter, de modiga manade p\u00e5 de r\u00e4ddh\u00e5gsna och de gamla gav hopp \u00e5t de unga.\n\n\"\u00c4r det l\u00e5ngt kvar, Inget-Namn?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra l\u00e5gt. \"Den h\u00e4r stackars trollsl\u00e4ndan h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att d\u00f6 och d\u00e5 kommer ljuset att slockna helt.\"\n\nHarpyan stannade och v\u00e4nde sig om.\n\n\"F\u00f6lj efter bara\", sa hon. \"Om du inte kan se, lyssna. Om du inte kan h\u00f6ra, k\u00e4nn.\"\n\nHennes \u00f6gon glittrade farligt i dunklet. Lyra nickade. \"Ja\", svarade hon, \"det ska jag, men jag \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 stark som jag var f\u00f6rut och jag \u00e4r inte modig, inte speciellt mycket, i alla fall. Stanna inte. Jag f\u00f6ljer efter \u2013 det g\u00f6r vi allihop. Var sn\u00e4ll och forts\u00e4tt, Inget-Namn.\"\n\nHarpyan v\u00e4nde sig om och fortsatte. Trollsl\u00e4ndans ljus blev allt blekare f\u00f6r var minut som gick och Lyra f\u00f6rstod att det snart skulle vara helt borta.\n\nMen n\u00e4r hon snubblade fram\u00e5t h\u00f6rde hon en r\u00f6st alldeles bredvid sig \u2013 en v\u00e4lbekant r\u00f6st:\n\n\"Lyra \u2013 Lyra, mitt barn...\"\n\nS\u00e5 hon v\u00e4nde sig lyckligt om.\n\n\"Mr Scoresby! \u00c5h, jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 glad \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 h\u00f6ra din r\u00f6st! Och det \u00e4r du \u2013 jag kan se dig, men \u2013 \u00e5h, jag \u00f6nskar s\u00e5 att jag kunde r\u00f6ra vid dig!\"\n\nI det svaga, svaga ljuset kunde hon precis urskilja texasaeronautens magra figur och sardoniska leende. Hennes hand str\u00e4cktes ut som om den hade en egen vilja, men f\u00f6rg\u00e4ves.\n\n\"Jag ocks\u00e5, gumman. Men h\u00f6r p\u00e5 vad jag har att s\u00e4ga \u2013 dom h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att koka ihop en massa trubbel d\u00e4r ute och nu siktar dom p\u00e5 dig \u2013 fr\u00e5ga mig inte hur. \u00c4r det d\u00e4r grabben med kniven?\"\n\nWill hade tittat p\u00e5 honom, f\u00f6r han var ivrig att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa Lyras gamla f\u00f6ljeslagare, men nu passerade hans blick rakt genom Lee till anden bredvid. Lyra s\u00e5g omedelbart vem det var och h\u00e4pnade n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g den vuxna versionen av Will \u2013 f\u00f6r han hade samma framskjutande haka och samma s\u00e4tt att b\u00e4ra upp huvudet.\n\nWill var m\u00e5ll\u00f6s, men hans pappa sa:\n\n\"H\u00f6r p\u00e5 \u2013 vi har inte tid att prata om det h\u00e4r \u2013 g\u00f6r ist\u00e4llet precis som jag s\u00e4ger. Ta kniven och hitta det st\u00e4lle d\u00e4r n\u00e5gon har skurit av en lock av Lyras h\u00e5r.\"\n\nTonfallet var angel\u00e4get, s\u00e5 Will sl\u00f6sade ingen tid p\u00e5 att fr\u00e5ga om orsaken. Lyras \u00f6gon var vitt uppsp\u00e4rrade av oro. Hon h\u00f6ll upp trollsl\u00e4ndan med den ena handen och k\u00e4nde p\u00e5 h\u00e5ret med den andra.\n\n\"Nej\", sa Will, \"ta bort handen \u2013 jag ser inte.\"\n\nHan hittade st\u00e4llet trots det svaga ljuset: strax ovanf\u00f6r v\u00e4nstra tinningen fanns n\u00e5gra lockar som var kortare \u00e4n resten av h\u00e5ret.\n\n\"Vem gjorde det h\u00e4r?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra. \"Och...\"\n\n\"Sch\", sa Will. \"Vad ska jag g\u00f6ra?\" fr\u00e5gade han sin pappas v\u00e5lnad.\n\n\"Sk\u00e4r av det kortare h\u00e5ret s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra huden du kan. Samla ihop det noga, vartenda h\u00e5rstr\u00e5. Du f\u00e5r inte missa ett enda. \u00d6ppna sedan ett f\u00f6nster till n\u00e5gon annan v\u00e4rld \u2013 vilken som helst duger \u2013 och l\u00e4gg h\u00e5rstr\u00e5na d\u00e4r. St\u00e4ng sedan f\u00f6nstret igen. G\u00f6r det nu, genast.\"\n\nHarpyan tittade och andarna bakom tr\u00e4ngde sig p\u00e5. Lyra kunde se deras bleka ansikten i dunklet. Hon var r\u00e4dd och f\u00f6rvirrad och bet sig i l\u00e4ppen medan Will gjorde som hans far hade sagt \u00e5t honom. Ansiktet var helt n\u00e4ra knivspetsen i det svaga trollsl\u00e4ndeljuset. Han karvade ut en liten h\u00e5lighet i stenen i den andra v\u00e4rlden, lade dit alla de sm\u00e5 gyllene h\u00e5rstr\u00e5na och stoppade sedan tillbaka stenen innan han st\u00e4ngde f\u00f6nstret.\n\nSedan b\u00f6rjade marken att skaka. Fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gonstans v\u00e4ldigt djupt under dem kom ett morrande, malande ljud, som om jordens allra innersta h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att vridas runt likt ett v\u00e4ldigt kvarnhjul och sm\u00e5 stenfragment b\u00f6rjade rasa ner fr\u00e5n tunneltaket. Pl\u00f6tsligt gungade marken till. Will h\u00f6gg tag i Lyras arm och de klamrade sig fast vid varandra n\u00e4r klippan under deras f\u00f6tter b\u00f6rjade flytta p\u00e5 sig och glida iv\u00e4g, samtidigt som l\u00f6sa stenar tumlade f\u00f6rbi och tr\u00e4ffade deras f\u00f6tter och ben...\n\nDe b\u00e5da barnen kr\u00f6p ihop med armarna \u00f6ver huvudena och gallivespierna mellan sig, men sedan bars de pl\u00f6tsligt iv\u00e4g \u00e5t v\u00e4nster i en ohygglig glidande r\u00f6relse. De h\u00f6ll h\u00e5rt fast i varandra, alltf\u00f6r omskakade f\u00f6r att ens kunna skrika. \u00d6ronen fylldes av d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n de tusentals ton sten som rasade tillsammans med dem.\n\nTill slut upph\u00f6rde r\u00f6relsen, \u00e4ven om mindre stenar fortsatte att tumla ner f\u00f6r den sluttning som tills alldeles nyss inte hade funnits d\u00e4r. Lyra l\u00e5g p\u00e5 Wills v\u00e4nsterarm. Han trevade med h\u00f6gerhanden efter kniven: den satt kvar vid b\u00e4ltet.\n\n\"Tialys? Salmakia?\" sa Will med darrande r\u00f6st.\n\n\"B\u00e5da h\u00e4r, b\u00e5da vid liv\", sa chevalier Tialys r\u00f6st alldeles bredvid \u00f6rat.\n\nLuften var full av damm och av den krutliknande lukten av krossad sten. Det var sv\u00e5rt att andas och om\u00f6jligt att se, f\u00f6r trollsl\u00e4ndan var d\u00f6d.\n\n\"Mr Scoresby?\" sa Lyra. \"Vi kan inte se... Vad h\u00e4nde?\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r\", sa Lee t\u00e4tt intill. \"Jag tror att bomben small, men den missade uppenbarligen.\"\n\n\"Bomben?\" sa Lyra sk\u00e4rrat, men sedan sa hon: \"Roger \u2013 \u00e4r du d\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Jo\", h\u00f6rdes hans l\u00e5ga viskning. \"Mr Parry, han r\u00e4ddade mig. Jag var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att ramla, men han fick tag i mig.\"\n\n\"Titta\", sa John Parrys ande. \"Men h\u00e5ll fast i klippan och r\u00f6r er inte.\"\n\nDammet h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e4gga sig och n\u00e5gonstans ifr\u00e5n kom ett ljussken: det var ett underligt och blekt gyllene skimmer, som om ett sj\u00e4lvlysande dimmigt regn hade b\u00f6rjat falla runt omkring dem. Det var tillr\u00e4ckligt starkt f\u00f6r att skr\u00e4mma vettet ur dem, f\u00f6r det lyste upp det som fanns till v\u00e4nster om dem, den plats som det f\u00f6ll ner i \u2013 eller snarare rann ner i, likt en flod som rinner \u00f6ver kanten till ett vattenfall.\n\nDet var en gapande svart tomhet, likt ett h\u00e5l rakt ner i det allra djupaste av m\u00f6rker. Det gyllene ljuset rann ner och dog. De kunde se \u00f6ver till den andra sidan, men den var mycket l\u00e4ngre bort \u00e4n Will hade kunnat kasta en sten. Till h\u00f6ger om dem tornade en sluttning av grova stenar upp sig i det dammiga dunklet. Stenarna var l\u00f6sa och \u00f6mt\u00e5ligt balanserade.\n\nBarnen och deras f\u00f6ljeslagare klamrade sig fast vid n\u00e5got som inte ens var en klipphylla \u2013 bara n\u00e5gra lyckosamma punkter att h\u00e5lla fast sig i \u2013 intill randen av avgrunden, och det fanns ingen v\u00e4g d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, utom fram\u00e5t, l\u00e4ngs med sluttningen, f\u00f6rbi det krossade gruset och de balanserande stenblocken, d\u00e4r minsta ber\u00f6ring, tycktes det, skulle kunna f\u00e5 dem att st\u00f6rta ner i djupet.\n\nN\u00e4r dammet hade lagt sig bakom dem kunde de se hur m\u00e4ngder av andar stirrade med fasa mot avgrunden. De kr\u00f6p ihop p\u00e5 sluttningen och var alltf\u00f6r skr\u00e4ckslagna f\u00f6r att r\u00f6ra sig. Det var bara harpyorna som inte var r\u00e4dda. De flaxade med vingarna och sv\u00e4vade ovanf\u00f6r dem och spanade fram\u00e5t och bak\u00e5t och fl\u00f6g tillbaka till dem som var kvar i tunneln f\u00f6r att lugna ner dem, och fl\u00f6g i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g f\u00f6r att s\u00f6ka efter v\u00e4gen ut.\n\nLyra k\u00e4nde efter: alethiometern var hel \u00e5tminstone. Hon motade bort r\u00e4dslan, s\u00e5g sig om och fann Rogers lilla ansikte.\n\n\"Men d\u00e5 s\u00e5, d\u00e5 \u00e4r vi h\u00e4r allihop och vi har inte skadat oss \u00e4n. Nu kan vi \u00e5tminstone se, s\u00e5 d\u00e5 \u00e4r det v\u00e4l bara att forts\u00e4tta \u2013 forts\u00e4tta fram\u00e5t. Vi kan inte g\u00e5 \u00e5t n\u00e5t annat h\u00e5ll \u00e4n l\u00e4ngs kanten av det h\u00e4r...\" hon gjorde en gest mot avgrunden. \"S\u00e5 vi f\u00e5r helt enkelt forts\u00e4tta fram\u00e5t. Jag sv\u00e4r p\u00e5 att Will och jag, vi ska forts\u00e4tta s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt det g\u00e5r. Var inte r\u00e4dda, ge inte upp, halka inte efter. S\u00e4g det till dom andra. Jag kan inte titta bak\u00e5t hela tiden, f\u00f6r jag m\u00e5ste se efter vart jag \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g, s\u00e5 jag f\u00e5r lita p\u00e5 att ni f\u00f6ljer efter ordentligt.\"\n\nDen lilla v\u00e5lnaden nickade, och sedan b\u00f6rjade kolonnen av d\u00f6da att r\u00f6ra sig i bed\u00f6vad tystnad l\u00e4ngs randen av avgrunden, och varken Lyra eller Will kunde gissa hur l\u00e5ng tid f\u00e4rden tog, men de skulle aldrig gl\u00f6mma hur skr\u00e4mmande och farlig den var. M\u00f6rkret nedanf\u00f6r var s\u00e5 djupt att deras blickar ohj\u00e4lpligt drogs dit och de drabbades av en kuslig yrsel n\u00e4r de tittade ner. S\u00e5 ofta de kunde fixerade de blicken framf\u00f6r sig, p\u00e5 en sten, p\u00e5 ett fotf\u00e4ste, p\u00e5 en utskjutande klippa, p\u00e5 sluttningen av l\u00f6st grus, och h\u00f6ll blickarna borta fr\u00e5n djupet, men det drog, det lockade och de kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att snegla \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet, men d\u00e5 k\u00e4nde de hur de tappade balansen och det b\u00f6rjade snurra f\u00f6r \u00f6gonen och hur ett fruktansv\u00e4rt illam\u00e5ende v\u00e4llde upp i strupen.\n\nTill och fr\u00e5n kastade de levande blicken bak\u00e5t och s\u00e5g den o\u00e4ndliga raden av d\u00f6da ringla sig ut ur sprickan de hade kommit ifr\u00e5n: m\u00f6drar som pressade sina sp\u00e4dbarns ansikten mot br\u00f6stet, \u00e5ldriga f\u00e4der som kl\u00e4ttrade l\u00e5ngsamt, sm\u00e5 barn som h\u00f6ll fast i kjolen p\u00e5 personen framf\u00f6r dem, unga pojkar och flickor i Rogers \u00e5lder, som f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte se st\u00e5ndaktiga och f\u00f6rsiktiga ut, s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga... Och allihop f\u00f6ljde de efter Will och Lyra mot friheten, vilket var vad de fortfarande hoppades p\u00e5.\n\nMen n\u00e5gra litade inte p\u00e5 dem. De tr\u00e4ngde sig in t\u00e4tt bakom dem och b\u00e5da barnen k\u00e4nde hur kalla h\u00e4nder sl\u00f6t sig runt deras hj\u00e4rtan och in\u00e4lvor, och sedan h\u00f6rde barnen deras illvilliga viskningar:\n\n\"Var \u00e4r den d\u00e4r \u00f6vre v\u00e4rlden? Hur l\u00e5ngt \u00e4r det dit?\"\n\n\"Vi \u00e4r r\u00e4dda h\u00e4r nere!\"\n\n\"Vi skulle aldrig ha f\u00f6ljt med \u2013 nere i de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld hade vi \u00e5tminstone lite ljus och lite s\u00e4llskap \u2013 det h\u00e4r \u00e4r mycket v\u00e4rre!\"\n\n\"Ni gjorde fel n\u00e4r ni kom till v\u00e5rt land! Ni skulle ha stannat kvar i er egen v\u00e4rld och v\u00e4ntat p\u00e5 d\u00f6den innan ni kom ner och st\u00f6rde oss!\"\n\n\"Med vilken r\u00e4tt leder ni oss? Ni \u00e4r ju bara barn! Vem gav er den myndigheten?\"\n\nWill ville v\u00e4nda sig om och f\u00f6rd\u00f6ma dem, men Lyra drog honom i armen. Hon sa att de bara var olyckliga och r\u00e4dda.\n\nSedan yttrade sig lady Salmakia och hennes klara lugna r\u00f6st bar l\u00e5ngt ut \u00f6ver den v\u00e4ldiga tomheten.\n\n\"V\u00e4nner, var modiga! H\u00e5ll samman och forts\u00e4tt! V\u00e4gen \u00e4r sv\u00e5r, men Lyra kommer att hitta den. Var t\u00e5lmodiga och glada, s\u00e5 kommer vi att leda er ut h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, var inte r\u00e4dda!\"\n\nLyra sj\u00e4lv k\u00e4nde sig st\u00e4rkt av orden, vilket var Salmakias verkliga avsikt. De stretade vidare under stor m\u00f6da.\n\n\"Will\", sa Lyra efter n\u00e5gra minuter, \"h\u00f6r du vinden?\"\n\n\"Ja, det g\u00f6r jag\", sa Will. \"Men jag _k\u00e4nner_ den inte. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t mer jag skulle kunna s\u00e4ga om det d\u00e4r h\u00e5let d\u00e4r nere. Det \u00e4r samma sorts h\u00e5l som mina f\u00f6nster. Det \u00e4r samma sorts kant. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t v\u00e4ldigt speciellt med den sortens kanter, f\u00f6r n\u00e4r man v\u00e4l har upplevt hur dom k\u00e4nns, s\u00e5 gl\u00f6mmer man det aldrig. Och jag kan se den d\u00e4r nere, precis d\u00e4r klippan f\u00f6rsvinner ner i m\u00f6rkret. Men det d\u00e4r stora utrymmet d\u00e4r nere, det \u00e4r inte en annan v\u00e4rld, som alla dom andra. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t annat. Jag tycker inte om det. Jag \u00f6nskar att jag kunde st\u00e4nga det.\"\n\n\"Du har inte st\u00e4ngt varenda \u00f6ppning du har gjort.\"\n\n\"Nej, f\u00f6r att jag inte kunde st\u00e4nga n\u00e5gra av dom. Men jag vet att jag borde ha gjort det. Det blir bara en massa problem om dom l\u00e4mnas \u00f6ppna. Och ett som \u00e4r s\u00e5 stort...\" Han pekade ned\u00e5t utan att vilja titta. \"Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t fel. N\u00e5t hemskt kommer att h\u00e4nda.\"\n\nMedan de pratade med varandra f\u00f6rdes ett helt annat samtal en bit l\u00e4ngre bort: chevalier Tialys pratade l\u00e5gt med Lee Scoresbys och John Parrys andar.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det du s\u00e4ger, John?\" fr\u00e5gade Lee. \"Menar du att vi _inte_ ska ge oss ut i fria luften? Hur ska det g\u00e5 till, n\u00e4r varenda liten bit av mig l\u00e4ngtar efter att f\u00e5 komma ut till resten av den levande v\u00e4rlden igen!\"\n\n\"Ja, och det g\u00f6r jag ocks\u00e5\", svarade Wills far. \"Men jag tror att om de av oss som \u00e4r vana vid strid h\u00e5ller igen ett litet tag, s\u00e5 kan vi kanske kasta oss ut i striden p\u00e5 Asriels sida. Och om det sker i det r\u00e4tta \u00f6gonblicket, s\u00e5 skulle det kunna f\u00e5 avg\u00f6rande betydelse.\"\n\n\"Andar?\" sa Tialys. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla tvivlet borta fr\u00e5n r\u00f6sten, men misslyckades. \"Hur ska ni kunna sl\u00e5ss?\"\n\n\"Vi kan inte skada levande varelser, den saken \u00e4r klar. Men Asriels arm\u00e9 kommer att f\u00e5 sl\u00e5ss mot andra slags varelser ocks\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Dom d\u00e4r Geng\u00e5ngarna\", sa Lee.\n\n\"Det var just dem jag t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5. De ger sig p\u00e5 d\u00e6monerna, inte sant? Och v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner \u00e4r \u00e4nd\u00e5 borta sedan l\u00e4nge. Det kan vara v\u00e4rt ett f\u00f6rs\u00f6k, Lee.\"\n\n\"Okej, min v\u00e4n, jag \u00e4r med.\"\n\n\"Och ni, sir\", sa John Parrys ande till chevalier Tialys: \"Jag har samtalat med ert folks andar. Kommer ni att leva tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e4nge f\u00f6r att hinna se v\u00e4rlden igen, eller kommer ni att hinna d\u00f6 f\u00f6rst och sedan \u00e5terv\u00e4nda som andar?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r sant att v\u00e5ra liv \u00e4r korta i j\u00e4mf\u00f6relse med era. Jag har n\u00e5gra dagar kvar att leva\", sa Tialys, \"och lady Salmakia kommer kanske att leva lite l\u00e4ngre. Men tack vare det barnen h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att \u00e5stadkomma kommer v\u00e5r exil som andar inte att vara f\u00f6r evigt. Jag \u00e4r stolt \u00f6ver att ha kunnat hj\u00e4lpa dem.\"\n\nDe r\u00f6rde sig vidare. Det avskyv\u00e4rda svalget gapade hela tiden vid\u00f6ppet och bara ett enda litet felsteg, ena foten p\u00e5 en l\u00f6s sten, eller ett enda of\u00f6rsiktigt handtag, s\u00e5 skulle man falla ner i all evighet, t\u00e4nkte Lyra, s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt ner att man skulle hinna d\u00f6 av sv\u00e4lt l\u00e5ngt innan man n\u00e5dde botten, och sedan skulle ens stackars ande forts\u00e4tta att falla djupare och djupare ner i det o\u00e4ndliga h\u00e5let utan n\u00e5gon som kunde hj\u00e4lpa en, utan n\u00e5gra h\u00e4nder som str\u00e4ckte sig ner och lyfte upp en, f\u00f6r evigt vid medvetande och f\u00f6r evigt fallande...\n\n\u00c5h, det m\u00e5ste v\u00e4l vara o\u00e4ndligt mycket v\u00e4rre \u00e4n den tysta gr\u00e5 v\u00e4rld som de just h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e4mna?\n\nN\u00e5got underligt h\u00e4nde just d\u00e5 i hennes hj\u00e4rna. Tanken p\u00e5 att ramla framkallade en sorts yrsel hos Lyra, s\u00e5 att hon svajade till. Will var lite l\u00e4ngre fram, precis utom r\u00e4ckh\u00e5ll, f\u00f6r annars hade hon kanske gripit tag i hans hand, men i det \u00f6gonblicket var hon mer medveten om Roger och hon k\u00e4nde hur en liten gnista av f\u00e5f\u00e4nga blixtrade till i br\u00f6stet. Det hade funnits tillf\u00e4llen uppe p\u00e5 taken p\u00e5 Jordan College, d\u00e5 hon hade trotsat svindeln bara f\u00f6r att skr\u00e4mma honom, och hade d\u00e5 promenerat t\u00e4tt intill takets yttersta kant.\n\nNu kastade hon en blick bak\u00e5t p\u00e5 honom f\u00f6r att p\u00e5minna honom. Hon var Rogers Lyra, alldeles full av dj\u00e4rvhet och elegans; hon beh\u00f6vde verkligen inte kr\u00e4la fram p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet, som om hon vore en insekt.\n\nMen den lille pojkens viskande r\u00f6st sa: \"Lyra, var f\u00f6rsiktig \u2013 kom ih\u00e5g att du inte \u00e4r d\u00f6d som vi andra...\"\n\nAlltihop verkade h\u00e4nda oerh\u00f6rt l\u00e5ngsamt, men det var \u00e4nd\u00e5 inget hon kunde g\u00f6ra: tyngden f\u00f6rsk\u00f6ts, stenarna b\u00f6rjade glida under hennes f\u00f6tter och utan att kunna hj\u00e4lpa det b\u00f6rjade hon kana utf\u00f6r. Under de f\u00f6rsta \u00f6gonblicken var det bara irriterande, sedan komiskt: S\u00e5 dumt! t\u00e4nkte hon. Men n\u00e4r hon sedan helt misslyckades med att f\u00e5 grepp om n\u00e5got och stenarna bara rullade och tumlade under henne n\u00e4r hon gled ner mot kanten med allt h\u00f6gre fart, s\u00e5 greps hon av den totala paniken. Hon var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att falla. Det fanns inget som stoppade henne. Det var redan f\u00f6r sent.\n\nHennes kropp skakade av skr\u00e4ck. Hon var inte medveten om de andar som kastade sig ner mot henne f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00e5nga henne, och som hon bara st\u00f6rtade rakt igenom likt en sten genom dimma. Hon h\u00f6rde inte att Will skrek hennes namn s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt att hela avgrunden genlj\u00f6d av hans r\u00f6st. Ist\u00e4llet fylldes hela hennes varelse av en virvel av d\u00e5nande r\u00e4dsla. Hon f\u00f6ll snabbare och snabbare, l\u00e4ngre och l\u00e4ngre ner, och m\u00e5nga av andarna stod inte l\u00e4ngre ut med \u00e5synen, utan dolde sina \u00f6gon och skrek h\u00f6gt.\n\nWill hade stelnat av r\u00e4dsla. Han s\u00e5g \u00e5ngestfyllt p\u00e5 n\u00e4r Lyra gled allt l\u00e4ngre och l\u00e4ngre bort, f\u00f6r han ins\u00e5g att han inte kunde g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n att titta p\u00e5. Lika lite som hon h\u00f6rde han det desperata tjut han gav ifr\u00e5n sig. Tv\u00e5 sekunder till \u2013 en sekund \u2013 s\u00e5 skulle hon vara framme vid kanten, hon kunde inte stanna, hon var d\u00e4r, hon var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g ut...\n\nMen ut ur m\u00f6rkret svepte just den varelse som hade rivit henne med sina klor f\u00f6r inte s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan, Inget-Namn, harpyan, med sitt kvinnoansikte och sina f\u00e5gelvingar, och samma klor sl\u00f6t sig nu h\u00e5rt runt flickans handled. Tillsammans st\u00f6rtade de vidare ner i djupet, f\u00f6r den extra tyngden var n\u00e4stan f\u00f6r mycket, \u00e4ven f\u00f6r harpyans starka vingar, men vingarna slog och slog och slog, och klorna hade f\u00e5tt ett stadigt grepp. L\u00e5ngsamt, tungt, l\u00e5ngsamt, tungt bar harpyan flickan h\u00f6gre och h\u00f6gre upp ur avgrunden och f\u00f6rde hennes slappa och n\u00e4stan avsvimmade kropp tillbaka till Wills utstr\u00e4ckta armar.\n\nHan h\u00f6ll henne h\u00e5rt, pressad mot br\u00f6stet och k\u00e4nde hennes h\u00e5rt bultande hj\u00e4rta mot sina egna revben. Just d\u00e5 var hon inte Lyra l\u00e4ngre och han var inte Will; hon var inte bara en flicka och han var inte bara en pojke. De var de enda m\u00e4nskliga varelserna i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4ldiga avgrundsd\u00f6den. De klamrade sig fast vid varandra och v\u00e5lnaderna skockades runt omkring dem. De viskade tr\u00f6st, de v\u00e4lsignade harpyan. N\u00e4rmast till hands var Wills far och Lee Scoresby, och hur de l\u00e4ngtade efter att f\u00e5 h\u00e5lla om henne de ocks\u00e5! Tialys och Salmakia talade med Inget-Namn, de hyllade henne, kallade henne fr\u00e4lsare av dem alla, den gener\u00f6sa, de v\u00e4lsignade hennes v\u00e4nlighet.\n\nS\u00e5 snart Lyra kunde r\u00f6ra sig str\u00e4ckte hon sig darrande efter harpyan och slog armarna om hennes hals och kysste det h\u00e4rjade ansiktet g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng. Hon kunde inte s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got. Alla ord, all sj\u00e4lvs\u00e4kerhet, all f\u00e5f\u00e4nga hade skakats ut ur henne.\n\nDe l\u00e5g stilla under n\u00e5gra minuter. S\u00e5 snart skr\u00e4cken hade b\u00f6rjat l\u00e4gga sig gav de sig av igen. Will h\u00f6ll Lyras hand i ett stadigt grepp med den friska handen och kravlade sig fram\u00e5t och testade varenda punkt noga innan de lade n\u00e5gon tyngd p\u00e5 den. Det gick s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngsamt och var s\u00e5 tr\u00f6ttsamt att de trodde att de skulle d\u00f6 av utmattning, men de kunde inte vila, de kunde inte stanna. Hur skulle n\u00e5gon kunna vila med det d\u00e4r fruktansv\u00e4rda svalget nedanf\u00f6r sig?\n\nEfter \u00e4nnu en timmes slitsam vandring sa han till henne:\n\n\"Ser du d\u00e4r framme? Jag tror det finns en v\u00e4g ut...\"\n\nDet st\u00e4mde: sluttningen blev mindre brant och det var till och med m\u00f6jligt att kl\u00e4ttra lite h\u00f6gre upp och komma bort fr\u00e5n kanten. Och l\u00e4ngre fram: Var det inte ett veck i klippv\u00e4ggen d\u00e4r borta? Kunde det verkligen vara en v\u00e4g ut?\n\nLyra log n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g in i Wills glittrande starka \u00f6gon.\n\nDe kl\u00e4ttrade vidare upp\u00e5t och f\u00f6r varje steg f\u00f6rdes de l\u00e4ngre bort fr\u00e5n avgrunden. Marken blev allt stadigare och fotf\u00e4stet allt s\u00e4krare ju h\u00f6gre upp de kl\u00e4ttrade, och det blev allt f\u00e4rre os\u00e4kra punkter d\u00e4r det fanns risk att man skulle vricka f\u00f6tterna.\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste ha kl\u00e4ttrat en bra bit nu\", sa Will. \"Jag skulle kunna prova med kniven och se vad jag hittar.\"\n\n\"Inte \u00e4n\", sa harpyan. \"En bit kvar att g\u00e5. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r en d\u00e5lig plats att \u00f6ppna p\u00e5. B\u00e4ttre st\u00e4lle h\u00f6gre upp.\"\n\nDe fortsatte under tystnad \u2013 handen, foten, tyngden, flytta, prova, handen, foten... Fingrarna var avskrubbade, kn\u00e4na och h\u00f6fterna darrade av anstr\u00e4ngning och huvudena v\u00e4rkte och ringde av ren utmattning. De kl\u00e4ttrade de sista metrarna upp till foten av klippan, d\u00e4r en smal g\u00e5ng ledde in\u00e5t bland skuggorna.\n\nLyras \u00f6gon v\u00e4rkte n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g hur Will plockade fram kniven och s\u00f6kte i luften, trevade, drog tillbaka, s\u00f6kte, vidr\u00f6rde.\n\n\"Aha\", sa han.\n\n\"Hittade du n\u00e5t \u00f6ppet st\u00e4lle?\"\n\n\"Jag tror det...\"\n\n\"Will\", sa hans fars ande, \"v\u00e4nta ett \u00f6gonblick. Lyssna p\u00e5 mig.\"\n\nWill s\u00e4nkte kniven och v\u00e4nde sig om. Under hela anstr\u00e4ngningen hade han inte kunnat t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 sin pappa, men nu k\u00e4ndes det bra att han fanns d\u00e4r. Pl\u00f6tsligt ins\u00e5g han att de skulle skiljas \u00e5t f\u00f6r sista g\u00e5ngen.\n\n\"Vad h\u00e4nder n\u00e4r ni kommer ut p\u00e5 utsidan?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. \"Kommer ni bara att f\u00f6rsvinna?\"\n\n\"Inte \u00e4n. Mr Scoresby och jag har en id\u00e9. N\u00e5gra av oss t\u00e4nker stanna kvar h\u00e4r ett litet tag och vi kommer att beh\u00f6va er sedan f\u00f6r att ta oss till lord Asriels v\u00e4rld, f\u00f6r han kommer kanske att beh\u00f6va v\u00e5r hj\u00e4lp. Dessutom\", fortsatte han allvarligt och tittade p\u00e5 Lyra, \"s\u00e5 kommer ni sj\u00e4lva att beh\u00f6va ge er iv\u00e4g dit om ni ska hitta era d\u00e6moner igen. F\u00f6r det \u00e4r dit dom har begett sig.\"\n\n\"Men mr Parry\", sa Lyra, \"hur kan ni veta att v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner \u00e4r i min pappas v\u00e4rld?\"\n\n\"Jag var schaman n\u00e4r jag levde. Jag fick l\u00e4ra mig att se saker. Fr\u00e5ga din alethiometer \u2013 den kommer att bekr\u00e4fta allt det jag s\u00e4ger. Men kom ih\u00e5g en sak om era d\u00e6moner\", sa han intensivt och med eftertryck. \"Den man som ni k\u00e4nner som sir Charles Latrom var emellan\u00e5t tvungen att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till sin egen v\u00e4rld, f\u00f6r han kunde inte bo permanent i min. Filosoferna i Torre degli Angelis gille, som f\u00e4rdades mellan v\u00e4rldarna i trehundra \u00e5r eller mer, uppt\u00e4ckte samma sak, och steg f\u00f6r steg f\u00f6rsvagades och f\u00f6rmultnade deras v\u00e4rld som en f\u00f6ljd av allt detta.\n\nOch sedan har vi det som drabbade mig. Jag var soldat, jag var marink\u00e5rsofficer, och sedan f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nade jag mitt levebr\u00f6d som forskningsresande. Jag var s\u00e5 frisk och v\u00e4ltr\u00e4nad som det g\u00e5r att vara, men sedan l\u00e4mnade jag min v\u00e4rld av misstag och kunde inte hitta tillbaka. Jag gjorde m\u00e5nga saker och l\u00e4rde mig en hel del i den v\u00e4rld jag hamnade i, men efter tio \u00e5r i den v\u00e4rlden var jag d\u00f6dligt sjuk.\n\nOrsaken \u00e4r denna: din d\u00e6mon kan bara leva ett fullt liv i den v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r den f\u00f6ddes. P\u00e5 alla andra st\u00e4llen kommer den till slut att insjukna och d\u00f6. Vi kan f\u00e4rdas till andra v\u00e4rldar s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge det finns en \u00f6ppning, men vi kan bara leva i v\u00e5ra egna. Lord Asriels stora verk kommer till slut att g\u00e5 under av samma sk\u00e4l: vi m\u00e5ste bygga v\u00e5ra himmelsrepubliker p\u00e5 den plats d\u00e4r vi befinner oss, f\u00f6r det finns ingen annan plats f\u00f6r oss.\n\nWill, min son, du och Lyra kan ge er iv\u00e4g ut nu f\u00f6r en kort tids vila, det beh\u00f6ver ni och det har ni gjort er f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nta av, men sedan m\u00e5ste ni \u00e5terv\u00e4nda hit till m\u00f6rkret hos mig och mr Scoresby f\u00f6r en sista resa.\"\n\nWill och Lyra utbytte blickar. Sedan \u00f6ppnade Will ett f\u00f6nster och det var det vackraste de n\u00e5gonsin hade sett.\n\nNattluften fyllde deras lungor, frisk och ren och sval. \u00d6gonen s\u00e5g ett tak av gnistrande stj\u00e4rnor och bl\u00e4nket fr\u00e5n vatten n\u00e5gonstans l\u00e4ngre ner, och h\u00e4r och var syntes dungar av v\u00e4ldiga tr\u00e4d p\u00e5 den vida savannen, och de var h\u00f6ga som slott.\n\nWill f\u00f6rstorade f\u00f6nstret s\u00e5 mycket det gick och r\u00f6rde sig \u00f6ver gr\u00e4set till h\u00f6ger och till v\u00e4nster och gjorde det tillr\u00e4ckligt stort f\u00f6r att sex, sju, \u00e5tta stycken skulle kunna l\u00e4mna de d\u00f6das land sida vid sida.\n\nDe f\u00f6rsta andarna darrade av hopp och deras upphetsning sk\u00f6ljde likt en v\u00e5g \u00f6ver den l\u00e5nga k\u00f6n bakom dem, sm\u00e5 barn och \u00e5ldriga f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar, som alla tittade upp\u00e5t med gl\u00e4dje och h\u00e4pnad, n\u00e4r de f\u00f6rsta stj\u00e4rnor de sett p\u00e5 \u00e5rhundraden glittrade i deras sv\u00e4ltf\u00f6dda \u00f6gon.\n\nDen f\u00f6rsta ande som l\u00e4mnade de d\u00f6das land var Roger. Han tog ett steg fram\u00e5t och v\u00e4nde sig om f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 Lyra. Han skrattade \u00f6verraskat n\u00e4r han uppt\u00e4ckte hur han uppslukades av natten, stj\u00e4rnljuset, luften... och sedan var han borta och l\u00e4mnade bara efter sig en s\u00e5dan livfull liten explosion av lycka att Will kom att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 bubblorna i ett champagneglas.\n\nDe \u00f6vriga andarna f\u00f6ljde efter, medan Will och Lyra f\u00f6ll utmattade ner i det daggv\u00e5ta gr\u00e4set. Varenda nerv i deras kroppar v\u00e4lsignade den goda jordens, nattluftens och stj\u00e4rnornas ljuvlighet.\n\n## 27\n\n## Plattformen\n\nMIN SJ\u00c4L SV\u00c4VAR IN BLAND GRENARNA: SITTER LIKT F\u00c5GELN OCH SJUNGER, V\u00c4SSAR SIN N\u00c4BB OCH PUTSAR SINA SILVERVINGAR \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nANDREW MARVELL\n\nS\u00c5 SNART MULEFORNA hade satt ig\u00e5ng med att bygga plattformen \u00e5t Mary arbetade de snabbt och effektivt. Hon nj\u00f6t av att betrakta dem, f\u00f6r de kunde diskutera utan att gr\u00e4la och samarbeta utan att g\u00e5 i v\u00e4gen f\u00f6r varandra, och f\u00f6r att deras teknik att klyva och s\u00e5ga och s\u00e4tta ihop tr\u00e4 var s\u00e5 elegant och effektiv.\n\nObservationsplattformen konstruerades och byggdes och sattes p\u00e5 plats p\u00e5 mindre \u00e4n tv\u00e5 dagar. Den var stadig, rymlig och bekv\u00e4m, och n\u00e4r hon hade kl\u00e4ttrat upp till den var hon p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt lyckligare \u00e4n hon n\u00e5gonsin hade varit tidigare, och det s\u00e4ttet var rent fysiskt. D\u00e4r uppe i l\u00f6vverkets t\u00e4ta gr\u00f6nska, med den djupbl\u00e5 himlen skymtande mellan bladen, med vinden som svalkade huden, med den svaga blomdoften som gladde henne varje g\u00e5ng hon k\u00e4nde den, med prasslet fr\u00e5n bladen, s\u00e5ngen fr\u00e5n de hundratals f\u00e5glarna och det avl\u00e4gsna suset fr\u00e5n v\u00e5gorna mot stranden, d\u00e4r lugnades och n\u00e4rdes hennes sinnen, och om hon hade kunnat sluta t\u00e4nka, s\u00e5 skulle hon ha varit fullst\u00e4ndigt omsluten av ren s\u00e4llhet.\n\nMen t\u00e4nka var ju precis det hon var d\u00e4r uppe f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra.\n\nN\u00e4r hon spanade genom kikaren och s\u00e5g hur sraf, Skuggpartiklarna, oupph\u00f6rligt drev bort\u00e5t, s\u00e5 k\u00e4ndes det som om all gl\u00e4dje och allt liv och allt hopp drev bort tillsammans med str\u00f6mmen. Hon kunde inte komma p\u00e5 minsta f\u00f6rklaring till varf\u00f6r det skedde.\n\nMuleforna hade ber\u00e4ttat att det m\u00e5ste ha h\u00e4nt f\u00f6r trehundra \u00e5r sedan: tr\u00e4den hade f\u00f6rsvagats under just s\u00e5 l\u00e5ng tid. Om Skuggpartiklarna passerade genom alla v\u00e4rldar p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt, s\u00e5 h\u00e4nde f\u00f6rmodligen samma sak \u00e4ven i hennes eget universum och i vart och ett av alla de universum som existerade. F\u00f6r trehundra \u00e5r sedan hade man grundat Royal Society, som var det f\u00f6rsta riktiga vetenskapliga s\u00e4llskapet i hennes v\u00e4rld. Newton hade gjort sina f\u00f6rsta uppt\u00e4ckter om optik och gravitation.\n\nF\u00f6r trehundra \u00e5r sedan hade n\u00e5gon i Lyras v\u00e4rld uppfunnit alethiometern.\n\nOch vid samma tid hade n\u00e5gon uppfunnit den skarpa kniven i den d\u00e4r underliga v\u00e4rlden hon hade passerat p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen hit.\n\nHon lutade sig tillbaka p\u00e5 plankorna och k\u00e4nde hur plattformen r\u00f6rde sig i en mycket l\u00e4tt, mycket l\u00e5ngsam rytm i takt med att det stora tr\u00e4det svajade i havsbrisen. Hon h\u00f6ll kikaren framf\u00f6r \u00f6gat och s\u00e5g myriaden av sm\u00e5 gnistor driva fram genom bladverket, f\u00f6rbi blommornas \u00f6ppna munnar, f\u00f6rbi de massiva grenarna, tv\u00e4rs emot vinden i en l\u00e5ngsam, m\u00e5lmedveten str\u00f6m, som s\u00e5g ut att vara allt annat \u00e4n medveten.\n\nVad h\u00e4nde f\u00f6r trehundra \u00e5r sedan? Var detta orsaken till Stoftstr\u00f6mmen, eller var det tv\u00e4rtom? Eller var b\u00e5da resultatet av n\u00e5got helt annat? Eller hade h\u00e4ndelserna helt enkelt inget samband?\n\nStr\u00f6mmen var hypnotisk. Hur l\u00e4tt skulle det inte vara att falla i trans och l\u00e5ta medvetandet glida bort tillsammans med de sv\u00e4vande partiklarna...\n\nInnan hon f\u00f6rstod vad hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med, och just f\u00f6r att hennes kropp var s\u00e5 avslappnad, var detta exakt vad som h\u00e4nde. Hon greps av panik n\u00e4r hon pl\u00f6tsligt vaknade till och uppt\u00e4ckte att hennes medvetande var utanf\u00f6r kroppen.\n\nHon befann sig ett litet stycke ovanf\u00f6r plattformen och n\u00e5gon meter bort bland grenarna. N\u00e5got hade h\u00e4nt med Stoftvinden: ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r den l\u00e5ngsamma str\u00f6mmen forsade den fram som en \u00f6versv\u00e4mmad flod. Var det str\u00f6mmen som hade snabbat upp eller fl\u00f6t tiden i en annan hastighet f\u00f6r henne nu, n\u00e4r hon befann sig utanf\u00f6r kroppen? Hur som helst var hon fullt medveten om den fruktansv\u00e4rda fara hon befann sig i, f\u00f6r floden hotade att l\u00f6sg\u00f6ra henne fullst\u00e4ndigt. Hon sl\u00e4ngde ut med armarna f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 n\u00e5got \u2013 men hon hade inga armar. Ingenting kopplade. Nu befann hon sig n\u00e4stan rakt \u00f6ver det avgrundsdjupa stupet och hon gled l\u00e4ngre och l\u00e4ngre bort fr\u00e5n sin kropp, som l\u00e5g djupt f\u00f6rsjunken i s\u00f6mn. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ropa f\u00f6r att kunna v\u00e4cka sig sj\u00e4lv: inte ett ljud. Kroppen slumrade vidare och det medvetande som betraktade den f\u00f6rdes nu bortom l\u00f6vverket och gled ut i fria luften.\n\nHur hon \u00e4n anstr\u00e4ngde sig kom hon ingen vart. Den kraft som bar iv\u00e4g med henne var lika j\u00e4mn och stark som vattnet som rinner \u00f6ver en f\u00f6rd\u00e4mning: Stoftpartiklarna str\u00f6mmade fram som om de rann ut \u00f6ver en osynlig kant.\n\nOch bar iv\u00e4g henne fr\u00e5n hennes kropp.\n\nHon slungade iv\u00e4g en mental livlina till sitt fysiska jag och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte minnas k\u00e4nslan av att befinna sig i kroppen, av alla de upplevelser som livet bestod av. Den exakta k\u00e4nslan n\u00e4r hennes v\u00e4n Atals mjuka snabel smekte henne i nacken. Smaken av bacon och \u00e4gg. Den triumfatoriska sp\u00e4nningen i musklerna n\u00e4r hon pressade sig upp f\u00f6r en bergssida. Fingrarnas delikata dans \u00f6ver datorns tangentbord. Doften av nyrostat kaffe. V\u00e4rmen i hennes s\u00e4ng en vinternatt.\n\nR\u00f6relsen upph\u00f6rde lite i taget, livlinan h\u00f6ll kvar henne och hon b\u00f6rjade k\u00e4nna tyngden och styrkan hos str\u00f6mmen som pressade mot henne d\u00e4r hon h\u00e4ngde i luften.\n\nSedan h\u00e4nde n\u00e5got underligt. Lite i taget (samtidigt som hon f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkte sina sinnesminnen och lade till nya: smaken av en iskall Margarita i Kalifornien, att sitta under citrontr\u00e4den utanf\u00f6r en restaurang i Lissabon, att skrapa bort frosten fr\u00e5n vindrutan p\u00e5 bilen) k\u00e4nde hon hur Stoftvinden l\u00e4ttade. Trycket minskade.\n\nMen bara p\u00e5 _henne_ : runt omkring, ovanf\u00f6r och nedanf\u00f6r, fortsatte den v\u00e4ldiga floden att str\u00f6mma fram, lika snabbt som f\u00f6rut. Av n\u00e5gon anledning hade det uppst\u00e5tt en liten fl\u00e4ck av stillhet runt omkring henne, d\u00e4r partiklarna motstod str\u00f6mmen.\n\nDe var medvetna! De k\u00e4nde hennes oro och reagerade p\u00e5 den, och b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6ra henne tillbaka till den \u00f6vergivna kroppen. N\u00e4r hon var tillr\u00e4ckligt n\u00e4ra f\u00f6r att kunna se den igen, s\u00e5 tung, s\u00e5 varm, s\u00e5 trygg, skakades hela hon av en ljudl\u00f6s snyftning.\n\nSedan sj\u00f6nk hon tillbaka ner i kroppen igen och vaknade.\n\nHon drog ett djupt sk\u00e4lvande andetag. Hon pressade h\u00e4nderna och benen mot plattformens grova plankor, och efter att ha varit n\u00e4ra att bli tokig av r\u00e4dsla f\u00f6r bara n\u00e5gon minut sedan, s\u00e5 fylldes hon nu av den djupa och l\u00e5ngsamma extasen av att \u00e5terigen vara ett med kroppen och jorden och allt som var materia.\n\nTill slut satte hon sig upp och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skaffa sig en \u00f6verblick. Fingrarna hittade kikaren, s\u00e5 hon tittade genom den och st\u00f6dde den ena sk\u00e4lvande handen med den andra. Det r\u00e5dde inga tvivel om saken: den l\u00e5ngsamma himmelsvida str\u00f6mmen hade f\u00f6rvandlats till en flod. Det fanns inget att h\u00f6ra och inget att k\u00e4nna, och utan kikaren heller inget att se, men \u00e4ven n\u00e4r hon lagt ifr\u00e5n sig kikaren kvarstod mycket starkt k\u00e4nslan av det snabba, tysta fl\u00f6det, tillsammans med n\u00e5got annat hon inte hade lagt m\u00e4rke till n\u00e4r hon vettskr\u00e4md befann sig utanf\u00f6r kroppen: den djupa, hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6sa saknad som uppfyllde luften.\n\nSkuggpartiklarna visste vad som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda och de s\u00f6rjde.\n\nOch hon sj\u00e4lv bestod till en del av skuggmateria. En del av henne p\u00e5verkades av den flodv\u00e5g som r\u00f6rde sig genom kosmos. Samma sak g\u00e4llde muleforna och varenda m\u00e4nsklig varelse i varenda en av de olika v\u00e4rldarna, i varje slag av medvetna varelser, var de \u00e4n befann sig.\n\nOm hon inte kunde ta reda p\u00e5 vad som h\u00e4nde, s\u00e5 skulle de snart finna att allihop gled bort i gl\u00f6mskan, varenda en av dem.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt l\u00e4ngtade hon efter jorden igen. Hon stoppade ner kikaren i fickan och p\u00e5b\u00f6rjade den l\u00e5nga kl\u00e4ttringen ner till marken.\n\nFader Gomez kl\u00e4ttrade igenom f\u00f6nstret n\u00e4r kv\u00e4llsljuset blev allt l\u00e4ngre och mildare. Han s\u00e5g de v\u00e4ldiga best\u00e5nden av hjultr\u00e4d och v\u00e4garna som genomkorsade pr\u00e4rien, precis som Mary hade gjort fr\u00e5n samma punkt n\u00e5gon tid tidigare. Nu var luften fri fr\u00e5n dis, f\u00f6r det hade regnat en stund tidigare, s\u00e5 han kunde se l\u00e4ngre \u00e4n hon hade gjort; i synnerhet s\u00e5g han glittret fr\u00e5n det avl\u00e4gsna havet och n\u00e5gra fladdrande vita skepnader som skulle kunna vara segel.\n\nHan hivade upp ryggs\u00e4cken p\u00e5 ryggen och v\u00e4nde stegen \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet f\u00f6r att ta reda p\u00e5 vad han kunde. Det var sk\u00f6nt att g\u00e5 p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r j\u00e4mna v\u00e4gen i den l\u00e5nga kv\u00e4llens stillhet, med ljudet fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gra cikadaliknande djur i det h\u00f6ga gr\u00e4set och med den nedg\u00e5ende solens v\u00e4rme i ansiktet. \u00c4ven luften var frisk, klar och v\u00e4ldoftande, och helt fri fr\u00e5n stanken av nafta\u00e5ngor, fotogen\u00e5ngor eller vad det nu var, som hade legat s\u00e5 tung \u00f6ver en av de v\u00e4rldar han hade passerat igenom: den v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r hans m\u00e5l, fresterskan sj\u00e4lv, h\u00f6rde hemma.\n\nVid solnedg\u00e5ngen hade han n\u00e5tt ut p\u00e5 en liten udde bredvid en grund vik. Om det fanns tidvatten i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden m\u00e5ste det vara flod f\u00f6r \u00f6gonblicket, f\u00f6r det var bara en smal rand av mjuk vit sand ovanf\u00f6r vattenbrynet.\n\nSimmande i vikens stilla vatten fanns ett dussin eller fler av... Fader Gomez var tvungen att stanna upp och t\u00e4nka efter noga. Ett dussin eller fler av n\u00e5gon sorts enorma, sn\u00f6vita f\u00e5glar, som var och en var stor som en roddb\u00e5t, med l\u00e5nga raka vingar som l\u00e5g ner i vattnet bakom dem: v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e5nga vingar, \u00e5tminstone tv\u00e5 meter l\u00e5nga. Var det f\u00e5glar? De hade fj\u00e4drar och huvuden och n\u00e4bbar som gjorde dem inte helt olika svanar, men de d\u00e4r vingarna satt p\u00e5 rad, s\u00e5 nog...\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt fick de syn p\u00e5 honom. Huvudena vreds runt med en sm\u00e4ll och s\u00e5 gott som genast lyftes samtliga vingar rakt upp och s\u00e5g ut precis som seglen p\u00e5 en segelb\u00e5t. Allihop lutade sig fram\u00e5t i brisen och satte av mot stranden.\n\nFader Gomez imponerades av vingseglens sk\u00f6nhet och hur f\u00e5glarna b\u00f6jde och trimmade dem s\u00e5 perfekt och av hur snabbt de r\u00f6rde sig. Sedan s\u00e5g han att de paddlade ocks\u00e5: de hade ben under vattenytan och dessa var placerade sida vid sida, inte i f\u00f6r och akter som vingarna, men tillsammans gav vingarna och benen f\u00e5glarna en utomordentlig fart och grace i vattnet.\n\nN\u00e4r den f\u00f6rsta n\u00e5dde stranden vaggade den upp genom den torra sanden och trampade iv\u00e4g rakt mot pr\u00e4sten. Den v\u00e4ste av illvilja och sk\u00f6t fram huvudet d\u00e4r den kom tungt vaggande uppf\u00f6r stranden. N\u00e4bben h\u00f6gg och klapprade. Det fanns t\u00e4nder i n\u00e4bben ocks\u00e5, rader av vassa, in\u00e5tb\u00f6jda krokar.\n\nFader Gomez befann sig ungef\u00e4r hundra meter fr\u00e5n vattenbrynet, uppe p\u00e5 en l\u00e5g och gr\u00e4skl\u00e4dd udde och hade gott om tid p\u00e5 sig att l\u00e4gga ifr\u00e5n sig ryggs\u00e4cken och ta fram gev\u00e4ret, ladda, sikta och skjuta.\n\nF\u00e5gelns huvud exploderade i en kaskad av r\u00f6tt och vitt, varefter den d\u00f6da varelsen klumpigt trampade vidare i ytterligare n\u00e5gra steg innan den sj\u00f6nk ner p\u00e5 br\u00f6stet. Det dr\u00f6jde ytterligare n\u00e5gon minut innan den var helt d\u00f6d; benen sparkade och vingarna h\u00f6jdes och s\u00e4nktes och den v\u00e4ldiga f\u00e5geln vacklade runt, runt i en blodig cirkel och sparkade upp det grova gr\u00e4set tills en l\u00e5ng bubblande utandning fr\u00e5n lungorna avslutades av en r\u00f6d hostning. Den f\u00f6ll ihop och var d\u00f6d.\n\nDe \u00f6vriga f\u00e5glarna hade stannat s\u00e5 snart den f\u00f6rsta hade fallit, och stod och betraktade b\u00e5de den och mannen. Det fanns en snabb, vildsint intelligens i deras blickar. De s\u00e5g fr\u00e5n honom till den d\u00f6da f\u00e5geln, fr\u00e5n den till gev\u00e4ret, fr\u00e5n gev\u00e4ret till hans ansikte.\n\nHan lyfte gev\u00e4ret till axeln igen och s\u00e5g hur de reagerade, hur de steg klumpigt bak\u00e5t och tr\u00e4ngde sig samman. De f\u00f6rstod.\n\nDet var starka och pr\u00e4ktiga varelser, stora och med starka ryggar, precis som levande b\u00e5tar, faktiskt. Om de visste vad d\u00f6den var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got, t\u00e4nkte fader Gomez, och om de kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5 kopplingen mellan d\u00f6den och honom sj\u00e4lv, s\u00e5 fanns det en grund till ett fruktbart samarbete mellan dem. S\u00e5 snart de verkligen hade l\u00e4rt sig att frukta honom skulle de g\u00f6ra exakt som han ville.\n\n## 28\n\n## Midnatt\n\nM\u00c5NGEN G\u00c5NG \u2022 \u2022 \u2022 HAR JAG F\u00d6R\u00c4LSKAT MIG I DEN L\u00c4TTA D\u00d6DEN \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nJOHN KEATS\n\n\"MARISA, VAKNA\", SA lord Asriel. \"Vi ska precis landa.\"\n\nEtt vindpiskat gryningsljus spred sig \u00f6ver basaltf\u00e4stningen n\u00e4r intentionsfarkosten fl\u00f6g in fr\u00e5n s\u00f6der. Den m\u00f6rbultade och bekl\u00e4mda mrs Coulter \u00f6ppnade \u00f6gonen, men hon hade inte sovit. Hon kunde se \u00e4ngeln Xaphania glida fram \u00f6ver landningsplatsen och sedan stiga och flyga upp mot tornet medan farkosten s\u00f6kte sig upp till f\u00e4stningsvallen.\n\nS\u00e5 snart de hade landat hoppade lord Asriel ut och sprang bort till kung Ogunwe i det v\u00e4stra vakttornet och struntade fullst\u00e4ndigt i mrs Coulter. Teknikerna, som strax d\u00f6k upp f\u00f6r att ta hand om flygfarkosten, ignorerade henne de ocks\u00e5, och ingen ifr\u00e5gasatte f\u00f6rlusten av den farkost hon hade stulit; det var som om hon hade blivit osynlig. Hon letade sig sorgset upp till rummet i adamanttornet, d\u00e4r ordonnansen erbj\u00f6d sig att h\u00e4mta lite mat och kaffe.\n\n\"Vad ni har att bjuda p\u00e5\", sa hon. \"Tack s\u00e5 mycket. \u00c5h, f\u00f6rresten\", fortsatte hon n\u00e4r mannen v\u00e4nde sig om f\u00f6r att g\u00e5: \"Lord Asriels alethiometriker, herr...\"\n\n\"Herr Basilides?\"\n\n\"Ja. \u00c4r han ledig och kan komma hit ett \u00f6gonblick?\"\n\n\"Just nu arbetar han med sina b\u00f6cker, frun. Jag ska be honom komma upp hit s\u00e5 snart han kan.\"\n\nHon tv\u00e4ttade sig och bytte till den enda rena skjorta hon hade kvar. Den kyliga vinden ruskade i f\u00f6nstren och det gr\u00e5 morgonljuset fick henne att rysa. Hon lade ytterligare n\u00e5gra bitar kol i j\u00e4rnspisen och hoppades att det skulle f\u00e5 henne att sluta skaka, men kylan kom inifr\u00e5n, inte bara utifr\u00e5n.\n\nTio minuter senare knackade det p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren. Den bleke, m\u00f6rk\u00f6gde alethiometrikern med n\u00e4ktergalsd\u00e6monen p\u00e5 axeln steg in och bugade sig l\u00e4tt. Ett \u00f6gonblick senare d\u00f6k ordonnansen upp med en bricka med br\u00f6d, ost och kaffe, och mrs Coulter sa:\n\n\"Tack f\u00f6r att ni ville komma, herr Basilides. Kan jag bjuda p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon f\u00f6rfriskning?\"\n\n\"Jag tar g\u00e4rna lite kaffe, tack.\"\n\n\"Vill ni vara s\u00e5 v\u00e4nlig och ber\u00e4tta\", sa hon n\u00e4r hon h\u00e4llde upp \u00e5t honom, \"f\u00f6r jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att ni har f\u00f6ljt med i det som h\u00e4nder: Lever min dotter?\"\n\nHan tvekade. Den gyllene apan grep tag i hennes arm.\n\n\"Hon lever\", sa Basilides f\u00f6rsiktigt, \"men...\"\n\n\"Ja? \u00c5h, sn\u00e4lla, vad menar ni?\"\n\n\"Hon befinner sig i de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld. Under en l\u00e5ng stund kunde jag inte tolka det instrumentet ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r mig: det verkade helt om\u00f6jligt. Men det r\u00e5der inga tvivel. Hon och pojken har gett sig ner i de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld och de har \u00f6ppnat en v\u00e4g ut f\u00f6r v\u00e5lnaderna. S\u00e5 snart de d\u00f6da n\u00e5r friheten l\u00f6ses de upp p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som deras d\u00e6moner gjorde en g\u00e5ng, och det verkar som om detta \u00e4r det mest ljuvliga och efterstr\u00e4vansv\u00e4rda slut de kan t\u00e4nka sig. Alethiometern ber\u00e4ttar ocks\u00e5 att flickan gjorde det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att hon hade h\u00f6rt om en profetia som ber\u00e4ttade om att d\u00f6den skulle f\u00e5 ett slut, s\u00e5 hon uppfattade det som att det h\u00e4r var hennes uppgift. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r finns det numera en v\u00e4g ut ur de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld.\"\n\nMrs Coulter var m\u00e5ll\u00f6s. Hon var tvungen att v\u00e4nda bort ansiktet och g\u00e5 och st\u00e4lla sig vid f\u00f6nstret f\u00f6r att kunna d\u00f6lja k\u00e4nslorna. Till slut sa hon:\n\n\"Kommer hon att ta sig ut levande? Men nej, jag vet att ni inte kan f\u00f6rutsp\u00e5. \u00c4r hon \u2013 hur m\u00e5r hon \u2013 har hon...\"\n\n\"Hon lider, hon pl\u00e5gas, hon \u00e4r r\u00e4dd. Men hon \u00e4r i s\u00e4llskap med pojken och de b\u00e5da gallivespiska spionerna och de \u00e4r fortfarande tillsammans allihop.\"\n\n\"Och bomben?\"\n\n\"Bomben skadade henne inte.\"\n\nMrs Coulter k\u00e4nde sig pl\u00f6tsligt fullst\u00e4ndigt utmattad. Hon ville inget hellre \u00e4n att f\u00e5 l\u00e4gga sig ner och sova i n\u00e5gra m\u00e5nader, i n\u00e5gra \u00e5r. Utanf\u00f6r smattrade flagglinan i vinden och r\u00e5korna kraxade n\u00e4r de fl\u00f6g runt br\u00f6stv\u00e4rnen.\n\n\"Tack, min herre\", sa hon och v\u00e4nde sig p\u00e5 nytt mot alethiometrikern. \"Jag \u00e4r mycket tacksam. Vill ni vara sn\u00e4ll och l\u00e5ta mig f\u00e5 veta om ni uppt\u00e4cker n\u00e5got mer om henne, eller var hon \u00e4r n\u00e5gonstans, eller vad hon sysslar med?\"\n\nMannen bugade sig och l\u00e4mnade rummet. Mrs Coulter gick och lade sig i t\u00e4lts\u00e4ngen, men hur hon \u00e4n f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte, s\u00e5 lyckades hon inte ens sluta \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"Vad tror ni om det d\u00e4r, kung Ogunwe?\" fr\u00e5gade lord Asriel.\n\nHan spanade genom vakttornets teleskop och betraktade n\u00e5got p\u00e5 v\u00e4sthimlen. Det s\u00e5g ut som ett berg som h\u00e4ngde i luften en handsbredd \u00f6ver horisonten, omv\u00e4rvt av moln. F\u00f6rem\u00e5let befann sig p\u00e5 ett mycket stort avst\u00e5nd. S\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt bort, faktiskt, att det inte var st\u00f6rre \u00e4n en tumnagel p\u00e5 arml\u00e4ngds avst\u00e5nd. Men det hade inte varit d\u00e4r s\u00e4rskilt l\u00e4nge och nu h\u00e4ngde det fullst\u00e4ndigt stilla.\n\nTeleskopet f\u00f6rde det lite n\u00e4rmare, men det gick fortfarande inte att se n\u00e5gra detaljer, oavsett graden av f\u00f6rstoring.\n\n\"Det molnt\u00e4ckta berget\", sa Ogunwe. \"Eller \u2013 vad \u00e4r det man kallar det? Vagnen?\"\n\n\"Med Regenten vid tyglarna. Han har g\u00f6mt sig v\u00e4l, den d\u00e4r Metatron. De talar om honom i de apokryfiska skrifterna: en g\u00e5ng i tiden var han m\u00e4nniska, en man vid namn Hanok, son till Jered \u2013 sex generationer fr\u00e5n Adam. Och nu styr han Himmelriket. Det verkar som om han t\u00e4nker g\u00f6ra mer \u00e4n s\u00e5, om det \u00e4ngeln de hittade vid svavelsj\u00f6n hade r\u00e4tt \u2013 det var den \u00e4ngeln som tog sig in i det molnt\u00e4ckta berget f\u00f6r att spionera. Om han vinner den h\u00e4r striden t\u00e4nker han blanda sig direkt i m\u00e4nniskornas liv. F\u00f6rest\u00e4ll dig det, Ogunwe \u2013 en permanent inkvisition, som \u00e4r v\u00e4rre \u00e4n n\u00e5got som Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden n\u00e5gonsin skulle kunna dr\u00f6mma om, bemannad med spioner och f\u00f6rr\u00e4dare i varenda en av v\u00e4rldarna och kontrollerad personligen av den intelligens som h\u00e5ller det d\u00e4r berget flygande... Den gamla Auktoriteten hade \u00e5tminstone den goda smaken att dra sig tillbaka och \u00f6verl\u00e5ta det smutsiga hantverket att br\u00e4nna k\u00e4ttare och h\u00e4nga h\u00e4xor \u00e5t sina pr\u00e4ster. Den h\u00e4r nya kommer att vara l\u00e5ngt, l\u00e5ngt mycket v\u00e4rre.\"\n\n\"N\u00e5, han har b\u00f6rjat genom att invadera republiken\", sa Ogunwe. \"Titta p\u00e5 det d\u00e4r \u2013 \u00e4r det r\u00f6k?\"\n\nEn sl\u00f6ja av gr\u00e5tt l\u00e4mnade det molnt\u00e4ckta berget. Det var en fl\u00e4ck som l\u00e5ngsamt bredde ut sig mot den bl\u00e5 himlen. Men det kunde inte ha varit r\u00f6k, f\u00f6r fl\u00e4cken drev rakt mot den vind som ryckte och slet i molnen.\n\nKungen tittade genom sin f\u00e4ltkikare och s\u00e5g vad det var.\n\n\"\u00c4nglar\", sa han.\n\nLord Asriel l\u00e4mnade teleskopet och r\u00e4tade p\u00e5 sig, och samtidigt skuggade han \u00f6gonen. De minimala figurerna fl\u00f6g ut i hundratal och sedan tusental, och tiotusental, tills halva den delen av himlen hade f\u00f6rm\u00f6rkats. Figurerna fl\u00f6g och fl\u00f6g och fortsatte att n\u00e4rma sig. Lord Asriel hade sett de miljardh\u00f6vdade flockarna av bl\u00e5 starar som fl\u00f6g omkring i solnedg\u00e5ngen runt kejsare K'ang-Pos palats, men han hade aldrig f\u00f6rr i sitt liv sett en s\u00e5 v\u00e4ldig flock p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng. De flygande varelserna samlade sig och str\u00f6mmade sedan l\u00e5ngsamt, l\u00e5ngsamt bort i norr och i syd.\n\n\"\u00c5h! Och vad \u00e4r det d\u00e4r?\" sa lord Asriel och pekade. \"Det d\u00e4r \u00e4r ingen vind.\"\n\nMolnet virvlade l\u00e4ngs bergets s\u00f6dra flank och l\u00e5nga revor av \u00e5nga str\u00f6mmade bort i den starka vinden. Men lord Asriel hade r\u00e4tt: r\u00f6relsen kom inifr\u00e5n, inte fr\u00e5n luften utanf\u00f6r. Molnet h\u00e4vde sig och tumlade runt och delade sig sedan under n\u00e5gon sekund.\n\nDet var mer \u00e4n bara ett berg d\u00e4r bakom, men de s\u00e5g det bara under ett \u00f6gonblick, och sedan virvlade molnet tillbaka igen, som om det hade dragits f\u00f6r av en osynlig hand, som f\u00f6r att d\u00f6lja berget p\u00e5 nytt.\n\nKung Ogunwe s\u00e4nkte f\u00e4ltkikaren.\n\n\"Det d\u00e4r \u00e4r inte ett berg\", sa han. \"Jag s\u00e5g kanoner...\"\n\n\"Det gjorde jag ocks\u00e5. Ett helt komplex av saker. Jag undrar om han kan se ut ur molnet ocks\u00e5. I en del v\u00e4rldar finns det maskiner som kan g\u00f6ra just det. Men n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller hans arm\u00e9, om de d\u00e4r \u00e4nglarna \u00e4r det enda han har...\"\n\nKungen gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett kort utrop, till h\u00e4lften av \u00f6verraskning, till h\u00e4lften av f\u00f6rtvivlan. Lord Asriel v\u00e4nde sig om och grep tag i kungens arm med fingrar som var n\u00e4ra att ge honom bl\u00e5m\u00e4rken \u00e4nda in till sj\u00e4lva benet.\n\n\"De har inte _det h\u00e4r_!\" sa han och skakade v\u00e5ldsamt i kung Ogunwes arm. \"De har inte muskler!\"\n\nHan lade handen mot v\u00e4nnens grova haka.\n\n\"Hur f\u00e5 vi \u00e4n \u00e4r\", fortsatte han, \"och hur kortlivade vi \u00e4n \u00e4r, och hur svag syn vi \u00e4n har \u2013 i j\u00e4mf\u00f6relse med dem \u2013 s\u00e5 \u00e4r vi \u00e4nd\u00e5 _starkare._ De \u00e4r _avundsjuka_ p\u00e5 oss, Ogunwe! Jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att det \u00e4r just den saken som driver p\u00e5 deras hat. De l\u00e4ngtar efter v\u00e5ra dyrbara kroppar, som \u00e4r s\u00e5 solida och kraftfulla, s\u00e5 v\u00e4l anpassade till den goda jorden! Och om vi kan _slunga_ oss mot dem med kraft och \u00f6vertygelse, s\u00e5 kommer vi att sopa undan hela den o\u00e4ndliga styrkan p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som man sveper handen genom dimma. De har inte mer kraft \u00e4n s\u00e5!\"\n\n\"Asriel, de har allierade fr\u00e5n tusen v\u00e4rldar, levande varelser, precis som vi.\"\n\n\"Vi kommer att vinna.\"\n\n\"T\u00e4nk om han har skickat ut alla de d\u00e4r \u00e4nglarna f\u00f6r att leta efter din dotter?\"\n\n\"Min dotter!\" ropade lord Asriel jublande. \"\u00c4r inte det n\u00e5got att yvas \u00f6ver, att f\u00e5 s\u00e4tta ett s\u00e5dant barn till v\u00e4rlden? Man kunde tro att det r\u00e4ckte med att ge sig iv\u00e4g ensam till pansarbj\u00f6rnarnas kung och lura av honom hans kungarike \u2013 men att ge sig ner till d\u00f6dsriket och sedan helt lugnt och stilla sl\u00e4ppa ut allihop! Och den d\u00e4r pojken; jag vill tr\u00e4ffa den d\u00e4r pojken; jag vill skaka hand med honom. F\u00f6rstod vi vad vi gav oss in i n\u00e4r vi startade det h\u00e4r upproret? Nej. Men visste de n\u00e5got \u2013 Auktoriteten och hans Regent, den d\u00e4r Metatron \u2013 f\u00f6rstod de vad de fick emot sig n\u00e4r min dotter lade sig i?\"\n\n\"Lord Asriel\", sa kungen, \"inser du hur viktig hon \u00e4r f\u00f6r framtiden?\"\n\n\"\u00c4rligt talat, nej. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag vill prata med Basilides. Vart tog han v\u00e4gen?\"\n\n\"Han gick upp till lady Coulter. Men karln \u00e4r utsliten, han kan inte g\u00f6ra mycket mer f\u00f6rr\u00e4n han har vilat sig.\"\n\n\"Han borde ha vilat sig tidigare. Vill du skicka efter honom? \u00c5h, en sak till: Var sn\u00e4ll och be madam Oxentiel att komma upp till tornet s\u00e5 snart det passar henne. Jag m\u00e5ste framf\u00f6ra mina kondoleanser.\"\n\nMadam Oxentiel hade varit gallivespiernas n\u00e4st h\u00f6gsta bef\u00e4l. Nu var hon tvungen att ta \u00f6ver lord Rokes ansvar. Kung Ogunwe bugade sig innan han l\u00e4mnade sin bef\u00e4lhavare, som stod kvar och spanade mot den gr\u00e5 horisonten.\n\nUnder hela den dagen samlades h\u00e4ren. Lord Asriels \u00e4nglar fl\u00f6g h\u00f6gt \u00f6ver det molnt\u00e4ckta berget och spanade f\u00f6rg\u00e4ves efter n\u00e5gon \u00f6ppning. Ingenting f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades, inga fler \u00e4nglar fl\u00f6g varken ut eller in, vindarna i de \u00f6vre luftlagren rev i molnen, men molnen \u00e5terskapade sig st\u00e4ndigt utan att dela sig f\u00f6r ens en sekund. Solen korsade den kalla bl\u00e5 himlen och r\u00f6rde sig sedan ner mot sydv\u00e4st, den f\u00f6rgyllde molnen och f\u00e4rgade \u00e5ngorna runt berget i varenda nyans av gr\u00e4ddvitt och scharlakansr\u00f6tt, av aprikos och orange. N\u00e4r solen hade g\u00e5tt ner gl\u00f6dde molnen svagt inifr\u00e5n.\n\nKrigare fr\u00e5n alla de v\u00e4rldar d\u00e4r lord Asriel hade anh\u00e4ngare fanns nu p\u00e5 plats: mekaniker och tekniker tankade flygfarkoster, laddade vapen och kalibrerade sikten och instrument. N\u00e4r m\u00f6rkret hade fallit anl\u00e4nde n\u00e5gra v\u00e4lkomna f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkningar: ett antal pansarbj\u00f6rnar kom tyst tassande \u00f6ver den kalla marken norrifr\u00e5n, en och en \u2013 till slut var de ett stort antal, och bland dem \u00e5terfanns deras kung. Strax efter\u00e5t anl\u00e4nde den f\u00f6rsta av flera h\u00e4xklaner. Tallgrenarnas viskande ljud i luften kunde h\u00f6ras under en l\u00e5ng stund.\n\nL\u00e4ngs sl\u00e4tten s\u00f6der om f\u00e4stningen glittrade tusentals ljus och visade var de som hade kommit l\u00e5ngv\u00e4ga ifr\u00e5n hade sina l\u00e4ger. L\u00e4ngre bort, i alla fyra v\u00e4derstrecken, patrullerade grupper av spanings\u00e4nglar och h\u00f6ll outtr\u00f6ttligt vakt.\n\nVid midnatt satt lord Asriel i sitt torn av adamant och diskuterade med kung Ogunwe, \u00e4ngeln Xaphania, gallivespiern madam Oxentiel och Teukros Basilides. Alethiometrikern hade just slutat tala, s\u00e5 lord Asriel reste sig och gick bort till f\u00f6nstret och spanade bort mot det molnt\u00e4ckta berget, som h\u00e4ngde gl\u00f6dande p\u00e5 v\u00e4sthimlen. De \u00f6vriga var tysta, de hade just f\u00e5tt h\u00f6ra n\u00e5got som hade f\u00e5tt sj\u00e4lvaste lord Asriel att blekna och sk\u00e4lva, och ingen av dem visste riktigt hur de skulle reagera.\n\nTill slut talade lord Asriel:\n\n\"Herr Basilides\", sa han, \"ni m\u00e5ste vara fullst\u00e4ndigt utmattad. Jag \u00e4r tacksam f\u00f6r era anstr\u00e4ngningar. Var s\u00e5 god och drick lite vin med oss.\"\n\n\"Tack, ers n\u00e5d\", sa l\u00e4saren.\n\nHans h\u00e4nder darrade. Kung Ogunwe h\u00e4llde upp den gyllene tokajern och gav honom glaset.\n\n\"Vad betyder allt detta, lord Asriel?\" sa madam Oxentiels klara st\u00e4mma.\n\nLord Asriel \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till bordet.\n\n\"Det betyder att vi har f\u00e5tt ett nytt m\u00e5l n\u00e4r vi v\u00e4l g\u00e5r till strid\", sa han. \"Min dotter och den h\u00e4r pojken har p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt blivit \u00e5tskilda fr\u00e5n sina d\u00e6moner, men har \u00e4nd\u00e5 lyckats \u00f6verleva. Deras d\u00e6moner finns n\u00e5gonstans i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden \u2013 r\u00e4tta mig om jag sammanfattar fel, herr Basilides \u2013 deras d\u00e6moner finns i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden och Metatron \u00e4r helt inst\u00e4lld p\u00e5 att f\u00e5nga in dem. Om han f\u00e5r tag p\u00e5 deras d\u00e6moner m\u00e5ste barnen f\u00f6lja med, och om han f\u00e5r kontroll \u00f6ver de b\u00e5da barnen, s\u00e5 \u00e4r framtiden hans, f\u00f6r evigt. V\u00e5r uppgift \u00e4r entydig: vi m\u00e5ste hitta d\u00e6monerna innan han g\u00f6r det och h\u00e5lla dem i s\u00e4kerhet tills flickan och pojken kan \u00e5terf\u00f6renas med dem.\"\n\n\"Vilken form har de, de h\u00e4r b\u00e5da borttappade d\u00e6monerna?\" fr\u00e5gade den gallivespiske ledaren.\n\n\"De har inte stelnat i n\u00e5gon s\u00e4rskild form \u00e4n, madam\", sa Teukros Basilides. \"De kan ha vilken skepnad som helst.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r att sammanfatta\", sa lord Asriel, \"s\u00e5 h\u00e4nger allts\u00e5 v\u00e5rt \u00f6de, v\u00e5r republiks, varenda medveten varelses framtid \u2013 p\u00e5 att min dotter \u00f6verlever och att hennes och pojkens d\u00e6moner inte faller i Metatrons h\u00e4nder?\"\n\n\"Det st\u00e4mmer.\"\n\nLord Asriel suckade, n\u00e4stan tillfredsst\u00e4llt. Det var som om han hade n\u00e5tt fram till slutet av en l\u00e5ng och kr\u00e5nglig matematisk ber\u00e4kning och f\u00e5tt ett svar som helt ov\u00e4ntat var fullst\u00e4ndigt korrekt.\n\n\"Utm\u00e4rkt\", sa han och satte ner h\u00e4nderna med fingrarna brett is\u00e4r p\u00e5 bordet. \"D\u00e5 ska vi g\u00f6ra f\u00f6ljande innan slaget b\u00f6rjar. Kung Ogunwe, ni tar bef\u00e4let \u00f6ver alla styrkor som f\u00f6rsvarar f\u00e4stningen. Madam Oxentiel, ni s\u00e4nder genast ut ert folk f\u00f6r att s\u00f6ka i alla riktningar efter flickan och pojken och deras d\u00e6moner. N\u00e4r ni hittar dem ska ni vakta dem med era liv tills de har \u00e5terf\u00f6renats. N\u00e4r det har intr\u00e4ffat kommer pojken att kunna fly tryggt till en annan v\u00e4rld, om jag har f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt saken r\u00e4tt.\"\n\nMadam Oxentiel nickade. Lampskenet p\u00e5 hennes styva gr\u00e5 lockar fick h\u00e5ret att glittra likt rostfritt st\u00e5l. Den falk hon hade tagit \u00f6ver efter lord Roke bredde hastigt ut vingarna d\u00e4r den satt p\u00e5 sin hylla vid d\u00f6rren.\n\n\"Xaphania\", sa lord Asriel. \"Vad vet ni om den h\u00e4r Metatron? En g\u00e5ng i tiden var han m\u00e4nniska: har han fortfarande en m\u00e4nniskas fysiska styrka?\"\n\n\"Han upph\u00f6jdes l\u00e5ngt efter min exil\", sa \u00e4ngeln. \"Jag har aldrig sett honom n\u00e4ra inp\u00e5, men han hade aldrig kunnat dominera Himmelriket om han inte vore mycket stark, stark p\u00e5 alla s\u00e4tt. De flesta \u00e4nglar skulle undvika att sl\u00e5ss i n\u00e4rkamp. Metatron skulle njuta av striden, och vinna.\"\n\nOgunwe kunde se att lord Asriel hade f\u00e5tt en id\u00e9. Hans uppm\u00e4rksamhet f\u00f6rsvann pl\u00f6tsligt, under ett kort \u00f6gonblick var blicken l\u00e5ngt borta, innan han \u00e5terkom till nuet med f\u00f6rnyad intensitet.\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r\", sa han. \"Slutligen, Xaphania, ber\u00e4ttade herr Basilides att deras bomb inte bara \u00f6ppnade en avgrund under v\u00e4rldarna, men att den \u00e4ven spr\u00e4ckte konstruktionen s\u00e5 djupt att det finns sprickor och klyftor \u00f6verallt. N\u00e5gonstans i n\u00e4rheten m\u00e5ste det finnas en v\u00e4g ner till randen av denna avgrund. Jag vill att ni s\u00f6ker efter den.\"\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker ni g\u00f6ra?\" fr\u00e5gade kung Ogunwe str\u00e4vt.\n\n\"Jag ska f\u00f6rinta Metatron. Men f\u00f6r min del \u00e4r det h\u00e4r snart \u00f6ver. Det \u00e4r min dotter som m\u00e5ste \u00f6verleva och det \u00e4r v\u00e5r uppgift att h\u00e5lla Himmelrikets alla styrkor borta fr\u00e5n henne, s\u00e5 att hon f\u00e5r chansen att ta sig till n\u00e5gon tryggare v\u00e4rld \u2013 hon och den d\u00e4r pojken och deras d\u00e6moner.\"\n\n\"Vad g\u00f6r vi med mrs Coulter?\" fr\u00e5gade kungen.\n\nLord Asriel str\u00f6k med handen \u00f6ver pannan.\n\n\"Jag vill inte att hon ska oroas\", sa han. \"L\u00e4mna henne i fred och skydda henne om det g\u00e5r. \u00c4ven om... Men jag kanske g\u00f6r henne en or\u00e4ttvisa. Vad hon \u00e4n har gjort, s\u00e5 har hon aldrig misslyckats n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller att \u00f6verraska mig. Vi vet alla vad vi m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra och varf\u00f6r vi m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra det: vi m\u00e5ste skydda Lyra tills hon har hittat sin d\u00e6mon och hunnit fly. V\u00e5r republik kan ha uppst\u00e5tt enbart f\u00f6r uppgiften att hj\u00e4lpa henne med den saken. N\u00e5, l\u00e5t oss d\u00e5 g\u00f6ra det s\u00e5 gott vi kan.\"\n\nMrs Coulter l\u00e5g i lord Asriels s\u00e4ng i rummet bredvid. Hon vaknade n\u00e4r hon h\u00f6rde r\u00f6ster i grannrummet, f\u00f6r hennes s\u00f6mn var orolig, och inte s\u00e4rskilt djup. Hon k\u00e4nde sig illa till mods och var full av l\u00e4ngtan.\n\nHennes d\u00e6mon satte sig upp bredvid henne, men hon ville inte g\u00e5 n\u00e4rmare d\u00f6rren. Det var snarare lord Asriels r\u00f6st hon ville h\u00f6ra \u00e4n n\u00e5gra s\u00e4rskilda ord. Hon trodde att de b\u00e5da var d\u00f6mda att misslyckas. Hon trodde att de allihop var d\u00f6mda att misslyckas.\n\nTill slut h\u00f6rde hon hur d\u00f6rren st\u00e4ngdes i det andra rummet och d\u00e5 tvingade hon sig att stiga upp ur s\u00e4ngen.\n\n\"Asriel\", sa hon n\u00e4r hon gick ut i det varma naftaskenet.\n\nHans d\u00e6mon morrade l\u00e5gt: den gyllene apan s\u00e4nkte huvudet f\u00f6r att blidka henne. Lord Asriel h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att rulla ihop en stor karta, men v\u00e4nde sig inte.\n\n\"Asriel, vad kommer att h\u00e4nda med oss allihop?\" sa hon och satte sig i en stol.\n\nHan gnuggade sig i \u00f6gonen med handflatorna. Ansiktet var slitet av utmattning. Han satte sig och l\u00e4t ena armb\u00e5gen vila p\u00e5 bordet. Deras d\u00e6moner var helt stilla: apan satt hopkrupen p\u00e5 stolsryggen, sn\u00f6leoparden satt uppr\u00e4tt och alert vid lord Asriels sida och betraktade mrs Coulter utan att blinka.\n\n\"H\u00f6rde du inte?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\n\"Jag h\u00f6rde lite grand. Jag kunde inte sova, men jag lyssnade inte. Var \u00e4r Lyra, \u00e4r det n\u00e5gon som vet?\"\n\n\"Nej.\"\n\nHan hade fortfarande inte besvarat hennes f\u00f6rsta fr\u00e5ga, men det f\u00f6rstod hon att han inte t\u00e4nkte g\u00f6ra.\n\n\"Vi skulle ha gift oss\", sa hon, \"och uppfostrat henne sj\u00e4lva.\"\n\nDet var en s\u00e5 ov\u00e4ntad anm\u00e4rkning att han blinkade till. Hans d\u00e6mon gav ifr\u00e5n sig mjukast t\u00e4nkbara morrning l\u00e4ngst bak i strupen och lade sig sedan ner med tassarna utstr\u00e4ckta som en sfinx. Han sa inget.\n\n\"Jag st\u00e5r inte ut med tanken p\u00e5 gl\u00f6mskan, Asriel\", fortsatte hon. \"Hellre vad som helst \u00e4n det. Jag brukade tycka att sm\u00e4rta m\u00e5ste vara v\u00e4rre \u2013 att bli torterad i all evighet \u2013 jag trodde att det skulle vara mycket v\u00e4rre... Men s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge man bara \u00e4r medveten, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det v\u00e4l b\u00e4ttre, eller hur? B\u00e4ttre \u00e4n att inte k\u00e4nna n\u00e5got alls, att bara forts\u00e4tta r\u00e4tt in i m\u00f6rkret, d\u00e4r allt slocknar f\u00f6r evigt och f\u00f6r all framtid?\"\n\nHans uppgift var helt enkelt att bara lyssna. Hans blick var l\u00e5st vid hennes och han gav henne sin fulla uppm\u00e4rksamhet, det fanns d\u00e4rf\u00f6r inget behov av att svara. Hon sa:\n\n\"H\u00e4romdagen, n\u00e4r du pratade s\u00e5 bittert om henne, och om mig... D\u00e5 trodde jag att du hatade henne. Jag kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5 att du hatade mig. Jag har aldrig hatat dig, men jag kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5... Jag kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5 varf\u00f6r du skulle kunna hata mig. Men jag kunde inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 varf\u00f6r du skulle hata Lyra.\"\n\nHan v\u00e4nde l\u00e5ngsamt bort huvudet, men tittade sedan tillbaka.\n\n\"Jag kommer ih\u00e5g att du sa n\u00e5got underligt, p\u00e5 Svalbard, p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r bergstoppen, strax innan du l\u00e4mnade v\u00e5r v\u00e4rld\", fortsatte hon. \"Du sa: f\u00f6lj med mig, s\u00e5 ska vi f\u00f6rinta Stoftet f\u00f6r evigt. Kommer du ih\u00e5g att du sa det? Men du menade det inte. Du menade raka motsatsen, eller hur? Jag har f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt det nu. Varf\u00f6r talade du inte om f\u00f6r mig vad du egentligen ville g\u00f6ra? Varf\u00f6r ber\u00e4ttade du inte att du egentligen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte bevara Stoftet? Du kunde ha ber\u00e4ttat sanningen f\u00f6r mig.\"\n\n\"Jag ville att du skulle f\u00f6lja med mig\", sa han, med hes och l\u00e5g r\u00f6st, \"men jag trodde att du skulle f\u00f6redra en l\u00f6gn.\"\n\n\"Jo\", viskade hon, \"det var vad jag ocks\u00e5 trodde.\"\n\nHon kunde inte sitta still, men hade egentligen inte styrka nog f\u00f6r att orka resa sig upp. Under ett \u00f6gonblick k\u00e4nde hon sig alldeles matt, huvudet snurrade, ljuden dog bort, rummet m\u00f6rknade, men sinnena \u00e5terv\u00e4nde n\u00e4stan genast, och p\u00e5 ett n\u00e4stan \u00e4nnu skoningsl\u00f6sare s\u00e4tt \u00e4n tidigare. Ingenting hade f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats.\n\n\"Asriel...\", mumlade hon.\n\nDen gyllene apan str\u00e4ckte f\u00f6rsiktigt ut en hand f\u00f6r att nudda vid sn\u00f6leopardens tass. Mannen s\u00e5g p\u00e5 utan ett ord och Stelmaria r\u00f6rde sig inte. Hennes \u00f6gon var fixerade vid mrs Coulter.\n\n\"\u00c5h, Asriel, vad kommer att h\u00e4nda med oss?\" sa mrs Coulter p\u00e5 nytt. \"\u00c4r det h\u00e4r slutet p\u00e5 allting?\"\n\nHan sa inget.\n\nHon r\u00f6rde sig som i en dr\u00f6m och kom p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter, plockade upp ryggs\u00e4cken som l\u00e5g i rummets ena h\u00f6rn och str\u00e4ckte sig efter sin pistol; men vad hon skulle ha gjort sedan \u00e4r det ingen som vet, f\u00f6r i just det \u00f6gonblicket h\u00f6rdes ljudet av springande fotsteg i trappan.\n\nB\u00e5de mannen och kvinnan, och b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna, v\u00e4nde sig om f\u00f6r att betrakta ordonnansen som andf\u00e5dd st\u00f6rtade in.\n\n\"Urs\u00e4kta mig, ers n\u00e5d \u2013 de b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna \u2013 de har uppt\u00e4ckts, inte l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n \u00f6stporten \u2013 i kattskepnad \u2013 vakten f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte tala med dem, f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte locka in dem, men de ville inte komma i n\u00e4rheten. Det var f\u00f6r bara n\u00e5gon minut sedan...\"\n\nLord Asriel r\u00e4tade p\u00e5 sig och var som f\u00f6rvandlad. All tr\u00f6tthet f\u00f6rsvann ur ansiktet p\u00e5 bara ett \u00f6gonblick. Han kom hastigt p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter och str\u00e4ckte sig efter \u00f6verrocken.\n\nHan struntade i mrs Coulter och v\u00e4nde sig till ordonnansen, samtidigt som han sl\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 sig rocken.\n\n\"Varsko genast madam Oxentiel. S\u00e4nd ut f\u00f6ljande order: d\u00e6monerna f\u00e5r inte hotas, skr\u00e4mmas eller tvingas p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt. Alla som ser dem ska f\u00f6rst...\"\n\nSedan h\u00f6rde mrs Coulter inte n\u00e5got mer, f\u00f6r han var redan halvv\u00e4gs ner f\u00f6r trappan. N\u00e4r \u00e4ven hans springande fotsteg hade f\u00f6rsvunnit \u00e5terstod bara det mjuka v\u00e4sandet fr\u00e5n naftalampan och ylandet fr\u00e5n den starka vinden utanf\u00f6r.\n\nHennes blick m\u00f6tte d\u00e6monens. Den gyllene apans ansiktsuttryck var lika sv\u00e5rtolkat som det alltid hade varit under deras trettiofem \u00e5r tillsammans.\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5\", sa hon. \"Jag kan inte se n\u00e5gon annan utv\u00e4g. Jag tror... Jag tror att vi...\"\n\nHan f\u00f6rstod genast vad hon menade. Han kastade sig mot hennes br\u00f6st och de kramade varandra. Hon letade reda p\u00e5 sin p\u00e4lskantade kappa, varefter de mycket tyst l\u00e4mnade rummet och s\u00f6kte sig ner f\u00f6r de m\u00f6rka trapporna.\n\n## 29\n\n## Slaget p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tten\n\nVAR M\u00c4NSKA \u00c4R I SIN V\u00c5LNADS MAKT, INTILL DEN TIMMA D\u00c5 HANS M\u00c4NSKLIGHET SKALL VAKNA...\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nDET VAR F\u00d6RTVIVLAT sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r Lyra och Will att l\u00e4mna den underbara v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r de hade sovit natten innan, men om de n\u00e5gonsin skulle kunna \u00e5terfinna sina d\u00e6moner m\u00e5ste de ge sig in i m\u00f6rkret igen. Och nu, efter flera timmars krypande genom den m\u00f6rka tunneln, med Lyra nerhukad \u00f6ver alethiometern f\u00f6r tjugonde g\u00e5ngen, gav hon ifr\u00e5n sig sm\u00e5 omedvetna ljud av sm\u00e4rta \u2013 gnyenden och fl\u00e4mtningar som skulle ha varit snyftningar om de hade varit lite starkare. \u00c4ven Will k\u00e4nde sm\u00e4rtan d\u00e4r hans d\u00e6mon hade suttit. Det var en plats som k\u00e4ndes som om den blivit sk\u00e5llad, den var fruktansv\u00e4rt \u00f6m och vartenda andetag rev i den med iskalla krokar.\n\nHur tr\u00f6tt var hon inte n\u00e4r hon vred p\u00e5 skruvarna, hur blytungt r\u00f6rde sig inte hennes tankar? De olika betydelsetrapporna som ledde bort fr\u00e5n var och en av alethiometerns trettiosex symboler, och som hon brukade r\u00f6ra sig s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt och s\u00e4kert \u00f6ver, k\u00e4ndes l\u00f6sa och skakiga. Och att h\u00e5lla kvar kopplingarna mellan dem i hj\u00e4rnan... En g\u00e5ng i tiden hade det varit lika l\u00e4tt som att springa eller att sjunga, eller att ber\u00e4tta en historia: det hade varit n\u00e5got helt naturligt. Nu m\u00e5ste hon g\u00f6ra det med stor m\u00f6da, samtidigt som hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att f\u00f6rlora greppet. Men hon fick helt enkelt inte misslyckas med det h\u00e4r, f\u00f6r d\u00e5 skulle allting ha varit f\u00f6rg\u00e4ves...\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inte l\u00e5ngt kvar\", sa hon till slut. \"Men det \u00e4r alla m\u00f6jliga farligheter d\u00e4r ute \u2013 dom krigar d\u00e4r, det finns... Men vi \u00e4r n\u00e4stan p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt plats nu. Precis vid \u00e4nden av den h\u00e4r tunneln finns det en stor sl\u00e4t sten, som det rinner vatten \u00f6ver. G\u00f6r \u00f6ppningen d\u00e4r.\"\n\nDe andar som t\u00e4nkte vara med och sl\u00e5ss pressade sig ivrigt fram\u00e5t och hon k\u00e4nde att hon hade Lee Scoresby t\u00e4tt intill.\n\n\"Lyra, min flicka\", sa han, \"nu dr\u00f6jer det inte l\u00e4nge till. N\u00e4r du ser den gamla bj\u00f6rnen, s\u00e5 s\u00e4g \u00e5t honom att Lee k\u00e4mpade \u00e4nda till slutet. Och n\u00e4r striden \u00e4r \u00f6ver, s\u00e5 kommer det att finnas all tid i v\u00e4rlden d\u00e5 jag kan driva l\u00e4ngs vinden och s\u00f6ka efter de atomer som en g\u00e5ng var Hester, och min mor i salvians land, och mina \u00e4lsklingar, alla mina \u00e4lsklingar... Lyra, min flicka, du f\u00e5r se till att vila ut dig ordentligt n\u00e4r det h\u00e4r \u00e4r \u00f6ver, h\u00f6r du det? Livet \u00e4r gott och d\u00f6den \u00e4r till \u00e4nda...\"\n\nR\u00f6sten tonade bort. Hon ville l\u00e4gga armen om honom, men det var f\u00f6rst\u00e5s om\u00f6jligt. S\u00e5 ist\u00e4llet tittade hon bara p\u00e5 hans bleka skepnad och v\u00e5lnaden s\u00e5g den lidelse och den lyskraft som fanns i hennes \u00f6gon och l\u00e4t sig st\u00e4rkas av detta.\n\nP\u00e5 Lyras och Wills axlar satt de b\u00e5da gallivespierna. Deras korta liv var n\u00e4stan till \u00e4nda och b\u00e5da k\u00e4nde en stelhet i lederna, en kyla runt hj\u00e4rtat. De skulle snart \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, men den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen som andar. De utbytte blickar med varandra och svor att stanna hos Will och Lyra s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge de kunde och att de inte skulle s\u00e4ga ett ord om att de var d\u00f6ende.\n\nBarnen kl\u00e4ttrade l\u00e4ngre och l\u00e4ngre upp\u00e5t. De sa inget. De h\u00f6rde varandras anstr\u00e4ngda andetag, h\u00f6rde varandras fotsteg, h\u00f6rde sm\u00e5stenarna som f\u00f6tterna satte i rullning. Framf\u00f6r dem kravlade harpyan m\u00f6dosamt fram\u00e5t med sl\u00e4pande vingar, raspande klor, tyst och bister.\n\nSedan h\u00f6rdes ett nytt ljud: det var ett regelbundet dropp-dropp, som ekade i tunneln. Och sedan ett snabbare droppande, ett sipprande, det kom fr\u00e5n rinnande vatten.\n\n\"H\u00e4r!\" sa Lyra och str\u00e4ckte fram handen f\u00f6r att kunna r\u00f6ra vid den stenv\u00e4gg som blockerade v\u00e4gen. Den var sl\u00e4t och v\u00e5t och kall. \"H\u00e4r \u00e4r det.\"\n\nHon v\u00e4nde sig mot harpyan.\n\n\"Jag har t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 en sak\", sa hon, \"p\u00e5 hur du r\u00e4ddade mig och hur du lovade att v\u00e4gleda mig och alla andarna som kommer genom dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld till det land d\u00e4r vi sov ig\u00e5r natt. Och d\u00e5 t\u00e4nkte jag att det inte \u00e4r r\u00e4tt att du inte har n\u00e5t namn, inte r\u00e4tt i framtiden. S\u00e5 jag t\u00e4nker ge dig ett namn, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som kung Iorek Byrnison gav mig namnet Silvertunga. Jag t\u00e4nker kalla dig V\u00e4nliga vingar. Det \u00e4r ditt namn fr\u00e5n och med nu, och det \u00e4r vad du kommer att vara i all evighet: V\u00e4nliga vingar.\"\n\n\"En dag\", sa harpyan, \"kommer vi att m\u00f6tas igen, Lyra Silvertunga.\"\n\n\"Om jag vet att du \u00e4r h\u00e4r, s\u00e5 kommer jag inte att vara r\u00e4dd\", sa Lyra. \"Farv\u00e4l, V\u00e4nliga vingar, vi ses igen n\u00e4r jag d\u00f6r.\"\n\nHon kramade harpyan h\u00e5rt och kysste henne p\u00e5 b\u00e5da kinderna.\n\nSedan sa chevalier Tialys: \"\u00c4r det h\u00e4r den v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r lord Asriel har sin republik?\"\n\n\"Ja\", svarade hon, \"det \u00e4r vad alethiometern s\u00e4ger. Vi \u00e4r alldeles i n\u00e4rheten av hans f\u00e4stning.\"\n\n\"L\u00e5t mig d\u00e5 tala med andarna.\"\n\nHon h\u00f6ll upp honom h\u00f6gt. \"Lyssna p\u00e5 mig\", ropade han, \"f\u00f6r lady Salmakia och jag \u00e4r de enda av oss som har sett den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden f\u00f6rut. Det finns en f\u00e4stning p\u00e5 en bergstopp: det \u00e4r den lord Asriel f\u00f6rsvarar. Vem fienden \u00e4r vet jag inte. Lyra och Will har bara en enda uppgift just nu, och det \u00e4r att s\u00f6ka efter sina d\u00e6moner. V\u00e5r uppgift \u00e4r att hj\u00e4lpa dem. L\u00e5t oss vara vid gott mod och k\u00e4mpa v\u00e4l.\"\n\nLyra v\u00e4nde sig till Will:\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5\", sa han, \"jag \u00e4r redo.\"\n\nHan plockade fram kniven och s\u00e5g sin fars ande i \u00f6gonen. V\u00e5lnaden stod t\u00e4tt intill och de visste att de inte skulle f\u00e5 se varandra mycket l\u00e4ngre till. Will t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 hur glad han skulle ha varit om han hade f\u00e5tt se sin mamma d\u00e4r bredvid honom, alla tre tillsammans...\n\n\"Will\", sa Lyra oroat.\n\nHan hejdade sig. Kniven satt fast i luften. Han sl\u00e4ppte den, men kniven h\u00e4ngde kvar i luften, fasthakad i n\u00e5gon osynlig v\u00e4rld. Han sl\u00e4ppte l\u00e5ngsamt ut andan.\n\n\"Jag var n\u00e4ra att...\"\n\n\"Jag s\u00e5g det\", sa hon. \"Titta p\u00e5 mig, Will.\"\n\nHan kunde se hennes ljusa h\u00e5r i sp\u00f6kskenet, den best\u00e4mda munnen, de uppriktiga \u00f6gonen: han k\u00e4nde hennes varma andedr\u00e4kt; han anade hudens v\u00e4nliga doft.\n\nKniven lossnade.\n\n\"Jag f\u00e5r f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka p\u00e5 nytt\", sa han.\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig igen. Han koncentrerade sig h\u00e5rt och l\u00e4t medvetandet rinna ner till knivspetsen, nuddade, drog sig tillbaka, s\u00f6kte, men sedan hittade han den. In, l\u00e4ngs med, ner och tillbaka: andarna tr\u00e4ngde sig s\u00e5 t\u00e4tt intill att Wills och Lyras kroppar k\u00e4nde sm\u00e5 kalla ilningar l\u00e4ngs varenda nerv.\n\nS\u00e5 gjorde han det sista snittet.\n\nDet f\u00f6rsta de uppfattade var _ov\u00e4sendet._ Ljuset som tr\u00e4ffade dem var s\u00e5 bl\u00e4ndande att de m\u00e5ste t\u00e4cka f\u00f6r \u00f6gonen, och det g\u00e4llde b\u00e5de levande och andar, s\u00e5 under flera sekunder kunde de inte se n\u00e5got, men hamrandet, explosionerna, knattrandet fr\u00e5n skottsalvorna, ropen och skriken, var omedelbart tydliga och fruktansv\u00e4rt skr\u00e4mmande.\n\nJohn Parrys ande, och Lee Scoresbys ande, var de f\u00f6rsta som \u00e5terh\u00e4mtade sig. Eftersom b\u00e5da hade varit stridsvana soldater blev de inte lika f\u00f6rvirrade av ov\u00e4sendet. Will och Lyra kunde inte g\u00f6ra annat \u00e4n titta p\u00e5 i r\u00e4dsla och f\u00f6rundran.\n\nRaketer exploderade i luften ovanf\u00f6r dem och vr\u00e4kte sten- och metallsplitter \u00f6ver bergets sluttningar, som de s\u00e5g en liten bit l\u00e4ngre bort. Och i skyn slogs \u00e4nglar med \u00e4nglar, men \u00e4ven h\u00e4xor d\u00f6k och girade, tjutande sina klanstridsrop medan de sk\u00f6t pilar p\u00e5 sina fiender. De s\u00e5g en gallivespier p\u00e5 en trollsl\u00e4nda dyka ner f\u00f6r att anfalla en flygfarkost, vars m\u00e4nskliga pilot f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sl\u00e5ss med honom i n\u00e4rkamp. Medan trollsl\u00e4ndan for fram och tillbaka ovanf\u00f6r hoppade ryttaren ner och k\u00f6rde sporrarna djupt i pilotens nacke; sedan \u00e5terv\u00e4nde insekten och fl\u00f6g in l\u00e5gt f\u00f6r att ryttaren skulle kunna hoppa tillbaka p\u00e5 dess skimrande gr\u00f6na rygg. Flygmaskinen for surrande rakt in i klipporna vid foten av f\u00e4stningen.\n\n\"G\u00f6r en st\u00f6rre \u00f6ppning\", sa Lee Scoresby. \"Sl\u00e4pp ut oss!\"\n\n\"V\u00e4nta, Lee\", sa John Parry. \"Det h\u00e4nder n\u00e5got \u2013 titta d\u00e4r borta.\"\n\nWill gjorde ett nytt litet f\u00f6nster i den utpekade riktningen och n\u00e4r de tittade ut kunde de se hur stridens f\u00f6rlopp h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras. Anfallsstyrkan b\u00f6rjade dra sig tillbaka: en grupp pansarfordon slutade r\u00f6ra sig fram\u00e5t och v\u00e4nde sig ist\u00e4llet m\u00f6dosamt om under t\u00e4ckande eld och b\u00f6rjade rulla tillbaka. En skvadron flygmaskiner, som hade \u00f6vertaget i en oj\u00e4mn strid med lord Asriels gyroptrar, girade i skyn och for iv\u00e4g v\u00e4sterut. Himmelrikets styrkor p\u00e5 marken \u2013 rader av gev\u00e4rsskyttar, soldater utrustade med eldkastare, med giftsprutande kanoner, med vapen som ingen av \u00e5sk\u00e5darna hade sett f\u00f6rut \u2013 b\u00f6rjade dra sig ur striden och falla tillbaka.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det som p\u00e5g\u00e5r?\" sa Lee. \"De l\u00e4mnar slagf\u00e4ltet \u2013 men varf\u00f6r?\"\n\nDet s\u00e5g inte ut att finnas n\u00e5got rimligt sk\u00e4l: lord Asriels allierade var underl\u00e4gsna i antal, vapnen var inte lika kraftfulla och m\u00e5nga l\u00e5g redan s\u00e5rade.\n\nSedan k\u00e4nde Will en pl\u00f6tslig r\u00f6relse bland andarna. De pekade p\u00e5 n\u00e5got som gled fram genom luften.\n\n\"Geng\u00e5ngare!\" sa John Parry. \"D\u00e4r har vi orsaken.\"\n\nOch f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen tyckte Will och Lyra att de kunde se de d\u00e4r sakerna, likt sl\u00f6jor av skimrande flor, n\u00e4r de f\u00f6ll ner ur skyn likt tistelfjun. Men de var ytterst otydliga och n\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde marken var de \u00e4nnu sv\u00e5rare att uppt\u00e4cka.\n\n\"Vad g\u00f6r dom?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Dom \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot den d\u00e4r plutonen med gev\u00e4rsskyttar...\"\n\nWill och Lyra f\u00f6rstod vad som skulle h\u00e4nda och b\u00e5da ropade h\u00f6gt av r\u00e4dsla: \"Spring! Ge er iv\u00e4g!\"\n\nN\u00e5gra av soldaterna s\u00e5g sig f\u00f6rv\u00e5nat om n\u00e4r de h\u00f6rde barnar\u00f6sterna ropa i n\u00e4rheten. Andra, som f\u00e5tt syn p\u00e5 Geng\u00e5ngarna som var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot dem, s\u00e5 underliga och tomma och giriga, h\u00f6jde sina gev\u00e4r och sk\u00f6t, men naturligtvis till ingen nytta. Sedan slog Geng\u00e5ngaren till mot den f\u00f6rsta soldat som det n\u00e5dde fram till.\n\nDet var en soldat fr\u00e5n Lyras egen v\u00e4rld, en afrikan. Hans d\u00e6mon var en l\u00e5ngbent, gulaktig katt med svarta fl\u00e4ckar. Hon blottade t\u00e4nderna och gjorde sig redo att hoppa.\n\nDe s\u00e5g hur mannen siktade med gev\u00e4ret, helt or\u00e4dd, utan att vika en tum \u2013 och sedan s\u00e5g de hur d\u00e6monen k\u00e4mpade i ett osynligt n\u00e4t, morrande, ylande, hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st, och hur mannen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte str\u00e4cka sig efter henne, sl\u00e4ppte sitt gev\u00e4r, ropade hennes namn och sedan sj\u00f6nk ihop och svimmade av sm\u00e4rta och ett fruktansv\u00e4rt illam\u00e5ende.\n\n\"Just det, Will\", sa John Parry. \"Sl\u00e4pp ut oss nu; de d\u00e4r sakerna kan vi sl\u00e5ss mot.\"\n\nWill gjorde \u00f6ppningen st\u00f6rre och sprang ut i spetsen f\u00f6r arm\u00e9n av andar. D\u00e4refter inleddes den underligaste strid han n\u00e5gonsin hade kunnat f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig.\n\nAndarna kl\u00e4ttrade ut ur jorden och var \u00e4nnu blekare skepnader i dagsljuset. De hade inte l\u00e4ngre n\u00e5got att frukta, s\u00e5 de gav sig i kast med de osynliga Geng\u00e5ngarna och grep och brottades och slet i saker som Will och Lyra \u00f6verhuvudtaget inte kunde se.\n\nGev\u00e4rsskyttarna och de \u00f6vriga levande allierade var helt f\u00f6rvirrade: de f\u00f6rstod ingenting av den sp\u00f6klika striden. Will letade sig fram till mitten av den och hotade med kniven, eftersom han mindes att Geng\u00e5ngarna hade flytt fr\u00e5n den tidigare.\n\nVart han \u00e4n gick f\u00f6ljde Lyra med och \u00f6nskade att hon i likhet med Will hade n\u00e5got att sl\u00e5ss med. Ist\u00e4llet s\u00e5g hon sig om och spanade \u00f6ver ett st\u00f6rre omr\u00e5de. Ibland tyckte hon att hon kunde skymta Geng\u00e5ngarna, ungef\u00e4r som ett oljigt skimmer i luften, och det var Lyra som k\u00e4nde den f\u00f6rsta sk\u00e4lvningen av fara.\n\nHon hade Salmakia p\u00e5 axeln och var uppe p\u00e5 en liten kulle. Det var inte mer \u00e4n en jordvall kr\u00f6nt av hagtornsbuskar, men h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n kunde hon se hela det v\u00e4ldiga landskap som invasionsh\u00e4ren h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra.\n\nSolen stod rakt ovanf\u00f6r henne. L\u00e4ngre bort, l\u00e4ngs den v\u00e4stra horisonten, tornade upplysta moln upp sig, genomskurna av m\u00f6rka raviner, och topparna drogs ut i virvlar av vindarna i de h\u00f6gre luftlagren. P\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt v\u00e4ntade fiendens markstyrkor ute p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tten: de klart glittrande maskinerna, de smattrande flaggorna fulla av f\u00e4rg, alla de stridsberedda regementena.\n\nBakom henne och till v\u00e4nster l\u00e5g raden av oj\u00e4mna kullar som ledde upp till f\u00e4stningen. Kullarna lyste klargr\u00e5 i det kusliga ljuset alldeles f\u00f6re stormen. Uppe p\u00e5 de avl\u00e4gsna murarna av svart basalt kunde hon till och med se sm\u00e5 figurer som r\u00f6rde sig, som reparerade de skadade kr\u00f6nen, riktade in nya vapen eller bara stod och tittade.\n\nI just det \u00f6gonblicket k\u00e4nde Lyra det f\u00f6rsta avl\u00e4gsna rycket av illam\u00e5ende, sm\u00e4rta och r\u00e4dsla, som var Geng\u00e5ngarnas omissk\u00e4nnliga ber\u00f6ring.\n\nHon f\u00f6rstod omedelbart vad det var fr\u00e5gan om, trots att hon aldrig hade upplevt det tidigare. Det sa henne tv\u00e5 saker: dels att hon nu m\u00e5ste ha blivit tillr\u00e4ckligt vuxen f\u00f6r att Geng\u00e5ngarna skulle kunna skada henne; och dels att Pan m\u00e5ste finnas n\u00e5gonstans i n\u00e4rheten.\n\n\"Will... Will...\", ropade hon.\n\nHan h\u00f6rde henne och v\u00e4nde sig om, med kniven i handen och \u00f6gonen i l\u00e5gor.\n\nMen innan han kunde s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got fl\u00e4mtade han till, vacklade och slog h\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r br\u00f6stet, s\u00e5 hon f\u00f6rstod att samma sak h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att h\u00e4nda med honom.\n\n\"Pan! Pan!\" ropade hon och st\u00e4llde sig p\u00e5 t\u00e5 f\u00f6r att kunna spana \u00f6verallt.\n\nWill lutade sig fram\u00e5t och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte l\u00e5ta bli att kr\u00e4kas. Efter n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick gick k\u00e4nslan \u00f6ver, som om deras d\u00e6moner hade lyckats komma undan; men de var fortfarande inte n\u00e4rmare och runt omkring dem var luften full av skottlossning, rop, r\u00f6ster som skrek av sm\u00e4rta eller skr\u00e4ck, de kretsande klippgastarnas avl\u00e4gsna yowk-yowk-yowk, de enstaka visslingarna och dunsarna fr\u00e5n pilar, och sedan h\u00f6rdes ett nytt ljud: vinden som b\u00f6rjade friska i.\n\nLyra k\u00e4nde den f\u00f6rst p\u00e5 kinderna och sedan s\u00e5g hon hur gr\u00e4set b\u00f6jde sig, och s\u00e5 kunde hon h\u00f6ra den i hagtornsbusken. Himlen framf\u00f6r dem var uppfylld av stormen: allt det vita hade f\u00f6rsvunnit fr\u00e5n \u00e5skmolnen, som nu v\u00e4ltrade sig fram och virvlade av svavelgult, havsgr\u00f6nt, r\u00f6kgr\u00e5tt och oljesvart. Det var en kv\u00e4ljande virvel som var flera kilometer h\u00f6g och lika bred som horisonten.\n\nBakom henne lyste solen fortfarande, s\u00e5 att varenda dunge och vartenda tr\u00e4d mellan henne och stormen str\u00e5lade av liv och gl\u00f6d, sm\u00e5 spr\u00f6da ting som trotsade m\u00f6rkret med sina l\u00f6v och kvistar och frukter och blommor.\n\nTv\u00e4rs igenom allt detta r\u00f6rde sig de b\u00e5da som inte l\u00e4ngre var helt och h\u00e5llet barn och s\u00e5g Geng\u00e5ngarna n\u00e4stan tydligt f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen. Vinden rev i Wills \u00f6gon och piskade fram Lyras h\u00e5r i ansiktet. Det borde ha varit tillr\u00e4ckligt f\u00f6r att bl\u00e5sa bort Geng\u00e5ngarna, men skepnaderna gled ist\u00e4llet genom vinden rakt ner till marken. Pojken och flickan letade sig, hand i hand, f\u00f6rbi de d\u00f6da, de s\u00e5rade och de levande. Lyra ropade p\u00e5 sin d\u00e6mon och Wills sinnen var p\u00e5 helsp\u00e4nn i jakten p\u00e5 sin egen.\n\nNu genomkorsades himlen av blixtar och det f\u00f6rsta allsm\u00e4ktiga \u00e5skmullret tr\u00e4ffade deras trumhinnor som ett yxhugg. Lyra tog sig om huvudet och Will var n\u00e4ra att falla omkull, som om sj\u00e4lva ljudet pressade honom ned\u00e5t. De klamrade sig fast vid varandra och tittade upp och s\u00e5g en syn som ingen n\u00e5gonsin hade sett tidigare i n\u00e5gon av de miljoner olika v\u00e4rldarna.\n\nDet var h\u00e4xor, Ruta Skadis klan och Reina Mitis och ett halvdussin andra. Var och en av h\u00e4xorna hade en fackla av flammande tallk\u00e5da doppad i bitumen i handen n\u00e4r de str\u00f6mmade fram \u00f6ver f\u00e4stningen fr\u00e5n \u00f6ster, ut ur den sista klara delen av himlen, och fl\u00f6g rakt mot stormen.\n\nNere p\u00e5 marken kunde barnen h\u00f6ra d\u00e5net och sprakandet n\u00e4r det eldf\u00e4ngda kolv\u00e4tet flammade h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r dem. N\u00e5gra f\u00e5 Geng\u00e5ngare fanns kvar i de \u00f6vre luftlagren, och n\u00e5gra h\u00e4xor fl\u00f6g oseende in i dem, varefter de tj\u00f6t till och sedan tumlade ner mot marken, men vid det laget hade de flesta av de bleka tingestarna redan n\u00e5tt marken, s\u00e5 den v\u00e4ldiga h\u00e4xflocken kunde flyga rakt in i stormens hj\u00e4rta likt en flod av eld.\n\nEn flock \u00e4nglar, bev\u00e4pnade med spjut och sv\u00e4rd, hade dykt upp fr\u00e5n det molnt\u00e4ckta berget f\u00f6r att m\u00f6ta h\u00e4xorna. De hade vinden bakom sig och fl\u00f6g snabbare \u00e4n pilar, men h\u00e4xorna var redo att ta sig an dem. De f\u00f6rsta steg hastigt och d\u00f6k sedan rakt ner bland \u00e4nglarnas led och slog \u00e5t h\u00f6ger och v\u00e4nster med sina flammande facklor. \u00c4ngel efter \u00e4ngel lystes upp av elden n\u00e4r vingarna fattade eld, och de st\u00f6rtade skrikande ner ur skyn.\n\nSedan f\u00f6ll de f\u00f6rsta stora regndropparna. Om bef\u00e4lhavaren inne i stormmolnen hade haft planer p\u00e5 att sl\u00e4cka h\u00e4xeldarna, s\u00e5 blev han besviken; den bitumendoppade tallk\u00e5dan flammade sitt trots och spottade och fr\u00e4ste bara h\u00f6gre ju mer regnet plaskade. Regndropparna tr\u00e4ffade marken som om de hade slungats ut i vredesmod och st\u00e4nkte h\u00f6gt upp i luften. Efter bara n\u00e5gon minut var b\u00e5de Lyra och Will genomv\u00e5ta in p\u00e5 bara skinnet och skakade av k\u00f6ld. Regnet k\u00e4ndes som sm\u00e5sten mot deras huvud och armar.\n\nDe snubblade och k\u00e4mpade sig rakt genom allt detta och fick st\u00e4ndigt gnida vattnet ur \u00f6gonen medan de ropade: \"Pan! Pan!\" genom tumultet.\n\nOvanf\u00f6r dem \u00e5skade det s\u00e5 gott som oavbrutet och det slet och d\u00e5nade och sm\u00e4llde, som om sj\u00e4lva atomerna h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att slitas itu. Barnen rusade fram mellan \u00e5skknallarna och styngen av r\u00e4dsla.\n\n\"Pan! Min Pantalaimon! Pan!\" tj\u00f6t Lyra, men Will gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett ordl\u00f6st rop, f\u00f6r han visste vad han hade f\u00f6rlorat, men inte vad hon hette.\n\nDe b\u00e5da gallivespierna f\u00f6ljde med dem b\u00e5da, vart de \u00e4n gick, och sa \u00e5t dem att titta \u00e5t \u00e4n det ena h\u00e5llet och att g\u00e5 \u00e5t \u00e4n det andra, samtidigt som de h\u00f6ll uppsikt efter de Geng\u00e5ngare som barnen \u00e4nnu inte riktigt kunde se. Nu m\u00e5ste Lyra h\u00e5lla lady Salmakia i sina h\u00e4nder, f\u00f6r gallivespiern var inte l\u00e4ngre tillr\u00e4ckligt stark f\u00f6r att orka sitta kvar p\u00e5 Lyras axel. Tialys spanade \u00e5t alla h\u00e5ll efter sina fr\u00e4nder. Varje g\u00e5ng han s\u00e5g n\u00e5gon pilsnabb r\u00f6relse genom luften ovanf\u00f6r dem ropade han h\u00f6gt. Men r\u00f6sten hade f\u00f6rlorat mycket av sin kraft och i vilket fall som helst letade de \u00f6vriga gallivespierna efter de b\u00e5da trollsl\u00e4ndornas klanf\u00e4rger, den lysande bl\u00e5 och den r\u00f6dgula, men f\u00e4rgerna hade bleknat f\u00f6r l\u00e4nge sedan, och sj\u00e4lva kropparna som hade lyst av dem l\u00e5g kvar i de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld.\n\nS\u00e5 syntes en r\u00f6relse i luften som var annorlunda \u00e4n de \u00f6vriga. Barnen m\u00e5ste skydda \u00f6gonen mot de piskande regndropparna n\u00e4r de tittade upp, och fick se en flygfarkost som inte liknade n\u00e5got de tidigare sett: klumpig, sexbent, m\u00f6rk och fullst\u00e4ndigt ljudl\u00f6s. Den fl\u00f6g l\u00e5gt, v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e5gt, bort fr\u00e5n f\u00e4stningen. Den svepte fram strax ovanf\u00f6r dem, n\u00e4stan i tr\u00e4dtoppsh\u00f6jd, och r\u00f6rde sig sedan rakt mot stormens hj\u00e4rta.\n\nDe hann inte fundera s\u00e5 mycket p\u00e5 saken, f\u00f6r \u00e4nnu ett omv\u00e4lvande yrselanfall talade om f\u00f6r Lyra att Pan \u00e5terigen var i fara, och sedan k\u00e4nde Will det ocks\u00e5, och de snubblade blinda vidare genom p\u00f6larna och leran och kaoset av s\u00e5rade m\u00e4n och stridande andar, hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6sa, vettskr\u00e4mda och illam\u00e5ende.\n\n## 30\n\n## Det molnt\u00e4ckta berget\n\nHAN SK\u00c5DAR L\u00c5NGT BORTA EMPYR\u00c9N, SOM VIDA STR\u00c4CKER SIN OMKRETS, FYRKANTSFORMAD ELLER RUND, MED TORN AV KLAR OPAL OCH LJUSA TINNAR AV LEVANDE SAFIR...\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\nDET VAR MRS Coulter som hade gett sig av med intentionsfarkosten. Hon och d\u00e6monen var ensamma i f\u00f6rarkabinen.\n\nDen barometriska h\u00f6jdm\u00e4taren var inte till n\u00e5gon st\u00f6rre nytta i stormen, men ist\u00e4llet kunde hon grovt uppskatta h\u00f6jden genom att spana efter eldarna som brann p\u00e5 marken d\u00e4r \u00e4nglarna hade fallit, f\u00f6r trots det piskande regnet brann de fortfarande f\u00f6r fullt. Det var heller inte sv\u00e5rt att h\u00e5lla kursen: blixtarna som lyste upp berget fungerade som perfekta ledfyrar, men hon m\u00e5ste \u00e4nd\u00e5 f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka undvika de flygande varelser som fortfarande slogs i luften och h\u00e5lla undan f\u00f6r sj\u00e4lva landet, som h\u00f6jde sig under henne.\n\nHon l\u00e4t bli att anv\u00e4nda lamporna, f\u00f6r hon ville ta sig s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra intill som m\u00f6jligt och hitta n\u00e5got st\u00e4lle att landa p\u00e5 innan n\u00e5gon s\u00e5g henne och kunde skjuta ner henne. Upp\u00e5tvindarna blev mycket starkare och kastbyarna blev pl\u00f6tsligare och kraftigare ju n\u00e4rmare hon fl\u00f6g. En gyropter skulle aldrig haft en chans: den v\u00e5ldsamma turbulensen skulle ha slungat den mot marken som om den inte hade varit mer \u00e4n en fluga. Med intentionsfarkosten kunde hon r\u00f6ra sig l\u00e4tt med vinden och balansera sig p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som v\u00e5gryttarna gjorde i Fridfulla havet.\n\nF\u00f6rsiktigt b\u00f6rjade hon stiga. Hon spanade framf\u00f6r sig och struntade i instrumenten, f\u00f6r att ist\u00e4llet flyga enbart med hj\u00e4lp av synen och sina instinkter. D\u00e6monen skuttade fr\u00e5n den ena sidan till den andra i den lilla glaskabinen och spanade fram\u00e5t, upp\u00e5t, till v\u00e4nster och till h\u00f6ger, och ropade ut vad han s\u00e5g. Blixtarna, i form av v\u00e4ldiga lysande sjok och spjut, flammade och sprakade ovanf\u00f6r och runt maskinen. Hon fl\u00f6g den lilla farkosten tv\u00e4rs igenom allt detta och lite i taget vann hon h\u00f6jd, samtidigt som hon stadigt r\u00f6rde sig fram\u00e5t mot det molnt\u00e4ckta palatset.\n\nN\u00e4r mrs Coulter kom n\u00e4rmare bl\u00e4ndades och f\u00f6rvirrades hennes sinnen av sj\u00e4lva berget.\n\nDet p\u00e5minde henne om ett visst avskyv\u00e4rt k\u00e4tteri, vars upphovsman nu med r\u00e4tta f\u00f6rsm\u00e4ktade i Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mndens f\u00e4ngelseh\u00e5la. Han hade f\u00f6reslagit att det fanns fler rymddimensioner \u00e4n de tre k\u00e4nda, men att de var om\u00f6jliga att unders\u00f6ka direkt. Han hade till och med konstruerat en modell f\u00f6r att visa hur det skulle kunna fungera. Mrs Coulter hade sj\u00e4lv f\u00e5tt se f\u00f6rem\u00e5let innan man f\u00f6rdrev de onda andarna och det hela br\u00e4ndes upp. Veck inuti veck, h\u00f6rn och kanter som b\u00e5de omsl\u00f6t och blev omslutna: insidan befann sig \u00f6verallt och utsidan fyllde upp resten. Det molnt\u00e4ckta berget p\u00e5verkade henne p\u00e5 ett liknande s\u00e4tt: det var mer ett kraftf\u00e4lt \u00e4n en klippa och det manipulerade sj\u00e4lva rymden s\u00e5 att den omsl\u00f6t och t\u00e4njdes ut och lades i lager p\u00e5 lager i form av gallerier och terrasser, kammare och kolonnader och vakttorn av luft och ljus och \u00e5nga.\n\nHon k\u00e4nde en egendomligt jublande k\u00e4nsla v\u00e4lla upp i br\u00f6stet och s\u00e5g samtidigt att hon tryggt kunde landa farkosten p\u00e5 en molnig terrass p\u00e5 den s\u00f6dra flanken. Den lilla farkosten ryckte och stretade i den virvlande luften, men hon h\u00f6ll stadigt r\u00e4tt kurs och d\u00e6monen v\u00e4gledde landningen p\u00e5 terrassen.\n\nFram tills nu hade hon kunnat utnyttja ljuset fr\u00e5n blixtarna, de enstaka revorna i molnen d\u00e4r solen hade lyst igenom, eldarna fr\u00e5n de brinnande \u00e4nglarna, str\u00e5larna fr\u00e5n de anbariska s\u00f6karljusen; men h\u00e4r var ljuset annorlunda. Det kom ett p\u00e4rlemorskimmer fr\u00e5n sj\u00e4lva berget, som fick det att skina upp och blekna i en rytm som p\u00e5minde om andetag.\n\nKvinnan och d\u00e6monen klev ur farkosten och s\u00e5g sig om n\u00e4r de f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte best\u00e4mma sig f\u00f6r vart de skulle ta v\u00e4gen.\n\nHon fick k\u00e4nslan av att andra varelser skyndade fram b\u00e5de \u00f6ver och under henne och rakt igenom berget med meddelanden, order och information. Hon kunde inte se dem, och det enda hon kunde uppfatta var f\u00f6rvirrande hopvikta perspektiv av kolonnader, trappor, terrasser och fasader.\n\nInnan hon hade best\u00e4mt sig f\u00f6r vart hon skulle ta v\u00e4gen h\u00f6rde hon r\u00f6ster och g\u00f6mde sig d\u00e4rf\u00f6r bakom en pelare. R\u00f6sterna sj\u00f6ng en psalm och n\u00e4r s\u00e5ngarna kom n\u00e4rmare s\u00e5g hon en procession av \u00e4nglar, som bar p\u00e5 en b\u00e4rstol.\n\nN\u00e4r de n\u00e4rmade sig hennes g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle uppt\u00e4ckte de intentionsfarkosten och stannade. S\u00e5ngen stakade sig och n\u00e5gra av b\u00e4rarna s\u00e5g sig om med tvekan och r\u00e4dsla.\n\nMrs Coulter var tillr\u00e4ckligt n\u00e4ra f\u00f6r att kunna se varelsen i b\u00e4rstolen: det var en \u00e4ngel, trodde hon, och den var obeskrivligt gammal. Det var inte l\u00e4tt att se honom, f\u00f6r b\u00e4rstolen var helt omsluten av kristall, som glittrade och \u00e5terkastade bergets ljus, men hon fick ett intryck av fruktansv\u00e4rt f\u00f6rfall, av ett ansikte hopsjunket i rynkor, av darrande h\u00e4nder och av en mumlande mun och av rinnande \u00f6gon.\n\nDen \u00e5ldriga varelsen pekade sk\u00e4lvande p\u00e5 intentionsfarkosten och kacklade och muttrade f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv, samtidigt som han oupph\u00f6rligt drog sig i sk\u00e4gget. Sedan kastade han huvudet bak\u00e5t och gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett s\u00e5dant \u00e5ngesttjut att mrs Coulter m\u00e5ste sl\u00e5 h\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r \u00f6ronen.\n\nMen uppenbarligen hade b\u00e4rarna en uppgift att utf\u00f6ra, f\u00f6r de h\u00e4mtade sig och drog sig sedan l\u00e4ngre bort p\u00e5 terrassen och struntade i mumlandet och ropen fr\u00e5n b\u00e4rstolens passagerare. N\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde en \u00f6ppning bredde de ut sina vingar och p\u00e5 order fr\u00e5n ledaren fl\u00f6g de iv\u00e4g med b\u00e4rstolen mellan sig. De f\u00f6rsvann snabbt ur sikte i de virvlande molnsjoken.\n\nDet fanns inte tid att fundera vidare p\u00e5 saken. Mrs Coulter och den gyllene apan fortsatte snabbt vidare och kl\u00e4ttrade upp f\u00f6r v\u00e4ldiga trappor, korsade broar och var st\u00e4ndigt p\u00e5 v\u00e4g upp\u00e5t. Ju h\u00f6gre upp de kom, desto mer k\u00e4nde de av den osynliga aktiviteten runt omkring, tills de slutligen rundade ett h\u00f6rn och n\u00e5dde fram till ett v\u00e4ldigt utrymme, som n\u00e4rmast p\u00e5minde om en dimh\u00f6ljd piazza. H\u00e4r m\u00f6ttes de av en \u00e4ngel med spjut.\n\n\"Vem \u00e4r du? Vad \u00e4r ditt \u00e4rende?\" fr\u00e5gade han.\n\nMrs Coulter tittade nyfiket p\u00e5 honom. Det var allts\u00e5 den h\u00e4r sortens varelser som hade f\u00f6r\u00e4lskat sig i m\u00e4nskliga kvinnor, i m\u00e4nniskornas d\u00f6ttrar, f\u00f6r s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan.\n\n\"Nej, nej\", sa hon v\u00e4nligt, \"var sn\u00e4ll och sl\u00f6sa inte v\u00e5r tid. F\u00f6r mig genast till Regenten. Han v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 mig.\"\n\nOroa dem, t\u00e4nkte hon, f\u00e5 dem ur balans; och eftersom den h\u00e4r \u00e4ngeln inte f\u00f6rstod vad han borde g\u00f6ra, s\u00e5 gjorde han det hon sa \u00e5t honom att g\u00f6ra. Hon f\u00f6ljde honom genom de f\u00f6rvirrande ljusperspektiven under n\u00e5gra minuter, tills de n\u00e5dde fram till ett v\u00e4ntrum. Hon f\u00f6rstod inte hur de hade kommit in, men nu var de i alla fall d\u00e4r och efter en kort paus var det n\u00e5got som \u00f6ppnade sig som en d\u00f6rr framf\u00f6r henne.\n\nD\u00e6monens vassa naglar pressade sig djupt ner i hennes \u00f6verarmar och hon grep h\u00e5rt om hans p\u00e4ls som uppmuntran.\n\nFramf\u00f6r dem stod en varelse av ljus. Han var m\u00e4nniskoformad, av m\u00e4nniskostorlek, t\u00e4nkte hon, men hon var alltf\u00f6r bl\u00e4ndad f\u00f6r att kunna se tydligt. Den gyllene apan dolde ansiktet mot hennes axel och hon sj\u00e4lv sl\u00e4ngde upp ena armen f\u00f6r att skydda \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r hon?\" sa Metatron. \"Var \u00e4r er dotter?\"\n\n\"Jag har kommit f\u00f6r att ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r er, ers majest\u00e4t\", sa hon.\n\n\"Om hon hade varit i ert v\u00e5ld skulle ni haft henne med er.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r hon inte, men hennes d\u00e6mon \u00e4r det.\"\n\n\"Hur kan det komma sig?\"\n\n\"Jag sv\u00e4r, Metatron, att hennes d\u00e6mon \u00e4r i mitt v\u00e5ld. Ers n\u00e5d, sn\u00e4lla, d\u00f6lj er sj\u00e4lv en smula \u2013 mina \u00f6gon bl\u00e4ndas...\"\n\nHan drog en sl\u00f6ja av moln framf\u00f6r sig. Nu var det som att titta p\u00e5 solen genom r\u00f6kf\u00e4rgat glas, s\u00e5 nu s\u00e5g hon honom mycket tydligare, men l\u00e5tsades fortfarande att hon bl\u00e4ndades av hans ansikte. Han s\u00e5g ut precis som en man i tidig medel\u00e5lder, l\u00e5ng, kraftfull och dominerande. Var han p\u00e5kl\u00e4dd? Hade han vingar? Kraften i hans \u00f6gon gjorde att hon inte kunde avg\u00f6ra den saken. Det gick inte att titta p\u00e5 n\u00e5got annat.\n\n\"Metatron, jag ber er att lyssna p\u00e5 mig. Jag har precis kommit fr\u00e5n lord Asriel. Han har flickans d\u00e6mon och han vet att flickan sj\u00e4lv snart kommer att leta efter honom.\"\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker han g\u00f6ra med flickan?\"\n\n\"H\u00e5lla henne borta fr\u00e5n er tills hon \u00e4r vuxen. Han vet inte vart jag har tagit v\u00e4gen, och jag m\u00e5ste snart \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till honom. Jag ber\u00e4ttar sanningen f\u00f6r er. Se p\u00e5 mig, m\u00e4ktiga regent, f\u00f6r det \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt f\u00f6r mig att se p\u00e5 er. Se p\u00e5 mig ordentligt och ber\u00e4tta sedan vad ni sett.\"\n\n\u00c4nglarnas furste s\u00e5g p\u00e5 henne. Det var den mest genomgripande unders\u00f6kning Marisa Coulter n\u00e5gonsin hade utsatts f\u00f6r. Vartenda litet skydd och varenda liten l\u00f6gn rycktes bort, s\u00e5 att hon st\u00e4lldes naken, kropp och ande och d\u00e6mon tillsammans, under Metatrons grymma blick.\n\nHon visste att hennes natur m\u00e5ste svara f\u00f6r henne, och hon var vettskr\u00e4md \u00f6ver tanken p\u00e5 att det han s\u00e5g i henne inte skulle r\u00e4cka. Lyra hade ljugit f\u00f6r Iofur Raknison enbart med sina ord: hennes mor lj\u00f6g med hj\u00e4lp av hela sitt liv.\n\n\"Ja, jag ser\", sa Metatron.\n\n\"Vad ser ni?\"\n\n\"F\u00f6rd\u00e4rv och avund och l\u00e4ngtan efter makt. Grymhet och kyla. En ondsint forskande nyfikenhet. Ren, giftig illvilja. Ni har aldrig n\u00e5gonsin, \u00e4nda fr\u00e5n era f\u00f6rsta \u00e5r, visat ett enda uns av medk\u00e4nsla eller f\u00f6rbarmande eller v\u00e4nlighet utan att f\u00f6rst ha r\u00e4knat ut hur det skulle kunna v\u00e4ndas till er f\u00f6rdel. Ni har torterat och d\u00f6dat utan \u00e5nger eller tvekan. Ni har svikit och intrigerat och glatt er \u00f6ver ert f\u00f6rr\u00e4deri. Ni \u00e4r en avgrund av moraliskt f\u00f6rfall.\"\n\nMrs Coulter blev djupt skakad n\u00e4r r\u00f6sten levererade sitt omd\u00f6me. Hon visste att det skulle komma och hon fruktade det, men samtidigt hoppades hon att det skulle komma, och nu, n\u00e4r det till slut var uttalat, k\u00e4nde hon en liten v\u00e5g av triumf.\n\nHon r\u00f6rde sig n\u00e4rmare honom.\n\n\"S\u00e5 ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r\", sa hon, \"att jag med l\u00e4tthet kan f\u00f6rr\u00e5da lord Asriel. Jag kan leda er till platsen dit han har f\u00f6rt min dotters d\u00e6mon, s\u00e5 att ni kan krossa honom, varefter flickan kan g\u00e5 rakt in i er famn utan att ana minsta or\u00e5d.\"\n\nHon k\u00e4nde hur dimman r\u00f6rde sig omkring henne och hur hennes sinnen f\u00f6rvirrades: hans f\u00f6ljande ord genomborrade hennes kropp likt pilar av parfymerad is.\n\n\"N\u00e4r jag var man\", sa han, \"hade jag m\u00e4ngder av hustrur, men ingen som var lika ljuvlig som ni.\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r ni var man?\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r jag var man kallades jag Hanok, son till Jered, son till Mahalalel, son till Kenan, son till Enos, son till Set, son till Adam. Jag levde p\u00e5 jorden i sextiofem \u00e5r, varefter Auktoriteten f\u00f6rde mig till sitt rike.\"\n\n\"Och ni hade m\u00e5nga hustrur?\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4lskade deras kroppar och jag f\u00f6rstod varf\u00f6r himlens s\u00f6ner f\u00f6r\u00e4lskade sig i jordens d\u00f6ttrar och jag talade f\u00f6r deras sak inf\u00f6r Auktoriteten. Men hans hj\u00e4rta v\u00e4ndes emot dem och fick mig att sia om deras fall.\"\n\n\"Och ni har inte haft n\u00e5gon hustru under tusentals \u00e5r...\"\n\n\"Jag har varit Himmelrikets regent.\"\n\n\"\u00c4r det d\u00e5 inte h\u00f6g tid att ni skaffade er en gem\u00e5l?\"\n\nI just det \u00f6gonblicket var hon som mest utsatt och i st\u00f6rst fara, men hon litade p\u00e5 sitt k\u00f6tt och p\u00e5 den m\u00e4rkliga sanning hon hade l\u00e4rt sig om \u00e4nglarna, kanske i synnerhet om de \u00e4nglar som en g\u00e5ng hade varit m\u00e4nniskor: genom att de saknade kroppar, \u00e5tr\u00e5dde de dem och l\u00e4ngtade efter kontakten med dem. Metatron var n\u00e4ra nu, tillr\u00e4ckligt n\u00e4ra f\u00f6r att kunna k\u00e4nna parfymen i hennes h\u00e5r och f\u00f6r att kunna betrakta hennes hud, tillr\u00e4ckligt n\u00e4ra f\u00f6r att kunna r\u00f6ra vid henne med sina sk\u00e5llheta h\u00e4nder.\n\nHon h\u00f6rde ett egendomligt ljud, likt mumlandet och sprakandet man uppfattar strax innan man inser att huset st\u00e5r i l\u00e5gor.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig vad lord Asriel h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med och var han \u00e4r\", sa han.\n\n\"Jag kan f\u00f6ra er till honom nu\", svarade hon.\n\n\u00c4nglarna med b\u00e4rstolen l\u00e4mnade det molnt\u00e4ckta berget och fl\u00f6g s\u00f6derut. Metatrons order hade varit att f\u00f6ra Auktoriteten till en s\u00e4ker plats l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n slagf\u00e4ltet, eftersom han ville h\u00e5lla honom vid liv \u00e4nnu ett tag, men hellre \u00e4n att ge honom en livvakt av m\u00e5nga regementen, vilka bara skulle ha dragit till sig fiendens uppm\u00e4rksamhet, s\u00e5 hade han r\u00e4knat med stormens skydd och utg\u00e5tt fr\u00e5n att en liten grupp skulle vara tryggare \u00e4n en st\u00f6rre under de r\u00e5dande omst\u00e4ndigheterna.\n\nOch s\u00e5 kunde det kanske ha varit, om en viss klippgast, som var upptagen med att festa p\u00e5 en halvd\u00f6d krigare, inte hade tittat upp just n\u00e4r en str\u00e5lkastare r\u00e5kade hitta b\u00e4rstolen av kristall.\n\nN\u00e5got r\u00f6rde sig i klippgastens minne. Han hejdade sig med ena handen p\u00e5 den varma levern, och n\u00e4r hans bror knuffade honom \u00e5t sidan d\u00f6k minnet av en babblande polarr\u00e4v upp i hj\u00e4rnan.\n\nMed ens vecklade han ut sina l\u00e4dervingar och kastade sig upp\u00e5t. \u00d6gonblicket senare f\u00f6ljdes han av resten av truppen.\n\nXaphania och hennes \u00e4nglar hade s\u00f6kt noga under hela natten och under en del av morgonen, och till slut hade de hittat en mycket liten spricka i bergssidan s\u00f6der om f\u00e4stningen, en spricka som inte hade funnits d\u00e4r dagen innan. De hade utforskat den och hade f\u00f6rstorat den och nu kl\u00e4ttrade lord Asriel ner i en serie av grottor och tunnlar som str\u00e4ckte sig l\u00e5ngt ner under f\u00e4stningen.\n\nDet var inte s\u00e5 fullst\u00e4ndigt m\u00f6rkt som han trodde att det skulle vara. Det fanns en svag ljusk\u00e4lla d\u00e4r: en str\u00f6m av miljarder, svagt lysande sm\u00e5 partiklar. De rann stadigt l\u00e4ngs tunneln som en flod av ljus.\n\n\"Stoft\", sa han till sin d\u00e6mon.\n\nHan hade aldrig sett det med blotta \u00f6gat tidigare, men s\u00e5 hade han heller aldrig tidigare sett s\u00e5 mycket Stoft p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng. Han fortsatte tills tunneln pl\u00f6tsligt \u00f6ppnade sig tv\u00e4rt och uppt\u00e4ckte att han befann sig h\u00f6gst upp i en vidstr\u00e4ckt grotta. Valvet var tillr\u00e4ckligt stort f\u00f6r att man skulle f\u00e5 plats med ett dussin katedraler d\u00e4r inne. Det fanns inget golv, utan sidorna sluttade svindlande ner mot kanten till en gigantisk avgrund n\u00e5got hundratal meter l\u00e4ngre ner. Avgrunden var m\u00f6rkare \u00e4n m\u00f6rkret sj\u00e4lvt och det o\u00e4ndliga Stoftfallet f\u00f6ll oupph\u00f6rligt ner i den. Dess miljarder partiklar var som stj\u00e4rnorna i varenda galax p\u00e5 natthimlen och var och en av dem var ett litet fragment av medveten tanke. Det var ett melankoliskt ljus som lyste upp platsen.\n\nTillsammans med sin d\u00e6mon kl\u00e4ttrade han ner mot avgrunden och under tiden s\u00e5g de mer och mer av vad som h\u00e4nde p\u00e5 avgrundens bortre sida, som befann sig hundratals meter l\u00e4ngre bort i dunklet. Han hade tyckt att han s\u00e5g en r\u00f6relse d\u00e4r borta, och ju l\u00e4ngre ner han kl\u00e4ttrade, desto tydligare blev den: en procession av suddiga, bleka figurer letade sig fram l\u00e4ngs den farliga sluttningen; m\u00e4n, kvinnor, barn och varelser av alla de slag han n\u00e5gonsin hade sett och m\u00e5nga han inte hade sett tidigare. De var s\u00e5 koncentrerade p\u00e5 att h\u00e5lla balansen att de inte lade m\u00e4rke till honom. Lord Asriel k\u00e4nde hur h\u00e5ret reste sig i nacken n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rstod att det var v\u00e5lnader.\n\n\"Lyra har varit h\u00e4r\", sa han l\u00e5gt till sn\u00f6leoparden.\n\n\"G\u00e5 f\u00f6rsiktigt\", var hennes enda svar.\n\nVid det laget var b\u00e5de Will och Lyra helt genomv\u00e5ta, de fr\u00f6s s\u00e5 de skakade, de hade ont \u00f6verallt och de snubblade blint genom leran, \u00f6ver klipporna och ner i sm\u00e5 raviner d\u00e4r de stormg\u00f6dda b\u00e4ckarna rann r\u00f6da av blod. Lyra var r\u00e4dd att lady Salmakia var d\u00f6ende: hon hade inte sagt ett ord p\u00e5 flera minuter och nu l\u00e5g hon matt och kraftl\u00f6s i Lyras hand.\n\nDe s\u00f6kte skydd i en flodf\u00e5ra d\u00e4r vattnet fortfarande skummade vitt, och d\u00e4r kunde de dricka sig ot\u00f6rstiga. Will k\u00e4nde hur Tialys vaknade till.\n\n\"Will \u2013 jag kan h\u00f6ra h\u00e4star p\u00e5 v\u00e4g\", sa han. \"Lord Asriel har inget kavalleri. Det m\u00e5ste vara fienden. Ta er \u00f6ver till andra sidan b\u00e4cken och g\u00f6m er \u2013 jag s\u00e5g n\u00e5gra buskar \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet...\"\n\n\"S\u00e4tt fart\", sa Will till Lyra. De b\u00e5da barnen plaskade igenom vattnet, som kylde genom m\u00e4rg och ben, och kravlade sig upp f\u00f6r b\u00e4ckravinens andra sida i allra sista \u00f6gonblicket. De ryttare som d\u00f6k upp p\u00e5 den andra sluttningen och klapprade ner f\u00f6r att dricka s\u00e5g inte ut som n\u00e5got vanligt kavalleri, f\u00f6r ryttarna verkade ha samma sorts t\u00e4ta p\u00e4ls som sina h\u00e4star och de bar varken kl\u00e4der eller seldon. De saknade dock inte vapen \u2013 treuddar, n\u00e4t och kroksablar.\n\nWill och Lyra stannade inte f\u00f6r att titta n\u00e4rmare: hukande snubblade de vidare \u00f6ver den oj\u00e4mna marken och t\u00e4nkte bara p\u00e5 att ta sig d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n utan att bli uppt\u00e4ckta.\n\nDe h\u00f6ll blickarna mot marken f\u00f6r att se var de satte ner f\u00f6tterna f\u00f6r att inte vricka sig eller r\u00e5ka ut f\u00f6r n\u00e5got \u00e4nnu v\u00e4rre, och eftersom \u00e5skan d\u00e5nade vart de \u00e4n begav sig, s\u00e5 h\u00f6rde de inte klippgastarnas tjut och morranden f\u00f6rr\u00e4n de hade sprungit rakt p\u00e5 dem.\n\nVarelserna omgav n\u00e5got som l\u00e5g och glittrade p\u00e5 marken: f\u00f6rem\u00e5let var aningen l\u00e4ngre \u00e4n de sj\u00e4lva och l\u00e5g p\u00e5 sidan, en stor bur kanske, med v\u00e4ggar av kristall. Klippgastarna hamrade p\u00e5 den med n\u00e4var och stenar under mycket tjut och skr\u00e4n.\n\nInnan Will och Lyra hade hunnit hejda sig och springa iv\u00e4g \u00e5t andra h\u00e5llet, hade de snubblat mitt in i flocken.\n\n## 31\n\n## Auktoritetens slut\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 TY RIKET \u00c4R ICKE MER; NU VILAR \u2022 \u2022 \u2022 LEJONET & VARGEN.\n\nJOHN MILTON\n\nMRS COULTER VISKADE till skuggan hon hade bredvid sig:\n\n\"Se hur han g\u00f6mmer sig, Metatron! Han slinker genom m\u00f6rkret precis som en r\u00e5tta...\"\n\nDe stod p\u00e5 en klipphylla h\u00f6gt uppe i den v\u00e4ldiga grottan och s\u00e5g hur lord Asriel och sn\u00f6leoparden f\u00f6rsiktigt letade sig fram, l\u00e5ngt nedanf\u00f6r dem.\n\n\"Jag skulle kunna sl\u00e5 ner honom nu\", viskade skuggan.\n\n\"Ja, naturligtvis kan ni det\", viskade hon tillbaka och lutade sig t\u00e4tt intill honom, \"men jag vill se hans ansikte, k\u00e4raste Metatron. Jag vill att han ska _veta_ att jag har f\u00f6rr\u00e5tt honom. Kom, l\u00e5t oss f\u00f6lja efter och ta honom till f\u00e5nga...\"\n\nStoftfallet lyste svagt som en v\u00e4ldig pelare av ljus medan det stadigt och oupph\u00f6rligt f\u00f6ll ner i avgrunden. Mrs Coulter kunde inte \u00e4gna det n\u00e5gon uppm\u00e4rksamhet, f\u00f6r skuggan bredvid henne darrade av \u00e5tr\u00e5 och hon m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka h\u00e5lla honom vid sin sida med hj\u00e4lp av allt det inflytande hon \u00e4gde.\n\nDe f\u00f6rflyttade sig ned\u00e5t, ljudl\u00f6st, efter lord Asriel. Ju l\u00e4ngre ner de kl\u00e4ttrade, desto starkare k\u00e4nde hon hur en v\u00e4ldig tr\u00f6tthet f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver henne.\n\n\"Vad? Vad?\" viskade skuggan, n\u00e4r han uppfattade hennes k\u00e4nslor och genast blev misst\u00e4nksam.\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nkte\", sa hon med ljuvaste illvilja, \"p\u00e5 hur glad jag \u00e4r \u00f6ver att flickan aldrig kommer att v\u00e4xa upp f\u00f6r att kunna \u00e4lska eller bli \u00e4lskad. Jag trodde att jag \u00e4lskade henne n\u00e4r hon var nyf\u00f6dd, men nu...\"\n\n\"Det d\u00e4r var _sorg_ \", sa skuggan. \"Ni k\u00e4nner _sorg_ i ert hj\u00e4rta, f\u00f6r att ni aldrig kommer att f\u00e5 se henne v\u00e4xa upp.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, Metatron, det var verkligen l\u00e4nge sedan ni var man! F\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni d\u00e5 inte vad det \u00e4r jag s\u00f6rjer? Det \u00e4r inte hennes mognad, utan min. Jag s\u00f6rjer bittert \u00f6ver att jag inte hade kunskap om er redan n\u00e4r jag var ung, och \u00f6ver hur passionerat jag skulle ha h\u00e4ngett mig \u00e5t er...\"\n\nHon lutade sig n\u00e4rmare skuggan som om hon inte kunde beh\u00e4rska sin kropps impulser. Skuggan sniffade hungrigt och tycktes vilja sluka doften av hennes kropp.\n\nDet blev allt besv\u00e4rligare att ta sig fram \u00f6ver de nerfallna och kantiga stenblocken vid sluttningens fot. Ju l\u00e4ngre ner de kom, desto tydligare blev den gloria av gyllene dimma som Stoftljuset sk\u00e4nkte alla konturer. Mrs Coulter str\u00e4ckte sig g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng efter det st\u00e4lle d\u00e4r skuggans hand skulle ha befunnit sig, om det hade varit en m\u00e4nsklig f\u00f6ljeslagare, men s\u00e5 verkade hon samla sig.\n\n\"H\u00e5ll er bakom mig, Metatron \u2013 v\u00e4nta h\u00e4r\", viskade hon. \"Asriel \u00e4r misst\u00e4nksam \u2013 l\u00e5t mig lugna honom f\u00f6rst. N\u00e4r han inte \u00e4r p\u00e5 sin vakt l\u00e4ngre ropar jag p\u00e5 er. Men kom som en skugga, i den h\u00e4r lilla skepnaden, s\u00e5 att han inte ser er \u2013 annars kommer han bara att l\u00e5ta flickans d\u00e6mon flyga sin v\u00e4g.\"\n\nRegentens intellekt hade haft tusentals \u00e5r p\u00e5 sig att st\u00e4rkas och f\u00f6rdjupas och hans kunskap str\u00e4ckte sig \u00f6ver miljontals universum, men just i detta \u00f6gonblick f\u00f6rblindades han av sin dubbla besatthet: \u00f6nskan att f\u00e5 krossa Lyra och l\u00e4ngtan att f\u00e5 \u00e4ga hennes mor. Han nickade och stannade d\u00e4r han var, medan kvinnan och apan fortsatte fram\u00e5t s\u00e5 tyst det gick.\n\nLord Asriel v\u00e4ntade bakom ett v\u00e4ldigt granitblock, utom synh\u00e5ll f\u00f6r Regenten. Sn\u00f6leoparden h\u00f6rde n\u00e4r de kom och lord Asriel reste sig upp n\u00e4r mrs Coulter klev runt h\u00f6rnet. Allting, varenda yta, varenda kubikcentimeter av luften, var fylld av det fallande Stoftet, som gav varenda liten detalj en mjuk klarhet. I stoftskenet s\u00e5g lord Asriel att hennes ansikte var fuktigt av t\u00e5rar och att hon bet ihop h\u00e5rt f\u00f6r att inte snyfta h\u00f6gt.\n\nHan tog henne i sin famn och den gyllene apan kramade sn\u00f6leopardens hals och begravde sitt svarta ansikte i hennes p\u00e4ls.\n\n\"\u00c4r Lyra i trygghet? Har hon hittat sin d\u00e6mon?\" viskade hon.\n\n\"Pojkens fars ande skyddar b\u00e5da tv\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Stoftet \u00e4r s\u00e5 vackert... Jag hade ingen aning.\"\n\n\"Vad sa du till honom?\"\n\n\"Jag lj\u00f6g som aldrig f\u00f6rr, Asriel... L\u00e5t oss inte dr\u00f6ja f\u00f6r l\u00e4nge, f\u00f6r jag st\u00e5r inte ut... Vi kommer v\u00e4l inte att \u00f6verleva? Vi kommer v\u00e4l inte att klara oss som andarna?\"\n\n\"Inte om vi faller ner i avgrunden. Vi kom hit f\u00f6r att ge Lyra tid att hitta sin d\u00e6mon och sedan tid att v\u00e4xa upp. Om vi kan f\u00f6rinta Metatron, s\u00e5 kommer hon att f\u00e5 den tiden och om vi f\u00f6ljer honom, s\u00e5 har det ingen betydelse.\"\n\n\"Men kommer Lyra att vara _trygg_?\"\n\n\"Ja, ja\", svarade han.\n\nHan kysste henne. Hon k\u00e4ndes lika mjuk och l\u00e4tt i hans famn som n\u00e4r Lyra blev till f\u00f6r tretton \u00e5r sedan.\n\nHon snyftade l\u00e5gt. N\u00e4r hon lyckades tala igen viskade hon:\n\n\"Jag sa till honom att jag skulle f\u00f6rr\u00e5da dig och f\u00f6rr\u00e5da Lyra, och han trodde p\u00e5 mig, eftersom jag var s\u00e5 f\u00f6rd\u00e4rvad och full av ondska. Han tittade s\u00e5 djupt att jag var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att han skulle uppt\u00e4cka sanningen, men jag lj\u00f6g alltf\u00f6r bra f\u00f6r honom. Jag lj\u00f6g med varenda nerv och fiber och allt jag n\u00e5gonsin gjort... Jag ville att han inte skulle hitta ett enda gott drag hos mig, och det gjorde han inte heller. Det finns inget. Men jag \u00e4lskar Lyra. Var har den k\u00e4rleken kommit ifr\u00e5n? Jag vet inte, den kom till mig likt en tjuv om natten och nu \u00e4lskar jag henne s\u00e5 mycket att mitt hj\u00e4rta h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att brista. Mitt enda hopp var att mina brott var s\u00e5 monstru\u00f6sa att k\u00e4rleken inte var st\u00f6rre \u00e4n ett litet fr\u00f6 i skuggan av dem, och jag \u00f6nskar att jag hade beg\u00e5tt \u00e4nnu v\u00e4rre brott f\u00f6r att kunna d\u00f6lja den \u00e4nnu djupare... Men fr\u00f6et hade slagit rot och var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att v\u00e4xa och det lilla gr\u00f6na skottet h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att \u00f6ppna mitt hj\u00e4rta p\u00e5 vid gavel och jag var s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd att han skulle se...\"\n\nHon tystnade f\u00f6r att kunna samla sig. Han smekte hennes gl\u00e4nsande h\u00e5r, som nu var fullt av det gyllene Stoftet, och stod och v\u00e4ntade.\n\n\"Han kommer att f\u00f6rlora t\u00e5lamodet vilket \u00f6gonblick som helst\", viskade hon. \"Jag sa \u00e5t honom att g\u00f6ra sig liten. Han \u00e4r trots allt bara en \u00e4ngel, \u00e4ven om han en g\u00e5ng i tiden var man. Om vi kan brotta ner honom och tvinga honom till randen av avgrunden, s\u00e5 kan vi b\u00e5da f\u00f6lja honom ner i djupet...\"\n\nHan kysste henne och sa: \"Ja. Lyra \u00e4r i s\u00e4kerhet och Himmelriket kommer att vara maktl\u00f6st mot henne. Ropa p\u00e5 honom nu, Marisa, min \u00e4lskade.\"\n\nHon drog ett djupt andetag och andades sedan ut i en l\u00e5ng, sk\u00e4lvande suck. Sedan sl\u00e4tade hon ut kjolen \u00f6ver l\u00e5ren och stoppade in h\u00e5ret bakom \u00f6ronen.\n\n\"Metatron\", ropade hon l\u00e5gt. \"Det \u00e4r dags.\"\n\nMetatrons skuggsvepta skepnad d\u00f6k upp ur den gyllene luften och uppfattade omedelbart vad som var p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng: de b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna, hopkrupna och vaksamma, kvinnan med sin gloria av Stoft, och lord Asriel...\n\nSom omedelbart hoppade p\u00e5 honom, grep tag om hans midja och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte kasta honom till marken. \u00c4ngelns armar var dock fria och med n\u00e4var, handflator, armb\u00e5gar, knogar och underarmar slog han mot lord Asriels huvud och kropp: h\u00e5rda och kraftiga slag som tvingade luften ur mannens lungor och studsade mot revbenen, och som sm\u00e4llde mot skallen och dunkade lord Asriel vimmelkantig.\n\nHan hade dock armarna runt \u00e4ngelns vingar och l\u00e5ste dem mot sidorna. \u00d6gonblicket senare hade mrs Coulter hoppat upp mellan de fasth\u00e5llna vingarna och rivit tag i Metatrons h\u00e5r. Hans styrka var enorm: det var som att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00e5 grepp om manen p\u00e5 en skenande h\u00e4st. Hon slungades fram och tillbaka n\u00e4r han kastade med huvudet och hon k\u00e4nde kraften i de v\u00e4ldiga hopvikta vingarna n\u00e4r de k\u00e4mpade mot mannens armar, som satt s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt l\u00e5sta runt dem.\n\n\u00c4ven d\u00e6monerna hade hoppat p\u00e5 honom. Stelmaria begravde t\u00e4nderna djupt i Metatrons ben och den gyllene apan rev och slet i kanten p\u00e5 den n\u00e4rmaste vingen och ryckte loss fj\u00e4drarna, men detta hetsade honom bara till ett \u00e4nnu massivare ursinne. Med en v\u00e4ldig anstr\u00e4ngning kastade \u00e4ngeln sig \u00e5t sidan, frigjorde en av vingarna och slungade mrs Coulter h\u00e5rt mot en sten.\n\nHon bed\u00f6vades under ett \u00f6gonblick, s\u00e5 att hon m\u00e5ste sl\u00e4ppa taget. \u00c4ngeln tornade upp sig och slog med den fria vingen f\u00f6r att bli av med den gyllene apan, men lord Asriels armar satt fortfarande l\u00e5sta runt hans kropp och faktum var att han nu hade ett \u00e4nnu b\u00e4ttre grepp, nu n\u00e4r det inte var lika mycket att h\u00e5lla om. Lord Asriel gick in f\u00f6r att krama livet ur Metatron och pressade ihop hans revben, samtidigt som han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte att inte t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 de h\u00e5rda slagen som landade p\u00e5 huvudet och i nacken.\n\nMen slagen b\u00f6rjade ge effekt. N\u00e4r lord Asriel f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte beh\u00e5lla fotf\u00e4stet p\u00e5 de spr\u00e4ckta stenarna var det n\u00e5got som splittrades i bakhuvudet. N\u00e4r Metatron kastade sig \u00e5t sidan hade han f\u00e5tt tag p\u00e5 en knytn\u00e4vsstor sten och nu slog han den med brutal kraft mot lord Asriels huvud. Mannen k\u00e4nde hur benen i skallen r\u00f6rde sig mot varandra och f\u00f6rstod att ett s\u00e5dant slag till skulle d\u00f6da honom direkt. Han var yr av sm\u00e4rtan och den f\u00f6rv\u00e4rrades av att han tryckte huvudet mot \u00e4ngelns sida, men han klamrade sig fast och stapplade runt f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 ett b\u00e4ttre fotf\u00e4ste p\u00e5 stenarna, samtidigt som fingrar i hans h\u00f6gra hand krossade benen i den v\u00e4nstra.\n\nN\u00e4r Metatron \u00e5terigen lyfte den blodiga stenen h\u00f6gt \u00f6ver huvudet kom en gyllenp\u00e4lsad skepnad flygande likt en l\u00e5ga som sl\u00e5r upp i toppen av ett tr\u00e4d, och sedan bet apan djupt i \u00e4ngelns hand. Stenen f\u00f6ll ur greppet och slamrade ner mot kanten, och Metatron svepte med armen \u00e5t b\u00e5de h\u00f6ger och v\u00e4nster f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka skaka loss d\u00e6monen, men den gyllene apan bet sig fast med sina t\u00e4nder, klor och svans och sedan fick mrs Coulter tag p\u00e5 den piskande vingen och lyckades hejda dess r\u00f6relser.\n\nMetatron var hindrad, men fortfarande inte skadad. Han var heller inte ens i n\u00e4rheten av avgrunden.\n\nOch nu blev lord Asriel allt svagare. Han s\u00f6g sig fast vid sitt bl\u00f6dande medvetande, men f\u00f6r varje ny r\u00f6relse f\u00f6rlorade han lite mer av det. Han kunde k\u00e4nna hur benkanterna i skallen skavde mot varandra, han kunde till och med h\u00f6ra dem. Hans sinnesintryck var f\u00f6rvirrade: det enda han kunde t\u00e4nka var _h\u00e5ll fast_ och _dra ner._\n\nSedan fann mrs Coulter \u00e4ngelns ansikte under sin hand och tryckte fingrarna djupt in i hans \u00f6gon.\n\nMetatron skrek. Svarsekona h\u00f6rdes fr\u00e5n andra sidan av den v\u00e4ldiga grottan och r\u00f6sten studsade mellan klipporna och f\u00f6rdubblades och f\u00f6rsvann och fick de avl\u00e4gsna andarna att hejda sin \u00e4ndl\u00f6sa procession f\u00f6r att titta upp.\n\nStelmaria, sn\u00f6leopardd\u00e6monen, vars eget medvetande var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att f\u00f6rsvinna i takt med lord Asriels, gjorde en sista anstr\u00e4ngning och kastade sig mot \u00e4ngelns strupe.\n\nMetatron gick ner p\u00e5 kn\u00e4. Mrs Coulter f\u00f6ll samtidigt och s\u00e5g hur lord Asriels blodfyllda \u00f6gon tittade p\u00e5 henne. Hon k\u00e4mpade sig upp, en hand i taget, och tvingade den piskande vingen \u00e5t sidan och fick tag i \u00e4ngelns h\u00e5r, s\u00e5 att hon kunde tvinga tillbaka huvudet f\u00f6r att sn\u00f6leopardens t\u00e4nder skulle komma \u00e5t strupen.\n\nNu drog lord Asriel i honom, drog honom bak\u00e5t, med snubblande f\u00f6tter och fallande stenar, och den gyllene apan st\u00f6rtade ner till dem. Han bet och rev och slet och nu var de n\u00e4stan d\u00e4r, n\u00e4stan framme vid kanten, men Metatron tvingade sig upp och lyckades med en sista kraftanstr\u00e4ngning sl\u00e5 ut med b\u00e5da vingarna \u2013 som en v\u00e4ldig vit tronhimmel som slog ner och ner och ner, igen och igen och igen, och s\u00e5 f\u00f6ll mrs Coulter, och Metatron hade rest sig upp och vingarna slog h\u00e5rdare och h\u00e5rdare och han kunde l\u00e4tta \u2013 han l\u00e4mnade marken, med en hastigt allt svagare lord Asriel som fortfarande beh\u00f6ll sitt h\u00e5rda grepp. Den gyllene apans fingrar var intrasslade i \u00e4ngelns h\u00e5r och han skulle aldrig sl\u00e4ppa...\n\nMen nu hade de kommit ut \u00f6ver avgrundens rand. De h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att stiga. Och om de steg h\u00f6gre skulle lord Asriel falla och Metatron skulle klara sig.\n\n\" _Marisa! Marisa!_ \"\n\nRopet slets fr\u00e5n lord Asriel. Lyras mor stod bredvid sn\u00f6leoparden. Det d\u00e5nade i hennes \u00f6ron n\u00e4r hon s\u00f6kte efter ett stadigt fotf\u00e4ste och kastade sig sedan f\u00f6r allt vad hon var v\u00e4rd mot \u00e4ngeln och hennes d\u00e6mon och hennes d\u00f6ende \u00e4lskare och fick tag i de piskande vingarna, s\u00e5 att hon kunde dra dem allihop tillsammans ner i avgrunden.\n\nKlippgastarna h\u00f6rde Lyras f\u00f6rf\u00e4rade utrop och de platta huvudena sv\u00e4ngde genast runt. Will rusade fram och h\u00f6gg med kniven mot den n\u00e4rmaste. Han k\u00e4nde en liten spark mot axeln n\u00e4r Tialys tog ett skutt och landade p\u00e5 kinden p\u00e5 den st\u00f6rsta av dem, grep tag i hennes h\u00e5r och sparkade h\u00e5rt nedanf\u00f6r k\u00e4ken innan hon kastade av sig honom. Varelsen tj\u00f6t och slog vilt omkring sig n\u00e4r den f\u00f6ll ihop i leran och den som var n\u00e4rmast Will tittade dumt p\u00e5 sin armstump och sedan med fasa p\u00e5 den egna avskurna vristen och handen, som den hade f\u00e5ngat upp med den andra handen n\u00e4r den f\u00f6ll. Sekunden efter\u00e5t satt kniven i hans br\u00f6stkorg: Will k\u00e4nde hur klingan skuttade till tre eller fyra g\u00e5nger av de d\u00f6ende hj\u00e4rtslagen och drog ut kniven innan klippgasten vred den ur handen p\u00e5 honom n\u00e4r den f\u00f6ll.\n\nHan h\u00f6rde hur de \u00f6vriga skrek och ylade av hat n\u00e4r de flydde. Han visste att Lyra var oskadd bredvid honom och kastade sig sj\u00e4lv ner i leran med bara en sak i tankarna.\n\n\"Tialys! Tialys!\" ropade han. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte undvika de snappande t\u00e4nderna n\u00e4r han v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 den st\u00f6rre klippgastens huvud. Tialys var d\u00f6d, med sporrarna djupt nerk\u00f6rda i hennes nacke. Varelsen fortsatte att sparka och bita, s\u00e5 han skar av dess huvud och rullade bort det innan han lyfte bort den d\u00f6de gallivespiern fr\u00e5n den l\u00e4derartade nacken.\n\n\"Will\", sa Lyra bakom honom. \"Will, titta p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r...\"\n\nHon kikade in i b\u00e4rstolen av kristall. Den var oskadd, \u00e4ven om kristallen var fl\u00e4ckad och smutsig av lera och blodet fr\u00e5n det som klippgastarna hade \u00e4tit av innan de hittade den. Den l\u00e5g i en kraftig vinkel p\u00e5 stenarna och inuti den...\n\n\"\u00c5h, Will, han lever fortfarande! Men \u2013 den stackaren...\"\n\nWill s\u00e5g hur hon tryckte h\u00e4nderna mot kristallen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte n\u00e5 fram till \u00e4ngeln f\u00f6r att tr\u00f6sta honom, f\u00f6r han var s\u00e5 gammal och s\u00e5 vettskr\u00e4md att han gr\u00e4t som ett litet barn och kr\u00f6p ihop i det allra bortersta h\u00f6rnet.\n\n\"Han m\u00e5ste vara hur gammal som helst \u2013 jag har aldrig sett n\u00e5gon lida p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet \u2013 \u00e5h, Will, kan vi inte sl\u00e4ppa ut honom?\"\n\nWill skar igenom kristallen i en enda r\u00f6relse och str\u00e4ckte in handen f\u00f6r att kunna hj\u00e4lpa \u00e4ngeln att ta sig ut. Den \u00e5ldriga varelsen var b\u00e5de vansinnig och kraftl\u00f6s och kunde bara mumla och gr\u00e5ta av r\u00e4dsla, sm\u00e4rta och f\u00f6rtvivlan, och kr\u00f6p ihop som inf\u00f6r \u00e4nnu ett hot.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r ingen fara\", sa Will, \"vi kan i alla fall hj\u00e4lpa dig att g\u00f6mma dig. Kom nu, vi ska inte g\u00f6ra dig illa.\"\n\nDen sk\u00e4lvande handen tog tag i hans och h\u00f6ll sig kraftl\u00f6st kvar. Den gamle gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett ordl\u00f6st st\u00f6nande kvidande, som fortsatte utan att upph\u00f6ra, och han gnisslade t\u00e4nder samtidigt som han tv\u00e5ngsm\u00e4ssigt plockade med den fria handen p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv. N\u00e4r \u00e4ven Lyra str\u00e4ckte in handen f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa honom ut f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte han le och buga sig och de ur\u00e5ldriga \u00f6gonen djupt inne bland rynkorna blinkade mot henne av oskuldsfull f\u00f6rundran.\n\nTillsammans hj\u00e4lpte de den ur\u00e5ldrige ut ur kristallf\u00e4ngelset. Det var inte s\u00e5 sv\u00e5rt, f\u00f6r han var l\u00e4tt som papper och skulle ha f\u00f6ljt dem vart som helst, eftersom han inte hade n\u00e5gon egen vilja och reagerade p\u00e5 deras v\u00e4nlighet som en blomma reagerar p\u00e5 solen. Men ute i det fria fanns det inget som kunde hindra vinden fr\u00e5n att skada honom och till deras best\u00f6rtning b\u00f6rjade hans skepnad att tunnas ut och l\u00f6sas upp. Bara ett par \u00f6gonblick senare hade han f\u00f6rsvunnit helt och deras sista intryck av honom var av \u00f6gonen, som blinkade f\u00f6rundrat, och de h\u00f6rde en suck av djup och utmattad l\u00e4ttnad.\n\nSedan var han borta: ett mysterium som l\u00f6stes upp i ett mysterium. Alltihop hade g\u00e5tt p\u00e5 mindre \u00e4n en minut, och Will v\u00e4nde sig \u00e5terigen till den fallne Tialys. Han plockade upp den lilla kroppen och h\u00f6ll den i sina kupade h\u00e4nder och fann att t\u00e5rarna rann i strida str\u00f6mmar.\n\nMen Lyra sa n\u00e5got med angel\u00e4get tonfall:\n\n\"Will \u2013 vi m\u00e5ste iv\u00e4g \u2013 _vi m\u00e5ste_ \u2013 lady Salmakia kan h\u00f6ra att h\u00e4starna \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g...\"\n\nUt ur den indigof\u00e4rgade himlen kom en indigof\u00e4rgad falk dykande och Lyra skrek till och duckade, men Salmakia ropade s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt hon orkade: \"Nej, Lyra! Nej! Res dig och h\u00e5ll ut n\u00e4ven!\"\n\nS\u00e5 Lyra stod stilla och st\u00f6dde den ena armen med den andra. Den bl\u00e5 falken girade och d\u00f6k igen och satte sina vassa klor i hennes knogar.\n\nP\u00e5 falkens rygg satt en gr\u00e5h\u00e5rig kvinna. Hennes skarpa blick tittade f\u00f6rst p\u00e5 Lyra och sedan p\u00e5 Salmakia, som klamrade sig fast vid Lyras krage.\n\n\"Madam...\", sa Salmakia svagt, \"vi har klarat...\"\n\n\"Ni har klarat allt ni m\u00e5ste. Vi \u00e4r h\u00e4r nu\", sa madam Oxentiel och ryckte i tyglarna.\n\nGenast skrek falken tre g\u00e5nger, s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt att det ringde i Lyras huvud. Till svar pilade f\u00f6rst en, sedan tv\u00e5 och tre och fler, sedan hundratals av de skimrande krigarb\u00e4rande trollsl\u00e4ndorna ner ur skyn. Allihop for fram s\u00e5 snabbt att de bara m\u00e5ste kollidera med varandra, men insekternas reflexer och ryttarnas skicklighet var s\u00e5 utm\u00e4rkta att de ist\u00e4llet tycktes v\u00e4va en matta av snabba och tysta, men knivskarpa f\u00e4rger runt barnen.\n\n\"Lyra\", sa kvinnan p\u00e5 falken, \"och Will: f\u00f6lj med oss nu, s\u00e5 ska vi f\u00f6ra er till era d\u00e6moner.\"\n\nN\u00e4r falken bredde ut vingarna och lyfte fr\u00e5n den ena handen k\u00e4nde Lyra hur Salmakias lilla tyngd f\u00f6ll ner i den andra och f\u00f6rstod genast att det bara hade varit hennes viljestyrka som h\u00e5llit henne vid liv s\u00e5 h\u00e4r l\u00e4nge. Hon h\u00f6ll kroppen t\u00e4tt intill sig och sprang tillsammans med Will under molnet av trollsl\u00e4ndor. Hon snubblade och f\u00f6ll mer \u00e4n en g\u00e5ng, men hela tiden bar hon lady Salmakia t\u00e4tt intill hj\u00e4rtat.\n\n\"V\u00e4nster! V\u00e4nster!\" kom r\u00f6sten fr\u00e5n den bl\u00e5 falken, s\u00e5 de sv\u00e4ngde \u00e5t v\u00e4nster. M\u00f6rkret lystes hela tiden upp av blixtar, och till h\u00f6ger om dem s\u00e5g Will en trupp m\u00e4n i ljusgr\u00e5 rustningar, hj\u00e4lmar och masker. Deras gr\u00e5 vargd\u00e6moner tassade i takt bakom dem. En str\u00f6m av trollsl\u00e4ndor gav sig genast iv\u00e4g mot dem och m\u00e4nnen vacklade till. Deras gev\u00e4r var inte till n\u00e5gon nytta, f\u00f6r gallivespierna var mitt ibland dem p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick och krigarna hoppade ner fr\u00e5n insektsryggarna, hittade h\u00e4nder, armar, bara nackar, och pressade ner sina sporrar innan de hoppade tillbaka upp p\u00e5 insekterna n\u00e4r dessa girade och svepte f\u00f6rbi igen. De var s\u00e5 snabba att det var om\u00f6jligt att hinna uppfatta vad som h\u00e4nde. Soldaterna v\u00e4nde och flydde i panik och all disciplin f\u00f6rsvann.\n\nMen sedan h\u00f6rdes hovslag bakifr\u00e5n som en pl\u00f6tslig \u00e5skvirvel, s\u00e5 barnen v\u00e4nde sig f\u00f6rf\u00e4rat om: ryttarna var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot dem i full galopp och n\u00e5gra av dem hade redan n\u00e4t i h\u00e4nderna. De snurrade n\u00e4ten runt huvudena s\u00e5 att trollsl\u00e4ndorna f\u00e5ngades, och sedan slungades de krossade insekterna \u00e5t sidan.\n\n\"Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen!\" sa kvinnans r\u00f6st, och sedan tillade hon: \"Ducka nu \u2013 kryp ihop!\"\n\nDe lydde och k\u00e4nde hur marken skakade under dem. Var det hovslag? Lyra lyfte huvudet. N\u00e4r hon hade torkat bort det v\u00e5ta h\u00e5ret ur \u00f6gonen s\u00e5g hon n\u00e5got helt annat \u00e4n h\u00e4star.\n\n\"Iorek!\" skrek hon och gl\u00e4djen tog ett skutt i br\u00f6stet. \"\u00c5h, Iorek!\"\n\nWill drog snabbt ner henne, f\u00f6r inte bara Iorek Byrnison, utan ett helt regemente av hans bj\u00f6rnar, var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g rakt mot dem. Lyra drog ner huvudet i sista \u00f6gonblicket, f\u00f6r sedan hoppade Iorek \u00f6ver dem och vr\u00e5lade order \u00e5t sina bj\u00f6rnar att g\u00e5 \u00e5t v\u00e4nster och \u00e5t h\u00f6ger, f\u00f6r att kunna krossa fienden mellan sig.\n\nBj\u00f6rnkungen snurrade runt och v\u00e4nde sig mot Will och Lyra lika l\u00e4tt som om rustningen inte v\u00e4gde mer \u00e4n den egna p\u00e4lsen. De b\u00e5da barnen tog sig m\u00f6dosamt upp p\u00e5 f\u00f6tter.\n\n\"Iorek \u2013 bakom dig \u2013 dom har n\u00e4t!\" ropade Will, f\u00f6r ryttarna var n\u00e4stan framme vid dem.\n\nInnan bj\u00f6rnen hann g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got kom ryttarens n\u00e4t v\u00e4sande genom luften och svepte snabbt in Iorek i en st\u00e5lstark spindelv\u00e4v. Han vr\u00e5lade, reste sig p\u00e5 bakbenen och slog med sina v\u00e4ldiga ramar mot ryttaren. Men n\u00e4tet var starkt och trots att h\u00e4sten gn\u00e4ggade och stegrade sig av r\u00e4dsla kunde Iorek inte g\u00f6ra sig fri fr\u00e5n slingorna.\n\n\"Iorek!\" ropade Will. \"St\u00e5 still! R\u00f6r dig inte!\"\n\nHan rusade fram genom p\u00f6larna och \u00f6ver gr\u00e4stuvorna samtidigt som ryttaren f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 kontroll \u00f6ver h\u00e4sten, och n\u00e5dde fram till Iorek i samma \u00f6gonblick som \u00e4nnu en ryttare anl\u00e4nde och \u00e4nnu ett n\u00e4t kom visslande genom luften.\n\nMen Will h\u00f6ll huvudet kallt: ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att hugga vilt omkring sig och trassla in sig \u00e4nnu v\u00e4rre, studerade han hur n\u00e4tet f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver honom och kunde sk\u00e4ra sig igenom p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick. N\u00e4tet var oskadliggjort och f\u00f6ll ner p\u00e5 marken, och sedan kastade Will sig mot Iorek och trevade med v\u00e4nsterhanden och skar med h\u00f6ger. Den stora bj\u00f6rnen stod or\u00f6rlig medan pojken for fram \u00f6ver hela kroppen och skar, befriade och r\u00f6jde upp.\n\n\"S\u00e4tt fart!\" skrek Will och hoppade undan, varefter Iorek tycktes explodera rakt upp i br\u00f6stkorgen p\u00e5 den n\u00e4rmaste h\u00e4sten.\n\nRyttaren hade h\u00f6jt sin kroksabel f\u00f6r ett hugg mot bj\u00f6rnens nacke, men Iorek Byrnison i rustning v\u00e4gde n\u00e4stan tv\u00e5 ton, s\u00e5 det fanns inget p\u00e5 det avst\u00e5ndet som kunde st\u00e5 emot honom. H\u00e4st och ryttare, b\u00e5da krossade och s\u00f6nderslitna, f\u00f6ll \u00e5t sidan. Iorek \u00e5terfick balansen, s\u00e5g sig om f\u00f6r att skaffa sig \u00f6verblick \u00f6ver l\u00e4get och vr\u00e5lade sedan till barnen:\n\n\"Upp p\u00e5 min rygg! Nu!\"\n\nLyra kl\u00e4ttrade genast upp och Will f\u00f6ljde snabbt efter. De kl\u00e4mde det kalla j\u00e4rnet mellan benen och kunde k\u00e4nna den massiva kraften n\u00e4r Iorek b\u00f6rjade r\u00f6ra p\u00e5 sig.\n\nBakom dem var resten av bj\u00f6rnarna upptagna med det underliga kavalleriet, hj\u00e4lpta av gallivespierna, vars styng gjorde h\u00e4starna vansinniga. Kvinnan p\u00e5 den bl\u00e5 falken svepte in l\u00e5gt och ropade: \"Rakt fram nu! In bland tr\u00e4den i dalen!\"\n\nIorek n\u00e5dde fram till toppen av en liten h\u00f6jd och d\u00e4r hejdade han sig. Framf\u00f6r dem sluttade den s\u00f6nderspr\u00e4ngda marken ned\u00e5t mot en dunge en knapp halvkilometer l\u00e4ngre bort. N\u00e5gonstans bortom dungen fanns ett batteri med stora kanoner, som sk\u00f6t salva efter salva, som for tjutande genom luften ovanf\u00f6r dem. N\u00e5gon annan sk\u00f6t dessutom lysraketer, som exploderade under molnen och sv\u00e4vade ner mot tr\u00e4den och fick dessa att lysas upp av ett kallt, gr\u00f6nt ljus och bli ett utm\u00e4rkt m\u00e5l f\u00f6r kanonerna.\n\nEtt tjog Geng\u00e5ngare k\u00e4mpade om kontrollen \u00f6ver sj\u00e4lva dungen, men en sliten grupp andar h\u00f6ll st\u00e5nd mot dem. S\u00e5 snart de fick syn p\u00e5 den lilla ansamlingen av tr\u00e4d visste b\u00e5de Lyra och Will att deras d\u00e6moner fanns d\u00e4r inne och att de skulle d\u00f6 om de inte n\u00e5dde fram till dem i tid. Fler Geng\u00e5ngare anl\u00e4nde f\u00f6r varje minut som gick och de kom str\u00f6mmande \u00f6ver \u00e5sen till h\u00f6ger. Nu kunde Will och Lyra se dem alldeles tydligt.\n\nEn explosion strax bortom \u00e5sryggen fick marken att skaka och slungade stenar och jordkokor h\u00f6gt upp i luften. Lyra skrek till och Will slog armarna om br\u00f6stkorgen.\n\n\"H\u00e5ll i er\", morrade Iorek och vr\u00e4kte sig fram\u00e5t.\n\nEn lysraket t\u00e4ndes h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r och sedan \u00e4nnu en och \u00e4nnu en. De sv\u00e4vade l\u00e5ngsamt ned\u00e5t med sitt magnesiumklara sken. \u00c4nnu en granat exploderade, n\u00e4rmare den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen. De k\u00e4nde tryckv\u00e5gen i luften och n\u00e5gon sekund senare tr\u00e4ffades de av grus och sm\u00e5sten. Iorek hejdade sig inte, men barnen fann att det var sv\u00e5rare att h\u00e5lla sig kvar: de kunde inte gr\u00e4va ner fingrarna i p\u00e4lsen, utan m\u00e5ste kl\u00e4mma sig fast med benen om rustningen. Ioreks rygg var s\u00e5 bred att b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att halka av.\n\n\"Titta!\" sa Lyra och pekade n\u00e4r \u00e4nnu en granat slog ner i n\u00e4rheten.\n\nEtt dussin h\u00e4xor var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot lysraketerna och hade grenar med mycket blad i h\u00e4nderna. H\u00e4xorna sopade bort de bl\u00e4ndande ljusen med grenarna till en annan del av himlen. M\u00f6rkret f\u00f6ll \u00e5terigen \u00f6ver dungen och dolde den f\u00f6r kanonerna.\n\nNu var det bara n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 meter kvar. Will och Lyra k\u00e4nde b\u00e5da att deras saknade jag fanns i n\u00e4rheten \u2013 en upphetsning, ett vilt hopp som kyldes av r\u00e4dsla, f\u00f6r det var fullt av Geng\u00e5ngare bland tr\u00e4den och de skulle beh\u00f6va ge sig rakt in bland dem. Bara \u00e5synen av dem r\u00e4ckte f\u00f6r att mana fram den kv\u00e4ljande k\u00e4nslan i sj\u00e4len.\n\n\"De \u00e4r r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r kniven\", sa en r\u00f6st bredvid dem och d\u00e5 stannade bj\u00f6rnkungen s\u00e5 hastigt att b\u00e5de Will och Lyra ramlade ner fr\u00e5n hans rygg.\n\n\"Lee!\" sa Iorek. \"Lee, min kamrat, jag har aldrig sett n\u00e5got liknande f\u00f6rut. Du \u00e4r ju d\u00f6d \u2013 vad \u00e4r det jag talar med?\"\n\n\"Iorek, gamle v\u00e4n, du kan inte ana. Nu tar vi \u00f6ver \u2013 Geng\u00e5ngarna \u00e4r inte r\u00e4dda f\u00f6r bj\u00f6rnar. Lyra, Will \u2013 f\u00f6lj med \u00e5t det h\u00e4r h\u00e5llet och h\u00e5ll kniven framf\u00f6r er...\"\n\nDen bl\u00e5 falken susade \u00e5terigen ner till Lyras n\u00e4ve. \"Sl\u00f6sa inte en endaste sekund\", sa den gr\u00e5h\u00e5riga kvinnan. \"Ge er in, hitta era d\u00e6moner och fly sedan! Fler faror \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g.\"\n\n\"Tack, ers n\u00e5d! Tack f\u00f6r allt!\" sa Lyra, och sedan for falken iv\u00e4g.\n\nWill kunde vagt se Lee Scoresbys ande bredvid dem. Den var angel\u00e4gen om att de skulle ge sig in i dungen, men de m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rst ta farv\u00e4l av Iorek Byrnison.\n\n\"Iorek, min \u00e4lskade, jag saknar ord \u2013 m\u00e5 Gud vara med dig!\"\n\n\"Tack, kung Iorek\", sa Will.\n\n\"Inte tid. Spring. Spring!\"\n\nHan knuffade iv\u00e4g dem med sitt bepansrade huvud.\n\nWill st\u00f6rtade iv\u00e4g genom undervegetationen bakom Lee Scoresbys ande och h\u00f6gg med kniven \u00e5t b\u00e5da sidorna. Ljuset var s\u00f6ndertrasat och d\u00e4mpat och skuggorna var t\u00e4ta, intrasslade och f\u00f6rvirrande.\n\n\"H\u00e5ll dig t\u00e4tt intill mig\", ropade han till Lyra, men tj\u00f6t sedan till n\u00e4r en taggig gren rev honom tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver kinden.\n\nDet var fullt av r\u00f6relse, ov\u00e4sen och strid \u00f6verallt omkring dem. Skuggorna r\u00f6rde sig fram och tillbaka likt grenar i h\u00e5rd vind. Det kunde ha varit andar, f\u00f6r b\u00e5da barnen k\u00e4nde de sm\u00e5 sl\u00e4ngarna av kyla, som nu var s\u00e5 v\u00e4lk\u00e4nda f\u00f6r dem, och sedan h\u00f6rde de r\u00f6ster fr\u00e5n alla h\u00e5ll:\n\n\"Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen!\"\n\n\"H\u00e4r borta!\"\n\n\"Forts\u00e4tt bara \u2013 vi h\u00e5ller dom i schack!\"\n\n\"Nu \u00e4r det inte l\u00e5ngt kvar!\"\n\nSedan kom ett rop med en r\u00f6st som Lyra b\u00e5de k\u00e4nde och \u00e4lskade mer \u00e4n n\u00e5gon annan:\n\n\"\u00c5h, kom fort! Fort, Lyra!\"\n\n\"Pan, \u00e4lskling \u2013 jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r...\"\n\nHon kastade sig ut i m\u00f6rkret, snyftande och skakande, och Will slet ner grenar och murgr\u00f6na och h\u00f6gg mot taggbuskar och n\u00e4sslor, samtidigt som r\u00f6sterna stegrades i h\u00f6gljudd uppmuntran och varning.\n\nMen \u00e4ven Geng\u00e5ngarna hade hittat sina m\u00e5l och pressade vidare genom virrvarret av sn\u00e5r och r\u00f6tter och grenar, men m\u00f6ttes inte av v\u00e4rre motst\u00e5nd \u00e4n om det hade varit r\u00f6k. Ett dussin, ett tjog av de bleka illvilligheterna s\u00e5g ut att v\u00e4lla in mot dungens mitt, d\u00e4r John Parrys ande hade samlat sina f\u00f6ljeslagare f\u00f6r att sl\u00e5 tillbaka dem.\n\nB\u00e5de Will och Lyra var svaga och darrade av r\u00e4dsla, utmattning, illam\u00e5ende och sm\u00e4rta, men det var helt ot\u00e4nkbart att ge upp nu. Lyra rev i de taggiga grenarna med sina bara h\u00e4nder, Will h\u00f6gg och skar till h\u00f6ger och v\u00e4nster och runt omkring dem blev striden mellan de skugglika varelserna allt h\u00e4ftigare.\n\n\"D\u00e4r!\" ropade Lee. \"Ser ni dom? Vid den stora stenen...\"\n\nEn vildkatt, tv\u00e5 vildkatter, som spottade och fr\u00e4ste och h\u00f6gg med klorna. B\u00e5da var d\u00e6moner och Will k\u00e4nde att, om det hade funnits tid till det, s\u00e5 skulle han l\u00e4tt kunnat avg\u00f6ra vilken som var Pantalaimon, men nu fanns det inte tid till det, eftersom en Geng\u00e5ngare gled fram ur den n\u00e4rmaste skuggan p\u00e5 v\u00e4g rakt mot dem.\n\nWill hoppade \u00f6ver det sista hindret, en nerfallen tr\u00e4dstam, och k\u00f6rde kniven i det motst\u00e5ndsl\u00f6sa skimret i luften. Han k\u00e4nde hur hans arm bed\u00f6vades, men bet ihop samtidigt som han kl\u00e4mde fingrarna runt knivskaftet, och den bleka skepnaden tycktes koka bort och sm\u00e4lta undan i m\u00f6rkret.\n\nN\u00e4stan framme, och d\u00e6monerna var galna av skr\u00e4ck, eftersom \u00e4nnu fler Geng\u00e5ngare tr\u00e4ngde sig fram mellan tr\u00e4den och det bara var de tappra andarna som h\u00f6ll dem borta.\n\n\"Kan du sk\u00e4ra dig igenom?\" sa John Parrys ande.\n\nWill h\u00f6ll upp kniven, men m\u00e5ste hejda sig n\u00e4r en v\u00e5ldsam kv\u00e4ljningsattack fick honom att skaka fr\u00e5n topp till t\u00e5. Det fanns inget kvar i magen, s\u00e5 krampanfallet gjorde fruktansv\u00e4rt ont. Lyra var i samma bel\u00e4genhet bredvid honom. Lees ande uppt\u00e4ckte orsaken och hoppade upp mot d\u00e6monerna och brottades med den bleka tingest som var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot dem bakifr\u00e5n genom stenen.\n\n\"Will \u2013 sn\u00e4lla...\", sa Lyra fl\u00e4mtande.\n\nIn \u00e5kte kniven, \u00e5t sidan, ner, tillbaka. Lee Scoresbys ande tittade genom f\u00f6nstret och s\u00e5g en vidstr\u00e4ckt och stilla pr\u00e4rie under en lysande m\u00e5ne och det var s\u00e5 likt hans eget hemland att det k\u00e4ndes som om han blivit v\u00e4lsignad.\n\nWill hoppade \u00f6ver gl\u00e4ntan och h\u00f6gg tag i n\u00e4rmaste d\u00e6mon, medan Lyra fiskade upp den andra.\n\nTill och med i den h\u00e4r fruktansv\u00e4rda br\u00e5dskan, till och med i den h\u00e4r yttersta faran, k\u00e4nde de b\u00e5da samma lilla chock av upphetsning: f\u00f6r Lyra h\u00f6ll i Wills d\u00e6mon, den namnl\u00f6sa vildkatten, och Will h\u00f6ll i Pantalaimon.\n\nDe slet blickarna fr\u00e5n varandra.\n\n\"Adj\u00f6, mr Scoresby!\" ropade Lyra och s\u00e5g sig om efter honom. \"Jag \u00f6nskar... \u00c5h, tack, tack s\u00e5 oerh\u00f6rt mycket... Adj\u00f6!\"\n\n\"Adj\u00f6, mitt k\u00e4ra barn \u2013 adj\u00f6, Will \u2013 farv\u00e4l!\"\n\nLyra kl\u00e4ttrade igenom, men Will stod kvar och s\u00e5g in i faderns \u00f6gon, som glittrade i skuggorna. Innan han l\u00e4mnade honom var det n\u00e5got han m\u00e5ste s\u00e4ga:\n\n\"Du sa att jag var en krigare\", sa Will till sin fars ande. \"Du sa att det var min natur och att jag inte skulle g\u00e5 emot den. Pappa, du hade fel. Jag slogs f\u00f6r att jag var tvungen. Jag kan inte v\u00e4lja min natur, men jag kan v\u00e4lja vad jag ska g\u00f6ra. Och jag kommer att forts\u00e4tta v\u00e4lja, f\u00f6r jag \u00e4r fri nu.\"\n\nFaderns leende var fullt av stolthet och \u00f6mhet. \"Bra gjort, min son. Mycket bra gjort\", sa han.\n\nWill kunde inte se honom l\u00e4ngre. Han v\u00e4nde och kl\u00e4ttrade in efter Lyra.\n\nOch nu n\u00e4r deras syfte var uppn\u00e5tt, nu n\u00e4r barnen hade hittat sina d\u00e6moner och lyckats undkomma, s\u00e5 kunde de d\u00f6da krigarna till slut \u00e4ntligen l\u00e5ta sina atomer slappna av och glida is\u00e4r.\n\nUt ur den lilla gl\u00e4ntan, bort fr\u00e5n de f\u00f6rbryllade Geng\u00e5ngarna, ut ur dalen, f\u00f6rbi den v\u00e4ldiga skepnaden av den forna kamraten, den rustningskl\u00e4dda bj\u00f6rnen, for den sista lilla biten av det medvetande som hade varit aeronauten Lee Scoresby. Det sv\u00e4vade upp\u00e5t, precis som hans ballong hade gjort s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga g\u00e5nger f\u00f6rut. Det sista av Lee Scoresby passerade genom de tunga molnen, helt obekymrad om lysraketerna och de exploderande granaterna, d\u00f6v f\u00f6r explosionerna och skriken av vrede och varning och sm\u00e4rta och bara medveten om sin egen r\u00f6relse upp\u00e5t. Han kom ut under de str\u00e5lande stj\u00e4rnorna, d\u00e4r hans \u00e4lskade d\u00e6mon Hesters atomer v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 honom.\n\n## 32\n\n## Morgon\n\nMORGONEN KOMMER, NATTEN G\u00c5R, VAKTERNA L\u00c4MNAR SIN POST.\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nDEN VIDSTR\u00c4CKTA GYLLENE pr\u00e4rie som Lee Scoresbys v\u00e5lnad s\u00e5 hastigt hade skymtat genom f\u00f6nstret l\u00e5g stilla i den f\u00f6rsta morgonsolen.\n\nDen var gyllene, men \u00e4ven gul, brun, gr\u00f6n och varenda en av miljoner nyanser d\u00e4r emellan, och svart p\u00e5 en del st\u00e4llen i linjer av gl\u00e4nsande beck, men \u00e4ven silvrig, d\u00e4r solen f\u00e5ngades i topparna p\u00e5 en viss sorts gr\u00e4s som precis hade b\u00f6rjat blomma, och bl\u00e5 d\u00e4r en bred sj\u00f6 en bit bort och en liten damm lite n\u00e4rmare \u00e5terspeglade himlens o\u00e4ndliga bl\u00e5 f\u00e4rg.\n\nOch stilla, men inte tyst, f\u00f6r en len bris fick miljarder gr\u00e4sstr\u00e5n att b\u00f6ja sig, och en miljard insekter och andra sm\u00e5 varelser gnisslade och surrade och kvittrade i gr\u00e4set, och en f\u00e5gel som var alltf\u00f6r h\u00f6gt uppe i det bl\u00e5 f\u00f6r att synas sj\u00f6ng en drillande sekvens av klocktoner, som \u00e4n var helt n\u00e4ra, \u00e4n var l\u00e5ngt borta, men aldrig n\u00e5gonsin desamma.\n\nDe enda levande varelserna i hela det vidstr\u00e4ckta landskapet som var tysta och stilla var pojken och flickan som l\u00e5g och sov, rygg mot rygg, i skuggan av en utskjutande sten vid toppen av en liten h\u00f6jd.\n\nDe var s\u00e5 stilla och s\u00e5 bleka att de lika g\u00e4rna kunde varit d\u00f6da. Hungern fick huden att strama i deras ansikten, sm\u00e4rtan hade ritat streck runt \u00f6gonen och de var t\u00e4ckta av damm och lera och inte s\u00e5 lite blod. Och med tanke p\u00e5 hur fullst\u00e4ndigt or\u00f6rliga kropparna var tycktes de ha n\u00e5tt l\u00e5ngt bortom utmattningens allra yttersta gr\u00e4ns.\n\nLyra var den f\u00f6rsta som vaknade. N\u00e4r solen r\u00f6rde sig \u00f6ver himlen d\u00f6k den s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom upp bakom stenen och snuddade vid hennes h\u00e5r, s\u00e5 hon b\u00f6rjade r\u00f6ra p\u00e5 sig, och n\u00e4r solskenet n\u00e5dde \u00f6gonlocken halades hon upp ur s\u00f6mnens djup likt en fisk, l\u00e5ngsamt och tungt och motvilligt.\n\nMen det gick inte att s\u00e4ga emot solen, s\u00e5 efter en stund vred hon p\u00e5 huvudet och sl\u00e4ngde armen \u00f6ver \u00f6gonen och mumlade: \"Pan... Pan...\"\n\nHon \u00f6ppnade \u00f6gonen i skuggan under armen och vaknade sedan p\u00e5 allvar. Hon r\u00f6rde sig inte p\u00e5 en l\u00e5ng stund, eftersom armarna och benen var s\u00e5 \u00f6mma och varenda del av kroppen var tr\u00f6tt och kraftl\u00f6s, men hon var trots allt vaken och k\u00e4nde den lilla brisen och solens v\u00e4rme och h\u00f6rde insektsljuden och klocktonerna fr\u00e5n f\u00e5geln h\u00f6gt d\u00e4r uppe. Allt var bra. Hon hade gl\u00f6mt hur bra v\u00e4rlden kunde vara.\n\nTill slut v\u00e4nde hon sig och fick syn p\u00e5 Will, som fortfarande l\u00e5g och sov. Hans hand hade bl\u00f6tt ganska mycket, skjortan var s\u00f6nderriven och smutsig, h\u00e5ret var stelt av damm och svett. Hon s\u00e5g p\u00e5 honom en l\u00e5ng stund, p\u00e5 den l\u00e4tta pulsen vid halsen, p\u00e5 br\u00f6stkorgen som h\u00e4vde sig l\u00e5ngsamt, p\u00e5 de tunna skuggorna som \u00f6gonfransarna \u00e5stadkom n\u00e4r solen \u00e4ntligen n\u00e5dde fram till dem.\n\nHan mumlade n\u00e5got och r\u00f6rde p\u00e5 sig. Hon ville inte bli tagen p\u00e5 bar g\u00e4rning med att betrakta honom, s\u00e5 hon tittade \u00e5t andra h\u00e5llet ist\u00e4llet, p\u00e5 den lilla grav de hade gr\u00e4vt kv\u00e4llen innan. Den var bara n\u00e5gra h\u00e4nder bred och d\u00e4r vilade chevalier Tialys och lady Salmakia. Det fanns en platt sten i n\u00e4rheten: hon reste sig och lirkade loss den ur marken och st\u00e4llde den uppr\u00e4tt vid gravens huvud\u00e4nde. Sedan satte hon sig upp och skuggade \u00f6gonen f\u00f6r att kunna se ut \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten.\n\nDen tycktes str\u00e4cka sig bort i all o\u00e4ndlighet. Det var inte helt platt n\u00e5gonstans, f\u00f6r mjuka v\u00e5gor och sm\u00e5 \u00e5sar och raviner gav marken ett varierat utseende vart hon \u00e4n tittade, och h\u00e4r och var s\u00e5g hon dungar av tr\u00e4d som var s\u00e5 h\u00f6ga att de s\u00e5g ut som om de hade blivit tillverkade hellre \u00e4n att de hade vuxit p\u00e5 egen hand. Tr\u00e4dens raka stammar och m\u00f6rkgr\u00f6na l\u00f6vverk tycktes trotsa alla avst\u00e5nd, f\u00f6r de var s\u00e5 oerh\u00f6rt tydliga p\u00e5 vad som m\u00e5ste vara flera kilometers avst\u00e5nd.\n\nMycket n\u00e4rmare \u2013 faktiskt alldeles vid kullens fot, mindre \u00e4n hundra meter bort \u2013 fanns en liten damm som fylldes av en k\u00e4lla som bubblade fram ur klippan. Lyra ins\u00e5g pl\u00f6tsligt hur t\u00f6rstig hon var.\n\nHon tog sig upp p\u00e5 darrande ben och gick l\u00e5ngsamt ner mot dammen. K\u00e4llan sipprade och gurglade fram mellan mossiga stenar. Hon doppade h\u00e4nderna g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng och tv\u00e4ttade bort all lera och smuts innan hon f\u00f6rde vattnet till munnen. Det var ilande kallt, s\u00e5 hon svalde med v\u00e4lbehag.\n\nDammen var kantad av vass och d\u00e4r kv\u00e4kte en groda. Vattnet i dammen var grundare och varmare \u00e4n k\u00e4llan, vilket hon uppt\u00e4ckte n\u00e4r hon hade tagit av sig skorna och vadat ut i det. Hon stod en l\u00e5ng stund med solen lysande i ansiktet och mot kroppen och nj\u00f6t av den svala leran under f\u00f6tterna och det kalla fl\u00f6det av k\u00e4llvatten runt vaderna.\n\nHon b\u00f6jde sig ner och doppade ansiktet i vattnet och sedan h\u00e5ret. Hon l\u00e4t h\u00e5ret flyta ut i vattnet och sedan svepa tillbaka, samtidigt som hon redde ut det med fingrarna f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 bort allt damm och all smuts.\n\nN\u00e4r hon k\u00e4nde sig lite renare och hade druckit sig ot\u00f6rstig tittade hon upp f\u00f6r sluttningen igen och s\u00e5g att Will hade vaknat. Han satt med armarna i kors \u00f6ver uppdragna ben och tittade ut \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som hon hade gjort, och f\u00f6rundrades \u00f6ver storleken. Och \u00f6ver ljuset och v\u00e4rmen och stillheten.\n\nHon kl\u00e4ttrade l\u00e5ngsamt tillbaka till honom och fann att han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att sk\u00e4ra in gallivespiernas namn i den lilla gravstenen och sedan planterade han den lite stadigare i jorden.\n\n\"\u00c4r dom...\", sa han och hon f\u00f6rstod att han menade d\u00e6monerna.\n\n\"Vet inte. Jag har inte sett Pan. Jag fick en k\u00e4nsla av att han inte \u00e4r s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, men jag vet inte. Kommer du ih\u00e5g vad som h\u00e4nde?\"\n\nHan gned sig om \u00f6gonen och g\u00e4spade s\u00e5 stort att hon h\u00f6rde sm\u00e5 knakande ljud fr\u00e5n k\u00e4karna. Sedan blinkade han och ruskade p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\"Inte mycket\", sa han. \"Jag plockade upp Pantalaimon och du plockade upp \u2013 den andra, och sedan kl\u00e4ttrade vi igenom och det var m\u00e5nsken \u00f6verallt, s\u00e5 jag satte ner honom alldeles bredvid f\u00f6nstret.\"\n\n\"Och din \u2013 den andra d\u00e6monen hoppade bara rakt ur famnen p\u00e5 mig\", sa hon. \"Jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte se mr Scoresby genom f\u00f6nstret, och Iorek, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte uppt\u00e4cka vart Pan hade tagit v\u00e4gen, men n\u00e4r jag s\u00e5g mig om, s\u00e5 var dom bara inte d\u00e4r l\u00e4ngre.\"\n\n\"Det k\u00e4nns \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte som n\u00e4r vi gick in i dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld. Som n\u00e4r vi verkligen var skilda \u00e5t.\"\n\n\"Nej\", h\u00f6ll hon med. \"Dom \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans i n\u00e4rheten, det \u00e4r helt klart. Jag kommer ih\u00e5g n\u00e4r vi var sm\u00e5 och brukade leka kurrag\u00f6mma, men det fungerade egentligen aldrig, f\u00f6r jag var f\u00f6r stor f\u00f6r att kunna g\u00f6mma mig f\u00f6r honom och jag brukade alltid veta exakt var han var n\u00e5nstans, \u00e4ven om han f\u00f6rvandlade sig till en mal eller n\u00e5t liknande. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r konstigt\", sa hon och drog ofrivilligt h\u00e4nderna \u00f6ver huvudet, som om hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skingra n\u00e5gon sorts f\u00f6rtrollning. \"Han \u00e4r inte h\u00e4r, men jag k\u00e4nner mig inte s\u00f6ndersliten, jag k\u00e4nner mig trygg och jag vet att han \u00e4r det ocks\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Jag tror dom \u00e4r tillsammans\", sa Will.\n\n\"Jo. Det m\u00e5ste dom vara.\"\n\nHan reste sig pl\u00f6tsligt.\n\n\"Titta\", sa han, \"d\u00e4r borta...\"\n\nHan skuggade \u00f6gonen och pekade. Hon f\u00f6ljde hans blick och s\u00e5g en avl\u00e4gsen sk\u00e4lvning av r\u00f6relse, som var helt annorlunda \u00e4n dallret fr\u00e5n v\u00e4rmen i luften.\n\n\"Djur?\" sa hon tveksamt.\n\n\"Och lyssna\", sa han och lade handen bakom \u00f6rat.\n\nNu n\u00e4r han hade p\u00e5pekat det kunde hon h\u00f6ra ett l\u00e5gt och envist mullrande, n\u00e4stan som \u00e5ska, v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e5ngt borta.\n\n\"Dom har f\u00f6rsvunnit\", sa Will och pekade.\n\nDen lilla fl\u00e4cken av r\u00f6rliga skuggor var borta, men mullret fortsatte ett tag till. Sedan blev det pl\u00f6tsligt tystare, trots att det hade varit ganska tyst redan. De b\u00e5da stod fortfarande och spanade \u00e5t samma h\u00e5ll, s\u00e5 lite senare s\u00e5g de r\u00f6relsen p\u00e5 nytt. Ljudet kom tillbaka n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick senare.\n\n\"Dom f\u00f6rsvann bakom en \u00e5s eller n\u00e5t\", sa Will. \"\u00c4r dom n\u00e4rmare?\"\n\n\"Jag ser inte riktigt. Jo, dom v\u00e4nder, titta, dom \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u00e5t det h\u00e4r h\u00e5llet.\"\n\n\"Om vi m\u00e5ste sl\u00e5ss med dom, s\u00e5 vill jag dricka lite f\u00f6rst\", sa Will och tog med sig ryggs\u00e4cken ner till dammen, d\u00e4r han drack djupt och tv\u00e4ttade av sig det mesta av smutsen. Det hade runnit mycket blod ur s\u00e5ret. Han s\u00e5g f\u00f6rf\u00e4rlig ut, han l\u00e4ngtade efter en varm dusch med massor av tv\u00e5l och efter rena kl\u00e4der.\n\nLyra stod och tittade p\u00e5... vad de nu var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got, f\u00f6r de var v\u00e4ldigt underliga.\n\n\"Will\", ropade hon, \"dom \u00e5ker p\u00e5 hjul...\"\n\nHon sa det lite os\u00e4kert. Han kl\u00e4ttrade tillbaka en liten bit upp f\u00f6r sluttningen och skuggade \u00f6gonen f\u00f6r att kunna se b\u00e4ttre. Nu var det m\u00f6jligt att urskilja individer. Gruppen eller hjorden eller g\u00e4nget bestod av runt tolv stycken och de r\u00f6rde sig, precis som Lyra hade sagt, p\u00e5 hjul. De s\u00e5g ut som en korsning mellan antiloper och motorcyklar, men var \u00e4nnu underligare \u00e4n s\u00e5: de hade snablar som sm\u00e5 elefanter.\n\nDe var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot Will och Lyra med en m\u00e5lmedveten uppsyn. Will drog sin kniv, men Lyra, som satt p\u00e5 gr\u00e4set bredvid honom, h\u00f6ll redan p\u00e5 att vrida p\u00e5 alethiometerns skruvar.\n\nDen svarade snabbt medan varelserna fortfarande var ett par hundra meter bort. Visaren for snabbt \u00e5t v\u00e4nster och h\u00f6ger och sedan v\u00e4nster och v\u00e4nster. Lyra studerade den \u00e4ngsligt, f\u00f6r de senaste g\u00e5ngerna hade det varit sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r henne att l\u00e4sa den. Tankarna k\u00e4ndes klumpiga och os\u00e4kra n\u00e4r hon r\u00f6rde sig l\u00e4ngs kunskapstrapporna. Ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att pila som en f\u00e5gel fr\u00e5n trappsteg till trappsteg, s\u00e5 h\u00f6ll hon sig krampaktigt i ledst\u00e5ngen f\u00f6r att inte falla. Men inneb\u00f6rden var lika tydlig som alltid, och snart f\u00f6rstod hon vad den sa.\n\n\"Dom \u00e4r v\u00e4nliga\", sa hon, \"det \u00e4r helt i sin ordning, Will, dom letar efter oss, dom vet att vi \u00e4r h\u00e4r... Det h\u00e4r var konstigt, nu f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag inte riktigt... Dr Malone?\"\n\nHon sa namnet f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv, f\u00f6r hon kunde inte tro att dr Malone skulle kunna finnas i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden. Men alethiometern hade tydligt talat om henne, \u00e4ven om den f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte hade kunnat s\u00e4ga hennes namn. Lyra stoppade undan instrumentet, reste sig l\u00e5ngsamt och st\u00e4llde sig bredvid Will.\n\n\"Jag tycker vi g\u00e5r ner till dom\", sa hon. \"Dom t\u00e4nker inte g\u00f6ra oss illa.\"\n\nN\u00e5gra av dem hade stannat och stod och v\u00e4ntade. Ledaren r\u00f6rde sig fram\u00e5t ett stycke. Snabeln var lyftad och nu kunde de se hur de f\u00f6rflyttade sig med hj\u00e4lp av kraftiga bak\u00e5ttag med sidobenen. N\u00e5gra av varelserna hade g\u00e5tt fram till dammen f\u00f6r att dricka. De \u00f6vriga v\u00e4ntade, men inte med den milt passiva nyfikenheten hos kor som samlats vid en grind. Det h\u00e4r var individer, som var fulla av intelligens och avsikter. Det var folk.\n\nWill och Lyra fortsatte ner f\u00f6r sluttningen tills de var tillr\u00e4ckligt n\u00e4ra f\u00f6r att kunna prata med dem. Trots Lyras ord hade Will handen p\u00e5 kniven.\n\n\"Jag vet inte om ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r mig\", sa Lyra f\u00f6rsiktigt, \"men jag vet att ni \u00e4r v\u00e4nliga. Jag tror att vi...\"\n\nLedaren r\u00f6rde snabeln och sa: \"Kom tr\u00e4ffa Mary. Ni rider. Vi b\u00e4r. Kom tr\u00e4ffa Mary.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h!\" sa hon och v\u00e4nde sig mot Will med ett glatt leende.\n\nTv\u00e5 av varelserna var utrustade med tyglar och stigbyglar av fl\u00e4tat sn\u00f6re. Inga sadlar, f\u00f6r de rutformade ryggarna visade sig vara bekv\u00e4ma nog utan s\u00e5dana. Lyra hade ridit p\u00e5 en bj\u00f6rn och Will hade cyklat, men ingen av dem hade n\u00e5gonsin suttit p\u00e5 en h\u00e4st, vilket var den n\u00e4rmaste j\u00e4mf\u00f6relsen. P\u00e5 en h\u00e4st \u00e4r det vanligtvis ryttaren som styr, men barnen uppt\u00e4ckte snabbt att de inte hade n\u00e5got att s\u00e4ga om den saken: tyglarna och stigbyglarna var bara till f\u00f6r att de skulle ha n\u00e5got att h\u00e5lla sig fast i och hj\u00e4lpa dem att h\u00e5lla balansen. Det var varelserna sj\u00e4lva som fattade alla beslut.\n\n\"Var \u00e4r...\", b\u00f6rjade Will s\u00e4ga, men fick h\u00e5lla tyst och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka hitta balansen igen n\u00e4r varelsen under honom b\u00f6rjade r\u00f6ra p\u00e5 sig.\n\nGruppen sv\u00e4ngde runt och gav sig iv\u00e4g ner f\u00f6r den mjuka sluttningen och r\u00f6rde sig ganska l\u00e5ngsamt genom gr\u00e4set. R\u00f6relsen var skumpig, men inte obekv\u00e4m, eftersom varelserna inte hade n\u00e5gon ryggrad. F\u00f6r Will och Lyra k\u00e4ndes det som om de satt p\u00e5 stolar med ordentligt fj\u00e4drande dynor.\n\nSnart n\u00e5dde de fram till det som de inte hade sett s\u00e5 tydligt fr\u00e5n kullen: en av de d\u00e4r fl\u00e4ckarna av svart eller m\u00f6rkbrun mark. De blev lika \u00f6verraskade som Mary Malone n\u00e4r de uppt\u00e4ckte de sl\u00e4ta stenv\u00e4garna som slingrade sig \u00f6ver pr\u00e4rien.\n\nVarelserna rullade ut p\u00e5 v\u00e4gbanan och sk\u00f6t iv\u00e4g och hade snart f\u00e5tt upp farten. V\u00e4gen var mer som ett vattendrag \u00e4n en motorv\u00e4g, f\u00f6r p\u00e5 vissa st\u00e4llen vidgades den tills den var som en liten sj\u00f6, och p\u00e5 andra st\u00e4llen delades den upp i smala kanaler, som helt ober\u00e4kneligt gick ihop igen. Den var helt annorlunda \u00e4n de brutalt rationella v\u00e4garna i Wills v\u00e4rld, som skar rakt genom kullarna och hoppade \u00f6ver dalarna p\u00e5 betongbroar. Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen var en del av landskapet och inte n\u00e5got som lagts ovanp\u00e5 det.\n\nDet gick fortare och fortare. Det tog en stund f\u00f6r Will och Lyra att v\u00e4nja sig vid r\u00f6relsen hos de levande musklerna och det omskakande d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n de h\u00e5rda hjulen mot den lika h\u00e5rda stenen. I b\u00f6rjan var det lite sv\u00e5rare f\u00f6r Lyra \u00e4n f\u00f6r Will, f\u00f6r hon hade aldrig cyklat tidigare och k\u00e4nde inte till tricket att luta sig i kurvorna, men hon s\u00e5g hur han gjorde och ganska snart tyckte hon att farten var riktigt upplivande.\n\nHjulen bullrade f\u00f6r mycket f\u00f6r att de skulle kunna prata. De pekade ist\u00e4llet: p\u00e5 tr\u00e4den, och var f\u00f6rbluffade \u00f6ver deras h\u00f6jd och majest\u00e4t; p\u00e5 en flock f\u00e5glar, som var de konstigaste de n\u00e5gonsin hade sett, f\u00f6r vingarna i f\u00f6ren och aktern gav dem en vridande, skruvande r\u00f6relse genom luften; p\u00e5 en tjock bl\u00e5 \u00f6dla, som var l\u00e5ng som en h\u00e4st och l\u00e5g och solade sig mitt p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen (den hjulf\u00f6rsedda gruppen delade sig och k\u00f6rde p\u00e5 vardera sidan om den, medan den sj\u00e4lv inte brydde sig det minsta).\n\nN\u00e4r de b\u00f6rjade sakta in stod solen redan h\u00f6gt p\u00e5 himlen. I luften fanns den omissk\u00e4nnliga salta lukten av havet. V\u00e4gen steg upp mot en kulle och efter ett tag r\u00f6rde de sig inte snabbare \u00e4n promenadtakt.\n\nLyra var stel och \u00f6m och sa: \"Kan ni inte stanna? Jag vill kliva av och r\u00f6ra p\u00e5 mig.\"\n\nHennes varelse k\u00e4nde ryckningen i tyglarna och stannade, vare sig han hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt orden eller inte. Wills varelse stannade ocks\u00e5, s\u00e5 b\u00e5da barnen kunde kl\u00e4ttra ner. De var b\u00e5de stela och omskakade efter ansp\u00e4nningen och det l\u00e5ngvariga skumpandet.\n\nVarelserna rullade runt och pratade med varandra och deras snablar r\u00f6rde sig elegant i takt med de ljud de \u00e5stadkom. De fortsatte igen efter n\u00e5gon minut. Will och Lyra var glada \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 g\u00e5 bredvid de h\u00f6doftande, gr\u00e4svarma varelserna som rullade bredvid dem. Ett par stycken hade rullat i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g till kullens topp. Nu n\u00e4r barnen inte l\u00e4ngre beh\u00f6vde koncentrera sig p\u00e5 att klamra sig fast s\u00e5g de hur de f\u00f6rflyttade sig och kunde beundra kraften och behagfullheten i den r\u00f6relse som pressade dem fram\u00e5t. Barnen kunde ocks\u00e5 se hur de lutade sig n\u00e4r de sv\u00e4ngde.\n\nDe stannade n\u00e4r de n\u00e5tt fram till kr\u00f6net. \"Mary n\u00e4ra. Mary d\u00e4r\", h\u00f6rde de ledaren s\u00e4ga.\n\nDe tittade ner. Vid horisonten syntes det glittrande bl\u00e5 havet. En bred och l\u00e5ngsam flod ringlade sig fram genom gr\u00e4ssl\u00e4tten en bit l\u00e4ngre bort och vid foten av sluttningen, bland best\u00e5nd av sm\u00e5 tr\u00e4d och rader av gr\u00f6nsaker, stod en by med vasst\u00e4ckta hus. Fler varelser av samma sort r\u00f6rde sig mellan husen, pysslade med gr\u00f6dan eller arbetade bland tr\u00e4den.\n\n\"\u00c5ka igen\", sa ledaren.\n\nDet var inte l\u00e5ngt kvar. Will och Lyra satt upp igen och varelserna unders\u00f6kte noga deras balans och kontrollerade stigbyglarna med sina snablar, som f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00e4kra sig om att de satt kvar ordentligt.\n\nDe gav sig iv\u00e4g och piskade mot v\u00e4gen med sidolemmarna. De jagade p\u00e5 ner f\u00f6r sluttningen tills de hade n\u00e5tt en fantastisk fart. Will och Lyra klamrade sig fast med b\u00e5de h\u00e4nder och kn\u00e4n och k\u00e4nde hur luften ven f\u00f6rbi deras ansikten, pressade tillbaka h\u00e5ret och pressade mot \u00f6gonen. D\u00e5net fr\u00e5n hjulen, den f\u00f6rbirusande gr\u00e4smarken p\u00e5 vardera sidan, den s\u00e4kra och kraftiga lutningen i den breda kurvan framf\u00f6r dem, den uppenbara h\u00e4nryckningen \u00f6ver farten \u2013 de h\u00e4r varelserna \u00e4lskade det och Will och Lyra k\u00e4nde deras gl\u00e4dje och skrattade lyckligt till svar.\n\nDe stannade mitt i byn. De \u00f6vriga inv\u00e5narna hade sett att de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g och samlade sig runt omkring dem, lyfte snablarna och h\u00e4lsade p\u00e5 dem.\n\n\"Dr Malone!\" ropade Lyra sedan.\n\nMary hade kommit ut ur den ena av hyddorna. Hennes urblekta bl\u00e5 skjorta, den satta kroppen och de varma, r\u00f6da kinderna var samtidigt b\u00e5de fr\u00e4mmande och v\u00e4lbekanta.\n\nLyra sprang fram till henne och gav henne en kram och kvinnan h\u00f6ll om henne h\u00e5rt. Will stod avvaktande vid sidan om.\n\nMary gav Lyra en v\u00e4rmande kyss och gick sedan fram f\u00f6r att h\u00e4lsa Will v\u00e4lkommen. Sedan utspelades en m\u00e4rklig liten mental dans av sympati och f\u00f6rl\u00e4genhet, som \u00e4gde rum p\u00e5 mindre \u00e4n en sekund.\n\nMary r\u00f6rdes av det tillst\u00e5nd de befann sig i och hade f\u00f6rst t\u00e4nkt krama om honom p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som hon hade kramat Lyra, men Mary var vuxen och Will var n\u00e4stan vuxen, s\u00e5 hon ins\u00e5g att den sortens mottagande skulle ha f\u00f6rvandlat honom till ett barn. Eftersom hon mycket v\u00e4l hade kunnat krama om ett barn, men aldrig skulle ha kramat en man hon inte var bekant med, drog hon sig tillbaka mentalt och f\u00f6redrog att hellre bekr\u00e4fta Lyras v\u00e4n \u00e4n g\u00f6ra att han f\u00f6rlorade ansiktet.\n\nIst\u00e4llet h\u00f6ll hon ut handen. Han tog den i sin, och en s\u00e5 stark flod av f\u00f6rst\u00e5else och respekt str\u00f6mmade mellan dem att den genast f\u00f6rvandlades till v\u00e4nskap. B\u00e5da tv\u00e5 k\u00e4nde det som om de f\u00e5tt en livsl\u00e5ng v\u00e4n, vilket de faktiskt ocks\u00e5 hade.\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r Will\", sa Lyra. \"Han \u00e4r fr\u00e5n din v\u00e4rld \u2013 du kommer v\u00e4l ih\u00e5g att jag ber\u00e4ttade om honom?\"\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r Mary Malone\", sa hon, \"och ni m\u00e5ste vara hungriga, b\u00e5da tv\u00e5, ni ser halvt utsvultna ut.\"\n\nHon v\u00e4nde sig mot varelsen vid hennes sida och gav ifr\u00e5n sig n\u00e5gra av deras sjungande, hoande ljud och vevade samtidigt med armen.\n\nVarelserna gav sig genast iv\u00e4g, men n\u00e5gra av dem h\u00e4mtade kuddar och mattor fr\u00e5n det n\u00e4rmaste huset och lade ut dem p\u00e5 den h\u00e5rdpackade jorden under ett tr\u00e4d strax intill. Tr\u00e4dets kraftiga blad och l\u00e5gt h\u00e4ngande grenar gav en sval och v\u00e4ldoftande skugga.\n\nS\u00e5 snart de satt bekv\u00e4mt h\u00e4mtade deras v\u00e4rdar tr\u00e4sk\u00e5lar som var br\u00e4ddfyllda med mj\u00f6lk. Drycken hade en vagt citronliknande str\u00e4vhet, men var underbart uppfriskande. De fick sm\u00e5 n\u00f6tter som p\u00e5minde om hasseln\u00f6tter, men hade en fylligare och mer sm\u00f6rliknande smak, och alldeles nyplockad sallad \u2013 skarpt peppriga blad blandade med mjuka tjocka blad, ur vilka det v\u00e4llde fram en gr\u00e4ddig sav, samt sm\u00e5 k\u00f6rsb\u00e4rsstora r\u00f6tter, som smakade som s\u00f6ta mor\u00f6tter.\n\nDe fick dock inte i sig s\u00e5 mycket. Maten var alldeles f\u00f6r m\u00e4ttande. Will ville g\u00f6ra r\u00e4ttvisa \u00e5t deras generositet, men det enda som var l\u00e4tt att sv\u00e4lja, bortsett fr\u00e5n drycken, var lite platt, l\u00e4tt br\u00e4nt och mj\u00f6ligt br\u00f6d, som p\u00e5minde om chapati eller tortillas. Det var enkelt och n\u00e4rande och det var ungef\u00e4r vad Will kunde hantera just d\u00e5. Lyra provade lite av allt, men precis som Will uppt\u00e4ckte hon snart att lite var precis tillr\u00e4ckligt.\n\nMary lyckades undvika att st\u00e4lla n\u00e5gra fr\u00e5gor. De b\u00e5da barnen hade varit med om saker som hade satt djupa sp\u00e5r: de var inte redo att prata om det riktigt \u00e4n.\n\nIst\u00e4llet besvarade hon deras fr\u00e5gor om muleforna och ber\u00e4ttade kort om hur hon hade anl\u00e4nt till den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden. Sedan l\u00e4mnade hon dem i skuggan under tr\u00e4det, f\u00f6r hon s\u00e5g att deras \u00f6gonlock b\u00f6rjade sjunka och att huvudena b\u00f6rjade nicka till.\n\n\"Ni beh\u00f6ver inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got mer just nu \u00e4n att sova\", sa hon.\n\nEftermiddagsluften var varm och stilla och det var d\u00e5sigt i skuggan och gr\u00e4shopporna knirrade. B\u00e5de Will och Lyra sov som stockar mindre \u00e4n fem minuter efter att de hade svalt det sista av drycken.\n\n_\u00c4r de av tv\u00e5 k\u00f6n?_ fr\u00e5gade Atal f\u00f6rv\u00e5nat. _Hur kan du se det?_\n\n_Det \u00e4r l\u00e4tt_ , svarade Mary. _Deras kroppar har olika form. De r\u00f6r sig p\u00e5 olika s\u00e4tt._\n\n_De \u00e4r inte mycket mindre \u00e4n du, men de har mindre sraf. N\u00e4r kommer det till dem?_\n\n_Jag vet inte_ , sa Mary. _Ganska snart, skulle jag tro. Jag vet inte n\u00e4r det intr\u00e4ffar f\u00f6r oss._\n\n_Inga hjul_ , sa Atal f\u00f6rst\u00e5ende.\n\nDe rensade ogr\u00e4s i gr\u00f6nsakslandet. Mary hade tillverkat en hacka f\u00f6r att inte beh\u00f6va b\u00f6ja sig ner; Atal anv\u00e4nde snabeln, s\u00e5 samtalet var oregelbundet.\n\n_Men du visste att de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g_ , sa Atal.\n\n_Jo_.\n\n_Var det pinnarna som ber\u00e4ttade det f\u00f6r dig?_\n\n_Nej_ , sa Mary och rodnade. Hon var forskare, det var illa nog att beh\u00f6va erk\u00e4nna att hon anv\u00e4nde sig av I Ching, men det h\u00e4r var \u00e4nnu mer generande. _Det var en nattbild_ , medgav hon.\n\nMuleforna hade inte bara ett ord f\u00f6r dr\u00f6m. De dr\u00f6mde mycket livligt och tog dr\u00f6mmarna p\u00e5 stort allvar.\n\n_Du tycker inte om nattbilder_ , sa Atal.\n\n_Jo, det g\u00f6r jag, men jag trodde inte p\u00e5 dem f\u00f6rr\u00e4n nu. Jag s\u00e5g pojken och flickan s\u00e5 tydligt och en r\u00f6st talade om f\u00f6r mig att jag skulle f\u00f6rbereda deras ankomst._\n\n_Vilken sorts r\u00f6st? Hur kunde den tala om du inte kunde se den?_\n\nDet var sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r Atal att f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig tal utan de snabelr\u00f6relser som f\u00f6rklarade och definierade det. Hon hejdade sig mitt i en rad med b\u00f6nor och v\u00e4nde sig mot Mary i fascinerad nyfikenhet.\n\n_N\u00e5, jag s\u00e5g det verkligen_ , sa Mary. _Det var en kvinna, eller en klok kvinna, som oss, som mitt folk. Men v\u00e4ldigt gammal, och \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte s\u00e4rskilt gammal alls._\n\nKlok var det muleforna kallade sina ledare. Hon uppt\u00e4ckte att Atal s\u00e5g intensivt intresserad ut.\n\n_Hur kunde hon vara gammal och samtidigt inte gammal?_ fr\u00e5gade Atal.\n\n_Det \u00e4r en lik-som_ , sa Mary.\n\nAtal sv\u00e4ngde lugnad med snabeln.\n\nMary fortsatte s\u00e5 gott hon kunde: _Hon ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r mig att jag skulle v\u00e4nta p\u00e5 barnen och talade om n\u00e4r de skulle dyka upp och var. Men inte varf\u00f6r. Jag ska bara ta hand om dem._\n\n_De \u00e4r s\u00e5rade och tr\u00f6tta_ , sa Atal. _Kommer de att stoppa sraf fr\u00e5n att f\u00f6rsvinna?_\n\nMary tittade upp med en bekymrad min. Utan att beh\u00f6va kontrollera saken med kikaren visste hon att Skuggpartiklarna str\u00f6mmade bort snabbare \u00e4n n\u00e5gonsin tidigare.\n\n_Jag hoppas det_ , sa hon. _Men jag vet inte hur._\n\nDet var tidig kv\u00e4ll. Kokeldarna hade t\u00e4nts och de f\u00f6rsta stj\u00e4rnorna hade visat sig n\u00e4r en grupp fr\u00e4mlingar anl\u00e4nde. Mary h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att tv\u00e4tta n\u00e4r hon h\u00f6rde mullret fr\u00e5n deras hjul och det uppr\u00f6rda sorlet fr\u00e5n samtalen, s\u00e5 hon skyndade ut ur huset och torkade sig samtidigt om h\u00e4nderna.\n\nWill och Lyra hade sovit hela eftermiddagen och h\u00f6ll precis p\u00e5 att vakna n\u00e4r de h\u00f6rde ov\u00e4sendet. Lyra satte sig omt\u00f6cknat upp och s\u00e5g hur Mary pratade med de fem eller sex mulefor som omgav henne. Det var tydligt att de var upphetsade, men hon kunde inte avg\u00f6ra om de var arga eller glada.\n\nMary s\u00e5g henne, s\u00e5 hon slet sig fr\u00e5n gruppen.\n\n\"Lyra\", sa hon, \"det har h\u00e4nt n\u00e5got \u2013 de har hittat n\u00e5got de inte kan f\u00f6rklara och det \u00e4r... Jag vet inte vad det \u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5got... Jag m\u00e5ste ge mig iv\u00e4g och titta. Det \u00e4r ungef\u00e4r en timmes v\u00e4g h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. Jag kommer tillbaka s\u00e5 snart jag kan. Ta f\u00f6r er av vad som finns i mitt hus \u2013 jag kan inte stanna, f\u00f6r de \u00e4r v\u00e4ldigt angel\u00e4gna...\"\n\n\"Visst\", sa Lyra, som \u00e4nnu inte hade vaknat helt ur sin l\u00e5nga s\u00f6mn.\n\nMary tittade in under tr\u00e4det. Will gnuggade sig i \u00f6gonen.\n\n\"Jag kommer inte att vara borta s\u00e4rskilt l\u00e4nge\", sa hon. \"Atal stannar h\u00e4r hos er.\"\n\nLedaren var ot\u00e5lig. Mary kastade snabbt tyglarna och stigbyglarna \u00f6ver hans rygg och bad om urs\u00e4kt f\u00f6r sin klumpighet, men satt genast upp. De rullade iv\u00e4g, sv\u00e4ngde och f\u00f6rsvann bort i skymningen.\n\nDe gav sig iv\u00e4g \u00e5t ett nytt h\u00e5ll, l\u00e4ngs \u00e5sen ovanf\u00f6r kusten i norr. Mary hade aldrig \u00e5kt i m\u00f6rker f\u00f6rut och uppt\u00e4ckte att den h\u00f6ga farten var \u00e4nnu ot\u00e4ckare \u00e4n i dagsljus. Mary kunde se m\u00e5nen glittra i havet l\u00e5ngt till v\u00e4nster och det silversepiaf\u00e4rgade ljuset tycktes omsluta henne i en kyligt skeptisk f\u00f6rundran. F\u00f6rundran l\u00e5g hos henne, skepsisen i v\u00e4rlden och kylan fanns hos b\u00e5da.\n\nEmellan\u00e5t tittade hon upp och nuddade vid kikaren i mulefans ficka, men kunde inte anv\u00e4nda den f\u00f6rr\u00e4n de hade stannat. De h\u00e4r muleforna r\u00f6rde sig med stor br\u00e5dska och gav intryck av att inte vilja stanna av n\u00e5got enda sk\u00e4l. Efter en timmes h\u00e5rd ritt sv\u00e4ngde de in\u00e5t land, l\u00e4mnade stenv\u00e4gen och rullade l\u00e5ngsamt l\u00e4ngs en stig av h\u00e5rdpackad jord mellan kn\u00e4h\u00f6gt gr\u00e4s och en dunge hjultr\u00e4d och vidare upp mot en \u00e5s. Landskapet gl\u00f6dde i m\u00e5nskenet: vidstr\u00e4ckta kala kullar med enstaka sm\u00e5 raviner d\u00e4r vattendragen letade sig fram mellan tr\u00e4den.\n\nDe f\u00f6rde henne mot en av ravinerna. Hon hade klivit av n\u00e4r de l\u00e4mnade v\u00e4gen och h\u00f6ll j\u00e4mna steg med dem \u00f6ver kullens kr\u00f6n och ner i ravinen.\n\nHon h\u00f6rde porlandet fr\u00e5n k\u00e4llan och nattbrisen i gr\u00e4set. Hon h\u00f6rde det l\u00e5ga ljudet n\u00e4r hjulen krasade mot den h\u00e5rt packade jorden, och hon h\u00f6rde hur muleforna l\u00e4ngst fram mumlade sinsemellan och hur de sedan tystnade.\n\nI kullens sida, bara n\u00e5gra meter bort, fanns en av de \u00f6ppningar som den skarpa kniven hade \u00e5stadkommit. Det s\u00e5g ut som en grott\u00f6ppning, eftersom m\u00e5nskenet lyste in ett kort stycke, precis som om \u00f6ppningen hade visat kullens insida, men det gjorde den inte. Ut ur \u00f6ppningen kom en procession av andar.\n\nF\u00f6r Mary k\u00e4ndes det som om marken hade gett vika under henne. Hon tog sig samman med ett ryck och grep tag i n\u00e4rmaste gren f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rvissa sig om att det fortfarande fanns en fysisk v\u00e4rld och att hon fortfarande var en del av den.\n\nHon r\u00f6rde sig n\u00e4rmare. Gamla m\u00e4n och kvinnor, barn, sp\u00e4dbarn i famnen p\u00e5 vuxna, m\u00e4nniskor, men \u00e4ven andra varelser, fler och fler och allt t\u00e4tare steg de fram ur m\u00f6rkret och ut i m\u00e5nskenets solida v\u00e4rld \u2013 och f\u00f6rsvann.\n\nDet var det underligaste med alltihop. De tog ett par steg ut i gr\u00e4set och luften och silverljuset och s\u00e5g sig om. Minerna f\u00f6rbyttes till gl\u00e4dje \u2013 Mary hade aldrig sett n\u00e5got liknande \u2013 och sedan h\u00f6ll figurerna ut armarna som om de ville omfamna hela universum, f\u00f6r att sedan, som om de bara bestod av dimma eller r\u00f6k, helt enkelt glida is\u00e4r och bli en del av jorden och daggen och kv\u00e4llsbrisen.\n\nN\u00e5gra av dem steg fram mot Mary och str\u00e4ckte ut h\u00e4nderna, som om de ville ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5got f\u00f6r henne. Hon k\u00e4nde deras ber\u00f6ring som sm\u00e5 st\u00f6tar av kyla. En av andarna \u2013 en gammal kvinna \u2013 vinkade p\u00e5 henne och ville att hon skulle komma n\u00e4rmare.\n\nSedan talade hon. Det Mary h\u00f6rde henne s\u00e4ga var:\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta historier f\u00f6r dem. Det var det vi inte visste. All denna tid utan att vi f\u00f6rstod det! Men de beh\u00f6ver sanningen. Det \u00e4r vad de lever av. Man m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta sanna historier f\u00f6r dem, s\u00e5 kommer allt att bli bra, allt. Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dem.\"\n\nDet var allt och sedan var hon borta. Det var ett av de d\u00e4r \u00f6gonblicken n\u00e4r man pl\u00f6tsligt minns en dr\u00f6m som man of\u00f6rklarligt gl\u00f6mt bort, och sedan v\u00e4ller alla k\u00e4nslorna man upplevt i dr\u00f6mmen tillbaka. Det var den dr\u00f6mmen hon hade f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt beskriva f\u00f6r Atal, nattbilden, men n\u00e4r Mary f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte hitta tillbaka till den l\u00f6stes den upp och f\u00f6rsvann, precis som de h\u00e4r skepnaderna gjorde i fria luften. Dr\u00f6mmen var borta.\n\nDet enda som \u00e5terstod var den ljuvliga k\u00e4nslan och uppmaningen att _ber\u00e4tta historier._\n\nHon tittade ner i m\u00f6rkret. S\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt hon kunde se ner i den o\u00e4ndliga tystnaden, s\u00e5g hon fler och fler av andarna, tusentals och \u00e5ter tusentals, som likt flyktingar h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till sitt hemland.\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta historier\", sa hon till sig sj\u00e4lv.\n\n## 33\n\n## Marsipan\n\nLJUVA V\u00c5R, FULL AV SK\u00d6NA DAR OCH ROSOR, LIKT EN ASK AV GODA SAKER T\u00c4TT TILLSAMMANS.\n\nGEORGE HERBERT\n\nN\u00c4STA MORGON VAKNADE Lyra ur en dr\u00f6m d\u00e4r Pantalaimon hade kommit tillbaka till henne och hade avsl\u00f6jat sin slutliga form, och hon hade \u00e4lskat den, men nu hade hon ingen aning om vilken den var.\n\nSolen hade g\u00e5tt upp f\u00f6r inte s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan och luften var klar och frisk. Hon kunde se solskenet genom den \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rren till den lilla vasst\u00e4ckta hydda hon hade sovit i, Marys hus. Hon l\u00e5g och lyssnade en stund. Det fanns f\u00e5glar d\u00e4r ute och n\u00e5gon sorts syrsa. Mary andades l\u00e5gt d\u00e4r hon l\u00e5g och sov.\n\nLyra satte sig upp och uppt\u00e4ckte att hon var naken. Under ett \u00f6gonblick blev hon lite indignerad, men s\u00e5 fick hon syn p\u00e5 en h\u00f6g rena kl\u00e4der som l\u00e5g hopvikta p\u00e5 golvet bredvid henne: en av Marys skjortor och ett stycke mjukt och ljusm\u00f6nstrat tyg som hon kunde vira ihop till en kjol. Hon satte p\u00e5 sig kl\u00e4derna och det k\u00e4ndes som om hon drunknade i skjortan, men hon var \u00e5tminstone anst\u00e4ndigt kl\u00e4dd.\n\nHon l\u00e4mnade hyddan. Pantalaimon var i n\u00e4rheten, det var hon s\u00e4ker p\u00e5. Hon kunde n\u00e4stan h\u00f6ra hur han pratade och skrattade. Det m\u00e5ste betyda att han var i trygghet och att de fortfarande var sammanl\u00e4nkade p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt. Och n\u00e4r han v\u00e4l f\u00f6rl\u00e4t henne och kom tillbaka \u2013 hur m\u00e5nga timmar skulle de d\u00e5 inte \u00e4gna sig \u00e5t att bara prata med varandra, och ber\u00e4tta allt f\u00f6r varandra...\n\nWill sov fortfarande under tr\u00e4det, den latmasken. Lyra funderade p\u00e5 att v\u00e4cka honom, men om hon var p\u00e5 egen hand, s\u00e5 kunde hon ta en simtur i floden. Hon hade tyckt om att simma naken i Cherwellfloden tillsammans med alla de andra oxfordungarna, men det skulle vara n\u00e5got helt annat tillsammans med Will, och hon rodnade bara hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 saken.\n\nS\u00e5 hon gick ner ensam till vattnet i den p\u00e4rlemorskimrande morgonen. Det stod en l\u00e5ngbent och smal h\u00e4gerliknande f\u00e5gel p\u00e5 ett ben bland vassen vid strandkanten. Hon gick l\u00e5ngsamt och f\u00f6rsiktigt f\u00f6r att inte st\u00f6ra den, men f\u00e5geln brydde sig lika lite om henne som om hon hade varit en pinne i vattnet.\n\n\"Jaha d\u00e5\", sa hon.\n\nHon l\u00e4mnade kl\u00e4derna p\u00e5 stranden och gled ner i floden. Hon simmade snabbt f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla sig varm och kom sedan huttrande upp ur vattnet. I vanliga fall skulle Pan ha hj\u00e4lpt henne att torka sig: Var han en fisk, som skrattade \u00e5t henne under vattnet? Eller en skalbagge, som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att krypa in i hennes kl\u00e4der f\u00f6r att kittla henne, eller en f\u00e5gel? Eller var han n\u00e5gon helt annanstans i s\u00e4llskap med den andra d\u00e6monen, utan minsta tanke p\u00e5 Lyra?\n\nSolen var ganska varm nu, s\u00e5 hon blev snart torr. Hon satte p\u00e5 sig Marys skjorta igen och n\u00e4r hon fick syn p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra platta stenar vid stranden gick hon f\u00f6r att h\u00e4mta sina egna kl\u00e4der f\u00f6r att kunna tv\u00e4tta dem. Men n\u00e5gon hade redan gjort det: hennes, och \u00e4ven Wills, kl\u00e4der l\u00e5g utlagda \u00f6ver de fj\u00e4drande grenarna p\u00e5 en v\u00e4ldoftande buske och de var n\u00e4stan torra.\n\nWill h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att vakna. Hon satte sig bredvid tr\u00e4det och ropade l\u00e5gt p\u00e5 honom.\n\n\"Will! Vakna!\"\n\n\"Var \u00e4r vi?\" sa han genast och satte sig upp, samtidigt som han str\u00e4ckte sig efter kniven.\n\n\"I s\u00e4kerhet\", sa hon och tittade bort. \"Dom har tv\u00e4ttat v\u00e5ra kl\u00e4der ocks\u00e5, eller s\u00e5 har dr Malone gjort det. Jag g\u00e5r och h\u00e4mtar dina. Dom \u00e4r n\u00e4stan torra...\"\n\nHon langade \u00e5t honom kl\u00e4derna och satt med ryggen mot honom tills han hade kl\u00e4tt p\u00e5 sig.\n\n\"Jag simmade i floden\", sa hon. \"Jag gick f\u00f6r att leta efter Pan, men jag tror att han g\u00f6mmer sig.\"\n\n\"Det var en bra id\u00e9. Att ta en simtur, menar jag. Det k\u00e4nns som om jag har samlat p\u00e5 mig smuts i flera \u00e5r... Jag g\u00e5r och tv\u00e4ttar av mig.\"\n\nMedan han var borta vandrade Lyra omkring i byn. Hon tittade inte f\u00f6r n\u00e4ra p\u00e5 n\u00e5got, f\u00f6r att inte riskera att bryta mot n\u00e5gon artighetsregel, men var v\u00e4ldigt nyfiken p\u00e5 allt hon s\u00e5g. N\u00e5gra av husen var gamla och n\u00e5gra var helt nya, men allihop var byggda p\u00e5 ungef\u00e4r samma s\u00e4tt av tr\u00e4, lera och vass. Det var inget primitivt \u00f6ver dem, f\u00f6r varenda d\u00f6rr och f\u00f6nsterram var t\u00e4ckta av utstuderade m\u00f6nster, men det var m\u00f6nster som inte hade snidats fram ur tr\u00e4et: det var som om n\u00e5gon hade \u00f6vertalat tr\u00e4et att v\u00e4xa naturligt i den formen.\n\nJu mer hon tittade, desto mer uppfattade hon av ordning och noggrannhet i byn, ungef\u00e4r som med de olika betydelseniv\u00e5erna hos alethiometern. En del av hennes hj\u00e4rna var ivrig p\u00e5 att f\u00e5 r\u00e4kna ut det och g\u00e5 med de l\u00e4tta stegen fr\u00e5n likhet till likhet, fr\u00e5n den ena betydelsen till n\u00e4sta, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som hon gjorde med instrumentet, men en annan del av henne undrade hur l\u00e4nge de kunde stanna h\u00e4r innan de blev tvungna att forts\u00e4tta vidare.\n\nN\u00e5, jag t\u00e4nker inte ge mig av n\u00e5nstans innan Pan kommer tillbaka, sa hon f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv.\n\nS\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom kom Will tillbaka fr\u00e5n floden och sedan d\u00f6k Mary upp ur huset och bj\u00f6d p\u00e5 frukost. Snart d\u00f6k \u00e4ven Atal upp och hela byn vaknade till liv runt omkring dem. De b\u00e5da unga mulefabarnen, som saknade hjul, kikade runt h\u00f6rnet p\u00e5 sitt hus och Lyra kunde hastigt v\u00e4nda sig om och stirra rakt p\u00e5 dem, s\u00e5 att de hoppade till och sedan skrattade av r\u00e4dsla.\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5\", sa Mary n\u00e4r de hade \u00e4tit lite br\u00f6d och frukt och f\u00e5tt i sig en sk\u00e5llhet dekokt p\u00e5 n\u00e5got som liknade mynta. \"Ig\u00e5r var ni f\u00f6r tr\u00f6tta f\u00f6r att kunna g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n vila er, men idag ser ni mycket piggare ut b\u00e5da tv\u00e5, s\u00e5 jag tror att vi ska ta och ber\u00e4tta allt vi kommit p\u00e5 f\u00f6r varandra. Eftersom det f\u00f6rmodligen kommer att ta ett bra tag kan vi lika g\u00e4rna l\u00e5ta h\u00e4nderna g\u00f6ra lite nytta under tiden genom att laga n\u00e5gra av n\u00e4ten.\"\n\nDe bar h\u00f6gen med de styva, tj\u00e4rade n\u00e4ten till flodbanken och bredde ut dem \u00f6ver gr\u00e4set. Mary visade hur man kn\u00f6t fast en ny lina d\u00e4r n\u00e4tet var trasigt. Hon var vaksam, f\u00f6r Atal hade ber\u00e4ttat att familjer l\u00e4ngre upp l\u00e4ngs kusten hade sett att stora m\u00e4ngder av tualapierna, de vita f\u00e5glarna, hade samlats ute till havs, s\u00e5 alla var beredda p\u00e5 varningen som talade om att de genast m\u00e5ste ge sig av, men under tiden m\u00e5ste arbetet forts\u00e4tta.\n\nDe satt intill den fridfulla floden i solskenet och Lyra ber\u00e4ttade sin historia, fr\u00e5n den stund f\u00f6r s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan d\u00e5 hon och Pan best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r att titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 S\u00e4llskapsrummet p\u00e5 Jordan College.\n\nTidvattnet kom och v\u00e4nde, men fortfarande inga tecken p\u00e5 tualapierna. Under den sena eftermiddagen tog Mary med sig Will och Lyra l\u00e4ngs flodstranden, f\u00f6rbi st\u00e4llningarna d\u00e4r n\u00e4ten satt upph\u00e4ngda och genom det breda salttr\u00e4sket ner mot havet. Det gick bra att g\u00e5 d\u00e4r n\u00e4r det var ebb, f\u00f6r de vita f\u00e5glarna kom bara in till land n\u00e4r det var h\u00f6gvatten. Mary ledde v\u00e4gen l\u00e4ngs en h\u00e5rd stig ovanf\u00f6r leran. Precis som mycket annat av det muleforna hade tillverkat var den ur\u00e5ldrig och perfekt sk\u00f6tt, och s\u00e5g mer ut att vara en del av naturen \u00e4n som n\u00e5got som tvingats p\u00e5 den.\n\n\"Var det dom som byggde stenv\u00e4garna?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Nej. Jag tror att v\u00e4garna p\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis skapade dem\", sa Mary. \"Jag menar att de aldrig skulle ha utvecklat bruket av hjulen om det inte hade funnits gott om h\u00e5rda och platta ytor att anv\u00e4nda dem p\u00e5. Jag tror att det \u00e4r lavastr\u00f6mmar fr\u00e5n gamla vulkaner.\n\nS\u00e5 v\u00e4garna gjorde det m\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r dem att anv\u00e4nda hjulen. Andra saker kom att passa ihop, som till exempel sj\u00e4lva hjultr\u00e4den och det s\u00e4tt som deras kroppar \u00e4r formade p\u00e5 \u2013 de \u00e4r inte ryggradsdjur, f\u00f6r de har ingen ryggrad. N\u00e5gon lycklig omst\u00e4ndighet f\u00f6r l\u00e4nge sedan i v\u00e5ra v\u00e4rldar m\u00e5ste ha lett till att varelserna med ryggrad fick det lite l\u00e4ttare, och sedan utvecklades en m\u00e4ngd olika former baserade p\u00e5 en ryggrad i mitten. P\u00e5 den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden gick utvecklingen \u00e5t ett annat h\u00e5ll, f\u00f6r h\u00e4r blev rutformen framg\u00e5ngsrik. Visst finns det ryggradsdjur h\u00e4r, men inte s\u00e4rskilt m\u00e5nga. Det finns ormar, till exempel. I den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden \u00e4r ormarna viktiga. Man tar hand om dem och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker l\u00e5ta bli att skada dem.\n\nHur som helst har deras form, v\u00e4garna och hjultr\u00e4den tillsammans gjort alltihop m\u00f6jligt. En m\u00e4ngd sm\u00e5 tillf\u00e4lligheter som samverkat. N\u00e4r b\u00f6rjade din del av historien, Will?\"\n\n\"Det var en hel massa tillf\u00e4lligheter f\u00f6r mig ocks\u00e5\", b\u00f6rjade han och t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 katten under avenboken. Om han hade anl\u00e4nt trettio sekunder tidigare eller senare skulle han aldrig ha sett katten och skulle aldrig ha hittat f\u00f6nstret, aldrig ha uppt\u00e4ckt Citt\u00e0gazze och Lyra: inget av allt det h\u00e4r skulle ha h\u00e4nt.\n\nHan b\u00f6rjade fr\u00e5n allra f\u00f6rsta b\u00f6rjan och de b\u00e5da andra lyssnade medan de traskade vidare. N\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde fram till lerbankarna hade han kommit till den punkt d\u00e4r han och hans pappa slogs p\u00e5 bergstoppen.\n\n\"Och sedan d\u00f6dade h\u00e4xan honom...\"\n\nHan hade aldrig riktigt f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt den saken. Han ber\u00e4ttade vad hon hade sagt till honom innan hon begick sj\u00e4lvmord: hon hade \u00e4lskat John Parry, men han hade f\u00f6rsm\u00e5tt henne.\n\n\"H\u00e4xorna \u00e4r ju r\u00e4tt v\u00e5ldsamma\", sa Lyra.\n\n\"Men om hon \u00e4lskade honom...\"\n\n\"Tja\", sa Mary, \"k\u00e4rleken kan vara r\u00e4tt v\u00e5ldsam den ocks\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Men han \u00e4lskade ju min mamma\", sa Will. \"Jag kan ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r henne att han aldrig svek henne.\"\n\nLyra s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Will och t\u00e4nkte att om han blev f\u00f6r\u00e4lskad i n\u00e5gon, s\u00e5 skulle han vara precis likadan.\n\nEftermiddagens alla l\u00e5gm\u00e4lda ljud h\u00e4ngde runt omkring dem i den varma luften: dyns oupph\u00f6rliga sipprande, insekternas surrande, m\u00e5sarnas skrin. Tidvattnet hade dragit sig undan helt, s\u00e5 hela stranden l\u00e5g klar och glittrande i den klara solen. Miljarder sm\u00e5 dyvarelser levde och \u00e5t och dog i det \u00f6versta sandlagret, och de sm\u00e5 h\u00f6garna och andningsh\u00e5len och de osynliga r\u00f6relserna visade att hela landskapet sk\u00e4lvde av liv.\n\nMary tittade ut \u00f6ver det avl\u00e4gsna havet, utan att f\u00f6rklara varf\u00f6r, och spanade l\u00e4ngs horisonten efter de vita seglen. Men d\u00e4r fanns bara ett disigt glitter d\u00e4r himlens bl\u00e5 f\u00e4rg bleknade vid havets rand och havet f\u00e5ngade upp blekheten och fick den att gnistra i den skimrande luften.\n\nHon visade Will och Lyra hur man skulle g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 en viss sorts mollusk genom att leta efter andningsr\u00f6ren precis ovanf\u00f6r sanden. Muleforna \u00e4lskade dem, men det var sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r dem att ge sig ut p\u00e5 sanden f\u00f6r att plocka dem. Varenda g\u00e5ng Mary kom ner till stranden plockade hon s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga hon kunde och nu, med tre par h\u00e4nder och \u00f6gon i arbete, skulle det bli rena festen.\n\nHon gav dem varsin tygv\u00e4ska s\u00e5 att de kunde arbeta vidare medan de lyssnade p\u00e5 n\u00e4sta del av ber\u00e4ttelsen. De fyllde v\u00e4skorna med j\u00e4mn fart och Mary ledde dem om\u00e4rkligt tillbaka mot stranden, f\u00f6r tidvattnet var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g in.\n\nBer\u00e4ttelsen tog l\u00e5ng tid och de skulle inte n\u00e5 fram till de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld den h\u00e4r dagen. N\u00e4r de n\u00e4rmade sig byn ber\u00e4ttade Will f\u00f6r Mary om vad han och Lyra hade l\u00e4rt sig om m\u00e4nniskornas tredelade natur.\n\n\"Vet du\", sa Mary, \"kyrkan \u2013 den katolska kyrkan, som jag brukade tillh\u00f6ra \u2013 skulle aldrig ha anv\u00e4nt ordet d\u00e6mon, men aposteln Paulus talade om anden _och_ sj\u00e4len _och_ kroppen. S\u00e5 tanken p\u00e5 en tredelad m\u00e4nsklig natur \u00e4r inte alls s\u00e4rskilt konstig.\"\n\n\"Kroppen \u00e4r den b\u00e4sta delen\", sa Will. \"Det var vad Baruch och Balthamos sa. \u00c4nglarna \u00f6nskar att dom hade kroppar. Dom sa att \u00e4nglarna inte kan f\u00f6rst\u00e5 varf\u00f6r vi inte njuter mer av v\u00e4rlden. Det skulle vara rena extasen f\u00f6r dom att f\u00e5 v\u00e5ra kroppar och v\u00e5ra sinnen. I dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld...\"\n\n\"Ber\u00e4tta om det n\u00e4r vi kommer dit\", sa Lyra, och s\u00e5 log hon mot honom. Det var ett leende med s\u00e5 mycket ljuv kunskap och gl\u00e4dje att hans sinnen blev helt f\u00f6rvirrade. Han log tillbaka och Mary tyckte att uttrycket i hans ansikte visade ett mer fullst\u00e4ndigt f\u00f6rtroende \u00e4n hon n\u00e5gonsin sett i ett m\u00e4nskligt ansikte.\n\nVid det laget hade de n\u00e5tt fram till byn och det var dags att laga till kv\u00e4llsmaten. Mary l\u00e4mnade de b\u00e5da barnen vid flodstranden, d\u00e4r de satt och s\u00e5g hur tidvattnet rullade in, och gick bort till Atal vid kokelden. Hennes v\u00e4n blev \u00f6verlycklig \u00f6ver skaldjurssk\u00f6rden.\n\n_Men Mary,_ sa hon, _tualapierna f\u00f6rst\u00f6rde en by l\u00e4ngre upp l\u00e4ngs kusten och sedan en till och \u00e4nnu en. Det har de aldrig gjort f\u00f6rut. Vanligtvis g\u00e5r de till angrepp mot en by och f\u00f6rsvinner sedan ut till havs. Och \u00e4nnu ett tr\u00e4d f\u00f6ll idag..._\n\n_Nej! Var?_\n\nAtal n\u00e4mnde en dunge inte s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n en het k\u00e4lla. Mary hade varit d\u00e4r bara tre dagar tidigare, men d\u00e5 hade inget sett ut att vara p\u00e5 tok. Hon plockade fram kikaren och spanade mot himlen, och mycket riktigt, den v\u00e4ldiga str\u00f6mmen av skuggpartiklar fl\u00f6t \u00e4nnu starkare och i en oj\u00e4mf\u00f6rligt h\u00f6gre fart och st\u00f6rre omf\u00e5ng \u00e4n det tidvatten som nu steg mellan flodbankarna.\n\n_Finns det n\u00e5got du kan g\u00f6ra?_ fr\u00e5gade Atal.\n\nMary k\u00e4nde hur ansvarets tyngd lade sig som en tung hand mellan skulderbladen, men tvingade sig att sitta upp utan synlig oro.\n\n_Ber\u00e4tta historier f\u00f6r dem_ , sa hon.\n\nN\u00e4r middagen var upp\u00e4ten satt de tre m\u00e4nniskorna och Atal p\u00e5 mattor utanf\u00f6r Marys hus och hade de varma stj\u00e4rnorna ovanf\u00f6r sig. De lutade sig tillbaka, m\u00e4tta och behagliga i den blomdoftande natten, och lyssnade p\u00e5 Mary n\u00e4r hon ber\u00e4ttade sin historia.\n\nHon b\u00f6rjade strax innan hon tr\u00e4ffade Lyra f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen och ber\u00e4ttade om det arbete hon utf\u00f6rde f\u00f6r Forskningsgruppen f\u00f6r m\u00f6rk materia och om deras finansiella kris. Hur mycket tid hade hon inte \u00e4gnat \u00e5t att be om pengar och hur lite tid hade det inte blivit \u00f6ver till sj\u00e4lva forskningen!\n\nMen Lyras ankomst hade f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrat allt och p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5 oerh\u00f6rt snabbt s\u00e4tt: efter bara n\u00e5gra dagar hade hon till och med l\u00e4mnat sin egen v\u00e4rld.\n\n\"Jag gjorde som du sa\", ber\u00e4ttade hon. \"Jag skrev ett program \u2013 det \u00e4r en upps\u00e4ttning instruktioner \u2013 f\u00f6r att Skuggorna skulle kunna prata med mig genom datorn. De sa \u00e5t mig vad jag skulle g\u00f6ra. De sa att de var \u00e4nglar och \u2013 tja...\"\n\n\"Om du var forskare\", sa Will, \"s\u00e5 gissar jag att det inte var det b\u00e4sta dom kunde s\u00e4ga. Du skulle kanske inte tro p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra \u00e4nglar.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, men s\u00e5dana k\u00e4nde jag till. Jag har varit nunna, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du. Jag trodde att fysiken kunde till\u00e4gnas Guds \u00e4ra \u00e4nda tills jag uppt\u00e4ckte att det inte fanns n\u00e5gon Gud och att fysiken i vilket fall som helst var mycket intressantare. Den kristna tron \u00e4r helt enkelt bara ett v\u00e4ldigt kraftfullt och \u00f6vertygande misstag.\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r slutade du vara nunna?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Jag kommer ih\u00e5g det exakt\", sa Mary, \"till och med tidpunkten. Eftersom jag var bra p\u00e5 fysik l\u00e4t man mig forts\u00e4tta med min universitetskarri\u00e4r, s\u00e5 jag doktorerade och skulle just b\u00f6rja undervisa. Det var inte n\u00e5gon av de d\u00e4r nunneordnarna d\u00e4r man l\u00e5ser in sig i kloster. Faktum var att vi inte ens hade nunnekl\u00e4der, vi m\u00e5ste bara kl\u00e4 oss strikt och b\u00e4ra krucifix. Jag skulle b\u00f6rja undervisa p\u00e5 universitetet och forska i partikelfysik.\n\nSedan blev det en konferens om mitt \u00e4mne och man bad mig \u00e5ka dit och h\u00e5lla ett f\u00f6redrag. Konferensen var i Lissabon och d\u00e4r hade jag aldrig varit f\u00f6rut. Faktum \u00e4r att jag aldrig ens hade varit utanf\u00f6r England. Det var s\u00e5 mycket \u2013 flygresan, hotellet, det starka solskenet, de fr\u00e4mmande spr\u00e5ken runt omkring mig, de k\u00e4nda m\u00e4nniskor som skulle h\u00e5lla f\u00f6redrag och tanken p\u00e5 mitt eget f\u00f6redrag, samtidigt som jag undrade om det var n\u00e5gon som skulle komma och lyssna och om jag skulle vara f\u00f6r nerv\u00f6s f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 n\u00e5got sagt... \u00c5h, ni kan tro att jag var helt uppskruvad av sp\u00e4nningen.\n\nOch jag var s\u00e5 oskuldsfull \u2013 ni m\u00e5ste komma ih\u00e5g att jag hade varit en v\u00e4ldigt sk\u00f6tsam liten flicka. Jag gick regelbundet i kyrkan, jag trodde att jag var kallad till det andliga livet. Jag ville tj\u00e4na Gud av hela mitt hj\u00e4rta. Jag ville ta hela mitt liv och erbjuda det s\u00e5 h\u00e4r\", sa hon och h\u00f6ll upp h\u00e4nderna t\u00e4tt intill varandra, \"och l\u00e4gga det framf\u00f6r Jesus, s\u00e5 att han kunde g\u00f6ra vad han ville med det. Jag antar att jag var r\u00e4tt n\u00f6jd med mig sj\u00e4lv. Alltf\u00f6r mycket. Jag var helig och jag var smart. Ha! Det d\u00e4r h\u00f6ll till, \u00e5h, till ungef\u00e4r halv tio p\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen den tionde augusti f\u00f6r sju \u00e5r sedan.\"\n\nLyra satte sig upp och slog armarna om benen medan hon lyssnade.\n\n\"Det var kv\u00e4llen efter mitt f\u00f6redrag\", fortsatte Mary, \"och det hade g\u00e5tt bra. Det hade varit n\u00e5gra v\u00e4lk\u00e4nda personer som lyssnade och jag hade svarat p\u00e5 fr\u00e5gorna utan att trassla till saken. Allt som allt var jag b\u00e5de l\u00e4ttad och glad... Och helt klart r\u00e4tt stolt ocks\u00e5.\n\nI alla fall, n\u00e5gra av mina kollegor skulle bes\u00f6ka en restaurang en bit l\u00e4ngre ner l\u00e4ngs kusten och de fr\u00e5gade om jag ville f\u00f6lja med. Normalt skulle jag ha hittat p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon urs\u00e4kt, men den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen t\u00e4nkte jag, att jag ju \u00e4r en vuxen kvinna, jag har h\u00e5llit ett f\u00f6redrag om ett viktigt \u00e4mne och jag \u00e4r i s\u00e4llskap med goda v\u00e4nner... och det var s\u00e5 varmt och samtalen handlade om alla de saker som jag var mest intresserad av och alla var p\u00e5 topphum\u00f6r, s\u00e5 jag tyckte att jag kunde sl\u00e5 mig l\u00f6s lite grand. Jag h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att uppt\u00e4cka en annan sida av mig sj\u00e4lv, vet ni, en som tyckte om vin och grillade sardiner och k\u00e4nslan av varm luft mot huden och musik i bakgrunden. Jag nj\u00f6t verkligen.\n\nS\u00e5 vi slog oss ner f\u00f6r att \u00e4ta i tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden. Jag satt vid \u00e4nden av ett l\u00e5ngbord under ett citrontr\u00e4d och det var en sorts bers\u00e5 alldeles bredvid, fylld med passionsblommor. Min bordsgranne pratade med personen p\u00e5 andra sidan och... Tja, mitt emot mig satt en man som jag hade sett en eller ett par g\u00e5nger under konferensen. Jag k\u00e4nde honom inte. Han var fr\u00e5n Italien och hade gjort en del saker som folk pratade om, s\u00e5 jag tyckte att det skulle vara intressant att f\u00e5 h\u00f6ra mer om det.\n\nHur som helst. Han var bara n\u00e5got \u00e4ldre \u00e4n jag och hade mjukt, svart h\u00e5r och en fantastisk olivf\u00e4rgad hud och m\u00f6rka, m\u00f6rka \u00f6gon. H\u00e5ret f\u00f6ll hela tiden ner \u00f6ver pannan och han sk\u00f6t hela tiden tillbaka det p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet, l\u00e5ngsamt...\"\n\nHon visade dem. Will tyckte att det s\u00e5g ut som om hon mindes saken v\u00e4ldigt tydligt.\n\n\"Han var inte stilig\", fortsatte hon. \"Han var inte n\u00e5gon kvinnokarl eller charm\u00f6r. Om han hade varit det skulle jag ha varit blygare, jag skulle inte ha vetat hur jag skulle prata med honom. Men han var trevlig och smart och rolig och det var den l\u00e4ttaste saken i v\u00e4rlden att sitta d\u00e4r i lyktskenet under citrontr\u00e4det med doften av blommorna och den grillade maten och vinet, och att prata och skratta och k\u00e4nna hur jag hoppades att han skulle tycka att jag var s\u00f6t. Syster Mary Malone \u2013 satt och flirtade! Vart tog alla mina l\u00f6ften v\u00e4gen? Vart tog det d\u00e4r livet som var till\u00e4gnat Jesus och allt det andra v\u00e4gen?\n\nJag vet inte om det var vinet eller min egen tramsighet eller den varma luften eller citrontr\u00e4det eller vad det var... Men gradvis verkade det som om jag hade \u00f6vertygat mig sj\u00e4lv om att tro p\u00e5 n\u00e5got som inte var sant. Jag hade \u00f6vertygat mig sj\u00e4lv om att jag var glad och lycklig och tillfredsst\u00e4lld p\u00e5 egen hand utan att beh\u00f6va k\u00e4rleken fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gon annan. Att vara k\u00e4r var som att vara i Kina: man visste att det fanns d\u00e4r och det var s\u00e4kerligen v\u00e4ldigt intressant, och en del m\u00e4nniskor \u00e5kte dit, men det var inget jag skulle g\u00f6ra. Jag skulle leva hela mitt liv utan att n\u00e5gonsin \u00e5ka till Kina, men det var inte viktigt, f\u00f6r jag hade hela resten av v\u00e4rlden att \u00e5ka till.\n\nSedan var det n\u00e5gon som gav mig en bit av n\u00e5got s\u00f6tt och pl\u00f6tsligt f\u00f6rstod jag att jag hade varit i Kina. S\u00e5 att s\u00e4ga. Och att jag hade gl\u00f6mt det. Det var smaken av det s\u00f6ta som p\u00e5minde mig om det \u2013 jag tror det var marsipan \u2013 en s\u00f6t mandelsmet\", f\u00f6rklarade hon f\u00f6r Lyra, som s\u00e5g undrande ut.\n\n\"\u00c5h! Marchpank!\" sa Lyra och lutade sig bekv\u00e4mt tillbaka f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 h\u00f6ra om vad som h\u00e4nde sedan.\n\n\"Hur som helst\", fortsatte Mary, \"s\u00e5 kom jag ih\u00e5g smaken och pl\u00f6tsligt var jag tillbaka vid tillf\u00e4llet n\u00e4r jag fick smaka det n\u00e4r jag var en liten flicka.\n\nJag var tolv \u00e5r gammal. Jag var p\u00e5 fest hos en av mina v\u00e4nner, det var f\u00f6delsedagskalas och det var disco \u2013 det \u00e4r n\u00e4r man spelar musik p\u00e5 en sorts inspelningsapparat och folk dansar till musiken\", f\u00f6rklarade hon n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g Lyras fr\u00e5gande min. \"Vanligtvis brukar flickorna dansa med varandra, f\u00f6r pojkarna \u00e4r f\u00f6r blyga f\u00f6r att fr\u00e5ga. Men den h\u00e4r pojken \u2013 jag k\u00e4nde honom inte \u2013 han fr\u00e5gade mig om jag ville dansa, s\u00e5 vi dansade en g\u00e5ng och sedan en g\u00e5ng till och sedan pratade vi... Ni vet hur det \u00e4r n\u00e4r man tycker om n\u00e5gon, man vet det omedelbart. N\u00e5, jag tyckte v\u00e4ldigt mycket om honom. Och vi fortsatte att prata och sedan var det dags f\u00f6r f\u00f6delsedagst\u00e5rtan. Och han tog en bit marsipan och stoppade den f\u00f6rsiktigt i munnen p\u00e5 mig \u2013 jag minns att jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte le, och rodnade, f\u00f6r att jag k\u00e4nde mig s\u00e5 f\u00e5nig \u2013 och jag blev k\u00e4r i honom bara f\u00f6r den sakens skull, f\u00f6r hans mjuka s\u00e4tt att r\u00f6ra vid mina l\u00e4ppar med marsipanbiten.\"\n\nN\u00e4r Mary sa detta k\u00e4nde Lyra hur n\u00e5got underligt h\u00e4nde med hennes kropp. Hon k\u00e4nde en r\u00f6relse i h\u00e5rr\u00f6tterna: hon uppt\u00e4ckte att hon andades snabbare. Hon hade aldrig suttit i en bergochdalbana eller n\u00e5got liknande, men om hon hade gjort det, s\u00e5 skulle hon ha k\u00e4nt igen k\u00e4nslan i br\u00f6stet: det var sp\u00e4nnande och skr\u00e4mmande p\u00e5 samma g\u00e5ng och hon hade inte den minsta aning om varf\u00f6r. K\u00e4nslan satt i och f\u00f6rdjupades och f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades, n\u00e4r fler delar av hennes kropp ocks\u00e5 p\u00e5verkades. Hon k\u00e4nde sig som om hon just hade f\u00e5tt nyckeln till ett stort hus, som hon inte hade vetat fanns d\u00e4r, ett hus som p\u00e5 n\u00e5got s\u00e4tt fanns inom henne, och n\u00e4r hon vred om nyckeln, s\u00e5 k\u00e4nde hon hur andra d\u00f6rrar ocks\u00e5 \u00f6ppnades djupt nere i husets m\u00f6rker, och hur ljuset t\u00e4ndes. Hon satt darrande, med armarna om kn\u00e4na och v\u00e5gade n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt andas medan Mary fortsatte:\n\n\"Jag tror att det var p\u00e5 den festen, eller s\u00e5 var det kanske n\u00e5gon annan, som vi kysste varandra f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen. Det var ute i tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden och det kom musik inifr\u00e5n huset. Det var stilla och svalt ute bland tr\u00e4den och det _v\u00e4rkte_ av l\u00e4ngtan \u2013 hela min kropp _v\u00e4rkte_ av l\u00e4ngtan efter honom och jag f\u00f6rstod att han k\u00e4nde samma sak som jag \u2013 samtidigt som vi b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 var n\u00e4stan f\u00f6r blyga f\u00f6r att r\u00f6ra oss. N\u00e4stan. Men en av oss var mindre blyg och precis som ett kvantumhopp, _pl\u00f6tsligt_ \u2013 s\u00e5 kysste vi varandra och det var mer \u00e4n Kina, det var rena paradiset.\n\nVi tr\u00e4ffades ungef\u00e4r ett halvdussin g\u00e5nger till, inte mer. Sedan flyttade hans f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar och jag tr\u00e4ffade honom aldrig mer. Det var en s\u00e5 underbar tid, och s\u00e5 kort... Men d\u00e4r var det. Jag hade k\u00e4nt till det. Jag _hade_ varit i Kina.\"\n\nDet var verkligen underligt, men Lyra visste precis vad hon menade, men bara en halvtimme tidigare skulle hon inte haft en aning om det. Inuti henne stod det d\u00e4r rika huset med alla sina \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rrar och upplysta rum redo, stilla, f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntansfullt.\n\n\"Och vid halv tio p\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen vid det d\u00e4r restaurangbordet i Portugal\", fortsatte Mary, helt omedveten om det tysta drama som p\u00e5gick inuti Lyra, \"var det n\u00e5gon som gav mig en bit marsipan, och hela historien rullades upp igen. D\u00e5 t\u00e4nkte jag: Ska jag verkligen leva hela resten av mitt liv utan att n\u00e5gonsin f\u00e5 k\u00e4nna p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet igen? Jag t\u00e4nkte: Jag _vill_ verkligen \u00e5ka till Kina. Det \u00e4r fullt av skatter och m\u00e4rkligheter och mysterier och gl\u00e4dje. Finns det n\u00e5gon som kommer att m\u00e5 b\u00e4ttre av att jag ger mig raka v\u00e4gen tillbaka till hotellet och ber mina b\u00f6ner och sedan biktar mig f\u00f6r pr\u00e4sten och lovar att aldrig falla f\u00f6r frestelsen igen? Kommer n\u00e5gon att m\u00e5 b\u00e4ttre bara f\u00f6r att jag m\u00e5r uruselt?\n\nSvaret kom direkt \u2013 nej. Det finns ingen. Det finns ingen som kommer att gr\u00e4ma sig, ingen som kommer att d\u00f6ma, ingen som v\u00e4lsignar mig f\u00f6r att jag \u00e4r en sn\u00e4ll flicka och ingen som kommer att straffa mig f\u00f6r att jag \u00e4r en d\u00e5lig flicka. Himlen var tom. Jag visste inte om Gud hade d\u00f6tt eller om det aldrig hade funnits n\u00e5gon Gud \u00f6verhuvudtaget. Hur som helst k\u00e4nde jag mig fri och ensam och jag visste inte l\u00e4ngre om jag var lycklig eller olycklig, utan bara att n\u00e5got mycket m\u00e4rkligt hade intr\u00e4ffat. Hela den d\u00e4r f\u00f6r\u00e4ndringen \u00e4gde rum n\u00e4r jag satt med marsipanbiten i munnen, innan jag ens hade svalt den. En smak \u2013 ett minne \u2013 ett jordskred...\n\nN\u00e4r jag till slut svalde och sedan tittade p\u00e5 mannen p\u00e5 andra sidan bordet kunde jag se att han f\u00f6rstod att n\u00e5got hade h\u00e4nt. Jag kunde inte ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r honom just d\u00e4r och d\u00e5, f\u00f6r det var fortfarande n\u00e4stan f\u00f6r underligt och privat, till och med f\u00f6r mig sj\u00e4lv. Men lite senare promenerade vi l\u00e4ngs stranden i m\u00f6rkret. Den varma nattbrisen bl\u00e5ste runt h\u00e5ret och Atlanten var v\u00e4ldigt v\u00e4luppfostrad \u2013 ett stilla v\u00e5gskvalp runt v\u00e5ra f\u00f6tter...\n\nJag tog av mig krucifixet som h\u00e4ngde runt halsen och kastade det i havet. S\u00e5 var det med den saken. Allt var \u00f6ver. Borta.\n\nDet var s\u00e5 det gick till n\u00e4r jag slutade vara nunna\", sa hon.\n\n\"Var det den mannen som uppt\u00e4ckte det d\u00e4r med skallarna?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra uppm\u00e4rksamt.\n\n\"\u00c5h \u2013 nej. Skallmannen var dr Payne, Oliver Payne. Han d\u00f6k upp l\u00e5ngt senare. Nej, mannen p\u00e5 konferensen hette Alfredo Montale. Han var v\u00e4ldigt annorlunda.\"\n\n\"Kysste du honom?\"\n\n\"Tja\", sa Mary med ett leende, \"jo, men inte just d\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Var det sv\u00e5rt att l\u00e4mna kyrkan?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"P\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt var det det, f\u00f6r att alla blev s\u00e5 besvikna. Varenda en, fr\u00e5n abbedissan till pr\u00e4sterna till mina f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar \u2013 de var s\u00e5 uppr\u00f6rda och f\u00f6rebr\u00e5ende... Det k\u00e4ndes som om det som _allihop_ passionerat trodde p\u00e5 var beroende av att jag fortsatte med n\u00e5got som jag inte l\u00e4ngre trodde p\u00e5.\n\nMen p\u00e5 ett annat s\u00e4tt var det v\u00e4ldigt l\u00e4tt, eftersom det k\u00e4ndes s\u00e5 r\u00e4tt. F\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen i mitt liv k\u00e4ndes det som om jag gjorde n\u00e5got med hela min natur och inte bara med en del av den. I b\u00f6rjan var det ensamt, men sedan vande jag mig.\"\n\n\"Gifte du dig med honom?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"Nej. Jag gifte mig inte med n\u00e5gon. Jag bodde ihop med n\u00e5gon \u2013 inte Alfredo, utan n\u00e5gon annan. Jag bodde ihop med honom i n\u00e4stan fyra \u00e5r. Min familj blev uppr\u00f6rd, men sedan kom vi fram till att vi skulle bli lyckligare av att inte bo ihop l\u00e4ngre. S\u00e5 nu \u00e4r jag p\u00e5 egen hand. Den man jag bodde ihop med gillade bergskl\u00e4ttring och han l\u00e4rde mig att kl\u00e4ttra och att vandra i bergen och... Och s\u00e5 hade jag ju mitt arbete. Tja, jag _hade_ mitt arbete. Jag \u00e4r ensam, men lycklig, om du f\u00f6rst\u00e5r vad jag menar.\"\n\n\"Vad hette den d\u00e4r pojken?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra. \"Han p\u00e5 festen?\"\n\n\"Tim.\"\n\n\"Hur s\u00e5g han ut?\"\n\n\"\u00c5h... Trevlig. Det \u00e4r allt jag kommer ih\u00e5g.\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r jag tr\u00e4ffade dig f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen i Oxford\", sa Lyra, \"s\u00e5 sa du att ett sk\u00e4l till att bli vetenskapsman var att man inte beh\u00f6vde t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 gott och ont. T\u00e4nkte du p\u00e5 det n\u00e4r du var nunna?\"\n\n\"Hmm. Nej, men jag visste vad jag _borde_ tycka: det var vad kyrkan l\u00e4rde mig att tycka. Och n\u00e4r jag h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med forskningen var jag tvungen att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 helt andra saker, s\u00e5 jag beh\u00f6vde aldrig sj\u00e4lv fundera \u00f6ver den saken.\"\n\n\"G\u00f6r du det nu?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Jag tror att jag _m\u00e5ste_ \", svarade Mary och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ge r\u00e4tt svar.\n\n\"N\u00e4r du slutade tro p\u00e5 Gud\", fortsatte han, \"slutade du att tro p\u00e5 gott och ont samtidigt?\"\n\n\"Nej, men jag slutade tro att det finns en god och en ond kraft som existerar utanf\u00f6r oss och jag b\u00f6rjade tro att gott och ont bara \u00e4r namn p\u00e5 det som m\u00e4nniskor g\u00f6r, inte p\u00e5 vad de \u00e4r. Det enda vi kan s\u00e4ga \u00e4r att det d\u00e4r var en god handling, eftersom den hj\u00e4lpte n\u00e5gon, och det d\u00e4r var en ond handling, eftersom den skadade n\u00e5gon. M\u00e4nniskorna \u00e4r f\u00f6r komplicerade f\u00f6r att man ska kunna s\u00e4tta n\u00e5gra enkla etiketter p\u00e5 dem.\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa Lyra best\u00e4mt.\n\n\"Saknade du Gud?\" fr\u00e5gade Will.\n\n\"Jo\", sa Mary, \"fruktansv\u00e4rt mycket. Och det g\u00f6r jag fortfarande. Det jag saknar mest \u00e4r k\u00e4nslan av att h\u00f6ra samman med hela universum. Det brukade k\u00e4nnas som om jag h\u00f6rde samman med Gud p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet, och n\u00e4r han var d\u00e4r, s\u00e5 var jag sammanl\u00e4nkad med hela skapelsen. Men om han inte finns d\u00e4r, d\u00e5...\"\n\nL\u00e5ngt ute p\u00e5 mossen ropade en f\u00e5gel i en l\u00e5ng och melankolisk serie av fallande toner. Gl\u00f6den satte sig i elden, gr\u00e4set b\u00f6jdes l\u00e4tt av kv\u00e4llsbrisen. Atal s\u00e5g ut att sova som en katt med hjulen platt mot gr\u00e4set bredvid sig, benen hopf\u00e4llda under kroppen, \u00f6gonen halvslutna, uppm\u00e4rksamheten halvt d\u00e4r och halvt n\u00e5gon annanstans. Will l\u00e5g p\u00e5 rygg med \u00f6gonen \u00f6ppna mot stj\u00e4rnorna.\n\nVad g\u00e4llde Lyra, s\u00e5 hade hon inte r\u00f6rt en muskel sedan den d\u00e4r underliga saken intr\u00e4ffade och hon bevarade minnet av sinnesf\u00f6rnimmelserna inuti sig likt ett \u00f6mt\u00e5ligt k\u00e4rl, som var s\u00e5 proppfullt av den nya kunskapen att hon n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt v\u00e5gade nudda vid det av r\u00e4dsla f\u00f6r att spilla. Hon visste inte vad det var eller vad det betydde, eller varifr\u00e5n det hade kommit: s\u00e5 hon satt stilla och kramade om sina kn\u00e4n och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte l\u00e5ta bli att darra av upphetsningen. _Snart_ , t\u00e4nkte hon, _snart kommer jag att veta. Jag kommer att veta det v\u00e4ldigt snart._\n\nMary var tr\u00f6tt: hon hade f\u00e5tt slut p\u00e5 ber\u00e4ttelser. Men f\u00f6rmodligen skulle hon komma p\u00e5 fler i morgon.\n\n## 34\n\n## Nu finns det ett\n\nVISA VART LEVANDE V\u00c4SEN V\u00c4RLDEN, D\u00c4R VART KORN AV STOFT SIN GL\u00c4DJE LEVER UT.\n\nWILLIAM BLAKE\n\nMARY KUNDE INTE somna. Varenda g\u00e5ng hon sl\u00f6t \u00f6gonen var det n\u00e5got som fick henne att gunga till och b\u00f6rja svaja som om hon stod p\u00e5 randen av ett stup, s\u00e5 hon for upp och var alldeles sp\u00e4nd av r\u00e4dsla.\n\nDet h\u00e4r h\u00e4nde tre, fyra, fem g\u00e5nger, \u00e4nda tills hon ins\u00e5g att s\u00f6mnen inte skulle infinna sig, s\u00e5 hon steg upp och kl\u00e4dde tyst p\u00e5 sig och gick ut ur huset, bort fr\u00e5n tr\u00e4det med de t\u00e4ltlika grenarna, under vilka Will och Lyra l\u00e5g och sov.\n\nM\u00e5nen lyste klart och stod h\u00f6gt p\u00e5 himlen. Det bl\u00e5ste livligt och det vidstr\u00e4ckta landskapet var fl\u00e4ckigt av molnskuggorna, som Mary tyckte r\u00f6rde sig likt en v\u00e4ldig hjord av ofattbara djur. Men djur r\u00f6r sig alltid av n\u00e5gon anledning; n\u00e4r man ser en renhjord p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u00f6ver tundran, eller en flock gnuer p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u00f6ver savannen, s\u00e5 vet man att de \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till n\u00e5gon plats d\u00e4r det finns mat eller till ett st\u00e4lle d\u00e4r det \u00e4r bra att para sig och f\u00f6da sin avkomma. Det \u00e4r meningsfull r\u00f6relse. De h\u00e4r molnen r\u00f6rde sig som en f\u00f6ljd av rena tillf\u00e4lligheter, som en effekt av fullst\u00e4ndigt slumpm\u00e4ssiga h\u00e4ndelser p\u00e5 atom- och molekylniv\u00e5, vilket innebar att skuggornas flykt \u00f6ver gr\u00e4sst\u00e4ppen inte hade n\u00e5gon som helst inneb\u00f6rd.\n\nHur som helst s\u00e5g det ut som om de hade det. De gav intryck av att vara sp\u00e4nda och tycktes ha n\u00e5got s\u00e4rskilt syfte. Hela natten tycktes ha ett s\u00e4rskilt syfte. Mary k\u00e4nde det ocks\u00e5, bortsett fr\u00e5n att hon inte f\u00f6rstod vilket syftet var. Till skillnad fr\u00e5n henne tycktes molnen veta vart de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g och varf\u00f6r, och vinden visste det, och gr\u00e4set visste det. Hela v\u00e4rlden var full av liv och medvetenhet.\n\nMary kl\u00e4ttrade upp f\u00f6r sluttningen och tittade ut \u00f6ver strand\u00e4ngarna, d\u00e4r det \u00e5terv\u00e4ndande tidvattnet lade ett silverm\u00f6nster \u00f6ver lerbankarnas och vassruggarnas gl\u00e4nsande sv\u00e4rta. D\u00e4r nere var molnskuggorna mycket tydliga: de s\u00e5g ut som om de var p\u00e5 flykt fr\u00e5n n\u00e5got som skr\u00e4mt dem, eller som om de skyndade sig inf\u00f6r ett m\u00f6te med n\u00e5got mycket underbart l\u00e4ngre fram, men vad detta kunde vara hade Mary inte den minsta aning om.\n\nHon v\u00e4nde sig mot dungen med hennes kl\u00e4ttertr\u00e4d. Det var tjugo minuters promenad dit bort och hon kunde se tr\u00e4det tydligt, d\u00e4r det tornade upp sig med sin v\u00e4ldiga krona i samtal med den br\u00e5dskande vinden. De hade saker att s\u00e4ga varandra, men vad det var kunde hon inte avg\u00f6ra.\n\nHon p\u00e5verkades av nattens upphetsning n\u00e4r hon skyndade mot tr\u00e4det, f\u00f6r hon l\u00e4ngtade desperat att f\u00e5 bli en del av den. Det var just det h\u00e4r hon hade svarat Will n\u00e4r han fr\u00e5gade om hon saknade Gud: k\u00e4nslan av att hela universum levde och att allt h\u00e4ngde ihop med allt annat genom tr\u00e5dar av betydelse. N\u00e4r hon var kristen hade hon ocks\u00e5 k\u00e4nt sig sammanl\u00e4nkad, men sedan hon l\u00e4mnat kyrkan hade hon k\u00e4nt sig l\u00f6s och fri och l\u00e4tt i ett universum utan syfte.\n\nSedan hade hon uppt\u00e4ckt Skuggorna och kommit till en annan v\u00e4rld och nu fick hon uppleva den h\u00e4r levande natten. Det var uppenbart att allt pulserade av syfte och mening, men att hon fortfarande var avskuren fr\u00e5n alltihop. Det var om\u00f6jligt att hitta n\u00e5gra samband, f\u00f6r det fanns ingen Gud.\n\nHalvt triumferande, halvt desperat best\u00e4mde hon sig f\u00f6r att kl\u00e4ttra upp i tr\u00e4det och \u00e5terigen f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00f6rlora sig i Stoftet.\n\nMen hon hade inte kommit mer \u00e4n halvv\u00e4gs till dungen innan hon h\u00f6rde ett annat ljud bland l\u00f6vens piskande och vindens vinande genom gr\u00e4set. N\u00e5gonting gav ifr\u00e5n sig ett st\u00f6nande. Det var ett djupt och allvarligt ljud, som fr\u00e5n en orgel. Ovanf\u00f6r detta h\u00f6rde hon ett knakande \u2013 krasande och krossande och tjuten och ylandet av tr\u00e4 mot tr\u00e4.\n\nInte kunde det v\u00e4l vara _hennes_ tr\u00e4d?\n\nHon stannade mitt p\u00e5 gr\u00e4ssl\u00e4tten, med vinden vinande i ansiktet, mitt bland de f\u00f6rbirusande molnskuggorna och det h\u00f6ga gr\u00e4set, som piskade mot hennes ben, och spanade mot dungens l\u00f6vkronor. Grenar st\u00f6nade, kvistar br\u00f6ts, v\u00e4ldiga bj\u00e4lkar av gr\u00f6nt tr\u00e4 kn\u00e4cktes som om de varit torra pinnar och f\u00f6ll hela v\u00e4gen ner till marken, och sedan rasade sj\u00e4lva kronan \u2013 kronan till det tr\u00e4d hon k\u00e4nde s\u00e5 v\u00e4l \u2013 den lutade sig mer och mer och b\u00f6rjade sedan att falla.\n\nVarenda fiber i stammen, barken, r\u00f6tterna, tycktes skrika ut var f\u00f6r sig i protest mot detta mord. Men tr\u00e4det f\u00f6ll och f\u00f6ll, hela dess oerh\u00f6rda l\u00e4ngd krossade sig ut ur dungen och tycktes luta sig mot Mary innan det brakade i marken som en v\u00e5g mot en v\u00e5gbrytare. Den kolossala stammen studsade till en g\u00e5ng innan den slutligen lade sig till r\u00e4tta med ett st\u00f6nande av s\u00f6nderslitet tr\u00e4.\n\nHon sprang fram f\u00f6r att kunna vidr\u00f6ra bladen som kastades hit och dit. D\u00e4r var hennes rep; d\u00e4r var de s\u00f6nderslagna resterna av plattformen. Hj\u00e4rtat bultade pl\u00e5gsamt n\u00e4r hon kl\u00e4ttrade omkring bland de fallna grenarna och h\u00e4vde sig upp i de v\u00e4lbekanta klykorna i deras nya och obekanta vinklar, och tog sig s\u00e5 h\u00f6gt upp hon kunde komma.\n\nHon tog st\u00f6d mot en gren och plockade fram kikaren. Genom den s\u00e5g hon tv\u00e5 helt olika r\u00f6relser i skyn.\n\nDen ena var molnen, som drev tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver m\u00e5nen \u00e5t ena h\u00e5llet, och den andra var str\u00f6mmen av Stoft, som s\u00e5g ut att korsa den \u00e5t ett helt annat h\u00e5ll.\n\nAv de b\u00e5da var det Stoftet som fl\u00f6t snabbare och i betydligt st\u00f6rre m\u00e4ngd. Faktum var att hela himlen s\u00e5g ut att genomstr\u00f6mmas av Stoft i en v\u00e4ldig ob\u00f6nh\u00f6rlig flod, som rann ut ur v\u00e4rlden, ut ur alla v\u00e4rldarna, p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till n\u00e5gon slutlig tomhet.\n\nL\u00e5ngsamt, som om allting r\u00f6rde sig p\u00e5 egen hand i hennes hj\u00e4rna, b\u00f6rjade allting att passa ihop.\n\nWill och Lyra hade sagt att den skarpa kniven var \u00e5tminstone trehundra \u00e5r gammal. Det var vad den gamle mannen i tornet hade ber\u00e4ttat.\n\nMuleforna hade ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r henne att sraf, som hade livn\u00e4rt dem och deras v\u00e4rld i trettiotretusen \u00e5r, hade b\u00f6rjat f\u00f6rsvinna f\u00f6r bara lite drygt trehundra \u00e5r sedan.\n\nEnligt Will hade Torre degli Angelis gille, \u00e4garna till den skarpa kniven, varit of\u00f6rsiktiga, f\u00f6r man hade inte alltid st\u00e4ngt alla de f\u00f6nster man hade \u00f6ppnat. Mary hade ju trots allt hittat ett av dem, s\u00e5 det m\u00e5ste finnas m\u00e5nga fler.\n\nAnta att Stoftet under hela den h\u00e4r tiden, lite i taget, hade l\u00e4ckt ut ur de s\u00e5r som den vassa eggen hade \u00e5stadkommit i naturen...\n\nHon k\u00e4nde sig yr och det berodde inte bara p\u00e5 att grenarna hon klamrade sig fast vid svajade och gungade. Hon stoppade f\u00f6rsiktigt ner kikaren i fickan och krokade armarna \u00f6ver grenen framf\u00f6r sig och betraktade himlen, m\u00e5nen och de framilande molnen.\n\nDen vassa kniven var ansvarig f\u00f6r det sm\u00e5skaliga l\u00e5gniv\u00e5l\u00e4ckaget. Det var skadligt och hela universum blev lidande p\u00e5 grund av det. Nu m\u00e5ste hon prata med Will och Lyra f\u00f6r att hitta ett s\u00e4tt att f\u00e5 stopp p\u00e5 det.\n\nMen den h\u00e4r enorma floden i skyn var n\u00e5got helt annat. Den var ny, den var katastrofal. Och om den inte stoppades skulle allt medvetet liv komma att upph\u00f6ra. Muleforna hade visat henne att Stoft uppstod n\u00e4r levande varelser blev medvetna om sig sj\u00e4lva, men det beh\u00f6vde n\u00e5gon sorts \u00e5terkoppling som f\u00f6rst\u00e4rkte det och gjorde det ofarligt, s\u00e5 som muleforna hade sina hjul och sin olja fr\u00e5n tr\u00e4den. Utan n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant skulle alltihop bara f\u00f6rsvinna. Tankar, fantasi, f\u00f6rnuft skulle vissna och bl\u00e5sa bort och inte l\u00e4mna n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n brutal automatik kvar och den korta tid d\u00e5 livet var medvetet om sig sj\u00e4lvt skulle sl\u00e4ckas likt utbl\u00e5sta ljus i alla de miljarder v\u00e4rldar d\u00e4r det hade brunnit med sin klara l\u00e5ga.\n\nMary k\u00e4nde b\u00f6rdan intensivt. Det k\u00e4ndes som \u00e5lder. Hon k\u00e4nde sig \u00e5ttio \u00e5r gammal, utsliten och tr\u00f6tt och med en l\u00e4ngtan efter att f\u00e5 d\u00f6.\n\nHon kl\u00e4ttrade tungt ner ur det fallna j\u00e4ttetr\u00e4dets grenverk och med vinden fortfarande bl\u00e5sande i l\u00f6vverket och gr\u00e4set och h\u00e5ret satte hon av mot byn.\n\nVid sluttningens kr\u00f6n tittade hon en sista g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 Stoftstr\u00f6mmen, med molnen och vinden som bl\u00e5ste tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver, och p\u00e5 m\u00e5nen, som stod st\u00e5ndaktigt i mitten.\n\nOch d\u00e5 s\u00e5g hon till slut vad de h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med: hon s\u00e5g vad de hade f\u00f6r br\u00e5dskande syfte.\n\nDe f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla tillbaka Stoftfloden. De k\u00e4mpade f\u00f6r att resa barri\u00e4rer mot den fruktansv\u00e4rda str\u00f6mmen: vinden, m\u00e5nen, molnen, bladen, gr\u00e4set, alla de ljuvliga tingen skrek h\u00f6gt och kastade sig in i kampen f\u00f6r att bevara Skuggpartiklarna i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, eftersom de berikade den s\u00e5 oerh\u00f6rt mycket.\n\nMaterian _\u00e4lskade_ Stoftet. Den ville inte att det skulle f\u00f6rsvinna. Det var den h\u00e4r nattens syfte, och det var \u00e4ven Marys syfte.\n\nHade hon trott att det inte fanns n\u00e5gon mening med livet, inget syfte, sedan Gud hade f\u00f6rsvunnit? Jo, det hade hon trott.\n\n\"N\u00e5, nu finns det ett\", sa hon h\u00f6gt, och sedan \u00e4nnu h\u00f6gre: \"Nu finns det ett!\"\n\nN\u00e4r hon \u00e5terigen tittade p\u00e5 molnen och m\u00e5nen i mitten av Stoftfl\u00f6det s\u00e5g de lika \u00f6mt\u00e5liga och desperata ut som en f\u00f6rd\u00e4mning av kvistar och sm\u00e5stenar skulle ha gjort mot den m\u00e4ktiga Mississippifloden. Men de f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte \u00e5tminstone. De skulle forts\u00e4tta att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka \u00e4nda tills allt var borta.\n\nMary visste inte hur l\u00e4nge hon hade stannat ute. N\u00e4r intensiteten i k\u00e4nslan b\u00f6rjade l\u00e4gga sig och utmattningen tog \u00f6ver dess plats letade hon sig l\u00e5ngsamt ner f\u00f6r kullen mot byn.\n\nN\u00e4r hon var halvv\u00e4gs nere och hade n\u00e5tt till en liten dunge av knuttr\u00e4buskar s\u00e5g hon n\u00e5got besynnerligt ute p\u00e5 lerbankarna. Det var n\u00e5got som lyste vitt, en j\u00e4mn r\u00f6relse, n\u00e5got som f\u00f6rdes in med tidvattnet.\n\nHon stod stilla och spanade intensivt. Det kunde inte vara tualapierna, f\u00f6r de r\u00f6rde sig alltid i flock, och den h\u00e4r var p\u00e5 egen hand, men allt omkring den var detsamma \u2013 de segelliknande vingarna, den l\u00e5nga halsen \u2013 det var otvivelaktigt en av f\u00e5glarna. Hon hade aldrig h\u00f6rt talas om att n\u00e5gon av dem var ute p\u00e5 egen hand, s\u00e5 hon tvekade innan hon sprang ner till byn f\u00f6r att varna inv\u00e5narna. Dessutom hade den stannat. Den l\u00e5g och fl\u00f6t i vattnet i n\u00e4rheten av stigen.\n\nOch nu h\u00f6ll den p\u00e5 att dela p\u00e5 sig... Nej, n\u00e5got kl\u00e4ttrade ner fr\u00e5n ryggen p\u00e5 den.\n\nDetta n\u00e5got var en man.\n\nHon kunde se honom mycket tydligt, till och med p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r avst\u00e5ndet. M\u00e5nskenet var klart och lysande och hennes \u00f6gon hade vant sig vid dunklet. Hon betraktade honom genom kikaren och konstaterade att det inte r\u00e5dde n\u00e5gra tvivel: det var en m\u00e4nsklig skepnad och den utstr\u00e5lade Stoft.\n\nHan bar p\u00e5 n\u00e5got: en l\u00e5ng k\u00e4pp av n\u00e5got slag. Han f\u00f6rflyttade sig snabbt och l\u00e4tt l\u00e4ngs stigen, men utan att springa. Han r\u00f6rde sig likt en idrottsman eller en j\u00e4gare. Han var kl\u00e4dd i enkla, m\u00f6rka kl\u00e4der, som i vanliga fall skulle d\u00f6lja honom r\u00e4tt v\u00e4l, men genom kikaren syntes han lika tydligt som om han f\u00f6ljdes av en str\u00e5lkastare.\n\nN\u00e4r han kom n\u00e4rmare byn f\u00f6rstod hon vad k\u00e4ppen var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got. Han bar p\u00e5 ett gev\u00e4r.\n\nDet k\u00e4ndes som om n\u00e5gon hade h\u00e4llt isvatten \u00f6ver hennes hj\u00e4rta. Vartenda enskilt h\u00e5rstr\u00e5 p\u00e5 kroppen reste sig.\n\nHon var f\u00f6r l\u00e5ngt borta f\u00f6r att kunna g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got: \u00e4ven om hon ropade skulle hon inte h\u00f6ras. Hon kunde inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n titta p\u00e5 medan han steg in i byn, s\u00e5g sig om \u00e5t h\u00f6ger och \u00e5t v\u00e4nster och stannade titt som t\u00e4tt f\u00f6r att lyssna medan han gick fr\u00e5n hus till hus.\n\nMarys hj\u00e4rna k\u00e4ndes som m\u00e5nen och molnen som f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla tillbaka Stoftet, n\u00e4r hon tyst f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv ropade: _Titta inte under tr\u00e4det \u2013 g\u00e5 bort fr\u00e5n tr\u00e4det..._\n\nMen han kom n\u00e4rmare och n\u00e4rmare tr\u00e4det och stannade till slut utanf\u00f6r hennes eget hus. Hon kunde n\u00e4tt och j\u00e4mnt st\u00e5 ut, utan stoppade tillbaka kikaren i fickan och b\u00f6rjade springa ner f\u00f6r sluttningen. Hon var p\u00e5 vippen att ropa h\u00f6gt, vad som helst, ett vilt rop, men i sista \u00f6gonblicket ins\u00e5g hon att hon antagligen skulle v\u00e4cka Will eller Lyra och f\u00e5 dem att avsl\u00f6ja sig, s\u00e5 ist\u00e4llet kv\u00e4vde hon ropet.\n\nSedan stannade hon, eftersom hon inte stod ut med att inte veta vad han gjorde, och fumlade efter kikaren igen. Hon m\u00e5ste st\u00e5 still f\u00f6r att kunna anv\u00e4nda den.\n\nHan \u00f6ppnade d\u00f6rren till hennes hus. Han gick in. Han f\u00f6rsvann ur sikte, men en virvel av Stoft l\u00e4mnades bakom honom, som r\u00f6k efter att en hand hade f\u00f6rts genom det. Mary v\u00e4ntade i en o\u00e4ndlig minut, och sedan d\u00f6k han upp igen.\n\nHan stod i d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen och s\u00e5g l\u00e5ngsamt fr\u00e5n v\u00e4nster till h\u00f6ger och svepte blicken f\u00f6rbi tr\u00e4det.\n\nSedan klev han ner fr\u00e5n tr\u00f6skeln och stod stilla, n\u00e4stan som handfallen. Mary blev pl\u00f6tsligt medveten om hur synlig hon var p\u00e5 den kala sluttningen, bara ett enkelt gev\u00e4rsskott bort, men han var bara intresserad av byn. N\u00e4r ytterligare n\u00e5gon minut eller tv\u00e5 hade g\u00e5tt, v\u00e4nde han och gick tyst sin v\u00e4g.\n\nHon bevakade vartenda steg han tog ner till flodstigen och s\u00e5g klart och tydligt hur han klev upp p\u00e5 f\u00e5gelns rygg och satte sig med korslagda ben n\u00e4r den b\u00f6rjade glida iv\u00e4g. Fem minuter senare hade de helt f\u00f6rsvunnit ur sikte.\n\n## 35\n\n## Bortom kullarna\n\nMIN H\u00d6GTIDSDAG HAR KOMMIT, MIN K\u00c4RLEK \u00c4R HOS MIG.\n\nCHRISTINA ROSSETTI\n\n\"DR MALONE\", SA Lyra tidigt p\u00e5 morgonen, \"Will och jag m\u00e5ste leta efter v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner. N\u00e4r vi har hittat dom kommer vi att veta vad vi ska g\u00f6ra. Men vi kan inte vara utan dom s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge till. S\u00e5 vi t\u00e4nkte bara g\u00e5 och leta.\"\n\n\"Vart ska ni g\u00e5?\" sa Mary, vars st\u00f6rda natts\u00f6mn gjorde henne tung i huvudet och \u00f6gonen. Hon och Lyra var nere vid flodstranden, Lyra f\u00f6r att tv\u00e4tta sig och Mary f\u00f6r att i hemlighet leta efter mannens fotavtryck. \u00c4n s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hade hon inte hittat n\u00e5gra.\n\n\"Vet inte\", sa Lyra. \"Men dom \u00e4r d\u00e4r ute n\u00e5nstans. S\u00e5 fort vi kom igenom hit efter striden, s\u00e5 sprang dom iv\u00e4g, som om dom inte litade p\u00e5 oss l\u00e4ngre. Med all r\u00e4tt, dessutom. Men vi vet att dom \u00e4r i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden och vi tyckte vi s\u00e5g dom ett par g\u00e5nger, s\u00e5 vi kanske kan hitta dom.\"\n\n\"H\u00f6r p\u00e5\", sa Mary motvilligt, och ber\u00e4ttade sedan f\u00f6r Lyra vad hon hade sett natten innan.\n\nMedan hon talade kom Will och gjorde dem s\u00e4llskap och b\u00e5de han och Lyra stod allvarliga och lyssnade stor\u00f6gt.\n\n\"Han \u00e4r nog bara ute p\u00e5 resa och s\u00e5 hittade han ett f\u00f6nster och gick igenom fr\u00e5n n\u00e5n annanstans\", sa Lyra n\u00e4r Mary hade pratat klart. Hon hade helt andra saker att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5, och den h\u00e4r mannen var inte alls lika intressant. \"Som Wills far gjorde\", fortsatte hon.\n\n\"Vid det h\u00e4r laget m\u00e5ste det finnas en massa \u00f6ppningar. Hur som helst kan han v\u00e4l inte ha varit ute efter att g\u00f6ra n\u00e5n illa om han bara v\u00e4nde och gick tillbaka?\"\n\n\"Jag vet inte. Jag tyckte inte om det. Och jag \u00e4r orolig \u00f6ver att ni ger er iv\u00e4g ensamma \u2013 eller snarare, jag skulle vara orolig om jag inte visste att ni redan hade gjort betydligt farligare saker. \u00c5h, jag vet inte. Men sn\u00e4lla, var f\u00f6rsiktiga. Var sn\u00e4lla och h\u00e5ll uppsikt. Ute p\u00e5 pr\u00e4rien kan ni ju i god tid se om det \u00e4r n\u00e5gon p\u00e5 v\u00e4g...\"\n\n\"Om vi g\u00f6r det, s\u00e5 kan vi fly till n\u00e5n annan v\u00e4rld, s\u00e5 att han inte kan g\u00f6ra oss illa\", sa Will.\n\nDe hade best\u00e4mt sig, men Mary gav med sig ytterst motvilligt.\n\n\"Lova \u00e5tminstone\", sa hon, \"att ni inte ger er in bland tr\u00e4den. Om den d\u00e4r mannen fortfarande finns kvar kanske han g\u00f6mmer sig i n\u00e5gon skog eller n\u00e5gon dunge och d\u00e5 ser ni honom inte i tid f\u00f6r att hinna fly.\"\n\n\"Vi lovar\", sa Lyra.\n\n\"D\u00e5 ska jag packa lite mat \u00e5t er ifall ni t\u00e4nker vara ute hela dagen.\"\n\nMary tog n\u00e5gra platta br\u00f6d och lite ost och n\u00e5gra s\u00f6ta t\u00f6rstsl\u00e4ckande r\u00f6da frukter, slog in dem i en tygbit och kn\u00f6t ett sn\u00f6re runt om, s\u00e5 att en av dem skulle kunna b\u00e4ra byltet \u00f6ver axeln.\n\n\"God jakt\", sa hon d\u00e5 de gav sig iv\u00e4g. \"Sk\u00f6t om er.\"\n\nHon var fortfarande orolig. Hon stod kvar och tittade efter dem hela v\u00e4gen till foten av sluttningen.\n\n\"Jag undrar varf\u00f6r hon \u00e4r s\u00e5 sorgsen\", sa Will medan han och Lyra gick ut p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen upp mot bron.\n\n\"Hon undrar s\u00e4kert om hon n\u00e5nsin ska komma hem igen\", sa Lyra. \"Och om hennes laboratorium fortfarande kommer att vara hennes n\u00e4r hon v\u00e4l g\u00f6r det. Och hon kanske s\u00f6rjer mannen hon var k\u00e4r i.\"\n\n\"Mmm\", sa Will. \"Tror du _vi_ n\u00e5nsin kommer hem igen?\"\n\n\"Vet inte. Jag tror inte att jag har n\u00e5t hem egentligen. Dom kan nog inte ta tillbaka mig p\u00e5 Jordan College, och jag kan inte bo med bj\u00f6rnarna eller h\u00e4xorna. Jag kan kanske leva med gyptierna. Det skulle jag inte ha n\u00e5t emot, om dom vill ha mig.\"\n\n\"Lord Asriels v\u00e4rld, d\u00e5? Skulle du inte vilja bo d\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Den kommer ju att misslyckas, minns du v\u00e4l\", sa hon.\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r det?\"\n\n\"P\u00e5 grund av det din pappas ande sa precis innan vi gick ut. Om d\u00e6monerna och om att dom bara kan leva l\u00e4nge om dom stannar i sin egen v\u00e4rld. Men lord Asriel, min far menar jag, har nog inte t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 det, f\u00f6r ingen visste tillr\u00e4ckligt mycket om dom andra v\u00e4rldarna n\u00e4r han b\u00f6rjade... All detta\", sa hon f\u00f6rundrat, \"allt detta mod och all denna skicklighet... Allt detta, helt bortsl\u00f6sat! Allt i on\u00f6dan!\"\n\nDe kl\u00e4ttrade vidare och uppt\u00e4ckte att det var l\u00e4tt att g\u00e5 p\u00e5 stenv\u00e4gen. N\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde \u00e5sryggens kr\u00f6n stannade de och tittade tillbaka.\n\n\"Will\", sa hon, \"t\u00e4nk om vi _inte_ hittar dom?\"\n\n\"Det kommer vi att g\u00f6ra. Det jag undrar \u00f6ver \u00e4r hur min d\u00e6mon kommer att vara.\"\n\n\"Du s\u00e5g henne. Och jag lyfte upp henne\", sa Lyra och rodnade, f\u00f6r det var f\u00f6rst\u00e5s ett oerh\u00f6rt brott mot etiketten att r\u00f6ra vid n\u00e5got s\u00e5 privat som en annan m\u00e4nniskas d\u00e6mon. Det var f\u00f6rbjudet, inte bara av artighet, utan av n\u00e5got djupare \u2013 n\u00e5gonting som liknade skam. En snabb blick p\u00e5 Wills varma kinder avsl\u00f6jade att han f\u00f6rstod det lika v\u00e4l som hon. Hon kunde inte avg\u00f6ra om han ocks\u00e5 k\u00e4nde samma halvt r\u00e4dda, halvt upphetsade k\u00e4nsla som hon, den som hade kommit \u00f6ver henne natten innan: nu var den d\u00e4r igen.\n\nDe gick vidare sida vid sida, pl\u00f6tsligt blyga. Men Will, som inte l\u00e4t sig hindras av blyghet, sa: \"N\u00e4r slutar ens d\u00e6mon att byta skepnad?\"\n\n\"Runt... Jag antar att det \u00e4r runt v\u00e5r \u00e5lder, eller lite \u00e4ldre. Ibland mer. Vi brukade tala om att Pan skulle best\u00e4mma sig, han och jag. Vi brukade fundera p\u00e5 vad han skulle bli...\"\n\n\"Har folk ingen aning?\"\n\n\"Inte n\u00e4r dom \u00e4r unga. N\u00e4r man v\u00e4xer b\u00f6rjar man t\u00e4nka, att d\u00e6monen kanske kommer att bli det ena eller det andra... Och oftast blir dom n\u00e5got som passar v\u00e4ldigt bra. Jag menar n\u00e5t som \u00e4r som ens riktiga natur. Som ifall din d\u00e6mon \u00e4r en hund, s\u00e5 betyder det att du gillar att g\u00f6ra vad du blir tillsagd, och att veta vem som best\u00e4mmer, och att f\u00f6lja order, och att g\u00f6ra dom som best\u00e4mmer n\u00f6jda. En massa tj\u00e4nare \u00e4r folk vars d\u00e6moner \u00e4r hundar. S\u00e5 det hj\u00e4lper till f\u00f6r att man ska f\u00e5 veta hur man sj\u00e4lv \u00e4r f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5 vad man \u00e4r bra p\u00e5. Hur vet folk i din v\u00e4rld hurdana dom \u00e4r?\"\n\n\"Det vet jag inte. Jag vet inte s\u00e5 mycket om min v\u00e4rld. Det enda jag kan \u00e4r att h\u00e5lla mig hemlig och tyst och g\u00f6md, s\u00e5 jag vet inte s\u00e5 mycket om... vuxna, och v\u00e4nner. Eller \u00e4lskande. Jag tror att det skulle vara sv\u00e5rt att ha en d\u00e6mon, f\u00f6r alla skulle veta s\u00e5 mycket om en bara genom att titta p\u00e5 en. Jag tycker om att h\u00e5lla mig hemlig och utom synh\u00e5ll.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 kanske din d\u00e6mon skulle bli ett djur som \u00e4r bra p\u00e5 att g\u00f6mma sig. Eller ett av dom d\u00e4r djuren som ser ut som ett annat \u2013 en fj\u00e4ril som ser ut som en geting, som f\u00f6rkl\u00e4dnad. Det m\u00e5ste finnas s\u00e5na djur i din v\u00e4rld, f\u00f6r vi har s\u00e5na, och v\u00e5ra v\u00e4rldar \u00e4r ju r\u00e4tt lika.\"\n\nDe gick vidare tillsammans under v\u00e4nskaplig tystnad. Runt omkring dem l\u00e5g den vida klara morgonen kristallklar i dalarna och p\u00e4rlbl\u00e5 i den varma luften ovanf\u00f6r dem. Den stora savannen str\u00e4ckte sig s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt \u00f6gat kunde se, brun, gyllene, gyllengr\u00f6n, skimrande mot horisonten, och alldeles tom. De kunde lika g\u00e4rna ha varit helt ensamma i v\u00e4rlden.\n\n\"Men den \u00e4r egentligen inte tom\", sa Lyra.\n\n\"T\u00e4nker du p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r mannen?\"\n\n\"Nej. Du vet vad jag menar.\"\n\n\"Ja, det g\u00f6r jag. Jag kan se skuggor i gr\u00e4set... kanske f\u00e5glar\", sa Will.\n\nHans blick f\u00f6ljde de sm\u00e5 pilande r\u00f6relserna hit och dit. Det var l\u00e4ttare att f\u00e5 syn p\u00e5 skuggorna om han inte tittade p\u00e5 dem. De visade sig hellre f\u00f6r hans \u00f6gonvr\u00e5r, och n\u00e4r han sa det till Lyra sa hon: \"Det \u00e4r negativ kapacitet.\"\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r n\u00e5t?\"\n\n\"Poeten Keats sa det f\u00f6rst. Dr Malone vet mer om den saken. Det \u00e4r s\u00e5 jag l\u00e4ser alethiometern. Du anv\u00e4nder kniven p\u00e5 det viset, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Jo, jag antar det. Men jag t\u00e4nkte att det kanske kunde vara d\u00e6monerna.\"\n\n\"Det t\u00e4nkte jag ocks\u00e5, men...\"\n\nHon satte fingret mot l\u00e4pparna. Han nickade.\n\n\"Titta\", sa han, \"d\u00e4r \u00e4r ett av dom d\u00e4r fallna tr\u00e4den.\"\n\nDet var Marys kl\u00e4ttertr\u00e4d. De gick f\u00f6rsiktigt fram till det, med ett \u00f6ga p\u00e5 dungen ifall ett till skulle falla. Den h\u00e4r lugna morgonen, med bara en svag bris som prasslade i l\u00f6ven, verkade det om\u00f6jligt att n\u00e5got s\u00e5 m\u00e4ktigt n\u00e5gonsin skulle kunna falla, men d\u00e4r l\u00e5g det.\n\nInne i dungen h\u00f6lls den enorma tr\u00e4dstammen uppe i luften av de uppdragna r\u00f6tterna och ute p\u00e5 gr\u00e4set av massan av grenar, s\u00e5 att stammen h\u00e4ngde h\u00f6gt ovanf\u00f6r deras huvuden. Vissa av grenarna, krossade och avbrutna, var lika tjocka som de st\u00f6rsta tr\u00e4d Will n\u00e5gonsin hade sett. Tr\u00e4dkronan, fullpackad av grenar som fortfarande s\u00e5g starka och stadiga ut av l\u00f6v som fortfarande var gr\u00f6na, tornade upp sig som en slottsruin i den milda luften.\n\nPl\u00f6tsligt grep Lyra tag i Wills arm.\n\n\"Sch\", viskade hon. \"Titta inte. Jag \u00e4r s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att dom \u00e4r d\u00e4r uppe. Jag s\u00e5g n\u00e5t som r\u00f6rde sig, och jag kan _sv\u00e4ra_ p\u00e5 att det var Pan...\"\n\nHennes hand var varm. Han var mer medveten om den saken \u00e4n om den stora massan av l\u00f6v och grenar ovanf\u00f6r dem. Medan han l\u00e5tsades att han tomt stirrade ut \u00f6ver horisonten l\u00e4t han sin uppm\u00e4rksamhet vandra upp\u00e5t och in i den f\u00f6rvirrade massan av gr\u00f6nt, brunt och bl\u00e5tt, och d\u00e4r \u2013 hon hade r\u00e4tt! \u2013 d\u00e4r fanns n\u00e5got som _inte_ var tr\u00e4d. Och bredvid det, ett till.\n\n\"Vi g\u00e5r iv\u00e4g\", sa Will tyst. \"Vi g\u00e5r n\u00e5n annanstans och ser om dom f\u00f6ljer efter oss.\"\n\n\"Men t\u00e4nk om dom inte... Men okej d\u00e5\", viskade Lyra tillbaka.\n\nDe l\u00e5tsades att de s\u00e5g sig om, och sedan satte de h\u00e4nderna mot en av grenarna som l\u00e5g mot marken, som om de t\u00e4nkte kl\u00e4ttra upp, men l\u00e5tsades \u00e4ndra sig genom att skaka p\u00e5 huvudet, och gav sig sedan iv\u00e4g.\n\n\"Jag \u00f6nskar att vi kunde titta bakom oss\", sa Lyra n\u00e4r de hade g\u00e5tt n\u00e5gra hundra meter.\n\n\"Forts\u00e4tt att g\u00e5 bara. Dom kan se oss, och dom kommer inte att g\u00e5 vilse. Dom s\u00f6ker upp oss n\u00e4r dom sj\u00e4lva vill det.\"\n\nDe gick bort fr\u00e5n den svarta v\u00e4gen och ut i det kn\u00e4h\u00f6ga gr\u00e4set. Deras ben svepte mot stj\u00e4lkarna och de tittade p\u00e5 insekterna som kretsade, pilade, fladdrade och gled fram, och h\u00f6rde den miljonr\u00f6stade k\u00f6ren kvittra och gn\u00e4lla.\n\n\"Vad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra, Will?\" sa Lyra l\u00e5gt n\u00e4r de hade g\u00e5tt en stund i tystnad.\n\n\"Tja, jag m\u00e5ste ta mig hem\", sa han.\n\nMen han l\u00e4t lite os\u00e4ker, tyckte hon. Hon hoppades att han l\u00e4t lite os\u00e4ker.\n\n\"Men dom kanske fortfarande \u00e4r ute efter dig\", sa hon. \"Dom d\u00e4r m\u00e4nnen.\"\n\n\"Vi har st\u00f6tt p\u00e5 v\u00e4rre saker \u00e4n dom.\"\n\n\"Jo, jag antar det... Men jag skulle vilja visa dig Jordan College, och the Fens. Jag skulle vilja att vi...\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa han, \"och jag skulle vilja... Det skulle till och med vara kul att komma tillbaka till Citt\u00e0gazze. Det var vackert d\u00e4r, och om alla Geng\u00e5ngarna \u00e4r borta... Men det handlar om min mamma. Jag m\u00e5ste resa tillbaka och ta hand om henne. Jag bara l\u00e4mnade henne hos mrs Cooper, och det \u00e4r inte r\u00e4ttvist mot n\u00e5n av dom.\"\n\n\"Men det \u00e4r inte r\u00e4ttvist att du ska beh\u00f6va g\u00f6ra det.\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa han, \"men det \u00e4r en annan sorts or\u00e4ttvisa. Det \u00e4r precis som vid en jordb\u00e4vning eller en storm. Det \u00e4r kanske inte r\u00e4ttvist, men ingen b\u00e4r skulden. Men om jag bara l\u00e4mnar min mamma med en gammal tant som inte m\u00e5r s\u00e4rskilt bra sj\u00e4lv, s\u00e5 \u00e4r det or\u00e4ttvist p\u00e5 ett helt annat s\u00e4tt. Det vore fel. Jag m\u00e5ste helt enkelt \u00e5ka hem. Men det kommer nog att bli sv\u00e5rt att bara forts\u00e4tta som f\u00f6rut. Det \u00e4r nog ingen hemlighet l\u00e4ngre. Jag tror inte mrs Cooper har kunnat ta hand om henne, inte om min mamma blir som hon blir n\u00e4r hon \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r allting. S\u00e5 hon m\u00e5ste antagligen h\u00e4mta hj\u00e4lp, och n\u00e4r jag kommer tillbaka kommer man att skicka iv\u00e4g mig till n\u00e5t slags institution.\"\n\n\"Nej! Som ett barnhem d\u00e5?\"\n\n\"Jag tror det \u00e4r s\u00e5 det fungerar. Jag vet inte. Jag kommer att avsky det.\"\n\n\"Du skulle kunna anv\u00e4nda kniven f\u00f6r att fly, Will! Du skulle kunna ta dig till min v\u00e4rld.\"\n\n\"Jag h\u00f6r fortfarande hemma d\u00e4r, d\u00e4r jag kan vara hos henne. N\u00e4r jag \u00e4r vuxen kommer jag att kunna ta hand om henne ordentligt, i mitt eget hus. D\u00e5 kan ingen l\u00e4gga sig i.\"\n\n\"Tror du att du kommer att gifta dig?\"\n\nHan var tyst en l\u00e5ng stund, men hon visste att han funderade \u00f6ver saken.\n\n\"Jag kan inte se s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt fram\u00e5t\", sa han till slut. \"Det m\u00e5ste vara med n\u00e5n som k\u00e4nner till... Jag tror inte det finns n\u00e5n s\u00e5n i min v\u00e4rld. Kommer _du_ att gifta dig?\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r samma sak med mig\", sa hon med inte helt stadig r\u00f6st. \"Inte med n\u00e5n i min v\u00e4rld, det tror jag inte.\"\n\nDe gick l\u00e5ngsamt vidare mot horisonten. De hade all tid i v\u00e4rlden: all den tid v\u00e4rlden hade.\n\nEfter ett tag sa Lyra: \"Du _kommer_ v\u00e4l att beh\u00e5lla kniven? S\u00e5 att du kan komma \u00f6ver till min v\u00e4rld?\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 klart. Jag skulle aldrig i livet ge den till n\u00e5n annan, n\u00e5nsin.\"\n\n\"Titta inte...\", sa hon, utan att sakta farten. \"D\u00e4r \u00e4r dom igen. Till v\u00e4nster.\"\n\n\"Dom f\u00f6ljer efter oss\", sa Will f\u00f6rtjust.\n\n\"Sch!\"\n\n\"Jag trodde dom skulle g\u00f6ra det. Okej, nu l\u00e5tsas vi, vi forts\u00e4tter bara fram\u00e5t, som om vi letade efter dom, och vi letar p\u00e5 alla m\u00f6jliga dumma st\u00e4llen.\"\n\nDet blev en lek. De hittade en damm och letade bland vassen och i leran, och sa h\u00f6gt att d\u00e6monerna m\u00e5ste se ut som grodor eller vattenskalbaggar eller sniglar; de drog barken av en gammal fallen tr\u00e4dstam vid randen av en skogsdunge, f\u00f6r de l\u00e5tsades att de hade sett hur de b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna kr\u00f6p in under den som tvestj\u00e4rtar; Lyra gjorde stort v\u00e4sen \u00f6ver en myra hon sa sig ha klivit p\u00e5, \u00f6mkade dess skador och sa att den s\u00e5g precis ut som Pan, och fr\u00e5gade i l\u00e5tsad sorg varf\u00f6r den v\u00e4grade prata med henne.\n\nMen n\u00e4r hon trodde att de faktiskt var utom h\u00f6rh\u00e5ll lutade hon sig n\u00e4ra Will och sa l\u00e5gt och allvarligt:\n\n\"Vi var v\u00e4l _tvungna_ att l\u00e4mna dem, eller hur? Vi hade v\u00e4l inget annat val?\"\n\n\"Ja, vi var tvungna. Det var v\u00e4rre f\u00f6r dig \u00e4n f\u00f6r mig, men vi hade inget val. F\u00f6r du hade lovat Roger, och du m\u00e5ste h\u00e5lla ditt l\u00f6fte.\"\n\n\"Och du m\u00e5ste prata med din far igen...\"\n\n\"Och vi var tvungna att sl\u00e4ppa ut allihop...\"\n\n\"Ja, det var vi. Jag \u00e4r s\u00e5 glad att vi gjorde det. Pan kommer ocks\u00e5 att vara glad \u00f6ver det en dag, n\u00e4r _jag_ d\u00f6r. Vi kommer inte att skiljas \u00e5t. Det var en _bra_ sak vi gjorde!\"\n\nD\u00e5 solen steg h\u00f6gre p\u00e5 himlen och luften blev varmare b\u00f6rjade de leta efter skugga. Fram\u00e5t middagstid var de p\u00e5 en sluttning p\u00e5 v\u00e4g upp mot kr\u00f6net av en \u00e5s, och n\u00e4r de n\u00e5dde toppen sl\u00e4ngde Lyra sig ner p\u00e5 gr\u00e4set och sa: \"Om vi inte hittar n\u00e5n skugga snart...\"\n\nDet fanns en dalg\u00e5ng p\u00e5 andra sidan, och den var full av buskar, s\u00e5 de gissade att det kanske fanns ett vattendrag d\u00e4r. De gick ner f\u00f6r \u00e5sryggen och kom fram till dalens \u00f6ppning, och d\u00e4r fanns mycket riktigt, bland ormbunkar och s\u00e4v, en k\u00e4lla som sprang fram ur klippan.\n\nDe doppade sina varma ansikten i vattnet och svalde tacksamt, och sedan f\u00f6ljde de b\u00e4cken ned\u00e5t och s\u00e5g hur vattnet samlades i minimala str\u00f6mvirvlar och rann \u00f6ver sm\u00e5 klipphyllor, och hur str\u00f6mmen hela tiden blev bredare och djupare.\n\n\"Hur g\u00e5r det till?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra f\u00f6rundrat. \"Det kommer inget mer vatten n\u00e5n annanstans ifr\u00e5n, men det \u00e4r s\u00e5 mycket mer h\u00e4r \u00e4n d\u00e4r uppe.\"\n\nWill s\u00e5g i \u00f6gonvr\u00e5n hur skuggorna smet i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g, hoppade \u00f6ver ormbunkarna och f\u00f6rsvann bland buskarna l\u00e4ngre ner. Han pekade tyst.\n\n\"Den rinner bara l\u00e5ngsammare\", sa han. \"Vattnet str\u00f6mmar inte lika snabbt som n\u00e4r det rinner upp ur k\u00e4llan, s\u00e5 det samlas i sm\u00e5 dammar... Dom gick in d\u00e4r\", viskade han och pekade mot en liten tr\u00e4ddunge vid foten av sluttningen.\n\nLyras hj\u00e4rta slog s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt att hon kunde k\u00e4nna pulsen i halsgropen. Hon och Will tittade p\u00e5 varandra, med en underligt formell och allvarlig blick, innan de gav sig iv\u00e4g l\u00e4ngs det lilla vattendraget. Undervegetationen blev allt t\u00e4tare ju l\u00e4ngre ner i dalen de kom. B\u00e4cken slingrade sig in i gr\u00f6na tunnlar och kom ut i solfl\u00e4ckiga gl\u00e4ntor bara f\u00f6r att st\u00f6rta \u00f6ver n\u00e5gon klippbrant och f\u00f6rsvinna ner i det gr\u00f6na igen, s\u00e5 de m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja den lika mycket med h\u00f6rseln som med synen.\n\nVid foten av kullen rann den in i en liten dunge av silverbarkstr\u00e4d.\n\nFader Gomez betraktade det hela fr\u00e5n \u00e5skr\u00f6net. Det hade inte varit sv\u00e5rt att f\u00f6lja efter dem. Tv\u00e4rtemot Marys f\u00f6rtr\u00f6stan p\u00e5 den \u00f6ppna savannen fanns det gott om m\u00f6jligheter att g\u00f6mma sig i gr\u00e4set och i dungarna av reptr\u00e4d och savlacksbuskar. Tidigare hade de b\u00e5da ungdomarna tittat sig omkring en massa, som om de trodde att de var f\u00f6rf\u00f6ljda, och han hade varit tvungen att h\u00e5lla ett visst avst\u00e5nd, men allteftersom morgonen fortl\u00f6pte hade de blivit mer och mer upptagna av varandra, och hade \u00e4gnat allt mindre uppm\u00e4rksamhet \u00e5t naturen runt omkring.\n\nHan ville absolut inte skada pojken. Han var livr\u00e4dd f\u00f6r att skada en oskyldig. Det enda s\u00e4ttet att f\u00f6rs\u00e4kra sig om att tr\u00e4ffa r\u00e4tt m\u00e5l var att komma s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra att han s\u00e5g henne tydligt, och det betydde att han m\u00e5ste f\u00f6lja efter dem in i skogen.\n\nTyst och f\u00f6rsiktigt f\u00f6ljde han str\u00f6mmen ned\u00e5t. Hans d\u00e6mon, den gr\u00f6nryggade skalbaggen, fl\u00f6g framf\u00f6r honom och smakade p\u00e5 luften. Hon s\u00e5g s\u00e4mre \u00e4n han, men hennes luktsinne var v\u00e4l utvecklat och hon kunde mycket tydligt k\u00e4nna lukten av ungdomarnas k\u00f6tt. Hon fl\u00f6g lite i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g, och slog sig sedan ner p\u00e5 en gr\u00e4sstj\u00e4lk och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 honom, f\u00f6r att sedan forts\u00e4tta. Medan hon f\u00f6ljde luktsp\u00e5ret som deras kroppar l\u00e4mnade, b\u00f6rjade fader Gomez tacka Gud f\u00f6r sitt uppdrag, f\u00f6r det var uppenbart att pojken och flickan var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att beg\u00e5 en d\u00f6dssynd.\n\nOch d\u00e4r var den: den m\u00f6rkblonda r\u00f6relse som var flickans h\u00e5r. Han r\u00f6rde sig lite n\u00e4rmare och plockade fram gev\u00e4ret. Det hade teleskopsikte, visserligen med l\u00e5g styrka, men det var ett s\u00e5dant uts\u00f6kt arbete, att det k\u00e4ndes som om man s\u00e5g klarare, och inte bara st\u00f6rre, n\u00e4r man tittade genom siktet. Ja, d\u00e4r var hon, och hon stannade till och tittade bak\u00e5t s\u00e5 att han s\u00e5g hennes ansikte. Han kunde bara inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 hur n\u00e5gon som var s\u00e5 uppfylld av ondska kunde lysa s\u00e5 starkt av hopp och gl\u00e4dje.\n\nHans f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning inf\u00f6r detta fick honom att tveka, och sedan var \u00f6gonblicket borta och de b\u00e5da barnen hade g\u00e5tt in bland tr\u00e4den och var utom synh\u00e5ll. N\u00e5ja, de skulle inte komma l\u00e5ngt. Han f\u00f6ljde efter dem l\u00e4ngs b\u00e4cken, hukande med gev\u00e4ret i den ena handen och den andra utstr\u00e4ckt f\u00f6r att kunna h\u00e5lla balansen.\n\nNu var han s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra att lyckas att han f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen b\u00f6rjade fundera p\u00e5 vad han skulle g\u00f6ra efter\u00e5t, och om han skulle gl\u00e4dja det himmelska kungad\u00f6met mest genom att resa tillbaka till Gen\u00e8ve eller genom att stanna och missionera i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden. Det f\u00f6rsta som m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras h\u00e4r vore att \u00f6vertyga de fyrbenta varelserna, som verkade ha n\u00e5got slags enkelt f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd, att deras vana att \u00e5ka p\u00e5 hjul var dj\u00e4vulsk och vederstygglig, och mot Guds vilja. Slutade de bara med detta s\u00e5 var fr\u00e4lsningen n\u00e4ra.\n\nHan n\u00e5dde fram till sluttningens fot, d\u00e4r tr\u00e4den b\u00f6rjade, och lade tyst ner gev\u00e4ret.\n\nHan kikade in i de silver-gr\u00f6n-guldf\u00e4rgade skuggorna och lyssnade med b\u00e5da h\u00e4nderna bakom \u00f6ronen efter l\u00e5ga r\u00f6ster genom insektskvittret och b\u00e4ckens plaskande. Ja \u2013 d\u00e4r var de. De hade stannat.\n\nHan b\u00f6jde sig ner f\u00f6r att plocka upp gev\u00e4ret...\n\nOch fann sig utst\u00f6ta en str\u00e4v och andl\u00f6s fl\u00e4mtning, d\u00e5 n\u00e5got tog tag i hans d\u00e6mon och drog henne bort fr\u00e5n honom.\n\nMen det fanns ju ingen d\u00e4r! Var var hon? Sm\u00e4rtan var ohygglig. Han h\u00f6rde henne klaga och kastade sig vildsint \u00e5t h\u00f6ger och \u00e5t v\u00e4nster f\u00f6r att kunna hitta henne.\n\n\"St\u00e5 still\", sa en r\u00f6st ur luften, \"och var tyst. Jag har din d\u00e6mon i handen.\"\n\n\"Men \u2013 var \u00e4r du? Vem \u00e4r du?\"\n\n\"Mitt namn \u00e4r Balthamos\", sa r\u00f6sten.\n\nWill och Lyra f\u00f6ljde tyst och f\u00f6rsiktigt b\u00e4cken \u00e4nda in i dungens mitt. D\u00e4r fanns en liten gl\u00e4nta med mjukt gr\u00e4s och mosskl\u00e4dda stenar p\u00e5 marken. Grenarna fl\u00e4tades samman \u00f6ver deras huvuden. De t\u00e4ckte n\u00e4stan himlen och sl\u00e4ppte bara igenom glittrande solpaljetter, s\u00e5 att allting fl\u00e4ckades av guld och silver.\n\nOch det var tyst. Det enda som br\u00f6t tystnaden var b\u00e4ckens porlande, och l\u00f6vens prasslande d\u00e5 n\u00e5gon liten vindil ruskade om dem h\u00f6gt d\u00e4r uppe.\n\nWill lade ifr\u00e5n sig matpaketet och Lyra st\u00e4llde ner sin ryggs\u00e4ck. D\u00e6monskuggorna syntes ingenstans till. De var helt ensamma.\n\nDe tog av sig strumpor och skor och satte sig p\u00e5 de mossiga stenarna vid b\u00e4cken och doppade f\u00f6tterna och k\u00e4nde hur det kalla vattnet livade upp deras blod.\n\n\"Jag \u00e4r hungrig\", sa Will.\n\n\"Jag ocks\u00e5\", sa Lyra, trots att hon k\u00e4nde n\u00e5got mer \u00e4n hunger, det var n\u00e5got underkuvat och tr\u00e4ngande och till h\u00e4lften glatt och till h\u00e4lften sm\u00e4rtsamt, s\u00e5 att hon inte var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 vad det var hon k\u00e4nde.\n\nDe vecklade upp tyget och \u00e5t lite br\u00f6d och ost. Av n\u00e5gon anledning var deras h\u00e4nder l\u00e5ngsamma och klumpiga, och de k\u00e4nde knappt smaken av maten, trots att br\u00f6det var mj\u00f6ligt och knaprigt fr\u00e5n de heta bakstenarna och osten var salt och mycket frisk.\n\nSedan tog Lyra en av de sm\u00e5 r\u00f6da frukterna. Med klappande hj\u00e4rta v\u00e4nde hon sig mot honom och sa: \"Will...\"\n\nOch hon lyfte f\u00f6rsiktigt frukten mot hans mun.\n\nHon kunde se p\u00e5 hans \u00f6gon att han omedelbart f\u00f6rstod vad hon menade, och att han var s\u00e5 glad att han inte kunde s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got. Hennes fingrar stannade vid hans l\u00e4ppar och han kunde k\u00e4nna hur de darrade, s\u00e5 han lade sin egen hand p\u00e5 hennes f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla kvar den, och sedan kunde ingen av dem titta l\u00e4ngre; de var f\u00f6rvirrade; de fl\u00f6dade \u00f6ver av lycka.\n\nDeras l\u00e4ppar m\u00f6ttes som tv\u00e5 nattfj\u00e4rilar som klumpigt st\u00f6ter ihop, utan mer kraft \u00e4n s\u00e5. Innan de f\u00f6rstod vad som hade h\u00e4nt hade de tryckt sig tillsammans, och pressade blint ansiktena mot varandra.\n\n\"Som Mary sa...\", viskade han, \"... s\u00e5 vet man direkt om man tycker om n\u00e5n \u2013 n\u00e4r du sov uppe p\u00e5 berget, innan hon f\u00f6rde bort dig, s\u00e5 sa jag till Pan...\"\n\n\"Jag h\u00f6rde dig\", viskade hon. \"Jag var vaken och jag ville s\u00e4ga samma sak till dig och nu vet jag vad det \u00e4r jag har k\u00e4nt hela tiden: jag \u00e4lskar dig, Will, jag \u00e4lskar dig...\"\n\nOrdet _\u00e4lskar_ fick varenda nerv i kroppen att explodera. Hela hans kropp sk\u00e4lvde av det. Han svarade med samma ord och kysste hennes varma ansikte g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng, och ins\u00f6p dyrkande lukten av hennes kropp och hennes varma honungsdoftande h\u00e5r och hennes s\u00f6ta fuktiga mun som smakade av den r\u00f6da frukten.\n\nRunt omkring dem fanns ingenting utom tystnad, som om hela v\u00e4rlden h\u00f6ll andan.\n\nBalthamos var skr\u00e4ckslagen.\n\nHan r\u00f6rde sig upp\u00e5t l\u00e4ngs b\u00e4cken och bort fr\u00e5n skogen, medan han h\u00f6ll fast den rivande, stickande och bitande insektsd\u00e6monen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte d\u00f6lja sig s\u00e5 mycket som m\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r mannen som snubblande f\u00f6ljde efter honom.\n\nHan fick inte l\u00e5ta honom komma ifatt. Han visste att fader Gomez skulle kunna d\u00f6da honom p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick. En \u00e4ngel av hans rang var inget problem f\u00f6r en m\u00e4nniska, \u00e4ven om \u00e4ngeln hade varit frisk och stark, och Balthamos var ingendera. Dessutom var han nedbruten av sorgen efter Baruch och av skammen \u00f6ver att han hade \u00f6vergett Will tidigare. Han hade inte ens styrka att flyga l\u00e4ngre.\n\n\"Stanna, stanna\", sa fader Gomez. \"Var sn\u00e4ll och st\u00e5 still. Jag kan inte se dig \u2013 sn\u00e4lla, stanna och prata \u2013 skada inte min d\u00e6mon, sn\u00e4lla...\"\n\nFaktum var att det var d\u00e6monen som skadade Balthamos. \u00c4ngeln kunde vagt urskilja den lilla gr\u00f6na saken genom sina h\u00e4nder, och hon h\u00f6gg om och om igen sina kraftfulla k\u00e4kar i hans handflator. Om han \u00f6ppnade sina h\u00e4nder f\u00f6r bara ett \u00f6gonblick skulle hon f\u00f6rsvinna. Balthamos h\u00f6ll h\u00e4nderna slutna.\n\n\"Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen\", sa han, \"f\u00f6lj efter mig. G\u00e5 bort fr\u00e5n skogen. Jag vill prata med dig, och det h\u00e4r \u00e4r fel plats.\"\n\n\"Men vem \u00e4r du? Jag kan inte se dig. Kom n\u00e4rmare \u2013 hur ska jag kunna avg\u00f6ra vad du \u00e4r om jag inte kan se dig? H\u00e5ll dig stilla, g\u00e5 inte s\u00e5 fort!\"\n\nMen att r\u00f6ra sig fort var Balthamos enda f\u00f6rsvar. Han letade sig upp f\u00f6r den lilla b\u00e4ckravinen, klev fr\u00e5n sten till sten, medan han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte att inte l\u00e5tsas om den stickande d\u00e6monen.\n\nSedan begick han ett misstag. N\u00e4r han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte titta bak\u00e5t halkade han till och satte ner en fot i vattnet.\n\n\"Ah\", kom en n\u00f6jd viskning fr\u00e5n fader Gomez d\u00e5 han s\u00e5g plasket.\n\nBalthamos drog genast tillbaka foten och skyndade sig fram\u00e5t \u2013 men nu syntes ett v\u00e5tt avtryck p\u00e5 de torra klipporna varenda g\u00e5ng han satte ner foten. Pr\u00e4sten s\u00e5g det och kastade sig fram\u00e5t och k\u00e4nde fj\u00e4drar stryka mot handen.\n\nHan stannade f\u00f6rbluffad med ordet \u00e4ngel genljudande i huvudet. Balthamos passade p\u00e5 att snubbla vidare fram\u00e5t, och pr\u00e4sten k\u00e4nde hur han tvingades f\u00f6lja efter honom n\u00e4r den v\u00e5ldsamma sm\u00e4rtan \u00e5terigen rev i hans hj\u00e4rta.\n\nBalthamos sa \u00f6ver axeln: \"Lite l\u00e4ngre, bara upp till toppen av \u00e5sen h\u00e4r, och sen ska vi tala, jag lovar.\"\n\n\"Prata h\u00e4r! Stanna d\u00e4r du \u00e4r, s\u00e5 lovar jag att jag inte ska r\u00f6ra dig!\"\n\n\u00c4ngeln svarade inte: han hade f\u00f6r sv\u00e5rt att koncentrera sig. Han m\u00e5ste dela sin uppm\u00e4rksamhet p\u00e5 tre h\u00e5ll: bakom sig f\u00f6r att undvika mannen, fram\u00e5t f\u00f6r att se var han gick, och p\u00e5 den ursinniga d\u00e6monen som pl\u00e5gade hans h\u00e4nder.\n\nPr\u00e4sten \u00e5 sin sida t\u00e4nkte snabbt. En verkligt farlig motst\u00e5ndare skulle redan ha d\u00f6dat hans d\u00e6mon och avgjort saken d\u00e4r och d\u00e5: den h\u00e4r fienden var r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r att handla.\n\nMed detta i sinnet l\u00e5tsades han snubbla och kved av sm\u00e4rta, och bad d\u00e5 och d\u00e5 den andre att stanna \u2013 men h\u00f6ll hela tiden noggrann uppsikt, flyttade sig n\u00e4rmare, bed\u00f6mde storleken p\u00e5 den andre, hur snabbt han r\u00f6rde sig, \u00e5t vilket h\u00e5ll han tittade.\n\n\"Sn\u00e4lla\", sa han med bruten r\u00f6st, \"du vet inte hur ont det h\u00e4r g\u00f6r \u2013 jag kan inte skada dig \u2013 sn\u00e4lla, kan vi inte stanna och prata?\"\n\nHan ville inte komma utom synh\u00e5ll fr\u00e5n skogen. De var nu vid b\u00e4ckens k\u00e4lla och han kunde se hur Balthamos f\u00f6tter l\u00e4mnade mycket l\u00e4tta avtryck i gr\u00e4set. Pr\u00e4sten hade varit uppm\u00e4rksam hela v\u00e4gen, och nu var han s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 var \u00e4ngeln stod.\n\nBalthamos v\u00e4nde sig om. Pr\u00e4sten h\u00f6jde blicken dit han trodde att \u00e4ngelns \u00f6gon satt och s\u00e5g honom nu f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen: bara som en dallring i luften, men det gick inte att ta miste p\u00e5.\n\nHan var dock inte tillr\u00e4ckligt n\u00e4ra f\u00f6r att kunna n\u00e5 honom i en enda r\u00f6relse, och faktum var att ryckandet i hans d\u00e6mon hade varit b\u00e5de sm\u00e4rtsamt och f\u00f6rsvagande. Han kanske skulle ta ett eller tv\u00e5 steg till...\n\n\"S\u00e4tt dig ner\", sa Balthamos. \"S\u00e4tt dig ner d\u00e4r du \u00e4r. Inte ett steg n\u00e4rmare.\"\n\n\"Vad vill du?\" sa fader Gomez utan att r\u00f6ra sig.\n\n\"Vad jag vill? Jag vill d\u00f6da dig, men jag orkar inte.\"\n\n\"Men \u00e4r du inte en \u00e4ngel?\"\n\n\"Vad spelar det f\u00f6r roll?\"\n\n\"Du kan ha beg\u00e5tt ett misstag. Vi kan vara p\u00e5 samma sida.\"\n\n\"Nej, det \u00e4r vi inte. Jag har f\u00f6ljt efter dig. Jag vet vilken sida du st\u00e5r p\u00e5 \u2013 nej, nej, r\u00f6r dig inte. Stanna d\u00e4r du \u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r inte f\u00f6r sent att \u00e5ngra sig. Det kan till och med \u00e4nglar g\u00f6ra. Bikta dig f\u00f6r mig.\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, Baruch, hj\u00e4lp mig!\", ropade Balthamos f\u00f6rtvivlat och v\u00e4nde sig bort.\n\nOch d\u00e5 han ropade kastade fader Gomez sig mot honom. Hans axel tr\u00e4ffade \u00e4ngelns och knuffade Balthamos ur balans, och d\u00e5 \u00e4ngeln slog ut med handen f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda sig sl\u00e4ppte han taget om insektsd\u00e6monen. Skalbaggen fl\u00f6g genast loss och fader Gomez k\u00e4nde en str\u00f6m av l\u00e4ttnad och styrka. Till hans stora f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning var det just detta som d\u00f6dade honom. Han kastade sig mot \u00e4ngelns vaga form med en s\u00e5dan kraft, och han v\u00e4ntade sig ett s\u00e5 mycket st\u00f6rre motst\u00e5nd \u00e4n det han faktiskt m\u00f6tte, att han inte kunde h\u00e5lla balansen. Foten halkade, farten fick honom att forts\u00e4tta ner mot b\u00e4cken, och Balthamos t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 vad Baruch skulle ha gjort, och sparkade undan pr\u00e4stens hand, d\u00e5 han sl\u00e4ngde ut den f\u00f6r att ta emot sig.\n\nFader Gomez f\u00f6ll tungt. Huvudet slog emot en sten, s\u00e5 att han f\u00f6ll bed\u00f6vad med huvudet i vattnet. Den kalla chocken fick honom att kvickna till, men medan han storknande och kraftl\u00f6st f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte resa sig upp anv\u00e4nde Balthamos, desperat och utan att bry sig om d\u00e6monen som stack och bet honom i ansiktet och \u00f6gonen och munnen, den lilla vikt han hade f\u00f6r att trycka ner mannens huvud, och han h\u00f6ll det d\u00e4r, och h\u00f6ll det d\u00e4r, och h\u00f6ll det d\u00e4r.\n\nN\u00e4r d\u00e6monen pl\u00f6tsligt f\u00f6rsvann sl\u00e4ppte Balthamos greppet. Mannen var d\u00f6d. S\u00e5 fort han var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 detta, sl\u00e4pade Balthamos upp kroppen ur b\u00e4cken och lade f\u00f6rsiktigt ner den i gr\u00e4set, kn\u00e4ppte pr\u00e4stens h\u00e4nder \u00f6ver hans br\u00f6st och st\u00e4ngde igen \u00f6gonlocken.\n\nSedan reste Balthamos sig upp, sjuk och tr\u00f6tt och med v\u00e4rk \u00f6verallt.\n\n\"Baruch\", sa han, \"\u00e5h, Baruch, min \u00e4lskade, jag kan inte g\u00f6ra mer. Will och flickan \u00e4r i s\u00e4kerhet, och allt kommer att bli bra, men det h\u00e4r \u00e4r slutet f\u00f6r mig, \u00e4ven om jag egentligen dog i samma \u00f6gonblick som du, Baruch, min allra mest \u00e4lskade.\"\n\nEtt \u00f6gonblick senare var han borta.\n\nMary var ute i b\u00f6nf\u00e4ltet. Hon var d\u00e5sig i eftermiddagshettan, och n\u00e4r hon h\u00f6rde Atals r\u00f6st kunde hon inte urskilja om hon ropade av gl\u00e4dje eller som varning. Hade ett tr\u00e4d fallit? Hade mannen med gev\u00e4ret dykt upp?\n\n_Titta! Titta!_ sa Atal, och petade p\u00e5 Marys ficka med snabeln, s\u00e5 Mary gjorde det som v\u00e4nnen bad henne g\u00f6ra och tog fram kikaren och riktade den mot himlen.\n\n_Ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig vad den g\u00f6r!_ sa Atal. _Jag k\u00e4nner f\u00f6r\u00e4ndringen, men jag kan inte se den._\n\nDen f\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckliga Stoftfloden hade slutat rinna, men den var p\u00e5 intet s\u00e4tt stilla; Mary unders\u00f6kte hela himlen med b\u00e4rnstensglaset och s\u00e5g en str\u00f6m h\u00e4r och en virvel d\u00e4r, och fler l\u00e4ngre bort; det r\u00f6rde sig hela tiden, men det rann inte bort l\u00e4ngre. Faktum var att om n\u00e5got s\u00e5 f\u00f6ll det ner som sn\u00f6flingor...\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 hjultr\u00e4den: blommorna som \u00f6ppnade sig upp\u00e5t skulle dricka av det gyllene regnet. Mary kunde n\u00e4stan k\u00e4nna hur deras stackars uttorkade strupar, som var s\u00e5 perfekt formade f\u00f6r det och som hade svultit s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge, v\u00e4lkomnade det.\n\n_De unga_ , sa Atal.\n\nMary v\u00e4nde sig om med kikaren i handen och s\u00e5g Will och Lyra komma tillbaka. De var en bit bort och de hade inte br\u00e5ttom. De h\u00f6ll varandra i handen och talade med varandra med huvudena t\u00e4tt ihop, och till och med p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r avst\u00e5ndet kunde hon se att de var helt obekymrade om allt annat.\n\nHon var n\u00e4ra att s\u00e4tta kikaren framf\u00f6r \u00f6gat, men l\u00e4t bli och lade ist\u00e4llet tillbaka den i fickan. Kikaren beh\u00f6vdes inte, f\u00f6r hon visste vad hon skulle se. De skulle verka vara gjorda av levande guld. De skulle se ut som den sanna bilden av det m\u00e4nskliga varelser alltid kunde vara, n\u00e4r de v\u00e4l f\u00e5tt ta emot sitt arv.\n\nStoftet som str\u00f6mmade ner fr\u00e5n stj\u00e4rnorna hade funnit ett levande hem igen, och dessa barn-som-inte-l\u00e4ngre-var-barn, genomsyrade av k\u00e4rlek, var sj\u00e4lva orsaken.\n\n## 36\n\n## Den brutna pilen\n\nMEN \u00d6DET DRIVER H\u00c5RDA KILAR, PRESSAR SIG EMELLAN ST\u00c4NDIGT.\n\nANDREW MARVELL\n\nDE B\u00c5DA D\u00c6MONERNA r\u00f6rde sig genom den tysta byn. De tassade i kattform ut och in mellan skuggorna och \u00f6ver den m\u00e5nljusa samlingsplatsen, och stannade utanf\u00f6r den \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rren till Marys hus.\n\nDe tittade f\u00f6rsiktigt in, och n\u00e4r de bara s\u00e5g den sovande kvinnan d\u00e4r inne drog de sig tillbaka och fortsatte genom m\u00e5nskenet till skuggtr\u00e4det.\n\nTr\u00e4dets l\u00e5nga grenar str\u00e4ckte sig s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt ner att de doftande korkskruvsformade l\u00f6ven n\u00e4stan nuddade vid marken. De b\u00e5da skuggorna gled mycket f\u00f6rsiktigt, mycket l\u00e5ngsamt in under l\u00f6vdraperiet, noga med att inte snudda vid ett enda l\u00f6v eller kn\u00e4cka en enda kvist. D\u00e4r fann de sedan det de s\u00f6kte, pojken och flickan i djup s\u00f6mn med armarna om varandra.\n\nDe r\u00f6rde sig n\u00e4rmare \u00f6ver gr\u00e4set och nuddade mjukt de sovande med nos, tassar, morrh\u00e5r. De l\u00e4t sig omslutas av den livgivande v\u00e4rme de utstr\u00e5lade, men var o\u00e4ndligt noga med att inte v\u00e4cka dem.\n\nMedan de unders\u00f6kte sina m\u00e4nniskor (och f\u00f6rsiktigt tv\u00e4ttade Wills snabbt l\u00e4kande s\u00e5r och lyfte bort h\u00e5ret fr\u00e5n Lyras ansikte) h\u00f6rdes ett mjukt ljud bakom dem.\n\nDe b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna v\u00e4nde sig omedelbart om utan ett ljud, med ens i vargform, med rasande ljusa \u00f6gon, blottade vita t\u00e4nder, och hot skrivet i varje r\u00f6relse.\n\nEn kvinna syntes som en silhuett mot m\u00e5nljuset. Det var inte Mary, och n\u00e4r hon talade h\u00f6rde de henne tydligt, trots att hennes r\u00f6st inte gav n\u00e5gra ljud ifr\u00e5n sig.\n\n\"F\u00f6lj med mig\", sa hon.\n\nPantalaimons d\u00e6monhj\u00e4rta slog ett extra slag, men han sa ingenting f\u00f6rr\u00e4n han kunde h\u00e4lsa henne p\u00e5 s\u00e4kert avst\u00e5nd fr\u00e5n de b\u00e5da som l\u00e5g och sov under tr\u00e4det.\n\n\"Serafina Pekkala!\" sa han lyckligt. \"Var har du varit? Vet du vad som har h\u00e4nt?\"\n\n\"Sch. Vi flyger n\u00e5gonstans d\u00e4r vi kan prata\", sa hon, f\u00f6r de sovande bybornas skull.\n\nHennes molntallsgren l\u00e5g vid d\u00f6rren till Marys hus, och n\u00e4r hon tog den f\u00f6rvandlade de b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna sig till f\u00e5glar \u2013 den ena till en n\u00e4ktergal, den andra till en uggla \u2013 och fl\u00f6g med h\u00e4xan \u00f6ver de vasst\u00e4ckta taken, \u00f6ver gr\u00e4ssl\u00e4tterna, \u00f6ver kullen och mot den n\u00e4rmaste hjultr\u00e4dsdungen, h\u00f6g som ett slott, med en krona som s\u00e5g ut som en silverost i m\u00e5nljuset.\n\nD\u00e4r slog Serafina Pekkala sig ner p\u00e5 den h\u00f6gsta bekv\u00e4ma grenen, mitt bland de \u00f6ppna blommorna som drack Stoft, och de b\u00e5da f\u00e5glarna satte sig strax intill.\n\n\"Ni kommer inte att vara f\u00e5glar l\u00e4nge till\", sa hon. \"Mycket snart kommer er form att best\u00e4mmas. Se er omkring, och kom ih\u00e5g den h\u00e4r synen.\"\n\n\"Vad kommer vi att bli?\" sa Pantalaimon.\n\n\"Det kommer ni att f\u00e5 reda p\u00e5 f\u00f6rr \u00e4n ni anar. H\u00f6r nu p\u00e5\", sa Serafina Pekkala, \"s\u00e5 ska jag ber\u00e4tta h\u00e4xkunskap f\u00f6r er, saker som bara h\u00e4xorna k\u00e4nner till. Jag kan g\u00f6ra det eftersom ni \u00e4r h\u00e4r hos mig och era m\u00e4nniskor sover d\u00e4r nere. Vilka \u00e4r de enda som detta \u00e4r m\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r?\"\n\n\"H\u00e4xor\", sa Pantalaimon, \"och schamaner. S\u00e5...\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r Will och Lyra l\u00e4mnade er b\u00e5da p\u00e5 stranden i de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, gjorde de \u2013 utan att veta om det \u2013 n\u00e5got som h\u00e4xorna har gjort \u00e4nda sedan f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen det fanns h\u00e4xor. Det finns en plats i v\u00e5rt nordliga land, en \u00f6vergiven, avskyv\u00e4rd plats, d\u00e4r en stor katastrof \u00e4gde rum i v\u00e4rldens barndom och d\u00e4r ingenting har levt sedan dess. Inga d\u00e6moner kan komma dit. En flicka m\u00e5ste f\u00e4rdas genom den platsen, ensam, och l\u00e4mna sin d\u00e6mon bakom sig f\u00f6r att kunna bli en h\u00e4xa. Ni vet vilket lidande det inneb\u00e4r. Men n\u00e4r flickan har gjort det inser hon att hennes d\u00e6mon inte \u00e4r skild fr\u00e5n henne sj\u00e4lv, som i Bolvangar, utan att de fortfarande \u00e4r en hel varelse. Men d\u00e6monerna kan str\u00f6va fritt och resa l\u00e5ngt bort och se underliga saker och komma tillbaka med ny kunskap. Och ni \u00e4r ju inte avskilda, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Pantalaimon. \"Vi \u00e4r fortfarande ett. Men det var s\u00e5 sm\u00e4rtsamt, och vi var s\u00e5 r\u00e4dda...\"\n\n\"Hur som helst\", sa Serafina, \"s\u00e5 kommer de b\u00e5da inte att kunna flyga som h\u00e4xor, och de kommer inte att leva lika l\u00e4nge som vi. Men tack vare det de gjorde \u00e4r ni och de h\u00e4xor i allt utom dessa tv\u00e5 ting.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna t\u00e4nkte \u00f6ver denna underliga kunskap.\n\n\"Betyder det att vi kommer att bli f\u00e5glar, som h\u00e4xornas d\u00e6moner?\" sa Pantalaimon.\n\n\"Ha t\u00e5lamod.\"\n\n\"Och hur kan Will vara en h\u00e4xa? Jag trodde att alla h\u00e4xor var kvinnor.\"\n\n\"De d\u00e4r b\u00e5da har f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrat m\u00e5nga ting. Alla m\u00e5ste l\u00e4ra sig nya saker, till och med vi h\u00e4xor. Men en sak har inte f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats. Ni m\u00e5ste hj\u00e4lpa era m\u00e4nniskor, inte f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka stj\u00e4lpa dem. Ni m\u00e5ste hj\u00e4lpa dem och mana p\u00e5 dem och leda dem mot vishet. Det \u00e4r vad d\u00e6moner \u00e4r till f\u00f6r.\"\n\nDe satt tysta. Serafina v\u00e4nde sig mot n\u00e4ktergalen och fr\u00e5gade: \"Vad heter du?\"\n\n\"Jag har inget namn. Jag visste inte att jag var f\u00f6dd f\u00f6rr\u00e4n jag slets ur hans hj\u00e4rta.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 ger jag dig namnet Kirjava.\"\n\n\"Kirjava\", sa Pantalaimon pr\u00f6vande. \"Vad betyder det?\"\n\n\"Ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r snart vad det betyder. Men nu\", fortsatte Serafina, \"m\u00e5ste ni lyssna noga, f\u00f6r jag t\u00e4nker ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r er vad ni m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra.\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Kirjava best\u00e4mt.\n\n\"Jag h\u00f6r p\u00e5 ditt tonfall att du vet vad jag t\u00e4nker s\u00e4ga\", sa Serafina milt.\n\n\"Vi vill inte h\u00f6ra det!\" sa Pantalaimon.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r f\u00f6r tidigt\", sa n\u00e4ktergalen. \"Det \u00e4r alldeles f\u00f6r tidigt.\"\n\nSerafina satt tyst, f\u00f6r hon h\u00f6ll med dem och s\u00f6rjde. Men hon var trots allt den visaste av dem, och hon m\u00e5ste visa dem vad som var r\u00e4tt. Hon l\u00e4t dock deras uppr\u00f6rdhet sjunka undan innan hon fortsatte:\n\n\"Vart f\u00e4rdades ni p\u00e5 era vandringar?\" sa hon.\n\n\"Genom m\u00e5nga v\u00e4rldar\", sa Pantalaimon. \"Vi gick igenom varje g\u00e5ng vi hittade ett f\u00f6nster. Det finns fler f\u00f6nster \u00e4n vi trodde.\"\n\n\"Och ni s\u00e5g...\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa Kirjava, \"vi tittade noga, och vi s\u00e5g vad som h\u00e4nde.\"\n\n\"Vi s\u00e5g m\u00e5nga andra saker\", sa Pantalaimon hastigt. \"Vi s\u00e5g \u00e4nglar, och talade med dom. Vi s\u00e5g v\u00e4rlden dom sm\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskorna, gallivespierna, kommer fr\u00e5n. Det finns stora m\u00e4nniskor d\u00e4r ocks\u00e5, som f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker d\u00f6da dom.\"\n\nDe ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r h\u00e4xan om allt de hade sett, och hon f\u00f6rstod att de f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte distrahera henne. Men hon l\u00e4t dem prata p\u00e5, f\u00f6r n\u00f6jet de fann i att lyssna p\u00e5 varandras r\u00f6ster.\n\nTill slut hade de dock inte mer att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r henne, s\u00e5 de tystnade. Det enda ljud som h\u00f6rdes var l\u00f6vens milda, oavl\u00e5tliga viskande, tills Serafina Pekkala sa:\n\n\"Ni har h\u00e5llit er undan fr\u00e5n Will och Lyra f\u00f6r att straffa dem. Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r varf\u00f6r ni g\u00f6r s\u00e5. Min Kaisa gjorde precis samma sak efter att jag hade f\u00e4rdats genom det \u00f6delagda landet. Men han \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till slut, f\u00f6r vi \u00e4lskade fortfarande varandra. Och de kommer snart att beh\u00f6va er, beh\u00f6va er hj\u00e4lp f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra det som m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras h\u00e4rn\u00e4st. F\u00f6r ni m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r dem vad ni vet.\"\n\nPantalaimon skrek rakt ut, ett rent, kallt uggletjut, ett ljud som aldrig tidigare hade h\u00f6rts i den v\u00e4rlden. I bon och lyor i en vid omkrets, och \u00f6verallt d\u00e4r n\u00e5got litet nattdjur betade eller jagade, f\u00f6ddes en ny och of\u00f6rgl\u00f6mlig r\u00e4dsla.\n\nSerafina betraktade honom p\u00e5 n\u00e4ra h\u00e5ll och k\u00e4nde ingenting utom medk\u00e4nsla, tills hon tittade p\u00e5 Wills d\u00e6mon, n\u00e4ktergalen Kirjava. Hon kom ih\u00e5g sitt samtal med Ruta Skadi, som efter att ha tr\u00e4ffat Will vid ett tillf\u00e4lle hade fr\u00e5gat Serafina om hon hade sett honom i \u00f6gonen, och hon hade svarat att hon inte hade v\u00e5gat. Den lilla bruna f\u00e5geln gl\u00f6dde av en obeveklig vildsinthet som str\u00e5lade fr\u00e5n henne som om det hade varit v\u00e4rme, och Serafina fruktade den.\n\nTill slut dog Pantalaimons vilda skrik bort, och Kirjava sa:\n\n\"Och vi m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dem.\"\n\n\"Ja, det m\u00e5ste ni\", sa h\u00e4xan v\u00e4nligt.\n\nVildsintheten l\u00e4mnade gradvis den lilla bruna f\u00e5gelns blick, s\u00e5 Serafina kunde titta p\u00e5 henne igen. Hon s\u00e5g en \u00f6dslig sorgsenhet i dess st\u00e4lle.\n\n\"Ett skepp \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hit\", sa Serafina. \"Jag l\u00e4mnade det f\u00f6r att flyga hit och leta reda p\u00e5 er. Jag kom tillsammans med gyptierna, hela v\u00e4gen fr\u00e5n v\u00e5r v\u00e4rld. De kommer hit om ytterligare n\u00e5gon dag.\"\n\nDe b\u00e5da f\u00e5glarna satt t\u00e4tt tillsammans, och p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick hade de bytt form och blivit tv\u00e5 duvor.\n\nSerafina fortsatte:\n\n\"Det h\u00e4r kan vara sista g\u00e5ngen ni kan flyga. Jag kan se ett litet tag fram\u00e5t; jag kan se att ni b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 kommer att kunna kl\u00e4ttra s\u00e5 h\u00e4r h\u00f6gt s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge det finns s\u00e5 h\u00e4r h\u00f6ga tr\u00e4d; men jag tror inte att ni kommer att bli f\u00e5glar n\u00e4r er form v\u00e4l har best\u00e4mts. Ta in allt ni kan, och kom ih\u00e5g det v\u00e4l. Jag vet att ni och Lyra och Will kommer att t\u00e4nka efter noga och med m\u00f6da, och jag vet att ni kommer att fatta det b\u00e4sta beslutet. Men det \u00e4r ni som m\u00e5ste fatta det, och ingen annan.\"\n\nDe svarade inte. Hon satt upp p\u00e5 sin molntallsgren och lyfte \u00f6ver de upptornande tr\u00e4dkronorna. N\u00e4r hon cirklade h\u00f6gt d\u00e4r uppe kunde hon k\u00e4nna vindens kyla mot huden och stj\u00e4rnljusets str\u00e5lar och den v\u00e4lg\u00f6rande str\u00f6mmen av det d\u00e4r Stoftet, som hon aldrig hade sett.\n\nSerafina fl\u00f6g \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng ner till byn och gick tyst in i kvinnans hus. Hon visste ingenting om Mary, f\u00f6rutom att hon kom fr\u00e5n samma v\u00e4rld som Will, och att hennes del i h\u00e4ndelserna var avg\u00f6rande. Serafina kunde inte veta om hon var v\u00e4n eller fiende, men hon m\u00e5ste v\u00e4cka Mary utan att skr\u00e4mma henne, och det fanns en besv\u00e4rjelse f\u00f6r just detta.\n\nHon satt p\u00e5 golvet vid kvinnans huvud med halvslutna \u00f6gon och andades in och ut i takt med henne. Efter en stund s\u00e5g hon med sin halvsyn de bleka former Mary s\u00e5g i sin dr\u00f6m, och hon anpassade sitt sinne s\u00e5 att hon kom i samklang med dem, som om hon st\u00e4mde en instrumentstr\u00e4ng. Med ytterligare en anstr\u00e4ngning klev sedan Serafina sj\u00e4lv in bland dem. N\u00e4r hon v\u00e4l var d\u00e4r kunde hon tala med Mary, och det gjorde hon med den omedelbara, enkla tillgivenhet man ibland k\u00e4nner f\u00f6r folk man m\u00f6ter i dr\u00f6mmar.\n\nEtt \u00f6gonblick senare talade de med varandra i mumlande br\u00e5dska som Mary sedan inte mindes, medan de promenerade genom ett f\u00e5nigt landskap av vass\u00e4ngar och eltransformatorer. Det var dags f\u00f6r Serafina att ta \u00f6ver.\n\n\"Om n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick\", sa hon, \"kommer du att vakna. Bli inte r\u00e4dd. Du kommer att se mig bredvid dig. Jag v\u00e4cker dig s\u00e5 h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att du ska veta att det inte \u00e4r n\u00e5gon fara och att ingen kommer att skada dig. Sedan kan vi tala ordentligt.\"\n\nHon drog sig tillbaka och tog dr\u00f6m-Mary med sig, tills hon var tillbaka i huset, sittandes med benen i kors och med Marys \u00f6gon glittrande d\u00e5 de tittade p\u00e5 henne.\n\n\"Du m\u00e5ste vara h\u00e4xan\", viskade Mary.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r jag. Jag heter Serafina Pekkala. Vad heter du?\"\n\n\"Mary Malone. Jag har aldrig n\u00e5gonsin v\u00e4ckts s\u00e5 tyst. _\u00c4r_ jag vaken?\"\n\n\"Ja. Vi m\u00e5ste tala med varandra. Det \u00e4r sv\u00e5rt att kontrollera ett dr\u00f6msamtal och \u00e4nnu sv\u00e5rare att minnas det. Det \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre att tala i vaket tillst\u00e5nd. F\u00f6redrar du att stanna inne, eller vill du promenera i m\u00e5nskenet med mig?\"\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6ljer med\", sa Mary och satte sig upp och str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 sig. \"Var \u00e4r Lyra och Will?\"\n\n\"De sover under tr\u00e4det.\"\n\nDe gick ut ur huset och f\u00f6rbi tr\u00e4det vars l\u00f6vverk var ett ogenomskinligt draperi, och gick ner till floden.\n\nMary betraktade Serafina Pekkala med en blandning av vaksamhet och beundran. Hon hade aldrig tidigare sett en m\u00e4nsklig form som var s\u00e5 smidig och behagfull. Hon verkade yngre \u00e4n Mary sj\u00e4lv, \u00e4ven om Lyra hade sagt att hon var hundratals \u00e5r gammal. Den enda antydan om hennes \u00e5lder stod att finna i hennes ansiktsuttryck, som var fyllt av en m\u00e5ngfacetterad sorg.\n\nDe satte sig vid kanten av det silversvarta vattnet, och Serafina ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r henne att hon hade talat med barnens d\u00e6moner.\n\n\"De letade efter dem idag\", sa Mary, \"men n\u00e5got annat h\u00e4nde. Will har aldrig sett sin d\u00e6mon ordentligt, f\u00f6rutom n\u00e4r de flydde fr\u00e5n slaget och d\u00e5 var det bara under n\u00e5gon sekund. Han var inte s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att han hade en.\"\n\n\"Tja, det har han. Det har du ocks\u00e5.\"\n\nMary stirrade p\u00e5 henne.\n\n\"Om du kunde se honom\", fortsatte Serafina, \"s\u00e5 skulle du se en svart f\u00e5gel med r\u00f6da ben och en klargul, l\u00e4tt b\u00f6jd n\u00e4bb. En bergsf\u00e5gel.\"\n\n\"En alpkr\u00e5ka... Hur kommer det sig att du kan se honom?\"\n\n\"Jag kan se honom med halvslutna \u00f6gon. Om vi hade tid kunde jag l\u00e4ra dig att se honom ocks\u00e5, och att se d\u00e6monerna hos andra i din v\u00e4rld. Det \u00e4r underligt f\u00f6r oss att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 att ni inte kan se dem.\"\n\nSedan ber\u00e4ttade hon f\u00f6r Mary det hon hade ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r d\u00e6monerna, och vad detta innebar.\n\n\"Och d\u00e6monerna m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dem?\" sa Mary.\n\n\"Jag funderade p\u00e5 att v\u00e4cka dem och ber\u00e4tta det sj\u00e4lv. Jag funderade p\u00e5 att ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r dig och g\u00f6ra det till ditt ansvar. Men sedan s\u00e5g jag deras d\u00e6moner och f\u00f6rstod att det var det b\u00e4sta s\u00e4ttet.\"\n\n\"De \u00e4lskar varandra.\"\n\n\"Jag vet.\"\n\n\"De har precis insett det...\"\n\nMary f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 den fulla inneb\u00f6rden av det Serafina hade ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r henne, men det var f\u00f6r sv\u00e5rt.\n\nEfter n\u00e5gon minut sa Mary: \"Kan du se Stoft?\"\n\n\"Nej, jag har aldrig sett det. Innan krigen b\u00f6rjade hade vi inte ens h\u00f6rt talas om det.\"\n\nMary tog upp kikaren ur fickan och r\u00e4ckte den till h\u00e4xan. Serafina satte den mot \u00f6gat, och fl\u00e4mtade till.\n\n\"S\u00e5 _det_ \u00e4r Stoft... Det \u00e4r underbart!\"\n\n\"V\u00e4nd dig om och titta p\u00e5 skuggtr\u00e4det.\"\n\nSerafina gjorde s\u00e5, och utbrast \"Gjorde _de_ det h\u00e4r?\"\n\n\"N\u00e5gonting h\u00e4nde idag, eller ig\u00e5r, om det \u00e4r efter midnatt\", sa Mary, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte finna de r\u00e4tta orden f\u00f6r att kunna f\u00f6rklara det. Hon mindes sin bild av fl\u00f6det av Stoft som en stor flod, som Mississippi. \"N\u00e5got litet men avg\u00f6rande... Om man skulle vilja \u00e4ndra riktningen p\u00e5 en stor flod, och bara hade en enda liten sten, s\u00e5 skulle man kunna g\u00f6ra det om man bara s\u00e5g till att stenen hamnade p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt st\u00e4lle s\u00e5 att den f\u00f6rsta lilla r\u00e4nnilen rann _dit\u00e5t_ ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r _d\u00e4r\u00e5t._ N\u00e5gonting s\u00e5dant h\u00e4nde ig\u00e5r. Jag vet inte vad det var. De s\u00e5g p\u00e5 varandra p\u00e5 ett nytt s\u00e4tt, eller n\u00e5got \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet... Fram till dess hade de inte k\u00e4nt p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet, men d\u00e5 pl\u00f6tsligt gjorde de det. Och d\u00e5 drogs Stoftet till dem, v\u00e4ldigt starkt, och det slutade rinna \u00e5t det andra h\u00e5llet.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 det var s\u00e5 det skulle g\u00e5 till!\" sa Serafina f\u00f6rundrat. \"Och nu \u00e4r det s\u00e4kert, eller kommer att vara det n\u00e4r \u00e4nglarna har fyllt igen det stora h\u00e5let i underjorden.\"\n\nHon ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r Mary om avgrunden, och om hur hon sj\u00e4lv hade f\u00e5tt reda p\u00e5 det.\n\n\"Jag fl\u00f6g h\u00f6gt\", f\u00f6rklarade hon, \"p\u00e5 jakt efter land, och s\u00e5 m\u00f6tte jag en \u00e4ngel, en kvinnlig \u00e4ngel. Hon var mycket underlig, ung och gammal p\u00e5 samma g\u00e5ng\", fortsatte hon, utan att inse att det var just s\u00e5 som Mary uppfattade henne. \"Hennes namn var Xaphania. Hon ber\u00e4ttade m\u00e5nga saker f\u00f6r mig... Hon sa att m\u00e4nsklighetens hela historia har best\u00e5tt av kampen mellan visheten och dumheten. Hon och de revolterande \u00e4nglarna, de som f\u00f6ljde visheten, har alltid f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt \u00f6ppna sinnen. Auktoriteten och hans kyrkor har alltid f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt h\u00e5lla dem st\u00e4ngda. Hon gav mig m\u00e5nga exempel fr\u00e5n min v\u00e4rld.\"\n\n\"Jag kan ge dig m\u00e5nga fr\u00e5n min.\"\n\n\"Och f\u00f6r det mesta har visheten tvingats arbeta i hemlighet, viska sina ord, och r\u00f6ra sig som en spion genom v\u00e4rldens l\u00e5ga st\u00e4llen, medan slott och domstolar har h\u00e5llits av hennes fiender.\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa Mary, \"det k\u00e4nner jag ocks\u00e5 igen.\"\n\n\"Men kampen \u00e4r inte \u00f6ver \u00e4nnu, \u00e4ven om Himmelrikets styrkor har m\u00f6tt h\u00e5rt motst\u00e5nd. De kommer att omgruppera sig under n\u00e5gon ny ledare, och \u00e5terkomma med full kraft, och d\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi st\u00e5 redo att m\u00f6ta dem.\"\n\n\"Men vad h\u00e4nde med lord Asriel?\" sa Mary.\n\n\"Han k\u00e4mpade mot himlens regent, \u00e4ngeln Metatron, och brottade ner honom i avgrunden. Metatron \u00e4r borta f\u00f6r alltid. Liksom lord Asriel.\"\n\nMary h\u00f6ll andan. \"Och mrs Coulter?\" fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\nH\u00e4xan tog fram en pil ur sitt koger som svar. Hon tog tid p\u00e5 sig att v\u00e4lja ut den: den b\u00e4sta, den rakaste, den mest perfekt balanserade.\n\nOch sedan br\u00f6t hon den i tv\u00e5 delar.\n\n\"En g\u00e5ng i min egen v\u00e4rld\", sa hon, \"s\u00e5g jag den kvinnan tortera en h\u00e4xa, och jag svor vid mig sj\u00e4lv att jag skulle s\u00e4tta den pilen i hennes strupe. Nu ska jag aldrig g\u00f6ra det. Hon offrade sig sj\u00e4lv tillsammans med lord Asriel f\u00f6r att bek\u00e4mpa \u00e4ngeln och g\u00f6ra v\u00e4rlden s\u00e4ker f\u00f6r Lyra. De skulle inte ha klarat det var f\u00f6r sig, men tillsammans gjorde de det.\"\n\n\"Hur ska vi kunna ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r Lyra?\" fr\u00e5gade Mary bekymrat.\n\n\"V\u00e4nta tills hon fr\u00e5gar\", sa Serafina. \"Men det kanske hon aldrig g\u00f6r. I vilket fall som helst har hon sin symboll\u00e4sare, och den kommer att kunna ber\u00e4tta allt hon vill veta.\"\n\nDe satt en stund i tystnad medan stj\u00e4rnorna l\u00e5ngsamt r\u00f6rde sig p\u00e5 himlen.\n\n\"Kan du se in i framtiden och gissa vad de kommer v\u00e4lja att g\u00f6ra?\" fr\u00e5gade Mary.\n\n\"Nej, men om Lyra \u00e5terv\u00e4nder till sin egen v\u00e4rld ska jag vara hennes syster s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hon lever. Vad kommer du att g\u00f6ra?\"\n\n\"Jag...\" b\u00f6rjade Mary, och ins\u00e5g sedan att hon inte hade t\u00e4nkt ett \u00f6gonblick p\u00e5 den saken. \"Jag antar att jag h\u00f6r hemma i min egen v\u00e4rld. Men jag kommer att vara ledsen \u00f6ver att beh\u00f6va l\u00e4mna den h\u00e4r, f\u00f6r jag har varit mycket lycklig h\u00e4r. Lyckligare \u00e4n jag n\u00e5gonsin varit i hela mitt liv, tror jag.\"\n\n\"Men om du \u00e5terv\u00e4nder hem, s\u00e5 kommer du i alla fall att ha en syster i en annan v\u00e4rld\", sa Serafina Pekkala, \"och det kommer jag ocks\u00e5. Vi kommer att tr\u00e4ffas igen om n\u00e5gon dag, d\u00e5 skeppet anl\u00e4nder, och vi kommer att kunna tala mer under resan hem. Och sedan kommer vi att skiljas f\u00f6r evigt. Omfamna mig nu, min syster.\"\n\nMary gjorde det, och sedan fl\u00f6g Serafina Pekkala iv\u00e4g p\u00e5 sin molntallsgren, \u00f6ver vassen, \u00f6ver sankmarkerna, \u00f6ver lersl\u00e4tten och stranden och ut \u00f6ver havet, tills Mary inte l\u00e4ngre kunde se henne.\n\nUngef\u00e4r samtidigt hittade en av de stora bl\u00e5 \u00f6dlorna fader Gomez kropp. Will och Lyra hade g\u00e5tt en annan v\u00e4g tillbaka till byn den eftermiddagen, s\u00e5 de hade inte f\u00e5tt syn p\u00e5 den. Pr\u00e4sten l\u00e5g ost\u00f6rt kvar d\u00e4r Balthamos hade lagt honom. \u00d6dlorna var as\u00e4tare, men de var v\u00e4nliga och ofarliga varelser och enligt en ur\u00e5ldrig \u00f6verenskommelse med muleforna hade de r\u00e4tt till alla varelser som l\u00e4mnats d\u00f6da efter m\u00f6rkrets inbrott.\n\n\u00d6dlan drog pr\u00e4stens kropp med sig tillbaka till boet, och hennes ungar l\u00e4t sig v\u00e4l smaka. Vad gev\u00e4ret betr\u00e4ffade, s\u00e5 l\u00e5g det kvar i gr\u00e4set d\u00e4r fader Gomez hade lagt det, och rostade bort i lugn och ro.\n\n## 37\n\n## Sanddynerna\n\nMIN SJ\u00c4L, S\u00d6K INTE EVIGT LIV, PR\u00d6VA IST\u00c4LLET DET M\u00d6JLIGAS GR\u00c4NSER.\n\nPINDAROS\n\nN\u00c4STA DAG GICK Will och Lyra ut f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lva igen, utan att prata s\u00e5 mycket, m\u00e5na om att vara ensamma tillsammans. De s\u00e5g helt bed\u00f6vade ut, som om n\u00e5gon lycklig katastrof hade tagit ifr\u00e5n dem allt f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd. De r\u00f6rde sig l\u00e5ngsamt, utan att f\u00e4sta blicken.\n\nDe tillbringade hela dagen bland de stora kullarna, och under eftermiddagens hetta bes\u00f6kte de sin dunge av guld och silver. De talade, de badade, de \u00e5t, de kysstes, de l\u00e5g i en lycklig trans och mumlade ord som l\u00e4t lika f\u00f6rvirrade som deras f\u00f6rst\u00e5nd, och det k\u00e4ndes som om de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att sm\u00e4lta av k\u00e4rlek.\n\nP\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen delade de utan m\u00e5nga ord sin m\u00e5ltid med Mary och Atal, och eftersom luften var varm best\u00e4mde de sig f\u00f6r att g\u00e5 ner till havet, i f\u00f6rhoppning om att hitta en svalkande fl\u00e4kt. De gick l\u00e4ngs med floden tills de kom till det breda inloppet, gl\u00e4nsande i m\u00e5nskenet, d\u00e4r ebben h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att v\u00e4nda till flod.\n\nDe lade sig ner p\u00e5 de mjuka sanddynerna, och det var d\u00e5 de h\u00f6rde den f\u00f6rsta f\u00e5geln.\n\nDe tittade sig omedelbart omkring, f\u00f6r f\u00e5geln l\u00e4t inte som n\u00e5gon av varelserna fr\u00e5n v\u00e4rlden de var i nu. Fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gonstans i m\u00f6rkret ovanf\u00f6r dem kom ett underbart drillande, och sedan svarade en annan fr\u00e5n ett annat h\u00e5ll. Will och Lyra hoppade f\u00f6rtjusta upp och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 syn p\u00e5 s\u00e5ngarna, men de s\u00e5g bara ett par m\u00f6rka skuggor som gled fram p\u00e5 l\u00e5g h\u00f6jd och sedan fl\u00f6g upp\u00e5t igen, hela tiden sjungande sina rikt b\u00f6ljande klingande toner som varierades i all o\u00e4ndlighet.\n\nOch sedan landade den f\u00f6rsta f\u00e5geln n\u00e5gra meter bort, med flaxande vingar som slog upp en liten sandfont\u00e4n framf\u00f6r dem.\n\nLyra sa: \"Pan...?\"\n\nHan hade formen av en duva. Den m\u00f6rka f\u00e4rgen hade varit sv\u00e5r att se i m\u00e5nskenet, men nu syntes han tydligt mot den vita sanden. Den andra f\u00e5geln cirklade fortfarande sjungande ovanf\u00f6r dem, och fl\u00f6g sedan ner och gjorde honom s\u00e4llskap. Det var \u00e4nnu en duva, men p\u00e4rlvit, med en krage av m\u00f6rkr\u00f6da fj\u00e4drar.\n\nOch s\u00e5 fick Will till slut veta hur det var att f\u00e5 se sin d\u00e6mon. N\u00e4r hon fl\u00f6g ner och landade i sanden k\u00e4nde han hur hans hj\u00e4rta f\u00f6rst kn\u00f6t sig och sedan befriades p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt han aldrig skulle gl\u00f6mma. Mer \u00e4n sextio \u00e5r skulle passera, men som gammal man skulle det finnas n\u00e5gra upplevelser han fortfarande k\u00e4nde som om de hade intr\u00e4ffat alldeles nyss: hur Lyras fingrar stoppade frukten i hans mun n\u00e4r de satt inne i dungen med guld- och silvertr\u00e4d; hur hennes varma mun trycktes mot hans; n\u00e4r hans d\u00e6mon slets fr\u00e5n hans of\u00f6rberedda br\u00f6st n\u00e4r de tr\u00e4dde in i de d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, och hur gott och r\u00e4tt det k\u00e4ndes n\u00e4r hon \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till honom vid kanten av de m\u00e5nbelysta sanddynerna.\n\nLyra gjorde en ansats att komma n\u00e4rmare dem, men d\u00e5 talade Pantalaimon.\n\n\"Lyra\", sa han, \"Serafina Pekkala kom till oss f\u00f6rra natten. Hon ber\u00e4ttade en massa saker f\u00f6r oss. Hon har rest tillbaka f\u00f6r att leda gyptierna hit. Farder Corman \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g, och lord Faa, och dom kommer...\"\n\n\"Pan\", sa hon uppr\u00f6rt, \"\u00e5h, Pan, du \u00e4r inte glad \u2013 vad \u00e4r det som har h\u00e4nt? Vad har h\u00e4nt?\"\n\nD\u00e5 bytte han form och gled fram \u00f6ver sanden till henne som en sn\u00f6vit hermelin. Den andra d\u00e6monen bytte ocks\u00e5 form \u2013 Will kunde k\u00e4nna det h\u00e4nda, som ett litet ryck i hj\u00e4rtat \u2013 och blev en katt.\n\nInnan hon kom fram till honom sa hon: \"H\u00e4xan gav mig ett namn. Jag beh\u00f6vde inget f\u00f6rut. Hon kallade mig Kirjava. Men h\u00f6r p\u00e5, ni m\u00e5ste lyssna p\u00e5 oss...\"\n\n\"Ja, ni m\u00e5ste lyssna\", sa Pantalaimon. \"Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r sv\u00e5rt att f\u00f6rklara.\"\n\nTillsammans lyckades d\u00e6monerna \u00e5terber\u00e4tta allt det Serafina hade sagt till dem. De b\u00f6rjade med avsl\u00f6jandet om barnens sanna natur, hur de hade, utan att mena det, blivit som h\u00e4xor i det att de kunde skiljas \u00e5t och \u00e4nd\u00e5 vara en och samma.\n\n\"Men det \u00e4r inte allt\", sa Kirjava.\n\nOch Pantalaimon sa: \"\u00c5h, Lyra, f\u00f6rl\u00e5t oss, men vi m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r er vad vi f\u00e5tt reda p\u00e5...\"\n\nLyra var f\u00f6rvirrad. N\u00e4r hade Pan n\u00e5gonsin beh\u00f6vt be om f\u00f6rl\u00e5telse? Hon tittade p\u00e5 Will och s\u00e5g att han var lika fr\u00e5gande som hon.\n\n\"S\u00e4g det\", sa han. \"Var inte r\u00e4dda.\"\n\n\"Det handlar om Stoft\", sa kattd\u00e6monen, och Will f\u00f6rundrade sig \u00f6ver att h\u00f6ra en del av sig sj\u00e4lv ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5got f\u00f6r honom som han inte redan visste. \"Det h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att rinna bort helt, allt Stoft som fanns, r\u00e4tt ner i avgrunden ni s\u00e5g. N\u00e5nting hindrade det fr\u00e5n att rinna ner d\u00e4r, men...\"\n\n\"Will, det var det gyllene ljuset!\" sa Lyra. \"Ljuset som rann ner i avgrunden och f\u00f6rsvann... Var det verkligen Stoft?\"\n\n\"Ja. Men mer och mer l\u00e4cker ut hela tiden\", fortsatte Pantalaimon. \"Och det f\u00e5r det inte. Det \u00e4r livsviktigt att inte alltihop l\u00e4cker ut. Det m\u00e5ste stanna kvar i v\u00e4rlden och f\u00e5r inte f\u00f6rsvinna. Annars kommer allt som \u00e4r gott att blekna bort och d\u00f6.\"\n\n\"Men vart tar resten v\u00e4gen?\" sa Lyra.\n\nB\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna tittade p\u00e5 Will, och p\u00e5 kniven.\n\n\"Varenda g\u00e5ng vi skar en \u00f6ppning\", sa Kirjava, och \u00e5terigen blev Will alldeles sp\u00e4nd vid tanken _Hon \u00e4r jag, och jag \u00e4r hon_... \"Varje g\u00e5ng n\u00e5gon skar en \u00f6ppning mellan v\u00e4rldarna, vi eller gillesm\u00e4nniskorna, vem som helst, skar kniven \u00e4ven in i tomheten p\u00e5 utsidan. Samma tomhet som finns nere i avgrunden. Vi visste det inte. Ingen visste, f\u00f6r kanten var s\u00e5 tunn att ingen kunde se den. Men den var tillr\u00e4ckligt bred f\u00f6r att Stoftet skulle kunna l\u00e4cka ut. Om man st\u00e4nger \u00f6ppningen direkt igen hinner inte s\u00e5 mycket l\u00e4cka ut, men det finns tusentals \u00f6ppningar som aldrig st\u00e4ngts. S\u00e5 Stoftet har l\u00e4ckt ut ur v\u00e4rldarna r\u00e4tt ut i ingenting under alla de h\u00e4r \u00e5ren.\"\n\nSanningen b\u00f6rjade g\u00e5 upp f\u00f6r Will och Lyra. De stretade emot, de st\u00f6tte bort den, men den var precis som det gr\u00e5 gryningsljuset, som smyger sig p\u00e5 och sl\u00e4cker stj\u00e4rnorna \u2013 den smet f\u00f6rbi alla hinder de satte upp och slank igenom alla persienner och gled runt kanterna p\u00e5 alla rid\u00e5er de f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte st\u00e4nga den ute med.\n\n\"Varenda \u00f6ppning?\" viskade Lyra.\n\n\"Varenda en \u2013 m\u00e5ste dom st\u00e4ngas allihop?\" sa Will.\n\n\"Varenda en\", sa Pantalaimon, viskande precis som Lyra.\n\n\"\u00c5h, nej\", sa Lyra. \"Nej, det kan inte vara sant...\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi l\u00e4mna v\u00e5r v\u00e4rld och stanna kvar i Lyras\", sa Kirjava, \"eller s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste Pan och Lyra l\u00e4mna sin och komma till oss. Det finns inget annat val.\"\n\nS\u00e5 kom allt det kalla klara dagsljuset.\n\nOch Lyra skrek rakt ut. Pantalaimons uggleskri natten innan hade skr\u00e4mt varenda liten varelse som h\u00f6rt det, men det var ingenting mot det vr\u00e5l Lyra nu st\u00e4mde upp. D\u00e6monerna blev chockade, och Will, som s\u00e5g deras reaktion, f\u00f6rstod varf\u00f6r. D\u00e6monerna k\u00e4nde inte till resten av sanningen, de visste inte det som Will och Lyra hade f\u00e5tt veta.\n\nLyra skakade av vrede och sorg och stegade fram och tillbaka med knutna n\u00e4var och v\u00e4nde sitt t\u00e5rstrimmiga ansikte \u00e5t \u00e4n det ena, \u00e4n det andra h\u00e5llet som om hon jagade efter en l\u00f6sning. Will hoppade upp och grep tag om hennes axlar och k\u00e4nde hur sp\u00e4nd hon var och hur hon darrade.\n\n\"H\u00f6r p\u00e5\", sa han, \"Lyra, h\u00f6r p\u00e5: Vad var det min pappa sa?\"\n\n\"\u00c5h\", utbrast hon och sl\u00e4ngde med huvudet fram och tillbaka, \"han sa \u2013 du vet vad han sa \u2013 du var d\u00e4r, Will, du h\u00f6rde det ocks\u00e5!\"\n\nHan trodde att hon skulle d\u00f6 av sorg d\u00e4r och d\u00e5. Hon kastade sig i hans armar och snyftade, h\u00f6ll h\u00e5rt om hans axlar, tryckte in sina naglar i hans rygg och sitt ansikte mot hans hals, och det enda han h\u00f6rde var hennes: \"Nej \u2013 nej \u2013 nej...\"\n\n\"Lyssna\", sa han igen. \"Lyra, vi m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka komma ih\u00e5g det exakt. Det kan finnas en utv\u00e4g. Det kan finnas ett kryph\u00e5l.\"\n\nHan lossade varsamt hennes armar och fick henne att s\u00e4tta sig ner. Pantalaimon gled genast skr\u00e4mt upp i hennes kn\u00e4, och kattd\u00e6monen n\u00e4rmade sig f\u00f6rsiktigt Will. De hade inte r\u00f6rt vid varandra \u00e4n, men nu lade han sin hand p\u00e5 henne och hon gned sitt kattansikte mot hans fingrar och klev sedan smidigt upp i hans famn.\n\n\"Han sa...\", b\u00f6rjade Lyra hulkande, \"... han sa att m\u00e4nniskor kan tillbringa ett litet tag i andra v\u00e4rldar utan att p\u00e5verkas. Det g\u00e5r. Och det har ju vi gjort, ju. Bortsett fr\u00e5n det vi m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att ta oss till dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, s\u00e5 m\u00e5r vi ju fortfarande bra, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Ett litet tag, men inte l\u00e4nge\", sa Will. \"Min far var borta fr\u00e5n sin v\u00e4rld, min v\u00e4rld, i tio \u00e5r. Och han var n\u00e4stan d\u00f6ende n\u00e4r jag hittade honom. Tio \u00e5r, inte mer.\"\n\n\"Men lord Boreal, d\u00e5? Sir Charles? Han var ju frisk nog s\u00e5 det r\u00e4ckte.\"\n\n\"Jo, men kom ih\u00e5g att han kunde g\u00e5 in i sin egen v\u00e4rld igen n\u00e4r han hade lust och bli frisk igen. Det var ju faktiskt d\u00e4r du s\u00e5g honom f\u00f6rst, i din v\u00e4rld. Han m\u00e5ste ha hittat n\u00e5t hemligt f\u00f6nster som ingen annan k\u00e4nde till.\"\n\n\"Men d\u00e5 skulle ju vi kunna g\u00f6ra samma sak!\"\n\n\"Det skulle vi, bortsett fr\u00e5n...\"\n\n\"Alla f\u00f6nstren m\u00e5ste st\u00e4ngas\", sa Pantalaimon. \"Allihop.\"\n\n\"Men hur vet ni det?\" fr\u00e5gade Lyra.\n\n\"En \u00e4ngel sa det till oss\", sa Kirjava. \"Vi tr\u00e4ffade en \u00e4ngel. Hon ber\u00e4ttade allt om det, och om andra saker. Det \u00e4r sant, Lyra.\"\n\n\"Hon?\" sa Lyra, uppr\u00f6rt och misst\u00e4nksamt.\n\n\"Det var en kvinnlig \u00e4ngel\", sa Kirjava.\n\n\"N\u00e5n s\u00e5n har jag aldrig h\u00f6rt talas om.\"\n\nWill funderade p\u00e5 en annan m\u00f6jlighet. \"T\u00e4nk om dom st\u00e4ngde alla andra f\u00f6nster\", sa han, \"och vi bara \u00f6ppnade ett n\u00e4r vi beh\u00f6vde, och gick igenom s\u00e5 snabbt vi kunde och st\u00e4ngde det omedelbart \u2013 det borde v\u00e4l vara s\u00e4kert nog? Om vi var s\u00e5 snabba att Stoftet inte hann rinna ut?\"\n\n\"Ja!\"\n\n\"Vi skulle \u00f6ppna det d\u00e4r ingen n\u00e5gonsin skulle kunna hitta det\", fortsatte han, \"och bara vi tv\u00e5 skulle k\u00e4nna till det...\"\n\n\"\u00c5h, det skulle fungera! Det \u00e4r jag s\u00e4ker p\u00e5!\" sa hon.\n\n\"Och vi kunde g\u00e5 fr\u00e5n den ena v\u00e4rlden till den andra och h\u00e5lla oss friska...\"\n\nMen d\u00e6monerna blev uppr\u00f6rda, och Kirjava mumlade: \"Nej, nej\" och Pantalaimon sa: \"Geng\u00e5ngarna... Hon ber\u00e4ttade om Geng\u00e5ngarna ocks\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Geng\u00e5ngarna?\" sa Will. \"Vi s\u00e5g dom f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen under striden. Vad \u00e4r det med dom?\"\n\n\"Jo, vi fick reda p\u00e5 var dom kommer ifr\u00e5n\", sa Kirjava. \"Och det \u00e4r det v\u00e4rsta av alltihop \u2013 dom \u00e4r liksom avgrundens avkomma. Varje g\u00e5ng vi anv\u00e4nder kniven f\u00f6r att \u00f6ppna ett f\u00f6nster, s\u00e5 skapas en Geng\u00e5ngare. Det \u00e4r som om en liten bit av avgrunden kommer ut i v\u00e4rlden. Det var d\u00e4rf\u00f6r Citt\u00e0gazze-v\u00e4rlden var s\u00e5 full av dom, p\u00e5 grund av alla f\u00f6nstren som stod \u00f6ppna d\u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Och dom blir starkare av att leva p\u00e5 Stoft\", sa Pantalaimon. \"Och p\u00e5 d\u00e6moner. F\u00f6r Stoft och d\u00e6moner \u00e4r liksom samma sak, i alla fall vuxna d\u00e6moner. Och Geng\u00e5ngarna v\u00e4xer sig st\u00f6rre och starkare n\u00e4r dom...\"\n\nWill k\u00e4nde en dov skr\u00e4ck i sitt hj\u00e4rta. Kirjava k\u00e4nde det ocks\u00e5 och tryckte sig mot hans br\u00f6st i ett f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att tr\u00f6sta honom.\n\n\"S\u00e5 varenda g\u00e5ng jag har anv\u00e4nt kniven\", sa han, \"varenda g\u00e5ng, s\u00e5 har jag gett liv \u00e5t \u00e4nnu en Geng\u00e5ngare?\"\n\nHan mindes vad Iorek Byrnison hade sagt i grottan n\u00e4r han smidde ihop kniven: _Det du inte vet \u00e4r vad kniven g\u00f6r p\u00e5 egen hand. Du kanske har goda avsikter. Kniven har sina egna._\n\nLyra tittade p\u00e5 honom, med \u00f6gon vid\u00f6ppna av \u00e5ngest.\n\n\"\u00c5h, vi _kan_ inte, Will!\" sa hon. \"Vi kan inte g\u00f6ra s\u00e5 mot folk \u2013 vi kan inte sl\u00e4ppa ut fler Geng\u00e5ngare, inte nu n\u00e4r vi vet vad dom g\u00f6r!\"\n\n\"Okej d\u00e5\", sa han och st\u00e4llde sig upp med sin d\u00e6mon t\u00e4tt tryckt mot br\u00f6stet. \"D\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi \u2013 en av oss m\u00e5ste \u2013 jag kommer till din v\u00e4rld och...\"\n\nHon visste vad han t\u00e4nkte s\u00e4ga, och hon s\u00e5g honom h\u00e5lla sin vackra, friska d\u00e6mon som han inte ens hade b\u00f6rjat l\u00e4ra k\u00e4nna, och hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 hans mamma, och visste att han ocks\u00e5 t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 henne. \u00d6verge henne f\u00f6r att leva med Lyra, de f\u00e5 \u00e5r de skulle f\u00e5 tillsammans \u2013 skulle han kunna g\u00f6ra det? Han skulle leva med Lyra, men hon visste att han inte skulle kunna leva med sig sj\u00e4lv.\n\n\"Nej\", utbrast hon och st\u00e4llde sig bredvid honom, och Kirjava hoppade ner p\u00e5 sanden till Pantalaimon n\u00e4r pojken och flickan desperat omfamnade varandra. \"Jag g\u00f6r det, Will! Vi tar oss till din v\u00e4rld och lever d\u00e4r! Det spelar ingen roll om jag och Pan blir sjuka \u2013 vi \u00e4r starka, jag sl\u00e5r vad om att vi skulle h\u00e5lla ut ett bra tag \u2013 och det finns s\u00e4kert skickliga l\u00e4kare i din v\u00e4rld \u2013 dr Malone vet s\u00e4kert! S\u00e5 g\u00f6r vi!\"\n\nHan skakade p\u00e5 huvudet, och hon s\u00e5g hur t\u00e5rarna glittrade p\u00e5 hans kinder.\n\n\"Tror du verkligen att jag skulle kunna st\u00e5 ut med det, Lyra?\" sa han. \"Tror du att jag skulle kunna leva med att se dig m\u00e5 d\u00e5ligt och bli sjuk och tyna bort och sedan d\u00f6, medan jag v\u00e4xte och blev starkare f\u00f6r varje dag som gick? Tio \u00e5r... Det \u00e4r ingenting. Dom skulle vara borta p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick. Vi skulle vara i tjugo\u00e5rs\u00e5ldern. Det \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt fram i tiden. T\u00e4nk dig det, Lyra, vi har just blivit vuxna och planerar f\u00f6r allt vi vill g\u00f6ra \u2013 och s\u00e5... tar det bara slut. Tror du jag skulle orka leva vidare n\u00e4r du \u00e4r d\u00f6d? \u00c5h, Lyra, jag skulle inte tveka en sekund att f\u00f6lja efter dig till dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld, precis som du f\u00f6ljde efter Roger. D\u00e5 skulle tv\u00e5 liv ta slut i on\u00f6dan, b\u00e5de mitt och ditt. Nej, vi borde vara tillsammans hela v\u00e5r livstid, goda, l\u00e5nga, arbetsamma liv, och om vi inte kan tillbringa dom tillsammans m\u00e5ste vi... m\u00e5ste vi tillbringa dom ensamma.\"\n\nHon bet sig i l\u00e4ppen och tittade p\u00e5 honom medan han gick fram och tillbaka, uppfylld av sin pl\u00e5ga.\n\nHan stannade och v\u00e4nde sig mot henne: \"Minns du mer av det min far sa? Han sa att vi m\u00e5ste bygga Himmelsrepubliken d\u00e4r vi \u00e4r. Han sa att det inte finns n\u00e5gon annanstans f\u00f6r oss. Det var det han menade, det f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag nu. \u00c5h, det \u00e4r f\u00f6r grymt. Jag trodde att han bara menade lord Asriel och hans nya v\u00e4rld, men han menade oss. Vi m\u00e5ste leva i v\u00e5ra egna v\u00e4rldar...\"\n\n\"Jag t\u00e4nker fr\u00e5ga alethiometern\", sa Lyra. \"Den vet. Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r inte varf\u00f6r jag inte t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 den saken tidigare.\"\n\nHon satte sig och torkade sina v\u00e5ta kinder med den ena handen medan hon str\u00e4ckte sig efter ryggs\u00e4cken med den andra. Hon bar den med sig \u00f6verallt: n\u00e4r han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 henne under kommande \u00e5r var det ofta med den lilla v\u00e4skan \u00f6ver axeln. Hon stoppade h\u00e5ret bakom \u00f6ronen med den snabba r\u00f6relse han hade kommit att \u00e4lska och tog fram det svarta sammetsbyltet.\n\n\"Ser du n\u00e5t?\" sa han, f\u00f6r \u00e4ven om m\u00e5nen lyste klart, s\u00e5 var symbolerna mycket sm\u00e5.\n\n\"Jag vet var allihop \u00e4r\", sa hon, \"jag kan det utantill. Var tyst nu...\"\n\nHon satt med benen i kors och kjolen utsp\u00e4nd \u00f6ver kn\u00e4na. Will l\u00e5g lutad mot ena armb\u00e5gen och tittade p\u00e5. Det skarpa m\u00e5nskenet reflekterades av den vita sanden och lyste upp hennes ansikte med ett sken som tycktes dra fram ett ljus inifr\u00e5n henne. Hennes \u00f6gon glittrade, och hennes ansiktsuttryck var s\u00e5 allvarligt och fokuserat att Will kunde ha blivit f\u00f6r\u00e4lskad i henne igen om han inte redan varit helt uppfylld av sin k\u00e4rlek till henne.\n\nLyra andades djupt och b\u00f6rjade vrida p\u00e5 skruvarna. Men efter bara n\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick hejdade hon sig och v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 instrumentet.\n\n\"Fel st\u00e4lle\", sa hon kort, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte igen.\n\nWill s\u00e5g tydligt hennes \u00e4lskade ansikte. Och eftersom han k\u00e4nde det s\u00e5 v\u00e4l, och hade studerat det b\u00e5de n\u00e4r hon hade k\u00e4nt gl\u00e4dje och f\u00f6rtvivlan och hopp och sorg, s\u00e5 kunde han se att n\u00e5got var fel. Det fanns inga sp\u00e5r av den d\u00e4r klara koncentrationen hon s\u00e5 snabbt brukade sjunka in i. Ist\u00e4llet spred sig gradvis en olycklig f\u00f6rvirring \u00f6ver hennes ansikte. Hon bet sig i underl\u00e4ppen, hon blinkade mer och mer, och hennes blick f\u00f6rflyttades l\u00e5ngsamt fr\u00e5n symbol till symbol, ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att snabbt och s\u00e4kert fladdra fram och tillbaka.\n\n\"Jag vet inte\", sa hon och skakade p\u00e5 huvudet, \"jag vet inte vad som har h\u00e4nt... Jag kunde det utantill, men nu f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag ingenting.\"\n\nHon drog ett djupt andetag och v\u00e4nde p\u00e5 instrumentet. Det s\u00e5g konstigt och otympligt ut i hennes hand. Pantalaimon kr\u00f6p i musform upp i hennes kn\u00e4 och vilade sina svarta tassar p\u00e5 kristallen och kikade p\u00e5 den ena symbolen efter den andra. Lyra vred p\u00e5 en skruv, vred p\u00e5 en annan, v\u00e4nde runt alltihop, och tittade sedan med en helt f\u00f6rkrossad min p\u00e5 Will.\n\n\"\u00c5h, Will\", ropade hon, \"jag kan inte g\u00f6ra det! Det har f\u00f6rsvunnit!\"\n\n\"Sch\", sa han, \"lugna dig. Den d\u00e4r kunskapen finns fortfarande kvar d\u00e4r inom dig, alltihop. Var lugn bara och l\u00e5t dig hitta den igen. K\u00e4mpa inte emot. Flyt liksom bara ner och nudda vid den...\"\n\nHon svalde och nickade och drog ilsket handlederna \u00f6ver sina \u00f6gon, och drog flera djupa andetag. Men han kunde se att hon var alltf\u00f6r sp\u00e4nd, s\u00e5 han lade h\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 hennes axlar och n\u00e4r han k\u00e4nde hur hon darrade kramade han henne h\u00e5rt. Hon drog sig ur och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte igen. \u00c4nnu en g\u00e5ng betraktade hon symbolerna, \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng vred hon p\u00e5 skruvarna, men de osynliga stegar av betydelser, som hon tidigare s\u00e5 enkelt och sj\u00e4lvklart hade kl\u00e4ttrat omkring p\u00e5 fanns bara inte d\u00e4r l\u00e4ngre. Hon visste helt enkelt inte vad en enda av symbolerna betydde.\n\nHon v\u00e4nde sig bort och klamrade sig fast vid Will och sa desperat:\n\n\"Det tj\u00e4nar ingenting till \u2013 det vet jag \u2013 det \u00e4r borta f\u00f6r alltid \u2013 det kom bara n\u00e4r jag beh\u00f6vde det f\u00f6r allt jag m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra \u2013 r\u00e4dda Roger, och sedan det h\u00e4r med oss tv\u00e5 \u2013 och nu n\u00e4r det \u00e4r \u00f6ver, nu n\u00e4r allt \u00e4r klart, s\u00e5 f\u00f6rsvann det bara... Jag var r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r att det skulle h\u00e4nda, f\u00f6r det har varit s\u00e5 sv\u00e5rt \u2013 jag trodde att jag s\u00e5g d\u00e5ligt, eller att mina fingrar stelnat, men det var n\u00e5t annat. Kraften h\u00f6ll helt enkelt p\u00e5 att l\u00e4mna mig, den bleknade bort... Den \u00e4r borta, Will! Jag har f\u00f6rlorat den! Den kommer aldrig tillbaka!\"\n\nHon snyftade, desperat och \u00f6vergivet. Allt han kunde g\u00f6ra var att h\u00e5lla henne t\u00e4tt intill sig. Han visste inte hur han skulle kunna tr\u00f6sta henne, f\u00f6r det var uppenbart att hon hade r\u00e4tt.\n\nSedan ryckte b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna till och tittade upp. Will och Lyra k\u00e4nde det ocks\u00e5 och f\u00f6ljde deras blickar mot skyn. Ett ljus r\u00f6rde sig mot dem, ett bevingat ljus.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r nog \u00e4ngeln vi s\u00e5g\", gissade Pantalaimon.\n\nHan gissade r\u00e4tt. Medan pojken och flickan och de tv\u00e5 d\u00e6monerna s\u00e5g henne n\u00e4rma sig bredde Xaphania ut sina vingar och gled ner p\u00e5 sanden. Trots all den tid han hade tillbringat med Balthamos var Will inte redo f\u00f6r detta underliga m\u00f6te. Han och Lyra h\u00f6ll varandra h\u00e5rt i handen n\u00e4r \u00e4ngeln kom emot dem, lysande av ett ljus fr\u00e5n en annan v\u00e4rld. Hon var okl\u00e4dd, men det betydde ingenting: Vilken sorts kl\u00e4der kunde en \u00e4ngel ha p\u00e5 sig? t\u00e4nkte Lyra. Det var om\u00f6jligt att avg\u00f6ra om hon var gammal eller ung, men hon s\u00e5g allvarlig och medlidsam ut, och b\u00e5de Will och Lyra k\u00e4nde att hon visste allt om dem.\n\n\"Will\", sa hon, \"jag har kommit f\u00f6r att be om din hj\u00e4lp.\"\n\n\"Min hj\u00e4lp? Hur ska jag kunna hj\u00e4lpa dig?\"\n\n\"Jag vill att du visar mig hur man st\u00e4nger de \u00f6ppningar som kniven gjort.\"\n\nWill svalde. \"Jag ska visa dig\", sa han, \"och d\u00e5 hj\u00e4lper du v\u00e4l oss?\"\n\n\"Inte p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt som ni skulle vilja. Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r vad ni har talat om. Er sorg har l\u00e4mnat sp\u00e5r i luften. Det finns ingen tr\u00f6st att ge, men tro mig n\u00e4r jag s\u00e4ger att varje varelse som k\u00e4nner till ert problem \u00f6nskar att det gick att l\u00f6sa. Men det finns \u00f6den som inte ens den m\u00e4ktigaste r\u00e5r p\u00e5. Det finns inget jag kan g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa er att \u00e4ndra p\u00e5 det.\"\n\n\"Varf\u00f6r...\", sa Lyra med svag och darrande r\u00f6st, \"... varf\u00f6r kan jag inte l\u00e4sa alethiometern l\u00e4ngre? Inte ens det kan jag g\u00f6ra! Det enda jag var riktigt bra p\u00e5, och s\u00e5 kan jag inte g\u00f6ra det l\u00e4ngre \u2013 det bara f\u00f6rsvann som om det aldrig hade funnits...\"\n\n\"Du l\u00e4ste den av n\u00e5d\", sa Xaphania och tittade p\u00e5 Lyra, \"och du kan f\u00e5 tillbaka det med arbete.\"\n\n\"Hur l\u00e5ng tid tar det?\"\n\n\"En livstid.\"\n\n\"S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge...\"\n\n\"Men d\u00e5 kommer du att vara \u00e4nnu b\u00e4ttre p\u00e5 att l\u00e4sa den, efter en livstids arbete och t\u00e4nkande, f\u00f6r d\u00e5 kommer det genom medveten f\u00f6rst\u00e5else. Arbetets och anstr\u00e4ngningens n\u00e5d g\u00e5r djupare och l\u00e4ngre \u00e4n n\u00e5d utan anstr\u00e4ngning, och vad mera \u00e4r, n\u00e4r du v\u00e4l har den l\u00e4mnar den dig aldrig.\"\n\n\"Du menar en _hel_ livstid, eller hur?\" viskade Lyra. \"Ett helt l\u00e5ngt liv? Inte... Inte bara... n\u00e5gra \u00e5r...\"\n\n\"Ja, det menar jag\", sa \u00e4ngeln.\n\n\"Och _m\u00e5ste_ alla f\u00f6nster st\u00e4ngas?\" sa Will. \"Vartenda ett?\"\n\n\"Det finns en sak som ni m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rst\u00e5\", sa Xaphania: \"Stoftet \u00e4r inte konstant. Det finns inte en viss m\u00e4ngd som aldrig f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras. Medvetna varelser skapar Stoftet \u2013 de \u00e5terskapar det hela tiden, genom att t\u00e4nka och k\u00e4nna och reflektera, genom att skaffa sig visdom och sedan f\u00f6rmedla den vidare.\n\nOch om ni hj\u00e4lper alla andra i er v\u00e4rld att g\u00f6ra just detta, genom att hj\u00e4lpa dem att l\u00e4ra sig saker och att f\u00f6rst\u00e5 b\u00e5de sig sj\u00e4lva och varandra och hur allting h\u00e4nger ihop, och genom att visa dem hur de ska g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att vara v\u00e4nliga ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r grymma, och t\u00e5lmodiga ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r f\u00f6rhastade, och glada ist\u00e4llet f\u00f6r surmulna... D\u00e5 \u00e4r det tillr\u00e4ckligt f\u00f6r att ers\u00e4tta det som f\u00f6rloras genom ett f\u00f6nster. S\u00e5 ett kan l\u00e4mnas \u00f6ppet.\"\n\nWill darrade av sp\u00e4nning, och hela hans medvetande kastade sig mot en enda punkt: mot ett nytt f\u00f6nster i luften mellan hans och Lyras v\u00e4rldar. Det skulle vara deras hemlighet, och de kunde g\u00e5 igenom n\u00e4r de hade lust och leva ett tag i varandras v\u00e4rldar, utan att leva helt i n\u00e5gondera, f\u00f6r att deras d\u00e6moner skulle h\u00e5lla sig friska. De skulle kunna v\u00e4xa upp tillsammans, och kanske skulle de f\u00e5 barn lite senare, som skulle bli hemliga medborgare i tv\u00e5 v\u00e4rldar. Och de skulle kunna ta med sig all kunskap fr\u00e5n den ena v\u00e4rlden in i den andra, de skulle kunna g\u00f6ra s\u00e5 mycket gott...\n\nMen Lyra skakade p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\"Nej\", kved hon tyst, \"vi kan inte, Will...\"\n\nOch pl\u00f6tsligt visste han vad hon t\u00e4nkte och sa med samma pl\u00e5gade tonfall \"Nej, dom d\u00f6da...\"\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste l\u00e4mna det f\u00f6nstret \u00f6ppet \u00e5t dom! Vi m\u00e5ste!\"\n\n\"Ja, f\u00f6r annars...\"\n\n\"Och vi m\u00e5ste skapa tillr\u00e4ckligt mycket Stoft \u00e5t dom, Will, f\u00f6r att kunna h\u00e5lla deras f\u00f6nster \u00f6ppet...\"\n\nHon darrade. Hon k\u00e4nde sig mycket ung n\u00e4r han h\u00f6ll henne t\u00e4tt intill sig.\n\n\"Och om vi g\u00f6r det\", sa han stammande, \"om vi t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 vad vi g\u00f6r med v\u00e5ra liv och anv\u00e4nder dom v\u00e4l, d\u00e5 finns det n\u00e5t att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r harpyorna ocks\u00e5. Vi m\u00e5ste ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r folk, Lyra.\"\n\n\"F\u00f6r dom sanna historierna, jo\", sa hon, \"dom sanna historierna som harpyorna vill h\u00f6ra i utbyte. Jo. F\u00f6r om man lever hela sitt liv och inte har n\u00e5nting att ber\u00e4tta n\u00e4r det \u00e4r \u00f6ver, s\u00e5 kan man aldrig l\u00e4mna dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld. P\u00e5 n\u00e5t s\u00e4tt m\u00e5ste vi ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r folk.\"\n\n\"Men ensamma, Lyra...\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa hon, \"ensamma.\"\n\nVid ordet _ensamma_ k\u00e4nde Will hur en stor v\u00e5g av raseri och f\u00f6rtvivlan br\u00f6t fram ur hans inre, som om hans sj\u00e4l var en uppr\u00f6rd ocean. Han hade varit ensam i hela sitt liv, och nu skulle han \u00e5ter igen bli ensam. Den o\u00e4ndligt dyrbara v\u00e4lsignelse han hade undf\u00e5tt skulle tas ifr\u00e5n honom n\u00e4stan med en g\u00e5ng. Han k\u00e4nde hur v\u00e5gen v\u00e4xte sig s\u00e5 h\u00f6g och brant att himlen f\u00f6rm\u00f6rkades, han k\u00e4nde hur v\u00e5gkammen br\u00f6ts och hur vattenmassan f\u00f6ll med oceanens hela tyngd mot den oundvikliga framtidens j\u00e4rnskodda kust. Han uppt\u00e4ckte att han fl\u00e4mtade och skakade och skrek ut en st\u00f6rre sm\u00e4rta och vrede \u00e4n han k\u00e4nt i hela sitt liv, och Lyra var lika hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6s d\u00e4r hon klamrade sig fast vid honom. Men n\u00e4r v\u00e5gen drog sig tillbaka l\u00e5g de kala klipporna kvar. Det gick inte att resonera med \u00f6det. Varken hans eller Lyras f\u00f6rtvivlan kunde rubba klipporna.\n\nHan visste inte hur l\u00e4nge hans raseri hade varat. Till slut m\u00e5ste det sjunka undan, och oceanen var lite lugnare efter sitt utbrott. Vattnet var fortfarande oroligt, och det skulle kanske aldrig bli stiltje igen, men den \u00f6verv\u00e4ldigande kraften var borta.\n\nDe v\u00e4nde sig mot \u00e4ngeln och s\u00e5g att hon hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt och att hon s\u00f6rjde lika djupt som de. Men hon s\u00e5g l\u00e4ngre \u00e4n vad de gjorde, och hennes ansiktsuttryck rymde \u00e4ven ett visst lugnt hopp.\n\nWill svalde h\u00e5rt och sa: \"Okej. Jag ska visa hur man g\u00f6r f\u00f6r att st\u00e4nga f\u00f6nstren. Men f\u00f6rst m\u00e5ste jag \u00f6ppna ett och g\u00f6ra en Geng\u00e5ngare till. Jag visste inte n\u00e5t om dom f\u00f6rut, f\u00f6r i s\u00e5 fall hade jag varit mycket f\u00f6rsiktigare.\"\n\n\"Vi tar hand om Geng\u00e5ngarna\", sa Xaphania.\n\nWill tog kniven och v\u00e4nde sig mot havet. Till sin egen f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning var han stadig p\u00e5 handen. Han \u00f6ppnade ett f\u00f6nster till sin egen v\u00e4rld, och uppt\u00e4ckte att de blickade ut \u00f6ver en stor fabrik, d\u00e4r ett komplicerat n\u00e4t av r\u00f6r gick mellan byggnader och lagertankar, och d\u00e4r ljus sken fr\u00e5n varje h\u00f6rn och dimsl\u00f6jor steg upp i luften.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r konstigt att t\u00e4nka sig att \u00e4nglarna inte kan g\u00f6ra det h\u00e4r\", sa Will.\n\n\"Kniven uppfanns av m\u00e4nniskor.\"\n\n\"Och ni kommer att st\u00e4nga allihop utom ett\", sa Will. \"Alla utom det som leder ut fr\u00e5n dom d\u00f6das v\u00e4rld?\"\n\n\"Ja, det lovar jag. Men p\u00e5 ett villkor, och ni vet vilket villkoret \u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Ja, det vet vi. \u00c4r det m\u00e5nga f\u00f6nster som m\u00e5ste st\u00e4ngas?\"\n\n\"Tusentals. Den fruktansv\u00e4rda avgrund som bomben skapade och den stora \u00f6ppning som lord Asriel gjorde ut fr\u00e5n sin egen v\u00e4rld. B\u00e5da tv\u00e5 m\u00e5ste st\u00e4ngas, och det kommer att ske. Men det finns \u00e4ven m\u00e5nga sm\u00e5 \u00f6ppningar, vissa djupt under jorden, andra h\u00f6gt upp i luften, och de har kommit till p\u00e5 andra s\u00e4tt.\"\n\n\"Baruch och Balthamos ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r mig att de anv\u00e4nde sig av s\u00e5dana \u00f6ppningar f\u00f6r att resa mellan v\u00e4rldarna. Kommer \u00e4nglarna inte att kunna g\u00f6ra det l\u00e4ngre? Kommer ni att vara begr\u00e4nsade till en enda v\u00e4rld, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som vi?\"\n\n\"Nej. Vi kan f\u00e4rdas p\u00e5 andra s\u00e4tt.\"\n\n\"Det s\u00e4ttet\", sa Lyra, \"kan vi l\u00e4ra oss det?\"\n\n\"Ja, ni kan l\u00e4ra er det, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som Wills far gjorde det. Man anv\u00e4nder sig av det ni kallar fantasi. Men det \u00e4r inte samma sak som att _hitta p\u00e5._ Det \u00e4r ett s\u00e4tt att se.\"\n\n\"Men inte att resa _p\u00e5 riktigt_ \", sa Lyra sorgset. \"Bara _p\u00e5 l\u00e5tsas_.\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa Xaphania, \"inte alls p\u00e5 l\u00e5tsas. Att l\u00e5tsas \u00e4r l\u00e4tt. Det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet \u00e4r sv\u00e5rare, men mycket sannare.\"\n\n\"\u00c4r det som med alethiometern?\" fr\u00e5gade Will. \"Tar det ocks\u00e5 en livstid att l\u00e4ra sig?\"\n\n\"Ja, det kr\u00e4ver mycket tr\u00e4ning. Du m\u00e5ste arbeta h\u00e5rt. Trodde du att det skulle komma bara du kn\u00e4ppte med fingrarna? Allt som \u00e4r v\u00e4rt att ha, \u00e4r ocks\u00e5 v\u00e4rt att k\u00e4mpa f\u00f6r. Men du har en v\u00e4n som redan tagit de f\u00f6rsta stegen, och som kan hj\u00e4lpa dig.\"\n\nWill hade ingen aning om vem hon menade, och k\u00e4nde sig inte p\u00e5 hum\u00f6r f\u00f6r att fr\u00e5ga.\n\n\"Jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r\", sa han suckande. \"Kommer vi att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffas igen? Kommer vi n\u00e5gonsin att f\u00e5 prata med en \u00e4ngel igen n\u00e4r vi v\u00e4l \u00e4r tillbaka i v\u00e5ra egna v\u00e4rldar?\"\n\n\"Det vet jag inte\", sa Xaphania. \"Men \u00e4gna inte er tid \u00e5t v\u00e4ntan.\"\n\n\"Och jag m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra kniven\", sa Will.\n\n\"Ja.\"\n\nMedan de talade hade f\u00f6nstret st\u00e5tt \u00f6ppet bredvid dem. Ljusen sken i fabriken, arbetet p\u00e5gick, maskinerna surrade, kemikalier bands till varandra, folk producerade varor och f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nade sitt uppeh\u00e4lle. Det var i den v\u00e4rlden Will h\u00f6rde hemma.\n\n\"Okej, jag ska visa hur man g\u00f6r\", sa han.\n\nOch han l\u00e4rde \u00e4ngeln att k\u00e4nna efter f\u00f6nstrets kanter, precis som Giacomo Paradisi hade visat honom, hur man kunde k\u00e4nna kanterna med fingertopparna och sedan nypa ihop dem. F\u00f6nstret st\u00e4ngdes lite i taget, och fabriken f\u00f6rsvann.\n\n\"\u00d6ppningarna som _inte_ gjordes av den vassa kniven\", sa Will, \"m\u00e5ste dom verkligen st\u00e4ngas allihop? F\u00f6r Stoftet f\u00f6rsvinner v\u00e4l bara genom dom \u00f6ppningar som kniven har gjort. Dom andra m\u00e5ste ju ha funnits i tusentals \u00e5r, och det finns ju fortfarande Stoft.\"\n\n\u00c4ngeln svarade: \"Vi kommer att st\u00e4nga allihop, f\u00f6r om du trodde att det fortfarande fanns n\u00e5gra kvar skulle du \u00e4gna hela ditt liv \u00e5t att leta efter en, och det vore att sl\u00f6sa bort den tid du har. Du har annat arbete att utf\u00f6ra i din egen v\u00e4rld, som \u00e4r mycket viktigare och v\u00e4rdefullare. Det blir inget mer resande utanf\u00f6r den.\"\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r arbete jag ska g\u00f6ra d\u00e5?\" sa Will, men fortsatte sedan omedelbart: \"Nej, f\u00f6rresten, s\u00e4g det inte. _Jag_ ska best\u00e4mma sj\u00e4lv vad jag ska g\u00f6ra. Om du s\u00e4ger att mitt arbete \u00e4r att sl\u00e5ss, eller l\u00e4ka, eller utforska, eller vad du nu \u00e4n skulle s\u00e4ga, kommer jag att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 det hela tiden, och om jag faktiskt i slut\u00e4nden g\u00f6r just den saken kommer jag att k\u00e4nna avsmak f\u00f6r det eftersom det kommer att k\u00e4nnas som om jag inte hade n\u00e5t val, och om jag inte g\u00f6r det kommer jag att ha d\u00e5ligt samvete, eftersom jag borde g\u00f6ra det. Vad jag \u00e4n g\u00f6r, s\u00e5 ska jag och ingen annan v\u00e4lja vad det \u00e4r.\"\n\n\"D\u00e5 har du redan tagit det f\u00f6rsta steget p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot visdom\", sa Xaphania.\n\n\"Jag ser ett ljus ute p\u00e5 havet\", sa Lyra.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r skeppet med era v\u00e4nner som har kommit f\u00f6r att h\u00e4mta er. De anl\u00e4nder i morgon.\"\n\nOrden _i morgon_ k\u00e4ndes som ett h\u00e5rt slag. Lyra hade aldrig trott att hon skulle tycka illa om tanken p\u00e5 att tr\u00e4ffa Farder Coram och John Faa och Serafina Pekkala.\n\n\"Jag ger mig av nu\", sa \u00e4ngeln. \"Jag har f\u00e5tt reda p\u00e5 det jag m\u00e5ste veta.\"\n\nHon omfamnade var och en av dem med sina l\u00e4tta, svala armar, och kysste dem p\u00e5 pannan. Sedan b\u00f6jde hon sig ner och kysste deras d\u00e6moner, och de blev f\u00e5glar och lyfte tillsammans med henne n\u00e4r hon str\u00e4ckte ut sina vingar och snabbt steg upp mot himlen. Bara n\u00e5gra sekunder senare var hon borta.\n\nN\u00e5gra \u00f6gonblick efter att hon hade f\u00f6rsvunnit drog Lyra hastigt efter andan.\n\n\"Vad \u00e4r det?\" sa Will.\n\n\"Jag fr\u00e5gade henne aldrig om min mor och min far \u2013 och nu kan jag inte fr\u00e5ga alethiometern heller... Jag undrar om jag n\u00e5nsin f\u00e5r veta vad som h\u00e4nde?\"\n\nHon satte sig l\u00e5ngsamt ner, och han satte sig bredvid henne.\n\n\"\u00c5h, Will\", sa hon, \"vad ska vi g\u00f6ra? Vad kan vi g\u00f6ra? Jag vill leva med dig f\u00f6r alltid. Jag vill kyssa dig och sova med dig och vakna med dig varenda dag i hela mitt liv \u00e4nda tills jag d\u00f6r, om m\u00e5nga, m\u00e5nga \u00e5r. Jag vill inte ha ett minne, bara ett minne...\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa han, \"ett minne \u00e4r en ganska ynklig sak att ha. Det \u00e4r ditt eget riktiga h\u00e5r och mun och armar och \u00f6gon och h\u00e4nder jag vill ha. Jag visste inte att jag skulle kunna \u00e4lska n\u00e5nting s\u00e5 mycket. \u00c5h, Lyra, jag \u00f6nskar att den h\u00e4r natten varade f\u00f6r evigt! Om vi bara kunde stanna h\u00e4r p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet, och v\u00e4rlden kunde sluta snurra, och alla andra kunde falla i s\u00f6mn...\"\n\n\"Alla utom vi! Och du och jag skulle kunna leva h\u00e4r f\u00f6r alltid och bara \u00e4lska varandra.\"\n\n\"Jag _kommer_ att \u00e4lska dig f\u00f6r alltid, vad som \u00e4n h\u00e4nder. Tills jag d\u00f6r, och n\u00e4r jag har d\u00f6tt, och n\u00e4r jag har hittat v\u00e4gen ut ur dom d\u00f6das land kommer jag att flyta omkring f\u00f6r alltid, varenda en av mina atomer, tills jag hittar dig igen...\"\n\n\"Jag kommer att leta efter dig, Will, vartenda \u00f6gonblick, i varje enskilt \u00f6gonblick. Och n\u00e4r vi hittar varandra igen s\u00e5 tyr vi oss till varandra s\u00e5 t\u00e4tt att ingen och ingenting n\u00e5nsin kan skilja oss \u00e5t. Varenda en av mina atomer och varenda en av dina... Vi ska leva i f\u00e5glar och blommor och trollsl\u00e4ndor och tallar och i molnen och i dom d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 ljusprickarna som sv\u00e4var omkring i solstr\u00e5larna... Och n\u00e4r v\u00e5ra atomer anv\u00e4nds f\u00f6r att skapa nya liv kommer dom inte att kunna ta bara _en_ , dom m\u00e5ste ta tv\u00e5, en fr\u00e5n dig och en fr\u00e5n mig, vi kommer att sitta s\u00e5 t\u00e4tt ihop...\"\n\nDe l\u00e5g sida vid sida, hand i hand, och tittade upp mot himlen.\n\n\"Minns du\", viskade hon, \"n\u00e4r du kom in p\u00e5 kaf\u00e9et i Ci'gazze f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen, och du aldrig hade sett en d\u00e6mon tidigare?\"\n\n\"Jag kunde inte r\u00e4kna ut vad han var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got. Men n\u00e4r jag s\u00e5g dig tyckte jag om dig direkt f\u00f6r att du var s\u00e5 modig.\"\n\n\"Nej, jag tyckte om dig f\u00f6rst!\"\n\n\"Gjorde du ju inte! Du slogs ju med mig!\"\n\n\"Hmm\", sa hon, \"jo. Men du anf\u00f6ll mig.\"\n\n\"Gjorde jag ju inte alls! Du hoppade p\u00e5 _mig_!\"\n\n\"Ja, men jag slutade snabbt.\"\n\n\"Ja, men\", sa han, l\u00e4tt retsamt.\n\nHan k\u00e4nde hur hon darrade och sedan b\u00f6rjade de tunna revbenen i hennes rygg att stiga och falla under hans h\u00e4nder och han h\u00f6rde henne snyfta tyst. Han str\u00f6k med handen \u00f6ver hennes varma h\u00e5r, hennes mjuka axlar, och sedan kysste han hennes ansikte om och om igen, och till slut suckade hon djupt och blev stilla.\n\nD\u00e6monerna fl\u00f6g tillbaka ner och \u00e4ndrade form igen och kom emot dem \u00f6ver den mjuka sanden. Lyra satte sig upp f\u00f6r att h\u00e4lsa dem, och Will f\u00f6rundrades \u00f6ver hur han omedelbart kunde se vilken d\u00e6mon som var vilken, oavsett vilken form de hade. Pantalaimon var nu ett djur vars namn han inte riktigt kunde komma ih\u00e5g: som en stor och kraftfull iller, med p\u00e4ls i r\u00f6tt och guld, smidig och senig och mycket \u00e4del. Kirjava var en katt igen. Men hon var st\u00f6rre \u00e4n n\u00e5gon vanlig katt, och hennes h\u00e5rrem var tjock och gl\u00e4nsande, med tusentals olika nyanser och dagrar av bl\u00e4cksvart, skuggr\u00e5tt, bl\u00e5tt som en djup sj\u00f6 mitt p\u00e5 dagen, r\u00f6k-lavendel-m\u00e5nljus-dimma... F\u00f6r att f\u00f6rst\u00e5 betydelsen av ordet _uts\u00f6kt_ beh\u00f6vde man bara titta p\u00e5 hennes p\u00e4ls.\n\n\"En m\u00e5rd\" sa han, n\u00e4r han kom p\u00e5 vad Pantalaimon var f\u00f6r n\u00e5got, \"han \u00e4r en skogsm\u00e5rd.\"\n\n\"Pan\", sa Lyra d\u00e5 han gled upp i hennes kn\u00e4, \"du kommer inte att \u00e4ndras s\u00e5 mycket mer, va?\"\n\n\"Nej\", sa han.\n\n\"Det \u00e4r lustigt\", sa hon, \"minns du n\u00e4r vi var yngre och jag inte ville att du n\u00e5nsin skulle sluta f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras... Tja, jag skulle inte bry mig s\u00e5 mycket nu. Inte om du forts\u00e4tter att vara s\u00e5 h\u00e4r.\"\n\nWill lade sin hand \u00f6ver hennes. Han hade n\u00e5tt ett nytt k\u00e4nslol\u00e4ge d\u00e4r han k\u00e4nde sig beslutsam och fridfull. Han visste precis vad han gjorde och vad det betydde, n\u00e4r han flyttade sin hand fr\u00e5n Lyras handled och str\u00f6k \u00f6ver hennes d\u00e6mons r\u00f6dgyllene p\u00e4ls.\n\nLyra drog hastigt efter andan. Men hennes \u00f6verraskning blandades med en njutning som var som gl\u00e4djen som hade fl\u00f6dat genom henne d\u00e5 hon satte frukten mot hans l\u00e4ppar, och hon kunde inte protestera, f\u00f6r hon hade helt tappat andan. Med bultande hj\u00e4rta svarade hon p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt: hon lade sin hand p\u00e5 Wills d\u00e6mons varma silkesp\u00e4ls, och d\u00e5 hennes fingrar kn\u00f6ts runt f\u00e4llen visste hon att Will k\u00e4nde p\u00e5 precis samma s\u00e4tt som hon gjorde.\n\nOch hon visste ocks\u00e5 att ingen av d\u00e6monerna skulle f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras l\u00e4ngre, sedan de hade k\u00e4nt en \u00e4lskares hand p\u00e5 sig. Detta var deras livs former: de skulle inte \u00f6nska sig n\u00e5gra andra.\n\nDe lade sig ner, och medan jorden l\u00e5ngsamt snurrade och m\u00e5nen och stj\u00e4rnorna str\u00e5lade \u00f6ver dem, undrade de f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lva om andra \u00e4lskande f\u00f6re dem hade gjort samma v\u00e4lsignade uppt\u00e4ckt.\n\n## 38\n\n## Botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden\n\nGYPTIERNA ANL\u00c4NDE P\u00c5 eftermiddagen f\u00f6ljande dag. Det fanns givetvis ingen hamn, s\u00e5 de fick ankra en bit ut fr\u00e5n stranden. John Faa, Farder Coram och kaptenen tog sig iland i den stora skeppsb\u00e5ten med Serafina Pekkala som v\u00e4gvisare.\n\nMary hade ber\u00e4ttat s\u00e5 mycket hon kunde f\u00f6r muleforna, s\u00e5 n\u00e4r gyptierna steg iland p\u00e5 stranden h\u00e4lsades de av en nyfiken folkmassa. B\u00e5da sidorna brann av nyfikenhet, men John Faa hade l\u00e4rt sig mycket om artighet och t\u00e5lamod under sitt l\u00e5nga liv, och han var fast besluten att detta underliga folk inte skulle m\u00f6ta annat \u00e4n belevad v\u00e4nskaplighet fr\u00e5n de v\u00e4stra gyptiernas ledare.\n\nD\u00e4rf\u00f6r stod han l\u00e4nge i den br\u00e4nnande solen och lyssnade n\u00e4r den gamle zalifen Sattamax h\u00f6ll sitt v\u00e4lkomsttal. Mary \u00f6versatte s\u00e5 gott hon kunde, och John Faa gav ett svarstal d\u00e4r han framf\u00f6rde sina h\u00e4lsningar fr\u00e5n the Fens och sitt hemlands vattenleder.\n\nN\u00e4r de b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6rflytta sig genom sankmarken upp mot byn s\u00e5g muleforna hur sv\u00e5rt Farder Coram hade att g\u00e5, s\u00e5 de erbj\u00f6d sig genast att b\u00e4ra honom. Han accepterade tacksamt, och p\u00e5 s\u00e5 s\u00e4tt tog de sig till samlingsplatsen, d\u00e4r Will och Lyra v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 dem.\n\nHur l\u00e4nge sedan var det inte Lyra hade sett sina k\u00e4ra v\u00e4nner! De hade inte pratat med varandra sedan sn\u00f6n i Arktis, n\u00e4r de var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda barnen fr\u00e5n Slukarna. Hon blev n\u00e4stan blyg, och str\u00e4ckte tvekande fram handen, men John Faa lyfte upp henne och gav henne en stor bj\u00f6rnkram och kysste henne p\u00e5 b\u00e5da kinderna. Farder Coram gjorde likadant, men han studerade henne noga innan han tryckte henne till sitt br\u00f6st.\n\n\"Hon har vuxit, John\", sa han. \"Minns du den d\u00e4r lilla flickan vi tog med oss till Norden? Titta p\u00e5 henne nu! Lyra mitt hj\u00e4rta, inte ens om jag hade en \u00e4ngels tunga kunde jag hitta ord f\u00f6r att beskriva hur glad jag \u00e4r \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa dig igen.\"\n\nMen hon ser s\u00e5 pl\u00e5gad ut, t\u00e4nkte han, s\u00e5 br\u00e4cklig och tr\u00f6tt. Och varken han eller John Faa kunde undg\u00e5 att m\u00e4rka hur hon h\u00f6ll sig t\u00e4tt intill Will, och hur pojken med de raka, svarta \u00f6gonbrynen i varje \u00f6gonblick visste var hon var, och aldrig var l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n hennes sida.\n\nDe \u00e4ldre m\u00e4nnen h\u00e4lsade respektfullt p\u00e5 honom, f\u00f6r Serafina Pekkala hade ber\u00e4ttat en del om vad Will hade gjort. Will \u00e5 sin sida beundrade Lord Faas kraftfulla utstr\u00e5lning, styrka blandad med artighet, och han t\u00e4nkte att s\u00e5 ville han sj\u00e4lv upptr\u00e4da n\u00e4r han var vuxen. John Faa var ett skydd och en trygghet.\n\n\"Dr Malone\", sa John Faa, \"vi m\u00e5ste fylla p\u00e5 f\u00e4rskvatten och komplettera med den mat era v\u00e4nner vill s\u00e4lja till oss. Dessutom har v\u00e5ra m\u00e4n varit ombord ganska l\u00e4nge nu, och vi har utk\u00e4mpat en del strider. Det vore en v\u00e4lsignelse om de fick komma iland och andas det h\u00e4r landets luft. S\u00e5 f\u00e5r de dessutom n\u00e5got att ber\u00e4tta om den v\u00e4rld de f\u00e4rdats till, n\u00e4r de kommer hem till sina familjer igen.\"\n\n\"Lord Faa\", sa Mary, \"muleforna har bett mig h\u00e4lsa er att de kommer att f\u00f6rse er med allt ni beh\u00f6ver, och att det skulle vara en \u00e4ra f\u00f6r dem om ni alla vill komma och dela deras m\u00e5ltid i kv\u00e4ll.\"\n\n\"Det \u00e4r en stor gl\u00e4dje f\u00f6r oss att kunna tacka ja till en s\u00e5dan inbjudan\", svarade John Faa.\n\nDen kv\u00e4llen delade folk fr\u00e5n tre v\u00e4rldar br\u00f6d och k\u00f6tt och frukt och vin. Gyptierna erbj\u00f6d sina v\u00e4rdar g\u00e5vor fr\u00e5n sin v\u00e4rlds alla h\u00f6rn: krus fyllda med jenniver, smyckade valrossbetar, sidentyg fr\u00e5n Turkestan, silverb\u00e4gare fr\u00e5n Svecias gruvor, porslin fr\u00e5n Korea.\n\nMuleforna tog emot dem med gl\u00e4dje och erbj\u00f6d sitt eget hantverk i utbyte: unika beh\u00e5llare av ur\u00e5ldrigt knuttr\u00e4, l\u00e4ngder av utm\u00e4rkt rep, lackerade sk\u00e5lar, och fiskn\u00e4t som var s\u00e5 starka och l\u00e4tta att inte ens gyptierna, som levde i the Fens, hade sett n\u00e5got liknande.\n\nEfter den gemensamma festen tackade kaptenen v\u00e4rdarna och l\u00e4mnade s\u00e4llskapet f\u00f6r att \u00f6vervaka n\u00e4r bes\u00e4ttningen lastade ombord de f\u00f6rr\u00e5d och det vatten man beh\u00f6vde, f\u00f6r de t\u00e4nkte ge sig av s\u00e5 snart det ljusnade. Medan de var i f\u00e4rd med detta, sa den gamle zalifen till sina g\u00e4ster:\n\n_En stor f\u00f6r\u00e4ndring har skett. Vi har f\u00e5tt en uppgift som tecken p\u00e5 detta. Vi skulle vilja visa er vad den inneb\u00e4r._\n\nS\u00e5 John Faa, Farder Coram, Mary och Serafina f\u00f6ljde med dem till den plats d\u00e4r de d\u00f6das land hade sin \u00f6ppning, och d\u00e4r andarna fortfarande kom ut i sin \u00e4ndl\u00f6sa procession. Muleforna hade planterat en dunge runt omkring den, f\u00f6r de sa att det var en helig plats och att de skulle bevara den f\u00f6r alltid; den var en k\u00e4lla till gl\u00e4dje.\n\n\"Ja, det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ett mysterium\", sa Farder Coram, \"och jag \u00e4r glad att jag f\u00e5tt leva l\u00e4nge nog f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 uppleva det. Att g\u00e5 in i d\u00f6dens m\u00f6rker \u00e4r n\u00e5got vi fruktar allihop. Vad vi \u00e4n s\u00e4ger, s\u00e5 fruktar vi det. Men om det finns en utv\u00e4g f\u00f6r den del av oss som m\u00e5ste stiga ner i m\u00f6rkret, s\u00e5 g\u00f6r det mitt hj\u00e4rta l\u00e4ttare.\"\n\n\"Du har r\u00e4tt, Coram\", sa John Faa. \"Jag har sett \u00e5tskilliga m\u00e4nniskor d\u00f6, och jag har sj\u00e4lv skickat nog s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga m\u00e4n ner i m\u00f6rkret, om \u00e4n alltid i stridens raseri. Att veta att man kommer ut igen efter en kort stund i m\u00f6rkret till ett s\u00e5 vackert land som det h\u00e4r, f\u00f6r att sedan kunna fara fri genom himlen som f\u00e5glarna, tja, det \u00e4r det st\u00f6rsta l\u00f6fte n\u00e5gon kunnat hoppas p\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Vi m\u00e5ste tala med Lyra om det h\u00e4r\", sa Farder Coram, \"och ta reda p\u00e5 hur det kom sig, och vad det inneb\u00e4r.\"\n\nMary tyckte att det var sv\u00e5rt att s\u00e4ga adj\u00f6 till Atal och de andra muleforna. Innan hon gick ombord p\u00e5 skeppet gav de henne en g\u00e5va: en liten lackerad flaska med lite hjultr\u00e4dsolja, och det allra dyrbaraste, en liten p\u00e5se med fr\u00f6n.\n\n_De kanske inte v\u00e4xer i din v\u00e4rld,_ sa Atal, _men i s\u00e5 fall har du \u00e5tminstone oljan. Gl\u00f6m oss inte_ , _Mary_.\n\n_Aldrig_ , sa Mary. _Aldrig. Om jag s\u00e5 lever lika l\u00e4nge som h\u00e4xorna och gl\u00f6mmer allting annat, s\u00e5 kommer jag aldrig att gl\u00f6mma dig och ditt folks v\u00e4nlighet, Atal._\n\nS\u00e5 b\u00f6rjade resan hem. Vinden var l\u00e4tt, vattnet var lugnt, och \u00e4ven om de mer \u00e4n en g\u00e5ng s\u00e5g glittret av de stora sn\u00f6vita vingarna, s\u00e5 var f\u00e5glarna f\u00f6rsiktiga och h\u00f6ll sig undan. Will och Lyra tillbringade all tid tillsammans, och f\u00f6r dem tycktes det som om resans tv\u00e5 veckor f\u00f6rsvann p\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick.\n\nXaphania hade ber\u00e4ttat f\u00f6r Serafina Pekkala att s\u00e5 snart alla \u00f6ppningarna hade st\u00e4ngts, s\u00e5 skulle alla v\u00e4rldarna \u00e5terg\u00e5 till sin r\u00e4tta ordning i f\u00f6rh\u00e5llande till varandra, s\u00e5 att Lyras och Wills Oxford \u00e5terigen skulle ligga \u00f6ver varandra, likt genomskinliga bilder som flyttades n\u00e4rmare och n\u00e4rmare varandra tills de verkade sm\u00e4lta samman, trots att de egentligen aldrig r\u00f6rde vid varandra.\n\nF\u00f6r \u00f6gonblicket var de dock l\u00e5ngt ifr\u00e5n varandra \u2013 lika l\u00e5ngt som Lyra hade varit tvungen att resa fr\u00e5n sitt Oxford till Citt\u00e0gazze. D\u00e4r l\u00e5g nu Wills Oxford, bara en knivs\u00f6ppning bort. De anl\u00e4nde p\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen, och n\u00e4r ankaret plaskade ner i vattnet l\u00e5g kv\u00e4llssolen varm \u00f6ver de gr\u00f6na kullarna, terrakottataken, den elegant nedrasade kajen och Wills och Lyras lilla kaf\u00e9. De spanade l\u00e4nge genom kaptenens teleskop utan att se n\u00e5gra som helst livstecken, men John Faa planerade \u00e4nd\u00e5 att ta iland ett halvdussin bev\u00e4pnade m\u00e4n, bara f\u00f6r s\u00e4kerhets skull. De skulle inte st\u00f6ra n\u00e5got, men de fanns d\u00e4r om de beh\u00f6vdes.\n\nDe \u00e5t en sista m\u00e5ltid tillsammans och s\u00e5g hur m\u00f6rkret f\u00f6ll. Will sa adj\u00f6 till kaptenen och hans \u00f6vriga bef\u00e4l, och till John Faa och Farder Coram. Han hade knappt verkat l\u00e4gga m\u00e4rke till dem alls, och de s\u00e5g honom tydligare \u00e4n han s\u00e5g dem: de s\u00e5g en ung, men mycket stark man, som blivit h\u00e5rt drabbad.\n\nSlutligen begav sig Will och Lyra och deras d\u00e6moner och Mary och Serafina Pekkala ut i den tomma staden. Och den var verkligen tom, fylld endast av deras egna fotsteg och skuggor. Lyra och Will gick f\u00f6rst, hand i hand, till platsen d\u00e4r de m\u00e5ste skiljas \u00e5t, och kvinnorna h\u00f6ll sig n\u00e5got bakom dem, och pratade med varandra som systrar.\n\n\"Lyra vill f\u00f6lja med en liten bit in i mitt Oxford\", sa Mary. \"Det \u00e4r n\u00e5got hon vill g\u00f6ra. Hon kommer tillbaka direkt efter\u00e5t.\"\n\n\"Vad ska du g\u00f6ra, Mary?\"\n\n\"Jag \u2013 f\u00f6lja med Will, f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. Vi \u00e5ker till min l\u00e4genhet \u2013 mitt hus \u2013 i kv\u00e4ll, och i morgon tar vi reda p\u00e5 var hans mamma \u00e4r n\u00e5gonstans, och ser vad vi kan g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att hon ska bli b\u00e4ttre. Min v\u00e4rld \u00e4r s\u00e5 full av regler och f\u00f6rordningar, Serafina, man m\u00e5ste tillfredsst\u00e4lla myndigheterna och svara p\u00e5 tusentals fr\u00e5gor. Jag ska hj\u00e4lpa honom med den juridiska sidan av saken, med socialtj\u00e4nsten och med boendet och allt s\u00e5dant, och l\u00e5ta honom \u00e4gna sig \u00e5t sin mamma. Det \u00e4r en stark pojke... Men jag ska hj\u00e4lpa honom. F\u00f6r \u00f6vrigt s\u00e5 _beh\u00f6ver_ jag honom. Jag har inget jobb l\u00e4ngre, och jag skulle inte bli f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad om jag har polisen efter mig... Han \u00e4r den enda i hela min v\u00e4rld som jag kan tala med om allt det h\u00e4r.\"\n\nDe gick vidare l\u00e4ngs de tysta gatorna, f\u00f6rbi ett fyrkantigt torn med en d\u00f6rr som \u00f6ppnade sig in\u00e5t i m\u00f6rkret, f\u00f6rbi ett litet kaf\u00e9 med bord som stod utanf\u00f6r p\u00e5 trottoaren, och ut p\u00e5 en bred boulevard med en rad palmer i mitten.\n\n\"Det var h\u00e4r jag tog mig igenom\", sa Mary.\n\nH\u00e4r fanns f\u00f6nstret som Will hade sett f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen fr\u00e5n den lugna f\u00f6rortsgatan i Oxford, och p\u00e5 andra sidan stod polisen p\u00e5 vakt \u2013 eller hade i alla fall gjort det n\u00e4r Mary lurade dem att l\u00e5ta henne g\u00e5 igenom. Hon s\u00e5g hur Will str\u00e4ckte sig mot platsen och skickligt r\u00f6rde h\u00e4nderna i luften s\u00e5 att f\u00f6nstret f\u00f6rsvann.\n\n\"De f\u00e5r en liten \u00f6verraskning n\u00e4sta g\u00e5ng de tittar efter\", sa hon.\n\nLyra t\u00e4nkte f\u00f6lja med till Marys Oxford och visa Will n\u00e5got innan hon \u00e5terv\u00e4nde med Serafina, s\u00e5 de m\u00e5ste vara f\u00f6rsiktiga med var n\u00e5gonstans de skar igenom. Kvinnorna f\u00f6ljde med dem genom Citt\u00e0gazzes m\u00e5nbelysta gator. P\u00e5 h\u00f6ger sida ledde en stor och vacker park upp mot ett stort hus, med pelare i klassiskt snitt gl\u00e4nsande som sockerglasyr i m\u00e5nskenet.\n\n\"N\u00e4r du ber\u00e4ttade hur min d\u00e6mon s\u00e5g ut\", sa Mary, \"s\u00e5 sa du att du kunde l\u00e4ra mig att se honom, om vi hade tid... Jag \u00f6nskar att vi hade det.\"\n\n\"Tja, vi har ju haft tid\", sa Serafina Pekkala, \"och har vi inte samtalat? Jag har l\u00e4rt dig lite h\u00e4xkunskap, vilket \u00e4r f\u00f6rbjudet enligt min v\u00e4rlds gamla seder. Men du reser tillbaka till din egen v\u00e4rld, och de gamla sederna har f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats. Och \u00e4ven jag har l\u00e4rt mig mycket fr\u00e5n dig. N\u00e4r du talade med Skuggorna p\u00e5 din dator, s\u00e5 var du tvungen att inta ett speciellt sinnestillst\u00e5nd, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Jo... precis som Lyra med alethiometern. Menar du att jag ska prova det?\"\n\n\"Inte bara det, utan vanligt seende samtidigt. F\u00f6rs\u00f6k.\"\n\nDet fanns en sorts bilder i Marys v\u00e4rld, som till att b\u00f6rja med s\u00e5g ut som slumpm\u00e4ssiga f\u00e4rgprickar, men n\u00e4r man tittade p\u00e5 dem p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4rskilt s\u00e4tt tycktes de \u00f6verg\u00e5 i tre dimensioner: och i mitten av papperet framtr\u00e4dde d\u00e5 ett tr\u00e4d eller ett ansikte eller n\u00e5got annat lika \u00f6verraskande p\u00e5tagligt som inte hade funnits d\u00e4r innan.\n\nDet Serafina nu l\u00e4rde Mary att g\u00f6ra var n\u00e5got liknande. Hon var tvungen att h\u00e5lla fast vid sitt vanliga s\u00e4tt att se, samtidigt som hon gled \u00f6ver i det transliknande dr\u00f6mmande som l\u00e4t henne se Skuggorna. Men nu m\u00e5ste hon g\u00f6ra b\u00e5da delarna samtidigt, det vanliga och transen, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som man m\u00e5ste titta \u00e5t tv\u00e5 h\u00e5ll samtidigt f\u00f6r att kunna se de tredimensionella figurerna bland f\u00e4rgprickarna.\n\nOch p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som med f\u00e4rgprickarna, lyckades hon helt pl\u00f6tsligt.\n\n\"\u00c5h!\" utropade hon, och grep tag i Serafinas arm f\u00f6r att kunna h\u00e5lla sig uppr\u00e4tt, f\u00f6r d\u00e4r p\u00e5 j\u00e4rnstaketet runt parken satt en f\u00e5gel: mattsvart, med r\u00f6da ben och b\u00f6jd gul n\u00e4bb. Det var en alpkr\u00e5ka, precis som Serafina beskrivit den. Den \u2013 han \u2013 satt bara n\u00e5gon meter bort, och tittade p\u00e5 henne med huvudet p\u00e5 sned, som om han vore l\u00e4tt road.\n\nMen hon blev s\u00e5 f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad att hon tappade koncentrationen, och han f\u00f6rsvann.\n\n\"Du har lyckats med det en g\u00e5ng, och n\u00e4sta g\u00e5ng kommer det att g\u00e5 l\u00e4ttare\", sa Serafina. \"N\u00e4r du \u00e4r i din egen v\u00e4rld kommer du att l\u00e4ra dig att se andra d\u00e6moner ocks\u00e5, p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt. Men de kommer inte att se din eller Wills, om du inte l\u00e4r dem p\u00e5 det s\u00e4tt som jag har l\u00e4rt dig.\"\n\n\"Ja... \u00c5h, det h\u00e4r \u00e4r fantastiskt. Ja!\"\n\nMary t\u00e4nkte: Talade inte Lyra med sin d\u00e6mon? Skulle hon kunna h\u00f6ra den h\u00e4r f\u00e5geln, och inte bara se honom? Hon fortsatte att g\u00e5, full av f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntan.\n\nFramf\u00f6r dem hade Will skurit upp ett f\u00f6nster, och han och Lyra v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 kvinnorna, f\u00f6r att han skulle kunna st\u00e4nga det igen.\n\n\"Vet du var vi \u00e4r n\u00e5nstans?\" sa Will.\n\nMary s\u00e5g sig om. V\u00e4gen de stod p\u00e5 nu, i hennes egen v\u00e4rld, var stilla och kantades av tr\u00e4d och stora viktorianska hus med tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rdar fyllda av buskar.\n\n\"N\u00e5gonstans i norra Oxford\", sa Mary. \"Inte l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n min l\u00e4genhet, faktiskt, \u00e4ven om jag inte \u00e4r helt s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 vilken gata det h\u00e4r \u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Jag vill g\u00e5 till botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden\", sa Lyra.\n\n\"Okej, jag tror att det \u00e4r ungef\u00e4r en kvarts promenad. Hit\u00e5t...\"\n\nMary provade dubbelseendet igen. Den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen gick det l\u00e4ttare, och d\u00e4r var alpkr\u00e5kan, tillsammans med henne i hennes egen v\u00e4rld, sittande p\u00e5 en gren som h\u00e4ngde ner \u00f6ver trottoaren. Hon h\u00f6ll ut handen f\u00f6r att se vad som skulle h\u00e4nda, och han klev utan tvekan upp p\u00e5 den. Hon kunde k\u00e4nna den l\u00e4tta tyngden, hur klorna grep om hennes finger, och hon flyttade honom f\u00f6rsiktigt till sin axel. Han satte sig till r\u00e4tta som om han h\u00e5llit till d\u00e4r under hela hennes liv.\n\nTja, det har han ju, t\u00e4nkte hon, och fortsatte att g\u00e5.\n\nDet var inte mycket trafik p\u00e5 High Street, och de var helt ensamma n\u00e4r de gick ner f\u00f6r trapporna mitt emot Magdalen College p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot grinden in till botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden. Det fanns en utsmyckad port\u00f6ppning d\u00e4r, med stenb\u00e4nkar inuti, och medan Mary och Serafina slog sig ner d\u00e4r kl\u00e4ttrade Will och Lyra \u00f6ver staketet in i sj\u00e4lva tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden. Deras d\u00e6moner smet in mellan spj\u00e4lorna och fl\u00f6t i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g in i tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden.\n\n\"Den h\u00e4r v\u00e4gen\", sa Lyra, och drog Will i handen.\n\nHon ledde honom f\u00f6rbi en damm med en font\u00e4n under ett tr\u00e4d med en stor krona, och vek sedan av \u00e5t v\u00e4nster mellan blomsterrabatterna mot en enorm, m\u00e5ngstammad tall. Det fanns en tjock stenmur med en port i d\u00e4r borta, och i tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden bortom denna var tr\u00e4den yngre och planteringen mindre strikt och formell. Lyra ledde honom n\u00e4stan till slutet av tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden, \u00f6ver en liten bro, och fram till en tr\u00e4b\u00e4nk under ett tr\u00e4d som bredde ut sina l\u00e5ga grenar \u00f6ver marken.\n\n\"Ja!\" sa hon. \"Jag hoppades s\u00e5 mycket p\u00e5 det, och h\u00e4r \u00e4r det, precis detsamma... Will, jag brukade komma hit i _mitt_ Oxford och sitta p\u00e5 precis samma b\u00e4nk n\u00e4r jag ville vara i fred, bara jag och Pan. Det jag t\u00e4nkte var att om du \u2013 kanske bara en g\u00e5ng om \u00e5ret \u2013 om vi kunde komma hit samtidigt, bara f\u00f6r n\u00e5n timme, s\u00e5 kunde vi l\u00e5tsas att vi var tillsammans igen \u2013 f\u00f6r vi skulle vara tillsammans, om du satt h\u00e4r, och jag satt precis h\u00e4r i min v\u00e4rld...\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa han, \"s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge jag lever t\u00e4nker jag komma tillbaka hit. Var jag \u00e4n befinner mig i v\u00e4rlden s\u00e5 t\u00e4nker jag \u00e5terv\u00e4nda hit...\"\n\n\"P\u00e5 midsommardagen\" sa hon. \"Mitt p\u00e5 dagen. S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge jag lever. S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge jag lever...\"\n\nHan uppt\u00e4ckte att han inte kunde se n\u00e5got l\u00e4ngre, men han l\u00e4t de heta t\u00e5rarna falla och h\u00f6ll henne t\u00e4tt intill sig.\n\n\"Och om vi \u2013 senare...\", viskade hon stammande, \"... om vi tr\u00e4ffar n\u00e5gon vi tycker om, och om vi gifter oss med den personen, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi vara sn\u00e4lla mot dom, och inte j\u00e4mf\u00f6ra hela tiden och \u00f6nska att vi var gifta med varandra ist\u00e4llet... Men bara forts\u00e4tta komma hit en g\u00e5ng om \u00e5ret, bara under en timme, bara f\u00f6r att vara tillsammans...\"\n\nDe h\u00f6ll varandra h\u00e5rt. Minuterna gick. En vattenf\u00e5gel p\u00e5 floden bredvid dem vaknade till och ropade. D\u00e5 och d\u00e5 k\u00f6rde en bil \u00f6ver Magdalen Bridge.\n\nTill slut sl\u00e4ppte de varandra.\n\n\"D\u00e5 s\u00e5\", sa Lyra l\u00e5gt.\n\nI det \u00f6gonblicket var hela hon stilla; och det blev senare ett av hans vackraste minnen \u2013 hennes sp\u00e4nda smidighet uppmjukad av dimman, hennes \u00f6gon och h\u00e4nder, men framf\u00f6r allt hennes l\u00e4ppar, o\u00e4ndligt mjuka. Han kysste henne om och om igen, och varje kyss f\u00f6rde honom n\u00e4rmare den allra sista kyssen.\n\nDe gick tillbaka till porten, tunga och mosiga av sin k\u00e4rlek. Mary och Serafina v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 dem.\n\n\"Lyra...\", sa Will, och hon sa: \"Will.\"\n\nHan skar upp ett f\u00f6nster mot Citt\u00e0gazze. De befann sig djupt inne i parken runt det stora huset, inte l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n skogsbrynet. De klev igenom f\u00f6r sista g\u00e5ngen och tittade ut \u00f6ver den tysta staden, p\u00e5 tegeltaken som gl\u00e4nste i m\u00e5nskenet, p\u00e5 tornet ovanf\u00f6r dem, p\u00e5 det upplysta skeppet som v\u00e4ntade ute p\u00e5 det stilla havet.\n\nWill v\u00e4nde sig mot Serafina och sa s\u00e5 stadigt han kunde: \"Tack s\u00e5 mycket, Serafina Pekkala, f\u00f6r att du r\u00e4ddade oss p\u00e5 terrassen, och f\u00f6r allt annat. Var sn\u00e4ll och var god mot Lyra s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hon lever. Jag \u00e4lskar henne mer \u00e4n n\u00e5gon n\u00e5nsin har blivit \u00e4lskad.\"\n\nH\u00e4xdrottningen kysste honom p\u00e5 b\u00e5da kinderna som svar. Lyra viskade n\u00e5got till Mary, och sedan omfamnade \u00e4ven de varandra. D\u00e4refter klev f\u00f6rst Mary och sedan Will igenom det sista f\u00f6nstret, tillbaka till deras egen v\u00e4rld, i skuggan av botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rdens tr\u00e4d.\n\nAtt vara gl\u00e4djefylld b\u00f6rjar _nu_ , t\u00e4nkte Will s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt han kunde, men det var som att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka h\u00e5lla en stridande varg stilla i famnen n\u00e4r den ville riva honom i ansiktet och slita honom i strupen. Trots det gjorde han det, och han trodde att ingen kunde se hur mycket det kostade honom.\n\nOch han visste att Lyra gjorde samma sak, och att sp\u00e4nningen i hennes anstr\u00e4ngda leende var ett tecken p\u00e5 detta.\n\nMen hon log trots allt.\n\nEn sista kyss, hastig och klumpig s\u00e5 att deras kindben slog mot varandra, och en t\u00e5r fr\u00e5n hennes \u00f6ga landade p\u00e5 hans kind. De b\u00e5da d\u00e6monerna kysste varandra farv\u00e4l, och Pantalaimon fl\u00f6t \u00f6ver tr\u00f6skeln och upp i Lyras famn. Och sedan b\u00f6rjade Will st\u00e4nga f\u00f6nstret, och sedan var det gjort, v\u00e4gen var st\u00e4ngd, Lyra var borta.\n\n\"Nu...\", sa han, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte l\u00e5ta lugn och saklig, men var tvungen att v\u00e4nda sig bort fr\u00e5n Mary, \"... m\u00e5ste jag f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra kniven.\"\n\nHan s\u00f6kte i luften p\u00e5 det v\u00e4lbekanta s\u00e4ttet tills han fann en hake och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 exakt det som hade h\u00e4nt tidigare. Han hade varit p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att sk\u00e4ra sig ut ur grottan, och mrs Coulter hade pl\u00f6tsligt och of\u00f6rklarligt p\u00e5mint honom om hans mamma, och kniven hade brustit eftersom, trodde han, den slutligen hade st\u00f6tt emot n\u00e5got den inte kunde sk\u00e4ra s\u00f6nder, och det var hans k\u00e4rlek till henne.\n\nS\u00e5 han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte med det nu och frammanade en bild av mammans ansikte s\u00e5som han senast hade sett henne, f\u00f6rvirrad och r\u00e4dd i mrs Coopers lilla hall.\n\nMen det fungerade inte. Kniven skar utan sv\u00e5righet genom luften, och gjorde en \u00f6ppning mot en v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r det regnade och stormade: tunga droppar for igenom f\u00f6nstret och skr\u00e4mde b\u00e5da tv\u00e5. Han st\u00e4ngde det snabbt igen, och stod alldeles f\u00f6rbryllad under ett \u00f6gonblick.\n\nHans d\u00e6mon f\u00f6rstod vad han borde g\u00f6ra, och sa helt enkelt: \"Lyra.\"\n\nSj\u00e4lvklart. Han nickade, och med kniven i sin h\u00f6gra hand tryckte han sin v\u00e4nstra mot den plats p\u00e5 hans kind d\u00e4r t\u00e5ren fortfarande vilade.\n\nOch den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen splittrades kniven med ett sk\u00e4rande ljud, och bladet f\u00f6ll i bitar till marken och l\u00e5g glittrande p\u00e5 de stenar som fortfarande var v\u00e5ta av regnet fr\u00e5n den andra v\u00e4rlden.\n\nWill b\u00f6jde sig ner f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rsiktigt plocka upp alla bitarna, och Kirjava hj\u00e4lpte till med sina katt\u00f6gon, s\u00e5 att han hittade allihop.\n\nMary hivade upp sin ryggs\u00e4ck.\n\n\"Jo\", sa hon, \"allts\u00e5, Will. Vi har knappt pratat med varandra, du och jag... S\u00e5 vi \u00e4r fortfarande i stort sett fr\u00e4mlingar. Men Serafina Pekkala och jag lovade varandra en sak, och jag lovade Lyra alldeles nyss, och \u00e4ven om jag inte lovat dig n\u00e5got tidigare, s\u00e5 skulle jag lova dig samma sak, allts\u00e5 om du till\u00e5ter det, s\u00e5 vill jag vara din v\u00e4n f\u00f6r resten av v\u00e5ra liv. Vi m\u00e5ste b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 klara oss p\u00e5 egen hand nu, och jag tror att vi b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 kan beh\u00f6va den sortens... Vad jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker s\u00e4ga \u00e4r att det inte finns n\u00e5gon annan vi kan tala med om allt det h\u00e4r med, utom varandra... Och vi m\u00e5ste b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 v\u00e4nja oss vid att leva med v\u00e5ra d\u00e6moner, ocks\u00e5... Och vi ligger illa till b\u00e5da tv\u00e5, och om inte _det_ g\u00f6r att vi har n\u00e5got gemensamt s\u00e5 vet jag inte vad som skulle kr\u00e4vas...\"\n\n\"Ligger du illa till?\" sa Will och tittade p\u00e5 henne. Hennes \u00f6ppna, v\u00e4nliga, kloka \u00f6gon tittade rakt p\u00e5 honom.\n\n\"Tja, jag slog ju s\u00f6nder en del saker i labbet innan jag gav mig iv\u00e4g, och jag f\u00f6rfalskade en legitimationshandling, och... Ingenting vi inte klarar av. Och dina problem \u2013 vi ska klara av dem ocks\u00e5. Vi letar reda p\u00e5 din mamma och ser till att hon f\u00e5r en vettig behandling. Och om du beh\u00f6ver n\u00e5gonstans att sova, om du inte skulle ha n\u00e5got emot det, om du kunde bo hos mig, om det gick att ordna, skulle du inte beh\u00f6va, vad heter det, bli omh\u00e4ndertagen. Jag menar, vi m\u00e5ste ju best\u00e4mma oss f\u00f6r en story och h\u00e5lla oss till den, men det kan vi ju, eller hur?\"\n\nMary var en v\u00e4n. Han hade en v\u00e4n. Det var sant. Han hade inte t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 den saken.\n\n\"Ja!\" sa han.\n\n\"Okej, d\u00e5 s\u00e4tter vi ig\u00e5ng. Min l\u00e4genhet ligger ungef\u00e4r en kilometer h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, och vet du vad jag mest av allt i v\u00e4rlden skulle vilja ha just nu? Jag skulle vilja ha en kopp te. H\u00e4ng med, s\u00e5 s\u00e4tter vi p\u00e5 lite vatten.\"\n\nTre veckor efter det \u00f6gonblick d\u00e5 Lyra hade sett hur Wills hand st\u00e4ngde hans v\u00e4rld f\u00f6r evigt, fann hon sig \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng sittande vid middagsbordet p\u00e5 Jordan College, d\u00e4r hon f\u00f6rst hade fallit f\u00f6r mrs Coulters magi.\n\nDen h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen var det ett mindre s\u00e4llskap: bara hon sj\u00e4lv och rektorn och dame Hannah Relf, kvinnocolleget S:ta Sophias rektor. Dame Hannah hade ocks\u00e5 varit med under f\u00f6rsta middagen, och \u00e4ven om Lyra blev f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad \u00f6ver att f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa henne nu, s\u00e5 h\u00e4lsade hon artigt. Hon ins\u00e5g att hennes minne felade henne, f\u00f6r dame Hannah var betydligt klokare, intressantare och v\u00e4nligare \u00e4n den vaga och buttra person hon mindes henne som.\n\nEn massa saker hade h\u00e4nt medan Lyra var borta \u2013 med Jordan College, med England, med hela v\u00e4rlden. Det verkade som om kyrkans makt hade \u00f6kat enormt, och att m\u00e5nga brutala lagar hade blivit stiftade, men att den makten sedan hade falnat lika snabbt som den flammat upp: uppror inom Magisteriet hade \u00f6vermannat fanatikerna, och nu hade liberalare fraktioner tagit \u00f6ver styret. Oblatbyr\u00e5n hade uppl\u00f6sts och Konsistoriella disciplinn\u00e4mnden stod f\u00f6rvirrad och ledarl\u00f6s.\n\nOch Oxfords olika colleges slog sig efter ett kort och omv\u00e4lvande mellanspel \u00e5ter till ro med sina studier och sina ritualer. En del saker var borta, rektorns v\u00e4rdefulla silversamling hade plundrats och en del tj\u00e4nare hade f\u00f6rsvunnit. Rektorns betj\u00e4nt, Cousins, fanns dock kvar p\u00e5 sin plats, och Lyra hade gjort sig beredd att trotsigt m\u00f6ta hans ov\u00e4nlighet, f\u00f6r de hade varit fiender s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge hon kunde minnas. Hon blev d\u00e4rf\u00f6r r\u00e4tt f\u00f6rbluffad n\u00e4r han h\u00e4lsade henne varmt och v\u00e4nligt, och skakade hennes hand med b\u00e5da sina. Var det tillgivenhet som h\u00f6rdes i r\u00f6sten? Han _hade_ sannerligen f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrats.\n\nUnder middagen samtalade rektorn och dame Hannah om det som hade h\u00e4nt under Lyras fr\u00e5nvaro, och hon lyssnade med avsky, eller sorg, eller f\u00f6rundran. N\u00e4r de drog sig tillbaka till salongen f\u00f6r att dricka kaffe, sa rektorn:\n\n\"S\u00e5, Lyra, du har knappt sagt n\u00e5gonting alls. Men jag vet att du har sett en hel del. Kan du ber\u00e4tta n\u00e5got om dina upplevelser f\u00f6r oss?\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa hon. \"Men inte alltihop samtidigt. En del saker f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag inte, och andra f\u00e5r mig att darra och gr\u00e5ta. Men jag lovar att ber\u00e4tta s\u00e5 mycket jag kan. Men d\u00e5 m\u00e5ste ni lova mig n\u00e5got i geng\u00e4ld.\"\n\nRektorn utbytte en blick med den gr\u00e5h\u00e5riga kvinnan, som hade sin vita silkesapsd\u00e6mon i kn\u00e4et, och under ett \u00f6gonblick s\u00e5g de b\u00e5da roade ut.\n\n\"Vad d\u00e5 f\u00f6r n\u00e5got?\" fr\u00e5gade dame Hannah.\n\n\"Ni m\u00e5ste lova att tro p\u00e5 mig\", sa Lyra allvarligt. \"Jag vet att jag inte alltid har talat sanning, och p\u00e5 vissa platser kunde jag \u00f6verleva bara genom att ljuga och hitta p\u00e5 historier. S\u00e5 jag vet att det \u00e4r s\u00e5n jag har varit, och jag vet att ni vet det, men min sanna historia \u00e4r alldeles f\u00f6r viktig f\u00f6r att jag ska ber\u00e4tta den om ni bara t\u00e4nker tro p\u00e5 h\u00e4lften. S\u00e5 jag lovar att tala sanning, om ni lovar att tro p\u00e5 mig.\"\n\n\"Jag lovar i alla fall\", sa dame Hannah, och rektorn sa: \"Jag ocks\u00e5.\"\n\n\"Men vet ni vad jag \u00f6nskar mig\", sa Lyra, \"n\u00e4stan \u2013 _n\u00e4stan_ mest av allt? Jag \u00f6nskar att jag inte hade f\u00f6rlorat f\u00f6rm\u00e5gan att l\u00e4sa alethiometern. \u00c5h, det var s\u00e5 underligt, rektorn, f\u00f6rst kom det bara, och sedan f\u00f6rsvann det! Ena dagen kunde jag det s\u00e5 bra \u2013 jag kunde r\u00f6ra mig upp och ner l\u00e4ngs symbolbetydelserna och g\u00e5 fr\u00e5n den ena till den andra och se alla sammanhangen \u2013 det var som...\" Hon log och fortsatte: \"Det var som en apa bland tr\u00e4den, s\u00e5 snabbt gick det. Sen pl\u00f6tsligt \u2013 ingenting! Ingenting betydde n\u00e5nting l\u00e4ngre, jag kunde inte komma ih\u00e5g n\u00e5nting, f\u00f6rutom sj\u00e4lvklara saker som att ankaret st\u00e5r f\u00f6r hopp och d\u00f6dskallen f\u00f6r d\u00f6den. Alla de d\u00e4r tusentals betydelserna... Borta.\"\n\n\"Men de \u00e4r inte borta, Lyra\", sa dame Hannah. \"B\u00f6ckerna st\u00e5r fortfarande kvar i Bodleian Library. Institutionen som studerar dem lever och frodas.\"\n\nDame Hannah satt mitt emot rektorn i en av de tv\u00e5 f\u00e5t\u00f6ljer som stod bredvid eldstaden, och Lyra satt i soffan mellan dem. Det enda ljuset kom fr\u00e5n lampan bredvid rektorns stol, och i dess sken syntes tydligt uttrycket i de b\u00e5da \u00e4ldres ansikten. Lyra ins\u00e5g att hon studerade dame Hannahs ansikte v\u00e4ldigt noga. V\u00e4nligt, t\u00e4nkte Lyra, och skarpt, och vist. Men hon kunde l\u00e4sa det lika lite som hon kunde l\u00e4sa alethiometern.\n\n\"N\u00e5ja\", fortsatte rektorn, \"vi m\u00e5ste t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 din framtid, Lyra.\"\n\nHans ord fick henne att darra. Hon samlade sig och satte sig lite rakare.\n\n\"Under hela den tiden jag var borta\", sa Lyra, \"s\u00e5 t\u00e4nkte jag aldrig p\u00e5 det. Det enda jag t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 var tiden jag var i, nuet. M\u00e5nga g\u00e5nger trodde jag inte att jag \u00f6verhuvudtaget hade n\u00e5gon framtid. Och nu... Att pl\u00f6tsligt inse att jag har ett helt liv att leva, men ingen... men ingen aning om vad jag ska g\u00f6ra av det, det \u00e4r som att ha alethiometern, men inte kunna l\u00e4sa den. Jag antar att jag m\u00e5ste b\u00f6rja arbeta, men jag vet inte med vad. Mina f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar var v\u00e4l rika, men jag sl\u00e5r vad om att dom aldrig t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att s\u00e4tta av n\u00e5gra pengar \u00e5t mig, och i vilket fall som helst l\u00e4r dom v\u00e4l ha gjort av med alla sina pengar p\u00e5 ett eller annat s\u00e4tt vid det h\u00e4r laget, s\u00e5 \u00e4ven om jag kunde h\u00e4vda min r\u00e4tt till pengarna, s\u00e5 finns det v\u00e4l inga kvar. Jag vet inte, rektorn. Jag kom tillbaka till Jordan, eftersom det h\u00e4r var mitt hem, och jag inte hade n\u00e5n annanstans att ta v\u00e4gen. Jag tror att kung Iorek Byrnison skulle l\u00e5ta mig bo p\u00e5 Svalbard, och jag tror att Serafina Pekkala skulle l\u00e5ta mig leva med hennes h\u00e4xklan, men eftersom jag inte \u00e4r varken bj\u00f6rn eller h\u00e4xa skulle jag inte riktigt passa in, hur mycket jag \u00e4n \u00e4lskar dom. Gyptierna skulle kanske ta emot mig... Men jag vet faktiskt inte alls vad jag ska g\u00f6ra l\u00e4ngre. Nu \u00e4r jag vilse p\u00e5 riktigt.\"\n\nDe s\u00e5g p\u00e5 henne. Hennes \u00f6gon glittrade mer \u00e4n vanligt och hon h\u00f6ll huvudet h\u00f6gt p\u00e5 ett s\u00e4tt som hon hade l\u00e4rt sig av Will utan att veta om det. Hon s\u00e5g b\u00e5de trotsig och vilsen ut, t\u00e4nkte dame Hannah och beundrade henne f\u00f6r det. Rektorn s\u00e5g ocks\u00e5 n\u00e5got annat \u2013 han s\u00e5g att barnets omedvetna elegans hade f\u00f6rsvunnit, och att hon k\u00e4nde sig obekv\u00e4m i sin v\u00e4xande kropp. Men han h\u00f6ll henne mycket k\u00e4r och han k\u00e4nde sig till h\u00e4lften stolt och till h\u00e4lften f\u00f6rbluffad \u00f6ver den vackra kvinna hon s\u00e5 snart skulle f\u00f6rvandlas till.\n\n\"S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge det h\u00e4r colleget finns kvar\", sa han, \"kommer du aldrig att vara vilse, Lyra. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ditt hem, s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge du beh\u00f6ver det. Vad g\u00e4ller fr\u00e5gan om pengar \u2013 din far inr\u00e4ttade en fond f\u00f6r att t\u00e4cka alla dina behov, och uts\u00e5g mig till testamentsexekutor, s\u00e5 den saken beh\u00f6ver du inte oroa dig \u00f6ver.\"\n\nFaktum var att lord Asriel inte alls hade gjort n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant, men Jordan College var rikt, och rektorn hade dessutom egna pengar, \u00e4ven efter den senaste tidens oroligheter.\n\n\"Nej\", fortsatte han, \"jag t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 dina studier. Du \u00e4r fortfarande mycket ung, och din utbildning fram tills nu har varit beroende av... Ja, f\u00f6r att vara \u00e4rlig, av vilken av v\u00e5ra adjunkter du skr\u00e4mde minst\", sa han, men log samtidigt. \"Den har varit n\u00e5got slumpm\u00e4ssig. Nu kanske det visar sig att dina talanger s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom f\u00f6r dig i en riktning vi inte alls kan f\u00f6rutse. Men om du skulle vilja \u00e4gna ditt liv \u00e5t att arbeta med alethiometern, och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka l\u00e4ra medvetet det du en g\u00e5ng kunde g\u00f6ra genom intuition...\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa Lyra med best\u00e4mt tonfall.\n\n\"... i s\u00e5 fall \u00e4r det b\u00e4sta du kan g\u00f6ra att l\u00e5ta min goda v\u00e4n dame Hannah ta hand om dig. Hennes kunskap p\u00e5 omr\u00e5det \u00e4r o\u00f6vertr\u00e4ffad.\"\n\n\"L\u00e5t mig komma med ett f\u00f6rslag\", sa kvinnan ifr\u00e5ga, \"och du m\u00e5ste inte svara just nu. T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 saken ett tag. Nu \u00e4r inte mitt college lika gammalt som Jordan, och du \u00e4r hur som helst f\u00f6r ung f\u00f6r att b\u00f6rja studera d\u00e4r, men f\u00f6r n\u00e5gra \u00e5r sedan skaffade vi ett stort hus i norra Oxford och best\u00e4mde oss f\u00f6r att driva en internatskola d\u00e4r. Jag skulle vilja att du f\u00f6ljer med mig och tr\u00e4ffar rektorn d\u00e4r, och tar dig en funderare \u00f6ver om du skulle vilja bli en av v\u00e5ra elever. F\u00f6r du f\u00f6rst\u00e5r, Lyra, en sak du snart kommer att beh\u00f6va \u00e4r v\u00e4nskapen med andra flickor i din egen \u00e5lder. Vi l\u00e4r vissa saker fr\u00e5n varandra n\u00e4r vi \u00e4r unga, och jag \u00e4r inte s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att Jordan kan bidra med just den saken. Rektorn d\u00e4r \u00e4r en klok ung kvinna, energisk, fantasirik och v\u00e4nlig. Vi hade tur som fick tag i henne. Du kan prata med henne, och om du gillar id\u00e9n, s\u00e5 kan du l\u00e5ta S:ta Sophia bli din skola, medan Jordan \u00e4r ditt hem. Och om du skulle vilja studera alethiometern lite mer systematiskt, s\u00e5 skulle du och jag kunna tr\u00e4ffas f\u00f6r privatlektioner. Men vi har tid, k\u00e4ra v\u00e4n, gott om tid. Svara inte nu. V\u00e4nta tills du \u00e4r redo.\"\n\n\"Tack s\u00e5 mycket\", sa Lyra, \"tack, dame Hannah, det ska jag.\"\n\nRektorn hade gett Lyra en egen nyckel till tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rdsd\u00f6rren, s\u00e5 att hon kunde komma och g\u00e5 som hon ville. Senare den kv\u00e4llen, medan portvakten h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e5sa sin stuga, smet hon och Pantalaimon ut och tog sig fram l\u00e4ngs de m\u00f6rka gatorna, samtidigt som Oxfords klockor slog midnatt.\n\nN\u00e4r de var framme i botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden sprang Pan \u00f6ver gr\u00e4set mot muren i jakt p\u00e5 en mus, men sl\u00e4ppte den sedan och hoppade upp i den stora tallen i n\u00e4rheten. Det var underbart att se honom kasta sig mellan grenarna s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt bort fr\u00e5n henne, men de m\u00e5ste vara f\u00f6rsiktiga och inte g\u00f6ra det n\u00e4r n\u00e5gon s\u00e5g p\u00e5. Deras sm\u00e4rtsamt anskaffade h\u00e4xkraft, som l\u00e4t dem skiljas \u00e5t, m\u00e5ste bevaras som en hemlighet. En g\u00e5ng i tiden skulle hon ha njutit av att skryta om det f\u00f6r sina gatungar till v\u00e4nner och f\u00e5tt dem att sp\u00e4rra upp \u00f6gonen av r\u00e4dsla, men Will hade l\u00e4rt henne v\u00e4rdet av tystnad och omd\u00f6me.\n\nHon satte sig p\u00e5 b\u00e4nken och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att Pan skulle komma ner till henne. Han tyckte om att \u00f6verraska henne, men hon lyckades oftast f\u00e5 syn p\u00e5 honom innan han n\u00e5dde fram till henne, och d\u00e4r s\u00e5g hon skuggan av honom, glidande l\u00e4ngs flodbanken. Hon tittade \u00e5t andra h\u00e5llet och l\u00e5tsades att hon inte hade sett honom, och grep sedan pl\u00f6tsligt tag i honom d\u00e5 han hoppade upp p\u00e5 b\u00e4nken.\n\n\"Jag lyckades n\u00e4stan\", sa han.\n\n\"Du m\u00e5ste bli b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n s\u00e5. Jag h\u00f6rde dig komma \u00e4nda fr\u00e5n grinden.\"\n\nHan satt p\u00e5 b\u00e4nkens ryggst\u00f6d med framtassarna p\u00e5 hennes axel.\n\n\"Vad ska vi s\u00e4ga till henne?\" sa han.\n\n\"Vi ska s\u00e4ga ja\", sa hon. \"I alla fall till att tr\u00e4ffa den d\u00e4r rektorn. Inte till att b\u00f6rja i skolan.\"\n\n\"Men vi kommer att b\u00f6rja d\u00e4r, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Ja\", sa hon, \"antagligen.\"\n\n\"Den kanske \u00e4r bra.\"\n\nLyra t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 de \u00f6vriga eleverna d\u00e4r. De kanske var smartare \u00e4n hon, eller mer sofistikerade, och de m\u00e5ste veta mycket mer \u00e4n hon om s\u00e5dant som var viktigt f\u00f6r flickor i hennes \u00e5lder. Och hon skulle inte kunna ber\u00e4tta en hundradel av allt hon visste f\u00f6r dem. De skulle bara tycka att hon var enkel och okunnig.\n\n\"Tror du att dame Hannah verkligen kan l\u00e4sa alethiometern?\" sa Pantalaimon.\n\n\"Med b\u00f6ckerna kan hon det s\u00e4kert. Jag undrar hur m\u00e5nga b\u00f6cker det finns? Jag sl\u00e5r vad om att vi skulle kunna l\u00e4ra oss allihop, och sedan klara oss utan dem. T\u00e4nk dig att beh\u00f6va sl\u00e4pa runt en h\u00f6g med b\u00f6cker \u00f6verallt... Pan?\"\n\n\"Va?\"\n\n\"Kommer du n\u00e5nsin att ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r mig vad du och Wills d\u00e6mon gjorde n\u00e4r vi var ifr\u00e5n varandra?\"\n\n\"En dag\", sa han. \"Och hon kommer att ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r Will en dag. Vi kom \u00f6verens om att vi skulle veta n\u00e4r det var dags, men att vi inte skulle ber\u00e4tta det f\u00f6r n\u00e5gon av er innan dess.\"\n\n\"Okej\", sa hon fredligt.\n\nHon ber\u00e4ttade allting f\u00f6r Pantalaimon, men det var inte mer \u00e4n r\u00e4tt att han skulle ha hemligheter f\u00f6r henne, eftersom hon hade \u00f6vergett honom p\u00e5 det d\u00e4r viset.\n\nOch det var tr\u00f6stande att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 att hon och Will hade \u00e4nnu en sak gemensamt. Hon undrade f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv om det n\u00e5gonsin skulle komma en tid d\u00e5 hon inte t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 honom varje timme, eller talade till honom inne i sitt huvud, d\u00e5 hon inte \u00e5terupplevde varje \u00f6gonblick de haft tillsammans, inte l\u00e4ngtade efter hans r\u00f6st och hans h\u00e4nder och hans k\u00e4rlek. Hon hade aldrig dr\u00f6mt om hur det skulle k\u00e4nnas att \u00e4lska n\u00e5gon s\u00e5 mycket. Av alla de saker i hennes \u00e4ventyr som hon blivit mest f\u00f6rbluffad \u00f6ver, s\u00e5 var detta den mest f\u00f6rbluffande. \u00d6mheten i hennes hj\u00e4rta var ett s\u00e5r som aldrig skulle l\u00e4ka, men som hon f\u00f6r alltid skulle ha till tr\u00f6st.\n\nPan gled ner p\u00e5 b\u00e4nken och kr\u00f6p upp i hennes kn\u00e4. De satt trygga tillsammans i m\u00f6rkret, hon och hennes d\u00e6mon med sina hemligheter. N\u00e5gonstans i denna sovande stad fanns b\u00f6cker som kunde visa henne hur hon skulle g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att l\u00e4sa alethiometern igen, och den v\u00e4nliga och l\u00e4rda kvinnan, som skulle undervisa henne, och flickorna p\u00e5 skolan, som visste s\u00e5 mycket mer \u00e4n vad hon gjorde.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte: De vet inte om det \u00e4n, men de kommer att bli mina v\u00e4nner.\n\nPantalaimon mumlade n\u00e5got: \"Det d\u00e4r som Will sa...\"\n\n\"N\u00e4r d\u00e5?\"\n\n\"P\u00e5 stranden, precis innan du provade alethiometern. Han sa att det inte finns n\u00e5n annanstans. Det var det hans far hade sagt till honom. Men det var n\u00e5t mer.\"\n\n\"Jag minns. Han sa att Himmelriket var borta, det himmelska kungariket, det var slut. Vi ska inte leva som om det betydde mer \u00e4n det liv vi har i den h\u00e4r v\u00e4rlden, f\u00f6r den viktigaste platsen \u00e4r alltid d\u00e4r vi \u00e4r.\"\n\n\"Han sa att vi m\u00e5ste bygga n\u00e5got...\"\n\n\"Det var d\u00e4rf\u00f6r vi beh\u00f6vde hela v\u00e5ra liv, Pan. F\u00f6r vi skulle ju ha f\u00f6ljt med Will och Kirjava, eller hur?\"\n\n\"Ja. Sj\u00e4lvklart! Och de skulle f\u00f6ljt med oss. Men...\"\n\n\"Men d\u00e5 hade vi inte kunnat bygga det. Det kan ingen som s\u00e4tter sig sj\u00e4lv fr\u00e4mst. Vi m\u00e5ste vara alla dom d\u00e4r sv\u00e5ra sakerna, som glada och v\u00e4nliga, och nyfikna och modiga och t\u00e5lmodiga, och vi m\u00e5ste studera och t\u00e4nka, och arbeta h\u00e5rt, allihop, i v\u00e5ra olika v\u00e4rldar, och d\u00e5 kommer vi att bygga...\"\n\nHennes h\u00e4nder vilade p\u00e5 hans gl\u00e4nsande p\u00e4ls. N\u00e5gonstans i tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden sj\u00f6ng en n\u00e4ktergal och en liten fl\u00e4kt grep tag i hennes h\u00e5r och dansade ringdans med l\u00f6ven ovanf\u00f6r. Alla stadens olika klockor slog, en g\u00e5ng var, en h\u00f6gt, en dovt, vissa p\u00e5 n\u00e4ra h\u00e5ll, andra l\u00e4ngre bort, en sprucket och knarrigt, en annan m\u00f6rkt och allvarligt, men alla var \u00f6verens om vilken tid det var, \u00e4ven om vissa av dem tog det lite l\u00e5ngsammare \u00e4n andra. I det d\u00e4r andra Oxford, d\u00e4r hon och Will hade kyssts till avsked, skulle klockorna ocks\u00e5 sl\u00e5 nu, och en n\u00e4ktergal skulle sjunga, och en liten fl\u00e4kt skulle dansa ringdanser med l\u00f6ven i botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden.\n\n\"Och sen d\u00e5?\" sa hennes d\u00e6mon s\u00f6mnigt. \"Bygga vad\u00e5?\"\n\n\"Himmelsrepubliken\", sa Lyra.\n\n## _Tack_\n\nDEN M\u00d6RKA MATERIAN skulle aldrig ha blivit till om det inte varit f\u00f6r all den hj\u00e4lp och det st\u00f6d jag f\u00e5tt fr\u00e5n mina v\u00e4nner, min familj, mina b\u00f6cker och diverse fr\u00e4mlingar.\n\nF\u00f6ljande personer \u00e4r jag skyldig ett s\u00e4rskilt tack: Liz Cross, f\u00f6r hennes noggranna och outtr\u00f6ttligt positiva redigering under varje stadium av arbetet och f\u00f6r en verkligt lysande id\u00e9 n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde bilderna till _Den skarpa eggen_ ; Anne Wallace-Hadrill, f\u00f6r att jag fick titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 hennes kanalb\u00e5t; Richard Osgood p\u00e5 arkeologiska institutionen vid Oxforduniversitetet, f\u00f6r att han ber\u00e4ttade om hur man arrangerar arkeologiska expeditioner; Michael Malleson p\u00e5 Trent Studio Forge, Dorset, f\u00f6r att han visade mig hur man smider j\u00e4rn; Mike Froggatt och Tanaqui Weaver, f\u00f6r att de f\u00f6rs\u00e5g mig med mer av den r\u00e4tta sortens papper (med tv\u00e5 h\u00e5l) n\u00e4r mitt f\u00f6rr\u00e5d var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att sina. Jag m\u00e5ste \u00e4ven lovorda kaf\u00e9et i Oxford Museum of Modern Art. Varje g\u00e5ng jag fastnade med n\u00e5got problem i ber\u00e4ttelsen lyckades en kopp kaffe och en timme i den v\u00e4lkomnande atmosf\u00e4ren l\u00f6sa varje knut, till synes utan n\u00e5gon anstr\u00e4ngning fr\u00e5n min sida. Det fungerade alltid.\n\nJag har stulit id\u00e9er fr\u00e5n varenda bok jag n\u00e5gonsin l\u00e4st. Min princip n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde f\u00f6rarbetet inf\u00f6r romanen har varit: \"L\u00e4s som en fj\u00e4ril, skriv som ett bi\", och om den h\u00e4r ber\u00e4ttelsen inneh\u00e5ller minsta lilla honung, s\u00e5 beror det helt och h\u00e5llet p\u00e5 kvaliteten hos den nektar jag funnit hos b\u00e4ttre f\u00f6rfattare. Men det finns tre skulder jag vill erk\u00e4nna framf\u00f6r alla andra. Den f\u00f6rsta \u00e4r ess\u00e4n \"On the Marionette Theatre\" av Heinrich von Kleist. F\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen jag l\u00e4ste den var i en \u00f6vers\u00e4ttning av Idris Parry i Times Literary Supplement, 1978. Den andra \u00e4r John Miltons _Det f\u00f6rlorade paradiset._ Den tredje \u00e4r William Blakes samlade verk.\n\nAvslutningsvis mitt fr\u00e4msta tack: Till David Fickling f\u00f6r hans outsinliga tillit och uppmuntran, liksom hans s\u00e4kra och levande k\u00e4nsla f\u00f6r hur ber\u00e4ttelser kan f\u00e5s att fungera b\u00e4ttre. Den framg\u00e5ng som det h\u00e4r verket har uppn\u00e5tt har sitt upphov hos honom. Till Caradoc King f\u00f6r mer \u00e4n en halv livstid av osviklig v\u00e4nskap och st\u00f6d. Enid Jones, den l\u00e4rare som satte _Det f\u00f6rlorade paradiset_ i mina h\u00e4nder f\u00f6r s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sedan, har jag att tacka f\u00f6r det b\u00e4sta en utbildning kan ge, insikten om att ansvar och gl\u00e4dje kan existera sida vid sida. Min hustru Jude och mina s\u00f6ner Jamie och Tom vill jag tacka f\u00f6r allt annat mellan himmel och jord.\n\n_Philip Pullman_\n\n## _Inneh\u00e5ll_\n\n1F\u00f6rtrollad s\u00f6mn\n\n2Balthamos och Baruch\n\n3As\u00e4tare\n\n4Ama och fladderm\u00f6ssen\n\n5Tornet av adamant\n\n6F\u00f6rebyggande syndaf\u00f6rl\u00e5telse\n\n7Mary, ensam\n\n8Vodka\n\n9Uppstr\u00f6ms\n\n10Hjul\n\n11Trollsl\u00e4ndor\n\n12Brytningen\n\n13Tialys och Salmakia\n\n14Veta vad du ber om\n\n15Smedjan\n\n16Intentionsfarkosten\n\n17Lack och olja\n\n18De d\u00f6das f\u00f6rst\u00e4der\n\n19Lyra och hennes d\u00f6d\n\n20Kl\u00e4ttring\n\n21Harpyorna\n\n22Viskarna\n\n23Ingen v\u00e4g ut\n\n24Mrs Coulter i Gen\u00e8ve\n\n25Saint-Jean-les-Eaux\n\n26Avgrunden\n\n27Plattformen\n\n28Midnatt\n\n29Slaget p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tten\n\n30Det molnt\u00e4ckta berget\n\n31Auktoritetens slut\n\n32Morgon\n\n33Marsipan\n\n34Nu finns det ett\n\n35Bortom kullarna\n\n36Den brutna pilen\n\n37Sanddynerna\n\n38Botaniska tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rden\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n\u00cdndice\n\nPortada\n\nEl camino de la madera\n\nI. Los motivos de la escritura\n\nLa pasi\u00f3n y la condena. Viaje en torno a una mesa de trabajo\n\nII. La orilla europea\n\nDaniel Defoe: la invenci\u00f3n de la realidad\n\nLas palabras de los h\u00e9roes. Apuntes sobre literatura rusa\n\nG\u00f3gol: la eternidad tiene prisa\n\nDostoievski: el aprendizaje del \u00e9xtasis\n\nKarl Kraus: el arte de condenar\n\nPeter Handke: la vida de la mente\n\nIII. La orilla latinoamericana\n\n\u00abHist\u00f3ricas peque\u00f1eces\u00bb. Vertientes narrativas en Ram\u00f3n L\u00f3pez Velarde\n\nRodolfo Usigli: el fundador. Un retrato a contraluz\n\nOnetti, Cort\u00e1zar y Puig por correspondencia: pedir que el tiempo exista\n\nLo que pesa un muerto. La funci\u00f3n del narrador en Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada\n\nJorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia: el diablo en el espejo\n\nEl g\u00e9nero Monsiv\u00e1is\n\nIV. Infancia, lenguas extranjeras y otras enfermedades\n\nLa utilidad del deseo\n\nTe doy mi palabra. Un itinerario en la traducci\u00f3n\n\nLa pluma y el bistur\u00ed. Literatura y enfermedad\n\nCr\u00e9ditos\n\nNotas\n\n### EL CAMINO DE LA MADERA\n\nHay preguntas in\u00fatiles que los adultos no dejan de hacer a los ni\u00f1os o a los j\u00f3venes. Cuando un amigo presenta a su hijo adolescente, le preguntan qu\u00e9 carrera desea estudiar, sabiendo que recibir\u00e1n una invariable respuesta: \u00abNo s\u00e9.\u00bb Ante un ni\u00f1o de cinco o seis a\u00f1os formulan otra interrogante ret\u00f3rica: \u00ab\u00bfYa sabes leer?\u00bb En estos torpes di\u00e1logos, la r\u00e9plica importa poco; el sentido del intercambio consiste en demostrar que el adulto se \u00abinteres\u00f3\u00bb en el ni\u00f1o.\n\nA los seis a\u00f1os yo contestaba de manera poco com\u00fan a la pregunta sobre la lectura. Estudiaba la preprimaria en el Grupo A del Anexo 1 del Colegio Alem\u00e1n Alexander von Humboldt de la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico. De pronto, un adulto fing\u00eda inter\u00e9s en mi condici\u00f3n acad\u00e9mica. \u00bfYa sab\u00eda leer? \u00abSolo en alem\u00e1n\u00bb, respond\u00eda.\n\nDurante nueve a\u00f1os curs\u00e9 en ese idioma todas las materias, salvo Lengua Nacional. La adquisici\u00f3n escrita del espa\u00f1ol represent\u00f3 para m\u00ed el desplazamiento hacia un idioma _posterior_ , subalterno, extra\u00f1amente \u00absencillo\u00bb, que por eso mismo me gustaba pero tambi\u00e9n me parec\u00eda carente de importancia. Un dialecto para jugar.\n\nDe manera no siempre intencional, he procurado conservar esa relaci\u00f3n con mi lengua. Pero como lector aprecio la \u00abextranjer\u00eda\u00bb de los otros, su peculiar creaci\u00f3n de un lenguaje privado, \u00fanico, as\u00ed escriban en espa\u00f1ol. Interpretar es traducir.\n\nNo deseo prestigiar mi adquisici\u00f3n de la lengua escrita como una singular\u00edsima rareza. Sencillamente, aprender en alem\u00e1n y _luego_ en espa\u00f1ol me hizo pensar que lo \u00abnatural\u00bb no es lo que se presenta en primera instancia sino algo que se adquiere. M\u00e1s tarde comprobar\u00eda que ning\u00fan artificio supera al de la \u00abespontaneidad\u00bb literaria. El ensayo \u00abTe doy mi palabra\u00bb, incluido en este libro, se ocupa de los avatares de la traducci\u00f3n y explica en buena medida mi cambiante relaci\u00f3n con los idiomas.\n\nTodo comenz\u00f3 en las azarosas sesiones del kindergarten. Uno de los primeros vocablos que aprend\u00ed en alem\u00e1n fue \u00abcerillo\u00bb: _Streichh\u00f6lzchen_ , que literalmente significa \u00abmadera que se frota\u00bb. El alem\u00e1n ama la precisi\u00f3n descriptiva y en su empe\u00f1o por detallar un objeto crea fascinantes _met\u00e1foras literales: Fahrstuhl_ se traduce como \u00abascensor\u00bb, pero en rigor quiere decir \u00absilla que viaja\u00bb, del mismo modo en que _Lichthaus_ , \u00abfaro\u00bb, quiere decir \u00abcasa de luz\u00bb.\n\nDe ni\u00f1o, me divert\u00eda o\u00edr las parodias de los apaches en la televisi\u00f3n. En vez de \u00abaeroplano\u00bb dec\u00edan \u00abp\u00e1jaro de acero\u00bb. La l\u00f3gica del alem\u00e1n me parec\u00eda m\u00e1s compleja pero similar. Una enciclopedia piel roja.\n\nEsto me llev\u00f3 a imaginar falsas descripciones en un lenguaje de mi invenci\u00f3n, absurdo de tan preciso, donde \u00abnube\u00bb significaba \u00abagua que va a llover\u00bb.\n\nEn la selva de la lengua alemana un vocablo puede convocar significados gracias al recurso del _Kompositum,_ que permite crear una palabra ensamblando otras, como en un juego de Lego o Meccano. \u00abCaja de cerillos\u00bb es _Streichh\u00f6lzenschachtel_ (Aprender este sustantivo fue el primer argumento para no fumar). En nuestra lengua, cada _Kompositum_ se traduce sumando art\u00edculos, sustantivos y preposiciones. Por ejemplo, carecemos de una palabra para _Ausn\u00fcchterungszimmer_ , voz que se refiere a la habitaci\u00f3n espec\u00edfica donde alguien que ha ingerido demasiado alcohol debe permanecer hasta recuperar la sobriedad. Otro ejemplo: _Vergangenheitsbew\u00e4ltigung_ alude a la problem\u00e1tica valoraci\u00f3n del pasado y, por convenci\u00f3n, se sobrentiende que dicha valoraci\u00f3n se refiere a la Segunda Guerra Mundial.\n\nEn espa\u00f1ol, la filolog\u00eda semeja un relato fant\u00e1stico: la historia de las palabras remite a or\u00edgenes sorprendentes e improbables. En alem\u00e1n, los vocablos conservan un recio contacto con las cosas que denotan. Sin embargo, este hondo respeto por lo literal produce asombros. Los objetos pueden ser s\u00edmbolos.\n\nSeguramente, la confusi\u00f3n inicial de los idiomas molde\u00f3 en forma determinante mi apropiaci\u00f3n de la palabra escrita, coloc\u00e1ndome un poco al margen de la mayor\u00eda de mis compa\u00f1eros, cuya lengua materna era el alem\u00e1n. En forma voluntaria, he procurado despu\u00e9s preservar ese margen y leer desde ah\u00ed a mis colegas.\n\nEl bosque, espacio esencial de los cuentos de hadas, es el punto de partida de cualquier libro. De ah\u00ed viene la madera con que se hace el papel. Al mismo tiempo, las frondas de los \u00e1rboles representan un sistema de signos, y ese sitio aislado favorece la imaginaci\u00f3n. Ah\u00ed moran los elfos de la cultura celta, y en la selva, variante tropical del bosque, los _aluxes_ de la cultura yucateca.\n\nLos hermanos Grimm reunieron sus cuentos bajo el lema: \u00abEntonces, cuando desear todav\u00eda era \u00fatil\u00bb. Hubo un tiempo pret\u00e9rito en que las ilusiones pod\u00edan cumplirse gracias a los trabajos de los duendes, los hechiceros y las hadas. La literatura busca esa utop\u00eda, un mundo intangible donde la eficacia depende del deseo.\n\nEn \u00e9pocas arcaicas, el bosque alem\u00e1n fue descrito con un sustantivo a un tiempo concreto y metaf\u00f3rico: \u00abmadera\u00bb. De ah\u00ed surgi\u00f3 la expresi\u00f3n _Holzwege_ , \u00absendas de la madera\u00bb, con la que Martin Heidegger bautiz\u00f3 su libro sobre el origen del arte, escrito en el coraz\u00f3n de la Selva Negra.\n\nEl bosque tiene caminos ocultos, no trazados por la ingenier\u00eda sino por el uso. En ocasiones esas rutas un tanto accidentales desaparecen bajo las hojas secas y la renovaci\u00f3n de los matorrales. Solo los madereros y sus vigilantes, los guardabosques, conocen las sinuosas sendas por las que se llega a lo m\u00e1s profundo del bosque y por las que se extraen troncos y ramas en forma subrepticia. Heidegger busc\u00f3 acercarse a la poes\u00eda por un trayecto semejante.\n\nAl margen de los caminos obvios, es posible viajar entre l\u00edneas, hallar valores entendidos, establecer correspondencias, extraviarse voluntariamente en una foresta mental en pos de ideas, im\u00e1genes, adjetivos.\n\nGeorge Steiner se ha referido al \u00aboriginismo\u00bb de Heidegger, su \u00abexhortaci\u00f3n obsesiva a regresar a una verdad del ser\u00bb. No es extra\u00f1o que los _Caminos del bosque_ comiencen con un ensayo sobre \u00abEl origen de la obra de arte\u00bb. Ah\u00ed, el fil\u00f3sofo se detiene en la \u00abcosa\u00bb que, inevitablemente, es toda pieza est\u00e9tica: el bloque de m\u00e1rmol, el trozo de papel, el lienzo cubierto de pintura. El arte tiene un origen simb\u00f3lico, pero tambi\u00e9n f\u00edsico.\n\nSurgidos del bosque, los libros dependen de la madera que permite producirlos. De ese silvestre punto de partida vienen sus s\u00edmbolos. Los s\u00edmiles entre la vegetaci\u00f3n y la escritura han sido estudiados por Ivan Illich en su deslumbrante tratado _En el vi\u00f1edo del texto_. La actividad de leer _(legere)_ se asocia con cosechar, y en alem\u00e1n \u00abletra\u00bb _(Buchstab)_ quiere decir \u00abrama de haya\u00bb. Ampliando este sistema de comparaciones, Italo Calvino dec\u00eda que la mayor\u00eda de las ferias de libro se celebran en oto\u00f1o porque es cuando los \u00e1rboles cambian de hojas.\n\nTodo libro representa un \u00e1rbol. No es casual que en _El bar\u00f3n rampante_ Calvino asocie la escritura con la gram\u00e1tica vegetal que permite a su protagonista andarse por las ramas.\n\nLas variaciones sobre este tema son infinitas. Baudelaire hablaba del \u00abbosque de los signos\u00bb para referirse al lenguaje. Lo cierto es que, en el principio de cada obra, hay una _idea de bosque_. Comienzo, pues, mi traves\u00eda abriendo un claro en la maleza.\n\nEn _Materia escrita_ , Gabriel Orozco se\u00f1ala: \u00abUn libro cerrado no es arte.\u00bb En tal caso, estamos ante un objeto, una \u00abcosa libro\u00bb, de tinta y papel, que se transforma en poes\u00eda o narrativa gracias a la lectura. Curiosamente, ese proceso no acaba en el lector; exige una posdata: el comentario sobre lo le\u00eddo. Nadie disfruta en silencio absoluto. El deseo debe contagiarse.\n\nEstos ensayos surgen de esa convicci\u00f3n. Quien lee, dialoga mentalmente con el autor, consigo mismo y con un tercero al que quiere transmitir sus impresiones. La lectura pide compa\u00f1\u00eda.\n\n\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 autoridad dispone el ensayista? En un oficio que depende del deseo, la principal acreditaci\u00f3n es el entusiasmo, el imperativo de compartir pasiones. Las posibilidades que tiene de ser escuchado son exiguas en un mundo que no parece muy \u00e1vido de comentaristas de libros. Sin embargo, la pasi\u00f3n se convence a s\u00ed misma de que la compa\u00f1\u00eda surge de tanto desearla.\n\nMe sirven de ejemplo ciertos traficantes de madera mucho m\u00e1s humildes en sus intenciones que el fil\u00f3sofo de Friburgo: los vendedores ambulantes de Coyoac\u00e1n, el barrio donde vivo.\n\nLa Ciudad de M\u00e9xico se ha degradado tanto que las pocas zonas que conservan un ambiente colonial \u2013plazas conectadas entre s\u00ed por calles caminables\u2013 son vistas como regiones \u00abt\u00edpicas\u00bb. Coyoac\u00e1n es una de ellas. En consecuencia, es un basti\u00f3n de las artesan\u00edas. Un mercado ofrece productos que van de los textiles chiapanecos a los piercings. En torno a ese espacio deambulan vendedores pobres que carecen de un puesto propio. Algunos vienen de la sierra de Oaxaca y durante semanas se hospedan en Ecatepec, el municipio m\u00e1s poblado del pa\u00eds y uno de los m\u00e1s peligrosos, en la periferia de la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico, a unas tres horas en cami\u00f3n de Coyoac\u00e1n.\n\nEn forma asombrosa, esos peregrinos ofrecen separadores de libros, hechos con madera de _yagal\u00e1n_ , nombre zapoteca de una planta parecida al \u00abmembrillo silvestre\u00bb, arbusto que da peque\u00f1as flores blancas y frutos como manzanas diminutas. El _yagal\u00e1n_ crece donde hay pinos; representa la parte precaria del bosque.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 idea de la ciudad tienen los artesanos que cortan delgadas capas de madera en la sierra de Oaxaca? Se dir\u00eda que para ellos la urbe es el laberinto de los libros. Al margen de todo sentido de la demanda, tallan sus mercanc\u00edas. Por cada diez separadores, hacen un abrecartas en una \u00e9poca en la que no se escriben cartas.\n\nLo \u00abt\u00edpico\u00bb es, necesariamente, algo que se reitera. Los separadores de libros se venden poco y, en esa medida, no se califican como t\u00edpicos. Pero se ofrecen mucho, lo cual es t\u00edpico. Pertenecen a una variante ut\u00f3pica de la artesan\u00eda; cortejan un mundo inexistente, pero lo hacen con tal fuerza que se integran a la tradici\u00f3n.\n\nLa empu\u00f1adura de los separadores y los abrecartas representa un animal. Una rana, un conejo o un gato vigilan la lectura. Seguramente se venden m\u00e1s por ese dise\u00f1o que por la urgente necesidad de se\u00f1alar p\u00e1ginas.\n\nAl margen de las exigencias de la realidad, en la sierra de Oaxaca alguien talla la madera convencido de que otros leen y de que es necesario impedir que caigan en el v\u00e9rtigo de no saber en qu\u00e9 p\u00e1gina est\u00e1n.\n\nEscribir es un acto semejante, la apuesta inconmensurable de que alguien llegue a esta l\u00ednea.\n\n_La utilidad del deseo_ prosigue la traves\u00eda de mis anteriores libros de ensayos, _Efectos personales, De eso se trata_ y _La m\u00e1quina desnuda_. Los autores abordados derivan de fervores sostenidos, pero tambi\u00e9n de la repentina y auspiciosa sugerencia de un editor o un jefe de redacci\u00f3n. En rigor, no hay literaturas individuales; toda obra pertenece a una \u00e9poca abierta al influjo colectivo. Escribimos lo que est\u00e1 en el aire. Esto se aprecia a\u00fan con mayor nitidez en el ensayo, que trata de los otros y en ocasiones le debe mucho a iniciativas ajenas (la invitaci\u00f3n a dar un curso o una conferencia). Varios de los trabajos aqu\u00ed incluidos tuvieron una primera vida en las p\u00e1ginas de un suplemento o como pr\u00f3logo de un libro ajeno. He dependido de la hospitalidad de numerosas personas para confirmar gustos literarios y en ocasiones solo he descubierto que esos gustos son en verdad \u00abm\u00edos\u00bb al abordarlos por escrito.\n\n_La utilidad del deseo_ establece puntos de contacto con ensayos previos, complement\u00e1ndolos en forma retrospectiva. Un ejemplo: \u00abLa invenci\u00f3n de la realidad\u00bb fue escrito como pr\u00f3logo a la edici\u00f3n que en 2014 hizo la editorial Norma de _Robinson Crusoe_ , con la excepcional traducci\u00f3n de Enrique de H\u00e9riz. Se trata de un trabajo muy posterior a \u00abLichtenberg en las islas del Nuevo Mundo\u00bb, escrito en 1992 e incluido en _De eso se trata_. Sin embargo, el ensayo sobre Defoe se ocupa de un momento literario que precede a Lichtenberg y que ayuda a comprender los antecedentes de su \u00abrobinsonada\u00bb.\n\nSabemos, por Borges y Bloom, que todo autor crea a sus precursores. Lo mismo ocurre con las interpretaciones literarias, que alteran el pasado. La tradici\u00f3n, tanto la colectiva como la individual, se mantiene abierta; no admite una noci\u00f3n de clausura como algo ya sucedido; al preservarse, cambia y se modifica _hacia atr\u00e1s_. En la medida en que sigue leyendo, el lector arroja nueva luz sobre lo ya le\u00eddo. De pronto, un autor del que hab\u00edamos escrito hace veinte a\u00f1os regresa como un protagonista diferente o un curioso actor de reparto, convocado por otra puesta en escena. Es el mismo, pero su papel ha cambiado.\n\nLos ensayos de un narrador siguen caminos que, como quer\u00eda Machado, se hacen al andar. No son tratados acad\u00e9micos ni eruditos; son la interpretaci\u00f3n personal (vale decir, la \u00abtraducci\u00f3n\u00bb) de un asombro.\n\nA los seis a\u00f1os aprend\u00ed a escribir \u00abmadera que se frota\u00bb para referirme en un idioma que no era el m\u00edo a un cerillo. Poco a poco me acostumbr\u00e9 a entender mi propia lengua como un dep\u00f3sito donde se almacenaban rarezas de ese tipo. El aprendizaje es la posibilidad de que una extravagancia se vuelva l\u00f3gica. El m\u00e1s reciente eslab\u00f3n de ese proceso autodidacta es este libro.\n\nLos vendedores ambulantes que viajan a la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico para ofrecer separadores llegan ah\u00ed impulsados por la miseria, pero tambi\u00e9n por un arriesgado optimismo. Aunque la experiencia demuestra que casi nadie se interesa en sus objetos, no dejan de insistir. En su peculiar concepci\u00f3n del mundo, suponen que tarde o temprano cada separador provocar\u00e1 la historia que deba se\u00f1alar.\n\nEscribo de otros con una ilusi\u00f3n parecida, pensando que deben ser le\u00eddos y, algo a\u00fan m\u00e1s desmesurado, que acaso lo ser\u00e1n por lo que aqu\u00ed se dice. Lo que sale del bosque, regresa al bosque.\n\nLeer libros: una forma de que arda la madera.\n\n_Coyoac\u00e1n, 24 de septiembre de 2016_\n\n# I. Los motivos de la escritura \n### LA PASI\u00d3N Y LA CONDENA\n\nViaje en torno a una mesa de trabajo\n\n\u00abTrabajamos en la oscuridad. Hacemos lo que podemos. Damos lo que tenemos. Nuestra incertidumbre es nuestra pasi\u00f3n y nuestra pasi\u00f3n es nuestra meta. Lo dem\u00e1s es la locura del arte.\u00bb Con estas palabras Henry James resumi\u00f3 una vida dedicada a desentra\u00f1ar historias singulares en situaciones aparentemente rutinarias del microcosmos humano. El desaf\u00edo central de su trabajo no fue encontrar un tema, sino transformarlo en la resistente sustancia del arte.\n\nLa frase citada habla del esfuerzo, pero tambi\u00e9n de la necesaria resignaci\u00f3n ante los l\u00edmites de ese esfuerzo: \u00abHacemos lo que podemos.\u00bb James busc\u00f3 las palabras m\u00e1s certeras y emple\u00f3 distintos m\u00e9todos para alcanzarlas. Convencido de que su estilo depend\u00eda de la oralidad, pas\u00f3 de la escritura al dictado en voz alta. Este m\u00e9todo, bastante cercano a la actuaci\u00f3n, lo llev\u00f3 a probar suerte en el teatro en los \u00faltimos a\u00f1os de su vida. Sin embargo, las elaboradas peroratas con las que compon\u00eda sus relatos carecieron de fortuna en escena.\n\nLa progresiva p\u00e9rdida de la memoria le trajo problemas de vocabulario. En una ocasi\u00f3n quiso dictar la palabra \u00abperro\u00bb y solo produjo esta tentativa vaguedad: \u00abalgo negro, algo canino...\u00bb. Esta aproximativa relaci\u00f3n con el lenguaje lo alej\u00f3 de la franqueza y la precisi\u00f3n, pero le permiti\u00f3 notables rodeos estil\u00edsticos. Para referirse amablemente a una se\u00f1ora fea elabor\u00f3 un complicado elogio: \u00abaquella pobre casquivana pose\u00eda cierta gracia cadav\u00e9rica\u00bb. En ocasiones, el hallazgo est\u00e9tico proviene de un defecto. Sergio Pitol narra en \u00abEl oscuro hermano gemelo\u00bb una cena en la que la conversaci\u00f3n m\u00e1s interesante ocurre en la parte de la mesa a la que no tiene cabal acceso, pues padece un problema auditivo. Obligado a completar las frases o\u00eddas a medias, urde una trama sorprendente.\n\nEn el caso de James, la dificultad de utilizar el lenguaje directo puede ser vista como una falla de elocuencia o una se\u00f1al de cortes\u00eda, pero tambi\u00e9n como un ejemplo de los desvelos del escritor por acercarse tentativamente a un tema esquivo. Escribir es un devaneo hacia una meta ignorada. Lo m\u00e1s significativo en la cita que encabeza este ensayo es la \u00faltima frase: despu\u00e9s de aceptar su oficio como una fatigosa artesan\u00eda, James alude a la oscuridad de los resultados: \u00abLo dem\u00e1s es la locura del arte.\u00bb Nadie est\u00e1 totalmente seguro de lo que escribe.\n\nThomas Mann coment\u00f3 que la principal diferencia entre alguien que redacta por una raz\u00f3n cualquiera y un aut\u00e9ntico escritor es que para el segundo el texto es m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil. La vocaci\u00f3n literaria comienza por asumir que la escritura es un problema. La p\u00e1gina en blanco no se supera por medio de un dichoso automatismo. Hay que escoger entre una palabra y otra, eliminar repeticiones, evitar la rima involuntaria, esquivar el adverbio estruendoso y el adjetivo exagerado, encontrar el tono justo, colocar una alusi\u00f3n que evite la literalidad, crear mensajes que se sobrentiendan. El estilo literario genera la ilusi\u00f3n de un idioma privado, compartido en forma \u00edntima entre el autor y el lector. \u00abEn un lugar de La Mancha de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme...\u00bb, una voz nos interpela en forma diferente, y el modo en que esa frase es le\u00edda crea un v\u00ednculo singular que se modificar\u00e1 con otro lector.\n\nEl lenguaje literario explora nuevas posibilidades \u00abnaturales\u00bb del idioma. Sin abandonar los elementos comunes de la lengua, crea una zona de complicidad en la que puede transmitir un secreto. Nadie nos hab\u00eda hablado as\u00ed. En la primera frase del _Quijote_ , vocablos tan habituales como \u00ablugar\u00bb, \u00abacordarme\u00bb y \u00abnombre\u00bb se organizan de tal manera que lo conocido sorprende: las palabras de siempre revelan su vida privada.\n\nLograr eso requiere de inaudito esfuerzo cuyo saldo es inseguro. El propio Cervantes comparaba su oficio con el de un tah\u00far que apuesta con las cartas que le prest\u00f3 la suerte. No hay certeza durante el proceso creativo ni la hay al terminar. Los premios no son certificados de inmortalidad y las ventas cambian con las veleidades del mercado. El \u00fanico sistema de medida para el talento es lo que llamamos \u00abtradici\u00f3n\u00bb. Pero incluso el pasado est\u00e1 en disputa. Autores que una \u00e9poca juzga cl\u00e1sicos son olvidados en la siguiente y otros tardan siglos en adquirir el rango, siempre provisional, de \u00abgenios indiscutibles\u00bb.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 se ejerce esta tarea sin recompensa cierta? Revisemos el lugar de los hechos: una mesa con papeles en desorden, objetos no siempre \u00fatiles (clips, gomas de borrar, l\u00e1pices con o sin punta, cajas que contienen pastillas, botones, boletos de metro, un casete sin grabadora), recuerdos que misteriosamente llegaron ah\u00ed (un silbato, una pelota de goma, un encendedor), facturas y recibos olvidados, apuntes que ya no significan nada, post-its urgent\u00edsimos, remedios para malestares pasados, fotos de familia que estorban pero tienen valor de talism\u00e1n, objetos rotos, trozos de algo que el tiempo y la mala memoria han vuelto indescifrables.\n\nEsa zona ca\u00f3tica y abrumadoramente normal resume la misteriosa condici\u00f3n del hecho est\u00e9tico. Los hallazgos surgen de un espacio com\u00fan que parece negarlos.\n\n\u00bfPuede la magia ocurrir en circunstancias tan pedestres? El pintor opera en un taller salvaje donde el uso progresivo de los materiales deja huellas en los muros, los zapatos y las cejas, y donde los colores adquieren un destino. La mesa de un escritor niega toda alquimia. El \u00fanico asombro que podr\u00eda causar es el de estar perfectamente ordenada.\n\nEl sitio de la escritura merece ser visto como uno de los enigmas de lo infraordinario que tanto interesaron a Georges Perec. Lo extra\u00f1o puede surgir en las situaciones m\u00e1s banales. Un personaje de Cort\u00e1zar se pone un su\u00e9ter y queda atrapado en una madeja indescifrable.\n\nEn su jornada, el escritor busca algo semejante, el surgimiento de lo inexplicable en un entorno com\u00fan. Los peroles borboteantes del hechicero y el bosque de cristal en el laboratorio del inventor anuncian que ah\u00ed se producir\u00e1n asombros. La mesa de un novelista revela, si acaso, que sus pastillas para la \u00falcera ya caducaron y que debe comprar hojas para la impresora.\n\nPero el autor est\u00e1 y no est\u00e1 en su lugar de trabajo. El decorado le resulta innecesario e incluso distractor. Ciertos autores buscan la incomodidad para sentirse mejor. G\u00fcnter Grass escribe de pie ante un p\u00falpito y Friedrich Schiller colocaba manzanas podridas en un caj\u00f3n para que su aroma le creara la sensaci\u00f3n de estar en otro sitio.\n\nLas virtudes del ambiente no necesariamente estimulan la creaci\u00f3n. En un estudio con vista al mar es m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil concentrar la vista en los papeles. Un cuento de Ricardo Piglia trata de dos enfermos que comparten cuarto. Uno de ellos est\u00e1 cerca de la ventana y describe las intrincadas maravillas que puede observar desde ah\u00ed. Cuando el enfermo que ha escuchado las historias puede acercarse a la ventana, descubre que da a un muro. El paisaje hab\u00eda sido inventado por el otro enfermo. Seguramente, la contemplaci\u00f3n real de un escenario fabuloso habr\u00eda desatado menos historias.\n\nUno de los grandes enigmas de las musas es que sean representadas como mujeres hermosas. La belleza paraliza; ante el rostro perfecto nos convertimos en seres balbuceantes. Si en el mundo de los hechos enfrent\u00e1ramos a una bell\u00edsima Cal\u00edope, dif\u00edcilmente sentir\u00edamos la energ\u00eda de la musa de la elocuencia. Dominados por su encanto, tartamudear\u00edamos en el intento de invitarle un caf\u00e9.\n\nLa escritura surge en un \u00e1mbito sin gracia, la mesa de trabajo. En su novela _Mao II_ , Don DeLillo cuenta la historia de una fot\u00f3grafa deseosa de retratar a un autor recluso. \u00c9l detesta la manipulaci\u00f3n medi\u00e1tica de la literatura. Su oficio no merece ser exhibido; su principal \u00abacci\u00f3n\u00bb visible consiste en perder el pelo sobre el teclado. El efecto de la escritura puede ser riqu\u00edsimo, pero las condiciones en que surge carecen de inter\u00e9s externo.\n\nEn su \u00faltimo relato, \u00abLa memoria de Shakespeare\u00bb, Borges logr\u00f3 una esclarecedora reflexi\u00f3n sobre las motivaciones del arte. Un hombre recibe la inaudita oportunidad de tener en su mente todos los recuerdos del autor de _Macbeth_. Imagina lo que ser\u00e1 disponer de la vida interior de quien produjo un caudaloso lenguaje: \u00abFue como si me ofrecieran el mar.\u00bb No puede rechazar la oferta. Sin embargo, cuando entra en posesi\u00f3n de ese pasado, descubre que las memorias del poeta del sonido y de la furia son tan banales como las de cualquier hombre: \u00abLa memoria de Shakespeare no pod\u00eda revelarme otra cosa que las circunstancias de Shakespeare. Es evidente que estas no constituyen la singularidad del poeta; lo que importa es la obra que ejecut\u00f3 con ese material deleznable.\u00bb _Ser_ Shakespeare, vivir como \u00e9l, significa recordar un atardecer com\u00fan, el roce con el pelambre de un perro, el sabor de una manzana. Su desaforada arquitectura verbal se sustent\u00f3 en esos precarios est\u00edmulos. El protagonista del cuento vive una historia m\u00e1s extraordinaria que la de su \u00eddolo, pero no sabe narrarla. El arte no depende de los materiales, sino de la manera de usar ese barro com\u00fan.\n\nLOS EST\u00cdMULOS DEL CAOS\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 nos impulsa a pasar la mayor parte de la vida ante una mesa ca\u00f3tica? Juan Carlos Onetti defini\u00f3 su vocaci\u00f3n en estos t\u00e9rminos: \u00abLa literatura es una pasi\u00f3n, un vicio y una condena.\u00bb Ser\u00eda injusto decir que el escritor no disfruta su trabajo, pero ser\u00eda m\u00e1s injusto suponer que lo hace todo el tiempo.\n\nDurante el Festival de Paraty, en Brasil, sostuve una conversaci\u00f3n con el escritor israel\u00ed Etgar Keret. La \u00faltima pregunta que nos hicieron tuvo que ver con la felicidad. \u00bfGoz\u00e1bamos al escribir? El autor de _Pizzer\u00eda kamikaze_ dijo que el mundo era demasiado adverso como para tambi\u00e9n sufrir al escribir. Su trabajo lo rescataba dichosamente de las miserias reales. Yo opin\u00e9 algo que parece diferente pero acaso no lo sea tanto. Escribir fatiga. Debemos elegir entre los muchos modos de expresar algo, debemos corregirlo, debemos tirarlo a la basura, debemos empezar de nuevo. \u00abHay que fracasar mejor\u00bb era el lema optimista de Beckett. Lo interesante es que esa lucha no es solo una forma complicada de sufrir; es una forma complicada de gozar.\n\nEl primer aprendizaje de un autor es que los libros no quieren ser escritos. Se resisten, sacan las u\u00f1as, muerden. Este rechazo repele, pero tambi\u00e9n cautiva. Nada m\u00e1s placentero a fin de cuentas que lo que se conquista con dificultad. Sin embargo, aqu\u00ed acecha otro peligro. Saber que el talento representa la superaci\u00f3n de una torpeza puede llevar a uno de los m\u00e1s frecuentes errores literarios: pensar que hacemos mejor lo que se nos dificulta m\u00e1s.\n\nLo cierto es que todo escritor encuentra un modo de sobrellevar, e incluso disfrutar, los rigores que conlleva su trabajo. De ah\u00ed la condici\u00f3n de \u00abvicio\u00bb a la que se refiere Onetti.\n\nNo cualquier persona se somete a esas exigencias. M\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la vocaci\u00f3n o la \u00abfacilidad\u00bb para escribir, se requiere de condiciones psicol\u00f3gicas particulares \u2013y algo extravagantes\u2013 para alejarse de los otros a idear un universo paralelo. La mayor\u00eda de la gente no siente ese impulso.\n\nSin acudir al gabinete del doctor Freud, podemos decir que el autor busca compensar a trav\u00e9s de la escritura algo que no obtiene en el resto de su existencia. \u00bfQu\u00e9 juguete perdi\u00f3 en su remota infancia? \u00bfQu\u00e9 exilio lo someti\u00f3 a la a\u00f1oranza de los perdidos sabores del origen? \u00bfQu\u00e9 impresi\u00f3n de la naturaleza humana lo llev\u00f3 a imaginar cong\u00e9neres? \u00bfQu\u00e9 af\u00e1n de dominio le permiti\u00f3 ser Dios, alcalde, rey soberano de un territorio concebido a su imagen y semejanza?\n\nNo hay experiencia humana sin representaci\u00f3n de esa experiencia. Uno de los principales resultados de la percepci\u00f3n es que el mundo tangible est\u00e1 incompleto: la realidad f\u00e1ctica no basta. Necesitamos imaginarla, so\u00f1arla, reinventarla. Quien evoca el pasado o anhela el futuro vive en otra regi\u00f3n mental. El escritor es un profesional de esa evasi\u00f3n y est\u00e1 dispuesto a pagar el precio que conlleva. En aras del placer, acepta una condena. Su vicio consiste en unir esos opuestos: busca placer en la condena.\n\nLa mayor parte de los escritores no escribe porque sepa algo; escribe para saberlo. _El mill\u00f3n_ , de Marco Polo, y las _Cartas de relaci\u00f3n_ , de Hern\u00e1n Cort\u00e9s, transmiten experiencias que los autores conocen antes de tomar la pluma. El viajero veneciano y el conquistador extreme\u00f1o transmiten portentos realmente vividos. El autor de ficci\u00f3n carece de esa cantera previa; su expedici\u00f3n ocurre en la p\u00e1gina, sin mapas definidos ni estrategia preconcebida.\n\nLA MENTE Y EL MUNDO\n\nNadie se encerrar\u00eda en un despacho a escribir si esa rareza no tuviera cierta aceptaci\u00f3n social. De los escribas mayas a los cuentistas becados del presente, el trabajo de inventar a solas cumple una necesidad social. Una especie dotada de raz\u00f3n necesita otorgar sentido al arbitrario entorno.\n\nComo se\u00f1ala Roger Bartra en su _Antropolog\u00eda del cerebro_ , la cultura es el almac\u00e9n de memoria que forma parte org\u00e1nica de la especie y permite su supervivencia. Incapaces de asimilar en el cuerpo todo lo que necesitamos para expandir las posibilidades de la mente, hemos creado un exocerebro: \u00abCiertas regiones del cerebro humano adquieren gen\u00e9ticamente una dependencia neurofisiol\u00f3gica [de un sistema] que se transmite por mecanismos culturales y sociales\u00bb, escribe Bartra. Las bibliotecas, las universidades y la realidad virtual son dep\u00f3sitos de conocimiento que ampl\u00edan nuestras funciones, el cerebro exterior que nos define como comunidad.\n\nEl escritor contribuye a configurar los s\u00edmbolos y los sistemas de representaci\u00f3n de una especie que depende de la comunicaci\u00f3n y la conciencia que tiene de s\u00ed misma.\n\nEsto puede llevar a la consideraci\u00f3n de que el artista es un m\u00e1rtir de la creaci\u00f3n que sufre para que otros gocen (o por lo menos comprendan su destino). Ciertos autores han perdido la raz\u00f3n en esa b\u00fasqueda. La sensibilidad es un combustible delicado y puede ocasionar que el artista arda en su propia luz. Cuando H\u00f6lderlin sucumbi\u00f3 a sus demonios, su casero dijo con acierto que hab\u00eda sido vencido por lo que llevaba dentro.\n\nHaciendo a un lado los casos m\u00e1s extremos, pensemos en un castigo menor, el de la disciplina, que obliga a pasar horas ante el texto. El escritor _necesita_ estar ah\u00ed y no siempre quiere hacerlo. De manera c\u00e9lebre (y, a juzgar por el resultado, poco provechosa), Francisco Gonz\u00e1lez Bocanegra fue encerrado por su novia para que escribiera la convulsa letra del himno nacional mexicano. Sin necesidad de estar preso, el autor acude a distintas variantes del \u00abm\u00e9todo Bocanegra\u00bb para no abandonar la mesa de la que desea alejarse.\n\nUna vez concentrado en su trabajo, no puede prever del todo lo que va a ocurrir. A prop\u00f3sito de esto, escribe Giorgio Agamben: \u00abLa imaginaci\u00f3n circunscribe un espacio en el que no pensamos todav\u00eda.\u00bb Es el momento crucial del acto creativo: el artista sabe y no sabe lo que hace. Imaginar es un gesto anterior a la raz\u00f3n que debe ser sancionado por ella. Al modo de un son\u00e1mbulo, el escritor avanza por un camino que se modifica con sus pisadas. Despu\u00e9s de varios borradores, cobra mayor conciencia de su recorrido, abre los ojos, deja de caminar dormido y llega a una forma de la vigilia que por cansancio o resignaci\u00f3n llama \u00abversi\u00f3n definitiva\u00bb.\n\n\u00bfHasta qu\u00e9 punto podemos valorar objetivamente lo que imaginamos? Cort\u00e1zar aseguraba que, de vez en cuando, su personaje Lucas \u00abpon\u00eda\u00bb un soneto como una gallina pone un huevo. Esta idea es ir\u00f3nica, no tanto por comparar a un autor con una gallina, sino porque despoja de dramatismo y originalidad al acto creativo y lo convierte en un desecho natural del organismo.\n\nLa realidad es muy distinta. Raras veces un escritor acepta el resultado sin m\u00e1s. En su cr\u00f3nica memoriosa _Joseph Anton_ , Salman Rushdie cuenta c\u00f3mo Harold Pinter, ya encumbrado como el mayor dramaturgo vivo de Inglaterra, mandaba textos por fax a sus amigos y esperaba con ansias una respuesta aprobatoria. Esa inseguridad no es superable; pertenece a la vocaci\u00f3n. El autor se pone en tela de juicio en cada uno de sus textos y carece de un m\u00e9todo incontrovertible para juzgarlos.\n\nEn su origen, el impulso creativo pertenece a la imaginaci\u00f3n, donde \u00abno pensamos todav\u00eda\u00bb. Algo impulsa a escribir: un sue\u00f1o, una vivencia que de pronto se carga de sentido, un recuerdo encubridor, algo escuchado al azar, un malentendido que se torna elocuente, la reacci\u00f3n ante lo que otro no pudo decir cabalmente.\n\nLa escritura propiamente dicha implica pasar de esas intuiciones a una zona racional, controlada por la t\u00e9cnica, el \u00aboficio literario\u00bb. El juicio que merece ese trabajo es siempre subjetivo. Cr\u00edticos y profesores han ensayado numerosos m\u00e9todos valorativos para los productos de la fantas\u00eda, algunos tan creativos como la ficci\u00f3n. Aunque sus dict\u00e1menes suelen ser modificados por el tiempo y los variables juicios de la tradici\u00f3n, son m\u00e1s confiables que la valoraci\u00f3n que un autor hace de s\u00ed mismo. En ese terreno resbaladizo incluso la soberbia es insegura. Los autores que recitan sus poemas de memoria como si agregaran frutos a la realidad y parecen felices de haberse conocido en el espejo, revelan que en el fondo dudan de sus textos. Si las obras se bastaran a s\u00ed mismas no tendr\u00edan que poner tanto \u00e9nfasis en ellas. En el polo opuesto se encuentran quienes se torturan con una autocr\u00edtica a la que ning\u00fan elogio pondr\u00e1 remedio: Kafka y G\u00f3gol se consideraban p\u00e9simos escritores.\n\nNo hay garant\u00eda de que lo que escribimos tenga calidad certificada. Recuerdo una conversaci\u00f3n con Roberto Bola\u00f1o en la que llegamos a la siguiente conclusi\u00f3n: la \u00fanica prueba confiable de que un texto \u00abestaba bien\u00bb ocurr\u00eda cuando nos parec\u00eda escrito por otro. Esta repentina despersonalizaci\u00f3n permite la autonom\u00eda necesaria para que una obra respire por cuenta propia. Al mismo tiempo, nos priva de la posibilidad de sentirnos orgullosos de ella, pues su mayor virtud consiste en parecer ajena. Escribir significa suplantarse, ser en una voz distinta. Por eso Rimbaud pudo decir: \u00abYo es otro.\u00bb\n\nEl narrador se pone en la piel de sus personajes. Esta provisional transmigraci\u00f3n de las almas permite que el autor sea el primero en percibir la ilusi\u00f3n de vida que debe producir el texto.\n\nResulta f\u00e1cil comprender que el novelista se despersonaliza para vivir transitoriamente en Comala, Macondo o Yoknapatawpha. Sin embargo, el gesto mismo de escribir produce un extra\u00f1amiento. Quien corrige un texto en papel, llena la cuartilla de tachaduras. Pero al pasarlo en limpio surgen otras correcciones. La operaci\u00f3n f\u00edsica de reescribir abre nuevas posibilidades. Lo asombroso es que eso solo sucede con la escritura _en acci\u00f3n_. Al momento de leer un manuscrito, se advierten ciertos defectos, pero hay mejor\u00edas que solo provienen de reescribir palabra por palabra. Esto lleva a una pregunta casi metaf\u00edsica: \u00bfqui\u00e9n decide lo escrito? No dependemos en exclusiva de la mente, sino de su misterioso v\u00ednculo con la mano. Unos versos de Gerardo Diego resumen el enigma: \u00abSon sensibles al tacto las estrellas \/ No s\u00e9 escribir a m\u00e1quina sin ellas.\u00bb Las yemas de los dedos parecen tomar decisiones por su cuenta, como guiadas por un dictado astral.\n\nLos recursos de correcci\u00f3n de la computadora eliminan la obligaci\u00f3n de reescribir la p\u00e1gina entera; basta se\u00f1alar una palabra para cambiarla. Para quienes pertenecemos a una generaci\u00f3n acostumbrada a \u00abpasar en limpio\u00bb, esto cancela las variantes que solo aparecen en la pausada reescritura, con el juicio cr\u00edtico que subyace en la yema de los dedos.\n\nLa noci\u00f3n de \u00abborrador\u00bb permite que el art\u00edfice se pase en limpio. La versi\u00f3n \u00abdefinitiva\u00bb es una forma radical de la paradoja: el autor ha incorporado lo suficiente de s\u00ed mismo para que el resultado le parezca venturosamente ajeno.\n\nVIVIR EL TEXTO\n\nLa persona que escribe no es la misma que vive. Fernando Pessoa llev\u00f3 esta circunstancia a un grado superior. Ante la ausencia de precursores en la tradici\u00f3n portuguesa, decidi\u00f3 crearlos. Concibi\u00f3 la poes\u00eda y las vidas de los poetas que deb\u00edan justificarlo. A trav\u00e9s de sus variados heter\u00f3nimos fue muchos autores. Curiosamente, este ser m\u00faltiple llev\u00f3 una vida retra\u00edda, melanc\u00f3lica, austera. Octavio Paz lo llam\u00f3 con punter\u00eda \u00abel desconocido de s\u00ed mismo\u00bb. Pessoa enfrent\u00f3 el destino como quien vive de prestado y no puede intervenir. Ese aislamiento radical le permiti\u00f3 convertirse en el solitario que conviv\u00eda en su interior con mucha gente.\n\nSin necesidad de transfigurarse para vivir como un heter\u00f3nimo, el autor de ficci\u00f3n encarna en sus personajes. Debe narrar desde ellos, comprender sus reacciones, sus man\u00edas, sus tics, sus modismos, su manera \u00fanica de ver el mundo y relacionarse con la lengua.\n\n\u00bfHay algo m\u00e1s tentador que la posibilidad de iniciar otra vida desde cero? En los d\u00edas posteriores al terremoto que devast\u00f3 la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico en 1985, me un\u00ed a una brigada de rescatistas. Ignor\u00e1bamos el n\u00famero de muertos y la cantidad de gente que a\u00fan pod\u00eda ser salvada. De pronto me asalt\u00f3 una idea: estaba en una situaci\u00f3n ideal para desaparecer de manera definitiva, sin dejar huella. Si me iba a otro sitio y comenzaba una nueva vida, me dar\u00edan por desaparecido, como a tantas v\u00edctimas de la tragedia. Me disipar\u00eda junto con los dem\u00e1s destinos que se transformaron en vacilantes estad\u00edsticas. Esa oportunidad de tener una posteridad en vida, de inventar una muerte c\u00edvica para asumir otra existencia, se parece mucho a la invenci\u00f3n literaria.\n\nQuien escribe habita un entorno paralelo cuyos riesgos van del lumbago a la perturbaci\u00f3n mental. A trav\u00e9s de sus fabulaciones, complementa un mundo insuficiente y en este proceso de sublimaci\u00f3n de lo real puede quedar en \u00f3rbita como un tripulante del Apolo 13.\n\nDurante la escritura, la mente se traslada a otra parte, m\u00e1s genuina que el entorno tangible. La prol\u00edfica despersonalizaci\u00f3n de Dickens y Balzac los llevaba a llorar por los personajes que mor\u00edan en sus p\u00e1ginas. Percibir a las criaturas imaginarias como seres vivos es un incontestable logro est\u00e9tico. Tambi\u00e9n es una se\u00f1al de alarma, pues colinda con la zona alucinatoria donde los amigos imaginarios se vuelven demasiado pr\u00f3ximos.\n\nUna equivocada exaltaci\u00f3n rom\u00e1ntica ha llevado a algunos colegas a elogiar a Roberto Bola\u00f1o como un m\u00e1rtir que cambi\u00f3 la escritura por la vida. Esto es falso, no solo porque la biograf\u00eda y la obra de Bola\u00f1o fueron una contundente afirmaci\u00f3n de la vida, sino porque narrar es una manera de vivir que puede deparar emociones m\u00e1s plenas e intensas que las provocadas por los hechos y la espuma de los d\u00edas.\n\n\u00bfHay un l\u00edmite para distinguir entre vida y narraci\u00f3n? En su novela testimonial _El adversario_ , Emmanuel Carr\u00e8re cuenta la vida de Jean-Claude Romand, hombre consagrado a la impostura en la cartesiana sociedad francesa. Despu\u00e9s de dejar inconclusos sus estudios de medicina, Romand fingi\u00f3 haberse recibido y logr\u00f3 enga\u00f1ar incluso a sus excondisc\u00edpulos. Su car\u00e1cter generaba empat\u00eda y respetabilidad. Esto hizo que diversas personas le confiaran sus ahorros para que \u00e9l manejara sus inversiones. Durante d\u00e9cadas vivi\u00f3 con holgura del dinero ajeno. Rent\u00f3 una casa en la frontera con Suiza y fingi\u00f3 que trabajaba en la cercana Organizaci\u00f3n Mundial de la Salud. Todos los d\u00edas cruzaba la frontera rumbo a la OMS y se quedaba en el estacionamiento de la instituci\u00f3n. Le\u00eda durante horas, luego mataba el tiempo en un caf\u00e9 y volv\u00eda a casa. En ocasiones, simulaba viajes de trabajo al extranjero. Durante unos d\u00edas se encerraba en un cuarto de hotel, le\u00eda folletos sobre su supuesto lugar de destino y compraba alg\u00fan _souvenir_ en el aeropuerto de Ginebra. Durante d\u00e9cadas, ni sus familiares ni sus amigos m\u00e1s cercanos sospecharon que esa vida fuera un embuste. Finalmente, Romand fue descubierto. Incapaz de soportar la verdad, que implicaba la p\u00e9rdida de su vida paralela, mat\u00f3 a su mujer, a sus hijos y a sus padres y trat\u00f3 de suicidarse. Fall\u00f3 en este \u00faltimo intento y fue a dar a la c\u00e1rcel. Carr\u00e8re quiso contar su historia, le envi\u00f3 una carta y recibi\u00f3 una respuesta negativa. Se concentr\u00f3 entonces en otro proyecto, la novela autobiogr\u00e1fica _Una semana en la nieve_. Curiosamente fue al leer esta obra cuando Romand sinti\u00f3 deseos de hablar con el novelista. Quiz\u00e1s advirti\u00f3 que toda su vida adulta hab\u00eda sido una novela autobiogr\u00e1fica, una novela extra\u00f1amente vac\u00eda, no escrita, que deb\u00eda llenarse de sentido. En esta ocasi\u00f3n, fue \u00e9l quien busc\u00f3 al novelista.\n\n_El adversario_ ha sido aclamada como una nueva versi\u00f3n de _A sangre fr\u00eda_ , de Truman Capote. En primera instancia, la historia cautiva por la escalofriante normalidad de un multihomicida. Sin embargo, tambi\u00e9n representa una honda exploraci\u00f3n del modo en que surgen las historias. La perversi\u00f3n de Romand tiene un resultado muy distinto al trabajo de un escritor, pero comparte el mismo impulso. El presunto m\u00e9dico llenaba sus d\u00edas \u00abh\u00e1biles\u00bb en forma imaginaria. Su error consisti\u00f3 en vivir su novela en vez de someterse al suplicio y al gozo de escribirla. Su historia condujo a un desenlace no solo equ\u00edvoco e inesperado sino enfermo. Su segunda vida era una escenificaci\u00f3n _literal_ de la forma en se produce la literatura. Sustra\u00eddo del entorno, se adentraba en un mundo paralelo, con la diferencia de que ese mundo era real y estaba hueco.\n\nSin necesidad de llegar a una perturbaci\u00f3n tan extrema como la de Romand, el escritor se asigna una existencia ficticia que en ocasiones lo transforma. \u00ab\u00bfQu\u00e9 te pasa?\u00bb, pregunta la asombrada esposa. A diferencia del falso m\u00e9dico franc\u00e9s, el novelista no puede decir \u00abTuve un problema en la OMS\u00bb.\n\nCuando el autor sale con las manos vac\u00edas de su estudio, no sabe a ciencia cierta qu\u00e9 sucede. Algo impreciso no marcha bien en su otro mundo, y se resigna a cenar una sopa que no le sabe a nada en este. \u00ab\u00bfC\u00f3mo es posible que no puedas decir qu\u00e9 tienes? \u00a1Te dedicas a usar las palabras!\u00bb, le reclama alguien demasiado pr\u00f3ximo, sin saber que escribir consiste, precisamente, en tener problemas con las palabras. La elocuencia no es un _switch_ que el escritor activa en su interior: es la salida de un t\u00fanel de dificultades. Cuando la expresividad funciona, el oscuro \u00e1mbito que la precedi\u00f3 se desvanece. Los obst\u00e1culos para escribir no deben estar presentes en la p\u00e1gina; son como el hilo invisible que gu\u00eda al sastre y se retira cuando la prenda est\u00e1 lista.\n\nNo es f\u00e1cil renunciar a lo que no le conviene al verso o a la prosa. Sobre todo, no es f\u00e1cil renunciar a los hallazgos que brillan con luz propia pero no tienen nada que hacer en ese texto. La resistencia a suprimir estupendos giros innecesarios suele ser la perdici\u00f3n de los virtuosos.\n\nEl m\u00e1s fecundo castigo que el autor puede imponerse es el de hacer a un lado las maravillosas ocurrencias que contravienen la l\u00f3gica del texto. La obra se resiste a ser creada, pero, una vez en marcha, gana independencia y revela su propia sabidur\u00eda: es y no es del autor.\n\nLlegamos a un punto nodal de la creaci\u00f3n. Una pieza lograda genera la impresi\u00f3n de que ah\u00ed todo es deliberado. Eso no podr\u00eda suceder de otra manera.\n\nUno de los grandes est\u00edmulos de leer a autores de segunda fila o claramente fallidos es que sus libros s\u00ed podr\u00edan suceder de otra manera y en consecuencia sugieren otros libros. Interrogado sobre sus influencias, el novelista menciona a ilustres precursores como Joyce, Calvino, Lucrecio, Montaigne y Benjamin, que sin duda han contribuido a definir su noci\u00f3n del arte y su modo de pensar; sin embargo, muchas veces la influencia m\u00e1s directa viene del contempor\u00e1neo que perdi\u00f3 la oportunidad de consumar algo y deja el asunto pendiente para quien sepa aprovecharlo.\n\nLas lecturas mediocres tienen diversos modos de beneficiarnos. En 1976, el escritor uruguayo Danubio Torres Fierro entrevist\u00f3 a Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez en su casa de Ciudad de M\u00e9xico. El autor de _El oto\u00f1o del patriarca_ le dijo entonces: \u00ab\u00bfTe das cuenta que siempre empezamos por lo peor cuando estamos destinados a gustar de algo? El escritor comienza leyendo a B\u00e9cquer, a cierto Neruda, al Dar\u00edo m\u00e1s elemental, y el m\u00fasico escucha la _Serenata_ de Schubert o el _Concierto para piano y orquesta n\u00famero 1_ de Chaikovski. Eso ayuda a entrar en materia, a descubrir qu\u00e9 es en realidad la literatura y qu\u00e9 la m\u00fasica, y entonces sirve para abrir caminos y despertar apetitos.\u00bb\n\nCiertas obras resultan imprescindibles para encender la curiosidad y avivar el fuego, pero rara vez son las mejores en su g\u00e9nero. \u00bfCu\u00e1ntos libros d\u00e9biles necesitamos para llegar a _Ulises_? La pregunta carecer\u00eda de inter\u00e9s si solo se refiriera a la calidad; lo interesante es que involucra al placer y podr\u00edamos reformularla de este modo: \u00bfcu\u00e1ntos malos libros nos deben gustar antes de descubrir a Joyce?\n\nEl derecho a leer malos libros es esencial a la formaci\u00f3n del lector. Pero tambi\u00e9n beneficia a quien, habiendo aquilatado complejas formas del placer, de pronto necesita los inciertos placeres de una obra menor.\n\nEn su b\u00fasqueda por llegar a un lenguaje que lo distinga, el escritor puede hacerse presente hasta asfixiar el texto. En una conversaci\u00f3n con Martin Amis hablamos de las novelas tard\u00edas de Philip Roth. Con su habitual filo sarc\u00e1stico, dijo: \u00abSon estupendas, pero no entiendo por qu\u00e9 se obsesiona en mostrar el enorme trabajo que le dio escribirlas.\u00bb Se refer\u00eda a la enf\u00e1tica voz narrativa que obliga a pensar m\u00e1s en el novelista \u2013las decisiones que tom\u00f3 y las muchas alternativas que cancel\u00f3\u2013 que en sus personajes. Curiosamente, la frase define m\u00e1s las novelas de Amis que las de Roth. El m\u00e9dico diagnostica mejor en cuerpo ajeno.\n\nOscar Wilde volvi\u00f3 a tener raz\u00f3n al afirmar: \u00abDenle una m\u00e1scara a un hombre y dir\u00e1 la verdad.\u00bb Es el gesto m\u00e1s certero para incluir la autobiograf\u00eda en la ficci\u00f3n. No se escribe para mentir sino para decir otra clase de verdad. El carnaval de Venecia se basa en esa estratagema. Los diablos, los arlequines y las colombinas que deambulan por los canales son peculiares formas de la sinceridad; quienes portan esos disfraces no tratan de ser otros; pronuncian lo que no se atreven a decir en los d\u00edas de costumbre.\n\nLA POSE Y EL ROSTRO\n\nLa industria del cine se apasiona por la figura del artista convulso, el sujeto temperamental que maltrata a los dem\u00e1s, atenta contra s\u00ed mismo, se vuelve intratable y deja una obra de espl\u00e9ndida belleza. Hollywood ama la paradoja del genio cruel y autodestructivo que compone una sinfon\u00eda conmovedora.\n\nSe espera que el creador tocado por la gracia tenga un car\u00e1cter \u00fanico. Salvador Dal\u00ed, Andy Warhol, Ram\u00f3n Mar\u00eda del Valle-Incl\u00e1n y Charles Bukowski han creado personajes para s\u00ed mismos que forman parte de su propuesta est\u00e9tica. En esos casos, el talento adquiere certificaci\u00f3n exterior: se trata de genios disfrazados de genios.\n\nPosar como artista es una manera de confirmar las ilusiones que el p\u00fablico se hace sobre la originalidad del creador. Pero no todos necesitan avalar su diferencia con sus ropas o su aspecto. Los bigotes de Dal\u00ed semejaban pararrayos de la sensibilidad. Aunque otros artistas llevan la tormenta en su interior, en mayor o menor medida, todos se someten a los rel\u00e1mpagos y los cortocircuitos de las emociones.\n\n\u00abSomos los libros que nos han hecho mejores\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Borges. Le\u00edda en clave de beater\u00eda cultural, la frase puede llevar a la creencia de que la frecuentaci\u00f3n de la cultura siempre es positiva. Nada m\u00e1s alejado de la espuria realidad. Un artista supremo puede ser una p\u00e9sima persona. Y a\u00fan m\u00e1s: de manera inquietante, los desfiguros del mal car\u00e1cter suelen ser mejor punto de partida para crear que el aplomo y la simpat\u00eda.\n\nTrabajar en funci\u00f3n de la belleza no necesariamente entra\u00f1a una conducta moral. George Steiner ha descrito la amarga paradoja de los comandantes de los campos de concentraci\u00f3n que amaban la m\u00fasica de Bach y la poes\u00eda de Rilke.\n\nEl director de orquesta Arthur Honegger sufri\u00f3 un sobresalto equivalente cuando fue invitado a formar una orquesta en una c\u00e1rcel. Como los presos carec\u00edan de preparaci\u00f3n musical, tuvo que juzgarlos por su sensibilidad y su predisposici\u00f3n a crear. Cuando entreg\u00f3 la lista de m\u00fasicos seleccionados, el director le hizo esta alarmante aclaraci\u00f3n: \u00abHa creado usted una orquesta de asesinos.\u00bb\n\nExcelsos escritores han sido criminales, pol\u00edticos corruptos, alcoh\u00f3licos perdidos, pederastas, traidores, usureros, fan\u00e1ticos fascistas o simplemente malos esposos y p\u00e9simos padres.\n\nLos desarreglos morales de los genios han sido tan frecuentes como sus logros en la fantas\u00eda. \u00bfLas perturbaciones psicol\u00f3gicas favorecen la rara actividad de concebir un orden paralelo modificable a voluntad? Una vez superados los rigores de la disciplina y la angustia de la p\u00e1gina en blanco, el novelista puede actuar como una deidad veleidosa o un tirano inflexible. \u00abMis personajes tiemblan cuando me les acerco\u00bb, dec\u00eda Nabokov. Por obra del Creador, la p\u00e1gina da lugar a un terremoto, la devastaci\u00f3n y las muchas hormigas.\n\nJugar a decidirlo todo es una irresistible tentaci\u00f3n de infancia. En alg\u00fan momento de su aventura, el escritor alcanza su castillo en el limbo, la regi\u00f3n pueril de la que puede ser monarca. No cualquiera siente este deseo en la edad adulta. \u00bfHay manera de explicar el af\u00e1n de totalidad que caracteriza al responsable \u00fanico de la obra, el demiurgo en su escritorio?\n\nEn su novela _La rid\u00edcula idea de no volver a verte_ , Rosa Montero se ocupa de las condiciones en que surge la vocaci\u00f3n creativa y cita un estudio de la Facultad de Psiquiatr\u00eda de la Universidad de Semmelweis, en Hungr\u00eda, que arroja los siguientes datos: el 50 % de los europeos tiene en el cerebro una copia de un gen llamado \u00abneuregul\u00edn 1\u00bb, el 15 % tiene dos copias y el 35 % ninguna. Seg\u00fan el estudio, la gente creativa pertenece al 15 % que presenta dos copias. \u00abPoseer esta mutaci\u00f3n tambi\u00e9n conlleva un aumento del riesgo a desarrollar trastornos ps\u00edquicos, as\u00ed como una peor memoria y una disparatada sensibilidad ante las cr\u00edticas\u00bb, escribe Montero.\n\nSin forzar los determinismos cient\u00edficos, es obvio que el escritor muestra esas propensiones. Se trata de alguien que tiene ideas, se distrae con facilidad y se queja mucho. Su conducta se podr\u00eda resumir en un refr\u00e1n: \u00abCuando piensa, piensa en otra cosa.\u00bb Esta peculiaridad encarna de distintos modos. El escritor puede ser un sufriente ejemplar que transforma el dolor en goce est\u00e9tico (el laborioso Gustave Flaubert llamaba la atenci\u00f3n sobre el hecho de que la perla fuera una enfermedad del osti\u00f3n), un sujeto abusivo que aprovecha sin escr\u00fapulos las heridas ajenas (Bor\u00eds Pilniak dec\u00eda que la zorra es el dios de los escritores) o alguien que vive de imaginar lo que no vive (Julian Barnes entiende la escritura como una terap\u00e9utica \u00abpacificaci\u00f3n de ap\u00f3crifos\u00bb).\n\nLa pasi\u00f3n y la condena del artista, y el vicio de sobrellevarlas, conducen a un manejo irregular de las emociones, que puede llevar a la locura (Strindberg), los est\u00edmulos transitorios de la droga o el alcohol (Burroughs, Lowry), ins\u00f3litas man\u00edas (Proust), un mani\u00e1tico ostracismo (Salinger) o a la revuelta vida interior de un burgu\u00e9s perfecto (Thomas Mann).\n\nPero antes de crear la imagen del escritor necesariamente arrebatado, al borde del estertor sensible, baste decir que ciertos autores han sido no solo llevaderos sino sumamente agradables. Aunque los Ch\u00e9jov y los Cort\u00e1zar no abundan, sus ejemplos revelan que incluso una magn\u00edfica persona puede escribir de maravilla.\n\nNo es necesario padecer la c\u00e1rcel para escribir con conocimiento de causa de las mazmorras, pero s\u00ed es necesario ubicarse mentalmente en esa situaci\u00f3n. De acuerdo con Nietzsche, el conocimiento del infierno permite concebir el cielo. Ese infierno puede ser tan tangible como el que Genet padeci\u00f3 en su infancia o tan conjetural como el del favorecido Tolst\u00f3i. Lo cierto es que el escritor es un ser fronterizo que vive entre la realidad y la imaginaci\u00f3n y, en mayor o menor medida, se ve afectado por ese tr\u00e1nsito de una realidad a otra. La carga de su segunda vida puede ser abrumadora y no es casual que muchos escritores hayan dejado de escribir. Enrique Vila-Matas dedic\u00f3 un libro entero al tema: _Bartleby y compa\u00f1\u00eda_.\n\nUno de los casos m\u00e1s sorprendentes de un autor aquejado de angustia literaria es el de Robert Walser. Durante a\u00f1os llev\u00f3 una vida pac\u00edfica y met\u00f3dica en un manicomio. La principal cura que encontr\u00f3 ah\u00ed fue la de sentirse libre de la presi\u00f3n de escribir. La p\u00e1gina en blanco le parec\u00eda mucho m\u00e1s agobiante que el sanatorio. En los testimonios de sus a\u00f1os de hospital (en su mayor\u00eda recogidos por su amigo Carl Seelig), el autor de _Jakob von Gunten_ se juzga correctamente a s\u00ed mismo; opina con solvencia de numerosos temas, controla su car\u00e1cter. Pero no soporta que lo consideren singular. No quiere ser reconocido. En forma curiosa, desconf\u00eda de Kafka, quiz\u00e1 porque el autor de _El proceso_ lo hab\u00eda elogiado. Busca una median\u00eda que lo proteja de las exigencias del mundo.\n\nNo es dif\u00edcil simpatizar con \u00e9l. De manera un tanto melodram\u00e1tica, el escritor Junot D\u00edaz ha declarado: \u00abSi pudiera devolver mi don, lo har\u00eda.\u00bb La sensibilidad extrema, y la obligaci\u00f3n de usarla, pueden convertirse en una carga insoportable.\n\nRodrigo Fres\u00e1n ha dedicado una extensa novela al tema de c\u00f3mo piensa un escritor, _La parte inventada_. Ah\u00ed reflexiona sobre la rara paz que sobrecoge al autor que ya no se siente impelido a buscar palabras: \u00abPasar el resto de la vida como alguien que ya no escribe [...]. Y sonre\u00edr con esa sonrisa triste de los que alguna vez fueron adictos a algo: la sonrisa de quienes est\u00e1n mejor de lo que estaban pero no necesariamente m\u00e1s felices. La sonrisa de quienes [...] sospechan que en realidad ellos no eran los adictos sino, apenas, la adicci\u00f3n: la incontrolable sustancia controlada, la tan efectiva como pasajera droga. Y, entre temblores, comprenden que algo o alguien se los ha quitado de encima porque ya no le sirve [...]. Y que por eso la droga ha partido, lejos de ellos, en busca de sustancias mejores y m\u00e1s poderosas.\u00bb\n\nLa idea de vicio mencionada a prop\u00f3sito de Onetti resurge aqu\u00ed como adicci\u00f3n. Pero el original giro de Fres\u00e1n consiste en dejar de ver al autor como un adicto a la escritura, para verlo como la adicci\u00f3n misma, la necesidad social, cultural o esot\u00e9rica que la comunidad tiene de que alguien haga eso. En este sentido, dejar de escribir no convierte al escritor en una persona sobria, reformada, que dej\u00f3 la droga, sino en alguien que, al modo de una sustancia que caduca, perdi\u00f3 su fuerza intoxicante.\n\nLo decisivo en el pasaje citado es que ah\u00ed confluyen el miedo, la ilusi\u00f3n y la inutilidad de dejar de escribir, tres fantasmas que se sientan con el escritor en su mesa de trabajo.\n\nDARSE DE ALTA\n\nLa escritura puede llevar al dolor y la demencia y a las m\u00e1s variadas versiones del quijotismo, pero tambi\u00e9n contribuye a sobrellevar el peso del mundo y recuperar la cordura.\n\nConcluyo estas reflexiones con el recuerdo de una singular conferencia. El extraordinario historiador del arte Aby Warburg vivi\u00f3 en un sanatorio para enfermos mentales de 1921 a 1924. Lleg\u00f3 ah\u00ed a los veinticuatro a\u00f1os y fue tratado por Ludwig Binswanger, disc\u00edpulo de Carl Gustav Jung. El m\u00e9todo al que se someti\u00f3 fue el de la \u00abautocuraci\u00f3n\u00bb. Warburg era un hombre de elevada inteligencia que cultiv\u00f3 la obsesividad funcional del erudito. Solo alguien como \u00e9l, con tendencia al delirio de relaci\u00f3n, pod\u00eda concebir un atlas de im\u00e1genes para ordenar el legado pl\u00e1stico de Occidente. Sin embargo, los excesos de car\u00e1cter que durante mucho tiempo operaron en su favor como se\u00f1as de acuciosidad y rigor acad\u00e9micos llegaron a provocarle violentos arrebatos con los que pretend\u00eda defenderse de la amenaza del mundo. Su ins\u00f3lita capacidad de conectar lo sumi\u00f3 en una insufrible paranoia. De la interpretaci\u00f3n pas\u00f3 a la sobreinterpretaci\u00f3n, temiendo que cada guiso estuviera envenenado.\n\nSeg\u00fan relata Binswanger en _La curaci\u00f3n infinita_ , el experto en la supervivencia de las ideas antiguas en la Edad Media y en la constelaci\u00f3n de las im\u00e1genes de Occidente, lleg\u00f3 al sanatorio en un estado de absoluta irritabilidad. Desconfiaba de todo y de todos. Solo se calmaba ante un rostro desconocido, que no pudiera provocarle asociaciones.\n\nSin embargo, nunca perdi\u00f3 del todo la lucidez. Llev\u00f3 un diario donde advirti\u00f3 que su padecimiento consist\u00eda en establecer excesivas \u00abrelaciones causales\u00bb entre una cosa y cualquier otra. Por ello prefer\u00eda \u00abcomer los platos sencillos y abarcables de una mirada\u00bb.\n\nBinswanger procur\u00f3 que la da\u00f1ada raz\u00f3n de Warburg sanara por su propia v\u00eda. El enfermo volc\u00f3 sus preocupaciones en la escritura hasta adquirir el asombroso rango de convaleciente.\n\nAl sentirse con suficiente dominio de s\u00ed mismo, encontr\u00f3 un curioso modo de ser dado de alta: imparti\u00f3 una conferencia para demostrar su lucidez. El 21 de abril de 1923, los m\u00e9dicos y las enfermeras se reunieron a escuchar a Aby Warburg. Estamos ante un ins\u00f3lito expediente de la cultura. El ponente no diserta para obtener un grado o instruir a los dem\u00e1s, sino para comprobar su estado mental. En mayor o menor medida, esta situaci\u00f3n extrema ata\u00f1e a todo conferencista y fue el punto de partida para escribir mi mon\u00f3logo teatral _Conferencia sobre la lluvia_.\n\nWarburg eligi\u00f3 disertar sobre el ritual de la serpiente en los indios hopi. No quiso reunir ese texto en sus obras, pues lo consideraba un mero expediente de salud mental. Por la misma raz\u00f3n, se quej\u00f3 de que no fuera mencionado en el dictamen m\u00e9dico que lo dio de alta.\n\nEl estudioso de las im\u00e1genes consideraba que el s\u00edmbolo ten\u00eda un valor farmacol\u00f3gico, y cre\u00f3 una rima para promover esta certeza: _\u00abSymbol tut wohl!\u00bb_ (el s\u00edmbolo hace bien). En forma apropiada, escogi\u00f3 como tema de disertaci\u00f3n a la serpiente, capaz de inyectar un veneno letal, pero que cambia de piel y representa la renovaci\u00f3n. Adem\u00e1s es el emblema de la medicina: \u00abAsclepio, dios griego de la salud, tiene como s\u00edmbolo una serpiente que se enrolla en un bast\u00f3n\u00bb, el caduceo que solemos ver en los consultorios.\n\nEn su conferencia, Warburg aborda la conducta \u00abm\u00e1gicofant\u00e1stica\u00bb de los indios hopi y estudia la hibridaci\u00f3n que esta visi\u00f3n experimenta al entrar en contacto con las costumbres racionales de esa misma comunidad. En el sanatorio, \u00e9l ha oscilado entre ambas formas de comportamiento. Como la serpiente que le sirve de hilo conductor, entiende que debe dejar la piel en ese sitio para seguir viviendo.\n\nWarburg concluye que los s\u00edmbolos, la mitolog\u00eda, el arte \u2013la articulada representaci\u00f3n de lo real\u2013 niegan la destrucci\u00f3n y permiten superar la angustia de la muerte y trascender el sufrimiento. Su conferencia es una peculiar puesta en pr\u00e1ctica del tema tratado. A medida que habla, el profesor se cura.\n\nAl final, arremete contra la tecnolog\u00eda deshumanizadora, describe el cable el\u00e9ctrico como una espuria \u00abserpiente de cobre\u00bb (\u00abEdison ha despojado del rayo a la naturaleza\u00bb), alerta contra la p\u00e9rdida de contacto org\u00e1nico con la naturaleza \u2013lo antropomorfo y lo biomorfo se han replegado para ceder su sitio a los aparatos\u2013 y exclama como un profeta apocal\u00edptico: \u00abEl tel\u00e9grafo y el tel\u00e9fono destruyen el cosmos.\u00bb\n\nEn opini\u00f3n de Ulrich Raulff, curador de la edici\u00f3n de _El ritual de la serpiente_ , la conferencia es una alegor\u00eda del programa de autocuraci\u00f3n. Warburg \u00abse atrevi\u00f3 a simbolizar aquellas potencias f\u00f3bicas de las que \u00e9l mismo era v\u00edctima: una conferencia sobre la quintaesencia misma del terror, precisamente la serpiente. De esta manera utiliz\u00f3 el s\u00edmbolo por excelencia de la amenaza para examinar su _ratio\u00bb_. Estamos ante un \u00abgrito de guerra\u00bb para aprovechar el \u00abvalor del propio miedo\u00bb. Con id\u00e9nticas dosis de valent\u00eda y capacidad ret\u00f3rica, el convaleciente mostr\u00f3 que hab\u00eda abandonado la neblina del delirio para pasar a otra zona conflictiva: la raz\u00f3n.\n\nCuando fue dado de alta, le regal\u00f3 a Binswanger una r\u00e9plica de un cuadro de Rembrandt, _La estampa de los cien florines_ , donde Cristo sana a los enfermos.\n\nLa conferencia de Warburg revela el papel curativo de la inteligencia. Acaso esa autosanaci\u00f3n represente el m\u00e1s profundo e inconfesado ideal de todo autor: \u00abLo dem\u00e1s es la locura del arte.\u00bb\n\nAnte el desorden alfab\u00e9tico del teclado debe domarse a s\u00ed mismo, descubrir la hondura de sus preocupaciones, reponer sus p\u00e9rdidas, exorcizar sus fantasmas. As\u00ed repite la curaci\u00f3n infinita y el drama de Warburg, \u00abla conquista del s\u00edmbolo y la precariedad de tal victoria\u00bb, como la llama Raulff.\n\nM\u00e1s all\u00e1 del escritorio lo aguarda un mundo imperfecto donde de pronto estallar\u00e1 el timbre del tel\u00e9fono. Ah\u00ed ser\u00e1 juzgada la obra y ah\u00ed \u00e9l ser\u00e1 juzgado. Al final de su jornada ignora lo que aport\u00f3 al copioso universo, pero puede atesorar el \u00fanico logro irrefutable de ese d\u00eda: como el intr\u00e9pido y sufrido Warburg, se da de alta. \n\n# II. La orilla europea \n### DANIEL DEFOE: LA INVENCI\u00d3N DE LA REALIDAD\n\nNos entregamos a la piedad de Dios y a la locura del mar.\n\n_Robinson Crusoe_\n\nEn el verano de 1730 Daniel Defoe regres\u00f3 a Londres, su ciudad natal. Llevaba alg\u00fan tiempo viviendo en provincia, pero su casa se hab\u00eda vuelto insegura. Viajaba solo, procurando pasar de inc\u00f3gnito; se acerc\u00f3 a un barrio que conoc\u00eda desde la infancia y donde pod\u00eda moverse con confianza. Ah\u00ed se hosped\u00f3 en una discreta pensi\u00f3n de Ropemaker's Alley. A los setenta a\u00f1os, el novelista hu\u00eda de uno m\u00e1s de sus m\u00faltiples acreedores. Los rocambolescos esfuerzos para saldar sus deudas hab\u00edan sido in\u00fatiles y la vejez no le brindaba reposo alguno. \u00bfDe qu\u00e9 le serv\u00edan las muchas destrezas adquiridas en una vida llena de acontecimientos? Sab\u00eda catar vinos, calcular las posibilidades de rendimiento de un caballo, fabricar ladrillos, comerciar en sedas, embarcar mercanc\u00edas a ultramar, polemizar sobre todos los temas bajo el sol, espiar y ganarse la confianza de los poderosos. Pero nada de eso le permit\u00eda escapar de su arrinconada condici\u00f3n; lo \u00fanico que lo manten\u00eda a salvo era negar su identidad. El mayor novelista de su tiempo trataba de ser an\u00f3nimo.\n\nDue\u00f1o de una incombustible energ\u00eda, hab\u00eda tratado de triunfar en los negocios, oponiendo la inventiva a la evidencia y padeciendo los abusos de una \u00e9poca a\u00fan m\u00e1s arbitraria que la nuestra, en la que el comercio se confund\u00eda con el pillaje y carec\u00eda de toda regulaci\u00f3n.\n\nHarto de competir en desventaja, escribi\u00f3 con conocimiento de causa acerca de las limitaciones de la sociedad inglesa, convirti\u00e9ndose en pionero del periodismo econ\u00f3mico. Durante un tiempo altern\u00f3 los oficios del polemista y el negociante y los asumi\u00f3 con la enjundia de quien considera que la realidad existe para ser modificada. En la ma\u00f1ana se arruinaba y en la tarde iniciaba una campa\u00f1a en la prensa o un nuevo negocio.\n\nDos veces tuvo que declararse en quiebra y no se repuso de esos golpes. Perder el dinero en desventuras comerciales le parec\u00eda un defecto de car\u00e1cter. A diferencia de su padre, empleado estable de una compa\u00f1\u00eda vendedora de carnes, someti\u00f3 a su mujer y a sus siete hijos a la ruleta de la fortuna. No estaba en su temperamento optar por un oficio seguro; sin embargo, encontrar\u00eda continuos motivos de remordimiento al comparar su incierto destino con la parda pero s\u00f3lida vida paterna.\n\nSu eficacia como panfletista fue enorme, pero sus ideas rara vez sentaron bien. En miles de p\u00e1ginas abog\u00f3 por la tolerancia religiosa y la libertad de expresi\u00f3n. El eje de sus argumentaciones fue la necesidad de abrir la sociedad inglesa, cuya rigidez en las costumbres no imped\u00eda el caos en la pol\u00edtica.\n\nNacido en el seno de una familia de protestantes disidentes, entendi\u00f3 desde ni\u00f1o lo que significa pertenecer a un grupo minoritario. Apoy\u00f3 la causa de su comunidad religiosa hasta que descubri\u00f3 que el dogmatismo es mal amigo de la raz\u00f3n y que incluso una congregaci\u00f3n acostumbrada a entender la fe como una forma de la rebeld\u00eda era capaz de tener posturas acomodaticias con el Parlamento y la Corona.\n\n\u00bfEs posible ser cr\u00edtico en un entorno que ignora los privilegios de la discrepancia? Como periodista, Defoe fue un maestro del equilibrio. Dependiendo de la coyuntura, cambi\u00f3 de estrategia para congraciarse con diversas facciones pol\u00edticas. Esta versatilidad t\u00e1ctica le permiti\u00f3 defender los valores liberales que m\u00e1s le interesaban.\n\nLa idea del _self made man_ que pretende triunfar en la sociedad capitalista puede parecer rutinaria en el siglo XXI. En tiempos de Defoe era un atrevimiento. Toda iniciativa privada parec\u00eda absurda en un \u00e1mbito determinado por nociones de clase, sangre y religi\u00f3n.\n\nDe manera oscilante, el periodista de combate apoy\u00f3 a las dos tendencias del Parlamento; fue _whig_ para fortalecer a los protestantes disidentes y _tory_ para paliar sus excesos; en ocasiones exager\u00f3 su postura _whig_ para desprestigiar esa causa e hizo lo propio con la postura _tory_.\n\nSe acerc\u00f3 a la aristocracia y a la Corona, no en busca de una c\u00f3moda renta, sino de protecci\u00f3n para seguir publicando panfletos de elevada temperatura. No quer\u00eda la irrestricta aceptaci\u00f3n de los poderosos, sino un respaldo transitorio para salvar el pellejo. El polemista se subordinaba en forma intr\u00e9pida.\n\nNo siempre sali\u00f3 bien librado de este empe\u00f1o. Al menos cinco veces estuvo en la c\u00e1rcel y pas\u00f3 por la terrible humillaci\u00f3n de la picota, que consist\u00eda en exhibir en p\u00fablico a un reo, con la cabeza y las manos metidas en un tabl\u00f3n de madera.\n\nEn 1713, a\u00f1o de uno de sus encarcelamientos, un panfleto lo calumni\u00f3 con el t\u00edtulo de _Judas descubierto_. Defoe era descrito como \u00abun animal que cambia de forma con m\u00e1s frecuencia que Proteo y avanza y retrocede como una liebre perseguida\u00bb.\n\nAlberto Cavallari, traductor de _Robinson Crusoe_ al italiano y director del _Corriere della Sera_ , ha subrayado lo mucho que nuestro autor aprendi\u00f3 en las calderas del periodismo. En su ensayo \u00abLa isla de la modernidad\u00bb escribe: \u00abDefoe anticipa sin saberlo un problema permanente del periodismo moderno, presionado por su propio poder mientras sufre las presiones de otros poderes.\u00bb\n\nEl panfletista del siglo XVIII dispon\u00eda de un arma que en cualquier momento pod\u00eda volverse en contra suya. Con dosis id\u00e9nticas de iron\u00eda y cinismo, coment\u00f3: \u00ab\u00bfPuede ser independiente un periodista? Por supuesto, pero solo de un modo. V\u00e9anme a m\u00ed: a veces me pagan los _whigs_ y a veces los _tories_. As\u00ed soy independiente.\u00bb\n\nCon el tiempo, Defoe se convirti\u00f3 en experto en representar opiniones que no compart\u00eda. Esta habilidad camale\u00f3nica le depar\u00f3 un peculiar aprendizaje literario. En sus mudables colaboraciones para la prensa, aprendi\u00f3 a respaldar ideas ajenas, recurso esencial a sus novelas.\n\nEn el verano de 1730, cuando abri\u00f3 la puerta de la peque\u00f1a pensi\u00f3n en Ropemaker's Alley, seguramente sinti\u00f3 una mezcla de alivio y frustraci\u00f3n. Estaba en un recinto donde no ser\u00eda f\u00e1cilmente hallado, pero muy inferior a sus ambiciones.\n\nDurante toda su carrera hab\u00eda tenido incumplidos anhelos de superaci\u00f3n. Cambi\u00f3 su apellido Foe por el afrancesado Defoe y se dio aires de una grandeza que no le correspond\u00eda. Usaba espada y peluca y fantaseaba sobre el origen de su imponente anillo (seg\u00fan \u00e9l, hab\u00eda pertenecido a Christopher Love, ministro presbiteriano decapitado por conspirar contra Cromwell).\n\nAmbicioso, cuando no arribista, fue precursor de los folletos de autoayuda, anhel\u00f3 la fortuna y quiso ponerse a salvo de las habitaciones manchadas de humedad. A los setenta a\u00f1os se hab\u00eda refugiado en una de ellas.\n\nNo era el mejor modo de volver a Londres. Eligi\u00f3 ese barrio que conoc\u00eda desde la infancia para pasar inadvertido y encontrarse ah\u00ed con su esposa. Mary ten\u00eda una propiedad cercana a la pensi\u00f3n y pod\u00edan verse de manera furtiva. En la \u00faltima carta que le envi\u00f3 a su yerno, Henry Baker, Defoe habla de lo mucho que le pesa no ver a su familia durante varias semanas.\n\nOculto, perseguido por los descalabros de su infructuoso ingenio comercial, no pod\u00eda apelar al orgullo compensatorio de considerarse un gran escritor. Carec\u00eda del prestigio que la \u00e9poca conced\u00eda a poetas y eruditos. Su \u00e9xito popular pod\u00eda ser visto como una moda que ser\u00eda sustituida por otras. Taine lo consider\u00f3 un hombre de negocios convertido en \u00absoldado de la prosa\u00bb. \u00c9l mismo se ve\u00eda m\u00e1s como un profesional de la escritura \u2013un vendedor de textos\u2013 que como un artista.\n\nHab\u00eda frecuentado a reyes y pr\u00edncipes, y el insigne Jonathan Swift tuvo la deferencia de despreciarlo. Sin saberlo, hab\u00eda cambiado la historia de la literatura. Pero cerr\u00f3 los ojos como un pr\u00f3fugo sin nombre.\n\nEl m\u00e9dico que revis\u00f3 su cad\u00e1ver dijo que el fallecimiento se debi\u00f3 a un \u00abletargo\u00bb. Su bi\u00f3grafo Maximillian E. Novak se\u00f1ala que hay algo ir\u00f3nico en que un hombre hiperactivo muriera de pasividad extrema. Seguramente el diagn\u00f3stico se refer\u00eda a que expir\u00f3 durante el sue\u00f1o, vencido por m\u00faltiples quebrantos. La guerra, la zozobra econ\u00f3mica, el presidio, las cabalgatas bajo la nieve recorriendo la isla entera y miles y miles de p\u00e1ginas hab\u00edan cobrado su tributo.\n\nDaniel Defoe fue enterrado el 26 de abril de 1731. Se desconoce la fecha exacta de su nacimiento, pero los bi\u00f3grafos coinciden en que al morir hab\u00eda cumplido setenta y un a\u00f1os. Su esposa Mary lo sobrevivi\u00f3 apenas un a\u00f1o y ocho meses, y fue enterrada a su lado.\n\nEn el \u00faltimo tramo de su vida, Defoe escribi\u00f3 algunos libros que le granjearon el aprecio del p\u00fablico y confirmaron su desencuentro con la cr\u00edtica. Nunca se interes\u00f3 mucho en las formas literarias. Escrib\u00eda a destajo, y si el editor deseaba una enmienda, solicitaba un pago extra (generalmente la mitad del monto inicial). Falleci\u00f3 sin saberse cl\u00e1sico.\n\nPero algo cambiaba mientras \u00e9l mor\u00eda. Los libros dejaban de ser objetos solo accesibles para la \u00e9lite o los escol\u00e1sticos y los lectores aceptaban cada vez m\u00e1s que el lenguaje com\u00fan pasara a la letra impresa. En _The Rise of the Novel_ , el cr\u00edtico e historiador Ian Watt se\u00f1ala la importancia de la ampliaci\u00f3n del p\u00fablico lector para el surgimiento de un nuevo g\u00e9nero: la novela. No fue una transformaci\u00f3n masiva (un tiraje de diez mil ejemplares era exitoso para un peri\u00f3dico), pero marc\u00f3 una modificaci\u00f3n gradual del gusto.\n\nEl fugitivo que muri\u00f3 el 24 de abril de 1731 hab\u00eda tenido un golpe de suerte diez a\u00f1os antes. Convencido de que la gente pod\u00eda leer un relato en lengua llana, escribi\u00f3 la historia de un n\u00e1ufrago. Lo hizo en primera persona, al modo de una autobiograf\u00eda. El h\u00e9roe no ten\u00eda un nombre raro ni enfrentaba desaf\u00edos sobrenaturales; no llegaba a la literatura prestigiado por la leyenda o la mitolog\u00eda. Un ser com\u00fan ante un destino desmedido.\n\n_Robinson Crusoe_ se vendi\u00f3 bien, tuvo imitadores y ediciones pirata que propiciaron dos vol\u00famenes posteriores, escritos a toda prisa por Defoe para no perder la prioridad del negocio. Aprovechando el impulso adquirido, compuso _Moll Flanders_ y _Roxana_ , narraciones que tambi\u00e9n utilizan la primera persona y se estructuran como biograf\u00edas.\n\nEl veterano del periodismo gan\u00f3 cierto respeto por estos libros (entre ellos, el del eminente Dr. Johnson), pero la opini\u00f3n mayoritaria fue que ejerc\u00eda una variante de la literatura ajena al refinamiento y las exigencias de la forma. Charles Gildon, prol\u00edfico autor de la \u00e9poca, lo critic\u00f3 por banalizar el arte y la vida (parad\u00f3jicamente, este ataque inmortalizar\u00eda a Gildon). Tampoco faltaron las acusaciones de haber plagiado la historia del n\u00e1ufrago Alexander Selkirk, quien sobrevivi\u00f3 de 1704 a 1709 en una isla del archipi\u00e9lago Juan Fern\u00e1ndez, frente a las costas chilenas, y se salv\u00f3 de la locura leyendo la Biblia, cantando himnos y bailando con cabras. El caso era bien conocido. En 1712, Woodes Rogers, el capit\u00e1n que lo rescat\u00f3, cont\u00f3 su historia en _A Cruising Voyage Round the World_. Una reedici\u00f3n de este libro se public\u00f3 en 1718, un a\u00f1o antes de la aparici\u00f3n de _Robinson Crusoe_.\n\nDe manera evidente, Defoe se bas\u00f3 en Selkirk, pero su historia era muy distinta. Aun as\u00ed, la acusaci\u00f3n de plagio lo persigui\u00f3 incluso en la _Enciclopedia Brit\u00e1nica_ , que solo modific\u00f3 su informaci\u00f3n al respecto ya entrado el siglo XIX.\n\nInmerso en la vor\u00e1gine de sus d\u00edas, el novelista no tuvo tiempo de verse como su propio personaje. Ignoraba que hab\u00eda fundado un g\u00e9nero narrativo y que ser\u00eda considerado como un cl\u00e1sico por dos tipos de lectores particularmente exigentes: los fil\u00f3sofos (con Kant y Rousseau a la cabeza) y los ni\u00f1os (la adaptaci\u00f3n para j\u00f3venes lectores hecha por el pedagogo Joachim Heinrich Campe, tutor de los hermanos Humboldt, ser\u00eda decisiva para estimular los viajes de Alexander al nuevo mundo).\n\nEn 1871, los restos del novelista fueron exhumados frente a su tataranieta para ser trasladados a un monumento que, de manera significativa, se erigi\u00f3 gracias a donativos hechos por ni\u00f1os. El endeudado Defoe encontraba a sus perdurables patrocinadores.\n\nLa multitud se precipit\u00f3 sobre el carruaje que trasladaba el ata\u00fad y disput\u00f3 para quedarse con alg\u00fan trozo del esqueleto. Educado en el puritanismo, Defoe despreciaba la supercher\u00eda de las reliquias cristianas. Seguramente le habr\u00eda sorprendido enterarse de que hab\u00eda dejado de ser un proscrito para suscitar esa extra\u00f1a idolatr\u00eda.\n\nDaniel Defoe muri\u00f3 en soledad, \u00faltima contradicci\u00f3n de quien escribi\u00f3 la mayor par\u00e1bola del contacto con el otro. Una escena resume el poder\u00edo de su imaginaci\u00f3n: un hombre sobrevive en una isla desierta; de vez en cuando el mar le trae algunas novedades, pero ninguna supera al asombro de encontrar un rastro en la arena; es la huella de un pie.\n\nAlguien ha llegado a la isla.\n\nLA VIDA COMO NAUFRAGIO\n\nEl turbulento destino de Defoe hace que en comparaci\u00f3n cualquier otra vida parezca mon\u00f3tona. Es curioso que Charles Dickens, maestro de la literatura de peripecias, lo viera como un hombre sin pasi\u00f3n, m\u00e1s bien desagradable. Vale la pena detenerse en este juicio. En sus plurales enredos, Defoe busca sacar provecho o al menos salvar el pellejo. Su vida es un vasto repertorio de pleitos y negociaciones donde no aparecen reacciones emotivas. No lo vemos llorar, deprimirse, caer en remordimientos dostoievskianos.\n\nEn la inmensa biograf\u00eda de Maximillian E. Novak, _Daniel Defoe. Master of Fictions_ , la palabra \u00abenemigos\u00bb surge cada cinco p\u00e1ginas. Nuestro autor lucha y se recupera sin desmayo aparente. Carece del componente sentimental del drama, tan apreciado por Dickens.\n\nCuesta trabajo seguir puntualmente su accidentada trayectoria como proselitista pol\u00edtico. Sus escritos y su trabajo de esp\u00eda lo sit\u00faan en polos alternos del Parlamento y la religi\u00f3n. Sin embargo, no act\u00faa con la pasi\u00f3n del converso que cambia de creencias, sino con la astucia de quien busca distintas perspectivas para manifestar su hartazgo. En cualquier circunstancia es un sobreviviente. No es casual que escribiera la insuperable par\u00e1bola del naufragio.\n\nComo proselitista, fue un adalid del hombre com\u00fan; se opuso a las restricciones de una \u00e9poca en la que resultaba casi imposible hacer negocios en forma independiente, las opiniones publicadas pod\u00edan llevar a la c\u00e1rcel y la fe se subordinaba a los mercuriales caprichos de la realeza.\n\nEn el siglo XVII no hay una plataforma liberal que apoye a Defoe. En consecuencia, busca la transitoria protecci\u00f3n de ciertos poderosos para adelantar la causa del ciudadano raso. \u00bfQu\u00e9 hace un dem\u00f3crata que naci\u00f3 demasiado pronto? Pacta con poderes autoritarios para promover la libertad sin morir en el intento.\n\nEn ocasiones, Defoe act\u00faa movido por el c\u00e1lculo; sin embargo, los duros reveses a los que lo somete la justicia \u2013de la c\u00e1rcel a la declaraci\u00f3n de bancarrota\u2013 lo convierten en una arriesgada v\u00edctima de la libertad que no traiciona sus convicciones.\n\nEl resultado es una vida dickensiana que decepcion\u00f3 a Dickens, un destino ajeno al llanto y a la risa. Se desconocen amor\u00edos, grandes amistades, arrebatos emotivos en Defoe. A los veinticuatro a\u00f1os contrajo nupcias con Mary Tuffley y aparentemente deposit\u00f3 todos sus afectos en ella y sus siete hijos. Las escenas de compasi\u00f3n, erotismo o fraternidad parecen haber sido tan escasas en su vida como en su obra. Ser\u00eda interesante conocer la opini\u00f3n de Mary sobre el marido que la tuvo en muy elevada estima pero derroch\u00f3 su dote en un santiam\u00e9n y aprovech\u00f3 el primer a\u00f1o de matrimonio para unirse a la rebeli\u00f3n del duque de Monmouth contra el rey Jaime II.\n\nDurante d\u00e9cadas, el g\u00e9nero favorito de Defoe fue el panfleto, lo cual habla de su car\u00e1cter combativo y las paradojas de una \u00e9poca en que la promoci\u00f3n de la tolerancia era una forma del pleito. Tampoco la religi\u00f3n represent\u00f3 para \u00e9l una adaptaci\u00f3n al medio. Para quien aprende a rezar rodeado de amenazas, la fe no significa un consuelo sino un desaf\u00edo.\n\nSu entorno pol\u00edtico no pudo ser m\u00e1s inestable. En 1658 muere Cromwell y se restaura la monarqu\u00eda. Seg\u00fan el consenso de los bi\u00f3grafos, Defoe nace en 1660. Un a\u00f1o m\u00e1s tarde tiene lugar un extra\u00f1o caso de retaliaci\u00f3n: el cuerpo de Cromwell es exhumado de la abad\u00eda de Westminster para ser sometido a una ejecuci\u00f3n p\u00f3stuma.\n\nLos primeros recuerdos del futuro novelista reflejan ese clima de incertidumbre. En _Las memorias de un caballero_ narra una escena que asocia con su propia vida: mientras la madre da a luz, el redoble de un tambor llega de la calle; la vida comienza al comp\u00e1s de la turbulencia p\u00fablica.\n\nLa madre de Defoe muri\u00f3 cuando \u00e9l ten\u00eda diez a\u00f1os. A partir de entonces dependi\u00f3 del padre, James Foe, comerciante apacible, ordenado, poco amigo de las sorpresas, que vendi\u00f3 carne durante toda su vida. Su oficio fue mucho m\u00e1s tedioso y simple que los muchos que asumi\u00f3 su hijo, pero le depar\u00f3 esa clase de \u00e9xito que solo se obtiene aceptando las virtudes de la mediocridad.\n\nTodo en el entorno de Defoe era fr\u00e1gil, menos el tes\u00f3n del padre. Ese punto fijo en medio del caos represent\u00f3 para \u00e9l un desaf\u00edo y un agravio. El novelista sab\u00eda que si se hubiera conformado, habr\u00eda padecido menos.\n\nEl gran pecado de Robinson Crusoe consiste en rechazar la median\u00eda propuesta por su padre, el lugar poco apasionante pero seguro que corresponde a su estrato social: \u00abMi condici\u00f3n era mediana, o lo que cab\u00eda considerar como la estaci\u00f3n superior de la vida baja, la mejor del mundo seg\u00fan su larga experiencia, la m\u00e1s id\u00f3nea para la felicidad humana.\u00bb Algo id\u00e9ntico ocurre con Defoe: escapa de la confortable mediocridad para meterse en apuros.\n\nTambi\u00e9n Londres contribuy\u00f3 a su zozobra. A los cinco a\u00f1os fue testigo de la peste que cobr\u00f3 m\u00e1s de sesenta mil vidas, y a los seis, del gran incendio que devast\u00f3 la capital inglesa.\n\nSus recuerdos de aquel tiempo no pod\u00edan ser muy precisos, pero ciertas escenas se le grabaron con fuerza, revelando que desde entonces ya ve\u00eda el mundo como narrador. Por ejemplo, no olvid\u00f3 que en los d\u00edas aciagos de la peste los tenderos desinfectaban las monedas en vinagre para no contagiarse. Muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s escribir\u00eda una obra maestra de la cr\u00f3nica, _Diario del a\u00f1o de la peste_ , donde esos detalles memoriosos se mezclan con informes de otros relatores.\n\nDefoe reaccionaba de prisa ante los cataclismos. En 1704, reci\u00e9n salido de la c\u00e1rcel, se interes\u00f3 en la tormenta que hab\u00eda destruido buena parte de la flota inglesa, puso un anuncio en la _London Gazette_ para recibir informes al respecto e investig\u00f3 los documentos del almirantazgo. Con estos materiales compuso una notable relaci\u00f3n de la tragedia: _La tormenta_.\n\nLOS A\u00d1OS FORMATIVOS\n\nDefoe estudi\u00f3 en la Academia de Charles Morton, santuario de los protestantes disidentes. No estaba orgulloso de su formaci\u00f3n y tuvo que padecer las acusaciones de ignorancia del sarc\u00e1stico Swift; sin embargo, apreci\u00f3 que en la Academia se permitiera la lectura de John Locke. El precursor del empirismo y el liberalismo estuvo proscrito en Oxford y Cambridge. Sus ideas determinaron el temple de Defoe. Locke adapt\u00f3 las f\u00e1bulas de Esopo con fines de ense\u00f1anza filos\u00f3fica y abog\u00f3 por la libertad de credos y el contrato social como un acuerdo libre entre los hombres. Su teor\u00eda de la _tabula rasa_ , que evita las prenociones para conocer por cuenta propia, cautiv\u00f3 al futuro novelista, que situar\u00eda su principal obra en una isla desierta.\n\nEn la Academia tambi\u00e9n se le\u00edan textos de metaf\u00edsica escritos por jesuitas, pero no todo era apertura. Los _dissenters_ ten\u00edan un riguroso sistema de prohibiciones, que inclu\u00eda el teatro de Shakespeare y el _Book of Common Prayer_ de la Iglesia anglicana. En su _Historia de Inglaterra_ , Lord Macaulay describe con gracia esta austera ense\u00f1anza: \u00abLos puritanos odiaban que se torturara en p\u00fablico a los osos, no por el padecimiento que sufr\u00edan los osos, sino porque le daba placer a los espectadores.\u00bb\n\nLa Academia brind\u00f3 a Defoe una educaci\u00f3n sencilla pero s\u00f3lida y no libre de extravagancias. Morton, que a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s ser\u00eda vicepresidente de la Universidad de Harvard, afirmaba que las aves migratorias desaparec\u00edan en invierno para irse a la luna.\n\nDurante uno de los muchos conflictos religiosos de la \u00e9poca, los protestantes disidentes temieron que su Biblia fuera confiscada. En consecuencia, la clase del joven Daniel copi\u00f3 los cinco libros de Mois\u00e9s para salvarlos de la extinci\u00f3n. No es extra\u00f1o que las citas b\u00edblicas apuntalaran sus textos, tanto en los art\u00edculos de circunstancia como en _Robinson Crusoe_.\n\nResulta interesante reparar en su uso literario de las escrituras. Rara vez se sirve del Pentateuco como lo har\u00eda un feligr\u00e9s; lo toma como referencia intelectual, un principio de autoridad compartido por los lectores cultos que le sirve para abordar los m\u00e1s distintos temas.\n\nLA CRISIS COMO COSTUMBRE\n\nLa familia, la religi\u00f3n, los desastres urbanos y la pol\u00edtica fueron motivos de inquietud para el novelista. Pero su principal calvario fue la econom\u00eda.\n\nMarx vio a Crusoe como un emblema del capitalismo, el hombre industrioso, de c\u00e1lculo ego\u00edsta, que identifica la dicha con la ganancia y ve al Otro como a un empleado potencial. Pero el creador de ese personaje no pudo emprender un negocio sin arruinarlo; de haber tenido \u00e9xito en sus empe\u00f1os comerciales, jam\u00e1s se habr\u00eda dedicado a la literatura.\n\nMarx ley\u00f3 la historia desde la perspectiva del siglo XIX, con ojos muy distintos a los de quien vivi\u00f3 el siglo XVII y el naciente XVIII. En tiempos de Defoe la libre empresa era una aventura tan intr\u00e9pida como la pirater\u00eda. El ascenso social resultaba improbable, el cr\u00e9dito escaseaba, las profesiones liberales no se hab\u00edan establecido y las medidas fiscales no pod\u00edan ser m\u00e1s caprichosas (lleg\u00f3 a haber un gravamen por estar soltero y el propio Defoe fue durante un tiempo recaudador del impuesto al cristal, relativo a la posesi\u00f3n de botellas). El n\u00e1ufrago que administra la naturaleza es una figura compensatoria del empresario que tantas veces fracas\u00f3 en la realidad y que defendi\u00f3 con enjundia la libertad de hablar, rezar y comerciar.\n\nA Shakespeare le fascinaban los juicios por su intrincado dramatismo. \u00bfSinti\u00f3 Defoe una atracci\u00f3n literaria equivalente por la negociaci\u00f3n de cr\u00e9ditos en tabernas hinchadas de humo donde el prestamista aumentaba o mitigaba sus abusos a partir de las palabras, los gestos y las actitudes del cliente?\n\nEl persuasivo Defoe logr\u00f3 que le prestaran. Su problema fue saldar las deudas. Pas\u00f3 de un giro comercial a otro y ensay\u00f3 transacciones en ultramar que solo triunfar\u00edan en las p\u00e1ginas de _Robinson Crusoe_. Uno de sus negocios m\u00e1s peculiares fue el de criar gatos, cuyas gl\u00e1ndulas perianales, llenas de almizcle, serv\u00edan para la perfumer\u00eda. En una ocasi\u00f3n, sus acreedores le decomisaron setenta gatos que estaban a punto de brindarle r\u00e9ditos. Esto le produjo un irracional odio a esa especie: en _Capit\u00e1n Singleton_ , el protagonista trata de comerse un gato y la carne le resulta repelente.\n\nSus afanes de mercader no interrumpieron su curiosidad intelectual ni lo privaron de emprender otro tipo de proyectos. En compa\u00f1\u00eda de Edmund Halley, prepar\u00f3 un _Atlas mar\u00edtimo y comercial_. Seguramente colabor\u00f3 como redactor al servicio del astr\u00f3nomo que en 1682 descubri\u00f3 que el cometa que ese a\u00f1o surcaba el cielo era el mismo que se hab\u00eda visto en 1531 y en 1607, y que regresar\u00eda en 1758. \u00bfDe qu\u00e9 hablaron Halley y Defoe? Ignoramos el sentido profundo de ese encuentro que, a falta de datos, los bi\u00f3grafos tratan como algo circunstancial.\n\nSi dividi\u00e9ramos la vida de Defoe en tres actos, el eje evidente de los dos primeros ser\u00edan los negocios o, mejor dicho, la incesante capacidad de fracasar en ellos, y el tercero estar\u00eda consagrado a la literatura. Para el 29 de octubre de 1692 deb\u00eda 17.000 libras. La dote de su esposa, de 3.700 libras, no sirvi\u00f3 para apaciguar a sus perseguidores; incapaz de saldar deudas, tuvo que declararse en bancarrota y fue a dar a la c\u00e1rcel. Muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s la literatura le permitir\u00eda concebir una venganza po\u00e9tica. En _Roxana_ , la protagonista recibe joyas y dinero por un valor de \u00ab15.000 o 16.000 libras\u00bb, suma muy parecida a la que no pudo pagar el autor.\n\nSu venganza literaria es a\u00fan mayor en _Robinson Crusoe_. Cuando el n\u00e1ufrago encuentra monedas de distintos pa\u00edses en la isla desierta, lanza este liberador mon\u00f3logo: \u00abOh, droga \u2013exclam\u00e9\u2013. \u00bfDe qu\u00e9 me sirves ahora? No mereces ni que te recoja del suelo; vale m\u00e1s uno de esos cuchillos que todo este mont\u00f3n. Ninguna utilidad tienes para m\u00ed, as\u00ed que qu\u00e9date donde est\u00e1s y h\u00fandete como una criatura cuya vida no merece salvaci\u00f3n.\u00bb\n\nEn 1703, a los cuarenta y dos a\u00f1os, sufri\u00f3 su segunda bancarrota. De ese a\u00f1o terrible proviene la \u00fanica descripci\u00f3n que se conserva de \u00e9l. No se trata de un perfil literario ni de un reportaje, sino de una denuncia. Poco antes del descalabro econ\u00f3mico, hab\u00eda publicado _El camino m\u00e1s corto con los disidentes_. El panfleto irrit\u00f3 en tal forma a las autoridades que se ofreci\u00f3 una recompensa para localizar al autor. Un sopl\u00f3n escribi\u00f3 el texto que lo describe como \u00abun hombre de cerca de cuarenta a\u00f1os, que usa peluca, tiene tez morena, nariz aguile\u00f1a, ojos grises, pelo casta\u00f1o oscuro y una gran verruga cerca de la boca\u00bb. El solitario retrato de Defoe sirvi\u00f3 para que lo arrestaran.\n\nFue condenado a tres d\u00edas de humillaci\u00f3n p\u00fablica en la picota y a un a\u00f1o de c\u00e1rcel. Lord Nottingham intercedi\u00f3 por \u00e9l y prometi\u00f3 ayudar a rebajarle la sentencia si delataba a sus c\u00f3mplices, pero el proselitista declar\u00f3 que hab\u00eda actuado sin otro apoyo que su conciencia.\n\nPoco antes de someterse a la picota escribi\u00f3 un poema al respecto. Seg\u00fan la leyenda, esto provoc\u00f3 que la multitud le arrojara flores en vez de las piedras con que se ultrajaba a quienes ten\u00edan la cabeza y las manos inmovilizadas por el tabl\u00f3n de madera. Lo cierto es que pocos cl\u00e1sicos de la literatura recibieron un trato semejante. John Robert Moore, autor de _Defoe en la picota_ , escribi\u00f3 que nadie que haya sufrido esa condena ser\u00eda capaz de superarla con mayor eminencia que el autor de _Moll Flanders_. Al salir del presidio, Defoe escribi\u00f3 el poema \u00abMore Reformation\u00bb. Ah\u00ed pregunta: \u00ab\u00bfQui\u00e9n puede juzgar los cr\u00edmenes del castigo?\u00bb\n\nA causa de sus antecedentes penales, no pudo ejercer cargos p\u00fablicos y durante siete a\u00f1os se le prohibi\u00f3 colaborar con publicaciones eclesi\u00e1sticas. La falta de espacios editoriales lo llev\u00f3 a fundar _The Review_ , que comenz\u00f3 vendiendo 200 ejemplares y pronto alcanz\u00f3 los 1.500, buena circulaci\u00f3n para la \u00e9poca. Defoe escrib\u00eda todos los textos de la revista que preconizaba la libertad de expresi\u00f3n, la tolerancia religiosa y el acercamiento a Escocia, basti\u00f3n presbiteriano que conoci\u00f3 a la perfecci\u00f3n a trav\u00e9s de un curioso empleo: el espionaje.\n\nHaber estado en la c\u00e1rcel lo apart\u00f3 de los c\u00edrculos que dependen de la buena reputaci\u00f3n. Sin embargo, el adaptadizo Defoe descubri\u00f3 las posibilidades de la escritura clandestina y convenci\u00f3 a Robert Harley, conde de Oxford y de Mortimer, de ser su informante secreto en Escocia.\n\nEl espionaje depende de descifrar y transmitir c\u00f3digos. Con suma naturalidad, el prol\u00edfico panfletista se transform\u00f3 en informante encubierto (al igual que Swift, cuyas simpat\u00edas estaban m\u00e1s cerca de los conservadores _tories)_ , y sostuvo una variad\u00edsima correspondencia en la que procur\u00f3 ganarse la confianza de personas que apenas conoc\u00eda. De este modo perfeccion\u00f3 su habilidad para adoptar voces y posturas que no eran las suyas. En ocasiones, se sirvi\u00f3 de un tono ajeno con intenci\u00f3n cr\u00edtica (en _Viaje por toda la isla de Gran Breta\u00f1a_ simula ser un anglicano incapaz de responder a las cr\u00edticas de los protestantes disidentes); en otras, escribi\u00f3 del mismo tema para distintos p\u00fablicos: _Preparativos para la plaga_ est\u00e1 destinada a los lectores creyentes y _Diario del a\u00f1o de la peste_ a los esc\u00e9pticos. Su bi\u00f3grafa Paula Backscheider observa que Defoe asume los cambiantes puntos de vista de un anglicano, un disidente, un cu\u00e1quero, un escoc\u00e9s, un l\u00edder de pandilla, un _whig_ y un jacobino. Necesitado de un seud\u00f3nimo para su oficio en la sombra, opta por el prestigio de la lengua francesa. La parte m\u00e1s conspiratoria de su obra lleva la firma de Claude Guillot.\n\nNo basta ser susceptible para ser escritor, pero es muy dif\u00edcil ser escritor sin ser susceptible. Quien manda un mensaje espera respuesta. Defoe se ofende por que Harley no conteste a sus misivas o lo haga con frialdad. No le molesta trabajar en secreto, siempre y cuando tenga al menos un lector, es decir, un p\u00fablico. Ya acreditado en el oficio de investigar vidas ajenas, consigue trabajo como esp\u00eda de la Reina.\n\nEn esta etapa de su vida se burla de la capacidad de los ingleses para creer en rumores al tiempo que se beneficia de ellos. En un panfleto opina: \u00abEsta es una era de conspiraci\u00f3n y enga\u00f1o, de contradicci\u00f3n y paradoja\u00bb, y a\u00f1ade: \u00abEntre todas estas m\u00e1scaras, es muy dif\u00edcil reconocer el aut\u00e9ntico semblante de un hombre.\u00bb La libertad no es otra cosa que una \u00abpiedra rodante\u00bb; el comercio y la pol\u00edtica representan mascaradas, teatros de la transfiguraci\u00f3n.\n\nLa ignominia de la c\u00e1rcel y los abusos de la aristocracia le preocupan menos que la bancarrota. Defoe estaba hecho para las molestias, no para la p\u00e9rdida de las ilusiones. Acorralado por las deudas, escribi\u00f3 panfletos que se vend\u00edan a unos cuantos chelines y en 1697, a los treinta y siete a\u00f1os, public\u00f3 su primer libro. El t\u00edtulo de _Ensayo sobre los proyectos_ parece optimista para alguien que ha quebrado. En la Inglaterra de la \u00e9poca, \u00abproyectista\u00bb equival\u00eda a \u00abtunante\u00bb o \u00abbuscavidas\u00bb. En su panfleto, Defoe defiende la iniciativa individual para cambiar la sociedad. Poco despu\u00e9s concibe una obra de autoayuda mercantil: _The Complete English Tradesman_. El texto revela sus amplios conocimientos en el ramo y lo poco que le sirvieron en sus propios negocios.\n\nUNA ISLA EN EL HORIZONTE\n\nEugeni d'Ors parece coincidir con el dictamen de Dickens: _\u00abRobinson_ es el m\u00e1s universal de los libros; Defoe es el menos universal de los escritores.\u00bb La vida diaria del novelista estuvo dedicada a resolver problemas muy concretos: la venta de un caballo, la promulgaci\u00f3n de una ley, un embargo, la falta de medicinas para sus hijos. Su agitada trayectoria carece de empaque acad\u00e9mico, conversaciones de sal\u00f3n, conferencias universitarias, encuentros con hombres notables. Y, pese a todo, el mercader fallido concibe las grandes esperanzas de un personaje de Dickens. Cuando compra una barca le pone _Deseo_.\n\nEn respuesta a \u00abThe Foreigners\u00bb, poema sat\u00edrico de John Tutchin sobre los extranjeros, escribi\u00f3 una parodia sobre la identidad inglesa, _The True-Born Englishman_. Fue el panfleto m\u00e1s vendido. Ah\u00ed mostr\u00f3 con iron\u00eda que la impureza de sangre, el arribismo y la incertidumbre son parad\u00f3jicas se\u00f1ales de pertenencia a la comunidad brit\u00e1nica.\n\nDefoe no es un gran poeta; en sentido estricto, ni siquiera es un poeta: versifica con eficacia conversacional. En _Las serias reflexiones de Robinson Crusoe_ , afirma: \u00abLa f\u00e1bula debe ajustarse a la moral, no la moral a la f\u00e1bula.\u00bb De acuerdo con su pragm\u00e1tico parecer, el contenido decide la forma. Sus versos se ajustan a este principio utilitario y le brindan un amplio p\u00fablico. En vida fue m\u00e1s apreciado por _The True-Born Englishman_ que por cualquier otra obra. Al morir, su principal legado literario parec\u00eda ser una cuarteta seleccionada por el _Diccionario Oxford de citas_ , para la que propongo esta traducci\u00f3n libre:\n\nDondequiera que Dios sienta sus reales\n\nAh\u00ed recoge el diablo sus caudales\n\nY si ambos se someten a escrutinio\n\nTiene el segundo mejor vaticinio.\n\nEl incombustible Defoe escribe de m\u00faltiples temas con una autoridad m\u00e1s fundada en el entusiasmo y la destreza discursiva que en sus conocimientos. Su bi\u00f3grafo William Peterfield Trent se\u00f1ala con iron\u00eda que el a\u00f1o de 1699 deber\u00eda pasar a la historia como el \u00fanico en que el panfletista no hizo el menor intento de ilustrar a la humanidad. En 1704, a los cuarenta y cuatro a\u00f1os, abandona definitivamente los negocios y vive de su pluma. La decisi\u00f3n no parece muy segura, pues ya ha sido arrestado por sus ideas. En una carta de ese a\u00f1o comenta que su vida no es otra cosa que un \u00abproyecto melanc\u00f3lico\u00bb. Esto no le impide escribir cuatrocientas mil palabras de enero a diciembre.\n\nCentenares de art\u00edculos de circunstancia, panfletos, cr\u00f3nicas y cartas conspiratorias lo prepararon para adentrarse en el tercer acto de su vida: a los cincuenta y nueve a\u00f1os asume el tono llano de _Robinson Crusoe_.\n\nLa naturalidad es uno de los artificios literarios m\u00e1s dif\u00edciles de lograr, y Defoe fue un maestro en la tarea. Su car\u00e1cter inquieto no se ajustaba a las dilatadas elaboraciones. Ya envejecido, convirti\u00f3 sus limitaciones en virtudes. Ser\u00eda simplista decir que sacrific\u00f3 la forma en aras del contenido, pues su prosa es un triunfo del estilo. Digamos, con mayor exactitud, que privilegia la franqueza sobre el lucimiento, pero dota a sus palabras de la inquietante carga de quien prefiere cuestionar el entorno que describirlo. Demasiado impaciente para revisar sus borradores, adopta un estilo nervioso y directo, la veloz elocuencia de un desesperado.\n\nIan Watt coment\u00f3 con pericia que la aceptaci\u00f3n de un lenguaje llano a principios del siglo XVIII se debe en gran parte a que el p\u00fablico lector ampl\u00eda su c\u00edrculo. En ese ambiente menos restringido, los personajes comunes cobran inter\u00e9s. La gente que hab\u00eda le\u00eddo las desaforadas aventuras de Amad\u00eds de Gaula, Gargant\u00faa o Gulliver desplaza su mirada a las habitaciones comunes.\n\nDefoe bautiza a su n\u00e1ufrago con un nombre parecido al suyo y se apoya en una noticia previa, los avatares de Alexander Selkirk. Ajeno a lo sobrenatural, incorpora a su literatura las infinitas dosis de realidad que ha padecido a lo largo de seis d\u00e9cadas y presenta la historia del n\u00e1ufrago como \u00abescrita por \u00e9l mismo\u00bb.\n\n_Robinson Crusoe_ se publica en 1719. En rigor, Defoe ignora que ha escrito una novela. Carece de referentes para comparar su texto. Ha llenado infinidad de libros de saldos y redactado infinitos documentos para transacciones; ha sido panfletista y escritor fantasma; ha usado las t\u00e1cticas suasorias del que desea convencer, no siempre con ideas propias. Todo eso contribuye a un nuevo tipo de escritura.\n\n\u00abLa idea del contrato jug\u00f3 un papel preponderante en el desarrollo del individualismo pol\u00edtico\u00bb, escribe Watt, en referencia tanto al contrato social propuesto por Locke y Rousseau como a los contratos entre particulares, que mucho ocuparon la mente de Defoe y de su principal personaje, Robinson Crusoe.\n\nEn 1725, seis a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la aparici\u00f3n de _Robinson Crusoe_ , el autor pudo afirmar: \u00abEscribir se est\u00e1 convirtiendo en una rama muy considerable del comercio ingl\u00e9s.\u00bb Las ventas de sus novelas le brindaron un momento de respiro. Desde la muerte de su padre en 1706 sent\u00eda el agobio del hijo desobediente. A diferencia de ese hombre de rutina, sin otra ambici\u00f3n que la de llevar la contabilidad de una carnicer\u00eda, se hab\u00eda embarcado en aventuras sin rumbo. El tes\u00f3n permiti\u00f3 a su padre morir en una casa con diecisiete ventanas (en un tiempo en que se deb\u00eda pagar impuesto por cada una de ellas). Despu\u00e9s de su primer naufragio, Crusoe recibe esta advertencia de un marinero: \u00abDondequiera que vaya no encontrar\u00e1 sino desastres y decepciones hasta que se cumpla en su destino por completo la palabra de su padre.\u00bb\n\nMaximillian E. Novak se\u00f1ala que la relaci\u00f3n padre-hijo no solo ata\u00f1e a la biograf\u00eda de Defoe; era un tema del momento. El Pr\u00edncipe de Gales se hab\u00eda malquistado con el rey Jorge I, pero la intriga no pod\u00eda ser ventilada en p\u00fablico. Defoe la abord\u00f3 en la prensa de manera indirecta, narrando el conflicto entre Pedro el Grande y su hijo Alex\u00e9i. El zar conden\u00f3 a su hijo por salir del pa\u00eds sin su permiso; en respuesta, el heredero renunci\u00f3 al trono. \u00abNinguna historia puede igualar esto\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Defoe. En su opini\u00f3n ambos actuaban con terquedad reprobable: el padre que repudia a su heredero no puede amar a nadie m\u00e1s y el hijo desobediente no merece regir a su pueblo.\n\nM\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la contingencia hist\u00f3rica, Defoe se interes\u00f3 en este drama por razones personales. Nunca dej\u00f3 de preocuparse por la forma en que su padre lo ve\u00eda. En 1715 public\u00f3 uno de sus muchos libros de autoayuda, _The Family Instructor in Three Parts_ , donde encomia la obediencia de los hijos. Tres a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde corrigi\u00f3 el texto y describi\u00f3 los abusos que puede cometer un padre. Su constante respecto a la figura paterna es la imposibilidad de estar en paz con ella.\n\nEn la Academia Norton hab\u00eda aprendido el valor moral de la gratitud, pero los avatares de la vida hicieron que rara vez pudiera ponerla en pr\u00e1ctica. En forma compensatoria, hizo que su _alter ego_ Crusoe se reconciliara con su suerte: \u00abMi vida hab\u00eda alcanzado una condici\u00f3n m\u00e1s c\u00f3moda, tanto para mi mente como para mi cuerpo. A menudo me sentaba a comer lleno de gratitud y admiraba la obra de la Providencia divina por abastecer as\u00ed mi mesa en tierra silvestre. Aprend\u00ed a mirar m\u00e1s el lado bueno de mi situaci\u00f3n, y no tanto el oscuro, y a tener m\u00e1s en cuenta los bienes que pose\u00eda y no aquellos de los que carec\u00eda; a veces eso me aportaba un secreto consuelo que no soy capaz de explicar y del que me limito a dar cuenta aqu\u00ed para que piensen en \u00e9l las gentes descontentas, incapaces de disfrutar c\u00f3modamente de cuanto Dios les ha dado porque ven y envidian aquello que no se les dio. Me parec\u00eda que todas nuestras quejas por carecer de algo demuestran nuestra falta de agradecimiento por lo que poseemos.\u00bb Este pasaje resume el proceso de conversi\u00f3n espiritual del n\u00e1ufrago. En su propia vida, el novelista no alcanz\u00f3 un reposo similar.\n\nLos sinsabores le permitieron ejercer otro principio: el arrepentimiento. _Robinson Crusoe_ puede ser visto como el m\u00e1s intenso acto de contrici\u00f3n de la literatura. El hombre que desobedeci\u00f3 a su padre y no entendi\u00f3 las reglas del sentido com\u00fan reconoce sus errores a lo largo de veintiocho a\u00f1os, dos meses y diecinueve d\u00edas. Una frase de San Jer\u00f3nimo cautivaba al autor: \u00ab\u00bfC\u00f3mo puede una mujer llorar si teme que las l\u00e1grimas perjudiquen su maquillaje?\u00bb El arrepentimiento debe ser radical, incluso a riesgo de humillar a quien lo ejerce.\n\nCuriosamente, en las biograf\u00edas de Defoe escasean las escenas que muestren al autor sometido a un \u00edntimo examen de conciencia. Su vida fue tan epis\u00f3dica que cuesta trabajo localizar los lapsos de mortificaci\u00f3n que sin duda existieron. N\u00e1ufrago de s\u00ed mismo, invent\u00f3 una isla para salvarse. Su imaginaria estancia en ese sitio dar\u00eda lugar a un manual de supervivencia, un libro de contabilidad y un vasto proceso de autoconocimiento: _Robinson Crusoe_.\n\nLA ISLA DESIERTA\n\nTodo autor dialoga y lucha con la tradici\u00f3n; se inventa una genealog\u00eda a partir de sus gustos y repulsas. \u00bfQu\u00e9 sucede cuando se embarca en un g\u00e9nero que no existe hasta ese momento, o no de esa manera? Es el riesgo y el privilegio de los precursores.\n\nGianni Celati aconseja escribir sin pensar en la concepci\u00f3n que se tiene de la literatura. Un ejercicio \u00fatil para evitar las prenociones que debilitan la voz propia. Defoe es un exponente radical de esta idea. Al escribir una historia sin \u00abninguna apariencia de ficci\u00f3n\u00bb, recorri\u00f3 una tierra sin mapas. Las narraciones precedentes sol\u00edan cortejar lo sobrenatural, la leyenda, el mito.\n\nLos portentos y las enormidades enfrentados por Amad\u00eds de Gaula cambian de signo con la llegada de un lector ins\u00f3lito, Alonso Quijano, que decide convertirse en don Quijote. La novela de Cervantes incorpora los monstruos y los prodigios no como parte de una realidad desmesurada, sino como fabulaciones de un caballero que ha le\u00eddo demasiado. La acci\u00f3n transcurre en un plano realista donde sobran olores y falta dinero, pero se beneficia de la desaforada imaginaci\u00f3n del protagonista. Defoe escribe otro tipo de relato, ce\u00f1ido a la realidad. Su inventiva no depende de agregarle cosas al mundo sino de interrogarlo.\n\nEl gusto por los detalles (las monedas remojadas en vinagre) que domin\u00f3 en la cr\u00f3nica le permite crear una historia de vibrante verosimilitud. Cuando el protagonista sale a flote en la confusi\u00f3n del mar, ve dos zapatos que no hacen juego. \u00bfHay imagen m\u00e1s sencilla y poderosa de un naufragio?\n\nComo tantos virtuosos, Defoe refuerza sus efectos aparentando que los desprecia. Se da el lujo de saltarse una descripci\u00f3n y la vuelve convincente al aclarar que no se detiene ah\u00ed \u00abpor no molestar con los detalles\u00bb.\n\nEn su m\u00e1s temprano origen, la literatura apenas se distingue de la magia y se desentiende del tiempo \u00abreal\u00bb. Las leyendas apelan al tiempo circular del mito, la poes\u00eda busca el instante inmemorial, la tragedia contrasta la fugacidad de los hombres con la eternidad de los dioses, las f\u00e1bulas ignoran el reloj. Durante siglos, los escritores concibieron historias sin someterlas a una cronolog\u00eda \u00abaut\u00e9ntica\u00bb. La palabra \u00abanacronismo\u00bb es treinta a\u00f1os posterior a Shakespeare, quien no se dej\u00f3 afectar por la exactitud hist\u00f3rica.\n\n_Robinson Crusoe_ inaugura otro empleo del tiempo. El texto es un calendario. El protagonista lleva la cuenta de los d\u00edas con cuchillo en un poste de madera, pero eso no le basta. Con vocaci\u00f3n de tendero, solo conf\u00eda en los saldos que se escriben.\n\nEl narrador rememora su aventura en primera persona y dispone de casi treinta a\u00f1os para la tarea; sin embargo, no habla con la perspectiva de lo que ya sucedi\u00f3, sino de lo que est\u00e1 sucediendo; no recrea: descubre. Y lo hace con la inquietud de quien ignora si estar\u00e1 vivo en la siguiente p\u00e1gina.\n\nPara acentuar este efecto, Defoe incluye el diario que su protagonista llev\u00f3 en sus primeros d\u00edas en la isla con la tinta rescatada del naufragio. Al recuperar la historia tres d\u00e9cadas m\u00e1s tarde, ofrece el tono espont\u00e1neo de esas notas guiadas por la angustia de comunicar lo esencial: _\u00ab19 de junio:_ Muy enfermo y tiritando como si hiciera fr\u00edo.\u00bb Varias entradas comienzan del mismo modo: \u00abFui al naufragio...\u00bb, dice el autor, refiri\u00e9ndose a los restos de la embarcaci\u00f3n. No escribe para entretener a otro sino para constatar lo que hace.\n\nLos fragmentos del diario, escritos con lo que quedaba de tinta, muestran lo que el libro _podr\u00eda ser_ ; representan su base \u00abreal\u00bb, la cantera de la que proviene lo que a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde se reelabora en beneficio del lector. Esto contribuye en forma decisiva a la verosimilitud del texto: sabemos c\u00f3mo se construy\u00f3. El diario es un documento probatorio, la evidencia _literaria_ de que el relato es \u00abaut\u00e9ntico\u00bb.\n\nLos materiales mismos de la escritura \u2013la tinta, el papel\u2013 sirven de tema al n\u00e1ufrago. La soledad puede volcarlo a la locura o a remedios disparatados como los de Alexander Selkirk, que le cantaba himnos a las cabras. Escribir permite llevar y sobrellevar el tiempo.\n\nDurante a\u00f1os Crusoe no oye voz alguna. Cuando ense\u00f1a a su loro a pronunciar su propio nombre, \u00abPoll\u00bb, siente una indecible emoci\u00f3n. El diario revela la funci\u00f3n terap\u00e9utica de la escritura, que concede la peculiar compa\u00f1\u00eda del soliloquio. El solitario que habla con un motivo definido sabe que su gesto no es gratuito; su voz se alimenta de s\u00ed misma sin aguardar respuesta.\n\nOtro inventor de islas, Robert Louis Stevenson, llam\u00f3 la atenci\u00f3n sobre el paraguas de Crusoe. Ese objeto \u00abinherente a una mentalidad culta y civilizada\u00bb sugiere que el protagonista a\u00fan se siente parte de su comunidad de origen. Podr\u00eda servirse de otra protecci\u00f3n, pero \u00abel recuerdo de una respetabilidad perdida requer\u00eda de una manifestaci\u00f3n exterior y el resultado fue... un paraguas\u00bb. En su ensayo \u00abLa filosof\u00eda de los paraguas\u00bb, Stevenson centra su inter\u00e9s en el valor simb\u00f3lico de un objeto asociado con una clase social; en el caso de Crusoe, conservar un aspecto digno equivale a suponer que puede ser visto; de manera fantasmal, se siente acompa\u00f1ado.\n\nSi, como afirm\u00f3 Pascal, la tragedia de un hombre comienza cuando no puede estar solo en su cuarto, la novela de Defoe lleva el predicamento a un grado extremo. Estamos ante la forma m\u00e1s severa de aprendizaje: el protagonista debe soportarse a s\u00ed mismo.\n\nCuando la tinta se acaba, el narrador sigue viendo el mundo en clave literaria. Su estancia en ese incierto para\u00edso es el borrador de un libro futuro, que el lector tiene en las manos. Pero tambi\u00e9n hay un impulso moral para la escritura. Las confesiones de Crusoe se fundan en la necesidad de arrepentirse de la ambici\u00f3n que lo llev\u00f3 a desobedecer a su padre. En versiones previas a la espl\u00e9ndida traducci\u00f3n del novelista Enrique de H\u00e9riz (Norma, 2014) se suprim\u00edan numerosos pasajes relativos a la conversi\u00f3n espiritual del protagonista.\n\nSi don Quijote vive para ser escrito, el n\u00e1ufrago escribe para corregir su vida. La isla sin nadie representa una p\u00e1gina en blanco, una oportunidad de \u00abpasarse en limpio\u00bb y salvar su alma.\n\nCrusoe comprende que la fe prospera menos \u00aben el terror y el desconcierto\u00bb que en la forzada serenidad del aislamiento. Cuando alguien tiene que resolver un problema apremiante rara vez lo somete a consideraciones espirituales. Crusoe vive para las soluciones pr\u00e1cticas hasta que naufraga y se ve obligado a realizar un examen de conciencia. En la isla la oraci\u00f3n es atributo de la mente, no del cuerpo. Quien siente un dolor f\u00edsico busca un alivio concreto; en cambio, la soledad exige remedios espirituales. Un enfermo se arrepiente con menos fuerza que un fil\u00f3sofo.\n\nEl principal castigo de Crusoe consiste en saberse autor de su ruina. Se embarca sin prever las consecuencias, sobrevive a un naufragio, menos grave que el que vendr\u00e1 despu\u00e9s, y no asimila la lecci\u00f3n. Vuelve a zarpar un 1.\u00ba de septiembre, a ocho a\u00f1os exactos de su anterior viaje, como si cortejara el desastre. Nada lo frena en su \u00edmpetu de traficar con esclavos y ser rico a toda costa. El \u00abadvenedizo insaciable\u00bb, como lo llama Marthe Robert, se dirige al descalabro. La isla desierta es su condena y la escritura su oportunidad de redenci\u00f3n.\n\nLo normal en esa mon\u00f3tona y aislada circunstancia ser\u00eda no escribir. Jean-Jacques Rousseau fue a la apartada Isla de Saint-Pierre para alcanzar un estado an\u00edmico opuesto al de Defoe. Lejos de la rep\u00fablica de las letras, modific\u00f3 el curso de sus pensamientos; estudi\u00f3 bot\u00e1nica con la curiosidad de quien no desea dejar de ser aprendiz; logr\u00f3 aliviarse de la carga de sus ideas y se refugi\u00f3 en el consuelo espiritual del paisaje. Hacia el final de sus _Confesiones_ , escribi\u00f3: \u00abMe parec\u00eda que en esa isla estar\u00eda m\u00e1s lejos de los hombres, m\u00e1s amparado de sus ultrajes, m\u00e1s olvidado de ellos, m\u00e1s entregado, en una palabra, a las dulzuras del ocio y la vida contemplativa. Hubiera querido verme confinado en esa isla de modo que no volviese a tener trato con los mortales, y es muy cierto que tom\u00e9 todas las medidas imaginables para sustraerme a la necesidad de mantenerlo.\u00bb Sus motivos para estar ah\u00ed son voluntarios; la publicaci\u00f3n del _Emilio_ lo obliga a salir de Francia, regresa a su Suiza natal y encuentra en Saint-Pierre un santuario a su medida. Al saberse a salvo, deja de escribir: \u00abMe gusta ocuparme en muchas nadas.\u00bb W. G. Sebald comenta a prop\u00f3sito de este pasaje: \u00abEn una era en la que la burgues\u00eda pone un enorme empe\u00f1o filos\u00f3fico y literario en proclamar su derecho a la emancipaci\u00f3n, nadie supo reconocer como Rousseau el car\u00e1cter patol\u00f3gico del pensamiento; \u00e9l mismo no deseaba otra cosa que suspender las ruedas que giraban sin cesar en su cabeza.\u00bb Utilidad de las islas: en ese terreno el pensador se libra de sus excesos y el aventurero aprende a pensar. Hay libros que uno se llevar\u00eda a una isla desierta y libros que existen como una isla desierta, con _Robinson Crusoe_ a la cabeza.\n\nEl n\u00e1ufrago escribe con pasi\u00f3n ad\u00e1nica; su supervivencia se convierte en un ejercicio espiritual para nombrar el mundo. La condena b\u00edblica de \u00abganar\u00e1s el pan con el sudor de tu frente\u00bb adquiere en esas apartadas arenas un sentido edificante. El trabajo es la plegaria con la que el protagonista aspira a la salvaci\u00f3n. Formado en el protestantismo, Defoe identifica el rendimiento laboral con la \u00e9tica. Su protagonista carece de est\u00edmulos externos para seguir activo y debe apelar al motor de su conciencia. El infierno, la Ca\u00edda, ser\u00eda estar quieto.\n\nPara Rousseau, Crusoe es el arquetipo del buen salvaje; para Marx, el emprendedor de s\u00ed mismo; para Kant, el individuo ante la perdida arcadia de la naturaleza; para Max Weber, un ejemplo del papel del protestantismo asc\u00e9tico en el surgimiento del capitalismo.\n\nLa supervivencia carece de instrucciones de uso: el n\u00e1ufrago debe elegir. Consciente de la sobredeterminaci\u00f3n divina, ejerce una libertad propiciada y acotada por las circunstancias. La naturaleza pone a prueba su inventiva, forz\u00e1ndolo a ser juez de cada situaci\u00f3n. La isla no conoce la calma. Cada cambio de clima implica resolver un problema. Reconciliado con el destino, el n\u00e1ufrago desear\u00eda abandonarse a su suerte, pero para sobrevivir debe actuar como un h\u00e9roe de la elecci\u00f3n individual. Habita un mundo m\u00e1s extra\u00f1o que el para\u00edso, donde la naturaleza pide ser resuelta.\n\nDe acuerdo con V. S. Naipaul estamos ante \u00abel sue\u00f1o de ser el primer hombre en el hombre, de ver crecer la primera cosecha\u00bb. No se trata de un sue\u00f1o de inocencia, sino de posesi\u00f3n f\u00edsica del entorno. \u00abPor primera vez en la historia de la literatura vemos c\u00f3mo se hacen las cosas\u00bb, opina J. M. Coetzee. Defoe muestra el _backstage_ del mundo, el taller donde nada puede posponerse.\n\nLa vida diaria es para Crusoe un desaf\u00edo casi insalvable. En su ensayo \u00abEl narrador\u00bb, Walter Benjamin distingue la narraci\u00f3n, forma m\u00e1s temprana y artesanal del relato, de la novela, que presupone una \u00absegregaci\u00f3n\u00bb psicol\u00f3gica entre el autor y su circunstancia. Conseguir comida, techo, abrigo y trabajo son est\u00edmulos para una narraci\u00f3n elemental. La historia de la literatura es, en buena medida, un alejamiento de esas necesidades b\u00e1sicas. Cazar un venado, sembrar una semilla, recoger agua de lluvia son tareas que se borran del horizonte discursivo. En un sentido primigenio, el narrador es uno con la naturaleza, mientras que el novelista entra en conflicto con ella.\n\n\u00bfPuede una gran novela ser una narraci\u00f3n de la experiencia en el sentido que le atribuye Benjamin? _Robinson Crusoe_ representa ese caso peculiar. La novela es ajena a la fantas\u00eda pero no a la vida interior. Lo que narra ocurre dos veces: como suceso y como desaf\u00edo moral. La trama avanza al parejo de la vida. Cuando se aparta del n\u00facleo argumental \u2013el naufragio, la supervivencia, el encuentro con Viernes\u2013, pierde intensidad. Los antecedentes laborales de Crusoe y su destino final como hombre de familia interesan poco. Al igual que Selkirk, el autor ten\u00eda _una_ gran cosa que contar.\n\nDefoe se sirve de un lenguaje sin adornos, poco com\u00fan en la literatura del naciente siglo XVIII. Su tono le debe mucho al periodista, pero tambi\u00e9n al comerciante que redact\u00f3 inventarios y contratos. En poco tiempo eso se iba a convertir en dogma estil\u00edstico. Un personaje de Thomas Hardy pide a sus contertulios que no se vayan por las ramas y hablen en lenguaje llano: _\u00abLet's talk Defoe.\u00bb_ No inventa la literatura realista; su incalculado logro es m\u00e1s complejo: inventa la realidad. Las zozobras y las vacilaciones de su protagonista contribuyen a este efecto. El desacuerdo con lo real es una forma, acaso la m\u00e1s intensa, de afirmarlo.\n\nCoetzee lo considera un impostor de lo emp\u00edrico que construye falsas autobiograf\u00edas. Ya en el _Diario del a\u00f1o de la peste_ hab\u00eda alterado datos, lo mismo que en sus cr\u00f3nicas de viajes; sin embargo, como novelista va m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de una falsificaci\u00f3n de hechos: crea una realidad acrecentada, m\u00e1s viva y convincente que la que percibimos al despegar la mirada del libro.\n\nAl promediar el siglo XVIII, Henry Fielding y Samuel Richardson dominar\u00edan la novela inglesa escribiendo de ese modo. \u00abNo es tal o cual obra de creaci\u00f3n, sino la novela como g\u00e9nero la que sigue su huella\u00bb, comenta Marthe Robert.\n\nLa vida imaginada con realismo llev\u00f3 a una paradoja del conocimiento: nada resulta m\u00e1s cierto que lo escrito. Adentrarse en las p\u00e1ginas de _Robinson_ produce una sensaci\u00f3n de veracidad dif\u00edcil de obtener en la exuberante naturaleza, donde la mente se concentra en evitar mosquitos y piquetes de v\u00edbora.\n\nAnimado por las ventas, Defoe escribi\u00f3 con menor fortuna otros dos vol\u00famenes sobre el n\u00e1ufrago. En el tercer episodio, de corte reflexivo, insiste en la veracidad de su historia. Sin embargo, la verosimilitud de su historia no depende de postularla como aut\u00e9ntica, sino de la forma en que est\u00e1 escrita. Marthe Robert lo dice de este modo: \u00abPor primera vez en la historia de la literatura, la tierra so\u00f1ada ser\u00e1 la misma que va a ser necesario desbrozar.\u00bb\n\nCavallari comenta en su ensayo sobre Crusoe: \u00abMilton muere en 1674, _Robinson_ aparece en 1719. Las dos fechas dicen todo de una Europa que oscila entre para\u00edsos perdidos y presuntos para\u00edsos.\u00bb Defoe habla desde un desencanto. Su austera forma de relatar los hechos se ajusta a una realidad que no admite enso\u00f1aciones. Decepcionado de su vida y de su \u00e9poca, se interesa en la naturaleza como problema. El mayor reto de regresar al jard\u00edn del comienzo es la soledad. Crusoe es un Ad\u00e1n al rev\u00e9s, forzado a volver a un Ed\u00e9n que ya carece de sentido.\n\nEn vez de instalarse en el coraz\u00f3n de la isla, m\u00e1s seguro y agradable, lo hace en la costa por la posibilidad de avistar un nav\u00edo. Sabe que los contactos pueden ser negativos; teme a los can\u00edbales y m\u00e1s a\u00fan a la Inquisici\u00f3n espa\u00f1ola. En cuanto a sus compatriotas, est\u00e1 seguro de que si andan por ah\u00ed no ser\u00e1 por buenas razones. Aun as\u00ed, aguarda el momento de romper su soledad. Esta predisposici\u00f3n prepara para el encuentro decisivo de una novela extensa que solo tiene dos personajes principales. La llegada de Viernes justifica la espera.\n\nAl principio del libro, Crusoe refiere con indiferencia que ha comerciado con esclavos. Cuando mata a un le\u00f3n lo hace en forma gratuita. No se considera racista ni cruel; acepta la rueda del mundo como un proceso donde el m\u00e1s fuerte impone su dominio. Los largos a\u00f1os en la isla le permiten pensar de otra manera.\n\nEsta conversi\u00f3n tampoco es absoluta. Transformado en un hombre m\u00e1s justo, el protagonista ejerce una violencia razonada. El debido respeto a los dem\u00e1s no le impide matarlos cuando le parece necesario. En el \u00faltimo tramo de la novela participa en una escaramuza y hace un recuento de veinti\u00fan muertos en el fr\u00edo tono de un tendero.\n\nEn su solitaria antropolog\u00eda, se vuelve m\u00e1s sensible ante los temas generales que ante las amenazas particulares y aprende a valorar las costumbres de los otros: \u00abQu\u00e9 autoridad o mando ten\u00eda yo para pretender ser el juez y verdugo de aquellos hombres por considerarlos criminales, cuando a los cielos les hab\u00eda parecido oportuno dejarles sin castigo durante siglos y permitir que ellos mismos se erigieran en jueces y verdugos de s\u00ed mismos.\u00bb\n\nObsesionado por el calendario, bautiza al aborigen que llega a sus costas como Viernes, por el d\u00eda en que lo encuentra. El reci\u00e9n llegado lo deslumbra por su inocencia. Es, como la isla, otra p\u00e1gina en blanco. Crusoe lo protege de sus perseguidores y obtiene a cambio sumisi\u00f3n y gratitud. Aunque ha avanzado bastante en su respeto a los dem\u00e1s, no siente la menor curiosidad por las costumbres del reci\u00e9n llegado. Le sorprende que desprecie la sal y que, en su c\u00e1ndida concepci\u00f3n del universo, acepte con facilidad la idea de Dios pero tenga trabajo para asimilar la del diablo. No busca saber m\u00e1s; se convierte en maestro de su entenado; si el alumno expresa algo de su cultura, el dato se registra como un detalle carente de relieve.\n\nEl rasgo m\u00e1s significativo de esta ense\u00f1anza es que el n\u00e1ufrago se educa en su alumno: \u00abAl exponerle las cosas a Viernes, en realidad me inform\u00e9 e instru\u00ed a m\u00ed mismo.\u00bb No es casual que la novela cautivara a Rousseau al grado de ser el primer libro que le entrega a su Emilio. Viernes debe deshacerse de sus prenociones para comprender el mundo: aprende desde cero y permite la incesante superaci\u00f3n de su maestro.\n\nEn su aislamiento, Crusoe llega a la conclusi\u00f3n de que todas las naciones son iguales y solo Dios puede dirimir entre ellas. Los gobernantes basan su poder en una impostura, al igual que los sacerdotes de todas las religiones, que no buscan interceder ante Dios sino dominar a los dem\u00e1s con su saber herm\u00e9tico.\n\nEl conocimiento aparece en la novela como una forma leg\u00edtima de la dominaci\u00f3n. Desde la perspectiva contempor\u00e1nea, resulta sencillo comprender que el trato que Crusoe concede a Viernes es abusivo. Ignoramos los variados dioses que pueblan su mente, los sabores que determinan sus recuerdos o las cosas que le dan risa. Lo vemos someterse a una densa gram\u00e1tica del mundo. El subyugado afecto del aborigen es el premio de su maestro. La dial\u00e9ctica de la Ilustraci\u00f3n (el pensamiento como potencia liberadora, pero tambi\u00e9n como arma de restricci\u00f3n y dominio) est\u00e1 impl\u00edcita en la pedagog\u00eda impartida por el n\u00e1ufrago.\n\nDefoe es ajeno a los juegos formales que convierten a Cervantes en fundador de la novela moderna y de la metaficci\u00f3n. Su mayor capricho consiste en contar algo que no viene al caso, lo que pas\u00f3 _antes_ y _despu\u00e9s_ de la historia principal. Con desparpajo, refiere los muchos antecedentes laborales de Crusoe y al final informa que se cas\u00f3 y tuvo familia. Nada de eso resulta esencial a la trama, pero el narrador se da el lujo de incluirlo.\n\nDesde su fundaci\u00f3n, la novela es un g\u00e9nero voluntariamente impuro, que admite discursos ajenos a su esencia. La estructura deshilvanada en el principio y en el final del libro es para Coetzee una falta de control por parte del autor. Eso es cierto, desde luego, pero al permitirse ese alarde o, si se quiere, ese descuido Defoe contribuye a crear un g\u00e9nero flexible, abierto a muy diversos est\u00edmulos, refractario a la reductora idea de \u00abperfecci\u00f3n formal\u00bb, y autoriza a otros autores a incorporar variadas narrativas al cuerpo de la novela. Avanzado el siglo XVIII, Laurence Sterne escribe una gozosa saga sobre la digresi\u00f3n y el cambio de tema, _Tristram Shandy_. En el siglo XIX, Herman Melville incorpora un tratado sobre la caza de ballenas en _Moby Dick_ y Le\u00f3n Tolst\u00f3i alterna la trama de _Guerra y paz_ con largas disquisiciones sobre la historia.\n\nM\u00e1s all\u00e1 de estos caprichos de composici\u00f3n, _Robinson Crusoe_ posee un n\u00facleo indestructible. Ciertas obras sobreviven a toda clase de maltratos y adaptaciones. En su diario sobre Borges, Bioy Casares refiere que, en uno de sus muchos viajes para dar conferencias en peque\u00f1os pueblos, Borges presenci\u00f3 una representaci\u00f3n escolar de Shakespeare. Los actores eran aficionados sin ning\u00fan talento, pero la obra logr\u00f3 superarlos, transmitiendo su conmovedor mensaje esencial. Algo semejante ocurre con _Robinson Crusoe_. Adaptada para ni\u00f1os, mutilada en ediciones populares, reinterpretada con brillantez por Michel Tournier _(Viernes o los limbos del Pac\u00edfico_ y _Viernes o la vida salvaje)_ , as\u00ed como por J. M. Coetzee _(Foe)_ y J. G. Ballard _(La isla de concreto)_ , adulterada por innumerables imitadores, vampirizada por el cine y la televisi\u00f3n, la saga del n\u00e1ufrago resiste como el perfecto arquetipo de la soledad.\n\nLa palabra \u00abnovela\u00bb, que alude a \u00abnovedad\u00bb, no se usaba en tiempos de Defoe. Forjado en el periodismo, decidi\u00f3 contar un relato que imitara la realidad. Para que luciera \u00abverdadero\u00bb, se sirvi\u00f3 del recurso de la falsa autobiograf\u00eda. No escribi\u00f3 un libro de viajes ni de peripecias extravagantes, son de la haza\u00f1a de vivir a diario; aprovech\u00f3 la acci\u00f3n para cuestionarla y comentarla; descubri\u00f3 la fascinaci\u00f3n de narrar algo que el protagonista no acaba de entender: la realidad interesa por la forma en que es vista.\n\nAl terminar su primer libro de ficci\u00f3n, Defoe se hab\u00eda convertido en el gran escritor de la \u00e9poca, pero nunca lo supo. Su aventura ocurri\u00f3 en una playa sin nombre, el gran sitio del comienzo, para el n\u00e1ufrago que se educ\u00f3 a s\u00ed mismo y para la novela realista. \n\n### LAS PALABRAS DE LOS H\u00c9ROES\n\nApuntes sobre literatura rusa\n\nLa literatura rusa de fines del siglo XIX y principios del XX representa un curioso \u00e1tico en el edificio de la literatura, una habitaci\u00f3n lim\u00edtrofe donde todas las intensidades son posibles.\n\nHero\u00ednas que se imponen a trav\u00e9s de una resistente fragilidad, criminales con predicamentos metaf\u00edsicos, apostadores compulsivos que exploran el sentido del mundo en el azar, ogros alcoholizados que se entregan a la compasi\u00f3n y la ternura, los personajes rusos llevan la experiencia al momento en que arde y se transforma en un incendio.\n\nDe las torrenciales estructuras de Tolst\u00f3i a la austera elocuencia de Ch\u00e9jov, pasando por la tensi\u00f3n folletinesca de Dostoievski, la gran literatura rusa fue la zona de excepci\u00f3n donde el desenfreno se cumpli\u00f3 con naturalidad. No es f\u00e1cil otorgar verosimilitud a personajes al borde del frenes\u00ed o la conversi\u00f3n m\u00edstica. Durante las \u00faltimas d\u00e9cadas del siglo XIX y las primeras del XX esta haza\u00f1a imaginativa fue posible gracias a autores con una excepcional capacidad de situarse en una personalidad ajena, por exaltada que fuera. Una vieja costumbre rusa parec\u00eda prepararlos para esto. Las personas que se identificaban a fondo intercambiaban sus camisas. Fue lo que Andr\u00e9i Bieli y Alexandr Blok hicieron al sellar su amistad. Esta versi\u00f3n casera del cambio de piel o la transmigraci\u00f3n de las almas apunta al deseo de existir en el otro, algo decisivo en la creaci\u00f3n de personajes.\n\nLas desbordadas emociones de esta literatura requer\u00edan de un escenario infinito, bosques de abedules, ciudades reconstruidas con perspectivas futuristas, r\u00edos que transportaban el estruendo del deshielo, templos ortodoxos hinchados por el incienso, prisiones cercadas por la nieve, edificios multitudinarios donde los pobres se hacinaban en torno al providente vapor del samovar.\n\nEl gran periodo ruso representa, para siempre, la juventud de la literatura. Ante esos autores tenemos necesariamente veinte a\u00f1os, recuperamos los ritos de paso que marcan el destino, el momento en que el conocimiento comienza a ser tocado y en cierta forma manchado por la experiencia.\n\nBorges se\u00f1al\u00f3 que los rusos explotaron con excesiva facilidad al personaje contradictorio, a tal grado que llegaron a concebir a asesinos que mataban por bondad. Ciertamente, la mesura no ha sido un sistema de medida ruso. Sin embargo, en esa desaforada regi\u00f3n surgieron las descarnadas miniaturas de Ant\u00f3n Ch\u00e9jov. En el cuento \u00abLa colecci\u00f3n\u00bb brinda una impecable met\u00e1fora de su m\u00e9todo literario. Un personaje junta las basuras que encuentra en los panes. Con ellas integra una peculiar colecci\u00f3n. Nada tan bueno e inocente como un pan, pero el mullido migaj\u00f3n puede contener desperdicios. Esa pedacer\u00eda informa de los defectos de los hombres y su incurable descuido. Aunque no se trate de algo demasiado grave, esos restos empeoran las cosas. Atesorarlos significa tener presentes los equ\u00edvocos, saber que todo bienestar incluye su reverso.\n\nEl poeta Ram\u00f3n L\u00f3pez Velarde cant\u00f3 al \u00absanto olor de la panader\u00eda\u00bb. El aire donde se hornea algo produce un alivio espiritual y, sin embargo, ah\u00ed puede haber basuras. As\u00ed se escriben las historias chejovianas: bajo la tranquila superficie de la vida, hay huellas de dolor.\n\nAlgo semejante se puede decir de \u00abTres muertes\u00bb, ejemplar relato de Tolst\u00f3i, a quien se asocia m\u00e1s con la narrativa de largu\u00edsimo aliento. En su primer tramo, la historia narra dos muertes y el paso de unos zapatos a otros pies. Estamos ante una reflexi\u00f3n sobre lo que se acaba y recomienza: alguien debe morir para que otro camine mejor. M\u00e1s tarde ocurre una tercera muerte. Un \u00e1rbol es talado para construir una cruz. Esto otorga otro peso a la historia. El acabamiento y el reciclaje se inscriben en un orden superior, tel\u00farico y quiz\u00e1 c\u00f3smico, que trasciende y determina a los hombres: la naturaleza entendida como una moral, el inextricable tejido de los efectos y las causas.\n\nCon frecuencia, los destinos de los escritores rusos fueron tan dram\u00e1ticos como los de sus personajes. Pushkin, el Fundador, muri\u00f3 en un duelo; los dem\u00e1s padecieron el destierro, la c\u00e1rcel, la enfermedad, el fr\u00edo, la zozobra intelectual y la pobreza.\n\nEn situaciones de holgura, el sufrimiento fue una exigencia autoimpuesta. El conde Tolst\u00f3i pudo haber vivido sin problemas, pero anot\u00f3 en una entrada de sus diarios: \u00abSi hoy no hago algo bueno, me pego un tiro.\u00bb No hacer el bien puede ser la mayor desgracia.\n\nNinguna otra literatura ha asociado tanto el ejercicio literario con una conducta heroica. Aunque esto produjo casos extremos de la vanidad y el mesianismo, los rigores a que se sometieron los escritores rusos del periodo, y la valent\u00eda para enfrentarlos, fueron dolorosamente reales.\n\nLa heroicidad de estos autores dio lugar a un subg\u00e9nero que merece el nombre de \u00abbiograf\u00eda exaltada\u00bb. Una frase que el poeta Blok escribe a su madre podr\u00eda servir de lema a esas evocaciones literarias: \u00abEn estos d\u00edas estoy muy tenso y quisiera estarlo m\u00e1s.\u00bb La sensibilidad aumenta bajo una presi\u00f3n extrema.\n\nCuando Bunin escribe sobre Ch\u00e9jov, Tsviet\u00e1ieva sobre Pushkin o Berb\u00e9rova sobre Blok, no entramos en una objetiva recreaci\u00f3n de los tiempos y los recursos de un colega, sino en un radical proceso de autoconocimiento o, en el caso de Bunin, de autocelebraci\u00f3n.\n\nCon la fiebre emotiva que solo a ella le pertenece, Tsviet\u00e1ieva recupera en _Mi Pushkin_ un momento de decisi\u00f3n juvenil. De nuevo estamos ante esa disyuntiva tan cara a la literatura rusa en la que hay que optar en forma decisiva. El admirado poeta tiene sangre africana y piel morena. \u00abComo inevitablemente es necesario elegir\u00bb, ella resuelve lo siguiente: \u00abeleg\u00ed el negro [...], la vida negra\u00bb.\n\nEn la obra de teatro _Tres hermanas_ , las hero\u00ednas de Ch\u00e9jov entienden que el futuro solo puede estar en Mosc\u00fa. Elegir significa en este caso tomar un tren. _El jard\u00edn de los cerezos_ comienza cuando est\u00e1 por cumplirse un plazo fatal: el 22 de agosto se vender\u00e1 la propiedad. La trama despliega las infructuosas maneras de salvar el escenario de la obra. Tambi\u00e9n en esta pieza vivir es elegir. \u00abSi Dios no existe, todo est\u00e1 permitido\u00bb, piensa Rask\u00f3lnikov, personaje de Dostoievski, solo para descubrir que se ha equivocado: aun suponiendo la inexistencia de Dios, la elecci\u00f3n deber ser un acto \u00e9tico.\n\nLos maestros rusos no solo despliegan las situaciones en las que todo se puede alterar en forma radical; tambi\u00e9n exploran el purgatorio de las consecuencias.\n\nEn su propio teatro de las disyuntivas, Tsviet\u00e1ieva sigue a Pushkin y opta por el negro, el otro lado de las cosas, la innombrada sensibilidad del mundo.\n\nLA ACOGEDORA CASA DEL DOLOR\n\n\u00abEn la poes\u00eda rusa no encontramos ning\u00fan rostro sereno\u00bb, escribe Nina Berb\u00e9rova en 1990, tres a\u00f1os antes de morir. Esta idea atraviesa su trayectoria entera. En su biograf\u00eda de Blok, escrita en 1922, comenta: \u00abEl siglo pasado fue cruel para nuestros poetas. Pushkin y L\u00e9rmontov encuentran a los treinta y siete a\u00f1os la muerte al batirse en duelos que habr\u00edan podido evitar. Ryl\u00e9iev muere ahorcado. Antes de su muerte, Fet, a los setenta y siete a\u00f1os, intenta abrirse el vientre. Apol\u00f3n Grig\u00f3riev y el genial F\u00f3fanov mueren v\u00edctimas de la miseria y el alcoholismo.\u00bb La suerte de Blok no es m\u00e1s alegre: \u00abMe hubiera gustado vivir, de haber sabido c\u00f3mo\u00bb, exclama.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de la revoluci\u00f3n de octubre, el autor de _Los doce_ , que ha nacido en un privilegiado hogar de San Petersburgo, se incorpora a comit\u00e9s de lucha, comparte con demasiadas personas un piso sin estufa, enferma y hace suyos los sufrimientos de sus cong\u00e9neres: \u00abMi pa\u00eds no ha tardado en mostrarme su cara divina y bestial... Me despierto al amanecer. Miro a trav\u00e9s de la ventana; llueve. Campos enlodados, bosquecillos poco frondosos, un polic\u00eda fronterizo con el fusil al hombro en un matal\u00f3n. S\u00e9 d\u00f3nde estoy, lo noto. Es ella, mi desdichada Rusia, cubierta por los escupitajos de los funcionarios; mi patria sucia, babosa, embrutecida, el hazmerre\u00edr del mundo... \u00a1Buenos d\u00edas, madrecita!\u00bb Blok ama lo que detesta y acepta padecer su patria a diario.\n\nLas enormes expectativas de los personajes rusos ocurren en una tierra devastada. La ocasional presencia del lujo no adormece su sensibilidad. La traductora Selma Ancira, que ha dejado constancia de sus pasiones en _Paisaje caprichoso de la literatura rusa_ , me cont\u00f3 una an\u00e9cdota reveladora sobre el efecto que el excesivo bienestar puede tener en un exaltado representante de la sensibilidad eslava. Durante varios d\u00edas, Selma acompa\u00f1\u00f3 al poeta I\u00f3sif Brodsky en Barcelona. Una tarde, lo vio asombrarse ante los suntuosos banquetes a los que era convidado. \u00ab\u00bfAs\u00ed comen todos los d\u00edas?\u00bb, pregunt\u00f3. La respuesta fue afirmativa, y el poeta comenz\u00f3 a llorar. Pocos gestos m\u00e1s genuinos y significativos. Brodsky sucumbi\u00f3 a un llanto moral. Es posible que lo hiciera por el desconsuelo ante los que no tienen acceso a ese derroche o por una profunda decepci\u00f3n ante una sociedad fr\u00edvola, anestesiada por el consumo y la abundancia. Lo cierto es que no defraud\u00f3 como la conciencia de esa hora.\n\nLos sufrimientos de la literatura rusa son un sistema de alarma ante lo que nombramos \u00abprogreso\u00bb, \u00abfelicidad\u00bb o \u00abbienestar\u00bb. Al mismo tiempo, su peculiar sentido de la tristeza es una forma del placer. Nada reconforta tanto como el dolor trascendido o visto en perspectiva.\n\nEn \u00abUn oto\u00f1o fr\u00edo\u00bb, Iv\u00e1n Bunin narra una vida a partir de una p\u00e9rdida desoladora y plantea un asombro esencial. Si alguien se concentra exclusivamente en una desgracia, su vida carece de sentido. Lo extra\u00f1o, lo revelador, lo verdadero, es que puede ser feliz sin olvidar esa herida de la que todo se desprende. El protagonista pierde a su amada y el sentido de su vida depende de recordarla: \u00abAs\u00ed sobreviv\u00ed a su muerte, habi\u00e9ndole dicho alguna vez, sin reflexionar, que no sobrevivir\u00eda a ella. Pero, cuando recuerdo todo lo vivido desde entonces, me pregunto: \u00bfqu\u00e9 ha habido en mi vida? Y me respondo: solo esa fr\u00eda noche de oto\u00f1o. \u00bfExisti\u00f3 en realidad aquella noche? Existi\u00f3. Y es todo lo que ha habido en mi vida, lo dem\u00e1s es un sue\u00f1o in\u00fatil.\u00bb La existencia se cumple al orbitar un vac\u00edo, una ausencia, la pura nada.\n\n\u00abLas familias felices no tienen historia\u00bb, escribe Tolst\u00f3i al comienzo de _Anna Kar\u00e9nina_ ; luego propone problemas suficientemente agudos para hacer interesantes muchas p\u00e1ginas. Lo curioso es que el recuento de los da\u00f1os transmite una emoci\u00f3n est\u00e9tica. Compartida en intimidad psicol\u00f3gica y contemplada desde la distancia de quien no protagoniza esa historia, la casa del dolor resulta placentera.\n\nSergio Pitol rinde tributo a ese espacio en _La casa de la tribu_. Al visitar la mansi\u00f3n de Tolst\u00f3i, entiende que est\u00e1 en un sitio construido en forma peculiar: desde su despacho, el escritor pod\u00eda o\u00edr todo lo que se dec\u00eda en las dem\u00e1s habitaciones. Por extensi\u00f3n, ese recinto de las voces cruzadas es la matriz de la literatura moderna.\n\nEn otro libro dedicado a Rusia, _El viaje_ , Pitol cuenta que en su infancia ten\u00eda un atlas con personajes del mundo. \u00c9l se identificaba con \u00abIv\u00e1n, ni\u00f1o ruso\u00bb. Fue la semilla de una vocaci\u00f3n que lo llevar\u00eda a vivir en Mosc\u00fa y a traducir a Ch\u00e9jov, Nabokov y Pilniak. Su papel como int\u00e9rprete de los maestros eslavos se extendi\u00f3 al polaco (le debemos versiones magistrales de Gombrowicz, Andrejewski y Brandys). Este di\u00e1logo de un renovador de la literatura mexicana con sus colegas rusos tendi\u00f3 un puente decisivo. Tatiana Bubnova lo recorri\u00f3 en sentido inverso pero igualmente provechoso, de su natal Leningrado a su nueva patria, la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico. Sus estudios pioneros sobre Mija\u00edl Bajt\u00edn y sus numerosas traducciones contribuyeron a la saludable \u00abeslavizaci\u00f3n\u00bb de nuestra literatura.\n\nSelma Ancira ocupa un sitio especial en este panorama. Hija del actor Carlos Ancira, cuyo papel m\u00e1s recordado es el del bur\u00f3crata que protagoniza _Diario de un loco_ , de Nikol\u00e1i G\u00f3gol, contrajo desde ni\u00f1a la fiebre rusa, estudi\u00f3 en Mosc\u00fa, con tal fortuna que durante un verano recibi\u00f3, en M\u00e9xico, una beca para adentrarse en otra lengua, el griego. Desde entonces gravita entre la estepa eslava y los dioses del Mediterr\u00e1neo. Su signo del zodiaco es G\u00e9minis, maestro de la dualidad. Esto le permite mantener en orden dos mundos, el griego y el ruso. En su departamento de Barcelona traduce ambas literaturas, pero sus preferencias son claras: siete repisas de sus libreros contienen obras de Marina Tsviet\u00e1ieva. El trabajo de traductor tiene algo de m\u00e9dium. Ancira ha sido muchas voces pero sobre todo la de Tsviet\u00e1ieva.\n\nLA POES\u00cdA DE LA PROSA Y EL \u00ab\u00c9XTASIS SAGRADO\u00bb\n\nLas _Lecciones de literatura rusa_ , de Vladimir Nabokov, compendian una manera tan rica como arbitraria de entender la literatura de su pa\u00eds natal. Para lograr una impresi\u00f3n gr\u00e1fica del cambiante poder\u00edo de esos autores, sol\u00eda cerrar las persianas del sal\u00f3n de clase, creando un pr\u00f3logo de oscuridad. Luego descorr\u00eda poco a poco las persianas, relacionando la creciente luminosidad con sucesivos autores. Cuando el cuarto se iluminaba por completo, invadido por la luz, exclamaba: \u00ab\u00a1Y esto es Tolst\u00f3i!\u00bb\n\nEn buena medida, la conquista de una prosa como la de _Resurrecci\u00f3n_ o _Guerra y paz_ depende del uso po\u00e9tico del lenguaje. Cuando un alumno se acercaba a Nabokov en la Universidad de Cornell, en busca de consejo para escribir una novela, \u00e9l respond\u00eda sin vacilar: \u00abLea poes\u00eda.\u00bb La narrativa se alimenta del ritmo y el poder alusivo de los versos y es, en s\u00ed misma, una expresi\u00f3n po\u00e9tica. Algunos de los momentos m\u00e1s altos de la poes\u00eda del siglo XX ocurrieron en las prosas de Broch, Joyce, Proust, Onetti, Rulfo, Borges o el propio Nabokov.\n\nA prop\u00f3sito de este tema, conviene recordar el ensayo \u00abEl lector\u00bb, de Nikol\u00e1i Gumiliov, te\u00f3rico de la literatura y fundador del acme\u00edsmo, corriente intelectual que abogaba por la claridad ante las nieblas del simbolismo. El texto se refiere, precisamente, a la prosa y la poes\u00eda como g\u00e9neros indisolubles: \u00abEs imposible encontrar una l\u00ednea divisoria exacta entre prosa y poes\u00eda, as\u00ed como no la encontramos entre los vegetales y los minerales, los animales y los vegetales. Sin embargo, la existencia de modelos h\u00edbridos no degrada al tipo puro.\u00bb En esas mismas p\u00e1ginas, subraya otro v\u00ednculo decisivo para los autores de la \u00e9poca: \u00abLa poes\u00eda y la religi\u00f3n son las dos caras de una misma moneda.\u00bb El arte puede ser entendido como una forma de plegaria. Esto no significa que asuma una condici\u00f3n beata, subordinada al cristianismo o a otra religi\u00f3n can\u00f3nica, ni que se limite a celebrar epifan\u00edas o suplicar al modo de una letan\u00eda; una temeraria variante de lo sagrado, que en ocasiones se opone a la religi\u00f3n establecida y busca, por sus propios medios, acercarse a la experiencia religiosa, a nombrar lo inefable, lo trascendente, lo radicalmente irracional.\n\nIncluso en textos dictados por la circunstancia aparece la religiosidad eslava. Al visitar el monasterio del Monte Athos, Nikol\u00e1i Str\u00e1jov escribe algo m\u00e1s que una cr\u00f3nica; no se interesa tan solo en los aspectos arquitect\u00f3nicos o hist\u00f3ricos del lugar, sino en la salvaci\u00f3n del alma. M\u00e1s que un viaje es una peregrinaci\u00f3n.\n\nEl tema vuelve una y otra vez en las p\u00e1ginas rusas. En su ensayo \u00abAlgunas posiciones\u00bb, Bor\u00eds Pasternak habla de tres aficiones de las que suele opinar con la libertad del amateur: la pintura, el teatro y la m\u00edstica. El arte y la religi\u00f3n representan para \u00e9l campos que estimulan la discusi\u00f3n no especializada. En otras culturas, la presencia de la m\u00edstica junto a las bellas artes como pretexto para sostener una conversaci\u00f3n tendr\u00eda que justificarse m\u00e1s. El misticismo es tan natural para Pasternak que no explica a qu\u00e9 se debe su inter\u00e9s.\n\nEl ensayista italiano Alberto Cavallari public\u00f3 un breve y luminoso libro, _La fuga de Tolst\u00f3i_. A los ochenta y dos a\u00f1os, con la salud quebrantada, harto de su mujer, su vida de terrateniente, sus abusos sexuales con las campesinas y la imposibilidad de seguir creando, decide escapar con la complicidad de una de sus hijas. Escribe cartas de despedida, sabiendo que su mujer enloquecer\u00e1 al leer la suya y sus hijos le brindar\u00e1n un apoyo no libre de cr\u00edticas. Toma varios trenes en busca de un mejor clima. Su situaci\u00f3n empeora en el trayecto y muere en una peque\u00f1a estaci\u00f3n, confirmando el dram\u00e1tico papel que asign\u00f3 en su obra a los ferrocarriles. No se lanza a las v\u00edas como Anna Kar\u00e9nina, pero sabe que la locomotora lo lleva a un destino irremediable. A bordo del tren lanza una perorata que registran sus testigos: \u00abSolo Dios existe verdaderamente. El hombre es su manifestaci\u00f3n en la materia, en el tiempo, en el espacio. Mientras m\u00e1s se acerca la manifestaci\u00f3n de Dios (la vida) al hombre y a las manifestaciones (las vidas) de otros seres, m\u00e1s existencia tiene el hombre. La uni\u00f3n de su vida con las de otros seres se realiza a trav\u00e9s del amor. Dios no es el amor, pero mientras m\u00e1s ama el hombre y m\u00e1s manifiesta a Dios, mayor verdad tiene su existencia.\u00bb De acuerdo con la cr\u00f3nica de Cavallari, Tolst\u00f3i hizo una pausa en este punto y luego agreg\u00f3 con voz grave y envejecida: \u00abConocemos a Dios solo a trav\u00e9s de la conciencia de su manifestaci\u00f3n en nosotros.\u00bb El maestro concluye su viaje por la vida y la imaginaci\u00f3n con esa reflexi\u00f3n m\u00edstica.\n\nUna larga trayectoria ampara la presencia de la divinidad en la literatura rusa. De 1780 a 1784, Derzhavin escribi\u00f3 su oda \u00abDios\u00bb, en la que entiende al hombre como un reflejo de lo sagrado. En este poema seminal, la celebraci\u00f3n del Creador no est\u00e1 libre de sobresaltos. Pushkin tom\u00f3 de ah\u00ed los versos que sirven de ep\u00edgrafe a su cuento \u00abNoches egipcias\u00bb. En el poema, todo desemboca en la divinidad, pero el camino para llegar ah\u00ed sigue un trazo inquietante; cada cosa es m\u00e1s pobre que la anterior hasta llegar, asombrosamente, al Creador: \u00abSoy zar, soy esclavo, soy gusano, soy dios.\u00bb No siempre se llega al cielo por elevaci\u00f3n. Toda ruta, si dura lo suficiente, conduce a ese lugar. La progresiva degradaci\u00f3n que describe Derzhavin lleva al cieno, al lodo, a los desechos, a la meta \u00faltima: Dios.\n\nEn este contexto de sobredeterminaci\u00f3n religiosa destaca \u00d3sip Mandelstam, quien ejerci\u00f3 la forma m\u00e1s extrema de la libertad: la us\u00f3 para escribir un poema contra Stalin que le garantizar\u00eda prisi\u00f3n perpetua. A contrapelo de muchos de sus contempor\u00e1neos, Mandelstam encuentra una oposici\u00f3n entre el discurso religioso y la poes\u00eda. Juzga la oralidad rusa como una necesaria reacci\u00f3n rebelde contra la hostil escritura eclesi\u00e1stica. \u00abLos primeros intelectuales fueron los monjes bizantinos\u00bb, comenta. Aquellos precursores usaron un lenguaje impositivo para dominar a un pueblo iletrado. La palabra escrita no lleg\u00f3 como instrumento de la libertad sino de la sujeci\u00f3n. Por contraste, la lengua hablada se desarroll\u00f3 como un recurso tentativo, incierto, cambiante, capaz de adaptarse a la realidad para resistir a la artificial lengua de los popes.\n\nAunque numerosos poetas entendieron su trabajo como una revelaci\u00f3n sagrada, de acuerdo con Mandelstam, a nivel del lenguaje aportaron un contenido laico, despojando a la escritura de la arbitraria carga eclesi\u00e1stica y acerc\u00e1ndola al ritmo natural del habla: \u00abEl verso ruso est\u00e1 lleno de consonantes y crepita y cruje y silba con ellas. Una verdadera habla secular. La lengua de los monjes es una letan\u00eda de las vocales.\u00bb Para entender la dimensi\u00f3n y la audacia de esta postura hay que mirar a los lados. Mandelstam escribe en un pa\u00eds donde algunos ilustres predecesores asumieron la literatura como una prolongaci\u00f3n de la experiencia religiosa. Lo admirable en su reflexi\u00f3n es que m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de los temas abordados por la poes\u00eda \u2013en ocasiones manifiestamente religiosos\u2013 advierte un proceso de secularizaci\u00f3n de la lengua, cuya eficacia depende de rechazar el dogma en favor de un lenguaje vivo, rociado de \u00absal abrasadora\u00bb. El \u00ab\u00e9xtasis sagrado\u00bb no se logra con el idioma de la doctrina sino con palabras que transmiten un misterio natural, tan com\u00fan e inexplicable como la emoci\u00f3n que los ni\u00f1os experimentan ante el vuelo de los p\u00e1jaros. Resulta dif\u00edcil escribir con hondura po\u00e9tica sin rozar lo que est\u00e1 m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de las palabras, lo que se percibe pero no se expresa, la inminencia de una revelaci\u00f3n: lo religioso. El iconoclasta Mandelstam revela que eso se logra sacando la lengua del templo para llevarla a la tierra donde crece la hierba.\n\nTambi\u00e9n Marina Tsviet\u00e1ieva asocia la experiencia est\u00e9tica con la santidad. En su ensayo \u00abEl arte a la luz de la conciencia\u00bb, recuerda el gesto extremo de Tolst\u00f3i de acabar con el arte como una medida de purificaci\u00f3n. Harto de sofisticadas representaciones, el autor de _Anna Kar\u00e9nina_ buscaba esencializarse. Eliminar lo \u00abart\u00edstico\u00bb significaba para \u00e9l despojarse de m\u00e1scaras y simulaciones, un exorcismo en pos de la verdad.\n\nPara Tsviet\u00e1ieva, el hecho est\u00e9tico rebasa la percepci\u00f3n com\u00fan. Por eso busca una \u00abatrofia indispensable de la conciencia\u00bb, un \u00abdefecto \u00e9tico sin el cual el arte no puede existir\u00bb. El artista es un filtro de saberes y sensaciones que no le pertenecen; ciertos giros surgen en contra de sus intenciones manifiestas, de ah\u00ed que se pueda beneficiar del malentendido y las percepciones err\u00f3neas. Escribir es un estimulante equ\u00edvoco: un canto puede ser visto como un \u00ablapsus de amor\u00bb. Al admitir que el artista trabaja desde la confusi\u00f3n y las limitaciones, Tsviet\u00e1ieva prefigura la est\u00e9tica del fracaso creativo de Samuel Beckett.\n\nEn aras de lograr su cometido, el artista debe negarse a s\u00ed mismo, dejar que fuerzas ajenas operen con libertad en su interior. Por eso, la autora de \u00abEl diablo\u00bb admiraba tanto que Alexandr Blok fuera incapaz de rememorar con precisi\u00f3n _Los doce_ , que \u00e9l mismo hab\u00eda escrito. Enfermo, afiebrado, el poeta transcribi\u00f3 los versos como si recibiera un dictado. En sentido estricto, desconoc\u00eda esa obra que preconiza la revoluci\u00f3n y abre la senda de Maiakovski. El esp\u00edritu de la \u00e9poca compareci\u00f3 en los tr\u00e9mulos labios del poeta y lo dej\u00f3 al margen del texto.\n\nEstamos, por supuesto, ante un caso extremo, acaso irrepetible. Tsviet\u00e1ieva no propone sustituir el rigor por la iluminaci\u00f3n o el chamanismo; sencillamente muestra que, a medida que se perfecciona, el oficio po\u00e9tico conduce a resultados progresivamente ajenos al autor. \u00abYo es otro\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Rimbaud para sintetizar esta idea. La fuerza de una obra se mide por su autonom\u00eda.\n\nTsviet\u00e1ieva sab\u00eda, como antes lo supo Blok, que el verdadero arte no es proselitista ni se somete a ideolog\u00eda alguna; la poes\u00eda no se puede subordinar a la raz\u00f3n de un partido. Numerosos escritores rusos hicieron valer esta convicci\u00f3n y pagaron con su vida o su libertad. El gran poema hist\u00f3rico de Blok no responde a un impulso program\u00e1tico. El autor act\u00faa como un pararrayos; la electricidad del ambiente anima la p\u00e1gina.\n\nEl magn\u00edfico relato \u00abEl diablo\u00bb, de Tsviet\u00e1ieva, expresa esta dial\u00e9ctica: la creaci\u00f3n surge de un extra\u00f1o aliado, que en cierta forma es un oponente. Una ni\u00f1a tiene un amigo imaginario; convive con un personaje que para los dem\u00e1s podr\u00eda ser monstruoso. Ella lo ama. Entiende, desde el principio y sin miedo alguno, que el diablo visita la habitaci\u00f3n de su hermana. La raz\u00f3n es sencilla: su hermana lee. El diablo surge de los libros.\n\nEn la iglesia un sacerdote le pregunta: \u00ab\u00bfDiableas?\u00bb Ella responde sin vacilar: \u00abS\u00ed, siempre.\u00bb Lo que para el cura es un pecado, para ella es una liberaci\u00f3n. As\u00ed comprende que el consuelo no puede venir de la iglesia: \u00abSi hay sacerdote, hay ata\u00fad [...]. Todo oficio ortodoxo es para m\u00ed una misa de difuntos.\u00bb\n\nEl diablo del cuento representa un \u00abardor secreto\u00bb. De nuevo, la literatura rusa nos lleva a una trama inici\u00e1tica. La protagonista despierta al mundo a trav\u00e9s de la lectura y acepta que la imaginaci\u00f3n tenga un aire demon\u00edaco. Posteriormente, descubre otro recurso temerario y revelador: el tacto.\n\nImpecable educaci\u00f3n sensual, \u00abEl diablo\u00bb muestra los descubrimientos de una ni\u00f1a de siete a\u00f1os. Una vez que ella vislumbra su vocaci\u00f3n y su destino, el diablo deja de aparecer; sin embargo, de alg\u00fan modo sigue con ella. La narradora ha sido elegida. El compa\u00f1ero rebelde que la estimular\u00e1 por siempre le entrega una divisa: \u00abNo te dignes.\u00bb Esa expresi\u00f3n de independencia ser\u00e1 el sello de la ind\u00f3mita y muchas veces incomprendida Marina Tsviet\u00e1ieva.\n\nLA RISA, LA RESURRECCI\u00d3N, LAS DOS CARAS DEL ARTISTA\n\nNo falta humor en la literatura rusa. El cuento \u00abUna historia china\u00bb, de Mija\u00edl Bulg\u00e1kov, es un desafiante ejercicio de sarcasmo. Sin llegar al tono sat\u00edrico de su novela mayor, _El maestro y Margarita_ , que narra la visita del diablo a Mosc\u00fa, el autor al que Stalin enmudeci\u00f3 con una llamada telef\u00f3nica logra en este relato una singular parodia sobre los delirios del poder. Un chino vuela por arte de magia a Rusia y se desconcierta ante sus chimeneas y su cielo gris. Ah\u00ed conoce a otro chino, ya viejo, que parece haber olvidado el idioma de su tierra sin haber aprendido el de su nueva patria. Ante una estufa humeante, habla a trompicones de la situaci\u00f3n pol\u00edtica y econ\u00f3mica. Bulg\u00e1kov juega con la puntuaci\u00f3n para transmitir su peculiar lenguaje: \u00abLenin \u2013 hay\u00bb... \u00abpan \u2013 no\u00bb... \u00abCoca\u00edna \u2013 poca\u00bb... \u00abOpio \u2013 no.\u00bb Se\u00f1ala la cicatriz p\u00farpura que tiene en el brazo y agrega: \u00ab\u00a1Bandido \u2013 hay!\u00bb La entrecortada explicaci\u00f3n sube de tono: \u00abBurgueses \u2013 no, \u00a1oh, no! En cambio, el Ej\u00e9rcito Rojo \u2013 hay. Mucho \u2013 hay. \u00bfLa m\u00fasica? S\u00ed, s\u00ed. M\u00fasica hay porque Lenin hay. En la torre del reloj \u2013 ah\u00ed, ah\u00ed. \u00bfDetr\u00e1s de la torre? Detr\u00e1s de la torre \u2013 el Ej\u00e9rcito Rojo.\u00bb\n\nLa estancia del chino en este pa\u00eds de la precariedad y del control da un vuelco cuando es entrevistado por un \u00abcamarada chino\u00bb, que de inmediato le pide \u00abpatron\u00edmico y apellido\u00bb. Este paisano aclimatado a la normatividad sovi\u00e9tica lo inscribe en las filas del ej\u00e9rcito, donde se descubre que tiene un talento innato para disparar con ametralladora. En ese entorno, todo depende de la pol\u00edtica (\u00abm\u00fasica hay porque Lenin hay\u00bb) y al fondo del paisaje siempre est\u00e1 el Ej\u00e9rcito Rojo. Ah\u00ed, el chino combate en una contienda sin sentido donde los bandos no se distinguen y donde muere con una sonrisa congelada segundos antes de que tambi\u00e9n muera el cadete que lo mata. Si recordamos que la palabra \u00absarcasmo\u00bb viene de \u00abmordedura\u00bb, entendemos mejor la iron\u00eda de Bulg\u00e1kov, capaz de lograr que tanto su protagonista como el lector sonr\u00edan ante esta par\u00e1bola del absurdo y del exterminio.\n\nOtro notable ejemplo de humor ruso aparece en una narraci\u00f3n impar, \u00abEl mal del \u00edmpetu\u00bb, de Iv\u00e1n Goncharov. Conocido por _Obl\u00f3mov_ , novela sobre un personaje que se da de baja ante el mundo y se limita a vegetar como un jubilado de la existencia, en este relato Goncharov se ocupa de otra pulsi\u00f3n extrema: el deseo de viajar. La familia Z\u00farov est\u00e1 aquejada de un mal irremediable. Quien lo diagnostica es Nikon Ust\u00ednovich Tiazhelenko, personaje que desde su juventud ha ganado fama por su \u00abincomparable y met\u00f3dica pereza\u00bb. El narrador cree que, en su condici\u00f3n de harag\u00e1n absoluto, Tiazhelenko exagera acerca de los Z\u00farov. Sin embargo, cuando los conoce sabe que en verdad est\u00e1n aquejados de un v\u00e9rtigo del desplazamiento; a tal grado que convierten las molestias en dolorosas formas de la diversi\u00f3n. Si una rueda del carruaje se rompe, celebran quedar varados en medio del bosque, bajo la lluvia.\n\nGoncharov prefigura el frenes\u00ed de traslados que d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s traer\u00e1 el turismo en masa y la masoquista ansiedad de moverse a riesgo de perder el equipaje y la salud. El desenlace muestra que los peligros cortejados por los imparables Z\u00farov eran verdaderos.\n\nEs dif\u00edcil escribir una obra maestra del humorismo que no sea, al mismo tiempo, una reflexi\u00f3n moral. Tal es el caso de \u00abEl mal del \u00edmpetu\u00bb.\n\nHe dejado para el final un comentario sobre un cuento de Pushkin, \u00abNoches egipcias\u00bb. En su libro eleg\u00edaco sobre el fundador de la gran literatura rusa, Tsviet\u00e1ieva comenta que la primera imagen que tuvo de \u00e9l fue un cuadro que representaba el duelo en que muri\u00f3, fulminado por D'Anth\u00e8s.\n\nLa idea de rivalidad es esencial a la imaginaci\u00f3n de Pushkin. En un cuento que se ha traducido como \u00abEl disparo\u00bb y \u00abEl pistoletazo\u00bb, narra la impecable venganza de un duelista. El adversario dispara primero y falla. Su tiro va a dar a la pared. El protagonista tiene la opci\u00f3n de matarlo, pero lo humilla con su perd\u00f3n. Para demostrar la estupenda punter\u00eda con que podr\u00eda haberlo aniquilado, dispara a la pared, incrustando la bala exactamente en el agujero donde cay\u00f3 la del enemigo.\n\nFue el duelista Pushkin quien inaugur\u00f3 en un breve drama el conflicto entre Mozart y Salieri. Ah\u00ed exacerb\u00f3 el recelo que un artista puede sentir por otro y lanz\u00f3 la arriesgada hip\u00f3tesis de que Salieri envenen\u00f3 a Mozart por envidia. En forma tr\u00e1gica, el autor de _Eugenio Oneguin_ muri\u00f3 como uno de sus personajes, en una confrontaci\u00f3n innecesaria.\n\n\u00abNoches egipcias\u00bb presenta el curioso encuentro entre Charski, poeta consagrado, y un improvisador napolitano que hace pensar en los muchos diablos de la literatura rusa, de G\u00f3gol a Tsviet\u00e1ieva, pasando por Bulg\u00e1kov. El extranjero tiene la seductora pinta de un embaucador. Charski se interesa en \u00e9l porque est\u00e1 harto de un entorno que le rinde pleites\u00eda. Cuando se preocupa por alg\u00fan tema mundano, los dem\u00e1s creen que se encuentra en sublime estado de inspiraci\u00f3n. Ha perdido la posibilidad de ser normal. En este momento de cansancio existencial, Charski conoce a un charlat\u00e1n dispuesto a crear a partir de cualquier pretexto. El atribulado art\u00edfice envidia al desenvuelto improvisador. Sin deponer del todo su desconfianza, decide apoyarlo en una representaci\u00f3n. El sabio ha sellado un pacto diab\u00f3lico.\n\nPara llevar a cabo su puesta en escena, el italiano pide que le entreguen papeles con sugerencias de temas para ser representados en escena. Charski no quiere participar pero tampoco desea que la sesi\u00f3n fracase. El italiano se le acerca, con peculiar insistencia, y \u00e9l garabatea un tema cualquiera.\n\nLa suerte decide que el tema seleccionado sea \u00abCleopatra y sus amantes\u00bb (de ah\u00ed el t\u00edtulo de \u00abNoches egipcias\u00bb). Antes de comenzar, el improvisador pregunta qui\u00e9n recomend\u00f3 ese tema, pues desea tener m\u00e1s informaci\u00f3n sobre esos amantes para iniciar su improvisaci\u00f3n.\n\nLa chica que lo ha propuesto guarda silencio, avergonzada. Charski lo advierte y, para sacarla del apuro, asume la autor\u00eda de la propuesta. Esto entusiasma al italiano, quien desde un principio deseaba apoyarse en el c\u00e9lebre autor.\n\nDe este modo, el gran poeta sirve de cobertura a una autora an\u00f3nima, pero, sobre todo, estimula a un charlat\u00e1n. No conocemos la calidad art\u00edstica de este curioso pacto, pues el relato termina ah\u00ed.\n\nPushkin propone una sagaz interrogante sobre el sentido de la autor\u00eda. Lo que el poeta sugiere puede ser alterado e incluso mejorado por un p\u00edcaro o por el mismo diablo. Queriendo salvar de la verg\u00fcenza a una chica, estimula a un farsante que hab\u00eda planeado el acto para recibir ese apoyo.\n\n\u00bfQui\u00e9n es m\u00e1s artista: la autora an\u00f3nima de la propuesta, quien la respalda amparado en su prestigio o quien la reelabora con eficaz sentido de la oportunidad? \u00bfHay _un_ autor de la obra est\u00e9tica? Y algo a\u00fan m\u00e1s inquietante: en aras de proteger a una inocente, el artista legitima el juego de un embaucador.\n\nComo ocurre en los duelos, en la escritura un autor depende de otro, lo cual, por supuesto, se extiende a la lectura: quien recibe las palabras puede ser el c\u00f3mplice o el oponente del autor. C\u00e9lebre duelista, Pushkin no solo inaugura una literatura sino la forma creativa de leerla.\n\nEn la literatura rusa hasta el humor y el simulacro encuentran la manera de ser tremendos. A finales del siglo XIX y principios del siglo XX, un pu\u00f1ado de escritores estuvieron dispuestos a pagar sus atrevimientos con el alma. Esa exaltada reserva de pasi\u00f3n y valent\u00eda ser\u00e1, para siempre, la juventud de la literatura. \n\n### G\u00d3GOL: LA ETERNIDAD TIENE PRISA\n\nLa literatura ha ocupado casi toda mi existencia. Este es mi pecado principal.\n\nG\u00d3GOL, _carta del 10 de enero de 1843_\n\nTodo en Nikol\u00e1i G\u00f3gol suscita perplejidad. Publica en forma torrencial durante dieciocho a\u00f1os, juzgando que no hay vida fuera de la escritura, y de pronto guarda silencio. Descifra las psicolog\u00edas de sus personajes, pero casi no tiene relaciones amistosas e ignora el trato amoroso. Aunque se siente aislado en un pa\u00eds sin tradici\u00f3n literaria, recibe un apoyo que casi ning\u00fan autor ha tenido: Pushkin, fundador de la literatura rusa moderna, le sugiere los temas de sus mejores obras, _El inspector general_ y _Las almas muertas_. Corteja la fama y, cuando la obtiene, siente una presi\u00f3n insoportable que lo impulsa a exiliarse. Lleva la iron\u00eda a un nivel superior y se arrepiente de los efectos sociales de la comicidad. Quema el manuscrito de la segunda parte de _Las almas muertas_ : la Obra codiciada se convierte en algo que debe ser destruido. Preconiza la libertad y, arrepentido de sus logros, encomia la represi\u00f3n. Su mesianismo lo lleva a juzgar a sus amigos de la manera m\u00e1s injusta (Mija\u00edl Petrovich Pogodin, cr\u00edtico que lo apoy\u00f3 y le dio alojamiento, pierde a su mujer y se encuentra agobiado por el dolor; para \u00abapoyarlo\u00bb, G\u00f3gol le escribe: \u00abJes\u00fas Cristo te ayudar\u00e1 a convertirte en caballero, lo que no eres por nacimiento ni por inclinaci\u00f3n\u00bb; ante sus pocos amigos el humorista que desconfiaba de la risa muestra la piedad de un torturador). En 1848 viaja a Jerusal\u00e9n y vuelve a Rusia en estado de exaltaci\u00f3n religiosa. Va a todas partes con una maleta en la que guarda recortes de peri\u00f3dicos que resumen su carrera literaria. Ha tenido \u00e9xito de un modo que no le satisface. Agobiado por la culpa, es incapaz de prever que en el futuro la risa podr\u00e1 ser entendida como una variante de la inteligencia. Pasa por un calvario de ayunos y oraciones que liman sus facultades, y muere en 1852.\n\nEl autor de _El inspector general, Roma_ y _Las almas muertas_ naci\u00f3 en Ucrania en 1809. Sus primeros cuentos se ubican en esa regi\u00f3n. Ah\u00ed, las fiestas y las ceremonias juegan un papel predominante. En medio de lo cotidiano, hay atisbos sobrenaturales. Los rasgos carnavalescos que tanto interesar\u00e1n a Mija\u00edl Bajt\u00edn ya est\u00e1n presentes en esos relatos. Poco despu\u00e9s, su novela _Taras Bulba_ ampl\u00eda la exploraci\u00f3n de lo pintoresco y consolida la figura del cosaco en la misma medida en que _Don Segundo Sombra_ consolida la del gaucho y _Los de abajo_ la del revolucionario mexicano.\n\nPero la original imaginaci\u00f3n de G\u00f3gol adquiere mayor soltura en escenarios que no conoce tan bien. _Las almas muertas_ se ubica en un paisaje que solo ha visto desde la carretera, y sus relatos de bur\u00f3cratas en oficinas donde trabaj\u00f3 durante un breve lapso pero a las que otorga sugerente fantasmagor\u00eda. El desplazamiento del realismo a la fantas\u00eda \u2013o, mejor dicho, la inmersi\u00f3n de lo fant\u00e1stico en lo real\u2013 define su trayectoria. Para acentuar el valor simb\u00f3lico de sus fabulaciones, rechaza la exactitud. Pocos autores han repudiado en forma tan consistente los n\u00fameros redondos: sus personajes recorren diecinueve _verstas_ o tienen dos minutos y medio de descanso. Este gusto por enrarecer lo cotidiano se perfecciona con incoherencias ambientales: describe un d\u00eda de calor y abriga mucho a sus protagonistas.\n\nFiel a una est\u00e9tica de las paradojas, _Las almas muertas_ lleva el subt\u00edtulo de _Poema_. Hay varias formas de entender esto. Por un lado, el autor busca dignificar un g\u00e9nero donde el lenguaje puede alcanzar la musicalidad y la alusi\u00f3n metaf\u00f3rica de la poes\u00eda (el pasaje final es una eleg\u00eda en la que toda Rusia se fuga en un carruaje). Por otra parte, al subrayar la misi\u00f3n po\u00e9tica del libro, lo aleja del realismo. No busca reflejar el p\u00e1lido cielo de su patria, sino convertirlo en signo, cifra del alma y la identidad.\n\nG\u00f3gol publica su primer poema en 1827, a los dieciocho a\u00f1os: _Hanz Kuchelgarten_ , con el seud\u00f3nimo de V. Alov. Aunque m\u00e1s tarde repudia esta pieza cargada de lirismo y retira personalmente los ejemplares de las librer\u00edas, aborda temas que recuperar\u00e1 m\u00e1s tarde. \u00ab\u00bfDebo perecer espiritualmente aqu\u00ed?\u00bb, se pregunta el personaje. Kuchelgarten anticipa la inquietud de Rimbaud y siente que la vida est\u00e1 en otra parte. El poema narra un desplazamiento. El protagonista se busca a s\u00ed mismo en Grecia y se decepciona: \u00abTristes son las antig\u00fcedades de Atenas.\u00bb Nadie escapa a su propia piel. Muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, este volver\u00e1 a ser el asunto principal de _Roma_ , novela breve escrita al mismo tiempo que _Las almas muertas_. En _Hanz Kuchelgarten_ la soluci\u00f3n a la errancia sin br\u00fajula consiste en aceptar una vida humilde, asc\u00e9tica, en \u00abhallar sosiego en la familia modesta \/ y no atender al clamor mundano\u00bb. Esta reconciliaci\u00f3n piadosa con los milagros de la normalidad recuerda a la oda \u00abVida retirada\u00bb de fray Luis de Le\u00f3n. El mundo es para el joven escritor un estruendo que debe ser acallado.\n\nCon la exitosa publicaci\u00f3n de _Veladas en una finca cerca de Dikanka_ y _Mirgorod,_ que re\u00fanen relatos costumbristas nimbados de un aire irreal, G\u00f3gol asume el desaf\u00edo de producir lectores. Para \u00e9l, la creaci\u00f3n literaria pasa por la creaci\u00f3n de un p\u00fablico. Esto resulta especialmente urgente en una naci\u00f3n atrasada y autoritaria. Despu\u00e9s de la invasi\u00f3n napole\u00f3nica, el zar Alejandro I, que hab\u00eda tenido escarceos liberales, se asumi\u00f3 como el brazo de Cristo y gobern\u00f3 con intolerante despotismo. Nicol\u00e1s I extrem\u00f3 esta opresi\u00f3n con purgas y deportaciones a Siberia, amparadas en el explicativo lema \u00abOrtodoxia, Autocracia, Naci\u00f3n\u00bb.\n\nA principios del sigo XIX, el panorama cultural ruso era un yermo sujeto a la censura, donde el nacionalismo significaba una celebraci\u00f3n de la superioridad eslava y una negaci\u00f3n de la individualidad, y donde el ministro de educaci\u00f3n nacional decid\u00eda el gusto literario. A prop\u00f3sito del contexto en que madur\u00f3 G\u00f3gol, Sergio Pitol escribe en _La casa de la tribu_ :\n\nEn esa atm\u00f3sfera naci\u00f3, se desarroll\u00f3 y cre\u00f3 el m\u00e1s enigm\u00e1tico de los escritores rusos, a quien, seg\u00fan el testimonio de su abundante correspondencia y de las memorias de sus amigos, jam\u00e1s le conmovi\u00f3 de manera especial el destino de aquella multitud aprisionada y embrutecida, a la que solo parec\u00eda considerar como fuente inagotable de lenguaje pintoresco, capaz de crear giros a menudo sorprendentes. Sin embargo, fue \u00e9l quien produjo el testimonio m\u00e1s intenso y de m\u00e1s largo alcance contra la servidumbre...\n\nLos primeros relatos gogolianos se concentran en seres muy distintos a los que encomia la cultura oficial (antih\u00e9roes que se dignifican por sus extravagancias). Sin embargo, estos cuentos son aceptados por el m\u00e9rito antropol\u00f3gico (\u00abnacionalista\u00bb) de introducir en la literatura rusa escenarios y tradiciones hasta entonces ignorados.\n\nEn ese ambiente restrictivo, el renovador de la narrativa se convence de que la libertad literaria depende de ampliar el n\u00famero de los lectores. Detesta el periodismo y las labores editoriales, pero desea ser un escritor profesional. Pushkin dice por la misma \u00e9poca que su oficio es \u00abuna rama de honrada industria, que me da sustento e independencia dom\u00e9stica\u00bb.\n\nEn cartas a los cr\u00edticos, G\u00f3gol sostiene que el arte puede afectar por igual a la gente ilustrada que a los legos. El lector no debe poner en juego conocimientos especializados para disfrutar de una obra, sino mostrar una disposici\u00f3n afectiva: abrir su alma (palabra decisiva en su vocabulario, incluida en su obra m\u00e1s c\u00e9lebre y que anuncia un concepto esencial para los autores de la siguiente generaci\u00f3n: el \u00abalma rusa\u00bb).\n\nCuriosamente, en su llamado a ampliar el p\u00fablico, no hace referencia a uno de sus principales instrumentos, el sentido del humor. Cuando ocurre con eficacia, la iron\u00eda no parece algo buscado con esfuerzo, sino una consecuencia natural de los sucesos. Resulta dif\u00edcil encontrar un texto gogoliano completamente desprovisto de humor, pero muy pocas de sus obras dependen por entero de ese recurso. Su registro dominante es la superaci\u00f3n del realismo a trav\u00e9s de la enso\u00f1aci\u00f3n, la fabulaci\u00f3n fant\u00e1stica, lo irracional y el absurdo. Esto se muestra en cuentos tan tempranos como \u00abIv\u00e1n Sponka y su t\u00eda\u00bb. En \u00abEl retrato\u00bb habla del \u00abinsondable abismo que media entre la creaci\u00f3n y la mera copia de la naturaleza\u00bb. El aut\u00e9ntico artista no imita la realidad, le agrega algo.\n\nEn sus mejores piezas _(Las almas muertas, El inspector general_ , \u00abLa nariz\u00bb), el alejamiento del realismo est\u00e1 determinado por el sentido del humor. Aunque minoritarias respecto a la bibliograf\u00eda total, estas obras representan lo que hoy conocemos como lo \u00abgogoliano\u00bb.\n\nSergio Pitol se ha ocupado del autor que le revel\u00f3 el tono de _Domar a la divina garza_. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 G\u00f3gol cala tan hondo? La respuesta yace en una p\u00e1gina ejemplar de _La casa de la tribu_ :\n\nEn la tragedia cl\u00e1sica se produce siempre una alteraci\u00f3n del orden universal [...]. Se ha violado un orden moral que afecta la armon\u00eda del universo entero. Despu\u00e9s de una cadena de violentas convulsiones se logra corregir aquel desarreglo de la naturaleza [...]. Otro orden, con nuevos personajes, va a instaurarse [...] el caos se introduce, pero, en cambio, la expiaci\u00f3n final, esa renovaci\u00f3n de la armon\u00eda universal, nunca llega a producirse; solo vislumbramos su parodia entre risas burlonas y muecas de escarnio.\n\nLa vida es corrosiva.\n\nG\u00f3gol entiende el arte como un territorio incrustado en la normalidad y sus bajezas. Lo culto y lo popular se mezclan en su representaci\u00f3n de la fiesta, su idea del cuerpo, los apetitos b\u00e1sicos de sus personajes. Una fauna variopinta se integra a la ronda del deseo, unida por la risa.\n\nPor excelso que sea, el esp\u00edritu depende de un organismo que suda y orina. El humorista sabe que el cuerpo es grotesco. Solo la muerte produce la liberaci\u00f3n definitiva del alma. Mientras ocupa un sitio en el mundo material, el hombre puede decir cosas sublimes y sufrir un retortij\u00f3n. En sentido inverso, las criaturas m\u00e1s burdas pueden darse \u00ednfulas. En _Las almas muertas_ , las moscas entran en escuadrones a una habitaci\u00f3n donde abunda el az\u00facar, pero no lo hacen para comer sino para lucirse.\n\nTener cuerpo nos convierte en criaturas c\u00f3micas. La enfermedad produce una nivelaci\u00f3n de todos los estratos: el zar y el m\u00e1s humilde de los _mujiks_ estornudan con la gripe.\n\nEl humorismo es un elixir delicado y puede intoxicar. Lo hilarante no siempre goza de prestigio. Las carcajadas que se profieren en carnaval desentonan en el aula. El humor tiene un componente cr\u00edtico que no siempre se acepta. Los adaptados no hacen bromas. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 se concibe un disparate? Las ocurrencias pueden venir de circunstancias locas, pat\u00e9ticas o retorcidas. Por lo tanto, el propio humorista tiene algo risible. No solo nos re\u00edmos de su ingenio sino de \u00e9l. Dostoievski advirti\u00f3 con agudeza la ambigua atracci\u00f3n del humor gogoliano en un art\u00edculo publicado en 1861 en la revista _Tiempo_ : \u00abSe burl\u00f3 toda su vida de s\u00ed mismo y de nosotros, y todos nos re\u00edamos tambi\u00e9n de \u00e9l.\u00bb La grandeza de G\u00f3gol tiene para Dostoievski algo indescifrable y al mismo tiempo inconfundiblemente ruso. En ese mismo texto agrega: \u00abEra un demonio tan colosal como Europa nunca ha tenido y a quien, quiz\u00e1, nunca habr\u00edan permitido existir.\u00bb\n\nLa risa lo acerc\u00f3 a su tiempo, le permiti\u00f3 tener un p\u00fablico y al final de sus d\u00edas lo llev\u00f3 a su m\u00e1s compleja crisis de conciencia.\n\nUNA VOZ EN FUGA\n\nLa suerte del escritor al que Pushkin asign\u00f3 un futuro inagotable se jug\u00f3 en unos cuantos a\u00f1os. En 1835 public\u00f3 _Arabescos_ y _Mirgorod_ , escribi\u00f3 \u00abLa nariz\u00bb y \u00abEl carruaje\u00bb, emprendi\u00f3 tres obras de teatro, bosquej\u00f3 _El inspector general_ y comenz\u00f3 _Las almas muertas_. En 1836 la versi\u00f3n teatral de _El inspector general_ le otorg\u00f3 la ansiada celebridad. Sin embargo, el \u00e9xito se mezcl\u00f3 con el esc\u00e1ndalo. El autor fue visto como enemigo de las instituciones y de los c\u00e1ndidos esfuerzos de los servidores p\u00fablicos.\n\nAunque atribuy\u00f3 las cr\u00edticas a la falta de madurez del entorno, se sinti\u00f3 profundamente herido. En mayo de 1836 le escribi\u00f3 a Pogodin: \u00abEs triste ver qu\u00e9 miserable papel ocupa a\u00fan el escritor en nuestro pa\u00eds.\u00bb Se volvi\u00f3 popular, pero no como deseaba.\n\nLa creatividad suele necesitar obst\u00e1culos que la estimulen. G\u00f3gol rechaza la aceptaci\u00f3n y emigra antes de que acabe 1836. Pasa seis a\u00f1os en Europa Occidental, cuatro de ellos en Roma. Ah\u00ed se diluye su anhelo de ser un escritor profesional. Vive en la miseria y contin\u00faa su ejercicio con devoci\u00f3n sacerdotal.\n\nEl autor de _Las almas muertas_ estaba capacitado para crear lectores, no para soportarlos. Adem\u00e1s, con la muerte de Pushkin, en 1837, se siente perdido: \u00abTodo goce de vivir se ha desvanecido con \u00e9l\u00bb, le confiesa a su amigo Pletnyov: \u00abNunca escrib\u00ed una sola l\u00ednea sin imaginarlo ante m\u00ed.\u00bb Pushkin no solo le dio la idea de _Las almas muertas_ sino el impulso para escribirla, record\u00e1ndole que Cervantes no habr\u00eda llegado a nosotros de haber escrito solo las _Novelas ejemplares_. G\u00f3gol ya hab\u00eda cumplido esa etapa. De acuerdo con Pushkin, le hac\u00eda falta su _Quijote_.\n\nCuando concluye _Las almas muertas_ , el humorista reacio regresa a su patria para una especie de examen final. En su extenso pr\u00f3logo a _La creaci\u00f3n de Nikol\u00e1i G\u00f3gol_ , Carlos Fuentes llam\u00f3 la atenci\u00f3n sobre un episodio ocurrido durante el retorno a Rusia. Estamos en 1841 y la obra maestra de G\u00f3gol debe someterse a la censura. El autor no tiene de qu\u00e9 vivir y se hospeda en casa de su amigo Pogodin. Fiel a sus rarezas, odia al cr\u00edtico que se da el lujo de ser generoso con \u00e9l. Le deja de hablar y le manda cartas de una habitaci\u00f3n a otra. Cuando Pogodin le presta dinero, lo detesta a\u00fan m\u00e1s. La escena podr\u00eda formar parte de _Diario de un loco_.\n\nLos h\u00e9roes gogolianos viven de lo que no existe y conciben ilusiones que acaban por destruirlos. Los protagonistas de \u00abEl capote\u00bb y _Diario de un loco_ son bur\u00f3cratas de medio pelo que cometen el error de entusiasmarse. Su calvario no proviene de sus limitaciones, sino de la irrealizable ilusi\u00f3n de superarlas.\n\nLo que m\u00e1s afect\u00f3 a los lectores de _Las almas muertas_ no fue que el car\u00e1cter ruso se asociara con la injusticia y la corrupci\u00f3n, sino que se asociara con la median\u00eda. En su primera reflexi\u00f3n escrita acerca de la novela, G\u00f3gol afirma que el p\u00fablico \u00abqued\u00f3 m\u00e1s intimidado por su insignificancia que por sus vicios o sus defectos\u00bb. Y en su ensayo \u00abSobre la arquitectura actual\u00bb apunta: \u00abTenemos el don maravilloso de hacer insignificante todo.\u00bb Los tiranos y los criminales pueden salirse con la suya; los mediocres no tienen remedio.\n\nCh\u00edchikov, protagonista de _Las almas muertas_ , pas\u00f3 a la historia como un conjunto de carencias. No es ni alto ni bajo, ni gordo ni flaco: \u00ab\u00bfQui\u00e9n era Ch\u00edchikov, en realidad?\u00bb, pregunta el autor. Todo en \u00e9l se difumina: \u00abNo sab\u00edan nada a ciencia cierta de Ch\u00edchikov y, sin embargo, ten\u00eda que ser forzosamente algo.\u00bb A prop\u00f3sito de este hombre sin atributos, Nabokov comenta con ingenio: \u00abCh\u00edchikov no es otra cosa que el representante mal pagado del diablo, un agente viajero del Hades.\u00bb Nada m\u00e1s l\u00f3gico que un h\u00e9roe al que le faltan rasgos de personalidad y le sobran malas intenciones comercie con sombras. Su negocio consiste en comprar siervos fallecidos para hipotecarlos en un banco como si estuvieran vivos.\n\nAunque Pushkin hab\u00eda sugerido la trama, al conocer el libro exclam\u00f3: \u00ab\u00a1Qu\u00e9 triste es Rusia!\u00bb No imaginaba que la iron\u00eda fuera capaz de producir esa desolada visi\u00f3n de su pa\u00eds.\n\nEl propio G\u00f3gol se preocup\u00f3 de la sarc\u00e1stica imagen que ofrec\u00eda de sus cong\u00e9neres y se propuso enmendarla en una segunda parte. Al estilo de Dante, concibi\u00f3 un viaje en tres tiempos: Infierno, Purgatorio y Para\u00edso. La parte que conocemos corresponde a los dominios del diablo. Acaso su gesto de mayor valent\u00eda fue quemar la segunda parte, escrita para enmendar la primera y de la que solo sobreviven un par de fragmentos.\n\nEn su _Historia de la literatura rusa_ , K. Waliszewski se\u00f1ala que los mayores logros de G\u00f3gol fueron \u00abinconscientes\u00bb: \u00abTard\u00f3 mucho en convencerse de la realidad del oficio de acusador p\u00fablico que su obra le atribu\u00eda. Y cuando se convenci\u00f3 de ello se asust\u00f3. \u00a1C\u00f3mo! \u00bf\u00c9l hab\u00eda hecho eso? \u00a1Esa era la realizaci\u00f3n de su sue\u00f1o! \u00a1Queriendo servir a su patria le hab\u00eda infligido esa afrenta!\u00bb Sinti\u00f3 que hab\u00eda calumniado a Rusia y quiso reparar el da\u00f1o con una apolog\u00eda. Por suerte, el rigor intelectual se impuso a su deseo de contrici\u00f3n y la segunda parte de _Las almas muertas_ desemboc\u00f3 en el fuego y no en un tedioso triunfo del bien.\n\n\u00abEl retrato\u00bb, escrito en 1831, prefigura los padecimientos del autor. El cuento trata de una pintura donde lo m\u00e1s admirable son los ojos. Pero esa mirada ha sido inspirada por un hu\u00e9sped habitual de la literatura rusa: el diablo. El m\u00e9rito est\u00e9tico depende de una ca\u00edda moral. Angustiado, el artista busca liberarse de su obra, piensa en quemarla, la abandona y renuncia a pintar de esa manera: \u00abAquello no era una obra de arte; de ah\u00ed que su contemplaci\u00f3n generara sentimientos subversivos e inquietantes.\u00bb El retrato es repudiado por su efecto, no por su t\u00e9cnica. Esto anticipa el drama de _Las almas muertas_. Creador ins\u00f3lito, G\u00f3gol no supo leerse; repudi\u00f3 su novela por la impresi\u00f3n que causaba.\n\nSe sabe poco de sus lecturas, pero en 1840 un viajero ruso lo vio en Roma, en el caf\u00e9 El Greco, leyendo a Dickens. La compasi\u00f3n que el autor de _Oliver Twist_ siente por sus criaturas est\u00e1 presente en _El inspector general_ y _Las almas muertas_. El gran ironista ruso pod\u00eda perdonar a sus personajes, pero no se perdon\u00f3 por haberlos creado.\n\nEn sus \u00faltimos a\u00f1os, la expectativa en torno a su obra creci\u00f3 en forma estrafalaria. El m\u00e1s significativo cr\u00edtico de la \u00e9poca, Visari\u00f3n Grig\u00f3rievich Belinski, le dijo despu\u00e9s de la publicaci\u00f3n de _Las almas muertas_ : \u00abAhora usted es el \u00fanico entre nosotros.\u00bb\n\nLa atenci\u00f3n que se le conced\u00eda acab\u00f3 por paralizarlo, sobre todo porque los elogios coexist\u00edan con la perplejidad. El renovador estaba fuera de registro; la cr\u00edtica lo apreciaba sin saber d\u00f3nde ubicarlo, y los lectores anhelaban una sorpresa, temiendo que fuera negativa.\n\nEn 1852 Iv\u00e1n Aks\u00e1kov escribi\u00f3 en su obituario: \u00abMucho tiempo habr\u00e1 de pasar antes de que se comprenda el profundo y poderoso significado de G\u00f3gol.\u00bb Esta necrol\u00f3gica sobre el \u00abartista monje\u00bb impresion\u00f3 tanto al ministro de Educaci\u00f3n que pidi\u00f3 una aclaraci\u00f3n al respecto: \u00ab\u00bfRealmente considera el autor del art\u00edculo tan insondable este significado que ninguno de nuestros contempor\u00e1neos est\u00e9 en posici\u00f3n de formarse un claro entendimiento de G\u00f3gol a partir de sus obras?\u00bb\n\nA las paradojas del autor se agrega la de la recepci\u00f3n de su obra, apreciada en su d\u00eda sin que se despejara la incertidumbre sobre su aut\u00e9ntico alcance. El fabulador que desaparec\u00eda narices y capotes, y hac\u00eda hablar a los perros, fue visto como alguien cuya singularidad solo podr\u00eda ser juzgada en el porvenir. En pocos casos la cr\u00edtica ha pospuesto en tal forma su veredicto.\n\nCon el paso del tiempo, y con la reivindicaci\u00f3n de la cultura popular, el sentido del humor adquirir\u00eda un peso distinto. A fines del siglo XVIII y principios del XIX el romanticismo alem\u00e1n preconiz\u00f3 una ruptura con el modo cl\u00e1sico. El arte no deb\u00eda imitar la armon\u00eda de la naturaleza; deb\u00eda desordenarla para llegar de otro modo a lo sublime. Los cuentos de Hoffmann, cuya impronta se advierte en \u00abLa nariz\u00bb o \u00abEl retrato\u00bb, est\u00e1n determinados por una imaginaci\u00f3n cercana al sue\u00f1o. G\u00f3gol particip\u00f3 de ese \u00edmpetu rom\u00e1ntico y le agreg\u00f3 el desenfreno del humor. Para algunos, esto lo acercaba a la caricatura, la fealdad ridiculizable, la distorsi\u00f3n abusiva de lo real, donde el exceso es un recurso de comicidad. Adem\u00e1s, explor\u00f3 las ricas extravagancias de su patria y esto provoc\u00f3 que su sarcasmo fuera interpretado como una burla al car\u00e1cter nacional, el acta acusatoria de un c\u00ednico.\n\nLo curioso es que el propio humorista sucumbi\u00f3 a esa preocupaci\u00f3n. Se conmov\u00eda con la nobleza del pueblo llano, que regalaba comida y ropa a los prisioneros que iniciaban su largo viaje a Siberia, pero escrib\u00eda mejor que nadie de tretas y abusos.\n\nPasar\u00edan d\u00e9cadas hasta que la cr\u00edtica, con Bajt\u00edn a la cabeza, entendiera que el humor gogoliano es otra forma de la seriedad.\n\nFrancisco Rico ha estudiado el largo camino que el _Quijote_ tuvo que recorrer para pasar de \u00abdivertimento\u00bb a obra cl\u00e1sica, especialmente en Espa\u00f1a. En su hora m\u00e1s alta, G\u00f3gol fue muy le\u00eddo y malinterpretado. Hoy sabemos que su iron\u00eda no solo divierte; descubre heridas y las vuelve entra\u00f1ables. En \u00abLa avenida Nevski\u00bb un hombre desea cortarse la nariz para no consumir rap\u00e9. Esto habla de su mezquindad y su avaricia, pero tambi\u00e9n de la desesperaci\u00f3n que lo impulsa a prescindir de lo que m\u00e1s le gusta. Para perfeccionar la iron\u00eda, este hombre absurdo lleva un apellido egregio: Schiller.\n\n_Las almas muertas_ aborda con maestr\u00eda el _poshlost_ , versi\u00f3n rusa del _kitsch_ , que Nabokov define como lo \u00abobviamente cursi\u00bb o lo \u00abfalsamente bello\u00bb. Estamos ante lo que la futura clase media considerar\u00e1 su principal patrimonio: lo \u00abbonito\u00bb, lo barato pero pretencioso, lo sentimental con deseos de ser excelso: una reproducci\u00f3n de _La \u00daltima Cena_ en el comedor, hecha por un fallido pintor de iconos o un tejedor chapucero.\n\nEn _Apocal\u00edpticos e integrados_ , Umberto Eco se\u00f1ala que el consumidor de _kitsch_ no solo es sensiblero; tambi\u00e9n se cree capaz de tener una \u00abexperiencia est\u00e9tica privilegiada\u00bb. Su gusto empalagoso lo hace sentirse sublime. Es lo que G\u00f3gol descubre en las habitaciones de las familias \u00abdecentes\u00bb cuya ostentaci\u00f3n es similar a la de las moscas que vuelan para lucirse.\n\nY sin embargo el _kitsch_ tiene algo irresistible. En su ensayo sobre el tema, Hermann Broch comenta que todo gran arte contiene algo de esa lacra dulzona. _Las almas muertas_ se burla de lo rid\u00edculo, pero lo aprovecha y lo recupera en forma cr\u00edtica.\n\nEsto, que hoy nos resulta evidente, fue una sorpresa destructiva para el autor. Arrepentido de mofarse de la condici\u00f3n humana y las costumbres de su patria, el hombre que naci\u00f3 para fugarse emprendi\u00f3 una impetuosa retirada moral. Despu\u00e9s de la primera parte de _Las almas muertas_ solo public\u00f3 _Pasajes selectos de la correspondencia con mis amigos_ , que Pitol considera \u00abuna defensa atroz y por momentos grotesca de los excesos del despotismo\u00bb. El influyente Belinski, que tanto lo apoy\u00f3 en otro tiempo, no soporta esta conversi\u00f3n fan\u00e1tica y lo increpa con desesperaci\u00f3n: \u00abPredicador del l\u00e1tigo, ap\u00f3stol de la ignorancia, campe\u00f3n del oscurantismo y la reacci\u00f3n, panegirista del despotismo t\u00e1rtaro, \u00bfqu\u00e9 es lo que est\u00e1s haciendo? Mira a tus pies: te encuentras al borde del abismo.\u00bb\n\nUn contempor\u00e1neo suyo, el conde Sollogub, apunt\u00f3: \u00abPushkin no logr\u00f3 soportar a sus enemigos; G\u00f3gol no logr\u00f3 soportar a sus admiradores.\u00bb El autor de _Eugenio Oneguin_ muri\u00f3 en un duelo; el de _Las almas muertas_ , luchando contra s\u00ed mismo.\n\nG\u00f3gol cortej\u00f3 la fama, que en el fondo detestaba; cuando la obtuvo, la convirti\u00f3 en pretexto de su inmovilidad. Nabokov resume la situaci\u00f3n: \u00abLa creciente conciencia de su importancia se convirti\u00f3 en una especie de enfermedad que lo apart\u00f3 de s\u00ed mismo y de los otros. Le gustaban las interrupciones (\"los obst\u00e1culos son nuestras alas\", dijo) porque pod\u00eda responsabilizarlas de sus rezagos.\u00bb\n\n\u00abNunca segundas partes fueron buenas\u00bb, afirma Cervantes, y se contradice fecundamente en la conclusi\u00f3n del _Quijote_. G\u00f3gol solo sigui\u00f3 la primera parte del ejemplo cervantino. Marcado por la impaciencia, no pudo sostener una obra dilatada. En varios pasajes asocia la velocidad creativa con la espontaneidad del esp\u00edritu. En \u00abEl retrato\u00bb afirma: \u00abEl genio produce audazmente, con rapidez.\u00bb Su manera de convencerse a s\u00ed mismo de que pod\u00eda seguir trabajando en un texto era interrumpirlo. _Las almas muertas_ y _Roma_ son libros inacabados. En _Las almas muertas_ , la continuaci\u00f3n deb\u00eda ser una enmienda moral. En el caso de _Roma_ , la an\u00e9cdota est\u00e1 perfectamente redondeada; si el autor la juzga inconclusa, es porque no est\u00e1 seguro de sus reflexiones.\n\nEl fugitivo de s\u00ed mismo convivi\u00f3 en Roma con el pintor Alexandr Andr\u00e9yevich Iv\u00e1nov, quien trabaj\u00f3 durante veinte a\u00f1os en el mismo cuadro: _La aparici\u00f3n de Cristo ante el pueblo_. Iv\u00e1nov comenz\u00f3 el lienzo en 1837 y lo concluy\u00f3 en 1857. G\u00f3gol lo vio surgir y muri\u00f3 antes de que fuera terminado. Admiraba a ese genio de una sola obra, que viv\u00eda en la pobreza, dedicado a la pintura como quien hace una plegaria en colores.\n\nIv\u00e1nov era un maratonista y G\u00f3gol un velocista. Ambos pensaban en crear una obra absoluta. El pintor dilat\u00f3 al m\u00e1ximo su trabajo, perfeccion\u00e1ndolo de manera obsesiva. Incapaz de ese esfuerzo sostenido, el novelista pospuso la conclusi\u00f3n de sus obras. Dejarlas abiertas era un modo parad\u00f3jico de prolongarlas.\n\nLA META DE UNA IMPACIENCIA\n\nLa trama de _Roma_ recuerda \u00abLa avenida Nevski\u00bb, relato sobre la vibrante y enga\u00f1osa vida de San Petersburgo, donde el narrador afirma que la calle tiene un efecto pedag\u00f3gico: los paseantes mejoran al transitar por ah\u00ed. No es casual que Andr\u00e9i Bieli, autor de una novela urbana impar, _Petersburgo_ , dedicara un libro a G\u00f3gol, su antecesor como cart\u00f3grafo de la ciudad.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de un retrato de multitud, \u00abLa avenida Nevski\u00bb se concentra en dos personajes que persiguen a dos chicas. Ambas historias son desastrosas y demuestran que en la metr\u00f3poli nada es lo que parece. Los destinos se deshumanizan en un entorno donde \u00abel demonio en persona enciende las luces\u00bb. La grandeza urbana era una apariencia. Al fondo de la noche aguarda la vida solitaria.\n\nUn sello gogoliano es la imposibilidad de concentrarse en un personaje. Impaciente, el autor pasa de un sujeto a otro. Rara vez conserva a un protagonista de principio a fin. En este teatro de la ansiedad, cada actor tiene un turno limitado y debe aprovecharlo al m\u00e1ximo. En _Las almas muertas_ Ch\u00edchikov visita a diversos terratenientes. Los personajes no se re\u00fanen ni se recuperan en otras partes de la trama. A pesar de su t\u00edtulo, _Taras Bulba_ no trata del cosaco que lleva este nombre, sino de una familia y una comunidad.\n\nW. G. Sebald observ\u00f3 con agudeza una similitud entre los personajes de Robert Walser y los de G\u00f3gol, su notable predecesor: \u00abAmbos perdieron gradualmente la capacidad de mantener la atenci\u00f3n en el centro de la trama y se extraviaron en la contemplaci\u00f3n casi compulsiva de criaturas extra\u00f1amente irreales que aparec\u00edan en la periferia de su visi\u00f3n, de las cuales el lector ignora tanto los antecedentes como su suerte futura.\u00bb\n\nWalser pas\u00f3 sus \u00faltimos a\u00f1os en un hospital psiqui\u00e1trico. No es de extra\u00f1ar que viera a sus personajes en forma transitoria, casi an\u00f3nima. Walter Benjamin comenta al respecto que se trata de seres que act\u00faan a pesar de su circunstancia; superan por un momento su drama interior, comparecen de manera veloz e insegura, marcados por una \u00absuperficialidad inhumana\u00bb, y desaparecen sin mayor aviso.\n\nG\u00f3gol no padeci\u00f3 una afecci\u00f3n psicol\u00f3gica tan severa como la de Walser, pero la misantrop\u00eda, el exilio y la paranoia determinaron no solo su concepci\u00f3n del pr\u00f3jimo sino el trato que daba a sus criaturas. Sus h\u00e9roes no son sociables; medran por su cuenta _(Diario de un loco)_ ; requieren de un objeto para vincularse con los dem\u00e1s (\u00abEl retrato\u00bb, \u00abEl capote\u00bb, \u00abLa nariz\u00bb); se relacionan por la inevitable condici\u00f3n gregaria de una fiesta popular (los relatos de _Mirgorod_ y _Dikanka)_ , o se conectan por v\u00eda negativa, a trav\u00e9s del enga\u00f1o y la intriga _(El inspector general, Las almas muertas)_. Muchos de ellos se sienten al borde de la desaparici\u00f3n y el m\u00e1s c\u00e9lebre, Ch\u00edchikov, se caracteriza por todo lo que no es.\n\n_Roma_ es un caso gogoliano excepcional en la medida en que indaga a fondo un solo destino. En forma similar al cuento \u00abLa avenida Nevski\u00bb, la novela breve explora el efecto del paisaje en el esp\u00edritu del protagonista, pero el resultado es el opuesto. Un joven pr\u00edncipe italiano ha crecido en un ambiente de lujo que llega a resultarle opresivo; de una sensual pereza pasa a un terrible aburrimiento. Viaja a Par\u00eds, donde la bulliciosa vida de los caf\u00e9s y la elegancia de los bulevares lo hacen sentirse en un entorno superior. Las mujeres, criaturas de alta sofisticaci\u00f3n, tienen ah\u00ed \u00abuna forma de hablar tan suave que parece no articulada\u00bb.\n\nEl pr\u00edncipe italiano se deja cautivar por el escenario parisino hasta que descubre que es superficial, impostado, artificioso. Lo que tom\u00f3 por gestos de la inteligencia en realidad eran poses fr\u00edvolas: \u00abpor todas partes se percib\u00eda una seguridad casi arrogante y una falta de humilde conciencia de la propia ignorancia\u00bb. En ese entorno progresivamente falaz, encuentra refugio en la \u00f3pera italiana. Cuando regresa a su pa\u00eds, descubre a Annunziata, mujer de belleza avasallante. Sin embargo, la verdadera lecci\u00f3n del regreso es otra: ninguna revelaci\u00f3n supera a la ciudad misma.\n\nEscrita con una prosa cargada de sensualidad, que Selma Ancira transmite perfectamente en su traducci\u00f3n, _Roma_ representa una recuperaci\u00f3n del origen. Como \u00abLa avenida Nevski\u00bb, la obra investiga la relatividad de las pasiones. La cautivadora Par\u00eds termina por decepcionar y la mujer m\u00e1s hermosa del mundo desmerece ante el paisaje.\n\nLa tradici\u00f3n es algo que se reitera. No es extra\u00f1o que parezca previsible. En su viaje a Par\u00eds, el pr\u00edncipe aprende a valorar de otro modo lo genuino. A su regreso, lo que le parec\u00eda redundante le resulta aut\u00e9ntico. El esnobismo es atributo de la moda y sus evanescentes novedades. Eso fue lo que conoci\u00f3 en Francia. En cambio, la costumbre ignora las poses.\n\nLa idea del viaje es una constante en la imaginaci\u00f3n gogoliana. _Las almas muertas_ se estructura como una visita a distintos lugares y se \u00abcierra\u00bb con una fuga. Tambi\u00e9n _Diario de un loco_ termina con una invitaci\u00f3n a la partida: \u00abFustiga, cochero; suena, campanita; galopen, caballos, y s\u00e1quenme de este mundo.\u00bb\n\nEn _La creaci\u00f3n de Nikol\u00e1i G\u00f3gol_ , Donald Fanger comenta: \u00abSi la metamorfosis es el proceso central del universo gogoliano, entonces el camino es su imagen central [...]. Cuando declar\u00f3 que el camino era \"una necesidad absoluta\", su \"salvaci\u00f3n\", su \"\u00fanica medicina\", estaba pensando en su creaci\u00f3n, [que] estaba demasiado conectada con la s\u00fabita necesidad de arrancarse de un sitio, y viajar.\u00bb Aunque adelanta valiosas hip\u00f3tesis y se ocupa con escrupuloso detalle de la evoluci\u00f3n de una est\u00e9tica, Fanger tambi\u00e9n incluye afirmaciones no argumentadas en las que descarta con altivez las ideas de Nabokov o Belinski, as\u00ed como las obras \u00abmenores\u00bb de G\u00f3gol, que en forma alarmante son casi todas (en su opini\u00f3n, solo _El inspector general_ , \u00abEl capote\u00bb y _Las almas muertas_ se salvan de esa definici\u00f3n).\n\nConviene citar un pasaje que, a pesar de su suficiencia, aporta algo significativo: \u00abEstoy pensando en el concepto \u2013notablemente improductivo\u2013 que Stendhal ten\u00eda de la novela: \"un espejo que se mueve a lo largo de un camino\". Entre todas las grandes novelas de la literatura europea, puede decirse que solo _Las almas muertas_ conviene con \u00e9l y le da validez.\u00bb Dejemos a un lado la tarea de decidir si la idea de Stendhal es \u00abnotablemente improductiva\u00bb y si no hay otras novelas a las que pueda aplicarse. Lo cierto es que la frase stendhaliana define a la perfecci\u00f3n al G\u00f3gol de _Las almas muertas_ , pero tambi\u00e9n al de _Roma_ , obra que Fanger despacha de este modo: \u00abLos amigos de G\u00f3gol se extasiaron ante ella [...]. La realizaci\u00f3n t\u00e9cnica, sin embargo, fue superada en muchas de las ficciones rusas de G\u00f3gol, la estrecha tem\u00e1tica solo duplica lo que ya se muestra en otros textos ficticios o epistolares, y si hay causa para recordar _Roma_ como tal, se encuentra en la forma en que la imagen gogoliana de Par\u00eds se anticipa a la hostilidad a la Europa moderna expresada por Tolst\u00f3i y Dostoievski dos decenios despu\u00e9s.\u00bb En realidad, el esnobismo que G\u00f3gol descubre en Par\u00eds anticipa el que descubrimos en Donald Fanger.\n\n_Roma_ es mucho m\u00e1s de lo que afirma el acad\u00e9mico de Harvard. Pocas veces la prosa gogoliana adquiri\u00f3 tal fuerza sensorial. Cuando lleg\u00f3 a la Ciudad Eterna, el viajero ruso se maravill\u00f3 con el cielo y descubri\u00f3 est\u00edmulos que jam\u00e1s hab\u00eda tenido. En sus cartas habla de su inesperado br\u00edo f\u00edsico y la fuerza de su olfato. No desea ser otra cosa que una nariz. Ante las fragantes revelaciones romanas, dice: \u00abRespeto las flores que crecen por su cuenta sobre una tumba\u00bb; incluso en los sepulcros la belleza llega como un accidente afortunado.\n\nPor v\u00eda de la sensualidad, busca una tard\u00eda reconciliaci\u00f3n con el mundo. En \u00abLa avenida Nevski\u00bb se hab\u00eda ocupado de un pintor que, a diferencia de sus colegas italianos, no dispon\u00eda de claridades, sino de los l\u00fagubres y grises d\u00edas rusos. Pero su limitaci\u00f3n no era solo atmosf\u00e9rica; ten\u00eda que ver con la pobreza cultural del entorno.\n\nG\u00f3gol no pod\u00eda hacer las paces con Rusia. Al margen del viento y la nevisca, el pa\u00eds le dol\u00eda como solo duele lo que es propio. Roma representaba un escape posible, una patria alterna. En su mezcla de infierno y para\u00edso, M\u00e9xico fue id\u00edlico para Kerouac, Lowry, Lawrence, Burroughs o Bola\u00f1o en una forma en que no puede serlo para un autor mexicano. La Roma de G\u00f3gol es una construcci\u00f3n de sentido del tipo de _Las ciudades invisibles_ de Calvino o el _Cuarteto de Alejandr\u00eda_ de Durrell, un espacio surgido del deseo.\n\nEl protagonista aprende por descarte: desprecia la cercan\u00eda, luego se encandila con lo ajeno y finalmente redescubre el origen. Como en Durrell y Calvino, una mujer sirve de mediaci\u00f3n con la ciudad; poco a poco, el atractivo que suscita se desplaza al sitio que la rodea y la justifica. Los muros, las columnas, las escalinatas \u2013las piedras de Roma\u2013 son la matriz de la que proviene. De Annunziata dimana una \u00abbelleza absoluta\u00bb que inspira un sentimiento ajeno a la posesi\u00f3n; ese grado de hermosura no puede pertenecer a nadie, \u00abdebe estar a la vista de todos\u00bb. No es una mujer, es el anticipo de una ciudad.\n\n\u00abSolo gracias a la cultura popular la contemporaneidad de G\u00f3gol se incorpora al gran tiempo\u00bb, escribe Bajt\u00edn. Novela hu\u00e9rfana, definitivamente solitaria, _Las almas muertas_ inicia una tradici\u00f3n. El autor podr\u00eda decir, como Cervantes, que era no su padre sino su padrastro, pero no desea adoptar la obra; carece de la sangre ligera de quien se adapta a lo que desconoce; como Kafka, es un humorista que se toma salvajemente en serio. _Roma_ brind\u00f3 una respuesta a sus desvelos. Los predicamentos morales se superan a trav\u00e9s de la sensualidad. La clave de este tr\u00e1nsito est\u00e1 en el carnaval. Cuando el pr\u00edncipe descubre a Annunziata es interrumpido por la multitud. Recibe un bautizo de harina, sus ropas se manchan y regresa a casa para cambiarse. Al reintegrarse al carnaval, una carreta que transporta un inmenso viol\u00edn le impide el paso. Junto a ese instrumento cicl\u00f3peo, un hombre entrado en carnes sostiene una lavativa. Todo adquiere otra escala. El arte es un viol\u00edn de dimensiones rid\u00edculas, y el cuerpo, un dep\u00f3sito de grasa y secreciones. Nadie, ni siquiera la musa codiciada, se libra de los humores de la podredumbre. Esto es risible y pat\u00e9tico a la vez. El pr\u00edncipe recibe una compleja ense\u00f1anza: lo grotesco es parte necesaria de un todo; el asco existe por el gozo, y viceversa. Los contrarios se redimen. Amar a la mujer implica amar el mundo.\n\nEl arte surge de una insatisfacci\u00f3n con el entorno. Identificar las imperfecciones es el primer paso para superarlas. Nietzsche afirmaba que la cercan\u00eda al infierno permite concebir el cielo. En el cap\u00edtulo siete de _Las almas muertas_ el autor reflexiona: \u00abSe requiere mucha profundidad espiritual para arrojar luz sobre un cuadro tomado de un desesperado estrato de la vida y exaltarlo hasta convertirlo en una perla de la creaci\u00f3n.\u00bb\n\nEsta recuperaci\u00f3n creativa de los defectos tardar\u00e1 mucho en volverse norma. Hoy es moneda corriente. En el ensayo \u00abUn argumento sobre la belleza\u00bb, escribe Susan Sontag: \u00abCada vez hay m\u00e1s tab\u00faes relativos a calificar algo, cualquier cosa, de feo [...]. El meollo es encontrar lo bello en lo que hasta entonces no hab\u00eda sido considerado as\u00ed (o: la belleza en lo feo).\u00bb G\u00f3gol encontr\u00f3 motivos est\u00e9ticos donde no parec\u00eda haberlos. El caso de _Roma_ es singular. Ah\u00ed no busca elevar al rango de arte a un _mujik_ de botas apestosas; enfrenta un escenario de evidente y casi opresiva belleza. Las carencias no pueden estar en el entorno sino en quien lo contempla.\n\n_Roma_ representa el reverso de uno de los primeros cuentos gogolianos, \u00abTerratenientes de anta\u00f1o\u00bb, donde una pareja de ancianos se ama satisfactoriamente y no hace otra cosa que abusar de los guisos y los dones de la vida cotidiana, hasta que la gata que les sirve de mascota huye al bosque con un gato y todo comienza a desmoronarse. La naturaleza invade el absurdo orden creado por la tradici\u00f3n. A diferencia de esos terratenientes, el pr\u00edncipe no busca custodiar celosamente la norma, pero encuentra un modo maravilloso de redescubrirla. Si casi todas las historias de G\u00f3gol proponen una ruptura hacia la sinraz\u00f3n, _Roma_ representa un punto de concordia no menos transgresor, el acta de reconciliaci\u00f3n de un desencantado.\n\n\u00abEl tiempo es la eternidad que se mueve\u00bb, explic\u00f3 Plat\u00f3n. G\u00f3gol no pod\u00eda ajustarse al suyo sin pedir disculpas. En la tortura mental de sus \u00faltimos a\u00f1os se vio a s\u00ed mismo como un m\u00e1rtir de la creatividad incapaz de castigar sus atrevimientos. Como Kafka, se consideraba un autor fallido. Sin embargo, sin ser consciente de ello, intuy\u00f3 una forma de reconciliar el deseo con lo grotesco.\n\n\u00ab\u00bfAd\u00f3nde vas tan de prisa, entonces, Rusia?\u00bb, pregunta el narrador en la formidable escena final de _Las almas muertas_. Apresurado, lleno de culpas, Nikol\u00e1i G\u00f3gol interrumpi\u00f3 y neg\u00f3 su obra. \u00bfPuede alguien que se precipita entender lo que perdura? Ese es el misterio que aguardaba al novelista en la ciudad de las siete colinas. El pr\u00edncipe no acepta el entorno al precio de una renuncia, como el lejano Hanz Kuchelgarten; al final de su viaje comprende que no es necesario desplazarse para alcanzar la meta. Estar en el mundo significa haber llegado.\n\nEs posible que G\u00f3gol viera la aceptaci\u00f3n hed\u00f3nica de la realidad, ese terreno prodigioso y miserable, como una tentaci\u00f3n demon\u00edaca. Quiz\u00e1 por ello se neg\u00f3 a seguir trabajando en la obra y a realizar el acto absolutorio de ponerle punto final. Lo cierto es que en _Roma_ cre\u00f3 un s\u00edmbolo del _amor mundi_. Su viaje no requer\u00eda de m\u00e1s rodeos.\n\nSe necesita ser ruso para consagrar la primavera. Se necesita mucha prisa para atrapar lo eterno. \n\n### DOSTOIEVSKI: EL APRENDIZAJE DEL \u00c9XTASIS\n\nUN D\u00cdA EN LA VIDA\n\nEn raras ocasiones una biograf\u00eda pasa por un momento que condensa el destino. Durante cincuenta y nueve a\u00f1os Fi\u00f3dor Mij\u00e1ilovich Dostoievski vivi\u00f3 con una intensidad que podr\u00eda haber hecho interesantes tres o cuatro vidas. Sin embargo, hubo un d\u00eda en el que todo se defini\u00f3 de otra manera.\n\nEl 22 de diciembre de 1849 se abri\u00f3 la puerta de su celda en la prisi\u00f3n de Pedro y Pablo. El escritor ten\u00eda entonces veintiocho a\u00f1os y hab\u00eda sido arrestado por pertenecer al C\u00edrculo Petrashevski (as\u00ed llamado por las tertulias disidentes que se celebraban en casa de Mija\u00edl Petrashevski, intelectual de San Petersburgo que admiraba el socialismo ut\u00f3pico de Charles Fourier).\n\nSu presencia en la c\u00e1rcel se explicaba m\u00e1s por la pol\u00edtica represiva del zar que por el car\u00e1cter del prisionero. Dostoievski no era de los miembros m\u00e1s activos del grupo. Sol\u00eda guardar largos silencios en las reuniones; detestaba los exabruptos radicales y las ofensas a los evangelios y a la figura de Cristo.\n\nLleg\u00f3 ah\u00ed movido por su sed de justicia. Tres a\u00f1os antes, su primera novela, _Pobres gentes_ , lo hab\u00eda encumbrado como heraldo de quienes sufr\u00edan en las oscuras barriadas de San Petersburgo.\n\nNada le impresionaba tanto como la condici\u00f3n inhumana en que viv\u00edan los siervos. Su padre, el m\u00e9dico Mija\u00edl Dostoievski, ten\u00eda una propiedad rural provista de un buen n\u00famero de \u00abalmas\u00bb a las que no siempre trataba de la mejor manera. De ni\u00f1o, Fi\u00f3dor hab\u00eda conocido la pobreza extrema en que viv\u00edan los campesinos y los crueles castigos a los que eran sometidos.\n\nUna escena se le grab\u00f3 con fuerza indeleble: la forma en que un cochero era azotado por una falta menor. Esta imagen regresar\u00eda a su mente de m\u00faltiples formas. Una de ellas: la c\u00e9lebre escena en que Rask\u00f3lnikov contempla con azoro a un hombre que azota a un caballo exhausto, incapaz de levantarse del piso. Esa violencia sin utilidad alguna \u2013apalear a una bestia ya destruida\u2013 resulta equivalente a la de abusar de quienes ya han sido abusados por la historia.\n\nDostoievski estaba convencido de que la mejor\u00eda de Rusia pasaba por la emancipaci\u00f3n de los siervos. Esta certeza, m\u00e1s cercana a una actitud humanitaria que a una ideolog\u00eda pol\u00edtica, lo llev\u00f3 al C\u00edrculo Petrashevski.\n\nEn su admirable biograf\u00eda en cinco tomos de Dostoievski, Joseph Frank define el clima intelectual que dominaba esas reuniones: \u00abEl socialismo que entonces acababa de nacer sol\u00eda ser comparado, incluso por algunos de sus promotores o cabecillas, con el cristianismo, del cual se le consideraba como mero correctivo y versi\u00f3n mejorada, m\u00e1s acorde con el siglo.\u00bb\n\nA la distancia, la tertulia de los viernes parece moderada. En 1877, casi tres d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s de los sucesos, Dostoievski refut\u00f3 un comentario que desechaba a los _petrashevskistas_ como \u00abdelincuentes pol\u00edticos\u00bb y los comparaba con los \u00abdecembristas\u00bb que a\u00f1os antes hab\u00edan planeado matar al zar. En su columna _Diario de un escritor_ aclar\u00f3: \u00abLos _petrashevskistas_ eran, en su mayor\u00eda, gente que hab\u00eda salido de los centros de ense\u00f1anza superior, de las universidades, del liceo alejandrino, de la Escuela de Jurisprudencia y de los m\u00e1s elevados centros docentes. Hab\u00eda muchos profesores y especialmente muchos cient\u00edficos.\u00bb\n\nLos hombres que reinventaban el mundo en casa de Petrashevski en modo alguno conformaban una c\u00e9lula terrorista. Sin embargo, la polic\u00eda secreta del zar los consideraba progresivamente amenazantes.\n\nA fines de 1848, Rafael Chernosvitov comenz\u00f3 a ir a las reuniones. Antiguo oficial del ej\u00e9rcito, unos diez a\u00f1os mayor que la mayor\u00eda de los asistentes, Chernosvitov se dedicaba por entonces a buscar oro en Siberia. Usaba una pierna de madera por una amputaci\u00f3n sufrida en el campo de batalla. Simp\u00e1tico y exaltado, este colorido personaje ten\u00eda los rasgos cl\u00e1sicos del provocador. Se ufanaba de contar con miles de seguidores en la regi\u00f3n siberiana dispuestos a sumarse a \u00abla lucha\u00bb y propon\u00eda asumir la aut\u00e9ntica tarea a la que estaban llamados: la revoluci\u00f3n.\n\nDostoievski admir\u00f3 el lenguaje de Chernosvitov, lleno de giros arcaicos, salidos de la Rusia profunda, pero fue el primero en sospechar de \u00e9l. Su recelo no convenci\u00f3 a nadie, en buena medida porque los dem\u00e1s participantes conoc\u00edan su temperamento hipernervioso y sus tendencias paranoicas.\n\nChernosvitov no fue el \u00fanico que quiso radicalizar al grupo. Pronto llegaron otros con consignas incendiarias. Algunos de ellos informaban a la polic\u00eda, exagerando el contenido de las reuniones (tambi\u00e9n los infiltrados practican la ficci\u00f3n).\n\nCuando por fin descubrieron que los vigilaban, los aprendices de disidentes reaccionaron de la peor manera, con reuniones secretas que los volvieron m\u00e1s sospechosos. El arresto estaba a la vista.\n\nEl 23 de abril de 1849, d\u00eda de San Jorge, Fi\u00f3dor y su hermano Mija\u00edl, editor y escritor ocasional, fueron detenidos con otros miembros del C\u00edrculo. El hermano mayor qued\u00f3 en libertad. A Fi\u00f3dor se le atribuy\u00f3 una peligrosidad m\u00e1s conspicua por \u00abescribir contra el Gobierno\u00bb.\n\nAunque la c\u00e1rcel de Pedro y Pablo era uno de los m\u00e1ximos s\u00edmbolos del autoritarismo y los presos carec\u00edan incluso del derecho a la oscuridad (incesantes l\u00e1mparas de aceite alumbraban las celdas), Dostoievski le confesar\u00eda a su segunda esposa que el arresto lo salv\u00f3 de la locura. No habr\u00eda soportado seguir en la zozobra de los conspiradores que a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s retratar\u00eda en _Los endemoniados_.\n\nEn el clima persecutorio de 1848 escribi\u00f3 su cuento \u00abLa mujer ajena y el marido debajo de la cama\u00bb. Aunque se ocupaba de situaciones dom\u00e9sticas, la historia planteaba el tema de la sospecha y la delaci\u00f3n. Siempre desconfiados, los personajes trataban de adivinar sus pensamientos a trav\u00e9s de los di\u00e1logos.\n\nCautivo en la prisi\u00f3n de Pedro y Pablo, concibe el relato \u00abEl peque\u00f1o h\u00e9roe\u00bb, que tambi\u00e9n trata de verdades avistadas a medias. Un ni\u00f1o sirve de mensajero a los adultos sin comprender sus genuinas intenciones. La historia remite a la propia infancia de Dostoievski, cuando los ni\u00f1os no ten\u00edan derecho de palabra y los dramas se silenciaban.\n\nLa c\u00e1rcel no represent\u00f3 un tormento mayor para el novelista que en 1848 viv\u00eda asaltado por temores y vacilaciones. Para alguien acostumbrado a someterse a los desaf\u00edos de la libertad y a pagar el peaje de esa b\u00fasqueda, la falta de alternativas signific\u00f3 un descanso forzoso.\n\nEl 22 de diciembre le depar\u00f3 una prueba m\u00e1s ardua. La puerta de su celda se abri\u00f3 a hora imprevista y fue llevado a un patio, con otros veinte detenidos del C\u00edrculo Petrashevski. La temperatura era de veinti\u00fan grados bajos cero.\n\nLos presos fueron conducidos a una plaza, donde ser\u00edan fusilados.\n\nUn pope de la Iglesia ortodoxa lleg\u00f3 a confesarlos y recit\u00f3 una frase de San Pablo con olor a sentencia penal: \u00abEl rescate del pecado es la muerte.\u00bb\n\nDostoievski se neg\u00f3 a hablar con el sacerdote. No quer\u00eda morir como un pecador. Era una v\u00edctima. Solo uno de sus compa\u00f1eros acept\u00f3 confesarse.\n\nEn su biograf\u00eda de Dostoievski, Andr\u00e9 Levison repara en un hecho curioso: el sacerdote no llevaba los santos sacramentos; por lo tanto, no estaba en condiciones de ofrecer la comuni\u00f3n. Este detalle suger\u00eda que algo an\u00f3malo suced\u00eda, pero la angustia impidi\u00f3 a las v\u00edctimas recordar las minucias del ritual cristiano.\n\nDostoievski se acerc\u00f3 a un amigo y le cont\u00f3 la trama de \u00abEl peque\u00f1o h\u00e9roe\u00bb. Ante la proximidad de la muerte, decidi\u00f3 narrar una \u00faltima historia. Esa fue su confesi\u00f3n.\n\nEl fusilamiento estaba planeado del siguiente modo: los prisioneros morir\u00edan de tres en tres. Las primeras tres fosas ya hab\u00edan sido cavadas y los condenados del primer turno ten\u00edan capuchas en la cabeza. Dostoievski era el sexto de la lista; pertenec\u00eda al siguiente turno.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 pas\u00f3 por la mente del escritor? A lo lejos, avist\u00f3 el brillo del sol que refulg\u00eda en un campanario y record\u00f3 un pasaje de Victor Hugo en _El \u00faltimo d\u00eda de un condenado a muerte_ , donde el protagonista pide clemencia para que no lo ejecuten y recuerda que los prisioneros tienen al menos la posibilidad de ver el sol. La escena regresar\u00eda con ins\u00f3lita fuerza en la novela _El pr\u00edncipe idiota_. Vale la pena recuperar este pasaje esencial en la vida de Dostoievski:\n\nUn cura iba present\u00e1ndoles a todos, sucesivamente, la cruz. Lleg\u00f3 el momento en que solo le quedaban cinco minutos de vida. Contaba \u00e9l que esos cinco minutos le hab\u00edan parecido un espacio de tiempo infinito, una riqueza enorme; parec\u00edale que en aquellos cinco minutos hab\u00eda gastado tal cantidad de vida que ni siquiera pensaba en su \u00faltimo momento [...]. Despu\u00e9s de haberse despedido de sus camaradas, encontrose due\u00f1o de aquellos dos minutos que hab\u00eda destinado a _pensar en sus cosas_ ; sab\u00eda de antemano en qu\u00e9 habr\u00eda de pensar; toda su ansia consist\u00eda en imaginarse, con la mayor rapidez y claridad posibles, c\u00f3mo habr\u00eda de ser aquello: que \u00e9l, en aquel instante, existiese y viviese y, al cabo de tres minutos, hubiese de ser _ya otra cosa_ , alguien o algo distinto [...]. No lejos de all\u00ed hab\u00eda una iglesia, y la dorada c\u00fapula refulg\u00eda bajo el sol brillante.\n\nRecordaba haberse quedado mirando con perplejidad aquella c\u00fapula y los rayos de sol que en ella centelleaban; no pod\u00eda apartar los ojos de aquellos rayos de sol: le parec\u00edan una nueva naturaleza. Dentro de tres minutos se fundir\u00eda con ellos [...]. \u00bfY si no tuviese que morir? \u00bfY si volviese a la vida? \u00a1Qu\u00e9 eternidad [...]. Convertir\u00eda cada minuto en un siglo, no perder\u00eda nada, a cada minuto le pedir\u00eda la cuenta, no gastar\u00eda ni uno solo en vano.\n\nEn ese momento lleg\u00f3 un correo del zar, con un indulto. Todo hab\u00eda sido un simulacro para escarmentar a los sediciosos y propagar la benevolencia del monarca.\n\nDostoievski regres\u00f3 exultante a la c\u00e1rcel. El mundo que hab\u00eda estado a punto de dejar y que le depar\u00f3 un \u00faltimo resplandor dorado le permit\u00eda una segunda vida: \u00abA cada minuto le pedir\u00e9 la cuenta.\u00bb\n\nYa en su celda, cant\u00f3 de alegr\u00eda hasta el amanecer. El futuro no era halag\u00fce\u00f1o; lo aguardaban siete a\u00f1os en Siberia, cuatro de ellos en prisi\u00f3n y tres en arresto domiciliario. Pero nada se comparaba a seguir con vida. La iluminaci\u00f3n que tuvo en el pat\u00edbulo le permiti\u00f3 entender la felicidad a partir de aquello que se le opone. No es un espacio libre del dolor, sino el lugar donde el dolor puede ser \u00fatil.\n\nEs posible, como sugieren numerosos comentaristas, que esto reforzara su temperamento religioso. Lo cierto es que a partir de ese d\u00eda vivi\u00f3 con renovada intensidad, atesorando el tiempo que le quedaba por delante.\n\nEse d\u00eda escribi\u00f3 una carta a su hermano Mija\u00edl, que se hab\u00eda salvado del arresto. De acuerdo con Joseph Frank, la misiva, \u00abescrita con rapidez y bajo el impacto de los acontecimientos, entrelaza penetrantes atisbos de las profanidades del alma de Dostoievski con peticiones de ayuda, instrucciones de \u00faltimo minuto y una relaci\u00f3n objetiva y equilibrada de lo reci\u00e9n ocurrido. Es notable el gran amor que demuestra por su hermano mayor y la familia de este\u00bb.\n\nEl afecto filial perdurar\u00eda en Dostoievski incluso despu\u00e9s de la muerte de Mija\u00edl, ocurrida en 1864. Lo m\u00e1s importante en la carta, escrita en un momento l\u00edmite y sin certeza de obtener respuesta, es la disposici\u00f3n a enfrentar las adversidades para educarse en ellas. Ning\u00fan sufrimiento doblegar\u00eda al autor. Siberia ser\u00eda su escuela, seminario de la humillaci\u00f3n y la solidaridad. Es dif\u00edcil suponer lo que habr\u00eda escrito sin pasar por el rito de paso que signific\u00f3 estar al borde de la ejecuci\u00f3n. Lo cierto es que al volver del presidio escribi\u00f3 con la energ\u00eda salvaje de quien rompe a martillazos sus grilletes.\n\nAnticipando lo que vendr\u00eda despu\u00e9s, anuncia a su hermano: \u00abLa vida es en todas partes la vida, la vida est\u00e1 en nosotros mismos y no en el exterior. Cerca de m\u00ed habr\u00e1 gente y ser un _ser humano_ entre la gente, a pesar de los infortunios que puedan presentarse, no sentirse abatido ni desalentarse \u2013eso es la vida y ese es su objetivo. Ahora los s\u00e9. Esta idea ya forma parte de mi carne y de mi sangre. \u00a1De verdad! Aquella cabeza que creaba, que viv\u00eda de la vida superior del arte, que reconoc\u00eda y se hab\u00eda habituado a las exigencias m\u00e1s altas del esp\u00edritu, esa cabeza fue arrancada de mis hombros. Qued\u00f3 la memoria y tambi\u00e9n las im\u00e1genes que he creado pero que a\u00fan no he encarnado. Ellas me cubrir\u00e1n de \u00falceras, \u00a1de verdad! Pero he conservado el coraz\u00f3n y la misma carne y sangre capaces de amar y sufrir y desear y recordar y eso es, pese a todo, la vida.\u00bb\n\nLa carta del 22 de diciembre de 1848, d\u00eda del simulacro, es un peculiar testimonio de esperanza. El autor se apresta a vivir algo terrible, pero se siente tonificado. Siberia no es solo el mal menor, es la certeza de que la vida sigue. Pide a su hermano que no sufra. Acepta el calvario con la entereza de quien sabe que en la nada no hay calvario.\n\nCasi una d\u00e9cada despu\u00e9s, regresar\u00eda como un paria a San Petersburgo, pero eso no importaba. Hab\u00eda muerto, y vivir\u00eda para contarlo.\n\nLA POSTERIDAD EN VIDA\n\nEn su infancia, Dostoievski creci\u00f3 agobiado por la culpa. Naci\u00f3 en el seno de una familia llena de secretos, donde las causas de las emociones deb\u00edan adivinarse. Joseph Frank afirma con acierto que ese ambiente de recelos y suspicacias representaba una magn\u00edfica escuela para un escritor. Tambi\u00e9n form\u00f3 a alguien desconfiado y medroso, que se responsabilizaba de travesuras que no hab\u00eda hecho a cambio de mantener la paz familiar.\n\nSu padre padec\u00eda ataques de celos reforzados por la bebida y luchaba por imponer una f\u00e9rrea y absurda disciplina. En los d\u00edas de verano, un ni\u00f1o deb\u00eda espantar las moscas con una rama mientras los adultos com\u00edan, sin poder intervenir en la conversaci\u00f3n. Animado por su hermano Mija\u00edl, Fi\u00f3dor quiso dedicarse a la literatura desde joven, pero su padre lo forz\u00f3 a ingresar en la Escuela de Ingenieros, cuyo estricto internado prefiguraba el presidio que conocer\u00eda a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s.\n\nLa educaci\u00f3n religiosa le ofreci\u00f3 un consuelo a medias. Jam\u00e1s dejar\u00eda de creer en una iglesia de los pobres, igualados espiritualmente por la pobreza, como los pescadores que siguieron a Jes\u00fas. No dudar\u00eda de la existencia del alma, de la santidad ni de la sobredeterminaci\u00f3n religiosa de todas las cosas. Sin embargo, esta fe tambi\u00e9n lo llenar\u00eda de culpa (algunos de sus personajes m\u00e1s logrados ceden al demonio de la tentaci\u00f3n y luchan, muchas veces en vano, contra un pecado del que se arrepienten con total sinceridad).\n\nToda definici\u00f3n de Dostoievski reclama t\u00e9rminos contradictorios. Uno de sus ejes es la piedad combativa. La \u00e9tica se presenta para \u00e9l como un convulso campo de lucha. Aunque describi\u00f3 a iluminados, tontos sagrados y beatos inocentes, sus personajes m\u00e1s profundos entienden la bondad como un problema. No se trata de una condici\u00f3n inmanente sino de algo que se conquista con esfuerzo y sacrificio. El principal adversario de quien busca el bien es \u00e9l mismo.\n\nEn ocasiones, los seres tocados por la abyecci\u00f3n, el lodo y la ca\u00edda, los que han descendido a los infiernos, son los que mejor definen el cielo.\n\nComo San Agust\u00edn y Rousseau en sus _Confesiones_ , numerosos h\u00e9roes dostoievskianos extraen su fuerza moral de los pecados que supieron cometer y repudiar.\n\nEl simulacro de fusilamiento transform\u00f3 al novelista, no porque ah\u00ed acabaran sus tribulaciones, sino porque pudo valorarlas de otro modo. Ni antes ni despu\u00e9s de aquel 22 de diciembre conoci\u00f3 el bienestar o el sosiego.\n\nEl inventario de su vida en crisis comienza con la muerte de su padre, en condiciones que se mantuvieron en secreto durante a\u00f1os (fue asesinado por sus campesinos), pero que la familia conoci\u00f3 con amargura. Fi\u00f3dor recibi\u00f3 la noticia en la Escuela de Ingenieros. Lo m\u00e1s terrible fue que, en cierta forma, le signific\u00f3 un alivio. Agobiado por la culpa, sufri\u00f3 su primer ataque de epilepsia. En el internado donde estudiaba contra su voluntad sol\u00eda preguntarse: \u00ab\u00bfQui\u00e9n no ha deseado la muerte de su padre?\u00bb Despu\u00e9s del asesinato, esta idea lo llen\u00f3 de remordimiento: era un parricida imaginario. Como tantas otras veces, sacar\u00eda provecho de su angustia. El estado mental que lo llev\u00f3 a su primer ataque epil\u00e9ptico tambi\u00e9n anticip\u00f3 el tema de una de su mayores obras: _Los hermanos Karam\u00e1zov_.\n\nRenacido a los veintiocho a\u00f1os, el novelista tendr\u00eda una sobrevida marcada por Siberia, las consecuencias f\u00edsicas de los trabajos forzados, la ludopat\u00eda (que retratar\u00eda con pulso apasionado en _El jugador)_ , la muerte de su hermano Mija\u00edl y de su primera esposa (la \u00abfr\u00e1gil y vaporosa Mar\u00eda Dm\u00edtrevna\u00bb, como la describe Rafael Cansinos Assens, primer traductor al castellano de sus obras completas).\n\nResponsable de sus sobrinos y de su hijastro, Dostoievski enfrent\u00f3 constantes presiones econ\u00f3micas. Escrib\u00eda a un ritmo fren\u00e9tico, de diez de la noche a seis de la ma\u00f1ana. Al decir de sus adversarios, sus extenuantes plazos de entrega lo llevaron a descuidar las tramas y maltratar el idioma, alej\u00e1ndolo de estilistas como Iv\u00e1n Turgu\u00e9niev.\n\nComoquiera que sea, no se quej\u00f3 gran cosa de su destino. Haber \u00abmuerto\u00bb durante unos minutos lo llev\u00f3 a un pacto peculiar: el sufrimiento como problema, la escritura como soluci\u00f3n.\n\nEn _El maestro de Petersburgo_ J. M. Coetzee narra el proceso que lleva a Dostoievski de la p\u00e9rdida y la agon\u00eda a la construcci\u00f3n de una obra impar.\n\nUna y otra vez, el escritor posterg\u00f3 novelas de mayor calado para cumplir con los folletines que publicaba en el peri\u00f3dico _El Ciudadano_. Sus disquisiciones morales tuvieron que suceder entre escenas trepidantes, de obligado suspenso. Tal vez de haber tenido m\u00e1s tiempo por delante, gracias a una renta como las de Tolst\u00f3i o Turgu\u00e9niev, habr\u00eda lastrado sus novelas con los pasajes discursivos que conocemos por _Diario de un escritor_. Es posible que la necesidad de mantener interesado al lector lo haya contenido en este aspecto, forz\u00e1ndolo a renovar un g\u00e9nero con la irritaci\u00f3n creativa de quien no lo respeta del todo.\n\nNarrar en los peri\u00f3dicos comportaba limitaciones formales y obligaba a someterse a la censura. _Los endemoniados_ inclu\u00eda una escena en la que Stavroguin viola a una ni\u00f1a. M\u00e1s tarde ella se suicida. Ese delito explica la autodestructiva conducta posterior del personaje, que busca da\u00f1arse para purgar su culpa. Dostoievski luch\u00f3 en vano para que el editor aceptara la escena y tuvo que modificar la trama para justificar la psicolog\u00eda del personaje sin aludir a la verdadera causa de su tormento. Aun as\u00ed logr\u00f3, al decir de Thomas Mann, que Stavroguin fuera \u00abla figura m\u00e1s siniestramente atractiva de la literatura universal\u00bb.\n\nUna nota curiosa: el protagonista del cuento \u00abEl sue\u00f1o de un hombre rid\u00edculo\u00bb puede ser visto como una contrafigura de Stavroguin. Es un suicida en potencia que no se mata porque conoce a una ni\u00f1a y debe ocuparse de ella. Salvado por el dolor ajeno, m\u00e1s hondo que el suyo, tiene un sue\u00f1o en el que viaja al espacio exterior y se reconcilia con la Tierra en plan m\u00edstico, anticipando las conversiones c\u00f3smicas de los astronautas del siglo XX.\n\nA los cuarenta y cinco a\u00f1os, agotado por sus fatigas de folletinista, Dostoievski busc\u00f3 una secretaria. Anna Grig\u00f3rievna Snitkina ten\u00eda veinti\u00fan a\u00f1os, buena ortograf\u00eda y no fumaba (este \u00faltimo detalle convenci\u00f3 al peculiar escritor de que no era nihilista). Se casaron unos meses despu\u00e9s.\n\nSi, como sugiere Ricardo Piglia, un ideal er\u00f3tico del escritor es el de tener una mujer copista, que asimila e interioriza la escritura de su amado, Dostoievski encontr\u00f3 en Anna a la mujer perfecta. Ella lo acompa\u00f1\u00f3 al casino de Baden-Baden, soport\u00f3 el derroche del dinero, pas\u00f3 en limpio la copiosa producci\u00f3n, edit\u00f3 por su cuenta las obras para aumentar las regal\u00edas y guard\u00f3 siempre la m\u00e1s alta estima por su marido.\n\nCuando Anna conoci\u00f3 a Tolst\u00f3i, Dostoievski ya hab\u00eda muerto. Ante el autor de _Guerra y paz_ , encomi\u00f3 el buen car\u00e1cter de su marido, silenciando su vanidad, su ludopat\u00eda, los celos que le ten\u00eda al conde Tolst\u00f3i. Apenas insinu\u00f3 los sobresaltos producidos por sus ataques. Fue un acto de generosidad extrema, digno de quien ya hab\u00eda inaugurado un museo con el nombre de su marido. Un bi\u00f3grafo imparcial brindar\u00eda otro retrato. Anna quiso al escritor por sus virtudes manifiestas, pero tambi\u00e9n por sus defectos productivos. El volc\u00e1nico Dostoievski solo podr\u00eda llegar a la virtud a trav\u00e9s de un error superado con denuedo.\n\nEL DOBLE EN EL ESPEJO\n\nComenzada en 1844, cuando el autor a\u00fan estudiaba ingenier\u00eda, _Pobres gentes_ apareci\u00f3 dos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, con un \u00e9xito fulgurante.\n\nPara garantizar el tono confesional, Dostoievski se sirve de la t\u00e9cnica epistolar. Un cruce de primeras personas. Ah\u00ed adelanta temas que recorrer\u00e1n su obra entera: la bondad intr\u00ednseca de los despose\u00eddos, la superioridad moral de las v\u00edctimas, la resistente belleza de quienes no tienen otro m\u00e9rito que su fragilidad.\n\nEl influyente cr\u00edtico Visari\u00f3n Belinski ley\u00f3 _Pobres gentes_ en una noche y salud\u00f3 la llegada del nuevo le\u00f3n de las letras. Como suele suceder, se apart\u00f3 de \u00e9l cuando vio que no segu\u00eda su preceptiva.\n\nDesde un principio, las miras de Dostoievski apuntaban m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la novela social. Belinski encomi\u00f3 el potente mensaje de denuncia, pero no sospech\u00f3 las complejidades a las que llegar\u00eda su protegido. Conviene contrastar _Pobres gentes_ con el relato de madurez \u00abUn episodio vergonzoso\u00bb, escrito en 1862, donde Dostoievski pone en juego los prejuicios complementarios de dos clases sociales. Con enorme sagacidad, retrata las distintas psicolog\u00edas provocadas por la desigualdad. El protagonista es Iv\u00e1n Illich Pralinski, un burgu\u00e9s \u00abmoderno\u00bb que se indigna por la ausencia de un subordinado y piensa castigarlo con rigor. Luego recuerda que el otro se ha ausentado porque esa noche celebra su boda y decide ir al festejo por sorpresa. Animado por el alcohol, que rara vez bebe, desea congraciarse con los pobres. Sin embargo, su llegada es la de un intruso. Nadie lo espera ni se siente alegrado por su presencia, radicalmente ajena. El relato registra los malentendidos culturales de la disparidad social. La fiesta se transforma en drama. De acuerdo con V. S. Pritchett, este retrato de dos clases irreconciliables supera en agudeza a \u00abUn cuento de Navidad\u00bb, de Charles Dickens.\n\nBelisnki salud\u00f3 al novelista capaz de describir la injusticia. Pero Dostoievski se propon\u00eda algo m\u00e1s complejo, un realismo capaz de exacerbar la percepci\u00f3n.\n\nDespu\u00e9s del \u00e9xito de _Pobres gentes_ intuy\u00f3, como lo har\u00eda despu\u00e9s Andr\u00e9 Gide, que se debe desconfiar del \u00abimpulso adquirido\u00bb. Para un artista, la reiteraci\u00f3n de los logros es una derrota; no hay mejor socio que el riesgo. Dostoievski no quiso perpetuarse como el notario de los bajos fondos de San Petersburgo, evangelista de sus \u00e1ngeles ca\u00eddos. Decidi\u00f3 explorar atm\u00f3sferas espectrales, similares a las de su admirado E. T. A. Hoffmann, pero sin llegar a lo sobrenatural.\n\nLa parte fant\u00e1stica de su mundo es una alteraci\u00f3n psicol\u00f3gica que ocurre en un entorno descrito con realismo. Poco a poco el lector comprende que las causas de la angustia son l\u00f3gicas. Los personajes no sufren por embrujo o capricho: el mundo explica sus padecimientos y eso compromete a la realidad. Pritchett resumi\u00f3 esta tensi\u00f3n con brillantez: Dostoievski retrata \u00abla locura de la vida, no la de la mente\u00bb.\n\nNo es casual que en los tiempos en que se sent\u00eda vigilado escribiera _El doble_ , inventivo ejercicio de paranoia que no cont\u00f3 con el favor de los lectores.\n\nDesde entonces deseaba entender los complejos trabajos de la mente sin apartarse del horizonte de la acci\u00f3n, es decir, de la exterioridad que determina sus tramas.\n\nComo siempre, un padecimiento vino en su auxilio. La epilepsia es una condici\u00f3n dual por excelencia, aura premonitoria y desmayo, lucidez y convulsi\u00f3n: dicha que antecede al malestar. Dostoievski encontr\u00f3 ah\u00ed una t\u00e9cnica.\n\nAlgunos de sus personajes entienden dos cosas a la vez. La contradicci\u00f3n es su razonamiento. En _El idiota_ , la vida interior de Lev Nikol\u00e1ievich Mishkin, pr\u00edncipe epil\u00e9ptico, est\u00e1 determinada por la dualidad: cada idea se presenta como reflejo o impostura de otra: \u00abDos pensamientos que se funden, eso sucede con harta frecuencia [...]. Es terriblemente dif\u00edcil verse libre de esos pensamientos dobles.\u00bb\n\nCarece de relevancia reproducir el mundo que nos consta. El realismo vale en la medida en que ofrece una realidad acrecentada, m\u00e1s compleja que la habitual. Para Dostoievski, los estados alterados de la conciencia son una forma de la lucidez y aun de la normalidad. Sus personajes no hablan bajo el est\u00edmulo de la droga, el alcohol, el esp\u00edritu maligno o la demencia. No han probado los \u00abelixires del diablo\u00bb de Hoffmann. Su voz es la de la raz\u00f3n arrebatada, la compasi\u00f3n en su momento cr\u00edtico, la cordura sometida a la emergencia. Dicen lo que es cierto por excepci\u00f3n, en la encrucijada decisiva.\n\nEl narrador busc\u00f3 durante a\u00f1os dominar por escrito estas situaciones. En 1847, el cuento \u00abPolzunkov\u00bb ofrece un pasaje revelador al respecto. Un personaje dice: \u00abY yo cuento y penetro en sus almas como si fueran todos ustedes para m\u00ed hermanos, amigos \u00edntimos.\u00bb Poco m\u00e1s adelante, el autor comenta: \u00abla voz del narrador, que en verdad hab\u00eda llegado a una especie de \u00e9xtasis...\u00bb. Estas citas trazan los ejes cardinales de Dostoievski: profundidad y frenes\u00ed. Es realista en la medida en que busca una nueva realidad para la novela.\n\n\u00abPolzunkov\u00bb fue escrito poco antes de que ingresara al C\u00edrculo Petrashevski. Su participaci\u00f3n en esos salones agobiados por el humo, las delaciones y los sue\u00f1os de rebeld\u00eda aviv\u00f3 la crispaci\u00f3n nerviosa que deseaba trasladar a la novela. Como Rask\u00f3lnikov en _Crimen y castigo_ , deambulaba por San Petersburgo hablando solo. Una noche de 1848 experiment\u00f3 algo que llamar\u00eda la \u00abvisi\u00f3n del Neva\u00bb. Era invierno y el viento levantaba corp\u00fasculos de nieve. Cruz\u00f3 el r\u00edo y se estremeci\u00f3 ante una emoci\u00f3n incomunicable. La atm\u00f3sfera se alzaba como un enigma, una versi\u00f3n atmosf\u00e9rica de la conciencia.\n\nDostoievski se sinti\u00f3 ante una misi\u00f3n especial. Resulta imposible referir con justeza lo que rebasa el entendimiento; precisamente por ello, el escritor debe intentarlo. En el relato \u00abEl coraz\u00f3n d\u00e9bil\u00bb dej\u00f3 un primer atisbo de esa visi\u00f3n:\n\nYa era bien entrada la noche cuando Arcadi regresaba a casa. Al acercarse al Neva, se detuvo un rato y mir\u00f3 penetrantemente a lo lejos, a lo largo del humeante r\u00edo, helado y turbio, que, cubierto con la \u00faltima p\u00farpura de la encarnada alba, ard\u00eda en el horizonte de la neblina. Se hac\u00eda de noche en la ciudad, y la inabarcable, encendida y helada pradera del r\u00edo Neva se cubr\u00eda de mir\u00edadas de estrellas de punzante escarcha bajo el \u00faltimo brillo de la luz del sol. Hac\u00eda mucho fr\u00edo, veinte grados bajo cero. El humeante vaho se desprend\u00eda de la gente al pasar y al correr a toda prisa los coches de caballos. El denso aire temblaba ante el menor ruido, y de las techumbres, a ambos lados de las orillas, cual gigantes por el cielo helado, se alzaban hacia arriba columnas de niebla, trenz\u00e1ndose y destrenz\u00e1ndose, dando la impresi\u00f3n de que los edificios m\u00e1s nuevos se alzaban sobre los viejos y una nueva ciudad se compon\u00eda en el aire... Todo aquel mundo, con sus habitantes, los fuertes y los d\u00e9biles, todas sus viviendas, tanto los cobijos de los mendigos como los dorados palacetes... a esa hora crepuscular, con la fuerza que da la vida, parec\u00edan una fant\u00e1stica y m\u00e1gica visi\u00f3n.\n\n\u00abEl coraz\u00f3n d\u00e9bil\u00bb desemboca en una epifan\u00eda, un renacer a una hora incierta, entre el d\u00eda y la noche. Dostoievski no explica el sentido de lo que ve; lo evoca en detalle; procura recrearlo sin que pierda misterio.\n\nEl avasallante impacto de sus grandes novelas rest\u00f3 importancia a los cuentos dostoievskianos. Sin embargo, sin la \u00abvisi\u00f3n del Neva\u00bb, dif\u00edcilmente habr\u00eda llegado a los momentos de cristalizaci\u00f3n que definen su obra. Pensemos, si no, en otros casos de \u00ab\u00e9xtasis de la percepci\u00f3n\u00bb: ante la ruleta de un casino, un jugador siente el v\u00e9rtigo de la fortuna; un presidiario encuentra la compasi\u00f3n en los ojos de un criminal en _Memorias de la casa muerta_ ; un pr\u00edncipe idiota se somete a la inc\u00f3moda lucidez de la epilepsia; Iv\u00e1n Karam\u00e1zov concibe el alucinado regreso de Cristo en \u00abEl gran inquisidor\u00bb; Stavroguin encarna la fuerza creativa de la destrucci\u00f3n; el atribulado Rask\u00f3lnikov asesina a una vieja usurera como un acto \u00abmoral\u00bb. Lo ins\u00f3lito es que estas encrucijadas del frenes\u00ed resultan no solo veros\u00edmiles, sino dolorosamente pr\u00f3ximas. Las emociones desaforadas tienen causa; la realidad es descubierta a traici\u00f3n: Dostoievski escribe una historia.\n\nNo es extra\u00f1o que la novela breve _Las noches blancas_ se sit\u00fae en el mismo escenario de la \u00abvisi\u00f3n del Neva\u00bb, aunque en el clima opuesto. La luz, en este caso, tiene la enrarecida condici\u00f3n del sol de medianoche, el tenue resplandor que ampara a los son\u00e1mbulos.\n\nTambi\u00e9n ah\u00ed campea el tema del doble. El protagonista conoce a una mujer en un puente sobre el Neva. Ella aguarda a un amante con el que se ha dado cita y que no aparece. Su testigo comienza a amarla a la distancia. La protagonista ama a otro y el pretendiente se enamora de ese sue\u00f1o. Aunque se acerque a ella, la realidad no estar\u00e1 a la altura del deseo. En un sentido simb\u00f3lico, el puente comunica con una zona ilusoria, donde la persona amada es siempre intangible, ajena.\n\nNO ESTAR DE ACUERDO CONSIGO MISMO\n\nLas historias dostoievskianas avanzan gracias a un principio de contradicci\u00f3n. Un personaje se opone a otro, sin que se sepa cu\u00e1l tiene raz\u00f3n (de manera emblem\u00e1tica, los tres hermanos Karam\u00e1zov asumen posturas irreconciliables). En ocasiones, esta dial\u00e9ctica se da al interior de un mismo personaje (Rask\u00f3lnikov es verdugo y v\u00edctima, delincuente y h\u00e9roe moral) o ata\u00f1e a un grupo entero, como los conspiradores de _Los endemoniados_.\n\nCrear tramas a partir de tensiones pol\u00e9micas y sucesivas negaciones se presta m\u00e1s para la novela, que aspira voluntariamente a ser una forma abierta, que para los rigores del relato breve. El cuento avanza en l\u00ednea recta. Indeciso entre dos puntos que le interesan mucho, Dostoievski piensa en zigzag.\n\nCon todo, la impronta de sus cuentos en la construcci\u00f3n de novelas fue decisiva. En \u00abEl se\u00f1or Projarchin\u00bb, escrito en 1846, perfeccion\u00f3 la descripci\u00f3n de las pensiones pobres, llenas de humo de samovar, compartidas por hu\u00e9spedes a los que un destino sin br\u00fajula arroj\u00f3 ah\u00ed.\n\nDesde el punto de vista de la composici\u00f3n, el cuento ruso le brind\u00f3 un recurso definitivo. En _Relatos de un cazador_ , de Iv\u00e1n Turgu\u00e9niev, aprendi\u00f3 la t\u00e9cnica del _skaz_ , que consiste en presentar a dos personajes que conversan y donde uno de ellos cuenta una historia. El narrador crea as\u00ed la ilusi\u00f3n de que la trama ocurre por s\u00ed misma; refiere algo \u00abaut\u00e9ntico\u00bb, ya vivido y dicho por otros, y se limita a presentar las opiniones de sus personajes y a ofrecer un marco externo, un \u00abantes\u00bb y un \u00abdespu\u00e9s\u00bb de la conversaci\u00f3n, que convierte al final en un regreso a la \u00abrealidad\u00bb. \u00abPolzunkov\u00bb y \u00abEl ladr\u00f3n honrado\u00bb son ejemplos perfectos de esta t\u00e9cnica.\n\nLa exigencia de contar en forma epis\u00f3dica hizo que Dostoievski se sirviera en sus novelas del recurso del _skaz_ , intensific\u00e1ndolo con calculada dramaturgia: cada cap\u00edtulo termina como un acto en el que cae el tel\u00f3n y ocurre en un escenario definido donde la acci\u00f3n llega a trav\u00e9s del di\u00e1logo. Los personajes polemizaban, desprendi\u00e9ndose del autor. Uno de los grandes m\u00e9ritos de Dostoievski consiste en exponer con apasionada lucidez convicciones pol\u00edticas, religiosas o morales adversas a las suyas.\n\nEn esta peculiar recreaci\u00f3n coral, la autoridad de la voz no proviene de un narrador que opera como un demiurgo que conoce los pensamientos de todas sus criaturas, sino de los protagonistas mismos, que debaten entre s\u00ed. Corresponde al lector interpretar, tomar partido. Es por esto que Mija\u00edl Bajt\u00edn encuentra en Dostoievski al gran exponente de la novela dial\u00f3gica, cuya verosimilitud depende de lo que dicen los protagonistas, no del autor que firma el libro. Al respecto, J. M. Coetzee comenta que la condici\u00f3n dial\u00f3gica no solo significa un logro t\u00e9cnico sino moral: se requiere de un temperamento excepcional para exponer de la mejor manera ideas que repugnan.\n\nLa opini\u00f3n tiene especial peso porque el autor sudafricano puede ser visto como el m\u00e1ximo heredero contempor\u00e1neo del recurso. _Verano_ es una peculiar \u00abautobiograf\u00eda p\u00f3stuma\u00bb que lleva la novela dial\u00f3gica a un punto l\u00edmite. Coetzee ofrece en esas p\u00e1ginas testimonios de personajes que lo han conocido y que, con toda autoridad y sin el menor patetismo, revelan sus deficiencias psicol\u00f3gicas y sus limitaciones de conducta. El logro del narrador consiste en demostrar a trav\u00e9s de convincentes voces ajenas su fracaso como persona.\n\nPara llegar a este tipo de narrativa fue necesaria una paulatina conquista de la mente entendida como una cartograf\u00eda llena de irregularidades. La novela del siglo XIX indag\u00f3 una nueva posibilidad literaria: los personajes psicol\u00f3gicamente contradictorios. El h\u00e9roe sin fisuras, el arquetipo, el villano ajeno a los matices no tienen cabida en Dostoievski.\n\nComo se\u00f1al\u00e9 en \u00abLas palabras de los h\u00e9roes\u00bb, Borges repar\u00f3 en el car\u00e1cter contradictorio de los personajes de Dostoievski y coment\u00f3 que eran capaces de matar por bondad. Aunque los arrebatos de sus h\u00e9roes pueden parecer exagerados, el autor de _Crimen y castigo_ se adentra con enorme fortuna en las turbulencias mentales y advierte que las reacciones provienen de causas que no son obvias en primera instancia. No es casual que intrigara tanto al doctor Freud.\n\nEL DIOS OCULTO\n\nEn 1839, poco despu\u00e9s de la muerte de su padre, Dostoievski escribe a su hermano Mija\u00edl: \u00abEl hombre es un enigma. Este misterio debe ser resuelto, y si dedicas toda tu vida a \u00e9l, no digas que has desperdiciado tu tiempo; yo me ocupo de este enigma porque deseo ser un hombre.\u00bb\n\nEsta preocupaci\u00f3n alcanza un momento crucial casi treinta a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s en _Crimen y castigo_. La idea de la novela surgi\u00f3 de una noticia del peri\u00f3dico. Dostoievski ley\u00f3 que un estudiante hab\u00eda asesinado a una usurera. Preocupado por el nihilismo y el anarquismo que encandilaba a buena parte de la juventud, concibi\u00f3 a Rodi\u00f3n Rom\u00e1novich Rask\u00f3lnikov. El nombre del protagonista es una burla a los radicales. En el siglo XVII, el movimiento de los _Raskol_ fue visto como una herej\u00eda que buscaba dividir a la Iglesia _(raskol_ quiere decir \u00abescindir\u00bb, \u00abseparar\u00bb).\n\nAunque Nabokov coment\u00f3 con desd\u00e9n que Dostoievski era un deshilvanado novelista policiaco, _Crimen y castigo_ solo se interesa en el delito en la medida en que permite plantear un problema moral. El protagonista piensa: \u00abSi Dios no existe, todo est\u00e1 permitido.\u00bb El ate\u00edsmo arrebata al hombre el tribunal que lo sanciona. En soledad, sin Dios, incapaz de ser juzgado, el estudiante decide exterminar a una prestamista que vive de la necesidad ajena.\n\nEn Siberia, Dostoievski hab\u00eda conocido a criminales capaces de redimirse. Quien asume su delito y lo condena, puede hacer que la falta se transforme en una desgracia. Nadie queda indemne por lo que ha hecho; sin embargo, el arrepentimiento permite que el pecado se asimile al error.\n\n_Crimen y castigo_ aborda la ca\u00edda, la aceptaci\u00f3n de la culpa y la posible redenci\u00f3n de un hombre. La lectura de la novela ha estado sujeta a sucesivas y contradictorias interpretaciones. Pocos libros permiten analizar en forma tan clara la discrepancia entre las intenciones del autor y la recepci\u00f3n de su obra. Concebida para denostar a una generaci\u00f3n carente de principios morales, _Crimen y castigo_ ahond\u00f3 con tal fuerza en las tribulaciones de un hombre sin Dios que lo transform\u00f3 en adalid de la libertad individual.\n\n\u00bfRequiere la \u00e9tica de un tribunal externo a la propia persona? En 1948 Jean-Paul Sartre entiende de otro modo el desaf\u00edo de Dostoievski. El presupuesto \u00abSi Dios no existe...\u00bb representa para \u00e9l el nacimiento del existencialismo: Rask\u00f3lnikov es un atribulado h\u00e9roe del libre albedr\u00edo. Su situaci\u00f3n es la del hombre que carece de excusa para ejercer su libertad y coacci\u00f3n externa para asumir su responsabilidad. El Estado y la Iglesia significan menos que su conciencia. En _El existencialismo es un humanismo_ Sartre escribe: \u00abEstamos solos, sin excusas. Es lo que expresar\u00e9 diciendo que el hombre est\u00e1 condenado a ser libre. Condenado, porque no se ha creado a s\u00ed mismo, y sin embargo, por otro lado, libre, porque una vez arrojado al mundo es responsable de lo que hace.\u00bb\n\nPara Sartre, la moral no es un sistema de vigilancia externa para impedir errores, sino una condici\u00f3n interna que permite actuar. En esa medida, es un atributo de la libertad: podemos decidir.\n\nEl cristianismo de Dostoievski operaba a contrapelo de la ortodoxia. Rask\u00f3lnikov no es un ap\u00f3stata; el autor simpatiza con \u00e9l, comparte sus cavilaciones, entiende paso a paso la tentaci\u00f3n que lo consume.\n\nEn _Los hermanos Karam\u00e1zov_ , otro rebelde, Iv\u00e1n, dialoga con el devoto Aliosha y le plantea lo que ocurrir\u00eda si Cristo regresara al reino donde fue crucificado. \u00bfQu\u00e9 queda de sus ense\u00f1anzas? Una de sus m\u00e1s conocidas formulaciones es \u00abNo solo de pan vive el hombre\u00bb. Las necesidades materiales no deben anular la condici\u00f3n espiritual.\n\nEn el cap\u00edtulo \u00abEl gran inquisidor\u00bb, escrito con la t\u00e9cnica del _skaz_ , Iv\u00e1n le cuenta a Aliosha el segundo regreso de Jes\u00fas. El Mes\u00edas se encuentra con un severo inquisidor que le explica el estado actual del mundo: la realidad no se mueve por amor sino por intereses ego\u00edstas. Lo que importa es el pan, el consumo, el dominio, la propiedad. El inquisidor informa a Jes\u00fas que se ha equivocado: no era esa la forma de convencer a los hombres. Y lo invita a triunfar con un sortilegio, transformando las piedras en panes. Por toda respuesta, Cristo se acerca al comisario de la fe y lo besa en los labios. \u00abVete y no vuelvas m\u00e1s\u00bb, dice el inquisidor.\n\nEn sus mejores escenas, Dostoievski logra una estimulante ambig\u00fcedad. Jes\u00fas no deja de ejercer la bondad, aunque la evidencia la demuestre in\u00fatil. \u00bfSu legado depende de la intensidad de su fracaso? La par\u00e1bola del esc\u00e9ptico Iv\u00e1n no convence a Aliosha, que vive en estado de _amor mundi_.\n\nEn _Memorias de la casa muerta_ , cr\u00f3nica de sus a\u00f1os en Siberia, Dostoievski se impone el deber de amar a sus compa\u00f1eros de celda sin la necesidad de que le parezcan agradables: aprecia sus mentes, lo \u00fanico que pueden modificar.\n\nEsta compleja solidaridad, no exenta de cr\u00edtica, le permitir\u00eda crear un reparto de personajes donde el bien y el mal asumen cambiantes avatares.\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo conciliar la fe con la libertad? El dilema de Rask\u00f3lnikov no concluy\u00f3 con la publicaci\u00f3n de _Crimen y castigo_. Pensar que Dios no existe es posible por la sencilla raz\u00f3n de que \u00c9l no se manifiesta en forma evidente. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 ocurre esto?\n\nLa respuesta de Dostoievski combina la fe con la libertad. Del mundo sin Dios de Rask\u00f3lnikov pasa al mundo del \u00abDios oculto\u00bb.\n\nSi el Creador es todopoderoso, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 no aparece de una vez, con portentosos efectos especiales? \u00bfQui\u00e9n dudar\u00eda de \u00c9l en ese caso? El truco crear\u00eda un consenso instant\u00e1neo, pero privar\u00eda al hombre de la libertad de elegir. Estar\u00edamos ante un tribunal externo que impedir\u00eda las divagaciones de Rask\u00f3lnikov.\n\nSi Dios es tan inteligente como cabr\u00eda suponer, debe permitir que el hombre elija la v\u00eda de acceso a lo divino, es decir, que tenga opci\u00f3n de duda y convierta la fe en un asunto de conciencia, en una elecci\u00f3n: \u00abDichosos aquellos que creen sin haber visto\u00bb, dir\u00eda San Juan.\n\nAl no presentarse en forma obvia, al proporcionar tan solo se\u00f1ales esquivas, el Creador permite que la gente decida creer en \u00e9l o no. La fe se convierte as\u00ed en atributo del libre albedr\u00edo. El ser religioso, tal y como lo entiende Dostoievski, no comulga por obediencia, obligaci\u00f3n o temor, sino por convicci\u00f3n.\n\nEn forma progresiva, Dostoievski aumentar\u00eda su confianza en la religi\u00f3n entendida a su peculiar manera (cercana al cristianismo ortodoxo pero ajena a cualquier jerarqu\u00eda eclesi\u00e1stica) y en la fortaleza del esp\u00edritu eslavo. En las 1.610 p\u00e1ginas recogidas en _Diario de un escritor_ (maravillosamente editadas por Paul Viejo en P\u00e1ginas de Espuma), abundan las discusiones entre el cosmopolitismo europeizante y la necesidad de recobrar la confianza en la tradici\u00f3n rusa.\n\nDostoievski estaba lejos de tener una cultura aldeana. Durante cuatro a\u00f1os vivi\u00f3 con Anna en Suiza, Alemania e Italia, y se hab\u00eda formado en la lectura de Schiller, Scott, Goethe, Victor Hugo y Balzac. Sin embargo, detestaba la impostura de quienes pretend\u00edan que Rusia fuera una Francia con m\u00e1s nieve. La inseguridad ante la propia condici\u00f3n, el temor de ser vistos como t\u00e1rtaros, llevaban a confundir la sofisticaci\u00f3n con la negaci\u00f3n de la identidad.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de la muerte de su hermano mayor, escribe una necrol\u00f3gica en la que comenta: \u00abMija\u00edl Mij\u00e1ilovich estaba convencido de que todos los fracasos de la sociedad rusa y la falta de car\u00e1cter de algunas capas del pueblo ruso proven\u00edan precisamente de nuestro corrupto, perezoso y ap\u00e1tico cosmopolitismo, que tuvo como resultado nuestra separaci\u00f3n de la tierra y nuestra indiferencia hacia ella.\u00bb\n\nEn lo que toca a la religi\u00f3n vern\u00e1cula, afirma en 1876: \u00abEl cristianismo ruso en realidad no tiene ni siquiera misticismo, lo que tiene es solo el humanitarismo y la imagen de Jesucristo, es lo m\u00e1s importante en \u00e9l. En Europa, desde hace ya mucho tiempo, se mira con recelo al clericalismo y a la Iglesia que impiden, sobre todo en algunos sitios, la corriente de la vida real, su progreso y, por supuesto, el desarrollo de la religi\u00f3n misma. Pero \u00bfse parece nuestra religi\u00f3n ortodoxa, silenciosa y humilde, al clericalismo europeo, lleno de prejuicios, l\u00fagubre, conspirador, astuto y cruel? Entonces, \u00bfc\u00f3mo no puede estar pr\u00f3xima al pueblo?\u00bb\n\nSi el hereje necesita a Dios para opon\u00e9rsele, Dostoievski necesita la bondad del alma para entender su opuesto: los infiernos que atestigua a diario. Experto en la ca\u00edda, es un aficionado a la redenci\u00f3n.\n\nEl cr\u00edtico ruso Merezhkovski se refiri\u00f3 a la \u00abcuriosidad criminal de su conocimiento\u00bb. Esta exploraci\u00f3n ilimitada llev\u00f3 a Dostoievski a arriesgarse con antih\u00e9roes que carec\u00edan de voz. La novela _Memorias del subsuelo_ comienza en un tono que prefigura a narradores de cien a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s (Camus, Moravia, Pavese, B\u00f6ll): \u00abSoy un hombre enfermo... Soy malo. No tengo nada de simp\u00e1tico.\u00bb\n\nNo es casual que un sibarita del esp\u00edritu demon\u00edaco como Thomas Mann se encandilara con este pasaje de agraviante sinceridad, tomado de la misma novela: \u00abEn los recuerdos de cada hombre hay cosas que no descubre a todo el mundo, sino quiz\u00e1 solo a sus amigos. Hay adem\u00e1s cosas que no descubre tampoco a sus amigos, sino quiz\u00e1 solo a s\u00ed mismo, y bajo el sello del silencio. Por \u00faltimo hay cosas que el hombre se resiste a descubrirse a s\u00ed mismo, y de estas cosas se acumula una buena cantidad en todo hombre decente. S\u00ed, hasta puede decirse que cuanto m\u00e1s decente es un hombre, mayor ser\u00e1 el n\u00famero de este tipo de cosas. Yo al menos me he decidido hace muy poco a recordar algunas de mis vivencias tempranas; hasta ahora he procurado evitarlas, incluso con cierto desasosiego...\u00bb El antecedente remoto de este personaje que \u00ablo dice todo\u00bb, se encuentra en el cuento \u00abPolzunkov\u00bb. De nuevo, el gran Dostoievski tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1 en sus textos breves.\n\nAl prologar las novelas cortas del autor de _Noches blancas_ , Mann dio con un t\u00edtulo que en forma ir\u00f3nica revelaba una imposibilidad: \u00abDostoievski con medida\u00bb. Aunque fren\u00f3 el impulso de escribir un libro entero sobre el desafiante fulgor de Dostoievski, Mann no pudo evitar la desmesura de sus juicios. No hay modo de ser somero ante un autor al borde del estallido. Dostoievski impide la noci\u00f3n de escala.\n\nV. S. Pritchett escogi\u00f3 un t\u00edtulo t\u00edmido para el mismo tema: \u00abEl Dostoievski menor\u00bb. Tampoco \u00e9l pudo contener su pasi\u00f3n por un autor \u00absensacionalista\u00bb. Incluso en sus obras m\u00e1s breves, el autor que se sobrepuso al \u00absepulcro de los vivos\u00bb en Siberia, escribe para demostrar que todo lo interesante es tremendo.\n\nEn _Tres maestros_ , Stefan Zweig analiza a su colega en tono egregio; procura mantener la distancia, pero sucumbe a la pasi\u00f3n y comenta que en Dostoievski anida \u00abla belleza elemental de lo desmedido\u00bb.\n\nImposible ser parco o mesurado al comentar al maestro. Ante \u00e9l, todos somos dostoievskianos.\n\nEl 28 de enero de 1881, treinta mil estudiantes siguieron su cortejo f\u00fanebre. Algunas biograf\u00edas mencionan que, detr\u00e1s del f\u00e9retro, unos dolientes cargaban sus grilletes de prisionero. Zweig prefiere consignar el hecho como un rumor. En todo caso, la met\u00e1fora es perfecta: Fi\u00f3dor Mij\u00e1ilovich Dostoievski, reo del dolor y el \u00e9xtasis, alcanz\u00f3 la libertad. \n\n### KARL KRAUS: EL ARTE DE CONDENAR\n\n\u00a1Quien tenga algo que decir, que d\u00e9 un paso adelante y que se calle!\n\nK. K.\n\nKarl Kraus es un mito que esconde a un escritor. Su singular manera de ejercer la literatura lo convirti\u00f3 en una celebridad venerada o execrada. Consciente de ocupar un papel \u00fanico, escribi\u00f3: \u00abEl censo de la poblaci\u00f3n ha arrojado en Viena la cifra de 2.030.834 habitantes. Es decir, 2.030.833 almas y yo.\u00bb\n\nNacido el 28 de abril de 1874 (siete a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la coronaci\u00f3n de Francisco Jos\u00e9), en la peque\u00f1a ciudad de Ji\u010d\u00edn (localidad checa que entonces pertenec\u00eda al imperio austroh\u00fangaro), se traslad\u00f3 con su familia a Viena, donde se convirti\u00f3 en excepcional testigo de una sociedad hip\u00f3crita, un infierno cubierto de az\u00facar glas donde las enfermedades morales eran acalladas por los valses de Johann Strauss.\n\nCon ayuda de los artistas, el decadentismo vien\u00e9s asumi\u00f3 una atractiva atm\u00f3sfera crepuscular: los vicios privados semejaban virtudes p\u00fablicas. \u00abViena est\u00e1 siendo demolida en gran ciudad\u00bb, coment\u00f3 el observador implacable. El progreso representaba para \u00e9l una simulaci\u00f3n. En este teatro el p\u00fablico era c\u00f3mplice pasivo de numerosas perversiones. Entre los aforismos del libro que el poeta Guillermo Fern\u00e1ndez tradujo como _Dichos y contradichos_ , Kraus incluye uno que se refiere a la moral del testigo: \u00abCuando preguntaron si sab\u00edan \"qu\u00e9 cosa no est\u00e1 bien\", un muchachito respondi\u00f3: \"No est\u00e1 bien si hay alguien presente.\" \u00a1Y el legislador adulto siempre quiere estar presente!\u00bb La opini\u00f3n p\u00fablica no juzga hechos sino apariencias. Las transgresiones son el morbo del legislador.\n\nHijo de un pr\u00f3spero comerciante jud\u00edo, especializado en el ramo del papel, Kraus pudo independizarse desde muy joven y pagar sus publicaciones. Aunque hab\u00eda colaborado con diversos peri\u00f3dicos, a partir de 1899 cre\u00f3 su propia revista, _Die Fackel_ (La antorcha). Su resplandor alumbrar\u00eda los errores de una \u00e9poca caracterizada por \u00abla triple alianza de la tinta, la t\u00e9cnica y la sangre\u00bb.\n\nA partir de 1911 escribi\u00f3 todas las colaboraciones de su revista y no apag\u00f3 el fuego sino hasta 1936, a\u00f1o de su muerte. Para alimentar los 922 n\u00fameros del peque\u00f1o cuaderno rojo que encandilaba y atormentaba a Viena, redact\u00f3 cerca de treinta mil p\u00e1ginas. La periodicidad era irregular y la extensi\u00f3n se adaptaba a las circunstancias (el n\u00famero 888 solo const\u00f3 de cuatro p\u00e1ginas, la oraci\u00f3n f\u00fanebre por la muerte del arquitecto Adolf Loos).\n\nEl dise\u00f1o tipogr\u00e1fico reflejaba el car\u00e1cter del editor: un campo sin resquicios; las letras se suced\u00edan unas a otras, incorporando citas que ah\u00ed cobraban otro sentido (los adversarios eran ahorcados con sus propias frases). En sus mejores momentos la revista vendi\u00f3 treinta mil ejemplares, pero su media fue de diez mil. Aunque las dem\u00e1s publicaciones silenciaban su existencia, en las tertulias del Caf\u00e9 Museum, el Griensteidl y el Central esas palabras se contagiaban como un virus. Por lo dem\u00e1s, el editor se divert\u00eda escribiendo cartas con seud\u00f3nimo a los peri\u00f3dicos donde estaba proscrito (invariablemente, burlaba a los censores).\n\nEn la contraportada de _Die Fackel_ se anunciaban las conferencias del flam\u00edgero analista de la sociedad vienesa. Temido por escrito, era reverenciado por sus escuchas, convencidos de antemano de que ten\u00eda raz\u00f3n. El profeta transformaba el asunto m\u00e1s nimio en causa justa.\n\nDe acuerdo con Walter Benjamin, todos los intereses de Kraus conflu\u00edan en el derecho. Era juez, testigo de cargo y verdugo: cada palabra, una sentencia.\n\nDe joven, quiso ser actor pero se lo impidi\u00f3 una malformaci\u00f3n en la columna. Aun as\u00ed, particip\u00f3 en algunas puestas en escena. Una de ellas fue _Los bandidos_ , de Schiller, donde actu\u00f3 junto a Max Goldmann, quien a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s revolucionar\u00eda la direcci\u00f3n de escena como Max Reinhardt. La incontestable vocaci\u00f3n teatral de Kraus se cumpli\u00f3 como conferencista. Disertaba con energ\u00eda inaudita. En sus exposiciones, nada ameritaba la calma o el matiz. Su estado febril era el del mago o el visionario. \u00abDesde que lo escuch\u00e9 me ha sido imposible no escuchar\u00bb, dir\u00eda Elias Canetti, m\u00e1ximo egresado de esa escuela del o\u00eddo.\n\nEn 1986 visit\u00e9 la exposici\u00f3n _Vienne: L'apocalypse joyeuse_ , en el Centro George Pompidou de Par\u00eds. En un peque\u00f1o cuarto, un monitor transmit\u00eda una conferencia del m\u00e1s c\u00e9lebre disertador vien\u00e9s. El impacto que produc\u00eda solo puede ser descrito como monstruoso. Con voz aguda y precisi\u00f3n de entom\u00f3logo, Kraus hablaba de una nota en el peri\u00f3dico que no me dec\u00eda nada. No se tomaba la molestia de crear contexto ni urdir an\u00e9cdotas que ayudaran a hacer m\u00e1s comprensible la pl\u00e1tica. Aquello era una pr\u00e9dica que no admit\u00eda dudas ni vacilaciones. La mano se le agitaba con presteza y el pelo con lentitud, en una especie de contrapunto. La precisi\u00f3n con que desplegaba su discurso, cediendo de pronto a imitaciones del acento vien\u00e9s, hac\u00eda pensar que no era el conferenciante sino la propia lengua la que hablaba. \u00bfQu\u00e9 expresaba ese implacable vendaval? Ven\u00eda por su venganza. Los hombres hab\u00edan maltratado la esencia que los constitu\u00eda. Finalmente, el idioma levantaba una demanda. No hab\u00eda nada agradable en esa severa forma de tener raz\u00f3n. La errata, el lugar com\u00fan period\u00edstico (\u00abla magia negra de la opini\u00f3n opera con tan incomparable eficacia porque la opini\u00f3n es un lenguaje razonable [...] y eso no supone conciencia\u00bb), el texto de propaganda, la declaraci\u00f3n de un pol\u00edtico y la met\u00e1fora cursi merec\u00edan id\u00e9ntica condena. El tribunal no aceptaba apelaci\u00f3n.\n\nSin transici\u00f3n alguna, el juez recitaba a Goethe, Shakespeare, Offenbach o el dramaturgo vien\u00e9s Nestroy. El contraste de los cl\u00e1sicos con la bazofia ret\u00f3rica de pol\u00edticos y periodistas resultaba aleccionador: ah\u00ed lat\u00eda, resistente y misteriosa, la lengua viva. Sin embargo, eso no representaba un alivio definitivo. El oyente que asist\u00eda a las conferencias con una mezcla de reverencia y estupor pod\u00eda admirar que Shakespeare compareciera en ese tribunal de la lengua, pero se sab\u00eda por debajo del poder\u00edo verbal del dramaturgo (traducido por Kraus, que aborrec\u00eda las versiones de Stefan George). Aquello era una pedagog\u00eda del p\u00e1nico. Daba miedo no estar a la altura del maestro, pero sobre todo daba miedo la atracci\u00f3n que produc\u00eda, el deseo de ser su reh\u00e9n, de seguirlo sin vacilar hasta el abismo.\n\nLa cultura alemana ha tenido pasi\u00f3n reverencial por el autoritarismo basado en la excelencia (Herbert von Karajan al frente de la Filarm\u00f3nica de Berl\u00edn, Franz Beckenbauer en la selecci\u00f3n alemana). En esa lista de genios inflexibles, el autor de _Pro domo et mundo_ ocupa un lugar eminente. Nunca esper\u00f3 que nadie lo defendiera y no necesitaba disc\u00edpulos; demol\u00eda en soledad, con la sonora contundencia de su nombre. Dos golpes de mazo en el tribunal: Karl Kraus. Incluso en la pel\u00edcula desgastada por el tiempo que vi en la exposici\u00f3n de Par\u00eds, comunicaba la ambivalente fascinaci\u00f3n del profeta que esclaviza a sus seguidores. \u00abKraus no admite r\u00e9plicas, objeciones, graduaciones; resume toda su vida en su furor\u00bb, escribe Claudio Magris. La opini\u00f3n es certera, pero omite algo decisivo: la seducci\u00f3n que puede producir ese furor, la placentera incomodidad de estar ante un p\u00e1nico elegido.\n\nNadie ha descrito mejor que Canetti lo que significaba o\u00edr a Kraus. En _La conciencia de las palabras_ recuerda: \u00abAquella ley _ard\u00eda_ : irradiaba, quemaba y destru\u00eda [...]. Cada sentencia se cumpl\u00eda en el acto. Una vez pronunciada, era irrevocable. Todos nosotros asist\u00edamos a la ejecuci\u00f3n. Lo que creaba entre los asistentes una especie de expectativa violenta no era tanto el pronunciamiento del fallo como la ejecuci\u00f3n inmediata.\u00bb\n\nNadie ha tenido la capacidad de Kraus para leer lo que odiaba. Su mayor enemiga era la prensa (\u00abel periodismo no est\u00e1 en condiciones de medirse con ninguna cat\u00e1strofe, pues est\u00e1 \u00edntimamente emparentado con todas\u00bb, coment\u00f3 en _La tercera noche de Walpurgis)_. En _Die Fackel_ , la columna \u00abDesperanto\u00bb reproduc\u00eda los macarr\u00f3nicos usos que los periodistas hac\u00edan de otras lenguas (en su af\u00e1n de parecer cosmopolitas, se refer\u00edan al monarca ingl\u00e9s como _\u00abDer King\u00bb)_.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de escribir la noche entera, Kraus se iba a la cama antes del amanecer para no presenciar el momento en que el d\u00eda era mancillado por la llegada de los peri\u00f3dicos. Sin embargo, los le\u00eda con acrecentada atenci\u00f3n, sosteniendo tensamente el papel, sin perderse una palabra, con la obsesi\u00f3n del hereje que necesita a Dios para declarar su inexistencia.\n\nHay una extra\u00f1a generosidad en estudiar con devoci\u00f3n aquello que se repudia. En palabras de Canetti: \u00abSu grandeza consist\u00eda en que \u00e9l solo, literalmente solo, confrontaba, o\u00eda, espiaba, atacaba y vapuleaba el mundo en la medida en que lo conoc\u00eda.\u00bb\n\nSu cruzada contra el periodismo ten\u00eda que ver con los intereses espurios que ah\u00ed se defend\u00edan, pero tambi\u00e9n y sobre todo con la destrucci\u00f3n cotidiana del lenguaje. Kraus se hab\u00eda propuesto devolverle la virginidad a una lengua que los dem\u00e1s envilec\u00edan. No es casual que abogara por los derechos de las prostitutas con argumentos similares a los que usaba en su defensa de la lengua. En _Die Fackel_ reprodujo la sentencia de Confucio que se\u00f1ala que toda forma de gobierno debe comenzar por el respeto a las palabras.\n\nImplacable con los dem\u00e1s, se ve\u00eda a s\u00ed mismo como un instrumento del idioma, la forma que las palabras ten\u00edan de objetivarse. No buscaba dominar la lengua sino ponerse a su servicio. Enjuiciaba a los dem\u00e1s y admit\u00eda su incapacidad de analizarse con objetividad: \u00abConmigo el idioma hace lo que quiere.\u00bb\n\nFue un pir\u00f3mano ejemplar en una sociedad donde el silencio era un seguro contra incendios. La capital de la monarqu\u00eda imperial y real le parec\u00eda \u00abun laboratorio para el fin de los tiempos\u00bb; en consecuencia, se relacionaba con ella en los siguientes t\u00e9rminos: \u00abHe descubierto una forma in\u00e9dita de encontrarla intolerable.\u00bb\n\nEl viernes 15 de julio de 1927 una enardecida multitud incendi\u00f3 el Palacio de Justicia para protestar por la muerte de varios obreros. La represi\u00f3n no se hizo esperar. Kraus recorri\u00f3 Viena colocando un cartel donde solicitaba, a t\u00edtulo personal, la renuncia del jefe de la polic\u00eda. Sus peticiones fueron tan contundentes como intr\u00e9pidas, pero no hubieran trascendido de no haber significado una airada renovaci\u00f3n del idioma.\n\nKraus solo reconoce un tribunal superior a \u00e9l: la lengua misma. Se concibe, al modo de Lichtenberg, como un pararrayos que atrae la electricidad del ambiente a riesgo de calcinarse. Atrapa la luz, pero el rel\u00e1mpago no le pertenece. Roberto Calasso entendi\u00f3 a la perfecci\u00f3n esta ambivalencia: \u00abSi Kraus no es un pensador sino un lenguaje pensante, no habr\u00e1 de sorprendernos que sus ideas se presenten por parejas de contrarios, tal como exige justamente la estructura del lenguaje que, desde las oposiciones fonol\u00f3gicas bilaterales a los fatales dobles sentidos del l\u00e9xico abstracto, est\u00e1 construido sobre la oposici\u00f3n.\u00bb De ah\u00ed la pertinencia de un t\u00edtulo como _Dichos y contradichos_. Refutar no aniquila: complementa.\n\n\u00abPOR FAVOR, NO ME TRANQUILICES\u00bb\n\nEl furibundo Kraus vivi\u00f3 enamorado. Su mejor int\u00e9rprete mexicano, Jos\u00e9 Mar\u00eda P\u00e9rez Gay, describe en su ensayo \u00abLa pluma y la espada\u00bb la importancia que para el escritor austr\u00edaco tuvieron dos mujeres: la actriz Annie Kalmar y la arist\u00f3crata Sidonie N\u00e1dherny von Borutin.\n\nMis\u00e1ntropo ejemplar, Kraus parec\u00eda condenado a llevar una existencia solitaria, consagrada al narcisismo de la mente: \u00abLa vida familiar es una intromisi\u00f3n en la vida privada\u00bb, escribi\u00f3. Durante a\u00f1os se desconoci\u00f3 su vida secreta, es decir, emocional. No fue sino hasta 1974 que se editaron las cartas a \u00abSidi\u00bb.\n\nDe \u00e9l se conoc\u00eda un primer romance, mucho m\u00e1s breve. En 1899 el satirista asisti\u00f3 a una representaci\u00f3n de Annie Kalmar y escribi\u00f3 una rese\u00f1a elogiosa, aprovechando la ocasi\u00f3n para despreciar a quienes no reconoc\u00edan el talento de la actriz por concentrarse en su belleza. Annie, de veintid\u00f3s a\u00f1os, le escribi\u00f3 una nota en la que agradec\u00eda haber sido comprendida al fin. Poco despu\u00e9s, enferm\u00f3 de tuberculosis. El escritor la visit\u00f3 en el hospital todos los d\u00edas y pag\u00f3 sus gastos m\u00e9dicos. Cuando ella muri\u00f3, \u00e9l mand\u00f3 esculpir una l\u00e1pida con su rostro. En su testamento, dado a conocer cuarenta a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, dej\u00f3 previsto el cuidado de la tumba de la actriz.\n\nEl romance con Sidonie dur\u00f3 veintitr\u00e9s a\u00f1os. Ella lo invitaba a su castillo en Janowitz, Bohemia del Sur. Ah\u00ed, el autor de _Los \u00faltimos d\u00edas de la humanidad_ pasaba temporadas de plenitud, escribiendo y caminando por los bosques. Desde que se conocieron en 1913, en el Caf\u00e9 Imperial de Viena, Karl y Sidonie se consideraron almas gemelas. Su condici\u00f3n social los apartaba, pero ese no era el principal obst\u00e1culo. El hermano favorito de Sidonie se hab\u00eda suicidado; ella no se repon\u00eda de esa tragedia y viv\u00eda en el castillo en compa\u00f1\u00eda de su posesivo hermano gemelo. Desde muy pronto, Kraus supo que solo podr\u00eda ser para ella un amante ocasional. Aforista al fin, se propuso que esas brevedades fueran recurrentes. Con altibajos y separaciones, la relaci\u00f3n dur\u00f3 casi hasta la muerte del autor. Tambi\u00e9n cortejada por Rainer Maria Rilke, Sidonie acept\u00f3 casarse con un arist\u00f3crata y solicit\u00f3 a sus pretendientes que le escribieran poemas para la ocasi\u00f3n. Rilke y Kraus accedieron de inmediato.\n\nEl hombre que se consideraba el habitante m\u00e1s singular de Viena depend\u00eda de las palabras de Sidonie N\u00e1dherny y reconoc\u00eda la llegada de sus cartas por el sonido del buz\u00f3n. Tambi\u00e9n en ese caso el o\u00eddo anticipaba el significado de los mensajes.\n\nLas misivas que determinaron la ansiedad de Kraus se han perdido. Sobreviven las apasionadas cartas a \u00abSidi\u00bb. Ah\u00ed, el maestro del sarcasmo revela su mundo emocional a una lectora voraz y c\u00f3mplice: \u00abDurante el mes de enero de 1921\u00bb, escribe P\u00e9rez Gay, \u00abSidonie se dedic\u00f3 a copiar a mano todas las cartas, telegramas y mensajes de Kraus, como si al copiarlos las palabras le dieran firmeza y su letra escrita pudiera darles nueva vida.\u00bb Como Dostoievski, tuvo una mujer copista, que se dej\u00f3 poseer por la escritura. Sidonie fue para Kraus esa perfecta musa literaria.\n\nEn una carta, Kraus le escribi\u00f3: \u00abPor favor, no me tranquilices.\u00bb Esa pasi\u00f3n fue su estado de alerta. Solo ante Sidonie actu\u00f3 como lo hac\u00eda su p\u00fablico. Aguardaba sus palabras con una entrega absoluta, aceptando el sobresalto, la zozobra y la fragilidad que entra\u00f1a amar lo que se puede perder.\n\nLOS PROCESOS DEL SE\u00d1OR K\n\nKraus es ajeno a un sistema pero no a un m\u00e9todo de pensamiento. \u00abEnraiz\u00e1ndome en lo que odio \/ me crezco sobre estos tiempos\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 en un poema. \u00bfQu\u00e9 tan apartado estaba de su \u00e9poca? Benjamin se\u00f1ala que la s\u00e1tira es siempre una expresi\u00f3n regional; se necesita un referente preciso para comprenderla. Kraus estuvo m\u00e1s cerca de su circunstancia de lo que pretend\u00eda. Por eso Brecht pudo decir de \u00e9l: \u00abCuando la \u00e9poca alz\u00f3 una mano contra s\u00ed misma, esa mano era la suya.\u00bb\n\nEntre sus muchas causas, el editor de _Die Fackel_ arremeti\u00f3 contra el sionismo y polemiz\u00f3 con Theodor Herzl, proselitista del retorno a Palestina. En su opini\u00f3n, la comunidad jud\u00eda, de la que \u00e9l proced\u00eda, necesitaba asimilarse a la cultura europea. En 1911 se convirti\u00f3 al catolicismo, con Arnold Schoenberg como padrino. Sin embargo, durante la Primera Guerra Mundial se decepcion\u00f3 del cobarde papel de la Iglesia y se alej\u00f3 de la religi\u00f3n.\n\nOtra de sus batallas de largo aliento fue el psicoan\u00e1lisis. Aunque en un principio mantuvo una respetuosa relaci\u00f3n con Sigmund Freud, acab\u00f3 despreciando la exploraci\u00f3n del inconsciente y concibi\u00f3 el m\u00e1s c\u00e9lebre aforismo contra la terapia: \u00abEl psicoan\u00e1lisis es la enfermedad que pretende ser su propia cura.\u00bb\n\nEl arte decorativo tambi\u00e9n mereci\u00f3 su desprecio. Se ali\u00f3 con el arquitecto Adolf Loos para combatir los gustos ornamentales de la burgues\u00eda vienesa, tan empalagosos como el pastel Sacher y tan revueltos como el caf\u00e9 _m\u00e9lange_.\n\nKraus repudiaba la literatura efectista, que repite f\u00f3rmulas y busca las fibras sensibles del lector. \u00abSolo es artista alguien capaz de convertir una soluci\u00f3n en un misterio\u00bb, escribi\u00f3. Por otra parte, la lengua meramente utilitaria no solo le parec\u00eda pobre sino ininteligible: \u00abNo hay nada m\u00e1s incomprensible que los discursos de las personas que solo emplean el lenguaje para darse a entender.\u00bb Condenaba el maltrato del idioma pero se rend\u00eda al idioma mismo: \u00abMientras m\u00e1s de cerca ves una palabra, m\u00e1s lejos te devuelve la mirada\u00bb (Benjamin llama a esta actitud \u00abamor plat\u00f3nico por el lenguaje\u00bb).\n\nEn su papel de comisario ling\u00fc\u00edstico, Kraus mostr\u00f3 un talante conservador. Goethe y Shakespeare eran sus tablas de la ley y sol\u00eda recordar que en chino la expresi\u00f3n \u00ableer los cl\u00e1sicos\u00bb es la misma que \u00abrezar una oraci\u00f3n\u00bb. Su otro polo de inter\u00e9s era la resurrecci\u00f3n vitalista de la lengua (Nestroy, Altenberg, Wedekind). En medio, no aceptaba nada. Su capacidad de descubrir y compartir asombros era muy inferior a su talento para condenar.\n\nDesde muy joven defini\u00f3 sus preferencias. En 1886 public\u00f3 _La literatura demolida_ , panfleto donde arremet\u00eda contra el grupo de la Joven Viena, capitaneado por Hugo von Hofmannsthal. El elegante decadentismo y las sufrientes emociones de esos autores le parec\u00edan deplorables. Due\u00f1o de una afilada iron\u00eda, inventaba apodos dif\u00edciles de olvidar. Cuando la cr\u00edtica convencional compar\u00f3 a Alexander Lernet-Holenia con Rilke, \u00e9l dijo que m\u00e1s bien parec\u00eda un _Puerilke_ o un _Sterilke_. Sus sarcasmos provocaron que Felix Salten, autor del lacrim\u00f3geno _Bambi_ y presidente del PEN Club austr\u00edaco, lo golpeara en p\u00fablico. Por toda respuesta public\u00f3 en _Die Fackel_ la siguiente estad\u00edstica:\n\nCartas an\u00f3nimas llenas de insultos: | 236  \n---|---  \nCartas an\u00f3nimas llenas de amenazas: | 83  \nAsaltos: | 1\n\nSus tesis sobre la mujer lo emparentaron con el pol\u00e9mico Otto Weininger. Buena parte de los aforismos reunidos en _Dichos y contradichos_ expresan su determinismo: la mujer representaba la sensualidad y el hombre la raz\u00f3n; la intuici\u00f3n femenina fecunda la mente masculina. La seguridad de la mujer es superior porque no requiere de la conciencia; en cambio, el hombre necesita un espejo para conocerse vanidosamente. Ambos se unen en el malentendido que llamamos sexo o amor. La percepci\u00f3n sensual de la mujer es registrada en esta ficci\u00f3n s\u00fabita, mezcla de deseo y pesadilla: \u00abUna hermosa ni\u00f1a oye ciertos ruidos al otro lado de la pared. Teme que sean ratones, y se tranquiliza cuando le dicen que del otro lado de la puerta hay un establo con un caballo inquieto. \"\u00bfEs un semental?\", pregunta la ni\u00f1a, y vuelve a dormirse.\u00bb\n\nHay muchos modos de interpretar la pol\u00edtica sexual de Kraus. El aforismo \u00abPara ser perfecta, solo le faltaba un defecto\u00bb sugiere que la esencia de la mujer es, necesariamente, irregular. La perfecci\u00f3n se basta a s\u00ed misma y, en consecuencia, no resulta seductora, pues no requiere de agregados ni de acompa\u00f1antes. De modo m\u00e1s significativo, el aforismo alude a la impureza consustancial al arte, al lenguaje y a toda forma de representaci\u00f3n. Nada m\u00e1s espurio que lo impecable.\n\nLa mayor causa pol\u00edtica de Kraus fue su lucha contra la guerra. En su \u00faltimo libro, _La tercera noche de Walpurgis_ , levanta ins\u00f3lito inventario de los usos ret\u00f3ricos del patriotismo y el papel de la propaganda en la ascensi\u00f3n del movimiento nazi. Tambi\u00e9n ejercita la memoria para evocar horrores previos y pide que no se olvide el genocidio de los armenios en Turqu\u00eda. A\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, Hitler ser\u00eda capaz de afirmar que, si nadie recordaba la matanza de armenios, nadie recordar\u00eda el Holocausto. Kraus prev\u00e9 el horror desde antes. En el proselitismo nazi detecta un disfraz hecho de palabras: \u00abNunca quieren decir lo que dicen, sino otra cosa.\u00bb\n\nDurante la Primera Guerra Mundial ya hab\u00eda descrito la forma en que Europa era arrasada para convertir la matanza en una nueva opci\u00f3n de mercado. Genio de las paradojas, Kraus puso su furia al servicio del pacifismo.\n\nSu campa\u00f1a en pro de la paz tambi\u00e9n incluy\u00f3 la esfera privada. De acuerdo con Robert Scheu, Kraus fue el primer defensor period\u00edstico de los derechos del sistema nervioso. El ruido, las artima\u00f1as cotidianas y los embustes que neurotizan merecen ser castigados. Sus textos integran un abultado expediente sobre la desaparici\u00f3n de la privacidad.\n\nObsesionado por la congruencia intelectual, entendi\u00f3 las obras de sus contempor\u00e1neos como una prolongaci\u00f3n de su biograf\u00eda. Pod\u00eda juzgar a Homero exclusivamente a partir de su legado, pero se resist\u00eda a hacer lo mismo con sus pares. Admir\u00f3 a Gerhart Hauptmann hasta que su silencio ante la guerra le pareci\u00f3 c\u00f3mplice de la barbarie. La integridad exig\u00eda correspondencia entre la vida y la obra. Por ello, sus ataques eran estrictamente personales. \u00abNo hay que juzgar a los hombres por sus ideas, sino por aquello en lo que sus ideas los convierten\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Lichtenberg, su admirado maestro.\n\nSin adentrarse mucho en el tema, Claudio Magris se ha referido al talante reaccionario de Kraus en varios de sus libros _(El mito habsb\u00fargico en la literatura austriaca moderna, El anillo de Clarisse, \u00cdtaca y m\u00e1s all\u00e1)_. Es cierto que el intolerante editor de _Die Fackel_ fue poco receptivo a las novedades, tan abundantes en la Viena de la \u00e9poca, pero tambi\u00e9n influy\u00f3 en consumados renovadores: el arquitecto Adolf Loos, el fil\u00f3sofo Ludwig Wittgenstein, el compositor Arnold Schoenberg, el pintor Oskar Kokoschka.\n\nCuando Schoenberg le env\u00eda su _Tratado de armon\u00eda_ , escribe en la dedicatoria: \u00abHe aprendido de usted quiz\u00e1 m\u00e1s de lo que uno debiera aprender para conservar su independencia.\u00bb El racionalista Loos va a\u00fan m\u00e1s lejos: \u00abAlg\u00fan d\u00eda la humanidad deber\u00e1 su vida a Karl Kraus.\u00bb\n\nSiempre \u00fanico, el satirista apreci\u00f3 la cultura popular que se apartaba del gusto establecido y las civilizaciones lejanas que lo complac\u00edan por su extra\u00f1eza. Sus continuas referencias a China se basan en conocimientos b\u00e1sicos. No es un experto en el tema ni desea serlo, lo valora por desconocido e inaccesible. \u00abChina es, en realidad, una especie de horizonte secreto para Kraus\u00bb, advierte Calasso. Admiraba esa cultura a una distancia propicia para ajustarla a sus ideas.\n\nKraus preconiza un canon inmodificable y solo respeta la otredad que puede modificar a satisfacci\u00f3n. Curiosamente, el _resultado_ de estos prejuicios no es conservador. M\u00e1s certero que Magris, Benjamin observa: \u00abTuvo una teor\u00eda reaccionaria y una pr\u00e1ctica revolucionaria.\u00bb\n\nEl lenguaje krausiano avanza en bloques. Su expresi\u00f3n decisiva es el aforismo, inagotable variante del enigma: \u00abUn aforismo no coincide nunca con la verdad; es una media verdad o una verdad y media.\u00bb\n\nEn sus textos extensos no recurre a una estructura de conjunto ni al sentido de la consecuencia; no hay episodios, planteamientos ni desenlaces. Sus sentencias pueden interrumpirse de golpe o continuar sin tregua. A prop\u00f3sito de su m\u00e9todo de trabajo, se\u00f1al\u00f3 que asociaba un concepto con otro hasta quedar exhausto. Hay algo cham\u00e1nico en el procedimiento: su antiexorcismo produce apariciones en la p\u00e1gina.\n\nEs com\u00fan que alguien se queje de ser \u00abcitado fuera de contexto\u00bb, ignorando que la cita es, precisamente, la supresi\u00f3n del contexto. Kraus construye una muralla china de citas para procesar a quienes las profirieron. Su obra maestra, la obra de teatro _Los \u00faltimos d\u00edas de la humanidad_ , tiene, desde el t\u00edtulo, vocaci\u00f3n de exceso. La lista de personajes ocupa trece p\u00e1ginas; luego vienen 220 escenas que en un teatro durar\u00edan varios d\u00edas. \u00abEs una obra para ser representada en Marte\u00bb, explic\u00f3 el dramaturgo. En esta pieza de periodismo dram\u00e1tico, que prefigura a Brecht, las palabras del Papa se mezclan con las de la polic\u00eda, mostrando su aut\u00e9ntico significado. El idioma pierde la protecci\u00f3n del contexto, forma discursiva de la investidura. Calasso define esta t\u00e9cnica como un espiritismo de los vivos: \u00abApostado como un cazador, dominado por la furia del escritor, ha arrancado las palabras vamp\u00edricas de su contexto, para engastarlas despu\u00e9s para siempre, como en \u00e1mbar, en un gesto fosilizado y revelador.\u00bb\n\nAl igual que Ram\u00f3n G\u00f3mez de la Serna, Kraus despliega una _escritura continua_ , que pasa de un libro a un art\u00edculo y de ah\u00ed a otro libro. Cada trozo es admirable y el fragmento siempre supera al todo.\n\nArmados como una sucesi\u00f3n de aforismos y sentencias, sus textos llegan de inmediato al cl\u00edmax y mantienen la misma intensidad. Obviamente, su lectura de corrido puede ser agotadora.\n\nEn _Dichos y contradichos_ (1909) y _Pro domo et mundo_ (1912), el lector no debe leer un todo para entresacar sus frases preferidas. Kraus ha tenido la cortes\u00eda de hacerlo previamente. Maestro del c\u00e1lculo, solo entrega lo que merece ser subrayado. Con l\u00facido cinismo, muestra su relaci\u00f3n de amor-odio con Viena y las mujeres, y su pasi\u00f3n inquebrantable por el lenguaje y las revelaciones inc\u00f3modas: \u00abLa verdad es como un criado torpe que rompe platos mientras limpia.\u00bb\n\nEl hombre que se desmarcaba del censo de Viena muri\u00f3 en 1936. _Die Fackel_ estaba en bancarrota y la mayor\u00eda de sus seguidores se hab\u00edan cansado del tir\u00e1nico maestro. Poco despu\u00e9s, el horror de la guerra resaltar\u00eda la importancia de sus anticipaciones. El autor de _Los \u00faltimos d\u00edas de la humanidad_ hab\u00eda visto las ruinas antes de los estallidos.\n\nKraus dise\u00f1\u00f3 un sistema de alarma ante la estupidez y vio con satisfacci\u00f3n el incendio de la costumbre. \u00bfQu\u00e9 rescat\u00f3 del fuego en _Die Fackel?_ \u00abEl peligro de la palabra es el placer del pensamiento.\u00bb La inteligencia puede apagarse al ser seducida.\n\nErnst Krenek visit\u00f3 al or\u00e1culo en un momento en que se debat\u00eda respecto a una coma. \u00abS\u00e9 que puede parecer banal preocuparse por una coma cuando se incendia la casa, pero es algo m\u00e1s importante de lo que parece.\u00bb Por esos d\u00edas, los japoneses hab\u00edan bombardeado Shangh\u00e1i. \u00abSi las comas hubieran estado en su sitio, nunca se habr\u00eda llegado a esa destrucci\u00f3n\u00bb, agreg\u00f3 el maestro.\n\nUno de los mejores homenajes que recibi\u00f3 provino de Werner Littbarski, lector obsesivo de _Die Fackel_. Kraus se preciaba de que su revista era la \u00fanica que no conten\u00eda erratas. Littbarski lo ley\u00f3 con lealtad punitiva hasta que encontr\u00f3 un gazapo. Para celebrar su hallazgo, abri\u00f3 una botella de champa\u00f1a.\n\nNing\u00fan festejo mejor para Karl Kraus, el cr\u00edtico convencido de que todo descansa en el lenguaje. Los incendios son fecundos siempre y cuando no acaben con la justificaci\u00f3n de la existencia humana: el arte de decir, el arte de contradecir. \n\n### PETER HANDKE: LA VIDA DE LA MENTE\n\nEn _Seis propuestas para el pr\u00f3ximo milenio_ , Italo Calvino repara en una curiosa bifurcaci\u00f3n de la escritura. Durante mucho tiempo la reflexi\u00f3n fue capaz de narrarse a s\u00ed misma para explicar las condiciones en que ocurr\u00eda. De Plat\u00f3n a Rousseau, el pensamiento requiri\u00f3 de un soporte descriptivo, ajeno a la especificidad de las ideas. Descartes comienza su _Discurso del m\u00e9todo_ al modo de una novela, informando del invierno, el fuego en la chimenea, las tropas que se movilizan en la cercan\u00eda. La reflexi\u00f3n aparece inmersa en la vida y determinada por ella.\n\nEn el siglo XX el discurso filos\u00f3fico sigui\u00f3 la senda de la especializaci\u00f3n. Una vez acreditada su importancia y asegurados sus presupuestos, la Academia se concentr\u00f3 en las ideas sin insistir demasiado en su v\u00ednculo con el entorno. Por su parte, la novela apost\u00f3 en la mayor\u00eda de los casos por la exterioridad \u2013el mundo de las acciones o las descripciones objetivas\u2013, aunque no se priv\u00f3 de explorar, en grandes casos excepcionales (Joyce, Proust, Svevo, Broch, Musil, Nabokov) el mon\u00f3logo interior, la autobiograf\u00eda ajena, la narraci\u00f3n como forma de conocimiento.\n\nHannah Arendt reuni\u00f3 sus ensayos bajo un t\u00edtulo que parece desbordar su cometido: _La vida de la mente_. Aunque se trata de un conjunto de reflexiones, el lema que los ampara alude a un concepto narrativo: el itinerario personal para que exista el pensamiento. Arendt no ofrece la biograf\u00eda de sus ideas, pero se\u00f1ala su necesidad. Este v\u00ednculo entre la raz\u00f3n y la experiencia fue lo que interes\u00f3 a Calvino en sus _Seis propuestas_.\n\n\u00bfEs posible narrar la condici\u00f3n \u00edntima en que surgen las palabras, recuperar sus claves privadas, el m\u00e9todo oculto tras el M\u00e9todo? \u00bfSe puede lograr una etimolog\u00eda narrativa, fundada en el acontecer que hace posible el lenguaje? Siguiendo la estela que Walter Benjamin traza en su ensayo \u00abEl narrador\u00bb, Handke advierte un agotamiento de la experiencia. El trabajo y las condiciones de la vida diaria se han vuelto est\u00e1ndar, rutinarias, intercambiables. La \u00e9pica de sobrevivir \u2013tema esencial de la novela de desarrollo\u2013 desemboc\u00f3 en una previsible cadena de tr\u00e1mites. Tiempos de burocracia y supermercados.\n\nEn un riguroso anticipo de la alienaci\u00f3n posindustrial, Kafka despleg\u00f3 una paranoica po\u00e9tica de la Oficina \u2013el expediente como castigadora tabla de la ley\u2013, un universo donde lo individual se difumina. \u00bfC\u00f3mo recuperar la singularidad en una era de documentos numerados, producci\u00f3n en serie, signos globales y turismo en masa?\n\nEl presupuesto esencial para renovar la mirada del narrador consiste en desconfiar de sus propios instrumentos. Si la fotograf\u00eda trat\u00f3 de despojarse del referente de la pintura y el cine del referente del teatro, Handke desea que la literatura se libere de lo \u00abliterario\u00bb. Esto no implica abandonar el lenguaje en curso ni hacer estallar el alfabeto. Handke opera con una lengua asentada en la tradici\u00f3n y la trabaja con notable virtuosismo. Sus cuidadas atm\u00f3sferas encapsulan lo real de modo revelador y cristalino. Con frecuencia se apoya en citas cl\u00e1sicas; Goethe es su sostenido _\u00dcbermeister_ (su maestro superior), y acude al rigor conceptual de Wittgenstein para sopesar palabras.\n\nEl desplazamiento que propone no tiene que ver con la vanguardia ni con un cambio epid\u00e9rmico en el lenguaje, sino con otra manera de pensar el mundo. En _Historia del l\u00e1piz_ afirma: \u00abEntender la dimensi\u00f3n concreta de una palabra abstracta (\"forma\", por ejemplo) es hacer filosof\u00eda.\u00bb Sus textos buscan el sentido profundo de lo evanescente, pero, a diferencia del fil\u00f3sofo, no aplica el procedimiento al campo de las ideas sino al entorno com\u00fan, muchas veces vinculado con la cultura pop o con zonas sin prestigio cultural, como los suburbios de las ciudades, las afueras que parecen existir al margen de toda necesidad de ser narradas.\n\nEn los a\u00f1os sesenta, Handke surgi\u00f3 como una especie de Bob Dylan de la literatura alemana. Sus temas no eran ajenos a la contracultura ni a la provocaci\u00f3n. La obra de teatro _Insultos al p\u00fablico_ , la novela _El miedo del portero al penalty_ , el libro de poemas _El mundo interior del mundo exterior del mundo interior_ , su traducci\u00f3n de _El amigo americano_ , novela negra de Patricia Highsmith, y los guiones para el cineasta Wim Wenders le dieron la enga\u00f1osa notoriedad de un _enfant terrible_ que operaba en los l\u00edmites entre lo culto y lo popular. Su novela _Carta breve para un largo adi\u00f3s_ , que narra una errancia sin br\u00fajula por Estados Unidos, parec\u00eda la respuesta europea, adiestrada en el existencialismo, a _En el camino_ , de Jack Kerouac. Sin embargo, las carreteras, el futbol y el rock adquir\u00edan en sus p\u00e1ginas una densidad peculiar. Desde su t\u00edtulo, _El miedo del portero al penalty_ vincula filosof\u00eda y cotidianidad: el concepto de _angst_ , \u00abangustia existencial\u00bb (traducido en la edici\u00f3n espa\u00f1ola como \u00abmiedo\u00bb), aparece en el l\u00fadico \u00e1mbito del deporte: Heidegger tiene la pelota.\n\nLos primeros textos de Handke anuncian su empe\u00f1o de entender la trascendencia de las situaciones simples. Su diario lleva el t\u00edtulo de _El peso del mundo_ no porque el autor se encuentre en ampuloso estado de profundidad, sino porque indaga la gravedad de lo peque\u00f1o, el momento en que lo real se resquebraja y sobreviene el asombro, el contacto con lo inefable, el instante en que la televisi\u00f3n capta a un esquiador que salta al aire y sale de la toma sin que se sepa ad\u00f3nde fue: el enigma de lo diario.\n\nPara Heidegger, el significado antecede a las palabras. En _El ser y el tiempo_ afirma: \u00abA las significaciones les brotan palabras, lejos de que a esas cosas que se llaman palabras se las provea de significaciones.\u00bb El gesto, y aun el silencio, son formas del habla. En su epistemolog\u00eda narrativa, Handke se ocupa de rasgos nimios que parecen anteriores a la formulaci\u00f3n del idioma. Para ello requiere de un extra\u00f1amiento, un desaprendizaje. Percibidas de otro modo, las palabras de siempre integran otro discurso.\n\nLa trayectoria de Handke ha sido una progresiva investigaci\u00f3n de misterios m\u00ednimos. Para poner a prueba su perspectiva ha emprendido una curiosa vida de escritor errante, sin domicilio definido o con domicilios en periferias ajenas a la costumbre codificada de las ciudades. A diferencia de Bruce Chatwin, no viaja para conocer otras culturas sino para desconocerse en ellas: \u00abEspero pacientemente pensamientos que no quiero. Esos son los que cuentan\u00bb, escribe en _El peso del mundo_.\n\nEn esta est\u00e9tica del desarraigo, Handke ha tenido muy presente una idea de Simone Weil: despojar a alguien de su lugar de pertenencia es un ultraje, pero desarraigarse a s\u00ed mismo una liberaci\u00f3n. Para evitar prenociones f\u00e1ciles, cambia de mirador, en continuo movimiento. Estar fuera de sitio, incluso en el lugar de residencia, se convierte para \u00e9l en una opci\u00f3n \u00e9tica, en concordancia con lo que Theodor W. Adorno afirma en su autobiograf\u00eda intelectual, _Minima Moralia_ : \u00abPertenece a la moral no sentirse en casa al estar en casa.\u00bb\n\nPero es con Walter Benjamin con quien Handke guarda mayores afinidades. Ambos perciben la infancia como un territorio del deseo que la imaginaci\u00f3n recupera a trav\u00e9s de la poes\u00eda o el pensamiento; escriben una prol\u00edfica obra fragmentaria que depende de las nociones de traslado y pasaje; analizan intelectualmente lo popular; consideran que la \u00fanica estrategia para entender la vida secreta de un lugar es el extrav\u00edo, e intuyen que la experiencia del mundo tiene un sustrato religioso, perceptible a trav\u00e9s de la \u00abiluminaci\u00f3n profana\u00bb.\n\nEl paseante benjaminiano combina el movimiento con la actitud contemplativa: una intensidad que se desplaza. En _Historia del l\u00e1piz_ , el n\u00f3mada Handke resalta la importancia de la contemplaci\u00f3n como forma de conocimiento: \u00abCuando miro (en vez de contemplar) apago los colores del mundo.\u00bb La idea de iluminaci\u00f3n trascendente habita esta frase. La mirada del narrador debe ser la del extraviado atento: se pone en situaci\u00f3n para distraerse y ser sorprendido. Al descubrir su presa repentina, la observa como si siempre la hubiese deseado, en pos de una epifan\u00eda, una irradiaci\u00f3n que exceda el sentido habitual de ese objetivo.\n\nEn la era de la velocidad y las pantallas digitales, Handke viaja mucho, pero sus ojos no tienen prisa; buscan lo inmanente, la unidad secreta en lo disperso. La tarea, por supuesto, es infinita y puede hartar al lector e incluso al narrador.\n\nUna obra que sigue este precepto solo puede ser extensa: el espejo no deja de reflejar. El cronista secreto de lo diario no puede detenerse; se concibe como un instrumento para que lo real se piense a s\u00ed mismo. Su m\u00e9todo no es otro que el flujo de los d\u00edas. Como Goethe en sus conversaciones con Eckermann, podr\u00eda afirmar: \u00abNo soy yo quien se ha hecho.\u00bb La pausa podr\u00eda significar una omisi\u00f3n, la p\u00e9rdida del accidente esperado. El testigo \u00edntimo de las cosas no mutila sus revelaciones ni desea volverlas artificialmente atractivas transform\u00e1ndolas en \u00abhistorias\u00bb.\n\n\u00abLa prosa es la idea de la poes\u00eda\u00bb, escribe Benjamin. La frase define los dispositivos literarios de Handke. Ah\u00ed, el pensamiento interroga a la naturaleza para objetivarse en una imagen: \u00abUna sensaci\u00f3n no est\u00e1 completa hasta que es una imagen\u00bb, apunta en _Am Felsenfenster morgens_. La narraci\u00f3n representa, en este sentido, un interregno, la _imagen_ entre la poes\u00eda y la idea. En _Peque\u00f1as doctrinas de la soledad_ , el fil\u00f3sofo Miguel Morey se ocupa del tema con agudeza: \u00abEl arte que Handke despliega en sus cuadernos de notas consiste en ubicar una mirada cognoscitiva en el espacio intermedio de la imagen [...] entre el est\u00edmulo y el concepto.\u00bb No es casual que Handke hable de _Inbilder_ (im\u00e1genes surgidas de una esencia interior) como Benjamin habla de _Denkbilder_ (im\u00e1genes reflexivas, mentales).\n\nEl recurso m\u00e1s confiable del que dispone el narrador es su propia introspecci\u00f3n. Con frecuencia Handke ha sido acusado de narcisismo o solipsismo. El representante de la generaci\u00f3n del 68 se transform\u00f3 para muchos en un peregrino que incluso en la Guerra de Bosnia predic\u00f3 la buc\u00f3lica religi\u00f3n de un solo hombre y al volver a la arena p\u00fablica lo hizo cargado de furia y disparate para defender al genocida Milo\u0161evi\u00b4c.\n\nLa trayectoria de Handke no ha estado libre de los desencuentros que cortej\u00f3 desde _Insultos al p\u00fablico_. Otra obra de teatro de aquel periodo, _Kaspar_ , trata del aislamiento extremo y la imposibilidad de reeducar a quien ha pensado al margen de la norma. Para Handke, el descastado, m\u00e1s que una v\u00edctima, es un h\u00e9roe de la singularidad. De alg\u00fan modo, el escritor austr\u00edaco se ha otorgado a s\u00ed mismo ese papel, poco simp\u00e1tico en una \u00e9poca que socializa a trav\u00e9s de los medios y las redes de internet, y con frecuencia exasperante, dada la necesaria desconsideraci\u00f3n del juicio ajeno que supone una obra tan personal. Sin embargo, ese desarraigo ha sido estrat\u00e9gico para desarrollar su original b\u00fasqueda de significados. Handke no viaja para conocer lugares sino para interrogarse en ellos. \u00bfQu\u00e9 implica, en su caso, llegar a la meta? La respuesta se encuentra en _Cuando desear todav\u00eda era \u00fatil_ , uno de sus libros tempranos, cuyo t\u00edtulo retoma el lema de los cuentos de hadas de los hermanos Grimm: \u00abEra como la Tierra Prometida, pero no en el sentido del para\u00edso, sino en el sentido de que por fin se revelaba tal cual el sentido del mundo, sin encubrimientos ni tergiversaciones.\u00bb\n\nEn la _Fenomenolog\u00eda del esp\u00edritu_ , Hegel advierte que \u00abla vida de la mente solo alcanza su verdad cuando se descubre en estado de absoluta desolaci\u00f3n\u00bb. Handke busca una soledad inc\u00f3moda pero no se asume como un m\u00e1rtir de las ideas originales; no es un eremita en pos de la revelaci\u00f3n sagrada, aunque su contemplaci\u00f3n se acerque a lo inefable. La soledad es para \u00e9l un problema que aspira a superar en el texto; descarta las prenociones para descentrarse y pensar con novedad a trav\u00e9s de las cosas que mira. Al respecto escribe en _El peso del mundo_ : \u00abInsistir en la contemplaci\u00f3n, aplazar la opini\u00f3n hasta que nazca la gravedad de una sensaci\u00f3n vital.\u00bb Hay que ponerse de parte de las cosas para entenderlas en su propia l\u00f3gica.\n\nEncontrar el sentido de la experiencia escapa a los fines habituales de la narraci\u00f3n. En _Ensayo sobre el cansancio_ el testigo errabundo se reclama: \u00abca\u00edste, contra tu voluntad, casi en la narraci\u00f3n\u00bb. Imperativo del indagador literario: necesita contar para acceder a una verdad, pero debe abstenerse de _solo_ contar. No es casual que tres de sus relatos lleven el nombre de \u00abensayos\u00bb _(Ensayo sobre el jukebox, Ensayo sobre el cansancio, Ensayo sobre el d\u00eda logrado)_. Si, como afirma Alfonso Reyes, el ensayo es una bestia h\u00edbrida, el \u00abcentauro de los g\u00e9neros\u00bb, el caballo de la narraci\u00f3n guiado por el jinete del pensamiento, se podr\u00eda decir que Handke invierte esta relaci\u00f3n y se ocupa de la caminata del fil\u00f3sofo guiada por el instinto del narrador.\n\nCuando aborda la tarea del h\u00e9roe, se interesa en su cansancio. Admira a Philip Marlowe, el detective de Raymond Chandler, que pasa d\u00edas en vela investigando y se repone del insomnio con una ducha y una afeitada. Tambi\u00e9n refiere el mitol\u00f3gico agotamiento de Ulises. Cuando los protagonistas son incapaces de generar acciones, piensan de otro modo. Extenuados, se liberan del acontecer; al margen de su trama, reflexionan.\n\nHandke no est\u00e1 muy seguro de sus reacciones ni quiere estarlo; es su propio campo de experimentaci\u00f3n; desea ser tomado por sorpresa. Su trayecto no sigue el sentido de la consecuencia de una historia. En sus novelas la trama rara vez se desarrolla con destreza; resulta ocioso preguntarse qu\u00e9 va a suceder porque ah\u00ed nada sucede con tanta fuerza como el conocimiento sutil del mundo. Dependiendo de los gustos, Handke puede aburrir poco, mucho o nada. Su excepcional prosa capta con minucia los pliegues de la realidad y parece dotar de tiempo y relajaci\u00f3n a las cosas que mira: un devenir sedoso, amortiguado, donde la vida se intensifica y permite contemplar los corp\u00fasculos de polvo que flotan en la luz o los cristales que la nieve forma en una ventana. Rara vez la prosa alemana ha alcanzado una consistencia tan d\u00factil y po\u00e9tica para levantar el detallado catastro del d\u00eda cualquiera. El idioma se acerca a la experiencia m\u00edstica, pero se detiene antes de llegar all\u00ed. El narrador no repudia su yo ni la necesidad de nombrarlo todo; no est\u00e1 sobredeterminado por un sistema trascendente que lleva a la Revelaci\u00f3n. Un nerviosismo de fondo inquieta sus ideas; la neurosis cr\u00edtica impide la iluminaci\u00f3n total.\n\nUna y otra vez, Handke se refiere al l\u00edmite de las palabras, la dificultad de aprehender lo que sucede, la condici\u00f3n transitoria de la lengua, que debe huir de los t\u00f3picos pero tambi\u00e9n de sus hallazgos. La meditaci\u00f3n no lo vuelve uno con el mundo. Su deslumbrante idioma es percibido por \u00e9l mismo como una limitaci\u00f3n, una torpeza, un balbuceo que interroga sin respuesta.\n\nPara los rom\u00e1nticos alemanes, la reflexi\u00f3n conduce a un proceso infinito: el pensamiento del pensamiento. Novalis insiste en el car\u00e1cter provisional de todo acto cognitivo. En su aproximaci\u00f3n a la realidad, Handke act\u00faa de la misma forma: sus im\u00e1genes no son una meta; articulan un camino cuyo sentido es seguir adelante. Su prol\u00edfica obra tambi\u00e9n se explica por la imposibilidad de ofrecer una conclusi\u00f3n. La idea de clausura se opone a la del escritor en tr\u00e1nsito.\n\nEl \u00fanico libro ortodoxo de Walter Benjamin fue su tesis de doctorado, _El concepto de la cr\u00edtica de arte en el romanticismo alem\u00e1n_. Sin embargo, incluso en ese trabajo acad\u00e9mico afirma en el ep\u00edgrafe, tomado de Goethe, que el pensamiento no debe ofrecer una prolongaci\u00f3n de lo ya dicho sino una \u00abs\u00edntesis misteriosa\u00bb. Una idea vale la pena si no agota su sentido, si conserva un aura enigm\u00e1tica, un desorden sugerente, capaz de conducir a otra interpretaci\u00f3n, a otra pregunta.\n\n\u00abSi queremos concebir la naturaleza tenemos que suponerla incompleta\u00bb, escribe Novalis. La realidad solo adquiere unidad por los trabajos de la mente. Pensar y narrar son modos de acercarse a lo incompleto, de proponer un todo, sabiendo que el esfuerzo no pasa de ser una conjetura.\n\nHandke indaga la verdad con los recursos del relato reflexivo. Un pasaje de _Historia del l\u00e1piz_ resume su procedimiento: \u00abLa experiencia de la verdad, cuando se intenta hacer su relato, hace nacer, por s\u00ed misma, la invenci\u00f3n. Las circunstancias exteriores se disipan entonces necesariamente para volver sensible la verdad y luego retoman su lugar en la invenci\u00f3n.\u00bb En otras palabras, el acto creativo existe en potencia fuera del creador, pertenece al orden del mundo m\u00e1s que a la subjetividad. La torre de marfil en la que tantas veces se ha confinado a Handke representa, a su peculiar manera, un observatorio social: \u00abLa narraci\u00f3n que inventa es, siempre y cuando se haya hecho esta experiencia de la \"verdad\", un objeto de evidencia. \u00bfY c\u00f3mo puedo saber que he hecho una experiencia de lo verdadero? Porque es absolutamente necesario que la cuente.\u00bb\n\nEl criterio de veracidad as\u00ed expuesto resulta por fuerza personal y no necesariamente compartible. Handke lo sabe y en este sentido sus libros son zonas de prueba, _oportunidades_ para la verdad: \u00abEl arte no prescribe, no ordena, tan solo da ejemplos, pero rigurosos.\u00bb\n\nLas narraciones de Handke no se ven interrumpidas por pasajes ensay\u00edsticos; son el tipo de ensayo que puede construirse desde la narraci\u00f3n. Al modo de Novalis, no devela un misterio: crea otro que modifica la reflexi\u00f3n.\n\nEn su proceso de refundaci\u00f3n narrativa, el caminante reflexivo lleg\u00f3 en 1994 a un episodio singular, la extensa novela _Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_. En esta obra todo gira en torno a la noci\u00f3n de lugar. Poeta de la errancia, Handke se ha significado por escribir desde entornos que le son ajenos sin resultarle ex\u00f3ticos, territorios que se prestan para una puesta en blanco del escenario y sus costumbres.\n\n_Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_ es protagonizada por un escritor y siete amigos que recorren el mundo globalizado. Hay muchos viajes pero ninguno de ellos resulta esencial a la trama. Los desplazamientos se suceden como en una partida de Turista o Monopoly. Un personaje puede estar en Tokio y luego en Alaska sin que eso importe demasiado; lo significativo es la ausencia que produce. Uno de los ejes de la trama es el conocimiento que podemos tener de los dem\u00e1s cuando no est\u00e1n presentes, lo que gravita en nosotros por negatividad, cancelaci\u00f3n e incumplimiento, la fuerza de lo que es anhelo o recuerdo y afecta por lejan\u00eda, sin cumplirse como hecho.\n\nLa novela retrata a la generaci\u00f3n anterior a internet; para ellos, la comunicaci\u00f3n a distancia es incierta y discontinua. Siempre deseoso de establecer resonancias b\u00edblicas, Handke habla del viaje como _Sternfahrt_ : cada peregrino sigue su estrella.\n\nEl aislamiento de los amigos, y la dificultad de romperlo, hacen que el silencio gane peso y las relaciones se interioricen. Desde la Bah\u00eda de Nadie, el protagonista evoca a los suyos con una intensidad que perder\u00eda fuerza en caso de poder hablarles. Al mismo tiempo, estar solo le permite sumirse en la realidad de un modo que ser\u00eda imposible en la distractora compa\u00f1\u00eda de los dem\u00e1s.\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo narrar lo no sucedido? De manera elocuente, al protagonista se le borra la imagen de uno de sus amigos, no recuerda sus facciones ni el resto de su aspecto f\u00edsico; se ve obligado a tenerlo presente solo por la impronta interior que conserva de \u00e9l (su _Inbild)_. La paradoja de estas afinidades electivas es que dependen de la distancia y ganan peso en el recuerdo y la conciencia.\n\nLa novela est\u00e1 compuesta por un largo pre\u00e1mbulo donde el narrador establece las condiciones de su escritura, su manera de ver la realidad, su po\u00e9tica. Luego sobrevienen siete relatos sobre los amigos ausentes. Por \u00faltimo, se explora el impacto de esa manera de narrar en el propio narrador. Las preguntas esenciales de las tres largas partes ser\u00edan, sucesivamente: \u00bfc\u00f3mo?, \u00bfqu\u00e9?, \u00bfpara qu\u00e9? Ninguna de ellas se responde del todo; cuestionar no sirve para hallar una conclusi\u00f3n, sino para guiar un estilo de pensamiento.\n\nLa primera parte adiestra al lector en el tipo de relato que lee. \u00bfEs posible escribir algo nuevo en un planeta explorado hasta el \u00faltimo detalle? \u00bfDe qu\u00e9 modo podemos redescubrirlo? Handke practica una ecolog\u00eda de lo no advertido o de lo que a\u00fan no adquiere pleno sentido. Por un lado, se ocupa de los remanentes de la naturaleza, lo que perdura como residuo en medio de la vida industrial; por otro, exalta lo artificial innombrado, los suburbios, los pol\u00edgonos industriales, las bodegas definidas por el vac\u00edo, las periferias no prestigiadas por la est\u00e9tica.\n\nEn _Cuando desear todav\u00eda era \u00fatil_ dedic\u00f3 un cap\u00edtulo con fotograf\u00edas al suburbio corporativo de La D\u00e9fense, en las orillas de Par\u00eds. El escenario parec\u00eda una maqueta. Un sitio inhumano cuyo mayor grado de perversi\u00f3n consist\u00eda en proponerse como un sitio habitable. Dos d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s ubic\u00f3 _Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_ en una ciudad dormitorio a las afueras de Par\u00eds, incrustada entre el bosque y las autopistas. Si Goethe ped\u00eda romantizar la naturaleza, Handke romantiza una segunda naturaleza, un orden artificial, hecho de remanentes urbanos y elementos transitorios, un enclave de paso.\n\nEn la novela donde todos se desplazan sin que importen las metas que persiguen, el Sitio de Sitios, el punto de confluencia, es un \u00abno lugar\u00bb, la geograf\u00eda de ninguna parte, un espacio suburbano anodino, habitado por inmigrantes, la Bah\u00eda de Nadie. El desaf\u00edo consiste en dotar de sentido a un escenario que parece resistirse a toda particularizaci\u00f3n. A prop\u00f3sito de esta invenci\u00f3n del espacio pregunta F\u00e9lix de Az\u00faa: \u00ab\u00bfConserva la narraci\u00f3n actual un poder creativo capaz de construir un lugar que no exija un contrato con el mito y que asuma plenamente la destrucci\u00f3n posindustrial de los actuales espacios de poblaci\u00f3n almacenada?\u00bb Handke construye una regi\u00f3n que no muestra huellas del cine o la literatura, la historia o la leyenda, un territorio sin alma ni color local que, al mismo tiempo, resulta intensamente familiar.\n\n\u00bfHasta d\u00f3nde es posible narrar sin referencias culturales? Handke act\u00faa como si la religi\u00f3n, la mitolog\u00eda, la pol\u00edtica y la tradici\u00f3n no hubiesen dejado su marca y debi\u00e9ramos aprender de nuevo la l\u00f3gica de un lugar. Para ello escoge el terreno m\u00e1s insulso, una parda ciudad dormitorio. No brinda una f\u00e1bula del comienzo ubicada en un _topos_ singular (Santa Mar\u00eda, Comala, Yoknapatawpha); reinventa con la mirada lo ya construido y degradado, lo que parece haber nacido para la indiferencia, pero que, secretamente, define nuestra \u00e9poca con mayor fuerza que lo \u00abt\u00edpico\u00bb.\n\nEl urbanismo de extrarradio suele ser ajeno a los referentes locales y guiarse por un criterio que homologa los espacios, volvi\u00e9ndolos indiferenciados. Ciudades como aeropuertos o estaciones interplanetarias. Estamos, como sugiere Paul Virilio, ante \u00abel crep\u00fasculo de los lugares\u00bb. \u00bfEs posible captar la particularidad de lo que se edifica como si ya hubiera desaparecido? Para Az\u00faa, la pregunta que define el m\u00e9todo de Handke es: \u00ab\u00bfC\u00f3mo devolver a la experiencia la incredulidad?\u00bb \u00bfPodemos regresar con sorpresa a lo ya conocido e incluso a lo ya descartado? El narrador de la novela comenta que no es posible contar como los rusos del siglo XIX o los norteamericanos de la primera mitad del siglo XX que ten\u00edan a la mano una reserva ilimitada de nuevos acontecimientos.\n\nEn sus tiempos de Viena, el protagonista de la novela trabaj\u00f3 como abogado. Luego pas\u00f3 a la diplomacia. Estos oficios lo pusieron en contacto con un arsenal de an\u00e9cdotas, intrigas y bajas pasiones. Sin embargo, nada de eso le parece verdaderamente literario; se trata de un acontecer efectista pero carente de misterio, que no pide ser investigado. Por m\u00e1s interesantes que sean esas historias, no ponen a prueba la percepci\u00f3n que el narrador tiene del mundo, solo desaf\u00edan su destreza t\u00e9cnica.\n\nAl protagonista le resulta sugerente la minuciosa aproximaci\u00f3n de Tuc\u00eddides a los hechos, pero su campo no es la historia. El derecho romano, que particulariza los casos y distingue un crimen donde la sangre de la v\u00edctima escurre hasta el suelo de uno donde no sucede as\u00ed, le resulta atractivo, pero tampoco se ve a s\u00ed mismo como legislador.\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo explorar lo real sin acudir a discursos extraliterarios ni a las emociones efectistas de una trama? _Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_ surge de esta tensi\u00f3n. No en balde comenta el protagonista: \u00abYo, el catalogador, como enemigo interior de mi otro yo, el narrador.\u00bb\n\n\u00bfHasta d\u00f3nde puede avanzar un registro literario sin ser codificado por la forma? Handke se sirve del m\u00e1s d\u00factil de los g\u00e9neros, la novela, cuya tradici\u00f3n es un ejercicio pol\u00e9mico (de _Ulises_ a _Respiraci\u00f3n artificial_ , las grandes obras del g\u00e9nero se proponen contradecirlo) en busca de otro g\u00e9nero: un nuevo _M\u00e4rchen_ , el cuento de hadas de la edad moderna, una desencantada f\u00e1bula moral.\n\nAl reinventar el espacio, _Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_ pretende establecer las condiciones para otro tipo de narraci\u00f3n: \u00abTen\u00eda el presentimiento de que el lugar actuaba sobre mi narraci\u00f3n como si la acreditara.\u00bb El protagonista busca una mirada que opere \u00abpor encima del hombro\u00bb, una forma indirecta de conocer, de atrapar las cosas cuando no quieren ser vistas: una cartograf\u00eda in\u00e9dita de lo pr\u00f3ximo. \u00abPara m\u00ed, el nuevo mundo es lo cotidiano\u00bb, comenta.\n\nEn la dial\u00e9ctica de la distancia que se impone Handke, resulta decisivo no sustituir un costumbrismo por otro. El narrador no se ha instalado en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie para investigarla de modo evidente. Al relacionarse con los lugare\u00f1os, si acaso les pregunta algo es \u00abpor debilidad\u00bb. Procura conocer \u2013conocerse\u2013 sin incorporarse, conservando la diferencia de ser \u00abel otro\u00bb. Se trata, en resumidas cuentas, de seguir la estrategia del paseante de Benjamin, extravi\u00e1ndose a voluntad, pero no como el _fl\u00e2neur_ en una gran ciudad, sino en una periferia hecha para ser descartada por la vista. Si Ulises y las canciones de blues proponen el retorno a \u00cdtaca, a un refugio despu\u00e9s del trabajo deshumanizante _(\u00abI want to go home\u00bb)_ , Handke propone una _Odisea_ al rev\u00e9s donde lo importante consiste en descubrir la extra\u00f1eza en la propia casa.\n\nLa segunda parte de la novela est\u00e1 constituida por los relatos de los siete amigos distantes. Se trata de cuentos morales y no es casual que Handke aluda de continuo a las _Novelas ejemplares_ de Cervantes. Los amigos del narrador son vistos m\u00e1s como arquetipos que como personajes \u00fanicos y contradictorios; se les describe a partir de su vocaci\u00f3n (el Arquitecto, el Lector) o de su relaci\u00f3n con el protagonista (uno de ellos es, b\u00edblicamente, el Hijo, y la mujer que ama es, territorialmente, la Catalana). Las figuras as\u00ed distanciadas refuerzan la idea de leer un _M\u00e4rchen_ , cuyo reparto es una tipolog\u00eda: el Ogro, el Hada, el Pr\u00edncipe.\n\nEn este tramo de la novela abundan los sucesos. Se habla de profesiones, amores, una guerra civil en Alemania, lecturas, pel\u00edculas, m\u00fasica. Sin embargo, todo eso es un dilatado pretexto para llegar a la tercera y definitiva fase del libro, que a su vez comprende tres unidades temporales: una d\u00e9cada, un a\u00f1o, un d\u00eda. En el \u00faltimo episodio los personajes dispersos visitan al narrador. Es el fin: ya no pueden ser narrados a distancia.\n\nLa caprichosa estructura de la novela \u2013una trama que avanza aplazando\u2013, el narrador autorreferente que comenta lo que escribe y la minuciosa historia natural del entorno \u2013la nueva ecolog\u00eda del _M\u00e4rchen\u2013_ hacen que el libro sea por momentos intransitable. El propio narrador se refiere a la torpeza de su construcci\u00f3n. En la medida en que indaga una forma ajena a los c\u00e1nones y los gustos en curso, admite la posibilidad de fracaso. Quien busque defectos en esta obra los encontrar\u00e1 con tanta facilidad y tan se\u00f1alados por el propio autor que perder\u00e1 el placer de criticarlos. En su condici\u00f3n de ejercicio al margen, la novela polemiza con el g\u00e9nero y desnuda sus limitaciones: solo se refunda lo imperfecto.\n\nLa apuesta es may\u00fascula: encontrar el orden oculto del mundo, fijar lo que surgi\u00f3 para pasar inadvertido, traicionar la vocaci\u00f3n de anonimato del espacio contempor\u00e1neo, dejar huella.\n\nEl proceso requiere de una voz a medio camino entre el ensayo y la fabulaci\u00f3n, o, mejor dicho, requiere de la fusi\u00f3n de ambos g\u00e9neros en un nuevo discurso. Novela de intersecciones, _Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_ se ubica en un cruce de autopistas, entre una gran ciudad y un bosque, y entre dos g\u00e9neros literarios. Su logro esencial consiste en no perder su condici\u00f3n lim\u00edtrofe, fronteriza, de habitar un hueco.\n\nEl temperamento del narrador participa de estos cruces. A prop\u00f3sito de Dostoievski, Kafka escribi\u00f3 en su _Diario_ : \u00abM\u00e9todo especial de pensamiento. Impregnado de sensibilidad.\u00bb En sus _Inbilder_ , Handke _piensa_ la sensaci\u00f3n y _siente_ la abstracci\u00f3n.\n\n_Mi a\u00f1o en la Bah\u00eda de Nadie_ representa un lugar de dudas, una zona de incertidumbre donde lo permanente est\u00e1 en tr\u00e1nsito. En _El peso del mundo_ escribe el autor: \u00abLiteratura: descubrir los lugares todav\u00eda no ocupados por el sentido.\u00bb La Bah\u00eda de Nadie ofrece esa revelaci\u00f3n. El nombre del sitio es un apodo, inventado por el narrador cuando contempla el territorio desde una torre y advierte su silueta de puerto posible.\n\nEdificado contra la interpretaci\u00f3n, amorfo, meramente utilitario, ese suburbio que se pretende transitorio origina otra forma de narraci\u00f3n. Como sab\u00edan los hermanos Grimm, el bosque del encantamiento no depende de los \u00e1rboles sino del paseante.\n\nPeter Handke camina entre los signos. \n\n# III. La orilla latinoamericana \n### \u00abHIST\u00d3RICAS PEQUE\u00d1ECES\u00bb\n\nVertientes narrativas en Ram\u00f3n L\u00f3pez Velarde\n\nUN CL\u00c1SICO REVISITADO\n\nMuerto a los treinta y tres a\u00f1os, Ram\u00f3n L\u00f3pez Velarde ingres\u00f3 de inmediato en la leyenda. Jos\u00e9 Vasconcelos, ministro de Educaci\u00f3n, edit\u00f3 sesenta mil ejemplares de la revista _El Maestro_ con su poema \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb, y el presidente \u00c1lvaro Obreg\u00f3n decret\u00f3 tres d\u00edas de luto c\u00edvico.\n\nNo hay nada m\u00e1s equ\u00edvoco que un \u00abpoeta nacional\u00bb, como se ha llamado a L\u00f3pez Velarde. Nadie puede suplantar con sus versos a un pa\u00eds. El autor de _La sangre devota_ ha contado con el dudoso privilegio de representar las esquivas esencias vern\u00e1culas. Tambi\u00e9n ha sido el poeta m\u00e1s y mejor le\u00eddo de M\u00e9xico, de la temprana interpretaci\u00f3n de Xavier Villaurrutia a las rigurosas ediciones preparadas por Jos\u00e9 Luis Mart\u00ednez, pasando por los ensayos decisivos de Allen W. Phillips, Martha Canfield, Octavio Paz, Gabriel Zaid y Jos\u00e9 Emilio Pacheco. Autores de mi generaci\u00f3n o cercanos a ella, como Luis Miguel Aguilar, Marco Antonio Campos, Guillermo Sheridan, David Huerta, Gonzalo Celorio, Vicente Quirarte, V\u00edctor Manuel Mendiola y Eduardo Hurtado han contribuido a mantener viva la flama de su poes\u00eda.\n\nEn 1946 afirmaba Jos\u00e9 Luis Mart\u00ednez: \u00abTodos coincidimos, caso excepcional en este pa\u00eds de d\u00edscolos, en la preferencia, en la adhesi\u00f3n y en el amor por la poes\u00eda y la prosa de L\u00f3pez Velarde.\u00bb\n\nDesde entonces nada ha escapado a la pericia cr\u00edtica. Se han discutido minucias como la referencia al \u00abala de mosca\u00bb, tela transl\u00facida ideal para el truco po\u00e9tico de ocultar y revelar un cuerpo, y sus influencias han sido aclaradas; nuestro poeta desciende de G\u00f3ngora, Valle-Incl\u00e1n, Nervo, Laforgue, Lugones, Oth\u00f3n, Rodenbach y Baudelaire. En un brillante ensayo, el escritor potosino Juan Noyola V\u00e1zquez esclareci\u00f3 las deudas de L\u00f3pez Velarde con el espa\u00f1ol Andr\u00e9s Gonz\u00e1lez Blanco, que entendi\u00f3 la provincia como un sitio abandonado al que regresa la memoria adolorida:\n\naquella melanc\u00f3lica\n\ncapital de provincia\n\ndesoladamente burocr\u00e1tica\n\nEn estos versos se insin\u00faa la \u00abtristeza reaccionaria\u00bb del poeta mexicano.\n\nRam\u00f3n Modesto L\u00f3pez Velarde naci\u00f3 en Jerez, Zacatecas, en 1888. Alcanz\u00f3 la madurez po\u00e9tica de 1908 a 1921, a\u00f1o de su muerte, lo cual significa que escribi\u00f3 durante la Revoluci\u00f3n. Su acendrado catolicismo no le impidi\u00f3 colaborar con Francisco I. Madero. Esta militancia y su tard\u00edo poema \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb permitieron que fuera visto como un autor \u00abnacionalista\u00bb e incluso \u00abrevolucionario\u00bb. No falt\u00f3 quien le atribuyera fragmentos del Plan de San Luis.\n\nL\u00f3pez Velarde cre\u00eda en el libre juego democr\u00e1tico; apoy\u00f3 a Madero, pero repudiaba la violencia y lanz\u00f3 dardos contra Zapata.\n\nEn junio de 1914, una divisi\u00f3n villista mat\u00f3 a Inocencio L\u00f3pez Velarde, t\u00edo del poeta y sacerdote en su bautizo. El asesinato reforz\u00f3 su rechazo a la lucha armada. No sabemos c\u00f3mo habr\u00eda reaccionado ante la Guerra Cristera o ante el M\u00e9xico jacobino y posrevolucionario.\n\nEn un ejercicio desmitificador, Jos\u00e9 Emilio Pacheco lo imagina favorecido por el presidente Miguel Alem\u00e1n, quien fue su alumno en la preparatoria, ocupando cargos en la burocracia cultural, convertido en una parda gloria oficialista. En ese mundo paralelo fabulado por Pacheco, el poeta venerado es Pedro Requena Legarreta, quien muri\u00f3 a los veinticinco a\u00f1os y que hoy casi nadie recuerda. Ignoramos lo que L\u00f3pez Velarde habr\u00eda hecho para consolidar o entorpecer su trayectoria con una vida dilatada.\n\nLa posteridad est\u00e1 hecha de malentendidos y modifica la vida de sus favoritos. L\u00f3pez Velarde es un personaje central del relato de la modernidad mexicana. Vivi\u00f3 en crisis con su pa\u00eds, pero su destino fue similar al de Jos\u00e9 Guadalupe Posada. El grabador muri\u00f3 en el anonimato, sin saber que era un artista. En forma p\u00f3stuma, fue convertido en precursor de una revoluci\u00f3n en la que no cre\u00eda. Su talento para trazar cuadros de costumbres y sintonizar con el humor del pueblo hizo que, por extensi\u00f3n, se asumiera que militaba en causas progresistas. No fue as\u00ed. Revolucion\u00f3 el grabado sin compartir la ideolog\u00eda revolucionaria.\n\nA diferencia de Posada, L\u00f3pez Velarde s\u00ed fue maderista, pero no crey\u00f3 en las promesas de los dem\u00e1s caudillos. Como ha se\u00f1alado Gabriel Zaid, su nacionalismo es el del criollo que defiende la identidad amenazada por la influencia norteamericana. No busca el pintoresquismo ni la acorazada permanencia de la tradici\u00f3n. Su estilo para buscar lo propio es audaz. Zaid resume esta tensi\u00f3n con una frase maestra: en L\u00f3pez Velarde encontramos \u00abla mala conciencia original\u00edsima que exalta los valores de una manera muy poco tradicional\u00bb. Al defender la costumbre, la transforma.\n\nOctavio Paz precis\u00f3 los l\u00edmites del fervor patrio velardiano: \u00abSu nacionalismo brota de su est\u00e9tica \u2013y no a la inversa. Es parte de su amor a esa realidad que todos los d\u00edas vemos con mirada desatenta y que espera unos ojos que la salven. Su nacionalismo es un _descubrimiento.\u00bb_ El cantor de \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb recupera lo propio con el asombro sensorial de quien nunca lo ha visto. Como Quevedo, puede afirmar: \u00abNada me desenga\u00f1a, el mundo me ha hechizado.\u00bb\n\nLas discusiones en torno a los dos libros que public\u00f3 en vida _(La sangre devota_ y _Zozobra)_ y a sus tres libros p\u00f3stumos _(Son del coraz\u00f3n_ , _El minutero_ y _El don de febrero)_ han sido suficientes para mitificarlo y desmitificarlo. \u00abEl muchacho de Zacatecas nos plantea, dentro de sus diez a\u00f1os de ejercicio, m\u00e1s de mil referencias bibliogr\u00e1ficas\u00bb, coment\u00f3 Juan Jos\u00e9 Arreola.\n\nDe un poeta as\u00ed queremos saberlo todo. Al respecto escribe Pacheco: \u00abNo nos basta con tus poemas: queremos entrar a saco en tus papeles privados, revisar tus s\u00e1banas, descubrir tus huellas genitales, exhumar tu cuenta bancaria (t\u00fa ni siquiera llegaste a tener una cuenta bancaria), tu historia cl\u00ednica\u00bb, y remata: \u00abHas ca\u00eddo en manos de la polic\u00eda judicial literaria.\u00bb\n\nConvertido en estatua, santo milagrero, calle y sitio web, L\u00f3pez Velarde sirve de pretexto para que un tequila se llame La suave Patria y para que se bautice a las ni\u00f1as con el nombre de Fuensanta, su inalcanzable musa. M\u00e1rtir cristiano, h\u00e9roe c\u00edvico, leyenda digna de un corrido, el hombre que muri\u00f3 a la edad de Cristo se somete al fecundo placer de la lectura y a los equ\u00edvocos de la adoraci\u00f3n.\n\nPor otra parte, se trata de un cl\u00e1sico \u00abhacia dentro\u00bb, que rara vez rebasa nuestras fronteras. Borges, Bioy Casares y Silvina Ocampo lo admiraron; Guillermo Sucre, Martha Canfield y Allen W. Phillips le han dedicado p\u00e1ginas notables, y Samuel Beckett lo tradujo, pero no deja de ser un autor que apenas se conoce fuera del pa\u00eds.\n\nLa mejor semblanza que le dedica un extranjero es ficticia. Pablo Neruda invent\u00f3 que hab\u00eda vivido en la casa de los L\u00f3pez Velarde en Coyoac\u00e1n: \u00abTodos los salones estaban invadidos de alacranes, se desprend\u00edan las vigas atacadas por eficaces insectos y se hund\u00edan las duelas de los suelos como si caminara por una selva humedecida [...]. La casa fantasmal conservaba a\u00fan un retazo del antiguo parque, colosales palmeras y ahuehuetes, una piscina barroca, cuyas trizaduras no permit\u00edan m\u00e1s agua que la de la luna, y por todas partes estatuas de n\u00e1yades del a\u00f1o 1910.\u00bb El poeta jerezano, que nunca compr\u00f3 una casa, merec\u00eda el para\u00edso lunar que le imagin\u00f3 Neruda.\n\nCelebrado hasta la devoci\u00f3n en M\u00e9xico, L\u00f3pez Velarde a\u00fan depara zonas de misterio. Una de ellas es su influencia en la narrativa.\n\nLA POES\u00cdA DE LA PROSA\n\nCuando un alumno de la Universidad de Cornell se acercaba a Vladimir Nabokov en busca de consejo para escribir una novela, el dram\u00e1tico emigrado ruso contestaba: \u00abLea poes\u00eda.\u00bb\n\nLa gran narrativa del siglo XX fue una intensa aventura po\u00e9tica que llev\u00f3 los nombres de Jorge Luis Borges, William Faulkner, Hermann Broch, Thomas Mann, Marcel Proust, James Joyce, Italo Svevo, Juan Carlos Onetti, Ram\u00f3n Mar\u00eda del Valle-Incl\u00e1n, Vladimir Nabokov o Juan Rulfo.\n\nEn alem\u00e1n, la palabra _\u00abDichter\u00bb_ se refiere a un poeta pero tambi\u00e9n a un narrador de envergadura. Goethe extendi\u00f3 su b\u00fasqueda po\u00e9tica a la novela entendida como una forma absoluta e \u00edntima del conocimiento. No buscaba imitar los discursos de la ciencia o la filosof\u00eda, sino investigar lo real con los medios de los que solo dispone la literatura. En 1933, Hermann Broch llam\u00f3 a proseguir esta tarea en su ensayo \u00abLa figura del mundo en la novela\u00bb. Ah\u00ed exalta la condici\u00f3n polif\u00f3nica de la prosa y la necesidad de ejercer una \u00abimpaciencia del conocimiento\u00bb, donde las conjeturas son llenadas por la imaginaci\u00f3n.\n\nEn nuestra \u00e9poca, determinada por el mercado, la mayor\u00eda de las novelas carecen de textura literaria y apenas se distinguen de los guiones de cine. Sin embargo, esta banalizaci\u00f3n de la prosa no impide la existencia de obras resistentes que sobrevivir\u00e1n a los _best sellers_ de cada verano.\n\nNo es extra\u00f1o que autores como \u00c1lvaro Mutis, Mart\u00edn Ad\u00e1n o Gilberto Owen hayan prolongado el incendio de su poes\u00eda en la prosa. A prop\u00f3sito de las deslumbrantes narraciones de _El minutero_ , Marco Antonio Campos recuerda la sentencia de Baudelaire: \u00abS\u00e9 poeta, aun en prosa.\u00bb Los grandes narradores del idioma, de Felisberto Hern\u00e1ndez a Fernando Vallejo, siguen ese mismo impulso.\n\nLa repercusi\u00f3n de L\u00f3pez Velarde en los prosistas a\u00fan est\u00e1 por estudiarse, pero no hay duda de que buena parte de nuestra narrativa le est\u00e1 en deuda, de Juan Jos\u00e9 Arreola a \u00c1lvaro Enrigue, pasando por Daniel Sada y Fernando del Paso.\n\nEn su descripci\u00f3n de personajes, Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n suele contrastar el aspecto animal \u2013f\u00edsico\u2013 de un cuerpo con el toque cultural \u2013psicol\u00f3gico\u2013 que le impone el corte de pelo o la elecci\u00f3n de las ropas. Algo le debe a las estampas logradas por L\u00f3pez Velarde. En _El minutero_ el poeta metido a cronista escribe: \u00abCuando Oth\u00f3n llegaba a San Luis Potos\u00ed con su cabeza a rape y embutida en los hombros, contempl\u00e1bamos su marcha sobrecogidos como p\u00e1rvulos ante una fiera suelta.\u00bb Este retrato del poeta dominador encuentra un eco sugerente en Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n: \u00abEl Caudillo ten\u00eda unos soberbios ojos de tigre, ojos cuyos reflejos hac\u00edan juego con el desorden algo tempestuoso de su bigote.\u00bb Oth\u00f3n es una fiera impetuosa con cabeza a rape, mezcla de impulso y disciplinado rigor; el Caudillo es un tigre que lleva la astucia en la mirada y promete el caos en su bigote.\n\nJes\u00fas Gardea revela en su tensi\u00f3n estil\u00edstica y en las agobiantes atm\u00f3sferas que definen sus historias la huella de Onetti, pero tambi\u00e9n el toque sensual de L\u00f3pez Velarde para dar vida a los enseres cotidianos. Uno de sus cuentos trata del valor casi sagrado que adquiere una guitarra. Los protagonistas son mineros, hombres solos. A medida que avanza la trama, entendemos que el instrumento musical es lo \u00fanico que los acerca, feliz y amargamente, al cuerpo de una mujer. Imposible no asociar esto con el sensualismo velardiano ante los objetos: \u00abNo hubo cosa de cristal, terracota o madera que, abrazada por m\u00ed, no tuviera movimientos humanos de esposa.\u00bb\n\nLa iron\u00eda de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia para describir los peinados de las se\u00f1oras decentes de provincia, el ambiente de un cuento como \u00abMu\u00f1eca reina\u00bb, de Carlos Fuentes, y los di\u00e1logos a un tiempo arcaicos y renovadores de Juan Rulfo muestran la huella del poeta.\n\n\u00abEL TESTIGO\u00bb, NARRAR ENTRE COMILLAS\n\nEn alg\u00fan momento del a\u00f1o 2000, el poeta Luis Miguel Aguilar me dijo en una dilatada sobremesa: \u00abSe ha dicho todo sobre L\u00f3pez Velarde; lo que hace falta es convertirlo en personaje.\u00bb\n\nRecordamos la forma en que Jos\u00e9 Saramago resucit\u00f3 a Pessoa en _El a\u00f1o de la muerte de Ricardo Reis_. El ejemplo serv\u00eda de est\u00edmulo, pero tambi\u00e9n de freno. \u00abSi te lanzas\u00bb, prosigui\u00f3 Luis Miguel, \u00abte doy dos consejos: no publiques ning\u00fan fragmento antes de terminar y usa comillas.\u00bb Saramago fundi\u00f3 su prosa con los versos del poeta sin establecer l\u00edmites entres ambos. En opini\u00f3n de Luis Miguel ese logrado artificio se pod\u00eda hacer con Pessoa, que asumi\u00f3 los nombres de diversos heter\u00f3nimos y cuya obra, al decir de Antonio Tabucchi, es \u00abun ba\u00fal lleno de gente\u00bb. \u00c9l mismo se hab\u00eda despersonalizado, era todos y ninguno, el afluente de un r\u00edo com\u00fan. En cambio, L\u00f3pez Velarde no pod\u00eda disolverse en otro autor.\n\nA principios de 2001 le\u00ed un cap\u00edtulo de la novela en ciernes en la Casa del Poeta, ubicada en \u00c1lvaro Obreg\u00f3n, antes avenida Jalisco. Ah\u00ed muri\u00f3 L\u00f3pez Velarde. El poeta Antonio Deltoro, organizador del acto, pregunt\u00f3 al final de mi lectura: \u00ab\u00bfUsas comillas en las citas?\u00bb Le contest\u00e9 que s\u00ed. \u00ab\u00a1Qu\u00edtalas!\u00bb, orden\u00f3. \u00c9l hab\u00eda escuchado el texto y, seg\u00fan sabemos, las comillas no se oyen. Su comentario fue estimulante, pero sent\u00ed que quien leyera las p\u00e1ginas tendr\u00eda la tentaci\u00f3n de saber d\u00f3nde comenzaba y d\u00f3nde terminaba la voz de L\u00f3pez Velarde.\n\nDurante un a\u00f1o me dije a m\u00ed mismo que escrib\u00eda una novela. En realidad pensaba en las comillas. La duda es menos superficial de lo que parece. Saramago bas\u00f3 su libro no solo en la obra de Pessoa sino en la biograf\u00eda de uno de sus heter\u00f3nimos, Ricardo Reis, inventada por el propio poeta. El dato m\u00e1s enigm\u00e1tico de ese autor imaginario es que se ignora la fecha de su muerte. Desde el t\u00edtulo, Saramago prolonga una historia previa. Al ocuparse de _El a\u00f1o de la muerte de Ricardo Reis_ pone sus pasos en las huellas trazadas por Pessoa.\n\n_El testigo_ trabaja el tiempo de otro modo. La novela se sit\u00faa en el presente. Despu\u00e9s de veinticuatro a\u00f1os en el extranjero, el investigador literario Julio Valdivieso regresa a M\u00e9xico. El pa\u00eds vive la alternancia democr\u00e1tica. En ese contexto, Julio intuye que su familia puede tener papeles perdidos de L\u00f3pez Velarde. En _El a\u00f1o de la muerte de Ricardo Reis_ volvemos a la \u00e9poca de Pessoa y su fantasma preside la narraci\u00f3n; en _El testigo_ , un fil\u00f3logo busca el pasado desde el presente y utiliza a L\u00f3pez Velarde como un espejo de su propia vida. La novela no resucita al poeta; lo convoca; dialoga con \u00e9l a la distancia. Las comillas son imprescindibles.\n\nLA INTIMIDAD DE LA NOSTALGIA\n\nBuena parte de _El testigo_ se ubica en una hacienda en los linderos de San Luis Potos\u00ed y Zacatecas. La llam\u00e9 Los Cominos en alusi\u00f3n a Bledos, hacienda de mis t\u00edos (que algo importe un bledo equivale a que importe un comino).\n\nAlgunos lectores han confesado que el mundo de L\u00f3pez Velarde les queda lejos. Sus referencias provincianas y religiosas pueden ser ajenas a quienes se acercan hoy a su poes\u00eda, por no hablar de sus predilecciones literarias. Pacheco escribi\u00f3 su ensayo \u00abLas alusiones perdidas\u00bb para enumerar las muchas cosas que hemos dejado de comprender en sus versos. Otras quiz\u00e1 nunca se comprendieron. Sin embargo, sus im\u00e1genes decisivas no requieren de contexto. Mientras los transg\u00e9nicos no reinventen los vegetales, podremos disfrutar la descripci\u00f3n de la \u00abpecosa pera\u00bb y la \u00abtemerosa legumbre\u00bb (en esta \u00faltima incluso se advierte el pavor a los transg\u00e9nicos). Aunque las panader\u00edas han tratado de modernizarse con el nombre de \u00abpanificadoras\u00bb, a\u00fan podemos respirar el \u00absanto olor de la panader\u00eda\u00bb. \u00bfY qu\u00e9 decir de la eterna ilusi\u00f3n de medir a una muchacha \u00abcon dedos mani\u00e1ticos de sastre\u00bb?\n\nEs dif\u00edcil que el encanto de los ambientes velardianos se pierda del todo porque no depende de una reconstrucci\u00f3n realista, sino de la evocaci\u00f3n de una realidad perdida. El poeta no celebra la provincia para mantenerla intacta; muestra sus entra\u00f1ables ruinas.\n\nCuando Italo Calvino ley\u00f3 la obra del utopista Fourier, se sorprendi\u00f3 de que la brillante descripci\u00f3n de una ciudad futura le produjera un asombro desprovisto de emoci\u00f3n. Su indiferencia se deb\u00eda a un hecho significativo: esos espacios carec\u00edan de vida. Planeados para el futuro, no hab\u00edan sido usados. Solo nos conmueve lo que incluye un desgaste, la huella de una presencia. Calvino aquilat\u00f3 esta ense\u00f1anza al componer _Las ciudades invisibles_ , donde describe parajes nunca vistos con la nostalgia de quien sabe que estuvieron habitados.\n\nPara L\u00f3pez Velarde, el terru\u00f1o tiene el mismo signo. No es un lugar de idilio, sino un \u00abed\u00e9n subvertido\u00bb, como lo llama en un poema de t\u00edtulo elocuente (\u00abEl retorno mal\u00e9fico\u00bb), una regi\u00f3n emocional a la que solo se puede volver en el recuerdo, vale decir, en la literatura. No necesitamos conocerla para sentirla. El autor mismo es v\u00edctima de un extra\u00f1amiento. En la prosa \u00abEn el solar\u00bb, el lugar del origen se convierte en un erial. \u00bfQu\u00e9 hay ah\u00ed? \u00abFantasmas, fantasmas, fantasmas.\u00bb\n\nLas inevitables \u00abalusiones perdidas\u00bb pueden frenar a un tipo de lector, pero no a la mayor\u00eda. En mi caso, la primera lectura de L\u00f3pez Velarde me remiti\u00f3 a un mundo del que me sent\u00eda parte, al menos de un modo tangencial. Conoc\u00eda las viejas casonas de San Luis Potos\u00ed porque ah\u00ed viv\u00edan mis primos. La disminuida hacienda de Bledos y el vecino pueblo de Villa de Reyes ten\u00edan todas las caracter\u00edsticas de Jerez. Adem\u00e1s, una pariente nuestra, Teresa Toranzo, de \u00abojos verdes como esmeraldas expansionistas\u00bb, hab\u00eda sido novia del poeta en sus tiempos de juez en Venado. L\u00f3pez Velarde dijo que abandon\u00f3 ese puesto porque no soportaba expulsar de las casas a la gente que no pagaba la renta. Seg\u00fan la leyenda familiar, en realidad huy\u00f3 de las consecuencias de una relaci\u00f3n comprometedora con la ojigarza Teresa.\n\nEsta aproximaci\u00f3n autobiogr\u00e1fica me prepar\u00f3 para uno de los temas decisivos de L\u00f3pez Velarde: la sensaci\u00f3n de pertenencia. No me refiero a la nacionalidad con que nos define un pasaporte ni al dudoso orgullo promovido por las gestas patrias. El poeta reclama una adhesi\u00f3n sensorial. En una de sus prosas m\u00e1s conocidas, \u00abNovedad de la patria\u00bb, habla de los estragos de la Revoluci\u00f3n y extrae de ah\u00ed un aprendizaje. El pa\u00eds roto le permite concebir \u00abuna patria menos externa, m\u00e1s modesta y probablemente m\u00e1s preciosa\u00bb. Vivida desde la emoci\u00f3n, la historia nacional es un \u00abinstante subjetivo\u00bb.\n\nSin embargo, fatalmente somos de un sitio y no de otro. L\u00f3pez Velarde encuentra las se\u00f1as de identidad en los sentidos. Ciertas palabras, la coloraci\u00f3n de la luz, una melod\u00eda perdida, los sabores de la infancia, nos hacen sentir que ese lugar es \u00abnuestro\u00bb. La patria es el \u00fanico sitio al que se regresa. Podemos ir por el mundo pero solo hay un lugar al que volvemos de verdad. No es casual que muchos poemas velardianos cuenten la historia de un retorno.\n\nEl \u00abcolor local\u00bb es una invenci\u00f3n literaria y L\u00f3pez Velarde lo ejerce con maestr\u00eda. Ajeno al pintoresquismo, crea un entorno que nunca ha existido de ese modo pero resulta m\u00e1s genuino que la realidad.\n\nOctavio Paz juzga que su visi\u00f3n de la historia es anticuada para su tiempo: \u00abInsensible al rumor de futuro que en esos a\u00f1os se levanta por todos los confines del planeta [...]. Lo que desvel\u00f3 a Marx, Nietzsche o Dostoievski, a \u00e9l no le quita el sue\u00f1o.\u00bb Ciertamente, L\u00f3pez Velarde no crey\u00f3 en la aurora del progreso, las utop\u00edas, el impulso mesi\u00e1nico de modificar el horizonte. Fue esc\u00e9ptico, desconfi\u00f3 del papel regenerador de la violencia y enfrent\u00f3 la historia en clave personal. Esto, que lo aparta de su \u00e9poca, lo acerca a la nuestra. La falta de sed de futuro que le reprocha Paz coincide con la desconfianza y el escepticismo con que hoy juzgamos las modificaciones extremas y los entusiasmos ut\u00f3picos de la especie, de la insurrecci\u00f3n armada a la ingenier\u00eda humana.\n\nEn _El testigo_ quise vincular un momento de la historia de M\u00e9xico con las claves \u00edntimas de quienes lo vivieron. La idea provino de un veloz di\u00e1logo entre Paz y Borges.\n\nDescendiente de militares, el autor de _Ficciones_ afirmaba con iron\u00eda que las gestas hist\u00f3ricas le produc\u00edan la admiraci\u00f3n que solo puede sentir un cobarde. Escribi\u00f3 sobre la carga de Jun\u00edn y urdi\u00f3 tramas de traiciones ejemplares. En \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb encontr\u00f3 una evocaci\u00f3n contraria, anti\u00e9pica, de los valores nacionales: un territorio so\u00f1ado por un ni\u00f1o donde \u00abel tren va por la v\u00eda como aguinaldo de jugueter\u00eda\u00bb, las alacenas son un \u00abpara\u00edso de compotas\u00bb y el cielo es rayado por \u00abel rel\u00e1mpago verde de los loros\u00bb.\n\nBorges no pod\u00eda admirar sin memorizar. \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb se incorpor\u00f3 a su vasto repertorio. Pero le intrigaban algunos localismos que pronunciaba sin entender. Uno de ellos era \u00abPatria, vendedora de ch\u00eda\u00bb. \u00bfA qu\u00e9 producto nacional se alud\u00eda? Al encontrarse con Paz supo que se trataba de una semilla. Borges celebr\u00f3 que el poeta de las cosas m\u00ednimas describiera a su pa\u00eds como un vivero de semillas. La idea se perfeccion\u00f3 al saber que la ch\u00eda sirve para hacer agua fresca. \u00ab\u00bfY a qu\u00e9 sabe?\u00bb, pregunt\u00f3. La respuesta de Paz fue simple y po\u00e9tica: \u00abSabe a tierra.\u00bb El sentido de pertenencia de L\u00f3pez Velarde se resume en esa frase. La patria es la tierra que bebemos sin darnos cuenta.\n\nEse breve di\u00e1logo me sugiri\u00f3 una historia. Incapaz de la concisi\u00f3n de los poetas, escrib\u00ed una novela de 470 p\u00e1ginas.\n\nAbundan los recursos velardianos que pueden pasar a la narrativa. Escojo los siguientes al modo de una Carta de Creencia: la exaltaci\u00f3n y confusi\u00f3n de los sentidos; la importancia de lo infraordinario como clave psicol\u00f3gica de los personajes; la iron\u00eda ante la fracasada elegancia de lo ampuloso; la tensi\u00f3n entre la fe y los impulsos; el epigrama que condensa lo que se dijo antes; los \u00e1mbitos espectrales (la \u00abalcoba submarina\u00bb); el entendimiento del mundo a trav\u00e9s de la mujer; la fuerza demoledora de la historia y la resurrecci\u00f3n sentimental de sus reliquias.\n\nSOMBRAS PARALELAS: JOYCE Y L\u00d3PEZ VELARDE\n\nLa literatura comparada sigue las reglas de la met\u00e1fora descritas por Roman Jakobson: mientras m\u00e1s alejados est\u00e9n los t\u00e9rminos equiparados y m\u00e1s fuerte sea el v\u00ednculo que los une, mayor ser\u00e1 el efecto.\n\nAsociar a un poeta de la provincia mexicana que escribi\u00f3 un pu\u00f1ado de versos con el m\u00e1ximo torrente narrativo de la literatura inglesa cumple con el requisito de relacionar elementos distantes. \u00bfEn verdad existe una l\u00ednea de fuerza entre ellos o se confunde el efecto con el efectismo?\n\nJoyce y L\u00f3pez Velarde son r\u00edos apartados y distintos. Ninguno de los dos conoci\u00f3 al otro. Joyce recibi\u00f3 los primeros ejemplares de _Ulises_ el 2 de febrero de 1921, d\u00eda de su cumplea\u00f1os. L\u00f3pez Velarde muri\u00f3 pocos meses despu\u00e9s, de modo que no pudo leer la novela. La primera versi\u00f3n en espa\u00f1ol del c\u00e9lebre mon\u00f3logo interior de Molly Bloom apareci\u00f3 en 1924, en la revista argentina _Proa_ , en traducci\u00f3n de Jorge Luis Borges.\n\nBeckett fue muy cercano al autor de _Ulises_ y tradujo \u00abEl retorno mal\u00e9fico\u00bb, pero lo hizo en 1952 y su versi\u00f3n se public\u00f3 en 1958, mucho despu\u00e9s de la muerte de Joyce, ocurrida en 1941.\n\nEl di\u00e1logo entre ambos es conjetural. Un juego de sombras.\n\nSus biograf\u00edas guardan semejanzas significativas pero gen\u00e9ricas. Compartieron la misma \u00e9poca; fueron lectores de la Biblia, Laforgue y Baudelaire; se criaron en un ambiente obsesivamente cat\u00f3lico y despreciaron a una potencia extranjera que amenazaba la cultura local (el celo antibrit\u00e1nico de Joyce es comparable al repudio por lo norteamericano de L\u00f3pez Velarde). Ambos conocieron la pobreza, abandonaron su ciudad natal, asumieron el erotismo con un escatol\u00f3gico fervor carnal y religioso, admiraron la tradici\u00f3n y procuraron transgredirla.\n\nJoyce es un rupturista que aprecia las formas (de ah\u00ed que le importe alterarlas). Antes de _Ulises_ , escribe poes\u00eda, teatro y cuento con can\u00f3nica brillantez; en pintura, admira solo los retratos; en m\u00fasica, prefiere la canci\u00f3n popular.\n\nGabriel Zaid ha se\u00f1alado la influencia que la enc\u00edclica del papa Le\u00f3n XIII _Rerum novarum_ , promulgada en 1891, tuvo en la comunidad cat\u00f3lica internacional: \u00abTransform\u00f3 la militancia defensiva en conquista del mundo moderno, bajo la consigna _nova et vetera_ : unir lo nuevo con lo antiguo.\u00bb Dicha renovaci\u00f3n \u00abtambi\u00e9n apoy\u00f3 que los laicos tomaran la palabra, lo cual fue decisivo para las letras cat\u00f3licas\u00bb.\n\nJoyce se rebela contra el catolicismo; no reconoce otro linaje que el de su elecci\u00f3n y refunda su estirpe en un falso pal\u00edndromo: \u00abMadam, I am Adam\u00bb. Es, para s\u00ed mismo, el Primer Hombre.\n\nL\u00f3pez Velarde conserva su catolicismo pero lo sublima sensualmente. Villaurrutia observa con acierto que \u00abla religi\u00f3n cat\u00f3lica con sus misterios y la Iglesia cat\u00f3lica con sus oficios\u00bb le sirven para alcanzar sus m\u00e1s \u00edntimas y secretas intuiciones: \u00abEn m\u00ed late un pont\u00edfice \/ que todo lo posee \/ y todo lo bendice.\u00bb\n\nEn su personal adaptaci\u00f3n de la consigna _nova et vetera_ , el poeta jerezano alterna recuerdos de provincia y frases de la liturgia con inauditas b\u00fasquedas formales. Comienza un poema en alejandrinos de manera llana, propia de un corrido: \u00abYo tuve, en tierra adentro, una novia muy pobre\u00bb, y lo subvierte en la siguiente estrofa: \u00abojos inusitados de sulfato de cobre\u00bb. Como Joyce, busca la exactitud cient\u00edfica en sus met\u00e1foras (los r\u00edos sulfatados tienen un color azul verdoso) y renueva precedentes literarios (Nervo hab\u00eda comparado unos ojos verdes con el sulfato de cobre; al prescindir del color, L\u00f3pez Velarde hace m\u00e1s sugerente el s\u00edmil).\n\nEn _Ulises_ y \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb los mitos operan en la esfera cotidiana. Leopold Bloom encuentra su \u00cdtaca en Dubl\u00edn y Cuauht\u00e9moc es el \u00abjoven abuelo\u00bb de una naci\u00f3n casera y pudibunda, que tiene \u00abla blusa corrida hasta la oreja\u00bb.\n\nAmbos autores muestran una fijaci\u00f3n con la paternidad. Interrogado sobre la raz\u00f3n para elegir a Odiseo como modelo de su gran novela y no a otra figura m\u00e1s cercana a su formaci\u00f3n, como Jes\u00fas, Joyce respondi\u00f3: \u00abCristo no fue padre.\u00bb Un destino solo estaba completo si ten\u00eda descendencia. La t\u00e9cnica del _stream of consciousness_ o flujo de la conciencia es, en s\u00ed misma, una refutaci\u00f3n de la esterilidad.\n\nJoyce escribe antes de las pruebas de ADN, cuando la paternidad puede ser \u00abuna ficci\u00f3n legal\u00bb. Lo \u00fanico que el padre otorga con certeza es el nombre. En el cap\u00edtulo de la biblioteca de _Ulises_ , se discuten los endebles cimientos de una religi\u00f3n que depende del padre y del hijo, v\u00ednculo que representa una duda. La Iglesia est\u00e1 fundada \u00absobre el vac\u00edo, sobre la incertidumbre, sobre la improbabilidad\u00bb.\n\nLa paternidad le importa a Joyce por lo que tiene de transmisi\u00f3n de vida, pero tambi\u00e9n porque se trata de algo incierto, una apuesta en la ruleta del destino. Toda herencia est\u00e1 en entredicho.\n\nTambi\u00e9n lo desvela otra incertidumbre. Bloom vuelve a casa y encuentra el lecho a\u00fan caliente por la posible presencia de un intruso y, algo a\u00fan m\u00e1s agraviante, migajas de lo que comieron en la cama.\n\nAmar con plenitud no significa exigir la incomprobable fidelidad del otro, sino sobrellevar la vacilaci\u00f3n. En su obra de teatro _Exiliados_ , un personaje afirma: \u00abNo es en la oscuridad de la fe como yo te quiero sino en la viviente, incansable, hiriente duda.\u00bb Para Joyce, el verdadero amor no es ciego; es incierto: querer al otro implica aceptar la duda.\n\nTampoco L\u00f3pez Velarde cree en la posesi\u00f3n absoluta. Sus musas son intocables (de una de ellas dice: \u00abla dicha refinada que hay en huirte\u00bb), y las mujeres de carne y hueso, provisionales. Siguiendo a Denis de Rougemont, Pacheco propone que el amor velardiano sea entendido bajo el concepto de \u00abposesi\u00f3n por p\u00e9rdida\u00bb.\n\nEn su caso, la paternidad no es la arriesgada necesidad que asume Joyce. Su actitud se acerca a la de Hamlet, soltero incorregible del que tanto se discute en _Ulises_ y que le anuncia a Ofelia: \u00abNo habr\u00e1 m\u00e1s matrimonios.\u00bb\n\nEn su prosa \u00abObra maestra\u00bb, habla del soltero como un tigre enjaulado \u00abque escribe ochos en el piso de la soledad\u00bb. Para avanzar, para salir de la jaula, deber\u00eda ser padre, pero \u00abla paternidad asusta porque sus responsabilidades son eternas\u00bb. Puesto que toda existencia desemboca en el deterioro, \u00abvale m\u00e1s la vida est\u00e9ril a prolongar la corrupci\u00f3n m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de nosotros\u00bb. Al o\u00edr el cortejo amoroso de unos gatos, se\u00f1ala que est\u00e1n forjando \u00abuna patria espeluznante\u00bb. Se refiere a los maullidos, pero tambi\u00e9n a la insensatez de procrear. En esto coincide con Bioy Casares, a quien Borges atribuye la frase: \u00abLos espejos y la c\u00f3pula son abominables porque multiplican el n\u00famero de los hombres.\u00bb\n\nPara sublimar la ansiedad de la procreaci\u00f3n, el poeta jerezano entiende la obra literaria como su \u00abhijo negativo\u00bb. La fecundidad se nutre de esa privaci\u00f3n. As\u00ed engendrar\u00e1 sus textos y as\u00ed se convertir\u00e1, al decir de Hugo Guti\u00e9rrez Vega, en \u00abel padre soltero de la poes\u00eda mexicana\u00bb. Evodio Escalante comenta al respecto: \u00abCrea pero negativamente. Es suya la libertad negativa, la libertad del no.\u00bb El celibato le permite una filiaci\u00f3n imaginaria.\n\nEsta actitud no es del todo distinta a la de Joyce. En _Ulises_ , Stephen Dedalus se siente \u00abel padre de su nieto no nacido a\u00fan\u00bb. A\u00f1os antes, el mismo personaje hab\u00eda proclamado en _Retrato del artista adolescente_ : \u00abSalgo [...] a forjar en la fragua de mi esp\u00edritu la conciencia increada de mi raza.\u00bb \u00bfHay algo m\u00e1s pr\u00f3ximo a la \u00abconciencia increada\u00bb del esp\u00edritu que el \u00abhijo negativo\u00bb encarnado literariamente por L\u00f3pez Velarde?\n\nPara estas reflexiones soy deudor de un libro impar: _Ulises. Claves de lectura_ , de Carlos Gamerro, novelista argentino que ha dedicado d\u00e9cadas a la ense\u00f1anza de Joyce y Shakespeare. A prop\u00f3sito del tema de la filiaci\u00f3n, Gamerro recuerda la idea de Borges de que \u00abcada autor _crea_ a sus precursores\u00bb. Leer, asumir influencias, es una paternidad hacia atr\u00e1s.\n\nM\u00e1s all\u00e1 de los cruces tem\u00e1ticos y anecd\u00f3ticos, me interesa se\u00f1alar que, por caminos muy diversos, Joyce y L\u00f3pez Velarde emprenden una b\u00fasqueda parecida. La poes\u00eda del jerezano y la prosa del irland\u00e9s fluyen de manera muy distinta pero se alimentan de un agua com\u00fan.\n\nLos poemas de L\u00f3pez Velarde cuentan historias: el fracaso de un romance con una chica que viv\u00eda cerca de una estaci\u00f3n de ferrocarriles (\u00bfqu\u00e9 amor sobrevive al nerviosismo de o\u00edr tantas m\u00e1quinas y silbatos?), el recuerdo de una prima seductora, el regreso a la aldea castigada por la guerra, el sue\u00f1o de una mujer con guantes negros... Este componente narrativo del poema no se opone a la m\u00e9trica. El poeta alterna el endecas\u00edlabo con el alejandrino, conservando la cesura en la s\u00e9ptima s\u00edlaba; sus rimas, caprichosas pero constantes, pueden ocurrir en los versos impares, en d\u00edsticos o en tercetos. Estamos, como se\u00f1ala Eduardo Hurtado, ante un disc\u00edpulo del modernismo que utiliza la ret\u00f3rica con una libertad precursora del verso libre, que no lleg\u00f3 a ejercer.\n\nEn su devaneo narrativo, estos poemas siguen los caprichosos saltos de la mente. Octavio Paz observ\u00f3 en ellos \u00abla marcha zigzagueante del mon\u00f3logo: confesi\u00f3n, exaltaci\u00f3n, interrupci\u00f3n brusca, comentario al margen, saltos y ca\u00eddas de la palabra y el esp\u00edritu\u00bb. Esta alusi\u00f3n al mon\u00f3logo \u2013recurso emblem\u00e1tico de Joyce\u2013 resulta definitiva. En su peculiar _stream of consciousness_ , L\u00f3pez Velarde pone su yo en escena y avanza por asociaci\u00f3n libre, buscando \u00ablos pasos perdidos de la conciencia, el caer de un guante en un pozo metaf\u00edsico\u00bb.\n\n\u00bfHacia d\u00f3nde se precipita esa prenda que no hace ruido? \u00abMi coraz\u00f3n leal, se amerita en la sombra\u00bb, dice el poeta. El sentimiento madura en una cavidad umbr\u00eda. Ah\u00ed, el inconsciente toma la palabra. Guillermo Sucre se\u00f1al\u00f3 el papel afrodis\u00edaco que le asigna al color negro. El alma del poeta est\u00e1 escindida entre la adoraci\u00f3n de una musa intangible y el placer carnal de las prostitutas, \u00abmariposas de sangre\u00bb, \u00abdistribuidoras de experiencia, provisionalmente babil\u00f3nicas\u00bb. El negro permite reconciliar ambos extremos; es la promesa de una uni\u00f3n en el m\u00e1s all\u00e1. La pasi\u00f3n carnal no se extingue en esta transfiguraci\u00f3n p\u00f3stuma: el alma se erotiza.\n\nYa Noyola V\u00e1zquez hab\u00eda advertido la importancia de \u00abla moda como vestidora de la muerte y velo de la inocencia\u00bb en las mujeres de L\u00f3pez Velarde. No es casual que privilegiara la ambivalente tela de ala de mosca. Al evocar la infancia, su prima se presenta \u00abcon un contradictorio \/ prestigio de almid\u00f3n y de temible \/ luto ceremonioso\u00bb. Tiempo despu\u00e9s evoca a una mujer a trav\u00e9s de \u00abaquel vestido \/ de luto y aquel rostro de ebriedad\u00bb. En su poema final, \u00abEl sue\u00f1o de los guantes negros\u00bb, reaparece la prenda que ca\u00eda en un pozo metaf\u00edsico para protagonizar un \u00abamor constante m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la muerte\u00bb, como quer\u00eda Quevedo.\n\nJoyce es af\u00edn a esta uni\u00f3n de Eros y T\u00e1natos. En \u00abLos muertos\u00bb, relato maestro de _Dublineses_ , el protagonista descubre la fuerza del amor a partir de la certeza de que todos sus conocidos desaparecer\u00e1n como las sombras. Solo quien se atreve a concebir el paso al \u00abotro lado\u00bb, donde impera la muerte, conoce el verdadero amor.\n\nEn el pen\u00faltimo cap\u00edtulo de _Ulises_ , Joyce enlista los temas de los que hablan Bloom y Dedalus. Asombrosamente, se trata del repertorio, casi \u00edntegro, de L\u00f3pez Velarde: la m\u00fasica, la literatura, la comida, la patria, la prostituci\u00f3n, la Iglesia cat\u00f3lica, el celibato eclesi\u00e1stico, la identidad y la educaci\u00f3n religiosa.\n\n_Ulises_ narra la historia de un regreso. Joyce prepara a su protagonista para volver a casa, la \u00cdtaca dom\u00e9stica, del mismo modo en que L\u00f3pez Velarde vuelve al hogar en \u00abEl retorno mal\u00e9fico\u00bb, \u00abEl viejo pozo\u00bb y \u00abEl sue\u00f1o de la inocencia\u00bb. En ambos autores, el \u00abeterno retorno\u00bb involucra a los objetos. Bloom marca un flor\u00edn para ver si lo reconoce al volver a sus manos. Pero la moneda circula sin regresar (por eso en \u00abEl Zahir\u00bb Borges menciona \u00abel flor\u00edn irreversible de Leopold Bloom\u00bb).\n\nEn el intricado sistema de relaciones de _Ulises_ , ciertos utensilios reaparecen como talismanes, cumpliendo la funci\u00f3n de la rima en la poes\u00eda o el _leitmotiv_ en la m\u00fasica. Las cosas m\u00e1s sencillas \u2013un ri\u00f1\u00f3n, la papa que Bloom lleva en el bolsillo, una pastilla de jab\u00f3n, un flor\u00edn\u2013 regresan con alguna modificaci\u00f3n, enfatizando la po\u00e9tica del retorno.\n\nL\u00f3pez Velarde se sirve de los enseres diarios con el mismo prop\u00f3sito. Su \u00abtristeza reaccionaria\u00bb tiene menos que ver con la pol\u00edtica que con la nostalgia de las cosas perdidas. Solo a trav\u00e9s de la memoria se regresa al \u00abper\u00edmetro jovial\u00bb que las mujeres formaban en la plaza del pueblo.\n\nLa epopeya de Ulises conmueve por la humildad de su meta. Enfrenta toda clase de portentos pero su historia es, a fin de cuentas, la de un hombre que quiere volver a casa. Joyce y L\u00f3pez Velarde enfatizan el tono com\u00fan de esta saga. Leopold Bloom no enfrenta al c\u00edclope ni a las sirenas en parajes lejanos; deambula por Dubl\u00edn. \u00bfQu\u00e9 encuentra al volver a su \u00cdtaca personal? \u00abUn tarro vac\u00edo de carne envasada marca Ciruelo, una canasta oval de mimbre que contiene una pera de Jersey...\u00bb El sentido de pertenencia depende de esos productos caseros, como la \u00absuave Patria\u00bb depende de \u00abun para\u00edso de compotas\u00bb y \u00abla picadura del ajonjol\u00ed\u00bb.\n\nArrobado ante el regreso, el jud\u00edo Leopold Bloom observa los alimentos providentes \u00abcon la luz de la inspiraci\u00f3n brillando en su semblante y llevando en sus brazos el secreto de la raza\u00bb. Al igual que Mois\u00e9s, avista su Tierra Prometida. Esta sacralizaci\u00f3n de lo hogare\u00f1o coincide con la de L\u00f3pez Velarde. Pensemos en las sensaciones caseras que llegan a su nariz, del \u00abdenso \/ vapor estimulante de la sopa\u00bb al \u00abperfume de hogare\u00f1os panqu\u00e9s\u00bb.\n\nEn consonancia con esta liturgia de los alimentos, Joyce alude al chocolate como _mass product_ , ambig\u00fcedad que al escucharse puede significar \u00abproducto masivo\u00bb, pero tambi\u00e9n \u00abproducto de misa\u00bb. Luego se refiere a la \u00abcriatura cocoa\u00bb. Como la sangre de Cristo, el chocolate caliente, sustancia viva, permite una comuni\u00f3n y una transubstanciaci\u00f3n.\n\nLa despedida de Bloom y Dedalus es a un tiempo com\u00fan y trascendente. Salen al jard\u00edn a orinar y contemplan la b\u00f3veda celeste. Se trata, como observa Gamerro, de una repetici\u00f3n del momento en que Virgilio y Dante emergen del Infierno y reconocen las estrellas, pero tambi\u00e9n resuena ah\u00ed el final del Para\u00edso y el \u00abamor ardiente que mueve las estrellas\u00bb.\n\nEn \u00abEl viejo pozo\u00bb, L\u00f3pez Velarde vuelve a su \u00cdtaca y se asoma al brocal que tiene una condici\u00f3n de or\u00e1culo. Ah\u00ed se han visto reflejadas las fragantes frondas de los \u00e1rboles y los rostros de los novios que celebraron sus primeras nupcias con un beso de \u00abfresco gozo a manantial\u00bb. Ah\u00ed busc\u00f3 de ni\u00f1o los \u00abvaticinios de la tortuga\u00bb que purificaba el agua al fondo. En un l\u00edquido fluir de la conciencia, toda su historia emana de ese sitio; de ah\u00ed provienen las \u00absuaves antepasadas\u00bb en las \u00abque ard\u00eda la devoci\u00f3n cat\u00f3lica y la brasa de Eros\u00bb, la guerra de Reforma, la fortuna familiar dilapidada \u00abcon un estr\u00e9pito de plata\u00bb y la ilusi\u00f3n del amor. Esta revisi\u00f3n del destino desemboca, como en Dante y Joyce, en la contemplaci\u00f3n de las estrellas: el \u00faltimo amor imposible est\u00e1 en el cielo.\n\nEn 1916, a los veintiocho a\u00f1os, L\u00f3pez Velarde se asoma a un espejo de agua hundida:\n\nEl pozo me quer\u00eda senilmente; aquel pozo\n\nabundaba en lecciones de fortaleza, de alta\n\ndiscreci\u00f3n, y de plenitud...\n\nPero hoy, que su ense\u00f1anza de otros tiempos me falta,\n\ncomprendo que fui apenas un alumno vulgar\n\ncon aquel taciturno catedr\u00e1tico,\n\nporque en mi diario empe\u00f1o no he podido lograr\n\nhacerme abismo y que la estrella amada,\n\nal asomarse a m\u00ed, pierda pisada.\n\nEl poeta quiere atraer a la amada con una tentaci\u00f3n de abismo; ser el pozo en el que un astro se precipita.\n\nCuando Bloom y Dedalus contemplan el cielo ven una estrella fugaz. Para mayor similitud con L\u00f3pez Velarde, el astro se desplaza \u00abhacia el signo zodiacal de Leo\u00bb (el poeta jerezano, que era G\u00e9minis, se hab\u00eda asignado el imaginario hor\u00f3scopo er\u00f3tico del Le\u00f3n y la Virgen). En ese instante se ilumina la ventana de Molly, versi\u00f3n terrestre de una estrella y anuncio del amor.\n\nExtasiado, Bloom escucha el sonar de una campana. Una iglesia mide el tiempo. El flor\u00edn no regres\u00f3 a Bloom. Lo \u00fanico met\u00e1lico que vuelve es ese sonido. Un verso de L\u00f3pez Velarde podr\u00eda servirle de explicaci\u00f3n: \u00ablas campanadas caen como centavos\u00bb.\n\nBloom queda listo para el aut\u00e9ntico regreso: el encuentro amoroso. El \u00faltimo cap\u00edtulo, narrado por el inconsciente de Molly, representa el mayor logro formal de la novela. Ocho frases sin puntuaci\u00f3n recuperan el fluir de la consciencia. El n\u00famero no es casual: Molly naci\u00f3 el 8 de septiembre, d\u00eda de la Virgen. Acostado, el n\u00famero representa el signo del infinito, el mismo que el soltero de L\u00f3pez Velarde traza en el suelo de la soledad.\n\nLas palabras finales del mon\u00f3logo, en la traducci\u00f3n de Salas Subirat, son las siguientes: \u00aby despu\u00e9s le ped\u00ed con los ojos que me lo preguntara otra vez y despu\u00e9s \u00e9l me pregunt\u00f3 si yo quer\u00eda s\u00ed para que dijera flor de la monta\u00f1a y yo primero lo rode\u00e9 con mis brazos s\u00ed y lo atraje hacia m\u00ed para que pudiera sentir en mis senos todo su perfume s\u00ed y su coraz\u00f3n golpeaba como loco y s\u00ed yo dije quiero s\u00ed\u00bb.\n\nAl comentar este p\u00e1rrafo, Anthony Burgess resumi\u00f3 el entusiasmo de legiones de cr\u00edticos: \u00abNo hay j\u00fabilo mayor en toda la literatura.\u00bb\n\nEsa frase musical guarda \u00edntima similitud con el poeta jerezano. Cuando L\u00f3pez Velarde escribi\u00f3 que en su juventud hab\u00eda sido un seminarista \u00absin Baudelaire, sin rima y sin olfato\u00bb, Bernardo Ortiz de Montellano pens\u00f3 que \u00abolfato\u00bb equival\u00eda a \u00abmalicia\u00bb. Villaurrutia lo sac\u00f3 de su error en un ensayo donde se ocupa de la sensualidad olfativa de L\u00f3pez Velarde.\n\nMolly Bloom desea que su marido sienta \u00abtodo su perfume\u00bb. El sentido del olfato opera en proximidad, como lo sabe L\u00f3pez Velarde, que celebra \u00abla arom\u00e1tica vecindad de tus hombros\u00bb y \u00abla quintaesencia de tu espalda leve\u00bb. El arrebato olfativo determina uno de los muchos momentos en que mezcla el erotismo con la religi\u00f3n: \u00abte aspirar\u00e9 con gozo temerario \/ como se aspira en un devocionario \/ un perfume de m\u00edsticas violetas\u00bb.\n\nEl mon\u00f3logo de Molly Bloom explora la sensualidad olfativa en clave semejante, pero es en la \u00faltima l\u00ednea donde se vuelve totalmente velardiano: \u00absu coraz\u00f3n golpeaba como un loco\u00bb parece una variaci\u00f3n del ameritado \u00abson del coraz\u00f3n\u00bb, y las palabras de clausura, \u00aby s\u00ed yo dije quiero s\u00ed\u00bb, remiten a la expresi\u00f3n predilecta de L\u00f3pez Velarde, el \u00abmonos\u00edlabo inmortal\u00bb pronunciado por una mujer: \u00abs\u00ed\u00bb.\n\nR\u00cdOS, GOTAS, AGUA SUELTA\n\nNuestros autores entienden el lenguaje como un material fluido. Al asomarse al viejo pozo, L\u00f3pez Velarde escucha \u00abla estrofa conc\u00e9ntrica en el agua\u00bb, en otro poema advierte \u00ablos r\u00edtmicos sollozos de una fuente\u00bb y en otro m\u00e1s escucha una \u00abgota categ\u00f3rica\u00bb (la esdr\u00fajula traza la ruta del agua en su ca\u00edda \u00abca-teg\u00f3-ri-ca\u00bb). En \u00abEl sue\u00f1o de la inocencia\u00bb el poeta llora con tal fuerza que causa un diluvio que inunda Jerez. Los ni\u00f1os lanzan barcos de papel sobre sus l\u00e1grimas. Este regreso l\u00edquido cierra un c\u00edrculo: el poeta recibe, simult\u00e1neamente, los santos \u00f3leos y el bautismo.\n\nPor su parte, Joyce se\u00f1ala en una carta que su literatura es \u00abun intento de subordinar las palabras al ritmo del agua\u00bb. Seg\u00fan cuenta su insoslayable bi\u00f3grafo, Richard Ellmann, la noche en que concluy\u00f3 el pasaje de Anna Livia Plurabelle, en _Finnegans Wake_ , tuvo dudas respecto a la forma en que flu\u00eda. Por entonces viv\u00eda en Par\u00eds y se acerc\u00f3 al Sena para escuchar el r\u00edo desde un puente, tratando de averiguar si su tono era el correcto. \u00abRegres\u00f3 satisfecho\u00bb, comenta Ellmann.\n\nAfecto a la \u00aboraci\u00f3n continua\u00bb de San Silvino, forma religiosa del mon\u00f3logo, L\u00f3pez Velarde abunda en im\u00e1genes l\u00edquidas: \u00abel c\u00e1ndido islote de burbujas \/ navega por la taza de caf\u00e9\u00bb y la historia patria es protagonizada por \u00ab\u00eddolos a nado\u00bb.\n\nEl sistema de comparaciones, la exploraci\u00f3n de las posibilidades naturales del habla, la mitologizaci\u00f3n de lo cotidiano y la libertad r\u00edtmica del lenguaje emparentan a ambos autores. Se\u00f1alo una concordancia menos f\u00e1cil de advertir y m\u00e1s profunda: la manera en que educan su estilo literario.\n\nLa historia de un estilo es un aprendizaje de lo real, el modo en que la experiencia se transforma en hecho est\u00e9tico. A prop\u00f3sito de la relaci\u00f3n epistolar de Joyce con su esposa, Nora Barnacle, escribe Carlos Gamerro: \u00abLas cartas de Nora eran no solo sexualmente expl\u00edcitas sino sint\u00e1cticamente an\u00e1rquicas, y en lo que otros hubieran visto mera falta de educaci\u00f3n, Joyce descubri\u00f3 un estilo. Como Stephen, era mejor alumno que maestro: donde otros hubieran cedido a la tentaci\u00f3n de ense\u00f1ar, \u00e9l supo aprender.\u00bb\n\nNo es otra la misi\u00f3n de L\u00f3pez Velarde, quien se declara \u00abun espont\u00e1neo \/ que nunca tom\u00f3 en serio los sesos de su cr\u00e1neo\u00bb y busca el desaprendizaje como una propositiva recuperaci\u00f3n de la inocencia: \u00abfu\u00e9rame dado remontar el r\u00edo \/ de los a\u00f1os, y en una reconquista \/ feliz de mi ignorancia, ser de nuevo la frente pura y b\u00e1rbara del ni\u00f1o\u00bb. Critica \u00abla crasa dicci\u00f3n de la ralea\u00bb pero se beneficia de ella. Su lengua \u00abpura\u00bb y \u00abb\u00e1rbara\u00bb convierte el habla com\u00fan en literatura, crea una ilusi\u00f3n de espontaneidad perfectamente trabajada. El lenguaje popular le permite decir que una mujer lleva \u00abla falda hasta el huesito\u00bb. Su inventiva aumenta al reciclar frases hechas con una ins\u00f3lita adjetivaci\u00f3n (\u00abla er\u00f3tica ficha de domin\u00f3\u00bb, \u00abla novedad campestre de sus nucas\u00bb). De manera a\u00fan m\u00e1s audaz, hace poes\u00eda desde el error, sirvi\u00e9ndose de pleonasmos y reiteraciones: \u00abel viejo pozo de mi vieja casa\u00bb, \u00abvas dibujada en m\u00ed como un dibujo\u00bb, \u00abel amor amoroso\u00bb de \u00ablas parejas pares\u00bb.\n\nComo Joyce, es el voluntario aprendiz de una realidad imperfecta. Educado en el equ\u00edvoco, busca el reverso de lo real y evita la grandilocuencia como una forma de lo ya dicho. Ante la leyenda de las Once Mil V\u00edrgenes, se concentra en sus \u00abpeque\u00f1os gritos modestos\u00bb. Las aut\u00e9nticas lecciones llegan en miniatura. Al acercarse al pozo, entiende que los mensajes que de ah\u00ed emanan tienen la imborrable importancia de las \u00abhist\u00f3ricas peque\u00f1eces\u00bb.\n\nLa escritura literaria busca un idioma propio, que invente otro tipo de intimidad con el lector, un c\u00f3digo secreto y sin embargo comprensible. Se trata, por supuesto, de una meta inalcanzable: el habla de una sola persona es un sinsentido. Incluso los lenguajes herm\u00e9ticos aspiran a ser entendidos (descifrar sus c\u00f3digos permite conocer su oculta claridad).\n\nEn _Finnegans Wake_ Joyce se acerc\u00f3 m\u00e1s que nadie a la creaci\u00f3n de un lenguaje \u00fanico que, sin embargo, pudiera transmitir comunicados. Este empe\u00f1o radical es imitado en mayor o menor medida por todo escritor de relieve. La voluntad de estilo transforma un instrumento com\u00fan \u2013las palabras diarias\u2013 en algo propio. Escribir en clave literaria significa escribir \u00abde otra manera\u00bb, aniquilar la literalidad.\n\nLa literatura no es un lenguaje privado: es la ilusi\u00f3n de un lenguaje privado. Reconocemos a Borges o a Rulfo en cada l\u00ednea. Estamos dentro del secreto. No es casual que Jorge Cuesta haya dicho que L\u00f3pez Velarde fue \u00abel poeta m\u00e1s personal que en M\u00e9xico ha existido\u00bb. Lo mismo podemos decir de Joyce en la literatura inglesa.\n\nLa paradoja es que ambos nos admiten en su peculiar \u00f3rbita. En _Cartas credenciales_ , discurso de ingreso a El Colegio Nacional, Alejandro Rossi habl\u00f3 del descubrimiento que hizo en la infancia al desplazarse de un pa\u00eds a otro. Entendi\u00f3, de una vez y para siempre, que la experiencia particular puede ser universalizada. Admitimos sin trabas que Dostoievski sea ruso y Kawabata japon\u00e9s, pero lo hacemos porque su sentido de pertenencia es tan individual como el de cada uno de nosotros.\n\nJ. M. Coetzee ha hablado de la \u00abautoridad de la voz\u00bb para referirse al pacto que el autor establece con su lector. En principio no tenemos por qu\u00e9 creerle. \u00bfCon qu\u00e9 autoridad habla? \u00bfC\u00f3mo nos convence?\n\nLa verosimilitud de un texto depende de una l\u00f3gica de sentido, pero tambi\u00e9n y sobre todo de un lazo emocional. La inteligencia es el cartero del arte: lleva mensajes de un lado a otro, pero el efecto de las misivas, su impacto profundo, es patrimonio del sentimiento. Ante la inminencia del hecho est\u00e9tico, la raz\u00f3n deja de pensarse a s\u00ed misma y cede su sitio, como quer\u00eda Nabokov, a un escalofr\u00edo en el espinazo. En palabras de L\u00f3pez Velarde: \u00abEl pensamiento, en su fracaso, es sostenido alegremente por los cinco sentidos corporales.\u00bb Podemos agregar que esta ca\u00edda de la raz\u00f3n es racional: la inteligencia fija sus l\u00edmites.\n\n\u00abLa historia es una pesadilla de la que intento despertar\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Joyce. \u00bfA qu\u00e9 realidad despierta el escritor? A la de la vida \u00edntima, olorosa a s\u00e1banas, donde la historia del cosmos es un descubrimiento sensorial.\n\n\u00abNo se puede vivir sin amor\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 el sufrido Malcolm Lowry. La literatura es una afirmaci\u00f3n de la vida. Ah\u00ed, el \u00abmonos\u00edlabo inmortal\u00bb anuncia que el amor es posible, noticia a un tiempo atractiva e inquietante, pues no hay forma m\u00e1s complicada de la felicidad.\n\nUN REGRESO\n\nL\u00f3pez Velarde viaj\u00f3 incontables veces entre Jerez, Zacatecas, Aguascalientes, San Luis Potos\u00ed y la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico. Ese fue su mundo. No conoci\u00f3 el mar ni tuvo una casa. Tampoco us\u00f3 reloj. Am\u00f3 a cuatro mujeres que lo correspondieron espiritualmente. Ninguna se cas\u00f3 con \u00e9l y todas murieron solteras. Vest\u00eda de luto desde la muerte de su padre. Era un hombre alto para la \u00e9poca, de voz discreta y modales sencillos.\n\nA las siete de la tarde sal\u00eda a caminar desde su despacho en avenida Madero n\u00famero 1. Pasaba por la Casa de los Azulejos y segu\u00eda hacia la calle de Mesones, donde visitaba al pintor Saturnino Herr\u00e1n, otro artista hechizado por la belleza femenina. Ram\u00f3n lo acompa\u00f1ar\u00eda en su lecho de muerte y escribir\u00eda una estampa imborrable del momento en que el pintor sinti\u00f3 que las manos se le adormec\u00edan y pidi\u00f3 a las mujeres que lo rodeaban que se las mordieran para devolverle el tacto.\n\nLa ciudad era para L\u00f3pez Velarde un \u00abjerogl\u00edfico nocturno\u00bb (frase, por cierto, digna de Joyce). Su pasi\u00f3n por las largas caminatas lo llev\u00f3 a resfriarse mientras hablaba de Montaigne con un amigo. Desatendi\u00f3 la enfermedad y contrajo una pulmon\u00eda que poco despu\u00e9s se transform\u00f3 en pleures\u00eda. Al recibir los santos \u00f3leos, pregunt\u00f3 si la Iglesia ya aceptaba la cremaci\u00f3n. Su cad\u00e1ver no pudo arder, pero su poes\u00eda no ha dejado de hacerlo.\n\nRam\u00f3n, o el fantasma que nuestro fervor mantiene vivo, camina en 2014 por Mesones, pero no se detiene en casa de Saturnino Herr\u00e1n. Sigue rumbo a la calle de las librer\u00edas de viejo. La plaza de Santo Domingo vuelve a traerle recuerdos de Zacatecas. Ah\u00ed, los escritores p\u00fablicos escriben cartas para los novios a los que les sobra amor y les falta ortograf\u00eda. En un kiosco, un peri\u00f3dico le informa que al fin un Papa lleva el nombre de Francisco, pobre entre los pobres. El benepl\u00e1cito de la noticia se mezcla con un sobresalto. Un encabezado habla de la reforma energ\u00e9tica. El poeta recuerda un d\u00edstico de \u00abLa suave Patria\u00bb: \u00abEl ni\u00f1o Dios te escritur\u00f3 un establo \/ y los veneros del petr\u00f3leo el diablo.\u00bb\n\nVe con repudio los muchos anuncios de marcas norteamericanas. Fastidiado, sigue por Donceles. El Templo de la Ense\u00f1anza lo cautiva con un barroco a escala, propio de una devoci\u00f3n de jugueter\u00eda. Prosigue hasta un zagu\u00e1n en el que se anuncia una conferencia: \u00abHist\u00f3ricas peque\u00f1eces. Vertientes narrativas en Ram\u00f3n L\u00f3pez Velarde\u00bb. No sabe lo que significa con precisi\u00f3n esa palabra que le suena forzada: \u00abnarrativa\u00bb. Entra porque siempre ha cre\u00eddo en citas con los espectros y el cartel informa que es uno de ellos; pertenece, como tantas veces lo so\u00f1\u00f3, a la legi\u00f3n transparente.\n\nEscucha lo que se dice de \u00e9l. Su cortes\u00eda es del tama\u00f1o de nuestro entusiasmo. Esto permite un acuerdo que acaso no sea sino una ilusi\u00f3n literaria: hablamos su idioma.\n\nSe ha hecho tarde. Una campana suena en alguna parte. Una ventana se enciende en una alcoba. Es hora de que el silencio recupere sus derechos. La noche es ya \u00abperfume y pan y t\u00f3sigo y cauterio\u00bb.\n\nEl poeta que se fue acaba de volver. \n\n### RODOLFO USIGLI: EL FUNDADOR\n\nUn retrato a contraluz\n\nEn Santa Mar\u00eda, la ciudad imaginada por Onetti, hay una estatua humillada por el \u00f3xido que lleva esta lac\u00f3nica leyenda: \u00abFundador\u00bb. Se refiere a Brausen, el desmedido y desastrado pionero de esa tierra.\n\nLa suerte de Rodolfo Usigli puede asociarse con la del melanc\u00f3lico h\u00e9roe de Santa Mar\u00eda. El precursor del teatro mexicano moderno enfrent\u00f3 una tarea muchas veces ingrata: \u00abMe ha tocado entrar en este mundo de fuego, de desgarramiento, de sangre y de parto que es el teatro\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 en su \u00abEnsayo sobre la actualidad de la poes\u00eda dram\u00e1tica\u00bb.\n\nMaestro de Luisa Josefina Hern\u00e1ndez, Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, Emilio Carballido, Sergio Maga\u00f1a y H\u00e9ctor Mendoza, predic\u00f3 un oficio arduo. A Vicente Le\u00f1ero le dijo: \u00abBienvenido al maravilloso infierno del teatro\u00bb, y a Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia le recomend\u00f3 cambiarse el apellido. En un pa\u00eds tan precario como M\u00e9xico, los teatros no tienen suficientes letras para las marquesinas: \u00abP\u00f3ngase Ibar\u00bb, aconsej\u00f3 al alumno, que no acept\u00f3 guillotinar su nombre pero acab\u00f3 renunciando a las tablas.\n\nIncomprendido por la cr\u00edtica y por un p\u00fablico que en ocasiones solo asisti\u00f3 a sus obras atra\u00eddo por el esc\u00e1ndalo; injuriado durante d\u00e9cadas por Salvador Novo; en tensi\u00f3n con la clase pol\u00edtica de la que sin embargo depend\u00eda, Usigli atraviesa la cultura mexicana como una fascinante figura esquiva, digna de sus piezas dram\u00e1ticas.\n\nEl estudio _Del fraude al milagro. Visi\u00f3n de la historia en Usigli_ , de Bruce Swansey, ha contribuido de manera notable a descifrar el enigma de un dramaturgo nunca ajeno al equ\u00edvoco y el malentendido.\n\nCon determinaci\u00f3n ins\u00f3lita, el autor de _Estado de secreto_ se propuso crear _otro_ teatro. Cumpli\u00f3 su prop\u00f3sito no solo como dramaturgo sino como te\u00f3rico, maestro y comentarista. Su fervor por el oficio lo llev\u00f3 a escribir con un rigor que permite leer con aprecio cada una de sus p\u00e1ginas, aunque esto no siempre depare el placentero desconcierto de encontrar ideas singulares.\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia describi\u00f3 el meticuloso ritual que anteced\u00eda a las clases de Usigli. Colocaba en el escritorio su boquilla, sus anteojos, sus pastillas para la dispepsia y su paraguas: la utiler\u00eda esencial de una obra. Esta disposici\u00f3n met\u00f3dica de los objetos era en cierta forma una moral; anticipaba a un profesor que conoc\u00eda su tradici\u00f3n con exactitud pr\u00e1ctica, un devoto de la t\u00e9cnica en tiempos que privilegiaban los arrebatos l\u00edricos, la inspiraci\u00f3n y el contacto con lo sublime. En sostenida discrepancia con los Contempor\u00e1neos \u2013varios de ellos dramaturgos menores\u2013, Usigli se ocup\u00f3 de temas hist\u00f3ricos y cotidianos, en exceso realistas y vulgares para los miembros del \u00abgrupo sin grupo\u00bb. As\u00ed, el mayor dramaturgo mexicano se priv\u00f3 de la complicidad cr\u00edtica que lo habr\u00eda inscrito de otro modo en la \u00e9poca. Durante a\u00f1os quiso escribir una novela inspirada en los Contempor\u00e1neos: _Inteligencias est\u00e9riles_.\n\nNacido en la pobreza, morir\u00eda como embajador y selecto coleccionista de obras de arte. Cosmopolita encandilado por la historia de M\u00e9xico, compuso una comedia en franc\u00e9s, public\u00f3 en ingl\u00e9s, pero no asumi\u00f3 poses culteranas _\u00e0 la page_.\n\nEn 2005, a cien a\u00f1os de su nacimiento, Christopher Dom\u00ednguez Michael se\u00f1al\u00f3 con acierto que se prefiere hablar de Usigli que ponerlo en escena. Luis de Tavira ha recordado el hecho peculiar de que el Fundador tuviera que enfrentar el teatro como libro. A diferencia de Brecht, nuestro autor no cont\u00f3 con el respaldo sostenido de una compa\u00f1\u00eda ni dispuso, como Bernhard, de actores fetiche que aguardaran con pasi\u00f3n sus parlamentos.\n\nDesde una movediza lejan\u00eda, renov\u00f3 la dramaturgia y se convirti\u00f3 en ardiente adalid de s\u00ed mismo. Los numerosos y extensos pr\u00f3logos que escribi\u00f3 para sus obras se explican por la necesidad de encontrar la resonancia que le regateaba el entorno. Ante la falta de tradici\u00f3n literaria de Portugal, Pessoa concibi\u00f3 a sus heter\u00f3nimos para asignarse la tradici\u00f3n de la que pod\u00eda ser heredero. En forma semejante, Usigli se convirti\u00f3 en su propio comentarista: \u00abCreo que _Vacaciones I_ y _II_ son las \u00fanicas comedias que, con las farsas de Ch\u00e9jov y las _Escuelas_ de Moli\u00e8re, me hacen llorar siempre que las releo o las veo representar.\u00bb Hay algo m\u00e1s que autocomplacencia en esta frase. Acostumbrado a ser su \u00fanico interlocutor, Usigli se despersonaliza al grado de verse como otro. En un temperamento menos solitario, la comparaci\u00f3n con Ch\u00e9jov y Moli\u00e8re sonar\u00eda desmesurada; en Usigli, suena a provocaci\u00f3n, reto, puesta en escena.\n\nLa repercusi\u00f3n del dramaturgo excede los escenarios. Jos\u00e9 Emilio Pacheco ha revalorado su poes\u00eda; Guillermo Sheridan lo considera uno de los mejores autores de diarios de la literatura mexicana, y su novela de amor fetichista, _Ensayo de un crimen_ , fue adaptada por Luis Bu\u00f1uel (como suele ocurrir, la versi\u00f3n f\u00edlmica disgust\u00f3 al autor).\n\nEn la vasta discusi\u00f3n que va de _La querella de M\u00e9xico_ (1915), de Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n, a _La jaula de la melancol\u00eda_ (1987), de Roger Bartra, la cultura mexicana ha indagado las m\u00e1scaras que se superponen a la evanescente categor\u00eda que llamamos \u00abidentidad\u00bb. Usigli contribuy\u00f3 al tema en forma singular: no busc\u00f3 lo inmanente, la inmutable condici\u00f3n del sujeto nacional; puso en escena las vacilaciones que en forma parad\u00f3jica definen nuestra \u00abautenticidad\u00bb.\n\n\u00abEl mexicano no es una esencia sino una historia\u00bb, escribe Octavio Paz en _Posdata_. Para el autor de _Corona de sombras_ , esa historia es la de una incertidumbre. El mexicano se define m\u00e1s por lo que aparenta, e incluso por lo que desea en cauto secreto, que por sus actos. Esta certera disecci\u00f3n de una cultura hist\u00f3ricamente indecisa determina su dramaturgia.\n\nSwansey se ocupa con especial detalle en sus textos hist\u00f3ricos. Por su t\u00edtulo, _Del fraude al milagro_ podr\u00eda sugerir los extremos de un itinerario que ir\u00edan del fracaso a la consagraci\u00f3n. El largo ensayo es m\u00e1s sutil. Las nociones de \u00abfraude\u00bb y \u00abmilagro\u00bb son l\u00edmites que sirven para evadir tanto la hagiograf\u00eda como el denuesto.\n\nEl primer dramaturgo profesional de M\u00e9xico domin\u00f3 los modelos extranjeros (Bernard Shaw como paradigma, Bertolt Brecht como antiejemplo) en pos de un desarrollo propio. En su oficio sosegado y persistente, el fracaso y el \u00e9xito, el fraude y el milagro, se sentaron a la misma mesa. La mayor virtud de Swansey consiste en ser fiel a las duplicidades que decidieron la suerte de Usigli. Al analizar la conformaci\u00f3n de personajes, reprocha que se trate de figuras unidimensionales: \u00abEl teatro de Usigli est\u00e1 hecho de seres que el autor concibe hechos de una sola pieza en la medida en que la pasi\u00f3n suele ser unificadora y no deja espacio para el contraste ni para el distanciamiento.\u00bb Swansey se opone al trazo maniqueo no solo en su condici\u00f3n de cr\u00edtico, sino de retratista; en consecuencia, de sus p\u00e1ginas emerge una figura contradictoria, enriquecida por las sombras.\n\nUsigli se opuso a la servidumbre de los datos en su novedoso acercamiento a la historia: \u00abSolo la imaginaci\u00f3n permite tratar teatralmente un tema hist\u00f3rico\u00bb, afirm\u00f3. La lealtad a los hechos depende de la inventiva.\n\nChristopher Dom\u00ednguez Michael lo describe como tres veces cat\u00f3lico (su padre es italiano, su madre polaca, \u00e9l mexicano). No es casual que Usigli se interesara en la condici\u00f3n ceremonial de la historia ni que concibiera coronas funerarias para tres episodios nacionales. En un pa\u00eds donde los actos decisivos se desconocen, o solo se conocen a trav\u00e9s de monumentos, el dramaturgo recupera contradicciones que no pueden interpretarse de manera un\u00edvoca: \u00abla historia no odia, amigo; la historia ya ni siquiera juzga\u00bb.\n\nSu trilog\u00eda de r\u00e9quiems _(Corona de sombra, Corona de luz_ y _Corona de fuego)_ disuelve lugares comunes y detiene el decurso temporal para explorarlo de otro modo. \u00abLa historia como un sue\u00f1o rid\u00edculo\u00bb, escribe Swansey, \u00abuna comedia antihist\u00f3rica de equivocaciones, un umbral intraspasable que arresta el tiempo en la unanimidad aparente de la ceremonia ante el altar de la patria.\u00bb\n\nCon pericia, Swansey se ocupa de la condici\u00f3n fronteriza, lim\u00edtrofe, en la construcci\u00f3n dram\u00e1tica y psicol\u00f3gica de las piezas de Usigli: \u00abEl umbral se convierte en cifra y signo de su vida y de su obra [y] encarna en muchos de sus personajes que aspiran a otra vida sin atreverse a dar el paso definitivo, agotados en el solo hecho de denunciar su profunda, vital insatisfacci\u00f3n.\u00bb Sus personajes est\u00e1n inc\u00f3modos y desean romper con la realidad que los rodea, pero no se atreven a dar el paso definitivo. Esta imposibilidad de transgresi\u00f3n retrata de manera cabal una cultura acomodaticia, que se lamenta en secreto de sus impedimentos, pero prefiere la resignaci\u00f3n al desaf\u00edo. Umbral: lo que une al separar.\n\nUsigli puso en duda una tradici\u00f3n osificada y afirm\u00f3 que el artista act\u00faa contra su tiempo. Uno de sus personajes sugiere con iron\u00eda que el p\u00fablico nunca comprende el arte en el momento en que ocurre y se conforma con celebrar a posteriori \u00abla historia del arte\u00bb.\n\nSiempre cerca de Shaw, Usigli actualiza en M\u00e9xico la paradoja moral de estar en contra de una realidad que no se puede y acaso no se desea modificar. A diferencia de Jean Genet, sus esc\u00e1ndalos teatrales no tuvieron que ver con la ruptura sino con la ambig\u00fcedad, veneno menor pero suficientemente t\u00f3xico para la pacata sociedad mexicana. El propio autor reflexion\u00f3 en la paradoja de que los m\u00e1s fieles defensores de _El gesticulador_ estuvieran en el gobierno. El p\u00fablico y la cr\u00edtica fueron m\u00e1s timoratos. Acaso la condici\u00f3n m\u00e1s \u00abmexicana\u00bb de su dramaturgia pol\u00edtica sea precisamente la de oponerse sin \u00abcruzar la raya\u00bb.\n\nEn la cuerda del mejor Abel Quezada, Usigli retrata a la burocracia: \u00abEsta clase tiene su manera particular de vivir, su clima propio, bien resuelto, su historia y sus proverbios, entre los que figura el que dice del gobierno que es el mejor amo.\u00bb\n\nUn veloz di\u00e1logo de _Estado de secreto_ define la inercia de la pol\u00edtica nacional, oficio de la conveniencia que se adapta al clima:\n\nSENADOR PRIMERO: \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 Estado es diputado este sonamb\u00falico individuo?\n\nSENADOR TERCERO: Por el Estado de cosas, compa\u00f1ero.\n\n_La \u00faltima puerta_ recrea la muy mexicana cultura de la antesala. En un \u00e1mbito donde las representaciones son m\u00e1s importantes que los hechos, la espera tiene alto valor pol\u00edtico. Hay que saber c\u00f3mo ejercerla: \u00abLo que de ninguna manera le recomiendo a usted es el sof\u00e1. El sof\u00e1 es un mueble inc\u00f3modo que duplica la espera porque siempre parece que est\u00e1 uno esperando tambi\u00e9n que alguien m\u00e1s venga a sentarse ah\u00ed.\u00bb\n\nEl hombre que aguarda es un aspirante a la acci\u00f3n, zona aplazada que no necesariamente existe. Si, como observa Kundera, Kafka cre\u00f3 la \u00abpo\u00e9tica de la oficina\u00bb, Usigli cre\u00f3 la \u00abpo\u00e9tica de la antesala\u00bb, donde los grandes hechos no llegan a ocurrir: \u00abest\u00e1 usted aqu\u00ed, ahora, frente a una \u00faltima puerta que resplandece siempre, que nunca se abre\u00bb.\n\nEn esa regi\u00f3n suspendida resulta dif\u00edcil distinguir las palabras de los actos:\n\nLA JOVEN: A m\u00ed no me molesta nada.\n\nEL JOVEN: \u00bfEst\u00e1 usted segura, se\u00f1orita, de que eso no es una frase?\n\n_La \u00faltima puerta_ pudo haber crecido hacia un teatro del absurdo o metaf\u00edsico que trascendiera el cuadro de costumbres, un s\u00edmbolo de la posposici\u00f3n equivalente a _El castillo_ , de Kafka. Demasiado fiel a su tema, Usigli no dio el paso decisivo.\n\nSwansey cuestiona la asimilaci\u00f3n del dramaturgo que nad\u00f3 a contracorriente y al sentir que el viento cambiaba \u00abflot\u00f3 de muertito\u00bb: \u00abA medida que se fue integrando en la madurez los premios confirmaron que \"hab\u00eda llegado\", integr\u00e1ndose al sistema de canonj\u00edas que en los tiempos del PRI compr\u00f3 tantas buenas conciencias.\u00bb Parafraseando a Brecht, se refiere a \u00abla irresistible ascensi\u00f3n burocr\u00e1tica de Rodolfo Usigli\u00bb.\n\nEn 1938, Usigli reflexiona sobre la hipocres\u00eda del mexicano. All\u00ed encuentra los l\u00edmites y la cantera del teatro nacional. En un pa\u00eds donde la simulaci\u00f3n se reparte tan bien en la vida diaria, es un desperdicio no llevarla a escena. Pobre en dramaturgia, M\u00e9xico es potente en demagogia. El destino del teatro depende de un viraje en esta econom\u00eda de la suplantaci\u00f3n: sacarla de la pol\u00edtica para llevarla al foro.\n\nUna frase de _Estado de secreto_ resume la cultura del disfraz: \u00abNo me gusta que andes vestida de rojo; eso te da aire de lo que eres.\u00bb En un entorno reprobable, la autenticidad incrimina: ning\u00fan insulto supera a la franqueza.\n\n_Estado de secreto_ narra hechos que van del fraude al asesinato. En una inversi\u00f3n de sentido, la verdadera intriga comienza despu\u00e9s de lo ocurrido, como justificaci\u00f3n retrospectiva del delito. En el primer acto se muestra la enredada vida de Ildefonso Su\u00e1rez N., ministro que aprovecha su puesto para hacer negocios de todo tipo y llevar varias vidas \u00edntimas paralelas. Cuando uno de sus hombres mata a un rival, su ruina parece segura. Sin embargo, el protagonista aprovecha la tragedia para hacer su m\u00e1s arriesgada conspiraci\u00f3n. Se niega a redactar la renuncia que le pide el presidente y acude al Jefe M\u00e1ximo, el hombre fuerte que gobierna en la sombra.\n\nLa proximidad del desastre refuerza la astucia de Su\u00e1rez N. y le permite presentarse ante al Congreso en condici\u00f3n de v\u00edctima, como injuriado hijo de la Revoluci\u00f3n. La sospecha que se cern\u00eda sobre \u00e9l se convierte en alabanza y el Jefe M\u00e1ximo la apoya. La lecci\u00f3n de la mascarada es evidente: en M\u00e9xico el poder no depende de sortear oprobios, sino de acumularlos exitosamente.\n\nEscrita en 1938, _El gesticulador_ se estrena el 17 de mayo de 1947. \u00ab\u00bfNo es posible ser revolucionario y decir la verdad?\u00bb, pregunta el dramaturgo. La respuesta es obvia: en la pantomima de la pol\u00edtica mexicana, lo importante ocurre en silencio.\n\nSwansey anota que varias piezas de Usigli comienzan con la llegada de un entrometido a un orden convencional. El Gran Intruso en la biograf\u00eda del dramaturgo fue la revoluci\u00f3n mexicana. Nacido en 1905, atestigu\u00f3 hasta su muerte en 1979 la mascarada de los gobiernos que institucionalizaron la lucha para no resolverla.\n\nEn _Alcestes_ asegura: \u00abLa Revoluci\u00f3n se hizo en M\u00e9xico gracias a la oratoria.\u00bb \u00bfPara qu\u00e9 gobernar si se puede declarar? Los gobiernos emanados de la Revoluci\u00f3n encontraron en Usigli a su mayor int\u00e9rprete dram\u00e1tico. Comedia de equivocaciones donde lo importante no se decide en p\u00fablico, la pol\u00edtica mexicana fue rebautizada como \u00abla tenebra\u00bb, regi\u00f3n donde los asuntos se arreglan en \u00ablo oscurito\u00bb, teatro tras bambalinas donde la impunidad habla sin apuntador.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 tan actual es esta estrategia del ocultamiento? El 30 de octubre de 2009 el PAN se comprometi\u00f3 en secreto y por escrito con el PRI a no hacer coaliciones electorales en el Estado de M\u00e9xico. A cambio, el PRI apoyar\u00eda la Ley de Ingresos en el Congreso. De espaldas a la ciudadan\u00eda, los gesticuladores montaron una escena de Usigli. Cuatro meses despu\u00e9s, lo sucedido se filtr\u00f3 a la luz p\u00fablica. Incapaz de seguir mintiendo, el 4 de marzo de 2010 C\u00e9sar Nava, l\u00edder del PAN, explic\u00f3 su pacto clandestino con el PRI: \u00abEs cierto que en un primer momento no hice p\u00fablica la firma de este acuerdo. Lo hice por respeto al principio de confidencialidad que rige esta clase de relaci\u00f3n y de acuerdos pol\u00edticos.\u00bb Lo que antes era conspiraci\u00f3n ahora es \u00abprincipio de confidencialidad\u00bb.\n\nEn _El gesticulador_ , un historiador de medio pelo se hace pasar por un h\u00e9roe fallecido; asume palabras ajenas y las pronuncia en beneficio propio. Usigli retrata las ambivalencias de un poder que exalta el pasado para ocultar su ineficacia en el presente.\n\nAunque el tema era moneda com\u00fan, la opini\u00f3n p\u00fablica de la \u00e9poca no estaba dispuesta a aceptarlo, al menos no en el Palacio de Bellas Artes. A\u00fan no llegaban los tiempos en que Jes\u00fas Reyes Heroles dir\u00eda: \u00abLo que resiste apoya.\u00bb La cr\u00edtica implicaba traici\u00f3n. Swansey recuerda el resultado de _El gesticulador_ : 1947 fue para Usigli \u00abel a\u00f1o del hambre\u00bb.\n\nA la distancia, la obra parece menos explosiva. Transgrede sin transformar un g\u00e9nero. A prop\u00f3sito de la renovaci\u00f3n sosegada de Usigli, escribe Dom\u00ednguez Michael: \u00abMe parece que a sus disc\u00edpulos, voluntarios e involuntarios, les cuesta decir lo que acaso sienten: que el maestro Usigli fue un \"falso moderno\" y que es su \"propia intenci\u00f3n de modernidad\" lo que lo hace parecer viejo e irreal.\u00bb Swansey concluye su libro en la misma cuerda: \u00abCon el paso de los a\u00f1os la dramaturgia de Usigli, como por otra parte cualquier obra, es sometida al \u00e1cido corrosivo del tiempo y su voracidad indiscriminada. El modelo familiar que poblaba sus obras pr\u00e1cticamente ha desaparecido, aunque la naturaleza de sus lazos siga siendo represiva; la Revoluci\u00f3n de 1910 es hoy una antigualla venerable acerca de cuyos resultados nadie se enga\u00f1a.\u00bb\n\n\u00bfUsigli lim\u00f3 su punz\u00f3n para no ser silenciado? Swansey estudia su est\u00e9tica de la pose; las fotos con boquilla, mancuernillas y corbata de pajarita que parecen refutar al ni\u00f1o pobre que creci\u00f3 en el centro de la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico. Es la imagen de alguien aceptado. \u00bfHasta d\u00f3nde pod\u00eda llegar la audacia de un inc\u00f3modo comentarista en un pa\u00eds de partido \u00fanico?\n\nSu relaci\u00f3n con el poder refleja las complejidades de la \u00e9poca. El \u00abdrama para demagogos\u00bb le caus\u00f3 problemas que a fin de cuentas no fueron irresolubles. Antes y despu\u00e9s de _El gesticulador_ trabaj\u00f3 en la diplomacia. Jefe de prensa de L\u00e1zaro C\u00e1rdenas, fue embajador en L\u00edbano y Noruega (donde se quejaba de su \u00abosledad\u00bb). Desempe\u00f1\u00f3 puestos intermedios, ni muy vistosos ni muy precarios, mientras escrib\u00eda su teatro de ambig\u00fcedades. Incluso su trabajo diplom\u00e1tico dependi\u00f3 de la noci\u00f3n de umbral: algo menos que un exilio, algo m\u00e1s que un viaje.\n\nNo es casual que sus indecisos personajes, m\u00e1s elocuentes al suplantar que al decidir, lo hayan privado de tener un gran personaje. Tentativo, a veces vacilante, el Fundador sacrific\u00f3 p\u00f3lvora para no ser aniquilado por un medio hostil, y as\u00ed logr\u00f3 una tenaz resistencia; persisti\u00f3, convencido de que el teatro es el reflejo secreto de la plaza p\u00fablica.\n\nLas duplicidades que _El gesticulador_ explora en la vida p\u00fablica llegan a la esfera \u00edntima en _Jano es una muchacha_ , historia de una mujer que a veces es Mariana y a veces Marina, una prostituta y una hija de familia. Es posible que Bu\u00f1uel recordara la obra al concebir _Bella de d\u00eda_ (t\u00edtulo que recuerda un radioteatro de Usigli: _Sue\u00f1o de d\u00eda)_.\n\nEl t\u00edtulo de _Jano es una muchacha_ alude al dios de la duplicidad. Los antecedentes de la chica socialmente bipolar se remontan a su madre, que fue puta. En realidad, el padre quer\u00eda a Eulalia, hermana de la mujer con la que se cas\u00f3, y duda de ser el padre de Marina. En el burdel, pide que le entreguen una muchacha nueva y se encuentra con su hija. El tema se puede desarrollar al modo de _El balc\u00f3n_ , de Genet, o de una telenovela venezolana. Como siempre, Usigli opta por una disonancia sin fracturas. Esta mesurada prevaricaci\u00f3n cautiv\u00f3 a un p\u00fablico doctorado en hipocres\u00eda.\n\nMarina\/Mariana decide ponerse a salvo de la incertidumbre con un parlamento opuesto al de Juan Preciado en _Pedro P\u00e1ramo_ : \u00abVine a otra cosa tambi\u00e9n: a perder a mi padre.\u00bb\n\nCh\u00e9jov aconsejaba que si una pistola era mostrada en el primer acto, deb\u00eda dispararse en el tercero. Toda narraci\u00f3n depende del sentido de la consecuencia. En ese caso, la figura del padre es cuestionada hasta que Eulalia lo mata. Los dem\u00e1s fingen que fue un suicidio. Entonces la radical Marina revela que es virgen; sus devaneos en el burdel no alteraron esa condici\u00f3n. Ser\u00eda f\u00e1cil ver este giro como una concesi\u00f3n del dramaturgo: la hero\u00edna debe ser pura. Sin embargo, el maestro de la ambivalencia postula as\u00ed otro enga\u00f1o, acaso m\u00e1s perverso. Despu\u00e9s de la muerte de su padre, Marina decide casarse. Lo har\u00e1 de blanco. La nueva mascarada es la del bien y la justicia. La mejor frase de la obra resume su moral: \u00abQu\u00e9 suerte tienen las mujeres que no existen.\u00bb\n\nLuis de Tavira ha se\u00f1alado que en el vasto legado de Usigli la obra a retomar es _El ni\u00f1o y la niebla_. En esta pieza maestra de la ambig\u00fcedad, la historia es el tel\u00f3n de fondo de una intriga \u00edntima. Guillermo, pol\u00edtico de provincia, aguarda la llamada de Adolfo de la Huerta para incorporarse a su gobierno. Mientras tanto, recela de la relaci\u00f3n que su hijo adolescente, Daniel, sostiene con un muchacho mayor que \u00e9l. De manera t\u00edpica, Marta, la madre, no ama a Guillermo, sino a otro hombre, Mauricio, sensible lector de L\u00f3pez Velarde.\n\nEl hijo, demasiado fr\u00e1gil para las exigencias del padre, es, por el contrario, un clon paterno para la madre: \u00abNo quiero a mi hijo [...] siento como si no fuera m\u00e1s que una duplicaci\u00f3n de su padre, una imagen escapada de un viejo retrato o de un espejo.\u00bb Cuestionado por ambos padres, el hijo asume una condici\u00f3n lim\u00edtrofe, especular, nublada. El rasgo m\u00e1s importante de su car\u00e1cter: es son\u00e1mbulo, act\u00faa entre el sue\u00f1o y la vigilia. La madre quiere aprovechar esta condici\u00f3n para que Daniel mate al padre sin culpa, dormido, en la niebla.\n\nEl hijo se equivoca o no se atreve a acabar con el sufrimiento de todos ultimando al patriarca: dispara contra s\u00ed mismo. Una frase de Pavese explica su conducta: \u00abEl suicidio es un asesinato t\u00edmido.\u00bb\n\nContra la convenci\u00f3n moral, la madre se siente liberada gracias a esta muerte, pero renuncia a la felicidad de huir con Mauricio. Por su parte, Guillermo deja la pol\u00edtica. El dolor, es decir, el confuso \u00e9xito de haber perdido a un hijo que nunca fue otra cosa que un intruso, une a la pareja. Permanecen en la casa, \u00abcon Daniel\u00bb.\n\nEsta trama impecable explora, como en ninguna otra obra de la literatura mexicana, la fantasmagor\u00eda de las pasiones, la corrosiva pol\u00edtica de la vida \u00edntima.\n\nUna de las m\u00e1s grandes satisfacciones de Rodolfo Usigli fue recibir el aval de Bernard Shaw. El colega irland\u00e9s no coment\u00f3 en forma detallada su obra, pero, al modo de un gesticulador mexicano, prometi\u00f3 escribir un certificado de su talento en caso de que fuese necesario.\n\nEn su _Diccionario cr\u00edtico de la literatura mexicana_ , Dom\u00ednguez Michael recupera otro momento, menos comentado y m\u00e1s significativo: el encuentro de Usigli con Eliot. En 1944 Londres se manten\u00eda en alerta por los bombardeos y el poeta deb\u00eda montar guardia en la editorial Faber & Faber. Usigli fue a dejarle un libro y se sorprendi\u00f3 de encontrarlo como portero del edificio. Eliot lo convid\u00f3 a pasar y le ofreci\u00f3 una cerveza. Pasaron el resto de la noche hablando de literatura, el secuestro del hijo de Lindbergh, la guerra, el futuro incierto. En una ciudad que pod\u00eda arder en llamas, Usigli volvi\u00f3 a ser un hombre de umbral, muy mexicano y muy desplazado, consciente del peso de la historia y dispuesto a criticarla sin cambiarla del todo, o solo lo suficiente para no ser execrado en un pa\u00eds de ofensa r\u00e1pida. Eliot, que trabaj\u00f3 en un banco y pose\u00eda modales matizados, acaso fue el interlocutor ideal de ese extra\u00f1o mexicano de origen pobre y europeo. Habitantes de una tierra bald\u00eda, se encontraron como en un teatro que hab\u00eda cerrado sus puertas.\n\nConmueve imaginar el camino de regreso de Usigli en esa ciudad cercada, hacia el resto de su vida, hacia las oficinas siempre alejadas de los teatros donde pensaba estrenar sus obras. Un hombre de audacias tentativas, ir\u00f3nico, obstinado, poco amigo de las estridencias, necesario.\n\nLa estatua de Brausen, Fundador de la Santa Mar\u00eda de Onetti, est\u00e1 manchada por el verd\u00edn. Es un justo recordatorio de sus causas perdidas, de la paciente y piadosa resignaci\u00f3n ante los descalabros. No es la efigie de un pr\u00f3cer, sino la de un desmesurado que supo vivir en entredicho.\n\nRodolfo Usigli merece ser visto de ese modo, a contraluz, equidistante de los fulgores y las sombras, en consonancia con la fracturada identidad del mexicano que supo llevar a escena. \n\n### ONETTI, CORT\u00c1ZAR Y PUIG POR CORRESPONDENCIA: PEDIR QUE EL TIEMPO EXISTA\n\nLee cartas que no le est\u00e1n dirigidas. Trata, como yo, de descifrarlas. Trata, dijo, como yo, de descifrar el mensaje secreto de la historia.\n\nRICARDO PIGLIA, _Respiraci\u00f3n artificial_\n\nPertenecemos a la primera generaci\u00f3n que vio desaparecer las cartas. Inmersos en los est\u00edmulos suplementarios de internet y las redes sociales, a\u00fan no sabemos qu\u00e9 tan grave fue esa p\u00e9rdida.\n\nLa escritura privada no se somete al juicio de la cr\u00edtica ni pretende conformar un g\u00e9nero literario; busca satisfacer a _un_ lector. Quien se explaya en una misiva necesita al otro como referente y lo toma en cuenta para lo que dice, pero tambi\u00e9n se sondea a s\u00ed mismo. El mon\u00f3logo teatral parte de una convenci\u00f3n extrema: alguien vocifera para o\u00edrse. En cambio, el soliloquio se basa en una complicidad ausente; las palabras se dicen en soledad, pensando en el testigo que podr\u00e1 o\u00edrlas y que de alg\u00fan modo se hace presente.\n\nEn la novela _Se\u00f1orita M\u00e9xico_ , de Enrique Serna, las preguntas a una reina de la belleza se deducen por lo que contesta. Lo mismo ocurre en el cuento de J. G. Ballard \u00abRespuestas a un cuestionario\u00bb, o en la obra de teatro \u00bf _Est\u00e1s ah\u00ed_?, de Javier Daulte, donde un personaje habla por tel\u00e9fono sin que oigamos a su interlocutor. El soliloquio es un mon\u00f3logo silenciosamente acompa\u00f1ado. El hecho de que solo una persona hable gana l\u00f3gica por la presencia impl\u00edcita de un testigo.\n\nTal es la fuerza de las cartas, sobre todo de aquellas en las que solo conocemos a uno de los corresponsales. La soledad en que ocurren es una soledad comprometida. El otro no interviene pero condiciona la escritura. El mon\u00f3logo no necesita respuesta; el soliloquio la presupone. Cartas literarias: hablar a solas para alguien m\u00e1s.\n\nAunque a\u00fan es posible sostener una correspondencia, se trata de un modo de expresi\u00f3n arcaico; el correo ya solo se usa por excepci\u00f3n. John Berger encontr\u00f3 en su novela _De A para Y_ una urgente raz\u00f3n contempor\u00e1nea para establecer una relaci\u00f3n epistolar: su protagonista est\u00e1 preso; solo puede comunicarse con su pareja por escrito. La forma de esa narraci\u00f3n es un hecho pol\u00edtico: alguien sometido en el espacio acude a un g\u00e9nero que depende del tiempo.\n\nDe acuerdo con Paul Virilio, la modernidad se obsesion\u00f3 por controlar el espacio en la misma medida en que la posmodernidad se obsesiona por controlar el tiempo. Esta aceleraci\u00f3n de la historia ya hab\u00eda sido advertida por Goethe en su descripci\u00f3n de la naciente sociedad burguesa como un compendio de \u00ababundancia y velocidad\u00bb.\n\nLa flecha del tiempo ha tenido cada vez m\u00e1s prisa. La paradoja es que, al acelerarse, la comunicaci\u00f3n ha dejado de depender en forma prioritaria del tiempo para depender del espacio: internet representa, ante todo, un lugar. Lo que ah\u00ed se encuentra puede proceder de diversas temporalidades. En su condici\u00f3n expr\u00e9s, el correo electr\u00f3nico, como las transferencias bancarias, se sit\u00faa en un presente eterno. M\u00e1s all\u00e1 de las ocasionales fallas de los servidores o los azarosos filtros del SPAM, la comunicaci\u00f3n digital no admite pausas ni depende de posposiciones; no busca establecer un ritmo en el que hay un antes y un despu\u00e9s. Todo lo que ah\u00ed se encuentra es instant\u00e1neo. Los mensajes pueden ser citas cl\u00e1sicas o tuits de hoy, y se someten a la misma cronolog\u00eda, el acto de presencia en la pantalla.\n\nEn su ensayo \u00abTiempo topol\u00f3gico en _Proyecto Nocilla_ y en _Postpoes\u00eda_ (y breve apunte para una _Exonovela)\u00bb_ , Agust\u00edn Fern\u00e1ndez Mallo observa que fuera de la red contamos una historia (seguimos un decurso cronol\u00f3gico); dentro de ella, la construimos (seguimos un dise\u00f1o espacial). A diferencia de las memorias, los diarios, las correspondencias y otras narrativas, el correo electr\u00f3nico no depende de recursos temporales como la espera, la interrupci\u00f3n y la continuaci\u00f3n. Es algo que \u00abest\u00e1 ah\u00ed\u00bb, en un _topos_ virtual. Obviamente, tambi\u00e9n ah\u00ed sucede el tiempo, y la lectura depende de su decurso, pero se trata de un transcurrir definido por el espacio. En consecuencia, Fern\u00e1ndez Mallo propone la categor\u00eda de \u00abtiempo topol\u00f3gico\u00bb para referirse al discurrir sobredeterminado por el espacio.\n\nA\u00fan no conocemos las posibilidades del oc\u00e9ano digital. En lo que se define ese impreciso porvenir, podemos advertir la caducidad de ciertos mensajes. En 1966, al prologar la correspondencia de Walter Benjamin, Theodor W. Adorno afirma que el autor de _Angelus Novus_ inicia su correspondencia en los a\u00f1os diez del siglo pasado, convencido de practicar un g\u00e9nero anacr\u00f3nico.\n\nBenjamin fue un sostenido profeta de la obsolescencia: estudi\u00f3 la p\u00e9rdida del aura fotogr\u00e1fica en la \u00e9poca de la reproducci\u00f3n t\u00e9cnica, la progresiva ideologizaci\u00f3n de los hor\u00f3scopos y la disminuci\u00f3n de la experiencia como cantera del narrador. En forma consecuente, repar\u00f3 en la fugacidad de un m\u00e9todo de comunicaci\u00f3n que sus contempor\u00e1neos juzgaban perdurable. A principios del siglo XX, las cartas, si bien ya no determinaban el conocimiento total de una persona lejana porque eventualmente se pod\u00eda tomar un tren para visitarla, a\u00fan parec\u00edan irrenunciables.\n\nEl trato por escrito sol\u00eda beneficiarse de una escritura calculadamente confesional. En 1924, en su comedia _Easy Virtue_ , Noel Coward distingue un matrimonio por conveniencia de una relaci\u00f3n aut\u00e9ntica, apasionada, en la que hay \u00abamor y cartas\u00bb.\n\nLa correspondencia es un ejercicio de sustituci\u00f3n: una persona encarna en el papel, sitio del encuentro. La invenci\u00f3n del tel\u00e9grafo y del tel\u00e9fono, y el avance de los medios de transporte, rest\u00f3 importancia a esa suplantaci\u00f3n. \u00bfPara qu\u00e9 escribir si nos veremos pronto o hablaremos por larga distancia en la hora de tarifas baratas? En ocasiones, el sentido de una misiva consiste, precisamente, en preparar un encuentro. Solo la separaci\u00f3n radical de los corresponsales permite que una carta sea una restituci\u00f3n ut\u00f3pica del ausente.\n\nNo han faltado las correspondencias provocadas por una distancia imaginaria. Freud y Schnitzler viv\u00edan en Viena pero prefirieron conocerse exclusivamente por carta.\n\nEn _Respiraci\u00f3n artificial_ , Ricardo Piglia extrema el \u00abno lugar\u00bb en que ocurren las cartas: \u00abDe pronto comprend\u00ed cu\u00e1l debe ser la _forma_ de mi relato ut\u00f3pico. El protagonista recibe cartas del porvenir (que no le est\u00e1n dirigidas). Entonces un relato epistolar. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 ese g\u00e9nero anacr\u00f3nico? Porque la utop\u00eda es ya de por s\u00ed una forma literaria que pertenece al pasado.\u00bb\n\nToda misiva viene de una hora m\u00e1s temprana que la actual y apunta a un porvenir. En ese sentido, est\u00e1 nimbada de historicidad. Para Adorno, la correspondencia de Benjamin tiene inter\u00e9s en la medida en que \u00abve\u00eda las expresiones hist\u00f3ricas \u2013y las cartas son una de ellas\u2013 como una naturaleza que reclamaba ser descifrada. Su actitud como corresponsal tiende a lo aleg\u00f3rico: las cartas son para \u00e9l cuadros donde la naturaleza hist\u00f3rica sobrevive al pasado\u00bb. Las cosas le interesaban m\u00e1s que las personas y las razones m\u00e1s que las emociones. Benjamin aplica esta objetividad a un territorio evanescente y subjetivo, la vida privada. Esa tensi\u00f3n ilumina su correspondencia.\n\nEl propio Benjamin reuni\u00f3 veinticinco cartas representativas de un siglo de correspondencia alemana (la primera es de 1783, la \u00faltima de 1883). En ellas predomina un criterio de sustituci\u00f3n: se escribe como \u00fanico encuentro posible; las reflexiones y el conocimiento del otro solo pueden llegar por esa v\u00eda. Lo que ah\u00ed se dice pertenece a quien lo emite, pero al mismo tiempo le es ajeno. Quien se objetiva por escrito adquiere una personalidad que debe ser juzgada en s\u00ed misma; la carta se _desprende_ de la persona que la firma. Pestalozzi ofrece un caso l\u00edmite al respecto. En una de las piezas seleccionadas por Benjamin, le escribe a su amada: \u00abSabes que no soy atrevido, pero mi pluma lo es. Cuando mi pluma pelea con la tuya, d\u00e9jala que escriba y responde a mi atrevimiento en el papel con tus reproches escritos. El pleito no tiene que ver con nosotros.\u00bb\n\nEl escritor de cartas se suplanta en otro. Es, durante un tiempo, lo que ha escrito. Entre una carta y otra pasan varios d\u00edas, tal vez semanas, acaso meses. La imagen del remitente depende de lo \u00faltimo que ha dicho; para modificarlo, se necesita otra carta. Las pausas subrayan el significado de los mensajes, son su caja de resonancia.\n\nLas correspondencias del siglo XX, por activas que sean, pertenecen al crep\u00fasculo de un g\u00e9nero y rara vez logran el doble prop\u00f3sito al que sirvieron en su hora m\u00e1s alta: construir una personalidad paralela y una presencia sustituta.\n\nMe han interesado tres correspondencias de publicaci\u00f3n m\u00e1s o menos reciente que registran procesos formativos de autores que, d\u00e9cadas m\u00e1s tarde, definir\u00edan el proceso formativo de mi generaci\u00f3n: Juan Carlos Onetti, Julio Cort\u00e1zar y Manuel Puig.\n\nLos tres acervos son unilaterales; no se conocen las cartas de vuelta. Como en el soliloquio, las respuestas se sobrentienden. Lo esencial en esos papeles surgidos a trav\u00e9s del tiempo es el aprendizaje literario y la forma en que esa escritura privada espejea y contribuye a definir la obra p\u00fablica.\n\nAl igual que en _\u00c9tant donn\u00e9s_ , la obra de Duchamp que solo puede ser contemplada por un espectador a la vez, las cartas se dirigen a un lector \u00fanico, el otro que las determina (\u00abno es la voz sino el o\u00eddo lo que decide el relato\u00bb, comenta Marco Polo al Gran Kan en _Las ciudades invisibles_ , de Calvino). Se escribe una carta presuponiendo el estado de \u00e1nimo, el sentido del humor, la susceptibilidad y los gustos del destinatario.\n\nLeer cartas ajenas depara un placer inferior al de recibirlas. Por m\u00e1s acentuado que sea nuestro fetichismo, reconocemos con melancol\u00eda que las emociones que se tomaron en cuenta no fueron las nuestras y cedemos al juego compensatorio de imaginar, tambi\u00e9n, al destinatario que contribuye a la narraci\u00f3n con su silencio c\u00f3mplice.\n\nONETTI: \u00abEN REALIDAD NO DIJE NADA PERO ES FORZOSO QUE SEA AS\u00cd\u00bb\n\nLa correspondencia de Onetti con el pintor y cr\u00edtico literario Julio E. Payr\u00f3 fue publicada por la editorial ERA en 2009 con un significativo aparato de notas preparado por Hugo J. Verani.\n\nA lo largo de dos d\u00e9cadas (1937-1957), el autor de _El astillero_ pone a prueba sus descubrimientos e intuiciones. Payr\u00f3 vive en Buenos Aires, lo supera en lecturas, tiene un car\u00e1cter paciente, gustos sofisticados, una posici\u00f3n segura. Sin embargo, el joven novelista, que por esos a\u00f1os compone libros capitales, de _El pozo_ a _Para esta noche_ , suele desafiar a su corresponsal y no pocas veces le suelta una de esas impertinencias onettianas donde el afecto se mezcla con la injuria. Sirva de ejemplo la dedicatoria de _Tierra de nadie_. En 1951 el libro aparece inscrito a \u00abJulio E. Payr\u00f3\u00bb; veinticuatro a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, la reedici\u00f3n agrega una frase: \u00abA Julio E. Payr\u00f3, con reiterado ensa\u00f1amiento\u00bb.\n\nUna de las cartas revela el asombroso primer t\u00edtulo de _Tierra de nadie: Follet\u00edn_. La clave de esa elecci\u00f3n parece estar en una pregunta que Onetti le lanza a Payr\u00f3: \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 Faulkner decidi\u00f3 que una historia de extrema sordidez se llamara _Santuario_? Con la misma iron\u00eda, un erial sin nadie puede ser visto como un follet\u00edn.\n\nEn la correspondencia, el \u00abensa\u00f1amiento\u00bb adquiere variados matices. En un momento de hartazgo, el novelista uruguayo utiliza italianismos y giros en lunfardo, asumi\u00e9ndose como un molesto compadrito, tal y como har\u00eda a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s en su c\u00e9lebre encuentro con Borges. De manera t\u00edpica, Onetti se descalifica como interlocutor de alguien con quien no deseaba hablar; otras veces termina su desahogo aclarando que est\u00e1 borracho.\n\nLa hondura de la correspondencia deriva de la libertad con que Onetti cede a sus pasiones. Curiosamente, su voz \u00edntima elige hablar de usted. A prop\u00f3sito de Pestalozzi, Benjamin comenta que sus cartas aspiran a la \u00abconquista del t\u00fa\u00bb. Apenas iniciados sus env\u00edos a Payr\u00f3, Onetti celebra poderle hablar de t\u00fa, pero renuncia de inmediato a este trato de confianza, como si la cercan\u00eda pudiese entra\u00f1ar un error y el afecto logrado llevara al fracaso; tambi\u00e9n, y sobre todo, lo hace para conservar el peso de lo literario, una distancia elegida, subjetividad imaginada.\n\nPara escribir cartas necesita un momento especial, un \u00abtiempo-tipo\u00bb, un \u00abtiempo-clima\u00bb, una atm\u00f3sfera que le permita imaginarse por escrito (\u00abzonas donde uno se coloca y zonas donde uno huye en el momento de escribir\u00bb, precisa en otro pasaje).\n\nPara Onetti, una buena carta depende de un desarrollo distra\u00eddo, agradablemente divagatorio; debe rechazar otro pretexto que la escritura misma: \u00abNo tengo esperanzas acerca de la extensi\u00f3n de esta carta. Pero supongo que si puedo hacerla durar nos vamos a divertir.\u00bb La historia necesita un _tempo_ ; hay que escribir cuando el reloj se pone de parte del narrador y suspende las horas.\n\nProtegido por el usted y el ambiente mental en el que se sumerge, Onetti es capaz de iniciar una carta con afrentoso afecto. El 10 de diciembre de 1941 abre su misiva al \u00abquerido Julito\u00bb en estos t\u00e9rminos: \u00ab\u00bfQu\u00e9 le pasa?\u00bb\n\nEl tono de contradictorio aprecio se extiende a otros amigos. En 1943 recomienda a Homero Alsina Thevenet, periodista que va a buscar suerte a Buenos Aires y a quien Onetti dedica uno de sus mejores cuentos, \u00abBienvenido, Bob\u00bb. En la carta lo \u00abencomia\u00bb de este modo: \u00abEl muchacho (el incordio que tiene veinte a\u00f1os) es algo inteligente (garantizado) pero nada m\u00e1s [...] puede escribir de toda la sucia porquer\u00eda que es el periodismo. Es lo suficientemente in\u00fatil para eso [...]. No lo deje hablar mucho y adem\u00e1s no le haga demasiado caso a sus impertinencias. Es muy impertinente: lo bastante para haber escrito esta carta por m\u00ed.\u00bb\n\nCon los a\u00f1os, la amistad con Payr\u00f3 prospera y se estrecha, pero el lenguaje mantiene su distancia para decir las cosas, aun las m\u00e1s privadas. Como observa Verani, el tono es muchas veces tentativo: \u00abVd. me conoce\u00bb, \u00abVd. me entiende\u00bb, \u00abVd. comprende\u00bb, \u00ab\u00bfSe entiende?\u00bb. Las vacilaciones, recurso esencial de las historias onettianas, pasan a las cartas o acaso provienen de ellas. El cuentista que conoce los asombros de lo real y solicita en tono desafiante: \u00abadivine, equiv\u00f3quese\u00bb, parece adiestrado en la correspondencia con Payr\u00f3.\n\nPara Onetti, todo hecho es conjetural. El v\u00e9rtigo de imaginarlo o recrearlo supera a la parda oportunidad de vivirlo. \u00bfC\u00f3mo aprehender la contradictoria riqueza de las acciones, tributarias de la forma en que son miradas? El intercambio con Payr\u00f3 registra la obsesi\u00f3n de Onetti por lograr un estilo tan roto y vivo como la experiencia del mundo, apart\u00e1ndose de la ret\u00f3rica y la correcci\u00f3n: \u00abme est\u00e1 dando n\u00e1useas el \"escribir bien\"\u00bb. Todo lenguaje de val\u00eda (Faulkner es su modelo superior) depende de preservar un misterio, vulnerar la costumbre, fracturar el sentido para hallar algo m\u00e1s genuino, la textura herida de la lengua. Onetti no busca el descuido, sino una respiraci\u00f3n distinta, capaz de una inquietante proximidad. Al mismo tiempo, descree de la complejidad artificiosa y critica el hermetismo del primer Cort\u00e1zar, autor de _Presencia_ , publicado con el seud\u00f3nimo de Julio Deniz.\n\nEn 1939, escribe _El pozo_ a partir de un personaje incapaz de contar bien un recuerdo que lo lastima. El desecho, lo inservible narrado por segunda vez, ser\u00e1 una de sus principales estrategias: el fracaso literario del personaje es el logro del autor. Contar con destreza la historia de los que cuentan mal produce esa extra\u00f1a ilusi\u00f3n onettiana: el relato que se escribe a s\u00ed mismo a medida que leemos.\n\nFiel a sus vacilaciones, califica _El pozo_ como un \u00abmamarracho\u00bb, aunque luego se reconcilia con la novela: \u00absiento aqu\u00ed algo de aquello que France llamaba belleza invisible; una cosa de comunicaci\u00f3n, brutal, sucia, espesa, lo que se quiera, pero que me parece mil veces m\u00e1s verdadera, m\u00e1s m\u00eda, m\u00e1s caliente, que todas las bellas cosas que pudiera escribir y he escrito\u00bb.\n\nA partir de ese momento, se sirve de destrozos, historias descartadas, frases inciertas. Describe a Faulkner como su \u00abenemigo\u00bb porque hace lo que \u00e9l desear\u00eda hacer: renovar la lengua contra la ret\u00f3rica. Su magisterio representa una rivalidad digna de ser asumida.\n\nEn la primera carta que se conserva (antes debi\u00f3 haber otras, pues la amistad ya estaba en curso), Onetti agradece a Payr\u00f3 que se interese por su \u00abisla\u00bb. Verani advierte con acierto que la b\u00fasqueda de una isla literaria se desplazar\u00e1 a otro espacio alterno, una regi\u00f3n imaginaria, al otro lado de un r\u00edo de aguas lentas: Santa Mar\u00eda.\n\nOtro dato sugerente de la correspondencia: en 1937 el novelista ensaya su mano como dramaturgo y aborda un personaje heroico y desmedido, improbable para \u00e9l, nada menos que Napole\u00f3n. Obviamente, no se interesa por el hombre que se coron\u00f3 a s\u00ed mismo, sino por el perdedor, exiliado en Santa Elena. Ese grandilocuente fracaso parece el ensayo general de Brausen, fundador de Santa Mar\u00eda, patriarca de todas las derrotas.\n\nEn forma previsible, las cartas tambi\u00e9n sirven para pedir dinero, solicitar que Payr\u00f3 lleve textos a su amigo Eduardo Mallea, que dirige un suplemento literario, desahogarse sobre los premios perdidos (con los que Onetti cuenta en forma fantasiosa para pagar sus deudas) y los muchos empleos de una vida que solo al final conoci\u00f3 un orden (por otra parte, similar al de un jubilado o, m\u00e1s precisamente, un derrumbado). Entre otras cosas, el renovador del idioma vendi\u00f3 entradas para el futbol en el estadio Monumental de Montevideo y sufri\u00f3 la esclavitud de las redacciones (anclado a los teletipos y los manuscritos ajenos, traslad\u00f3 su cama durante un tiempo a la revista _Marcha)_.\n\nLa leyenda de Onetti se perfecciona con pasajes maestros: \u00abViv\u00ed no s\u00e9 cu\u00e1ntas horas en el otro mundo, sin casi comer, sin casi dormir, teniendo como alimento Old Parr y Phillip Morris y algo que no es decible. Usted comprender\u00e1 lo que quiere decir estar boquiabierto, con los ojos perdidos en un misterio doloroso que sujetan nuestras manos, estar as\u00ed, quem\u00e1ndose los dedos en una, en la felicidad, acurrucado al mismo tiempo en el fondo de un mar de la m\u00e1s negra y asfixiante neurastenia. Y tener un recuerdo de total pureza para consuelo y para desdicha en los d\u00edas comunes que se reinician, la seguridad al menos de saber que uno es capaz, sin esfuerzo, espont\u00e1neamente y dese\u00e1ndolo, de adorar con las manos en los bolsillos y metros de distancia.\u00bb Un rito de paso de la aniquilaci\u00f3n y la pureza, ejes de la imaginaci\u00f3n onettiana.\n\nCon sobriedad, el novelista describe su ruptura matrimonial y la forma en que sobrelleva el dolor. Ante la zozobra, mantiene el temple y la esperanza, y se conmueve cuando ve a unos novios felices en un restaurante, con \u00abaire de primera cita\u00bb. En forma an\u00f3nima, les manda una botella de sidra inglesa. En cambio, cuando se siente bien compromete sus emociones, las vuelve complejas de un modo casi insoportable.\n\nLa ficci\u00f3n de Onetti es siempre \u00edntima; narra en proximidad y privilegia las escenas de encierro. Los objetos est\u00e1n desgastados por el uso, y las emociones y los cuerpos por la experiencia. Las cartas no son ajenas a esa maravilla: \u00abQuemar\u00e9 las etapas porque todav\u00eda no \u2013o en este momento no\u2013 me dedico a la literatura descriptiva. Impresiones m\u00edas: una mujer terriblemente sensual, capaz de dirigir las operaciones cuerpo a cuerpo, escasos senos, escasas nalgas y una cara de seguridad e inteligencia entre la sombra que me enloquec\u00eda. (Las impresiones de ella morir\u00e9 sin saberlas.) Y en el momento culminante sent\u00ed que estaba muerta abajo m\u00edo \u2013 _pardon_ , no es tan bueno el cuento\u2013, que estaba ausente [Onetti agrega al margen: \"Ella tambi\u00e9n ten\u00eda su fantasma\"]. Y yo estaba igualmente muerto y ausente, forcejeando sin \u00e9xito y grotescamente para coger un parecido. Despu\u00e9s toda la vieja escena de tristeza y silencio, el recobrar las ropas sin alegr\u00eda, las cuadras caminadas sin hablar, las palabras de s\u00faplica, los ojos h\u00famedos, las s\u00faplicas calladas, la carrera enloquecida para alcanzarme y acercarse y clavar la mirada despu\u00e9s del adi\u00f3s y un diminuto autom\u00f3vil que se va y dobla la esquina de una calle vac\u00eda. Y heme aqu\u00ed nuevamente sin amor y sin testigo, en la madrugada, escribi\u00e9ndole desde Reuter.\u00bb Para mejorar esa despedida, solo se puede acudir a impecables relatos de acabamiento, como \u00abUn sue\u00f1o realizado\u00bb o \u00abBienvenido, Bob\u00bb.\n\nHay autores (Andr\u00e9 Gide, Mario Vargas Llosa) que aun en sus textos autobiogr\u00e1ficos pueden cubrirse de una coraza mundana y diplom\u00e1tica, una neutralidad que atempera sus des\u00f3rdenes interiores. Onetti solo puede ser personal. Las cartas refieren sus temas de siempre: el fracaso, el gusto por las adolescentes y las mujeres con experiencia, la ternura, el amor, el apego al whisky y al tabaco, la atracci\u00f3n de una casa en la arena, manchada por el sol, aislada, un poco sucia, con hierbajos crecidos, donde es posible abandonarse bajo el cielo, tostarse placenteramente. La dicha colinda con cosas lastimadas.\n\nEn forma desconcertante, el narrador \u00edntimo se siente afantasmado: \u00abesta vida donde yo act\u00fao y escribo pero no existo\u00bb. En otra carta dice: \u00abAqu\u00ed me tiene, el hombre sin espejos.\u00bb Todo es genuino a un grado casi hiriente y sin embargo esa sensaci\u00f3n le resulta falaz al narrador, eterno insatisfecho. De ese cortocircuito surge una correspondencia impar, cuarto de m\u00e1quinas de la narrativa.\n\nOnetti se propone \u00abescribir sin hacer literatura\u00bb; las _Cartas de un joven escritor. Correspondencia con Julio E. Payr\u00f3_ son el campo de fuerza donde practica esa temeraria posibilidad.\n\nPUIG: \u00abA LOS DEL CINE SE LES EST\u00c1 ACABANDO EL IMPULSO\u00bb\n\nMuy distinta es la correspondencia de Manuel Puig con su familia. Aunque el destinatario es colectivo (todos sus parientes), el corresponsal de privilegio es la madre, a la que continuamente desaf\u00eda y siempre toma en cuenta. La relator\u00eda abarca veintisiete a\u00f1os y ha sido dividida en los dos tomos de _Querida familia_ , publicados por la editorial Entrop\u00eda en 2006, espl\u00e9ndidamente anotados por Graciela Goldchluck. El primero abarca los a\u00f1os formativos en Europa; el segundo, la consolidaci\u00f3n del autor en Nueva York, R\u00edo de Janeiro y M\u00e9xico.\n\nLas cartas de Puig son un torrente de traslados, compras, planes, env\u00edos interminables de paquetes, encuentros y desencuentros. A diferencia de Onetti, esos momentos de escritura \u00edntima no buscan la suspensi\u00f3n sino la aceleraci\u00f3n del tiempo. Con frecuencia, el autor escribe en el metro de Nueva York (que llama \u00abel electroshock\u00bb), transporte ideal para su frenes\u00ed. En buena medida, esto se debe a que no escribe a un amigo al que le plantee sus dudas, sino a una familia a la que desea deslumbrar y proteger. El hijo pr\u00f3digo tiene prisa.\n\nEl entusiasmo transmitido por las cartas se debe al deseo de alegrar a la familia, pero tambi\u00e9n al desafiante car\u00e1cter de Puig, escritor ontol\u00f3gicamente marginal, ajeno a la rep\u00fablica de las letras, las modas en curso, la militancia pol\u00edtica izquierdista, la circulaci\u00f3n sexual ortodoxa, los protocolos de una \u00abcarrera literaria\u00bb y, por consiguiente, a la obligaci\u00f3n cultural de estar deprimido.\n\nDe _La n\u00e1usea_ , de Sartre, a _La noia_ , de Moravia, pasando por _Bonjour tristesse_ , de Sagan (melancol\u00eda al alcance del gran p\u00fablico), la narrativa europea de posguerra encontr\u00f3 numerosas formas de conjugar ese estado admirable, la angustia existencial.\n\nPuig enfrenta Europa con una alegr\u00eda salvaje, dispuesto a tener \u00e9xito. Si las buenas costumbres literarias aconsejan pensar poco en el triunfo y menos a\u00fan en el dinero, el aprendiz de guionista llega a Roma con el divertido descaro de un Lazarillo de Tormes dispuesto a ascender y salirse con la suya. Su correspondencia narra las tribulaciones felices de un tunante, la educaci\u00f3n sentimental de quien aprende en la pantalla y traslada esa f\u00e1brica de sue\u00f1os a sus compras, su vestuario y sus viajes, el irresistible encumbramiento de un artista que no se averg\u00fcenza de su olfato comercial. Su actitud hacia el p\u00fablico y el dinero est\u00e1 m\u00e1s cerca de Stephen King que de cualquier autor latinoamericano. Si para Octavio Paz fue un orgullo \u2013un gesto po\u00e9tico\u2013 trabajar en el Banco de M\u00e9xico quemando billetes viejos, para Puig el orgullo es ganarlos, sobreponi\u00e9ndose a los editores espa\u00f1oles de la \u00e9poca, izquierdistas a la hora de pagarle al autor y capitalistas a la hora de recaudar ganancias.\n\nLa literatura es una forma de la circulaci\u00f3n \u2013signos que se desplazan\u2013 y no es casual que aborde el tema del dinero. James Joyce daba fabulosas propinas que le parec\u00edan un correlato de su t\u00e9cnica torrencial. El autor del _stream of consciousness_ no pod\u00eda ser avaro. En forma equivalente, las cartas son para Puig una preparaci\u00f3n estil\u00edstica. Dedica mucho tiempo a hacer env\u00edos a la familia. Con fervor por el detalle, las cartas siguen la pista de esas entregas: \u00bfya lleg\u00f3 la blusa?, \u00bfles gust\u00f3? No es dif\u00edcil asociar esta actividad con algunos recursos t\u00edpicos de Puig: la narrativa en episodios, la pasi\u00f3n por el follet\u00edn, la revelaci\u00f3n diferida (las incriminantes cartas de Juan Carlos que aparecen en _Boquitas pintadas)_ , la est\u00e9tica de la posposici\u00f3n en _El beso de la mujer ara\u00f1a_ , que mejora la narraci\u00f3n al suspenderla.\n\nAlan Pauls coment\u00f3 que las tres habilidades de Puig son \u00abseducir, narrar y vender\u00bb. Los env\u00edos a la familia acu\u00f1an esa moneda de tres caras.\n\nGraciela Goldchluck advierte que en la primera parte de la correspondencia Puig \u00abparece saber siempre hacia d\u00f3nde va aunque no llegue a ning\u00fan lado\u00bb. Durante casi quince a\u00f1os disfruta los m\u00faltiples episodios de una carrera de \u00e9xito que en realidad no est\u00e1 sucediendo, pero que le proporciona gratos efectos secundarios (una comida regia, un departamento soleado a buen precio, una amistad inquebrantable).\n\nOnetti coment\u00f3 que en los libros de Manuel Puig sabemos c\u00f3mo hablan los personajes pero no c\u00f3mo habla el autor. Sus cartas restituyen esa ausencia. Lo m\u00e1s sugerente, sin embargo, es que esta voz de mando tambi\u00e9n tiene la precipitada espontaneidad, la oralidad sin freno, el tono intempestivo de sus personajes (\u00a1habla r\u00e1pido para que lo oigan semanas despu\u00e9s en General Villegas, la peque\u00f1a poblaci\u00f3n donde naci\u00f3!). Puig se transforma en el Hijo Entusiasta que agota un op\u00edparo men\u00fa de pel\u00edculas, obras de teatro, museos, sitios hist\u00f3ricos, aviones, tiendas, contactos \u00fatiles e in\u00fatiles, en beneficio de quienes lo siguen desde una apartada provincia argentina. \u00bfEn qu\u00e9 otro escritor puede ser t\u00edpica la frase: \u00ab\u00a1Estoy en la gloria!\u00bb?\n\nEmpleado de Air France, habla con soltura cuatro idiomas pero no se siente en casa en ninguno de ellos y adereza las cartas con el dialecto parmesano de su familia materna. A esto se agregan las cursivas, que procuran \u00e9nfasis dram\u00e1ticos, ir\u00f3nicos, burlones: recursos _hablados_.\n\nLa puntuaci\u00f3n, no siempre existente, refuerza el fluir de la voz. En un momento en que el voseo a\u00fan no es moneda corriente en las publicaciones argentinas, no vacila en usarlo. En una carta a Jonqui\u00e8res, Cort\u00e1zar defiende \u00aba muerte\u00bb su derecho al voseo, pero muy rara vez lo pone en pr\u00e1ctica. Puig, en cambio, parece escribir por tel\u00e9fono, explorando las posibilidades naturales del habla. Estamos ante la excepcional construcci\u00f3n de una voz, ajena a todo sentido del reposo, enemiga de la solemnidad (la pedanter\u00eda necesita calma) y donde la psicolog\u00eda es una ocurrencia expr\u00e9s.\n\nDe manera emblem\u00e1tica, Puig escribe su primer gran libro, _La traici\u00f3n de Rita Hayworth_ , en el aeropuerto de Nueva York. En el mostrador de Air France aprovecha los momentos muertos para evocar su infancia en General Villegas. Nada parece m\u00e1s apropiado para el dinamismo de Puig y su entrecruzamiento de idiomas que escribir en un aeropuerto, zona de aceleraci\u00f3n donde hasta las pausas son fren\u00e9ticas. Una maleta se pierde, un avi\u00f3n se demora, Puig escribe un p\u00e1rrafo. Enamorado de la prisa, mitiga su angustia por los retrasos con una superstici\u00f3n: \u00abComo buen capricorniano debo hacerlo todo con paciencia.\u00bb M\u00e1s com\u00fan es que diga: \u00abcu\u00e1ndo explotar\u00e1 es el asunto, tengo urgencia de que sea pronto\u00bb.\n\nDurante a\u00f1os, el novelista env\u00eda paquetes a su familia, sirvi\u00e9ndose de los contactos que le brinda el aeropuerto. Se convierte en proveedor de bufandas, abrigos, trajes, corbatas, prendas minuciosamente inventariadas en las cartas. En cuanto se establece y gana dinero, compra ropa para un elenco en apariencia inabarcable que en realidad es su familia. En ocasiones (muy pocas) se sorprende de las exigencias de su madre: \u00abdecime qu\u00e9 tipo de \"tapadito\" quer\u00e9s \u00bfpara qu\u00e9 quer\u00e9s tantos? Ten\u00e9s el de piel, el de gamuza y en el ropero vi que ten\u00edas uno negro tambi\u00e9n moderno. Decime qu\u00e9 tipo de \"tapadito\" querr\u00edas.\u00bb Le preocupa mucho que alguna prenda no le siente bien a ella: \u00ab\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 te hace panza el rosa si es derecho?\u00bb, pregunta consternado.\n\nEn Air France obtuvo descuentos que hoy suenan irreales y recorri\u00f3 el planeta en itinerarios a\u00fan m\u00e1s irreales. _La traici\u00f3n de Rita Hayworth_ es la obra maestra de un pasajero en tr\u00e1nsito que atiende a turistas en cuatro lenguas y despacha una copiosa paqueter\u00eda personal.\n\nA J. G. Ballard le agradaba vivir cerca del aeropuerto de Heathrow porque esa zona de carga y descarga, donde todo parece provisional, revelaba el reverso de la vida sedentaria. Sin embargo, nunca escribi\u00f3, como Puig, dentro de ese \u00e1mbito febril, en el mostrador de una aerol\u00ednea, oyendo anuncios de salidas y llegadas. Nada m\u00e1s l\u00f3gico a fin de cuentas que un heterodoxo, un exiliado de la tradici\u00f3n, narrara desde un paisaje deslocalizado.\n\nSiempre extraterritorial, Puig carece de contactos literarios. Gracias al fot\u00f3grafo cubano-espa\u00f1ol N\u00e9stor Almendros conecta con editores parisinos. Cuando Francia e Italia proponen editarlo, apresura la publicaci\u00f3n en espa\u00f1ol con el fin de que haya una \u00abversi\u00f3n original\u00bb de lo que ya se est\u00e1 traduciendo.\n\nEl deseo de estar fuera \u2013la no pertenencia como acto de liberaci\u00f3n\u2013 se refrenda en las menciones a Argentina: \u00abQu\u00e9 horror ese pa\u00eds, todo ah\u00ed se atranca y cuesta sangre, cuando yo pienso que hasta los atrasados gallegos aprecian mi novela y los cr\u00edticos argentinos a los que mostr\u00e9 algo no se pronunciaban ni que s\u00ed ni que no [...]. Gracias, Argentina, reino de la envidia y la amargura\u00bb, escribe en diciembre de 1965. Un par de meses despu\u00e9s vuelve al ataque: \u00abTengo un buen veneno contra la Argentina, hay algo ah\u00ed que no funciona, una cosa de rivalidad en el aire que tiene a la gente siempre mal dispuesta.\u00bb Es posible que, de nacer en otro sitio, Puig habr\u00eda desarrollado la misma repulsa hacia el origen, tan necesaria para escribir desde los m\u00e1rgenes.\n\nEl g\u00e9nero epistolar cay\u00f3 en desuso antes que otra costumbre que ahora agoniza: ir al cine. La principal afici\u00f3n de Puig adquiere en la correspondencia un tinte arqueol\u00f3gico. La cinematograf\u00eda le parece herida de muerte; disfruta _Vivre sa vie_ , de Godard, pero advierte que cada vez hay menos novedades dignas de inter\u00e9s. En su opini\u00f3n, el cine ha perdido la idea del relato. En esto coincide con Onetti, quien piensa lo mismo veinticinco a\u00f1os antes.\n\nAmbos comparten la pasi\u00f3n por _Intermezzo_ , dirigida por Gregory Ratoff, que marca el debut de Ingrid Bergman en Hollywood. Una escena de _La traici\u00f3n de Rita Hayworth_ prefigura _El beso de la mujer ara\u00f1a_ : \u00ablo \u00fanico que quer\u00eda era que le contaran la pel\u00edcula _Intermezzo_ , que la dieron y no pudo verla por la fiebre\u00bb. Por su parte, Onetti le escribe a Payr\u00f3: \u00abAcabo de ver una pel\u00edcula, muy buena, extraordinaria para mis gustos, que se llama _Intermezzo_ [...]. Se me ocurre pensar que lo que le pasa al protagonista es una maldici\u00f3n que deber\u00eda caer en la vida de todo hombre, a condici\u00f3n de que sepa tocar el viol\u00edn o posea virtudes suced\u00e1neas. Uno siente, con todas sus fuerzas, que se lo merece. Y todav\u00eda, no es perfecto. La perfecci\u00f3n estar\u00eda en que el virtuoso continuara m\u00e1s o menos tiempo con la incalificable Ingrid Bergman, y que estando con ella, cuando el amor se solidifica hasta tener la forma, medida y firmeza de la casa que lo encierra, apareciera otra muchachita con ojos espantados y cara de _Murmullo de primavera.\u00bb_\n\nCruzar correspondencias produce efectos inesperados, como descubrir el gusto por _Intermezzo_ en dos autores que no coincid\u00edan en gustos literarios. Pero las cartas tambi\u00e9n revelan otra coincidencia, m\u00e1s fuerte e irracional: la fobia por el horroroso n\u00famero 31, fin del calendario.\n\nMuseo de arca\u00edsmo, el g\u00e9nero epistolar depara anacr\u00f3nicas sorpresas. Las cartas de Puig remiten a un tiempo, apenas concebible, en que exist\u00eda la privacidad. Hoy en d\u00eda, chatear en plan racista puede comprometerte de por vida. Como amargamente supo John Galiano, en todas partes hay testigos.\n\nLos juicios epistolares del autor de _The Buenos Aires Affair_ son gozosamente irresponsables. En 1963, ya instalado en Nueva York, comenta: \u00abSe ve mucha gente conocida por Broadway, vi a Ava, en plena ma\u00f1ana, bastante joven. La Woodward insignificante, entraba al teatro con una vieja, dos pobres diablas, con la guita que gana, la jud\u00eda amarreta. Carroll Baker m\u00e1s bien fea, s\u00faper jud\u00eda\u00bb (la puntuaci\u00f3n del p\u00e1rrafo es t\u00edpica de la celeridad _hablada_ de Puig). En otro pasaje dice que Natalie Wood es \u00abjud\u00eda pero simp\u00e1tica\u00bb. El exabrupto antisemita es ofensivo, desde luego, pero en el corpus de la correspondencia se entiende como otras tantas descalificaciones r\u00e1pidas, destinadas a divertir a su madre. Desde el hipervigilado presente, esos dislates recuerdan la prehistoria de la vida privada, donde no era necesario justificar palabras dichas en secreto. Escenarios de ligereza, las cartas de Puig no se sirven del an\u00e1lisis sino del juicio intempestivo.\n\nLas menciones a pel\u00edculas, novelas, obras de teatro caen con la liviandad con que se cuenta un chisme en una tertulia. Puig no quiere convencer; por lo tanto, no ofrece argumentos; levanta veloz inventario de sus gustos. No posa ni quiere quedar bien con nadie; su criterio es el del impulso: _El s\u00e9ptimo sello_ lo decepciona... _El deseo bajo los olmos_ le parece \u00abuna cagada\u00bb, \u00abuna ensalada de estilos\u00bb... \u00abGabriela Mistral \u00a1qu\u00e9 bestia! qu\u00e9 cosa horrible. Me hab\u00edan llegado comentarios de que era un bluff pero no sab\u00eda que era semejante desastre. Tambi\u00e9n saqu\u00e9 uno de los \u00faltimos de Neruda, _Odas elementales_ , toda ret\u00f3rica comunista, otro a quien se le pas\u00f3 el cuarto de hora\u00bb... Se refiere al \u00abchat\u00edsimo _Siglo de las luces_ de Alejo Carpentier\u00bb... _\u00abEl grupo_ , de Mary McCarthy, que tiene tanto prestigio, no me gust\u00f3 nada, es de lo m\u00e1s corriente\u00bb ... Donoso \u00abes de una pobreza y chatura de no creer\u00bb... \u00abSaqu\u00e9 de la biblioteca la _Rayuela_ de Cort\u00e1zar, bastante simp\u00e1tica pero medio pobretona\u00bb... \u00abLe\u00ed una novela de Mallea: _La ciudad junto al r\u00edo inm\u00f3vil_ , es tan mala que resulta interesante, es como un tratado de c\u00f3mo no escribir una novela\u00bb... Puig recorre obras como si se tratara de lugares t\u00edpicos, con el desenfado de un turista que valora _souvenirs_.\n\nLa primera carta del Hijo Entusiasta narra la poca higiene de los pasajeros del barco: \u00abhasta ahora no he visto a _nadie_ dirigirse a las duchas\u00bb. El tema de la limpieza pertenece a la econom\u00eda sentimental de Puig. En _The Buenos Aires Affair_ , Gladys se masturba y reflexiona con melancol\u00eda: \u00abdespu\u00e9s del amor hay que lavarse\u00bb. Por desgracia, una errata (aborrecida por el autor) dio a la frase un sentido teol\u00f3gico: \u00abdespu\u00e9s del amor hay que elevarse\u00bb.\n\nEn su correspondencia, Puig abre ventanas para que entre el aire y aclara que todo est\u00e1 bien, es decir, ordenado, limpio. La madre no debe preocuparse.\n\nLa ansiedad del escritor por recibir noticias de los suyos aumenta por sus continuos desplazamientos. En cada ciudad de Europa va a la agencia American Express a ver si tienen algo para \u00e9l. De manera t\u00edpica, es m\u00e1s n\u00f3mada que su correspondencia.\n\nEn toda relaci\u00f3n epistolar abundan las misivas escritas como penitencia para recibir otras. Sin env\u00edo no hay respuesta. Onetti se preocupaba de que sus mensajes se cruzaran con los de Payr\u00f3. Lo mismo le ocurr\u00eda a Cort\u00e1zar en su trato con Jonqui\u00e8res. Un v\u00ednculo que depende del correo no puede ser ajeno al azar y la zozobra. Los retrasos y las p\u00e9rdidas en los env\u00edos hacen que la amistad prosiga como una novela castigada, a la que se le suprimi\u00f3 un cap\u00edtulo.\n\nCort\u00e1zar y Onetti se quejan de que no les respondan pronto. Su ansiedad los lleva a culpar al amigo antes que al cartero. Puig tambi\u00e9n es \u00fanico en la medida en que es \u00e9l quien viaja hacia las cartas. Sus muchos traslados hacen que solo de manera simb\u00f3lica pertenezca al personal de tierra de una aerol\u00ednea.\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1l fue la patria literaria de este autor errante? En el copioso epistolario destaca una carta del 2 de enero de 1962, fechada en Roma. Ah\u00ed dice: \u00abDe ahora en adelante quiero hacer todo en base a datos que me ha dado la realidad y en Villegas tengo un fil\u00f3n extraordinario.\u00bb Puig ha renunciado a escribir guiones que parecen un resumen de todas las pel\u00edculas que alguna vez le gustaron. Un a\u00f1o despu\u00e9s, ya en Nueva York, se concentra en una novela. Cambia de pa\u00edses y de g\u00e9nero literario con un sentido de la movilidad que recuerda la leyenda de los antiguos medicamentos: \u00abAg\u00edtese antes de usarse\u00bb. El peregrino se mueve para encontrarse. El tono espont\u00e1neo que necesita y que en vano ha buscado en los di\u00e1logos del cine ya est\u00e1 en sus cartas. Adem\u00e1s, la correspondencia le permite dar otro giro: de tanto escribir a su pueblo termina por convertirlo en un lugar mitificable. General Villegas es Atenas, la Atl\u00e1ntida, Esparta, Hollywood. Todo remite ah\u00ed. El cosmopolitismo de un autor literalmente exc\u00e9ntrico, enamorado de los m\u00e1rgenes, tiene un n\u00facleo real y a la vez imaginario: el sitio que se abandon\u00f3 en el mundo de los hechos y al que se vuelve en la imaginaci\u00f3n. Las cartas son el adiestramiento impar para este ejercicio.\n\nCuriosamente, la voz del autor quedar\u00e1 fuera de las novelas y las piezas teatrales, como el hilo de un zurcido invisible que se oculta para preservar la forma. La correspondencia revela la entonaci\u00f3n que hizo posible a sus personajes. Lo que no se ve (la ausencia que reclamaba Onetti) permite que lo dem\u00e1s exista. _Querida familia_ : es el dilatado soliloquio donde Puig se dirige a sus parientes, pero tambi\u00e9n y sobre todo el campo de pruebas para un desplazamiento, los libros donde los personajes responder\u00e1n a un autor que los gu\u00eda en silencio c\u00f3mplice.\n\nCORT\u00c1ZAR: \u00abHAGO HUEVOS FRITOS (CON SUERTE VARIADA)\u00bb\n\nDurante medio siglo, Julio Cort\u00e1zar mantuvo amistad con Eduardo Jonqui\u00e8res, pintor y poeta argentino. La edici\u00f3n de Alfaguara, publicada en 2010, incluye tambi\u00e9n las ocasionales cartas a Mar\u00eda Jonqui\u00e8res. Es una l\u00e1stima que el aparato de notas, a cargo de Carles \u00c1lvarez Garriga, sea tan pobre y se limite a traducir algunas palabras o registrar una obviedad (si Cort\u00e1zar habla de _the heart of the matter_ , la frase se traduce sin mencionar que adem\u00e1s se trata de una novela de Graham Greene).\n\nLa soledad en que el autor de _Bestiario_ pas\u00f3 su primera juventud, la temprana muerte de su amigo Paco (uno de sus muy escasos confidentes) y la partida a Europa luego de a\u00f1os de abatimiento en la Argentina peronista, lo convierten en un escritor aislado, con escasos v\u00ednculos, que solo con la celebridad entrar\u00e1 en contacto con un amplio reparto de lectores, artistas exiliados en Par\u00eds, militantes de la izquierda, colegas del _boom_ , la colorida fauna que animar\u00eda sus \u00faltimos a\u00f1os.\n\nLas cartas ofrecen las confesiones de alguien que acaso solo se franque\u00f3 de ese modo con Jonqui\u00e8res. Llama la atenci\u00f3n la certeza con que un Cort\u00e1zar apenas desembarcado afirma que se quedar\u00e1 en Europa para siempre. Disfruta Par\u00eds con todos los poros y se propone dominar la lengua como un nativo. Repudia a los latinoamericanos que viven en islotes de exiliados, al modo de una cofrad\u00eda secreta, y declara que su idioma diurno ser\u00e1 el franc\u00e9s y el nocturno el espa\u00f1ol. Comenta con orgullo que qued\u00f3 en primer lugar en el examen de traductores de la UNESCO (y su esposa Aurora en segundo) y disfruta que su vocabulario y su acento provoquen la admiraci\u00f3n de los lugare\u00f1os. En ocasiones, le escribe a su amigo en franc\u00e9s.\n\nA prop\u00f3sito de _Libro de Manuel_ , Ricardo Piglia coment\u00f3: \u00abHabr\u00eda que decir, entonces, que hay una po\u00e9tica, una sociolog\u00eda y una moral del consumo en Cort\u00e1zar: de hecho, la relaci\u00f3n fundamental que sus personajes mantienen con la sociedad se da a trav\u00e9s del consumo: la \u00fanica divisi\u00f3n social que proponen sus textos se ordena sobre una jerarqu\u00eda basada en el gusto. Los cronopios y los famas son dos categor\u00edas de consumidores [...]. En \u00faltima instancia, el personaje m\u00e1s representativo (habr\u00eda que escribir: el h\u00e9roe) de Cort\u00e1zar es siempre el exquisito.\u00bb\n\nLa extensa correspondencia con Jonqui\u00e8res es la dieta del consumidor cultural de excepci\u00f3n que fue Julio Cort\u00e1zar. El 16 de marzo de 1953 rese\u00f1a una exposici\u00f3n: \u00abAh\u00ed est\u00e1n los Picasso del cubismo anal\u00edtico, los primeros Braque, Delaunay, Roger de la Fresnaye, Gleizes, Metzinger (un as, _ce gars-l\u00e0)_ , y montones de esculturas, Brancusi, Gargallo, Lipchitz, la locura desatada y absolutamente parab\u00f3lica [...]. Ah, y Juan Gris, qu\u00e9 diablos, ese incre\u00edble bicho Juan Gris. En fin, una exposici\u00f3n capaz de desesclosarle las meninges a cualquiera.\u00bb Una tercera parte de las cartas se ocupa de celebraciones culturales, todas ellas de obligada sofisticaci\u00f3n. Incluso en el box fue exquisito y repudi\u00f3 a Cassius Clay como a un payaso que romp\u00eda los c\u00e1nones.\n\nLas cartas tambi\u00e9n incluyen demoradas y bien compartidas vivencias. El joven Cort\u00e1zar recorre Par\u00eds en bicicleta, bebe vino en tazas de cer\u00e1mica, se resigna a ba\u00f1arse con una esponja y a compartir un inodoro inmundo en el pasillo con tal de disfrutar las maravillas de su sitio de elecci\u00f3n. Lo \u00fanico que lamenta es no haber llegado ah\u00ed desde los veinte a\u00f1os: \u00abEuropa me ha invadido de tal manera que no me deja ser yo mismo. Todo el tiempo estoy siendo otras cosas, el paisaje, los cuadros, los olores, la felicidad. Te digo con enorme ego\u00edsmo que no me importa no escribir. Nunca cre\u00ed en las \"misiones\" de los escritores, y entiendo que el escritor trabaja por las mismas razones hed\u00f3nicas que el opi\u00f3mano enciende la pipa o el violinista toca Bach.\u00bb Si Onetti ve la escritura como una atracci\u00f3n que lastima \u2013un vicio, un placer y una condena\u2013, Cort\u00e1zar se sit\u00faa del lado de la dicha. Sus cartas atestiguan la b\u00fasqueda y la consecuci\u00f3n de una existencia feliz, solo llevadera en Europa, \u00abpatria de la mejor hora del hombre\u00bb.\n\nYa famoso, se molesta por que lo llamen \u00abeuropeizante\u00bb. No hay duda de que lo es. Resulta absurdo reprocharle su predilecci\u00f3n cultural o geogr\u00e1fica (nadie nace con la obligaci\u00f3n tel\u00farica de defender un sitio); en todo caso, se puede criticar cierto culteranismo que lo aleja de la originalidad y lo convierte en ep\u00edgono o coleccionista de prestigiados talismanes ajenos. Por momentos, el cazador de asombros art\u00edsticos se rebela: \u00abTengo horror al esteticismo \u00ednsito en mi alma.\u00bb Un par de l\u00edneas despu\u00e9s, claudica: \u00ab\u00a1Qu\u00e9 incre\u00edble cronopio, Donatello! La colecci\u00f3n de marfiles franceses del Bargello (y los del Vaticano) me parece digna de quedarse semanas estudi\u00e1ndola.\u00bb El banquete art\u00edstico da lugar a cartas que algo tienen de prosas de cat\u00e1logo, a medio camino entre la simple noticia y el verdadero ensayo.\n\nPor suerte, el safari cultural lleva a la captura de presas literarias: \u00abEl otro d\u00eda se me ocurri\u00f3 que si tengo tiempo y ganas, voy a escribir un _Manual de instrucciones_. Esto naci\u00f3 de [que] Aurora y yo hab\u00edamos ido a San Giovanni in Laterano para seguir explorando el museo (que es fenomenal, incluso en la parte etnogr\u00e1fica tan divertida, pero sobre todo los sarc\u00f3fagos cristianos y los mosaicos de las termas de Caracalla). Como faltaba un rato para que abrieran, libamos un timballo de lasagna en una tavola calda, y nos metimos en el palacio de la Santa Scala. T\u00fa sabr\u00e1s que por dicha Scala se sube de rodillas, pues Santa Helena la import\u00f3 a Roma despu\u00e9s de sacarla de casa de Pilatos. Not\u00e9, entre varias cosas notables, que vend\u00edan unos libritos con \"instrucciones para subir la Scala Santa\" y me pareci\u00f3 muy bien. Tan bien me pareci\u00f3 que me di cuenta hasta qu\u00e9 punto estamos hu\u00e9rfanos para hacer cantidad de cosas importantes. Har\u00edan falta instrucciones para beber una tacita de caf\u00e9, por ejemplo, o para sentarse en una silla.\u00bb Llama la atenci\u00f3n la matriz culta de un texto anticulto, \u00abInstrucciones para subir una escalera\u00bb, donde el inventor de los cronopios logr\u00f3 una desternillante parodia de los manuales in\u00fatiles, capaces de lograr que lo obvio resulte inalcanzable.\n\nLa pasi\u00f3n por Par\u00eds se complementa con el repudio a Argentina. Cuando escribe sobre los cronopios \u2013invenci\u00f3n que acaso comenz\u00f3 como divertimento infantil para los hijos de los Jonqui\u00e8res\u2013 comenta: \u00abPienso que en la Argentina un librito as\u00ed molestar\u00eda \u2013como vagamente molestaba Macedonio Fern\u00e1ndez, o molesta Ram\u00f3n\u2013.\u00bb (En una edici\u00f3n m\u00e1s eficaz, una nota aclarar\u00eda que se trata de G\u00f3mez de la Serna.) Esta necesidad de cancelar la v\u00eda de regreso lo acerca a Puig.\n\nDe manera intensa, Cort\u00e1zar escribe de pintura. Es mucho lo que ve y lo que estudia acerca del tema. Adem\u00e1s, parece sentirse m\u00e1s c\u00f3modo ante el Jonqui\u00e8res pintor que ante el Jonqui\u00e8res poeta. Cuando recibe un texto de su amigo, lo alienta con afecto y destaca algunos versos discretos. En cambio, la pintura le permite usar m\u00e1s adjetivos.\n\nRevelaciones de lo cotidiano: el aprendizaje pl\u00e1stico sirve para elegir mejor las corbatas. La correspondencia gana inter\u00e9s cuando se aparta del vasto cat\u00e1logo est\u00e9tico que ofrece Par\u00eds y se concentra en las minucias de lo diario.\n\nDesde el principio, la relaci\u00f3n entre los corresponsales parece asim\u00e9trica. Aunque no ha publicado casi nada, Cort\u00e1zar est\u00e1 seguro de su talento y fustiga a su amigo poeta para que saque lo mejor de s\u00ed mismo. A diferencia de Onetti y Puig, el autor de _Bestiario_ no tiene ansias de publicar ni lucha por hacerlo. En varias entrevistas dir\u00eda que esa posposici\u00f3n se debi\u00f3 a su orgullo: convencido de sus dones, no necesitaba ponerlos a prueba. En forma reveladora, recuerda el consejo de Gide de no aprovechar el impulso adquirido. Todo autor debe renunciar a sus facilidades (lo cual significa que las tiene).\n\nMientras Cort\u00e1zar lucha contra s\u00ed mismo para no repetirse, con el valiente tes\u00f3n del que ya logr\u00f3 algo, su amigo carece de confianza en s\u00ed mismo.\n\nDe car\u00e1cter depresivo, cordial, vacilante, Jonqui\u00e8res no siempre est\u00e1 a la altura de las exigencias de su corresponsal. Env\u00eda un cuento a Par\u00eds y Cort\u00e1zar lo critica, poni\u00e9ndose de ejemplo: \u00abYo, zorro viejo en la materia, tengo ya inevitablemente una deformaci\u00f3n profesional que me fuerza a ver todo cuento desde adentro, como una construcci\u00f3n cuyos jalones voy midiendo y pesando paso a paso [...]. Yo creo que t\u00fa lograr\u00edas tu fin con much\u00edsima m\u00e1s fuerza si, _ingenuamente_ (es decir con esa falsa ingenuidad llena de astucia que por ejemplo meto yo en ciertos cuentos), describieras tu sesi\u00f3n de peluquer\u00eda sin _trascendencia_ alguna.\u00bb\n\nCuando finalmente Jonqui\u00e8res expone en Par\u00eds, el amigo parisino se limita a mencionar dos asuntos que le disgustaron: la muestra fue presentada oficialmente por la embajada argentina y la museograf\u00eda qued\u00f3 mal. Jonqui\u00e8res se ofende y Cort\u00e1zar se disculpa, aclarando que despu\u00e9s de elogiar tantas veces esas obras dio sus m\u00e9ritos por supuestos. Imposible saber si tambi\u00e9n aqu\u00ed utiliza \u00abesa falsa ingenuidad llena de astucia\u00bb.\n\nEl trato abunda en apelativos cari\u00f1osos, muy propios del autor de los cronopios: \u00abgran ping\u00fcino\u00bb, \u00abgran atorrante\u00bb, \u00abgoloso\u00bb, \u00abdispendioso\u00bb, \u00aboh pintor\u00bb, y en giros de ternura hacia sus pertenencias (la motocicleta Vespa es un \u00abCaballito de Lata\u00bb).\n\nJonqui\u00e8res ten\u00eda amistad con Jos\u00e9 Bianco, jefe de redacci\u00f3n de _Sur_. Durante un tiempo, Cort\u00e1zar lo convierte en albacea de sus colaboraciones. No insiste demasiado en esos env\u00edos porque no tiene prisa en publicar. Con frecuencia, pide dinero y describe las maravillas que ve en Roma gracias al pr\u00e9stamo. Luego repara, con desfasada culpabilidad, en que Jonqui\u00e8res tiene esposa e hijos y ha pasado apuros para que \u00e9l disfrute. La relaci\u00f3n de pr\u00e9stamos se prolonga hasta despu\u00e9s de publicada _Rayuela_. En todo el intercambio, queda claro cu\u00e1l es el autor que importa y cu\u00e1l el que ayuda. T\u00edpicamente, Cort\u00e1zar pierde las misivas de Jonqui\u00e8res y el poeta y pintor atesorar\u00e1 las suyas.\n\nHubo un tiempo en que las cartas escritas a m\u00e1quina resultaban groseramente impersonales. La caligraf\u00eda, ya impracticable en la \u00e9poca digital, era entonces una muestra de car\u00e1cter. \u00abVuelvo a deplorar escribirte a m\u00e1quina\u00bb, comenta Cort\u00e1zar. Lentamente, la relaci\u00f3n se desgasta sin consumirse, y adquiere un tono un tanto mec\u00e1nico, donde los mejores pasajes son reproches. En 1965 escribe Cort\u00e1zar: \u00abMe porto mal, te veo poco o nada, a veces me aburro abiertamente en mitad de una charla (espero que te suceda lo mismo, ser\u00eda justo).\u00bb En una fase conflictiva, el novelista explica que se mueven en \u00f3rbitas distintas; \u00e9l ve a personas que no le gustar\u00edan a su amigo pintor, tiene otras ocupaciones, muchas de ellas pol\u00edticas, la vida p\u00fablica lo escinde de la zona privada donde ten\u00eda lugar la amistad epistolar. Da la impresi\u00f3n de que Jonqui\u00e8res lo extra\u00f1a. Cada tanto, Cort\u00e1zar da una conmovedora prueba de afecto y lealtad, y en ocasiones le reclama a su amigo: \u00abMi impresi\u00f3n es que estabas ansioso de testigos, de gentes que te quieren y a quienes quieres, pero que buscabas a esos testigos de una manera peligrosamente ego\u00edsta, sin dar nada de ti esperando en cambio todo del otro.\u00bb\n\nLa correspondencia arroja luz sobre los misterios de las traducciones de Poe y Yourcenar y la vida diaria de un solitario que paulatinamente rompe su aislamiento, se entrega a los otros y pasa de una obra rigurosa a cierta autocomplacencia.\n\nA prop\u00f3sito de _Memorias de Adriano_ , Cort\u00e1zar explica que no solo enfrenta el desaf\u00edo de otra lengua sino de otro modo de expresar la emoci\u00f3n. Un franc\u00e9s ama de manera distinta. La pasi\u00f3n homosexual se vulgariza en espa\u00f1ol. \u00bfHay forma de traducir una vida en otra, de asumir una existencia extranjera sin perder la propia? Estas preguntas surgen cuando trasvasa la novela de Yourcenar, donde todo apela a la otredad: la \u00e9poca, el cielo sin dioses, el erotismo, el idioma. Estamos ante uno de los pasajes m\u00e1s esclarecedores de las cartas. Cort\u00e1zar no solo habla del libro que tiene enfrente, sino del destino que desea traducir en otro.\n\nTerminada la lectura, queda la impresi\u00f3n de una vida plena, disfrutada en forma sangu\u00ednea a partir de una elecci\u00f3n correcta. En esa felicidad se halla, acaso, la explicaci\u00f3n del contagio que los textos de Cort\u00e1zar ejercieron en mi generaci\u00f3n, no solo como relatos, sino como manual de autoayuda y gustos compartidos. Un club para aprendices de la sensibilidad y los placeres que depara la cultura.\n\nUno de los mejores cuentos de Cort\u00e1zar, \u00abCartas de mam\u00e1\u00bb, trata de la forma en que deben entenderse los env\u00edos y los silencios lejanos. Lo omitido puede ser lo m\u00e1s importante. Llevar una correspondencia significa usar valores entendidos. En otro cuento, \u00abLa salud de los enfermos\u00bb, lo relevante, lo doloroso, no se pronuncia porque de alg\u00fan modo ya se sabe.\n\nCort\u00e1zar no le dice a Jonqui\u00e8res que su obra literaria lo decepciona; no es necesario que lo haga. Respecto a sus propios libros, muestra una confianza ajena al narcisismo. Con todo, su satisfacci\u00f3n no deja de inquietar. \u00bfQu\u00e9 comunica m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de lo que dice? Cada acto cortazariano, comenzando por el de romper los huevos para hacer el desayuno, es un gesto art\u00edstico. La actitud es la contraria a la de Onetti, Tolst\u00f3i o Kafka, siempre inseguros, incapaces de escribir algo que los deje satisfechos. La felicidad de Cort\u00e1zar es genuina. Ser\u00eda ruin suponer que un aprendizaje del dolor habr\u00eda mejorado su obra.\n\nTal vez por respeto al amigo que no logr\u00f3 una obra literaria tan significativa, las cartas de Cort\u00e1zar bajan de tono cuando se habla de la entrega literaria y el esfuerzo que comporta. El autor de _Final del juego_ acepta, como quien no quiere la cosa, que se trata de una afici\u00f3n placentera, no de una fiebre incurable. Algo importante se silencia. Quiz\u00e1 el cuentista resta valor a la escritura para no presumir en exceso ante un colega con menos logros, o quiz\u00e1 esa vida cumplida, dichosa, libre de vacilaciones y angustias, impone un l\u00edmite a la obra.\n\nCartas de Onetti, Puig, Cort\u00e1zar: escrituras en el tiempo, saldos de otra \u00e9poca. Hoy en d\u00eda, un texto llamado \u00abCarta de Londres\u00bb es un art\u00edculo. La correspondencia literaria ya solo existe en sentido figurado, una met\u00e1fora semejante al \u00abescritorio\u00bb _(desktop)_ del que disponemos en las computadoras.\n\nAl reunir sus cuentos por temas, Cort\u00e1zar ubic\u00f3 \u00abCartas de mam\u00e1\u00bb en el volumen de los _Ritos_. Una elecci\u00f3n correcta: en el ritual, el tiempo da la vuelta, no tiene principio ni fin.\n\nToda carta alude a un momento anterior; es un pasado que nos alcanza. Esto se potencia al leer correspondencias mucho tiempo despu\u00e9s de su fecha de escritura: \u00abSi se pudiera romper y tirar el pasado como el borrador de una carta o un libro. Pero ah\u00ed queda siempre, manchando la copia en limpio, y yo creo que eso es el verdadero futuro\u00bb, escribe Cort\u00e1zar en \u00abCartas de mam\u00e1\u00bb.\n\nLa escritura epistolar es una utop\u00eda por entregas: quien manda una carta proviene del pasado; quien la lee, se encuentra en el futuro. Este ajuste temporal, que no inquiet\u00f3 a los filatelistas ni fue muy tomado en cuenta por los corresponsales, cobra nueva dimensi\u00f3n en la era del instante y la comunidad digital. Qu\u00e9 extra\u00f1o resulta un g\u00e9nero que pospone su lectura.\n\n\u00abEsto lo estoy tocando pasado ma\u00f1ana\u00bb, piensa el \u00abperseguidor\u00bb de Cort\u00e1zar ante un solo de jazz. De manera equivalente, las cartas permiten leer hoy el futuro que fue ayer. \n\n### LO QUE PESA UN MUERTO\n\nLa funci\u00f3n del narrador en _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_\n\nCUANDO LA MADRUGADA ERA VERDAD: LA FORMACI\u00d3N DE UN CRONISTA\n\nLos \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb de Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, escritos para diarios de Barranquilla y Cartagena de 1948 a 1952, deben su sello peculiar a un remedio que escasea en los botiquines del periodismo contempor\u00e1neo: la felicidad celebratoria.\n\nDesde hace d\u00e9cadas, la cr\u00f3nica latinoamericana se ha especializado en el arte de dar bien las malas noticias. Curiosamente, los textos m\u00e1s festivos de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez fueron escritos en una \u00e9poca de zozobra. Jacques Gilard, que ha investigado con minucia de entom\u00f3logo los trabajos perdidos del autor de _La hojarasca_ , comenta: \u00abEl ingreso de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez al periodismo se hizo a ra\u00edz de ese cataclismo hist\u00f3rico y moral que fue para Colombia el 9 de abril de 1948 [el asesinato del pol\u00edtico liberal Jorge Eli\u00e9cer Gait\u00e1n]. Los a\u00f1os que siguieron, los a\u00f1os en que Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez practicaba el oficio en Cartagena y Barranquilla, fueron los peores de la Violencia.\u00bb\n\nEn esa era convulsa el cronista convirti\u00f3 el sentido del humor en principio de resistencia. Un clima de asfixia dominaba los peri\u00f3dicos. El decreto 3521, promulgado el 9 de noviembre de 1949, reforz\u00f3 la censura en los medios y dej\u00f3 poco espacio para el periodismo cr\u00edtico. La iron\u00eda, que ya formaba parte del ADN literario de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, se convirti\u00f3 en una manera de seguir respirando.\n\nA los diecinueve a\u00f1os, obligado por las circunstancias, el futuro novelista tuvo que suspender sus estudios de Derecho en Bogot\u00e1 y se refugi\u00f3 en la costa, donde la vida prosegu\u00eda sin m\u00e1s interrupci\u00f3n que los ocasionales resbalones de un borracho.\n\nSu exilio period\u00edstico result\u00f3 venturoso. En unos meses se adue\u00f1\u00f3 de un tono narrativo que produjo piezas maestras. La cr\u00f3nica \u00abNo es una vaca cualquiera\u00bb, publicada cuando el autor acababa de cumplir veintitr\u00e9s a\u00f1os, revela su capacidad de analizar con nuevos ojos los misterios de lo ordinario. Por obra de un animal campestre ins\u00f3litamente desplazado a la ciudad, un martes sin gracia se convierte en domingo. Las urgencias de los d\u00edas h\u00e1biles se detienen de golpe y la vida recibe la atenci\u00f3n excepcional que solo concede el asueto.\n\nEl tono l\u00fadico de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez recuerda a tres grandes cronistas universalmente localistas, interesados en los asombros de la peque\u00f1ez: el gallego \u00c1lvaro Cunqueiro, el madrile\u00f1o Ram\u00f3n G\u00f3mez de la Serna y el catal\u00e1n Josep Pla.\n\nPara no desconcertar demasiado con sus met\u00e1foras y paradojas, en su segunda entrega a _El Universal_ , publicada el 22 de mayo de 1948, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez advierte que el texto \u00abtiene principio y tendr\u00e1 final de greguer\u00eda\u00bb. Tranquiliza a sus lectores inscribiendo sus alardes en una tradici\u00f3n literaria, la de G\u00f3mez de la Serna, que descubri\u00f3 que el tenedor pod\u00eda ser visto como \u00abla radiograf\u00eda de la cuchara\u00bb y el agua con gas como \u00abagua de agujeros\u00bb.\n\nEn sus facetas de cuentista, novelista, guionista o autor de reportajes, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se acoge a formas can\u00f3nicas, sin mostrar un \u00edmpetu rupturista o experimental. Estamos ante un autor que se siente c\u00f3modo en g\u00e9neros ya hechos, donde puede desplegar con libertad su imaginaci\u00f3n y su sentido del lenguaje. Sin embargo, tanto en sus columnas formativas como en _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ , ensay\u00f3 recursos de transgresora audacia. Un dato escueto, llegado por t\u00e9lex de un apartado rinc\u00f3n del planeta, le bastaba para suponer historias posibles pero no comprobables. Sin ceder plenamente a la invenci\u00f3n, narraba conjeturas. Nadie pod\u00eda creer que eso era comprobadamente cierto, pero pod\u00eda suponer que lo era.\n\nEl tono de estas columnas, novedoso en un periodismo lastrado por una ret\u00f3rica pomposa y un surtido demasiado extenso de frases hechas, ten\u00eda un antecedente esencial: el _Quijote_ , cuya iron\u00eda se funda en la disparidad entre las solemnes haza\u00f1as que pretende realizar el protagonista y el precario y fallido entorno donde las ejecuta. Los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb son logradas piezas cervantinas.\n\nGeorges Perec se refer\u00eda a lo \u00abinfraordinario\u00bb para nombrar las sorpresas que llegan por una ins\u00f3lita aproximaci\u00f3n a lo com\u00fan. Es lo que Josep Pla o Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez ponen en pr\u00e1ctica al describir un guiso del Ampurd\u00e1n o un acorde\u00f3n en reposo. Adem\u00e1s agregan un toque moral al procedimiento: lo \u00abinfraordinario\u00bb es mejor que lo ordinario.\n\nPuesto que nada se desprestigia tan r\u00e1pido como lo cotidiano, redescubrir asombros tiene el cometido \u00e9tico de redescubrir la realidad para reconciliarse con ella. El cronista no arregla los desastres, pero al narrarlos en forma divertida permite que el lector acepte no los defectos del mundo, sino la posibilidad de sobrellevarlos.\n\nCuando un observador se desplaza, el horizonte se modifica. A este fen\u00f3meno se le llama \u00abparalaje\u00bb. La excesiva lectura de libros de caballer\u00eda y el delirio en que se encuentra inmerso, permiten que Alonso Quijano practique un paralaje extremo: confunde molinos de viento con gigantes y a una posadera con una p\u00e1lida princesa. Por efecto de la locura, las encendidas prenociones y los nobles prejuicios del caballero se transforman en hechos. La comicidad de esos lances depende del \u00e1spero regreso a una realidad muy inferior a las enso\u00f1aciones que los hicieron posibles.\n\nEn _La invenci\u00f3n del Quijote_ , escribe Francisco Ayala: \u00abLa ra\u00edz \u00faltima del humorismo trascendente del Quijote, mucho m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la comicidad de los contrastes, est\u00e1 en esa disociaci\u00f3n permanente entre la clara l\u00ednea seguida por el h\u00e9roe y una realidad ind\u00f3cil a ella, ingobernable, no organizada, con la que tropieza a cada instante, y ante la que se quiebra siempre su lanza.\u00bb\n\nLos datos que el mundo pone frente al Caballero de la Triste Figura son arbitrarios, abigarrados, ca\u00f3ticos, incesantes; en una palabra, se trata de \u00abnoticias\u00bb que malinterpreta como anuncios de una \u00e9pica. Aborda las sorpresas de la vida diaria con una l\u00f3gica desfasada. Desde la perspectiva del protagonista, la \u00e9poca ha enloquecido; desde la perspectiva de la \u00e9poca, el protagonista ha enloquecido. Gracias a este desencuentro, todo se comprende dos veces: con la mirada alucinada del Quijote y con la sensatez de su tiempo. El resultado de este juego es la literatura moderna.\n\nAlonso Quijano concluye su vida confundiendo realidades: a los cincuenta y tres a\u00f1os, en su condici\u00f3n de lector absoluto, transforma el mundo en libro. Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez hace lo propio como rito de iniciaci\u00f3n: a los diecinueve a\u00f1os entiende la vida diaria como un libro.\n\nAplicados con literalidad, los lugares comunes producen resultados sorprendentes. El origen de _La metamorfosis_ , de Franz Kafka, se encuentra en una frase hecha: \u00abme siento como un bicho\u00bb, y el de _El bar\u00f3n rampante_ , de Italo Calvino, en la expresi\u00f3n \u00abandarse por las ramas\u00bb. En sus columnas, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez aplica esta literalidad creativa para \u00abinventar el agua tibia\u00bb, del mismo modo en que a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s reinventar\u00e1 el hielo en _Cien a\u00f1os de soledad_. El cambio de perspectiva, el efecto de paralaje, transforma lo cotidiano en prodigio.\n\nLas esbeltas y alargadas columnas de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez recib\u00edan el nombre de \u00abjirafas\u00bb. Ah\u00ed enfrentaba un mundo tan ingobernable como el del _Quijote_ , no por ser percibido en forma equ\u00edvoca, sino voluntariamente caprichosa. La realidad es para el joven cronista el insobornable tribunal de la verdad: los hechos no pueden ser modificados; un molino no se convierte vertiginosamente en un gigante. Lo que cambia es la interpretaci\u00f3n del suceso y la l\u00f3gica que se le asigna.\n\nToda historia depende de un sentido de la consecuencia. Algo sucede _porque_ sucedi\u00f3 otra cosa. Sin alterar lo real, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez modifica la forma en que se concatena. El recurso surgi\u00f3 de la fantasiosa manera en que su abuela ve\u00eda el entorno. Seg\u00fan ella, cada vez que un electricista llegaba a la casa, el cuarto se llenaba de mariposas amarillas. En vez de pensar que se trataba de una coincidencia, lo entendi\u00f3 como una relaci\u00f3n causal: las mariposas estaban ah\u00ed _porque_ el electricista las tra\u00eda.\n\nCervantes hace que su desaforado protagonista se estrelle con la verdad. Los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb se basan en un desfase parecido, aunque de signo opuesto: la verdad se acepta como un estatuto incontrovertible, pero se explica de un modo creativo, con razones que no pertenecen a la \u00f3rbita de la mentira sino de lo inverificable; es decir, de la ficci\u00f3n.\n\n\u00abNo es una vaca cualquiera\u00bb debe su t\u00edtulo a una canci\u00f3n publicitaria. Nada m\u00e1s com\u00fan que un eslogan, nada m\u00e1s complejo que convertirlo en poes\u00eda. Tal es el tr\u00e1nsito que procura Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. Para lograrlo, requiere de una dosis de irrealidad, no en los sucesos sino en la forma de verlos. Es aqu\u00ed donde interviene un recurso que podr\u00edamos llamar \u00abquijotismo t\u00edmido\u00bb. El cronista no enloquece como Alonso Quijano ni confunde la palangana de un barbero con el casco de un soldado, pero mira la calle con radical diferencia: el martes parece domingo y la causa es una vaca.\n\nPara la poblaci\u00f3n urbana, la leche es algo que llega envasado. \u00abGracias al cine y a la propaganda de los productos l\u00e1cteos, los ni\u00f1os de la ciudad est\u00e1n capacitados para diferenciar una vaca de un tigre\u00bb, anuncia el cronista. Este conocimiento te\u00f3rico se pone en entredicho con la llegada de un rumiante de terca identidad.\n\nComo los barcos encallados en las copas de los \u00e1rboles en _Cien a\u00f1os de soledad_ , la vaca es ins\u00f3lita por su ubicaci\u00f3n: frena el tr\u00e1fico y, al hacerlo, interrumpe la realidad. Esto permite investigar el paisaje de otro modo, voltearlo como un guante para conocer su env\u00e9s: \u00abEn medio de los autom\u00f3viles paralizados, de los innumerables transe\u00fantes que a esa hora se dirig\u00edan al trabajo, corridas las cortinas met\u00e1licas de los almacenes y mientras una voz de ultratumba anunciaba, a todo volumen, las excelencias de una droga insustituible, se registr\u00f3 la peque\u00f1a conmoci\u00f3n cronol\u00f3gica. Y all\u00ed estaba la vaca, seria, filos\u00f3fica, inm\u00f3vil, como la simb\u00f3lica estatua de un ministro plenipotenciario.\u00bb\n\nNo hay remedios pr\u00e1cticos que arreglen la situaci\u00f3n de la vaca. Ni siquiera unos fornidos boxeadores logran desplazarla. Finalmente, por la noche, un pelot\u00f3n de polic\u00eda la arrastra al patio de la c\u00e1rcel. Para entonces ya se ha convertido en signo de anormalidad, disidencia y filosof\u00eda cr\u00edtica. Lo normal se dio de baja y lo diario fue puesto entre par\u00e9ntesis.\n\nUna noticia real \u2013la vaca en la calle\u2013 modifica la percepci\u00f3n del tiempo y pide imaginativa explicaci\u00f3n. El cronista es un perseguidor de exclusivas y conmociones cronol\u00f3gicas que rara vez se obtienen en el orden com\u00fan. Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez demuestra que la operaci\u00f3n es posible en cualquier circunstancia, siempre y cuando la realidad de la mirada se desmarque de la realidad mirada.\n\nAl encuadrar una imagen, el fot\u00f3grafo no solo selecciona lo real; agrega una presencia invisible pero f\u00e1cil de advertir: su manera de ver. Tal es la ense\u00f1anza del domador de \u00abjirafas\u00bb. La protagonista de su cr\u00f3nica no es una vaca cualquiera; ha sido adjetivada: es \u00fanica, irrepetible, ejemplar.\n\nUno de los mayores vicios del periodismo consiste en dar por sentados los temas y la forma de tratarlos. La proximidad a una fuente eclipsa las sorpresas y el reportero se moja por costumbre. Narrar con diferencia significa inventar asombros. \u00bfC\u00f3mo lograrlo? Desplazando la perspectiva. No es casual que a Kafka le atrajera sentirse como \u00abun chino que vuelve a casa\u00bb. La frase solo ten\u00eda sentido pensada desde Praga. Imaginarse ah\u00ed como un chino que vuelve a su remoto hogar era saberse distinto. A la luz de esa idea, las calles de siempre resultaban novedosas.\n\nUnos versos del _Viaje al Parnaso_ resumen el recurso de adiestrar por medio del equ\u00edvoco: \u00abYo he abierto en mis _Novelas_ un camino, \/ por do la lengua castellana puede \/ mostrar con propiedad un desatino.\u00bb Cervantes se propone mostrar los errores del mundo y los de su propia perspectiva. Nadie duda de que don Quijote est\u00e9 loco y nadie duda de la exageraci\u00f3n de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. Sus rotundas afirmaciones cautivan al margen de toda demostraci\u00f3n; plantean una paradoja que desaf\u00eda la certidumbre; ponen a prueba la realidad, lo cual es una forma pol\u00e9mica de confirmar su existencia.\n\nEn los textos escritos en Cartagena y Barranquilla a partir de los a\u00f1os cuarenta del siglo pasado, los asuntos se enriquecen con misterios. Como Kafka, el columnista siente la tentaci\u00f3n de alejarse de s\u00ed mismo y compara sus ideas con el insondable esp\u00edritu oriental. Repasemos una de sus sorprendentes conclusiones: \u00abDespu\u00e9s de todo, ser chino no es otra cosa que uno de los innumerables m\u00e9todos que ha inventado el hombre para suicidarse.\u00bb Hay cierta l\u00f3gica en la reflexi\u00f3n. En abril de 1950 lleg\u00f3 a Colombia una informaci\u00f3n rara y escueta: dos chinos hab\u00edan tratado de suicidarse simult\u00e1neamente. No se sab\u00eda m\u00e1s. \u00bfQuisieron matarse uno al otro al mismo tiempo o cada quien se suicid\u00f3 por su cuenta en confuciana sincronicidad? Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez piensa que, posiblemente, el pacto obedece a una tradici\u00f3n milenaria, tan arraigada en China como el oficio de lavar ropa ajena. Su incomprobable conjetura no necesariamente es falsa.\n\nEl equ\u00edvoco y el disparate son formas de conocimiento. La realidad revela sus secretos cuando suspende su decurso habitual; es decir, cuando no se disfraza de s\u00ed misma.\n\nLos \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb ponen en juego las posibilidades imaginativas de lo real. Sin falsificar los objetos tangibles, les atribuyen otros usos, otras opciones. No es casual que el autor se refiera a su instrumento de trabajo como \u00abel revuelto alfabeto de la Underwood\u00bb. La frase es cierta en un sentido literal (en la m\u00e1quina de escribir las letras tienen otro orden), pero tambi\u00e9n en un sentido simb\u00f3lico (el vocabulario es un caos que al articularse produce sentido repentino). Lo m\u00e1s asombroso de un d\u00eda cualquiera es que pueda ser comprendido.\n\nEl cronista tiene dos modos esenciales de aproximarse a la experiencia: con la autoridad de quien ya conoce lo que va a escribir o con el deslumbramiento de quien escribe para conocerlo. En _Cien a\u00f1os de soledad, El oto\u00f1o del patriarca_ y _El amor en los tiempos del c\u00f3lera_ , Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez asume el tono m\u00edtico de quien narra de nueva cuenta una historia que ya ha sido mil veces contada, refutada, olvidada y reivindicada. Su relato es \u00abtradicional\u00bb en la medida en que es el m\u00e1s reciente episodio de una saga de legendario prestigio.\n\nLos \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb trabajan la materia narrativa desde un \u00e1ngulo distinto: son el laboratorio de lo diario, la zona donde lo com\u00fan sorprende.\n\nLos art\u00edculos de opini\u00f3n suelen ser escritos por un se\u00f1or de juicios verticales que aspira a tener raz\u00f3n. El autor de las \u00abjirafas\u00bb entiende, por el contrario, que el acontecer es demasiado complejo para ser comprendido de un solo modo; en consecuencia, habla con el desparpajo de quien exagera por entusiasmo y admite la posibilidad de equivocarse. La vida cotidiana no es otra cosa que un malentendido.\n\nSolo a partir de esta convicci\u00f3n es posible lanzar apotegmas experimentales como este: \u00abPocas cosas tienen tanta belleza pl\u00e1stica como una negra engre\u00edda.\u00bb El juicio cae con el sentido, categ\u00f3rico pero mudable, de una convicci\u00f3n que ser\u00e1 relevada por otra.\n\nEn un texto de aquella \u00e9poca, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez elogia la letra hache por su gracia \u00fanica de ser muda con la misma pasi\u00f3n con que en 1997 solicitar\u00eda, al inaugurar el Congreso de la Lengua en Zacatecas, que su uso se suprimiera. Si los polos magn\u00e9ticos son contradictorios, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 no habr\u00e1 de serlo el cronista?\n\nGarc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez asume el derecho de hablar desde un posible error. Sabe que eso le conviene para acercarse a las cosas que suceden por rutina: donde todo tiende a repetirse, la confusi\u00f3n alerta.\n\nEsta perspectiva permite una reconciliaci\u00f3n cr\u00edtica con el mundo. El escritor de \u00abjirafas\u00bb apela a la pedagog\u00eda del equ\u00edvoco; mira las cosas en forma oblicua o invertida, y gracias a ello permite que lo usado y lo sabido sorprendan. La lecci\u00f3n moral de este aprendizaje: la imperfecta realidad mejora al ser vista de cabeza. El disparate es un recurso de primeros auxilios contra el peso de la sensatez.\n\nEn un texto de 1948, escrito a los diecinueve a\u00f1os, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez altera la percepci\u00f3n del d\u00eda: \u00abLa madrugada \u2013en su sentido po\u00e9tico\u2013 es una hora casi legendaria para nuestra generaci\u00f3n. Hab\u00edamos o\u00eddo hablar a nuestras abuelas que nos dec\u00edan no s\u00e9 qu\u00e9 cosas fant\u00e1sticas de aquel olvidado pedazo de tiempo. Seis horas construidas con una arquitectura distinta, talladas en la misma sustancia de los cuentos. Se nos hablaba del caliente vaho de los geranios, encendidos bajo un balc\u00f3n, por donde se trepaba el amor hasta el sue\u00f1o de los muchachos. Nos dijeron que antes, cuando la madrugada era verdad, se escuchaba en el patio el rumor que dejaba el az\u00facar cuando sub\u00eda a las naranjas. Y el grillo, el grillo exacto, invariable, que desafinaba sus violines para que cupiera en su aire la rosa musical de la serenata.\u00bb\n\nEl autor alude a un tiempo anterior, primigenio, en que esa fabulaci\u00f3n fue cierta. Entonces \u00abla madrugada era verdad\u00bb. Imaginar el antecedente ficticio de lo aut\u00e9ntico es un gesto intelectual equivalente a fabular lo real. Para la verosimilitud de la lectura, lo importante es que el texto responda a su propia legalidad y sea visto como si las cosas no pudieran ocurrir de otro modo. La percepci\u00f3n es el hilo invisible del sastre literario. El autor de las \u00abjirafas\u00bb borra las costuras entre la noticia y su exacerbaci\u00f3n.\n\nDe manera congruente, en otro texto de 1948, propone que los inventos se atribuyan a personas ilocalizables y de preferencia m\u00edticas: \u00abSer\u00eda maravilloso que nuestros hijos no vieran en la historia de los inventos la blanca cabeza de Tom\u00e1s A. Edison, sino que tuvieran que familiarizarse con un nuevo personaje. Acaso con un anciano de barba l\u00edquida y nombre monosil\u00e1bico, sentado frente a uno de esos paisajes infantiles, deliciosamente desproporcionados, que ven\u00edan en la orilla de la loza japonesa.\u00bb Nada m\u00e1s vulgar que el creador de lo nuevo tenga biograf\u00eda; resulta m\u00e1s convincente que entregue sus dones al modo de un esquivo profeta. Lo mismo ocurre con la voz narrativa: su autoridad aumenta con aseveraciones que se bastan a s\u00ed mismas y no tienen que ser confirmadas.\n\nEn su b\u00fasqueda de sorpresas, el joven Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez toca distintas notas sin estar muy seguro de sus efectos. Escritas en un par de horas, y en ocasiones todos los d\u00edas de la semana, las \u00abjirafas\u00bb tienen el v\u00e9rtigo de despachos neurol\u00f3gicos donde se escucha el crujir de las ideas.\n\nEl cronista encomia el sentido com\u00fan de los p\u00e1jaros al tiempo que comprueba la supremac\u00eda del sinsentido humano: \u00abEs aqu\u00ed donde comienza el desprestigio del espantap\u00e1jaros como animal de terror. Las aves descubren, bruscamente, que no hay nada de que temer. Que sus brazos no est\u00e1n en actitud de ira sino de plegaria. Y todas las criaturas del aire se precipitan entonces, regocijadas, contra la inofensiva serenidad de aquel ente harapiento, astroso, que tiene el rostro vuelto hacia la s\u00faplica.\u00bb Con sensatez, las aves descubren la trampa. Lo sugerente del p\u00e1rrafo es el inter\u00e9s que este fallido artilugio despierta en el lector. Descubrir que el espantap\u00e1jaros est\u00e1 hecho de trapo es el privilegio de los p\u00e1jaros. Creer que los trapos pueden enga\u00f1ar es el privilegio superior de los humanos.\n\nDon Quijote se confunde y ve castillos en los mesones pobres de Castilla. Se necesita haber le\u00eddo mucho para especializarse en ese tipo de locura. Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez propone un quijotismo transitorio. Sin acudir al delirio, descubre que el agua se moja.\n\nEl acoso a las maravillas de la normalidad produjo cerca de cuatrocientas \u00abjirafas\u00bb. La mayor\u00eda de ellas pertenece al campo de la literatura escrita bajo presi\u00f3n.\n\nDEL REPORTAJE A LA NOVELA BREVE: EL SUSPENSO Y EL SECRETO\n\nEn su camino a la ficci\u00f3n, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez hizo una escala maestra en la cr\u00f3nica, despoj\u00e1ndose de la mirada voluntariamente desfasada de quien mira lo normal con diferencia, t\u00edpica de los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb, para situarse en el punto de vista del Otro, el testigo de cargo.\n\nResulta tentador suponer que el extenso reportaje \u00abEl triple campe\u00f3n revela sus secretos\u00bb, publicado en catorce episodios a lo largo de junio y julio de 1955, es el antecedente de _Relato de un n\u00e1ufrago_ , y que en medio de ambos textos est\u00e1 la rese\u00f1a de un naufragio cinematogr\u00e1fico, el _Robinson Crusoe_ de Luis Bu\u00f1uel. Pero el itinerario de un artista no ocurre en l\u00ednea recta. La cr\u00f3nica maestra del naufragio es anterior al interesante pero m\u00e1s endeble reportaje sobre el ciclista, y la rese\u00f1a de _Crusoe_ no fue el antecedente que motiv\u00f3 la b\u00fasqueda de otro calvario en el mar; ocurri\u00f3 despu\u00e9s y fue provocada por la mundana exhibici\u00f3n de la pel\u00edcula.\n\nSin embargo, para la historia de la literatura, _Relato de un n\u00e1ufrago_ puede ser le\u00eddo como una superaci\u00f3n del reportaje sobre el ciclista Ram\u00f3n Hoyos, donde el autor no se decide por el punto de vista que debe asumir: alterna la voz del testigo con la suya, intercala ingeniosos subt\u00edtulos (\u00abPerfume para limpiar trofeos\u00bb, \u00abTriunfo por falta de frenos\u00bb), hace comentarios dignos de las \u00abjirafas\u00bb y por momentos hace que el atleta hable como si fuera Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. En el cap\u00edtulo V, escribe: \u00abCansado de tantos pr\u00e9stamos, de tanta humillaci\u00f3n, arroj\u00e9 con rabia los tubulares prestados y acondicion\u00e9 mi vieja bicicleta con mis viejos tubulares. Prefer\u00eda correr mal y perder, y no seguir ganando con el favor ajeno.\u00bb Poco m\u00e1s adelante a\u00f1ade: \u00abSe admit\u00edan participantes de primera y segunda categor\u00eda. A m\u00ed me admitieron, a pesar de ser tercera.\u00bb Ese tono no es el del ciclista sino el de quien escribe su historia.\n\nLa cr\u00f3nica se lee con deleite pero no transmite la sensaci\u00f3n de autenticidad de _Relato de un n\u00e1ufrago_. El autor discute su propio texto, impidiendo que viva por cuenta propia.\n\nNo es f\u00e1cil que un autor de voz levantada, f\u00e1cilmente reconocible, se sit\u00fae en otra piel para modificar su entonaci\u00f3n. _Relato de un n\u00e1ufrago_ represent\u00f3 un singular ejercicio de suplantaci\u00f3n para Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez: escribi\u00f3 como si fuera otro. Su tono sabiamente distanciado crea una realidad aut\u00f3noma. No estamos ante un suceso comentado por el colaborador de _El Heraldo_ de Barranquilla o _El Universal_ de Cartagena, sino ante una naturalidad ajena, independiente del autor: \u00abAntes de la media noche, cuando ca\u00eda vencido por el sue\u00f1o, la vieja gaviota se acerc\u00f3 a picotearme la cabeza. No me hac\u00eda da\u00f1o. Me picoteaba suavemente, sin maltratarme el cuero cabelludo. Parec\u00eda como si estuviera acarici\u00e1ndome. Me acord\u00e9 del jefe de armas del destructor, el que me dijo que era una indignidad de un marino dar muerte a una gaviota, y sent\u00ed remordimiento por la peque\u00f1a gaviota que mat\u00e9 in\u00fatilmente.\u00bb\n\nLa voz traslada al lector al lugar de los hechos. Imposible no estar ah\u00ed. Una imagen (la gaviota que picotea la cabeza del n\u00e1ufrago) conduce a la interioridad del protagonista: el recuerdo de lo que le dijo el jefe de armas y una reflexi\u00f3n moral sobre el trato con los animales marinos.\n\nApoyado en la estructura de una historia que comenzaba con el bautismo de caer al mar y terminaba con la salvaci\u00f3n en un sitio sin nadie que extra\u00f1amente era la patria del marino, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se despoj\u00f3 de s\u00ed mismo para escribir el mejor de sus reportajes.\n\nMeses despu\u00e9s ensay\u00f3, con menos fortuna, el contrapunto de intercalar su propia voz en \u00abEl campe\u00f3n ciclista revela su secreto\u00bb. Este procedimiento de ensayo y error le permiti\u00f3 comprender una de las paradojas de la ficci\u00f3n: pocas cosas parecen tan genuinas como la intimidad ajena vista en desconcertante proximidad. La voz que narra puede ser un estorbo si se confunde con la voz del escritor.\n\nEl tono de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se fragu\u00f3 en los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb y en _Relato de un n\u00e1ufrago_ entendi\u00f3 la fuerza de la voz delegada. Ambos procedimientos se mezclar\u00e1n en su principal obra de madurez, _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_.\n\nAmigo de los momentos imprecisos, Cervantes hace que en su primera aventura don Quijote salga \u00abuna ma\u00f1ana, antes del d\u00eda\u00bb. \u00bfQu\u00e9 horario define al protagonista? El de la madrugada po\u00e9tica. Todo est\u00e1 a oscuras, pero las cosas amanecen con luz propia. En ese momento nada es comprobable y en el patio se escucha el rumor del az\u00facar que sube a las naranjas.\n\nEl sentido del asombro en Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez proviene de su capacidad de mitologizar lo real, de agregarle misterio. Esto se aplica a \u00abNo es una vaca cualquiera\u00bb o a la saga de los Buend\u00eda.\n\nEn un seminario sobre la novela breve (\u00abHacia una po\u00e9tica de la _nouvelle\u00bb)_ , impartido en 2005, Ricardo Piglia distingui\u00f3 algunas se\u00f1as definitorias de este g\u00e9nero intermedio. El origen del cuento se asocia con la oralidad; es algo que puede ser recordado y se cuenta de una sentada. Muchas veces, el relator describe las condiciones en las que averigu\u00f3 la historia. Estaba en un bar, fue abordado por alguien en una sala de espera, comparti\u00f3 un trayecto en el que supo los hechos... De acuerdo con Piglia, en la novela breve este marco deja de ser algo externo \u2013el planteamiento que permite llegar a la trama\u2013 para convertirse en el m\u00e9todo de la narraci\u00f3n. El narrador comenta su propio relato y lo pone en cuesti\u00f3n. Tal es el caso paradigm\u00e1tico de _Los papeles de Aspern, El gran Gatsby, El coraz\u00f3n de las tinieblas_ o _Los adioses_.\n\nDe acuerdo con Piglia, toda narraci\u00f3n pone en juego tres recursos muy parecidos pero claramente diferenciables: el enigma, el misterio y el secreto. El enigma es algo que pide ser descifrado. Narrar significa indagar algo y resolverlo. Por cr\u00edptico que sea un enigma, hay forma de solucionarlo.\n\nEl misterio, en cambio, carece de explicaci\u00f3n. Puede tratarse de algo sobrenatural o de algo que, sencillamente, no admite verificaci\u00f3n. Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez depende mucho de esta estrategia. En los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb, la realidad se perfecciona con conjeturas imposibles de comprobar, y en _Cien a\u00f1os de soledad_ Remedios la bella vuela por los aires.\n\nDe estas tres categor\u00edas, la m\u00e1s importante para la novela corta es el secreto. Al respecto comenta Piglia: \u00abSe trata tambi\u00e9n de un vac\u00edo de significaci\u00f3n, es algo que se quiere saber y no se sabe, como el enigma y el misterio, pero en este caso es algo que alguien tiene y no dice.\u00bb El secreto se esconde, se sustrae a la l\u00f3gica de la trama. Pertenece a un caj\u00f3n que no puede ser abierto.\n\nPreservar el secreto permite construir una trama ambigua. Esto plantea un problema en la extensi\u00f3n del relato. \u00bfHasta d\u00f3nde es posible contar una historia sin decir todo lo que puede ser dicho? El cuento alude a algo oculto, que no se sabe de cierto, y que el lector imagina, pero se basa m\u00e1s en el enigma que en el secreto, pues la econom\u00eda de recursos le permite atesorar lo no dicho para darle fuerza a lo largo de las p\u00e1ginas. En cambio, la novela breve guarda un secreto durante toda la historia, y la novela propiamente dicha est\u00e1 obligada a explicar el secreto. Es obvio que estas normas no se ajustan a todos los casos y que existen para ser vulneradas, pero ayudan a entender las tendencias de los g\u00e9neros.\n\nPara Piglia, en la novela breve \u00abnunca terminamos de estar seguros de si pensamos que la historia que se ha contado es verdaderamente la que se ha contado\u00bb. El g\u00e9nero depende de una ambig\u00fcedad extrema. Su brevedad es necesaria porque la incertidumbre no se puede prolongar sin convertirse en tedio o artificio.\n\nPiglia se ha referido a la \u00abposici\u00f3n un poco imperial\u00bb de Fuentes o Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, que conocen demasiado bien el territorio que narran y lo privan de ambig\u00fcedades. La afirmaci\u00f3n puede ser oportuna para otras obras de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, pero fracasa ante _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ , cuyo tema central consiste en dilucidar el papel del narrador en los hechos. Si, como afirm\u00f3 Roland Barthes, quien narra no es quien escribe y quien escribe no es la persona c\u00edvica que firma el libro, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez ofrece una indagaci\u00f3n en la que custodia un secreto esencial: su propia participaci\u00f3n en la trama. Como se trata del autor de la novela, esto tiene que ver con los hechos pero tambi\u00e9n con la forma de recuperarlos.\n\nEl pretexto de la narraci\u00f3n es claro: todo ocurri\u00f3 \u00abde verdad\u00bb hace mucho tiempo, pero ciertos motivos no se han aclarado. Con la t\u00e9cnica del reportero de investigaci\u00f3n, adiestrada en _Relato de un n\u00e1ufrago_ , resuelve varios enigmas; con los recursos de los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb, enriquece la realidad con misterios que no deben ser resueltos y con un falso sentido de la consecuencia (una madre previene a sus hijas: \u00abMuchachas, no se peinen de noche que se retrasan los navegantes\u00bb). Lo que distingue a esta obra del resto de la producci\u00f3n de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez es el manejo del secreto. De manera sugerente, ese vac\u00edo tiene que ver con la voz narrativa: quien pide que leamos y creamos la historia, tambi\u00e9n pide que desconfiemos de \u00e9l.\n\nVERSIONES DE LA LLUVIA: LA MORAL DEL NARRADOR\n\n_Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ es una inagotable reflexi\u00f3n sobre el punto de vista del testigo y su participaci\u00f3n en los sucesos.\n\nDurante d\u00e9cadas, el autor pens\u00f3 en relatar algo que atestigu\u00f3 de joven. Solo lo hizo cuando encontr\u00f3 la forma de trabajar simult\u00e1neamente desde la verdad y desde la fabulaci\u00f3n. Pod\u00eda abordar el tema como un reportaje o como novela. Opt\u00f3 por una ficci\u00f3n amparada en hechos ciertos que custodian un secreto indescifrable.\n\nAjeno a los juegos de estructuras, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez suele ajustarse a las tramas lineales. Sin embargo, en esta novela breve las \u00e9pocas se intersectan y alternan sin un orden preciso. El narrador abandona el marco de la historia para comentar el pasado desde el presente y no relata los sucesos en forma consecutiva.\n\nDos g\u00e9neros se cruzan en el libro, la cr\u00f3nica y la ficci\u00f3n; el escritor cuenta una historia que solo puede entenderse mezclando el testimonio con la novela, la verdad con la conjetura. En este viaje de ida y vuelta entre lo real y lo imaginado, el autor se pone en tela de juicio.\n\nToda historia depende de la credibilidad de la voz narrativa. Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez despliega un universo que domina hasta en los \u00faltimos detalles y en un giro radical pone en entredicho su autoridad para contarlo.\n\nEn el t\u00edtulo del libro, la palabra \u00abcr\u00f3nica\u00bb indica que se relatan sucesos aut\u00e9nticos y la expresi\u00f3n \u00abmuerte anunciada\u00bb anticipa el desenlace. Como en el periodismo de nota roja, el cabezal resume la noticia.\n\nEl autor aparece como personaje del texto en compa\u00f1\u00eda de su madre, sus hermanos y su futura esposa. Esto realza la sensaci\u00f3n de realidad. La trama es guiada por un sentido casi m\u00edtico de la predeterminaci\u00f3n; como los h\u00e9roes cl\u00e1sicos, los personajes se dirigen con los ojos abiertos al abismo. Pero una realidad rebelde se insin\u00faa al fondo de la historia. Algo no ha sido entendido.\n\nLa diferencia primordial entre la informaci\u00f3n y la narraci\u00f3n es que la primera es un\u00edvoca \u2013solo se puede entender de _un_ modoy la segunda reclama diversas interpretaciones. Contada como reportaje, la historia de Santiago Nasar es la de un hombre asesinado con la complicidad de su pueblo. Tales son los hechos incontrovertibles. Las razones por las que eso ocurri\u00f3 reclaman narraci\u00f3n, un relato abierto a m\u00faltiples versiones y al \u00abespejo roto de la memoria\u00bb.\n\nLas causas de la tragedia parecen en primera instancia bastante sencillas. Todo ocurre el d\u00eda de una boda que coincide con la fugaz visita del obispo. El pueblo participa al modo de un coro griego; registra los sucesos y los sanciona moralmente, sin poder modificarlos.\n\n\u00c1ngela Vicario contrae matrimonio con Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n. En la noche de bodas \u00e9l descubre que ella no es virgen y la devuelve a su familia. Pedro y Pablo, hermanos gemelos de \u00c1ngela, deciden vengar su honra. Preguntan qui\u00e9n fue su amante y matan a Santiago Nasar.\n\nHasta aqu\u00ed estamos ante un drama de costumbres. La llegada del obispo y los nombres de varios personajes (Poncio, Cristo, Pedro y Pablo) aluden a la tradici\u00f3n cristiana. Para las convenciones de la \u00e9poca, \u00c1ngela se cas\u00f3 en pecado. La venganza aparece como una sanci\u00f3n moral tolerada por la comunidad. El asesinato ocurre a la vista de todos, en un pueblo donde la justicia se ejerce por propia mano y la m\u00e1xima autoridad es un alcalde que aprende espiritismo por correo. Desde una perspectiva m\u00e1s moderna, entendemos que se trata de una met\u00e1fora de la impunidad y del papel aniquilador de los prejuicios sociales.\n\nSin embargo, la muerte de Santiago Nasar tiene motivaciones m\u00e1s complejas. Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n, el esposo \u00abtraicionado\u00bb, es un forastero de peculiar fortuna, parecido a los muchos Mefist\u00f3feles de la saga del Fausto. Cuando la madre del narrador lo ve por primera vez, piensa: \u00abSe me pareci\u00f3 al diablo.\u00bb Poco despu\u00e9s dice, aludiendo al uso de la verdad en la trama: \u00abTen\u00eda una manera de hablar que m\u00e1s bien le serv\u00eda para ocultar que para decir.\u00bb Bayardo es carism\u00e1tico, seductor y desconfiable. En forma caprichosa, decide comprar la casa de un viudo que no tiene otro fin en la vida que vivir ah\u00ed. Ofrece una cantidad que no puede ser rechazada, el anciano se ve obligado a aceptar y muere poco despu\u00e9s.\n\nEn cambio, Santiago emerge como un favorito de la fortuna. Al igual que Jes\u00fas de Nazaret, viste de blanco, es hijo \u00fanico, todos lo aprecian y varios lo previenen de su suerte. Con esmerada devoci\u00f3n, selecciona los gallos para la sopa de crestas que le ofrecer\u00e1n al obispo.\n\nLo que en un principio semeja una tragedia de venganza se transforma en una nueva edici\u00f3n del Evangelio: las simpat\u00edas se desplazan a Santiago, que muere con el asombro de quien se sabe inocente. Lo que parec\u00eda una noticia incontrovertible (informaci\u00f3n pura) se transforma en un enigma que reclama soluci\u00f3n.\n\nEsto se agrava con un segundo enigma. Cuando \u00c1ngela Vicario acus\u00f3 a Santiago tal vez cometi\u00f3 perjurio. La historia que todos han visto se convierte en un tejido de indecisiones en el que nadie parece actuar por cuenta propia. Los asesinos se sienten obligados a reparar la honra de la familia, pero no tienen nada contra el presunto culpable y hacen todo lo posible para que los detengan antes de matarlo. Afilan sus cuchillos en p\u00fablico, anuncian que van a asesinar a Santiago y nadie les cree porque tienen fama de buenas personas. Ninguno de los dos se habr\u00eda atrevido a cometer el crimen por separado. El hecho de ser gemelos los compromete de singular manera: cada uno est\u00e1 pendiente del otro; act\u00faan en espejo. Esta vigilancia rec\u00edproca impide la resignaci\u00f3n o la cobard\u00eda.\n\nLos hechos reales sucedieron el 22 de enero de 1951, cuando Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez fue testigo presencial de la muerte de Cayetano Gentile Chimento, estudiante de medicina de veintid\u00f3s a\u00f1os. Las condiciones de la narraci\u00f3n son igualmente precisas: en 1976 un testigo rememora los sucesos de 1951 y los publica en 1981. La larga elaboraci\u00f3n de la novela se debi\u00f3, seg\u00fan el autor, a que no le hab\u00eda encontrado un final.\n\nUn art\u00edculo contribuy\u00f3 a confundir las nociones de realidad y ficci\u00f3n en la novela. Con motivo de la publicaci\u00f3n de _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ , Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez escribi\u00f3 un peculiar paratexto en el que afirmaba que la soluci\u00f3n de la trama hab\u00eda sido proporcionada por su amigo y colega \u00c1lvaro Cepeda Samudio. Seg\u00fan esta versi\u00f3n, el autor de _Todos est\u00e1bamos a la espera_ le inform\u00f3 que las personas en las que se basaban Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n y \u00c1ngela Vicario se hab\u00edan reencontrado muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la tragedia, consumando una rara y muy pospuesta historia de amor. El dato no pod\u00eda ser avalado por Cepeda Samudio, pues muri\u00f3 en 1972, a los cuarenta y seis a\u00f1os. Si Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez dispon\u00eda desde entonces de la informaci\u00f3n, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 tard\u00f3 tanto en escribirla?\n\nTodo indica que estamos ante una falsa atribuci\u00f3n para darle un aspecto m\u00e1s \u00abreal\u00bb a la trama y justificar un inesperado episodio rom\u00e1ntico en la conclusi\u00f3n del libro. Con enorme habilidad, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez explota el sentimentalismo y lo critica. El juez que escribe el sumario despu\u00e9s de la muerte de Santiago Nasar, comenta: \u00ab[...] nunca le pareci\u00f3 leg\u00edtimo que la vida se sirviera de tantas casualidades prohibidas a la literatura\u00bb. Este narrador delegado abre el paraguas antes de que lluevan las cr\u00edticas.\n\nEn la mayor parte del texto, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se conduce como un periodista que reportea su propia memoria e interroga a los sobrevivientes del drama. Cuando no obtiene suficiente informaci\u00f3n, aclara: \u00abTuve que conformarme para esta cr\u00f3nica...\u00bb Las lagunas confesadas con sinceridad aumentan la credibilidad del relato.\n\nLa principal fuente informativa de _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ son las 322 p\u00e1ginas que se salvaron de las 500 que conten\u00eda el sumario judicial de los hechos. El vac\u00edo creado por los folios faltantes permite que se frag\u00fcen enigmas y se preserve el secreto.\n\nLa relaci\u00f3n judicial ha sido escrita en un tono objetivo que a veces se desliza a la literatura folletinesca para referirse a una \u00abpuerta fatal\u00bb. El sumario acredita al autor y el autor al sumario: los gemelos son descritos por el instructor como \u00abde catadura espesa pero de buena \u00edndole\u00bb y Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez comenta: \u00abYo, que los conoc\u00eda desde la escuela primaria, hubiera escrito lo mismo.\u00bb\n\nUn rasgo distintivo del libro es el cuidado con que se justifica la procedencia de la informaci\u00f3n. P\u00e1rrafo a p\u00e1rrafo, surge algo m\u00e1s sobre los enredos de ese d\u00eda infinito. Por eso sorprende tanto que el narrador vulnere su cuidada estrategia. Un detalle perturbador es que conoce numerosas confesiones de \u00c1ngela Vicario, m\u00e1s de las que parece haber obtenido en la entrevista concedida dos d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s de los sucesos, en la que ella lo trata como a un pariente lejano.\n\nNo estamos ante un descuido sino ante una clave sobre la veracidad de los hechos. \u00c1ngela afirma que Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n era \u00abdemasiado hombre\u00bb para ella. Esta confesi\u00f3n no concuerda con la supuesta distancia que el narrador tiene con ella. Tampoco resulta del todo cre\u00edble que ella le haya contado de los trucos que le aconsejaron sus amigas m\u00e1s cercanas para fingir que era virgen. El cronista se cuida de parecer alejado de \u00c1ngela en la mayor parte de la narraci\u00f3n, pero de pronto revela ante ella una confianza y una proximidad excesivas. Si sabe eso, \u00bfsabe algo m\u00e1s? Lo m\u00e1s inquietante de la novela es la funci\u00f3n del narrador de la trama. \u00abHe tenido que repetir esto muchas veces, pues [Santiago Nasar y yo] hab\u00edamos crecido juntos en la escuela y luego en la misma pandilla de vacaciones, y nadie pod\u00eda creer que tuvi\u00e9ramos un secreto sin compartir, y menos un secreto tan grande\u00bb, escribe Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. Es posible que, si se trataba de un secreto, los amigos lo custodiaran hasta el final, o quiz\u00e1 el secreto fuera otro.\n\nEl m\u00e9todo de investigaci\u00f3n de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se basa en las ense\u00f1anzas de uno de sus autores tutelares, S\u00f3focles, al que no solo apreciaba como tr\u00e1gico sino como ins\u00f3lito autor policiaco. As\u00ed lo describe en un art\u00edculo publicado en _El Heraldo_ de Barranquilla en 1952.\n\nNumerosas novelas de deducci\u00f3n decepcionan nuestra curiosidad cuando el detective ata los muchos cabos sueltos con la invencible pericia de quien despeja un teorema. Ante esa contundente soluci\u00f3n l\u00f3gica, perdemos el placer de seguir dudando. La moral, ya lo sabemos, rara vez se reparte de manera absoluta en buenos y malos. Un desenlace m\u00e1s cercano a la vida permitir\u00eda entender que la v\u00edctima no es del todo inocente y el culpable dispone de causas reprobables pero asombrosamente compartibles. _Edipo Rey_ presenta el enigma superior de un protagonista que es investigador, culpable y v\u00edctima de un crimen.\n\nEn _La hojarasca_ , Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se sirvi\u00f3 de un ep\u00edgrafe de _Ant\u00edgona_ y escribi\u00f3 para el cine _Edipo alcalde_. Sin embargo, su gran tributo a S\u00f3focles es _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_.\n\nEl narrador se gana la confianza del lector mostrando su cercan\u00eda a los sucesos. Menciona a su madre, su hermana la monja, su hermano Jaime y la ni\u00f1a Mercedes, con la que muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s habr\u00eda de casarse. Es primo de \u00c1ngela Vicario (Margarita Chica en la vida real) y amigo de Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n (Miguel Reyes) y Santiago Nasar (Cayetano Gentile). En el momento de los sucesos se encuentra durmiendo con la prostituta Mar\u00eda Alejandrina Cervantes, de quien Santiago estuvo enamorado. En forma deliberada y muy _cervantina_ , el narrador se pone en una luz poco conveniente, no tanto por frecuentar un burdel sino porque forma parte del entramado \u00edntimo de los sucesos que todos conocen: si comparti\u00f3 una mujer con Santiago, pudo haber compartido otra.\n\nCuando refiere ciertas confesiones de \u00c1ngela se abren dos posibilidades: o el autor inventa, vulnerando el pacto de escribir una cr\u00f3nica, o refiere cosas que ella le dijo en secreto. Si lo segundo es cierto, \u00e9l no puede revelar su fuente: esa complicidad los compromete a ambos. Esta segunda posibilidad, insinuada pero no aclarada, es mucho m\u00e1s atractiva.\n\nGarc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se\u00f1al\u00f3 que para estar bien construido un personaje debe tener tres realidades: vida p\u00fablica, vida privada y vida secreta. Como personaje de _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ , opera en los tres niveles, ejerciendo su derecho a la vida secreta.\n\nReci\u00e9n aparecida la novela, con un tiraje de un mill\u00f3n de ejemplares, los periodistas Julio Roca y Camilo Calder\u00f3n, de la revista _Magaz\u00edn al D\u00eda_ , investigaron lo ocurrido en 1951 para cotejarlo con la trama. El reportaje puso las huellas en los pasos del narrador y entrevist\u00f3 a los mismos informantes.\n\nLa discrepancia m\u00e1s significativa entre la realidad y la ficci\u00f3n es que Margarita y Miguel \u2013es decir, \u00c1ngela Vicario y Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n\u2013 no volvieron a reunirse. El art\u00edculo en que afirma que Cepeda Samudio le dio esa informaci\u00f3n fue pensado para mitigar los efectos de una soluci\u00f3n que vulneraba no solo los hechos reales sino la calidad literaria del texto. Cuando Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez afirma que aguard\u00f3 treinta y un a\u00f1os a que la realidad le entregara ese final quiso decir que tard\u00f3 ese tiempo en que se le ocurriera.\n\nPar\u00e1bola de la complicidad colectiva ante la violencia, la novela no exonera a nadie, ni siquiera a los que trataron de actuar pero fueron vencidos por la mala suerte. El \u00fanico ajeno a las circunstancias es la v\u00edctima. Aunque el olor de las flores reunidas para la boda le recuerda los funerales, en ning\u00fan momento intuye su destino. \u00abMi impresi\u00f3n personal es que muri\u00f3 sin entender su muerte\u00bb, dice Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. Su inocencia parece asunto probado. Se trata de un sacrificio.\n\nLa tragedia cambia de signo cuando \u00c1ngela y Bayardo se reencuentran d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s. Han envejecido pero a\u00fan tienen derecho a la pasi\u00f3n que atisbaron en su noche de bodas. A prop\u00f3sito de este reencuentro, el autor comenta: \u00abMe resist\u00eda a admitir que la vida terminara por parecerse tanto a la mala literatura.\u00bb Se trata, sin duda, de un arriesgado giro de telenovela que Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez incluye como una sorpresa casi molesta que la realidad agrega a su trama. Sin embargo, como documentaron Roca y Calder\u00f3n, se trata de una escena inventada. De nuevo el narrador resulta poco confiable.\n\nEl episodio amoroso es el pen\u00faltimo suceso que se narra. El \u00faltimo es la sanguinaria recreaci\u00f3n de la muerte de Santiago Nasar. Un drama carnicero no pod\u00eda concluir con una alianza sentimental que en cierta forma justificaba la afrentosa muerte de Santiago, convirti\u00e9ndola en pretexto para ese final feliz. En las \u00faltimas p\u00e1ginas, la v\u00edctima muere como un cerdo en el matadero, sin paliativo alguno. El amor no borra el delito.\n\nEn 1959, muchos a\u00f1os antes de que los hermanos Vicario mostraran el terrible trabajo que cuesta destazar a un hombre \u2013cuando Colombia llegaba a las trescientas mil muertes violentas\u2013, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez hab\u00eda escrito un art\u00edculo criticando los excesos descriptivos de la literatura: \u00abLa novela no estaba en los muertos de tripas sacadas, sino en los vivos que debieron sudar su hielo en su escondite, sabiendo que a cada latido del coraz\u00f3n corr\u00edan el riesgo de que les sacaran las tripas.\u00bb El horror m\u00e1s profundo no est\u00e1 en lo sucedido sino en lo que a\u00fan puede suceder.\n\n_Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ salda las asignaturas pendientes de un escritor que en los a\u00f1os cuarenta del siglo pasado se refugi\u00f3 en el periodismo cotidiano para no violar el decreto 3521 que imped\u00eda hablar de los quebrantos de la realidad y que poco despu\u00e9s se decepcion\u00f3 de los cad\u00e1veres que se exhib\u00edan en las novelas con criterio forense y la sangre a\u00fan viva transformada en color local.\n\nLa novela breve que recrea los sucesos de 1951 le arranca las tripas al protagonista para que los vivos se sometan al temible escrutinio de su conciencia.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 funci\u00f3n cumple ah\u00ed el tard\u00edo reencuentro amoroso entre Bayardo y \u00c1ngela, esa ostensible mentira en la veracidad de la cr\u00f3nica? Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez se da el lujo de describirla como mala literatura. Se trata, desde luego, de algo poco convincente en el plano psicol\u00f3gico. Bayardo cortej\u00f3 a \u00c1ngela como si fuera un objeto que deb\u00eda pertenecerle, no se dirigi\u00f3 a ella en forma directa ni recurri\u00f3 a los protocolos rom\u00e1nticos de la \u00e9poca, de las cartas perfumadas a la serenata bajo el balc\u00f3n. Actu\u00f3 con la abusiva estrategia con que se apoder\u00f3 de la casa del viudo, haciendo ofertas monetarias que no pod\u00edan rechazarse. \u00c1ngela fue comprada en matrimonio.\n\nElla no es virgen y puede enga\u00f1ar a su marido con una treta. Sus amigas le aconsejan manchar la s\u00e1bana con mercurocromo, pero no lo hace, quiz\u00e1 porque no quiere vivir con esa culpa o porque secretamente desea que \u00e9l la acepte tal como es. El encuentro amoroso es placentero en el plano er\u00f3tico, pero Bayardo la rechaza por prejuicios morales y la tragedia se desata. Los hermanos de \u00c1ngela no quieren matar a nadie pero se ven obligados a representar al destino.\n\nPara que la reconciliaci\u00f3n posterior fuera posible, \u00c1ngela deb\u00eda haberse enamorado de Bayardo en la solitaria noche amorosa. Resulta dif\u00edcil creer que esos minutos de sexo le despertaron una pasi\u00f3n repentina que se justificar\u00eda d\u00e9cadas m\u00e1s tarde.\n\nEl altanero Bayardo lastima con el oro que ofrece. \u00bfTiene sentido redimirlo como el gara\u00f1\u00f3n que cautiva con sus embestidas er\u00f3ticas? Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez tiene raz\u00f3n: el reencuentro es mala literatura, un alarde sentimental basado en la hechicer\u00eda del instinto b\u00e1sico. Para reivindicar esta historia casi inveros\u00edmil, acude al sello de la casa. Pocos autores saben usar tan bien la exageraci\u00f3n estad\u00edstica: los novios fallidos solo se reunir\u00e1n cuando sean ancianos y su amor pueda ser visto como un triunfo de la nostalgia.\n\nOtros detalles procuran justificar esta relaci\u00f3n. Bayardo y \u00c1ngela pasan por un purgatorio despu\u00e9s de la boda. \u00c9l se hunde en el alcohol, revelando que la novia era para \u00e9l algo m\u00e1s que una propiedad. Ella se arrepiente, no de haber condenado a Santiago, sino de no haber sabido amar a Bayardo. A continuaci\u00f3n le escribe una carta tras otra. \u00c9l colecciona las misivas con intenso fetichismo, sin leer ninguna.\n\nCon esta subtrama, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez pone en riesgo su novela y al mismo tiempo le otorga mayor misterio. La reconciliaci\u00f3n de follet\u00edn permite suponer que, si eso es impostado, acaso haya otras falsificaciones. El autor guarda un secreto.\n\nCuando busca a Bayardo para pedirle informaci\u00f3n, el novio se niega a responderle. Hay una curiosa simetr\u00eda entre este rechazo y la renuencia a leer las cartas de \u00c1ngela.\n\nEn la novela, todos los testigos son c\u00f3mplices. Sabemos qui\u00e9n es la v\u00edctima y conocemos a los verdugos. Falta el verdadero culpable; es decir, el amor secreto de la novia.\n\n\u00c1ngela es forzada a revelar con qui\u00e9n perdi\u00f3 la virginidad. La novela sugiere que menciona a Santiago porque se trata de alguien poderoso, que cuenta con el favor de la gente. Ella cree que no pueden hacerle nada. Interrogada por el juez instructor acerca de Santiago Nasar, ella responde: \u00abFue mi autor.\u00bb La frase se refiere a la doncella convertida en mujer por autor\u00eda de un hombre. \u00abAs\u00ed consta en el sumario, pero sin ninguna otra precisi\u00f3n de modo ni de lugar\u00bb, escribe Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, reforzando la perplejidad del lector. Durante el juicio, el representante de la parte civil enfatiza la debilidad de ese cargo. No hay mayores pruebas contra Santiago.\n\nEl lector piensa que el responsable puede haber sido otro. La palabra \u00abautor\u00bb, mencionada en el \u00faltimo tramo del libro, gana incriminante fuerza. En la medida en que el asunto no se aclara, el gran sospechoso de la novela es la persona que la escribe. No es, necesariamente, el responsable de los hechos, pero s\u00ed es el responsable de manipularlos.\n\nComo he se\u00f1alado, la trama sucede en desorden cronol\u00f3gico; la temporalidad se despliega al modo de una espiral que permite entender los antecedentes por lo que sucedi\u00f3 despu\u00e9s. Los numerosos augurios que aparecen en la novela solo cobran sentido de manera retrospectiva. _Antes_ de que \u00c1ngela mencione la palabra \u00abautor\u00bb, Mar\u00eda Alejandrina Cervantes rechaza al narrador porque huele a Santiago Nasar. Quien escribe la novela se confunde con la v\u00edctima, que es tambi\u00e9n el presunto culpable.\n\nEl incesto, tema cardinal de _Edipo Rey_ , se insin\u00faa en la trama. De haber existido, eso explicar\u00eda que \u00c1ngela culpara a un inocente para escapar de la afrenta superior de mencionar a su primo y que el narrador conociera sus confesiones \u00edntimas. Tambi\u00e9n explicar\u00eda los largos a\u00f1os que transcurren para contar el drama y la necesidad de mitigarlo con una postergada y falsa reconciliaci\u00f3n sentimental.\n\nTodo esto no deja de ser una posibilidad abstracta. El narrador se cuida de mencionar que, cuando reencuentra a su prima luego de veintitr\u00e9s a\u00f1os, ella lo trata como siempre: \u00abcomo un primo remoto\u00bb. Por otra parte, su af\u00e1n por indagar los hechos parece exonerarlo de la posibilidad de saber algo que no comparte. Ni su curiosidad ni su asombro parecen fingidos.\n\nLo decisivo es que la novela muestra en forma apasionante que indagar puede ser una forma de ocultar y que las confesiones sirven para silenciar otras cosas. \u00abYa no le des m\u00e1s vueltas, primo: fue \u00e9l\u00bb, dice \u00c1ngela dos d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s de los sucesos. Esto parecer\u00eda aclarar todo de no ser porque pertenece al episodio inventado de la trama, el que se aparta de la cr\u00f3nica y recuerda tanto a la \u00abmala literatura\u00bb. El sentido definitivo de esta escena consiste en demostrar que el autor miente.\n\nCon calculada maestr\u00eda, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez narra una historia y la sospecha de otra historia. El mayor enigma del libro es su participaci\u00f3n en los sucesos. Su deducci\u00f3n protege un secreto; la verdad indagada en forma escrupulosa solo puede ser comprendida a trav\u00e9s de las conjeturas.\n\nEn su ensayo _Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez: para una literatura menor_ , Rafael Olea Franco advierte que _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ se distancia del modelo policiaco (reductor en la medida en que reclama _una_ soluci\u00f3n) para optar por un sugerente \u00abelemento de indeterminaci\u00f3n y ambig\u00fcedad\u00bb. \u00ab\u00bfC\u00f3mo minar desde dentro del g\u00e9nero policial la estructura de esa estereotipada literatura?\u00bb, se pregunta Olea Franco, y a\u00f1ade: \u00ab\u00bfC\u00f3mo introducir un enigma absoluto en un modelo que precisamente se caracteriza por la eliminaci\u00f3n del misterio?\u00bb _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ no avanza para conocer a un culpable, sino para mostrar, con el temple de S\u00f3focles, la responsabilidad de todos los involucrados, incluido el autor.\n\nEn un ensayo deslumbrante, \u00abLa caza literaria es una altanera fatalidad\u00bb, escrito en 1983, apenas dos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de aparecida la novela, \u00c1ngel Rama comenta: \u00abGarc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez conserva el misterio, no confiesa al culpable de la deshonra de \u00c1ngela Vicario, pero al abogar por la inocencia de los dem\u00e1s y al eludir toda pregunta sobre s\u00ed mismo, construye la enigm\u00e1tica nube negra a la que apuntan las sospechas [...]. El hecho de que es \u00e9l quien maneja toda la informaci\u00f3n, sobre la cual por lo tanto puede ejercer las mismas virtudes de astucia y discreci\u00f3n, obliga a una generalizada desconfianza sobre su objetividad.\u00bb\n\n\u00c1ngela trata de superar el sentido de culpa escribiendo cartas que no obtienen respuesta. \u00bfHace lo mismo Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez? \u00abFue mi autor\u00bb, dice ella para identificar al culpable. \u00bfLa historia publicada a treinta y un a\u00f1os de los sucesos es un homenaje a la mujer que supo callar su verdadero amor y obtiene una recompensa vicaria, muy digna de su apellido: el amor de Bayardo San Rom\u00e1n, poco cre\u00edble pero muy merecido?\n\nEl ep\u00edgrafe de la novela arroja una clave sobre las crueldades del coraz\u00f3n: \u00abLa caza de amor es de altaner\u00eda\u00bb, lo cual significa que se realiza con halcones. _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ pone en escena la depredaci\u00f3n del amor.\n\nSi en los \u00abtextos coste\u00f1os\u00bb lo ordinario adquiere relieve gracias a fantasiosas explicaciones (la madrugada fue m\u00e1s verdadera en otro tiempo), en _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ las alusiones a lo cotidiano son tratadas como datos s\u00f3lidos; no buscan maravillar sino explicar una realidad que se resiste a ser entendida. Sin embargo, en su inagotable indagaci\u00f3n, el narrador inventa algunos hechos y da pistas para ser descubierto (incluyendo la de escribir un art\u00edculo que puede ser investigado por reporteros). \u00bfSu secreto consiste en callar en exceso o en decir de m\u00e1s? Esta inagotable ambig\u00fcedad define su novela breve.\n\nNo hay _una_ versi\u00f3n de los hechos como no hay certeza sobre el clima que domina el cielo. En numerosas historias, Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez pidi\u00f3 el auxilio de la lluvia. En _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ la llovizna aparece como presagio en el sue\u00f1o de Santiago Nasar y su madre se preocupa de una posible tormenta: \u00abLo \u00fanico que le interesaba el d\u00eda de la llegada del obispo era que el hijo no se fuera a mojar con la lluvia.\u00bb En cambio, Victoria Guzm\u00e1n, su cocinera, \u00abestaba segura de que no hab\u00eda llovido aquel d\u00eda\u00bb. La verdad es una forma de la discrepancia.\n\nEn la m\u00e1s arriesgada de sus narraciones, Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez confirma la radical autonom\u00eda de la invenci\u00f3n literaria. Despliega un cuidado universo donde todo es cre\u00edble menos el punto de vista del narrador. La realidad de la literatura supera a la del autor.\n\nNo acabaremos de descifrar _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_. Al principio lo sabemos todo, al final obtenemos el beneficio de la duda.\n\nLa \u00e9tica de la novela depende de ese gesto. El coronel Nicol\u00e1s M\u00e1rquez, que particip\u00f3 en la Guerra de los Mil D\u00edas, le dir\u00eda a su nieto Gabriel: \u00abT\u00fa no sabes lo que pesa un muerto.\u00bb No se refer\u00eda a la carga que hab\u00eda llevado sobre la espalda, sino a la forma en que gravita la p\u00e9rdida de una vida.\n\nEl tema acompa\u00f1\u00f3 en muchos momentos a Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez. _Cien a\u00f1os de soledad_ comienza con el \u00e9xodo de Jos\u00e9 Arcadio Buend\u00eda luego de matar a Prudencio Aguilar, acto del que no se libera, y la frase del coronel aparece en el gui\u00f3n de _Tiempo de morir_. Pero es en _Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada_ donde el autor responde al abuelo. El asesinato de un amigo de juventud no es contado como el testimonio de un asunto particular, sino como una novela, donde se convierte en s\u00edmbolo de todas las muertes. Nadie est\u00e1 libre de culpa y el autor se pone en la fila de los sospechosos comunes.\n\nCon una perspectiva que cambia como los incalculables trabajos de la lluvia, el nieto del coronel muestra lo que pesa un muerto. \n\n### JORGE IBARG\u00dcENGOITIA: EL DIABLO EN EL ESPEJO\n\nNo pint\u00f3 tan extra\u00f1as posturas Bosco como yo vi.\n\nQUEVEDO\n\nEL CRONISTA EN SU JARD\u00cdN\n\nJorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia fue el cronista rebelde de una naci\u00f3n avergonzada de su intimidad e incapaz de ver en su historia otra cosa que pr\u00f3ceres de bronce. Nacido en Guanajuato en 1928, parec\u00eda marcado por la geograf\u00eda y las efem\u00e9rides para ocuparse de asuntos patrios. Vio la primera luz en la cuna de la Independencia, el a\u00f1o en que era asesinado \u00c1lvaro Obreg\u00f3n, caudillo de la Revoluci\u00f3n.\n\nNovelista, cronista y dramaturgo, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia convirti\u00f3 las tradiciones m\u00e1s adustas y los sucesos p\u00fablicos en divertida historia \u00edntima. Adiestrado en los chismes que sus t\u00edas contaban en Guanajuato y en la lectura de los grandes ironistas ingleses, escribi\u00f3 cr\u00f3nicas en un tono de secreto compartido. Leerlo es, necesariamente, un acto de complicidad. Sus textos period\u00edsticos avanzan como una tertulia donde las revelaciones sobre los ausentes conducen al liberador efecto de la risa.\n\nCon frecuencia, se serv\u00eda en forma distra\u00edda de alguna referencia literaria para analizar un conflicto social como si fuera la vida privada de un pariente: \u00abLa Universidad [...] ha tomado las caracter\u00edsticas cl\u00e1sicas de las novelas de Agatha Christie: una anciana millonaria muere y todos los personajes que la rodean \u2013las fuerzas oscuras y ajenas\u2013 salen beneficiados con la muerte; han expresado en alg\u00fan momento deseos de que ocurriera y, por \u00faltimo, han tenido oportunidad de precipitarla.\u00bb\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia se ocup\u00f3 en sus art\u00edculos de sucesos en apariencia nimios: leyendas de su familia, problemas con las tuber\u00edas de su casa (se consideraba perseguido por las goteras por haber nacido bajo el signo de Acuario), pel\u00edculas magn\u00edficas o deleznables, viajes a los lugares m\u00e1s dis\u00edmbolos. Con \u00e9l, la vida cotidiana entr\u00f3, disparatada y tumultuosa, en las p\u00e1ginas del diario.\n\nDe 1968 a 1976 escribi\u00f3 dos veces a la semana en el peri\u00f3dico _Exc\u00e9lsior_ , dirigido por Julio Scherer Garc\u00eda. Lleg\u00f3 ah\u00ed a los cuarenta a\u00f1os, reci\u00e9n jubilado como dramaturgo y cuando solo hab\u00eda publicado una novela, _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_. Scherer tuvo la intuici\u00f3n sagaz de invitarlo a escribir de lo que le viniera en gana. Durante esos ocho a\u00f1os, _Exc\u00e9lsior_ se convirti\u00f3 en un peri\u00f3dico desafiante para el gobierno, el m\u00e1s le\u00eddo en el pa\u00eds y uno de los diez principales del mundo. En 1976 el presidente Luis Echeverr\u00eda, incapaz de soportar una oposici\u00f3n que ganaba influencia, orquest\u00f3 un golpe contra el diario. Scherer y sus m\u00e1s cercanos colaboradores continuaron su trayectoria independiente en el semanario _Proceso_.\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia atendi\u00f3 entonces un llamado de Octavio Paz, que hab\u00eda dirigido _Plural_ , revista cultural de _Exc\u00e9lsior_. Despu\u00e9s del golpe de 1976, el poeta sigui\u00f3 la suerte de Scherer y fund\u00f3 la revista _Vuelta_. Ah\u00ed, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia escribi\u00f3 una columna mensual, m\u00e1s extensa que sus art\u00edculos anteriores, con un t\u00edtulo emblem\u00e1tico: \u00abEn primera persona\u00bb. Colabor\u00f3 ah\u00ed hasta su muerte a los cincuenta y cinco a\u00f1os.\n\nUno de sus temas recurrentes fue la reflexi\u00f3n sobre la escritura, en un sentido pr\u00e1ctico y moral: la forma concreta en que sucede y las consecuencias que tiene. Pocos cronistas han descrito con tal elocuencia el espacio en que trabajan, el escritorio donde los papeles, las medicinas y los talismanes informan de las penurias y las supersticiones del autor. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia miraba el universo desde su casa en Coyoac\u00e1n, el barrio de la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico cuyos cambios registr\u00f3 en forma minuciosa. Lleg\u00f3 ah\u00ed cuando dos r\u00edos malolientes circundaban la zona, las casas de los conquistadores no hab\u00edan sido redescubiertas como joyas de la Colonia, un par de fondas ofrec\u00edan tamales, alguna vaca luchaba por entrar en un jard\u00edn y nadie se interesaba en Frida Kahlo, cuya casa azul estaba a unas diez calles de la del cronista. Hoy en d\u00eda se trata de una parte _chic_ de la ciudad, no tanto porque haya mejorado mucho sino porque el resto se ha deteriorado hasta el espanto.\n\nEl atractivo de muchas cr\u00f3nicas de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia deriva de la cuidada composici\u00f3n de lugar. Vemos la mesa de trabajo, la casa, el barrio donde el autor fragua su escritura y se interroga sobre su oficio: \u00bfqu\u00e9 sentido tiene?, \u00bfa qui\u00e9n le interesa?, \u00bfc\u00f3mo se vive de \u00e9l?, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 hay que hacer otras cosas para sostenerlo? Sus cr\u00f3nicas entregan la bit\u00e1cora de un escritor que lucha por sobrevivir sin darse aires de intelectual iluminado. En cierta forma, la escritura no dej\u00f3 de ser para \u00e9l una artesan\u00eda. En los a\u00f1os sesenta y setenta, mientras otros lanzaban prof\u00e9ticas consignas sobre su deseo de escribir para \u00abarrancarle palabras a la noche\u00bb o \u00abexorcizar sus demonios\u00bb, menos esot\u00e9rico y m\u00e1s perspicaz, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia abordaba su trabajo como una t\u00e9cnica que suscita perplejidades pero no admite explicaciones de vud\u00fa. En sus textos m\u00e1s conmovedores (sobre la muerte de su madre o los cuadros pintados por su esposa), dej\u00f3 que las palabras cayeran con una sobriedad sin \u00e9nfasis.\n\nUna sabidur\u00eda tranquila rige su temperamento. Su sentido com\u00fan se desmarca de los entusiasmos ideol\u00f3gicos de la \u00e9poca. Visto en retrospectiva, resulta m\u00e1s l\u00facido que la mayor\u00eda de sus contempor\u00e1neos. Pensemos, por ejemplo, en una obsesi\u00f3n de la cultura mexicana: la identidad como una sucesi\u00f3n de m\u00e1scaras surgidas de mitos fundacionales, la certeza de que hay un modo espec\u00edfico de ser mexicano, ajeno a otros pueblos.\n\nPara Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, repudiar las ra\u00edces es artificioso (\u00abtodos somos sitios arqueol\u00f3gicos\u00bb), pero tambi\u00e9n lo es interpretar nuestra conducta a partir de se\u00f1ales sacadas de la noche de los tiempos: \u00abLa tendencia a explicar los problemas sociales y pol\u00edticos del M\u00e9xico actual refiri\u00e9ndose al pasado prehisp\u00e1nico es, adem\u00e1s de una actividad bastante est\u00e9ril [...], una fuente de s\u00edmiles bastante inexactos [...] [porque nuestros] funcionarios tienen m\u00e1s que ver con la mercadotecnia y Walt Disney que con el imperio azteca.\u00bb\n\nEnemigo de toda inflaci\u00f3n te\u00f3rica, nuestro autor se expresa a trav\u00e9s de historias donde lo \u00abmexicano\u00bb es evidente pero la mirada del narrador tiene algo exc\u00e9ntrico. Casado con la pintora inglesa Joy Laville, se benefici\u00f3 de la doble traducci\u00f3n que implicaba ver lo literario desde la pintura y lo mexicano desde la tradici\u00f3n inglesa. En muchas de sus cr\u00f3nicas conversa con su esposa para poner en pr\u00e1ctica este revelador cambio de \u00f3ptica.\n\nLos sellos de su estilo: rapidez en el trazo de personajes y en el cambio de las escenas, ojos de piloto de guerra para captar detalles delatores, un sentido de la iron\u00eda capaz de entender las tragedias como divertidas peripecias de la comedia humana. Su personal concepci\u00f3n del periodismo hizo de \u00e9l un renovador a contrapelo, casi secreto. Lejos de todo alarde vanguardista, alter\u00f3 el curso de la prensa sin que eso resultara obvio.\n\nAdmirado por los lectores, careci\u00f3 de respaldo cr\u00edtico y acad\u00e9mico en un pa\u00eds convencido de que el humor es poco profundo y, en consecuencia, no define prestigios. Las grandes obras de la cultura mexicana han tenido un tono desgarrado. Las sangrantes mujeres de Frida Kahlo y los extenuados peregrinos descalzos de Juan Rulfo son figuras emblem\u00e1ticas de una tradici\u00f3n donde la intensidad rara vez se asocia con la risa.\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia naci\u00f3 en una provincia criolla y cat\u00f3lica. Su desafiante observaci\u00f3n de las costumbres vern\u00e1culas desemboc\u00f3 en malentendidos: conoc\u00eda con minucia un mundo que no dejaba de parecerle absurdo. A contrapelo de quienes buscan la identidad un\u00edvoca del mexicano, ejerci\u00f3 un peculiar sentido de la pertenencia: se identificaba con el conjunto pero no con los detalles. Vivi\u00f3 en Guanajuato y, posteriormente, en la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico, pero lo hizo en estado de protesta. Su mirada no se resign\u00f3 a que la realidad fuera com\u00fan.\n\nAlgunos de sus m\u00e9ritos provienen de habilidades no siempre afines a la literatura. Fue un consumado _boy scout_ y conviene recordar que estudi\u00f3 ingenier\u00eda y atendi\u00f3 el rancho de unos parientes. No es extra\u00f1o que haya aportado a su escritura notables dosis de sabidur\u00eda pr\u00e1ctica. Su humor deriva de actuar con sensatez en un entorno absurdo. Vistas con objetividad, la mayor\u00eda de nuestras costumbres son insostenibles. En su gozosa antropolog\u00eda, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia aplica la l\u00f3gica en sitios donde no tiene derecho de suelo; de ah\u00ed el efecto c\u00f3mico: un ingeniero calcula extravagancias.\n\nSu ligereza no es atributo de la superficialidad sino del veloz ritmo narrativo. Certeras y agudas, sus historias no admiten pausas. Las novelas _Maten al le\u00f3n, Estas ruinas que ves, Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto, Los pasos de L\u00f3pez, Dos cr\u00edmenes_ y _Las muertas_ dotaron a Ibarg\u00fcengoitia de un amplio p\u00fablico, pero fue en las cr\u00f3nicas donde jug\u00f3 sus cartas m\u00e1s arriesgadas.\n\nEn su condici\u00f3n de columnista exc\u00e9ntrico, se ocup\u00f3 de asuntos muy ajenos a las noticias. Su voz en primera persona creaba una ilusi\u00f3n de espontaneidad; suprim\u00eda todo artificio y presentaba el texto como atributo de su car\u00e1cter. Aunque sus efectos hab\u00edan sido calculados con esmero, ca\u00edan con la sencillez que impone la franqueza.\n\nFiel a esta est\u00e9tica del desenfado, rebaj\u00f3 la importancia de sus art\u00edculos. Reuni\u00f3 los que m\u00e1s le gustaban en un par de vol\u00famenes, pero aclar\u00f3 que no pensaba releerlos y solo los hab\u00eda escrito porque eso le permit\u00eda tener una semana laboral de un solo d\u00eda. En la ma\u00f1ana del lunes preparaba sus dos art\u00edculos semanales, sub\u00eda a un autob\u00fas (nunca tuvo coche), iba a las oficinas de _Exc\u00e9lsior_ y quedaba libre hasta el siguiente domingo.\n\nLa claridad de sus exposiciones y su imaginaci\u00f3n alegre parec\u00edan matizar y aun ocultar la inaudita peculiaridad de sus temas. Las vacaciones de una sirvienta, la receta de un guiso, la enigm\u00e1tica existencia de un objeto o las molestias de un viaje adquirieron en sus p\u00e1ginas el rango de lo imprescindible que se volver\u00e1 cl\u00e1sico.\n\nA fines de los a\u00f1os ochenta particip\u00e9 en un congreso en el Colegio de Michoac\u00e1n donde fui testigo de la peculiar valoraci\u00f3n que los lectores hac\u00edamos de \u00e9l. Terminadas las sesiones, bebimos tequila en una terraza y alguien record\u00f3 un art\u00edculo del autor guanajuatense. Entre risas, hablamos de sus textos como de las an\u00e9cdotas de un t\u00edo estrafalario que vuelve interesante a una familia. No hicimos otra cosa hasta la madrugada. Ning\u00fan otro autor podr\u00eda habernos unido de ese modo.\n\nEn aquella conversaci\u00f3n yo era el m\u00e1s joven. Entre los contertulios se contaban los futuros directores de la Biblioteca Nacional, la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua, la Coordinaci\u00f3n de Difusi\u00f3n Cultural de la UNAM, el Fondo de Cultura Econ\u00f3mica, el Diccionario del Espa\u00f1ol de M\u00e9xico, el peri\u00f3dico _El Universal_ y El Colegio de Michoac\u00e1n. Un selecto grupo de acad\u00e9micos que ser\u00edan decisivos gestores culturales; sin embargo, ninguno de nosotros hab\u00eda juzgado importante respaldar su entusiasmo por escrito. La escena revela el desencuentro entre la lectura apasionada de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia y la renuencia a transformar ese placer en obra cr\u00edtica.\n\nAlgunos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s di clases en la Facultad de Filosof\u00eda y Letras de la UNAM. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia rara vez asomaba en los cursos. Con se\u00f1aladas excepciones, como la de Ana Rosa Domenella, quien le dedic\u00f3 un libro capital _(Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia: La transgresi\u00f3n por la iron\u00eda)_ , era un \u00abraro\u00bb que ten\u00eda la condici\u00f3n, a\u00fan m\u00e1s rara, de ser popular entre lectores exigentes. No se trataba del _best seller_ que cautiva a las mayor\u00edas que normalmente no leen, sino de un autor que circulaba con la contagiosa fuerza del rumor en los cen\u00e1culos literarios sin alcanzar el reposo definitivo de la cr\u00edtica.\n\nEn 1997, V\u00edctor D\u00edaz Arciniega y yo comenzamos a preparar la edici\u00f3n cr\u00edtica de la obra de teatro _El atentado_ y la novela _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ para la colecci\u00f3n Archivos de la UNESCO, que finalmente se public\u00f3 en 2002. Dispon\u00edamos de muy pocos materiales, pero de pronto pareci\u00f3 abrirse el cielo entre la borrasca. Un sitio de internet anunciaba nuevas investigaciones sobre nuestro autor. Entramos ah\u00ed para descubrir con pasmo que se hablaba de la obra cr\u00edtica que V\u00edctor y yo est\u00e1bamos preparando.\n\nMucho ha cambiado desde entonces. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia es ya un escritor imprescindible. En el plano de la cr\u00f3nica, public\u00f3 en vida dos vol\u00famenes, _Viajes en la Am\u00e9rica ignota_ y _S\u00e1lvese quien pueda_. Otros seis aparecieron despu\u00e9s de su muerte: _Autopsias r\u00e1pidas, Instrucciones para vivir en M\u00e9xico, La casa de usted y otros viajes, \u00bfOlvida usted su equipaje?, Misterios de la vida diaria_ e _Ideas en Venta_.\n\nLa reuni\u00f3n completa del periodismo de un autor sirve para definir sus intereses y los alcances de su oficio, pero rara vez conforma un buen libro. Condenadas a la fugacidad, las p\u00e1ginas del peri\u00f3dico terminan por servir, en la mayor\u00eda de los casos, al \u00abarte de envolver pescado\u00bb, como dir\u00eda el poeta y cronista peruano Antonio Cisneros.\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia escribi\u00f3 sin freno de pel\u00edculas que hoy no interesan, enigmas pol\u00edticos olvidados, rincones desaparecidos de la ciudad donde pas\u00f3 la mayor parte de su vida, costumbres ya indescifrables. Sin embargo, muchas de sus cr\u00f3nicas conservan la vitalidad del relato robado con astucia al flujo de los d\u00edas. Reun\u00ed algunas de ellas en _Revoluci\u00f3n en el jard\u00edn_ , para las ediciones Reino de Redonda que Javier Mar\u00edas publica con generoso hero\u00edsmo.\n\nSolo una vez vi a Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, hacia 1979. Yo hac\u00eda antesala en el primer piso de la editorial Joaqu\u00edn Mortiz para presentar el manuscrito de mi primer libro cuando \u00e9l subi\u00f3 la escalera, jadeando como un b\u00fafalo. Era un hombre corpulento, con corte de pelo de astronauta. Llevaba una camisa de mezclilla que entonces parec\u00eda proletaria, o de pintor del expresionismo abstracto, y luego ser\u00eda uniforme de la izquierda intelectual. No salud\u00f3 a la secretaria. Sin reparar en mi presencia, abri\u00f3 las puertas batientes, de cantina del _Far West_ , que llevaban al despacho del director de la editorial, Joaqu\u00edn D\u00edez-Canedo. Aquel hombre impaciente, de modales bruscos, era el mejor escritor ir\u00f3nico de M\u00e9xico. Me pareci\u00f3 venturoso que pasara antes que yo, una se\u00f1al de que deb\u00eda seguirlo.\n\nREVOLUCI\u00d3N A LA VISTA\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia entendi\u00f3 que los h\u00e9roes no se forjan en el cumplimiento del deber sino en los avatares de su muy humana condici\u00f3n. M\u00e1s de una batalla se ha ganado porque un general deseaba almorzar su guiso favorito en cierta hoster\u00eda de la ciudad ocupada. La satisfacci\u00f3n de los deseos m\u00e1s nimios y los insondables trabajos del azar provocan peripecias que los pol\u00edticos y la costumbre transforman en epopeyas.\n\nDesmitificador de tiempo completo, nuestro autor busc\u00f3 los v\u00ednculos entre la alcoba y el poder, los vapores de la cocina y el Palacio Nacional. Escribi\u00f3 a contrapelo en un pa\u00eds donde los gobiernos emanados de la Revoluci\u00f3n definieron la vida p\u00fablica de 1929 a 2000 (de manera asombrosa, luego de doce a\u00f1os de alternancia democr\u00e1tica, el Partido Revolucionario Institucional regres\u00f3 al poder en 2012 y gobierna hasta la fecha).\n\nLa gesta convertida en burocracia espaci\u00f3 solemnes monumentos en todas las ciudades. Nuestro tr\u00e1fico ha sido interrumpido por mazorcas gigantes que aluden a la creaci\u00f3n del hombre mesoamericano y caballos en estampida que evocan remotas cargas revolucionarias. En su cr\u00f3nica \u00abEl lenguaje de las piedras\u00bb, escribe Ibarg\u00fcengoitia: \u00abEl hecho de que una de las principales industrias de un pa\u00eds en donde nadie quiere ser h\u00e9roe, consista en hacer monumentos a los h\u00e9roes, requiere un estudio m\u00e1s profundo que no he tenido tiempo de llevar a cabo.\u00bb A continuaci\u00f3n, describe los m\u00e1s terribles adefesios c\u00edvicos que ha visto en M\u00e9xico.\n\nEl denominador com\u00fan de esos adornos colosales es la solemnidad. Incluso en los corridos la idea de lo c\u00edvico es forzosamente adusta. Recordemos la cuarteta:\n\nL'\u00e1guila siendo animal\n\nse retrat\u00f3 en el dinero;\n\npara subir al nopal\n\npidi\u00f3 permiso primero.\n\nAntes de posar para el escudo nacional, el ave dio una lecci\u00f3n de urbanidad. \u00bfSe puede ser m\u00e1s serio?\n\nPara los novelistas, la Revoluci\u00f3n fue una \u00e9pica desgarrada. Desde el inicio de la lucha, en 1910, hasta la aparici\u00f3n de la obra de teatro _El atentado_ (1963) y la novela _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ (1964) predomina una visi\u00f3n dram\u00e1tica de la contienda. El primer gran testigo literario de la gesta, Mariano Azuela, escribe en 1915 su novela _Los de abajo_ al tiempo que funge como m\u00e9dico en un batall\u00f3n. Azuela nunca se recuper\u00f3 del desencanto de haber visto los ideales convertidos en intrigas para apropiarse del poder. Cuatro a\u00f1os antes, hab\u00eda escrito _Andr\u00e9s P\u00e9rez, maderista_ , sobre el oportunismo de los intelectuales y las capas medias para apoyar el bando pol\u00edtico que m\u00e1s pudiera beneficiarlos.\n\nDurante medio siglo, la Revoluci\u00f3n fue un tema recurrente de la narrativa mexicana que no escatim\u00f3 cr\u00edticas pero las hizo desde una perspectiva que no inclu\u00eda el humor. Agust\u00edn Y\u00e1\u00f1ez se ocup\u00f3 del anuncio y la justificaci\u00f3n del alzamiento en _Al filo del agua_ ; Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n, de las conspiraciones entre los generales que pasaron del campo de batalla a las amenazas en las oficinas en _La sombra del caudillo_ , y Carlos Fuentes, del fracaso de las aspiraciones de justicia en _La muerte de Artemio Cruz_. En todos estos casos, la Revoluci\u00f3n es puesta en tela de juicio, pero tratada con inmenso respeto. Los postulados y los actos que llevaron a millones de hombres al campo de batalla, y que tuvieron un desenlace equivocado, no son tomados a la ligera.\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia es la excepci\u00f3n que retrata a los pr\u00f3ceres con el agudo l\u00e1piz de la iron\u00eda y se opone a la visi\u00f3n grandilocuente que los narradores del _boom_ ofrecen del pasado latinoamericano. A diferencia de Carpentier, Roa Bastos, Fuentes, Vargas Llosa o Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, no busca una grandeza oculta en acontecimientos que el discurso oficial ha distorsionado ni procura entender los resortes psicol\u00f3gicos que hacen \u00fanicos a los tiranos. Para \u00e9l, la historia es siempre un disparate, un colosal acto fallido.\n\nSu ataque frontal a la gesta fundadora del M\u00e9xico moderno lo apart\u00f3 de la actitud del \u00abintelectual comprometido\u00bb, tan en boga en los a\u00f1os sesenta del siglo pasado, y lo malquist\u00f3 con numerosos cr\u00edticos que juzgaron que su irreverente recreaci\u00f3n de los sucesos era irresponsable. Los beatos del santuario tricolor consideraron que el autor no solo se burlaba de sus personajes sino de la patria. A esta repulsa se a\u00f1adieron analistas m\u00e1s exigentes, aunque sin duda convencionales, que no lo cuestionaban por razones ideol\u00f3gicas sino est\u00e9ticas, se\u00f1alando la tendencia del narrador y dramaturgo a la caricatura y a simplificar hechos que merec\u00edan un tratamiento mucho m\u00e1s intrincado. Recordemos que en los a\u00f1os sesenta la complejidad estaba de moda. _El recurso del m\u00e9todo_ y _Yo, el supremo_ eran obras alabadas por la cr\u00edtica y genuinos _best sellers_. En aquel tiempo, Vargas Llosa constru\u00eda alambicadas catedrales narrativas a las que renunciar\u00eda con el correr de los tiempos hasta convertirse en el llano novelista contempor\u00e1neo que parece no haber le\u00eddo al primer Vargas Llosa.\n\nEtiquetado como \u00abhumorista\u00bb, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia ingresa a nuestra sociedad literaria como un autor disfrutable, sin mayor ambici\u00f3n formal que propiciar divertimentos, incluido el de subastar los huesos de los h\u00e9roes y descubrir que no tienen comprador. A prop\u00f3sito de esta visi\u00f3n reductora, ha escrito Gustavo Santill\u00e1n: \u00abEl t\u00f3pico humor\u00edstico sirvi\u00f3 para comprenderlo, pero usado sin freno ha contribuido a mutilarlo.\u00bb\n\nEl Partido Oficial emanado de la revoluci\u00f3n mexicana asumi\u00f3 diversas nomenclaturas hasta llegar al PRI, que en la arena pol\u00edtica cre\u00f3 el ox\u00edmoron m\u00e1s peculiar del siglo XX: la \u00abrevoluci\u00f3n institucional\u00bb. Este lema dio lugar a nuestra dominaci\u00f3n burocr\u00e1tica. Quienes crecimos bajo este r\u00e9gimen supon\u00edamos que el poder dimanaba de \u00f3rdenes inescrutables y perennes. Los inquilinos de la Presidencia pod\u00edan cambiar de nombre pero resultaban tan lejanos e inmutables como Francisco Jos\u00e9 en la Austria imperial y real. Los mexicanos del siglo XX fuimos adiestrados en una mitolog\u00eda de la estabilidad, donde el bienestar quer\u00eda decir: \u00abno pasa nada\u00bb. Nos libramos de golpes de Estado y reyertas de sangre al elevado costo de prescindir de una democracia aut\u00e9ntica. Para ilustrar esta sensaci\u00f3n de inmovilidad, vale la pena acudir al expediente favorito de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, la an\u00e9cdota personal. Cuando vot\u00e9 por primera vez, en 1976, solo hubo un candidato a la presidencia, Jos\u00e9 L\u00f3pez Portillo, del PRI. Hartos de la farsa electoral, los partidos de oposici\u00f3n se negaron a presentar candidatos. Esa semana, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia escribi\u00f3 un art\u00edculo acerca de la contienda. Ah\u00ed dec\u00eda: \u00abEl domingo son las elecciones, \u00a1qu\u00e9 emocionante!, \u00bfqui\u00e9n ganar\u00e1?\u00bb\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia no pudo tomar en serio al pa\u00eds que surgi\u00f3 de la Revoluci\u00f3n. Las fotog\u00e9nicas campa\u00f1as de los hombres de sombrero de ala ancha y rifle .30-30 desembocaron en una aniquilaci\u00f3n de caudillos, y en la consolidaci\u00f3n de una casta de oportunistas. Pocas cosas tan contradictorias como nuestra historia patria, que celebra por igual a quienes vivieron para asesinarse: Carranza luch\u00f3 contra Obreg\u00f3n, quien luch\u00f3 contra Zapata, quien luch\u00f3 contra Madero. Todos conviven por igual en el pante\u00f3n de los h\u00e9roes. La ideolog\u00eda de la Revoluci\u00f3n es el acta de reconciliaci\u00f3n p\u00f3stuma de quienes disputaron en el campo de batalla.\n\nLa \u00faltima obra de teatro escrita por Ibarg\u00fcengoitia fue _El atentado_. Disc\u00edpulo de Rodolfo Usigli, quien le aconsej\u00f3 acortar su nombre a \u00abIbar\u00bb porque los precarios teatros mexicanos nunca tendr\u00edan letras suficientes para escribir su apellido completo en la marquesina, se decepcion\u00f3 de la dificultad para pasar de las palabras a la escena (\u00abtengo facilidad para el di\u00e1logo, pero no para sostenerlo con gente de teatro\u00bb, dir\u00eda despu\u00e9s).\n\n_El atentado_ aborda con comicidad un hecho violento y anticipa la primera novela del autor, _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ , ubicada en la revuelta escobarista. El villano de la obra de teatro puede ser visto como una met\u00e1fora extrema del dramaturgo, pues entra al restaurante La Bombilla disfrazado de caricaturista, distorsiona en dibujos a su v\u00edctima, lo ve comer y le propina siete tiros como digestivo. Las \u00faltimas palabras del caudillo no son un mensaje para el porvenir, sino: \u00abEstoy muy lleno. No me traiga cabrito, sino unos frijoles.\u00bb Las tragedias nacionales, tantas veces sublimadas a trav\u00e9s del exceso ret\u00f3rico (el general Anaya diciendo ante el ej\u00e9rcito norteamericano: \u00abSi tuvi\u00e9ramos parque, no estar\u00edan ustedes aqu\u00ed\u00bb), encuentran en Ibarg\u00fcengoitia al m\u00e1s inc\u00f3modo de sus testigos. El gu\u00eda de hombres, el general incansable que dio a sus memorias el m\u00f3dico t\u00edtulo de _Ocho mil kil\u00f3metros de campa\u00f1a_ , cae sobre un mantel manchado de salsa borracha, pensando en unos deliciosos frijolitos. La escena sella el pacto del escritor con la parodia.\n\nLa distancia inteligente de la iron\u00eda transforma los desastres nacionales en risibles desventuras. Esta operaci\u00f3n exige que las bromas tengan una carga cr\u00edtica pero no ultrajante y, en cierta forma, las burlas redimen a sus sujetos. El ironista depende de mantener un tenso equilibro entre la mordedura del sarcasmo y la comprensi\u00f3n a la que se llega a trav\u00e9s del humor. En ocasiones, la empat\u00eda con las criaturas parodiadas es tan fuerte que \u00abel humor tiene que cuidarse incluso de no acabar fortaleciendo aquello que quiere desmontar\u00bb, apunta Guillermo Sheridan. Los revolucionarios de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia son seres moralmente deleznables; sin embargo, se humanizan al obedecer a sus instintos primarios y al demostrar su incompetencia. Ignacio Corona ha encontrado una certera definici\u00f3n para este trato: \u00abafecto antag\u00f3nico\u00bb.\n\nEn _La sombra del caudillo_ , Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n narra en forma maestra la \u00faltima fase de la revoluci\u00f3n mexicana, el paso de la estrategia militar a la conspiraci\u00f3n en los despachos, las cantinas y los burdeles. En este relevo t\u00e1ctico, la violencia se especializa; del genocidio a campo abierto se pasa al asesinato selectivo. La clase gobernante se depura a s\u00ed misma con balas de plata.\n\nLa Revoluci\u00f3n de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia tambi\u00e9n pertenece a la etapa final y urbana de la lucha; los generales cambian el caballo por el Cadillac y conspiran entre cuatro paredes. _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ aborda la \u00faltima rebeli\u00f3n antes del paso \u2013anunciado por el presidente Plutarco El\u00edas Calles en su informe de gobierno de 1929\u2013 de la pol\u00edtica de las armas a la pol\u00edtica de las instituciones, la pesadilla oficinesca que determinar\u00e1 al M\u00e9xico posrevolucionario.\n\nEl crep\u00fasculo de la lucha armada, donde los que alguna vez dispararon se han vuelto advenedizos, se presta para retratar a personajes que no saben adaptarse a la nueva situaci\u00f3n, excombatientes mal vestidos de civil que se dan abrazos extralargos para cerciorarse de que el otro no trae pistola. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia se ocupa de estos aprendices de hombres c\u00edvicos que nunca llegar\u00e1n a graduarse. _El atentado_ surge del asesinato de \u00c1lvaro Obreg\u00f3n y el juicio al asesino, el cat\u00f3lico Jos\u00e9 de Le\u00f3n Toral, y _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ , de una sublevaci\u00f3n fallida e irrisoria, organizada por el general Gonzalo Escobar.\n\nLa asonada escobarista estuvo plagada de errores y no cont\u00f3 con respaldo real. El _dictum_ de _El 18 brumario de Luis Bonaparte_ se cumple cabalmente en el ocaso de nuestra Revoluci\u00f3n: la tragedia se repite como comedia. Los rebeldes que se ampararon en lemas como \u00abTierra y libertad\u00bb son sustituidos por intrigantes en perpetua confusi\u00f3n que amenizan las reuniones a balazos.\n\nAna Rosa Domenella ha se\u00f1alado con acierto que el alzamiento escobarista es en s\u00ed mismo una parodia de la Revoluci\u00f3n. D\u00edas antes de partir al norte para iniciar la revuelta, Gonzalo Escobar trat\u00f3 de vender su coche al secretario particular del presidente: en forma burda, le dijo que necesitaba dinero para \u00abgastos de viaje\u00bb; el general pretend\u00eda que sus enemigos costearan los vi\u00e1ticos de su rebeli\u00f3n.\n\nDE LA INGENIER\u00cdA AL RANCHO, DEL TEATRO A LA NOVELA\n\nEn _El loro de Flaubert_ , Julian Barnes se\u00f1ala que todo autor debe descartar destinos posibles a favor de su m\u00e1s genuina voz literaria, acallar rumores internos que sugieren ir hacia otro lado, someterse a una \u00abpacificaci\u00f3n de sus ap\u00f3crifos\u00bb. En el caso de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia este proceso dur\u00f3 m\u00e1s de lo com\u00fan y fue particularmente dif\u00edcil. Estudi\u00f3 ingenier\u00eda y luego administr\u00f3 el rancho de su familia. Posteriormente, se inici\u00f3 como cr\u00edtico teatral y luego pas\u00f3 a la dramaturgia. Estas cuatro encarnaciones antecedieron al escritor que se destacar\u00eda como cronista y novelista.\n\nDesde sus primeras obras de teatro, mostr\u00f3 especial talento para registrar la discrepancia entre las verdades \u00edntimas y el consenso p\u00fablico. En _La prueba de la virtud_ , gui\u00f3n cinematogr\u00e1fico escrito a principios de los a\u00f1os sesenta y que no lleg\u00f3 a filmarse, el protagonista dice: \u00abYo no estoy tan seguro de mi honradez como parece estarlo usted.\u00bb La _comedy of manners_ depende de los interesantes equ\u00edvocos entre la opini\u00f3n propia y la ajena.\n\nEsta tensi\u00f3n dram\u00e1tica encuentra excepcional remate en _El atentado_ , que en 1963 recibi\u00f3 en Cuba el Premio Casa de las Am\u00e9ricas y, a pesar de ello, tard\u00f3 doce a\u00f1os en ser puesta en escena. La pieza se estructura a trav\u00e9s de una ronda de suplantaciones: los mismos actores aparecen como periodistas, polic\u00edas secretos o litigantes de tribunal. Si Rodolfo Usigli escenifica los simulacros del poder en _El gesticulador_ , su disc\u00edpulo prolonga la tarea en clave ir\u00f3nica (un h\u00e9roe fracasado se queja del destino que convierte \u00abactos sublimes en algo prosaico\u00bb). Emilio Carballido observ\u00f3 con justicia que la factura de esta obra es m\u00e1s compleja que la de _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_. Las proyecciones de pel\u00edculas de la \u00e9poca, sugeridas por el autor, son lo \u00fanico objetivo en una obra donde toda palabra se pone en entredicho. El juicio en tribunales es una ronda de ambig\u00fcedades donde se confunden los intentos de deformar, ocultar o resolver el asesinato de un pr\u00f3cer que encargaba sus discursos a \u00abun muchacho muy bien preparado de la Facultad de Leyes\u00bb. En un juego brechtiano, las proyecciones son la verdad que enmarca las mentiras que constituyen la obra. El vertiginoso cambio de escenas mezcla lo p\u00fablico y lo privado, y revela que en M\u00e9xico la vida p\u00fablica se decide en la tramoya y los s\u00f3tanos que pactan con el secreto. Cuando los pol\u00edticos de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia entran a escena, causan la impresi\u00f3n de un carnaval que pretend\u00eda ser clandestino y ha sido descubierto de repente.\n\nAnte la dificultad de montar sus obras y acicateado por nuevas necesidades expresivas, nuestro autor dej\u00f3 el teatro de manera definitiva para dedicarse a la novela. De acuerdo con \u00e9l, _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ fue escrita \u00abpor un se\u00f1or que se cre\u00eda dramaturgo\u00bb. La frase alude a la modestia estructural de una narraci\u00f3n dialogada, donde las escenas se suceden con la n\u00edtida visibilidad de un montaje teatral. Por otra parte, la trama indaga la teatralidad del poder. Los personajes son buscavidas que primero se improvisaron como militares y luego como pol\u00edticos.\n\nA pesar de sus evidentes modelos literarios, de Quevedo a Evelyn Waugh, fue visto como un narrador divertido pero que no calaba en la entra\u00f1a de los problemas, alguien que se serv\u00eda de la prosa para llegar al chiste. Harto de ese desencuentro, se desahog\u00f3 en entrevistas con una frase que convirti\u00f3 en talism\u00e1n y escudo: \u00ab\u00a1No soy un humorista!\u00bb\n\nEn sus conferencias sol\u00eda provocar pol\u00e9micas con el p\u00fablico. Hosco, renuente a matizar o a profundizar en el tema, preguntaba a quien lo cuestionaba cu\u00e1nto hab\u00eda pagado por entrar ah\u00ed; al comprobar que estaba ah\u00ed gratuitamente, le advert\u00eda que no ten\u00eda derecho a pedir demasiado. Si alguien insist\u00eda en una cr\u00edtica, le recomendaba que escribiera su propio libro. Curiosamente, el enojo lo confirmaba como humorista arquet\u00edpico. Los c\u00f3micos suelen alimentarse de la melancol\u00eda y el mal humor.\n\nEn \u00abHumorista: ag\u00edtese antes de usarse\u00bb, ofreci\u00f3 una ins\u00f3lita y resignada visi\u00f3n de sus trabajos tocados por la risa: \u00abLa labor del humorista \u2013eso soy yo, seg\u00fan parece\u2013, me dicen, es como la de la avispa \u2013siendo el p\u00fablico vaca\u2013 y consiste en aguijonear al p\u00fablico y provocarle una indignaci\u00f3n hasta que se vea obligado a salir de la pasividad en que vive y exigir sus derechos [...]. Por \u00faltimo, hay quien afirma, y yo estoy de acuerdo, que el sentido del humor es una concha, una defensa que nos permite percibir ciertas cosas horribles que no podemos remediar, sin necesidad de deformarlas ni de morir de rabia impotente. Esta caracter\u00edstica del humor como sedante es la ruina del autor como aguij\u00f3n. Por esto creo que, si no voy a conmover a las masas ni a obrar maravillas, me conviene bajar un escal\u00f3n y pensar que, si no voy a cambiar el mundo, cuando menos puedo demostrar que no todo aqu\u00ed es un drama.\u00bb Ibarg\u00fcengoitia descarta la grandilocuencia del _civic jester_ , el buf\u00f3n que alerta las conciencias, y acepta \u00abdescender un escal\u00f3n\u00bb rumbo a la risue\u00f1a invenci\u00f3n de mundos donde no todo es un drama. Esta aquiescencia tiene un aire de cuenta mal saldada; el novelista acepta ser un escritor con adjetivos: \u00absat\u00edrico\u00bb, \u00abpar\u00f3dico\u00bb, \u00abhumor\u00edstico\u00bb. Su muerte repentina, el 27 de noviembre de 1983, en un accidente a\u00e9reo cerca del aeropuerto de Madrid, contribuy\u00f3 a fijar el malentendido. Novelas como _Las muertas_ (1977) y _Dos cr\u00edmenes_ (1979) anunciaban un uso m\u00e1s dosificado de la iron\u00eda y una profundizaci\u00f3n en las complejidades de la trama y sus repercusiones morales. Quiz\u00e1 sus libros futuros habr\u00edan mitigado el mote de \u00abhumorista\u00bb, que tanto lo irrit\u00f3.\n\nLA FIGURA DEL P\u00cdCARO\n\n_El atentado_ y _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ renuevan un g\u00e9nero de inmensa tradici\u00f3n en el idioma: la literatura picaresca. De acuerdo con Bajt\u00edn, el p\u00edcaro viene de los m\u00e1rgenes sociales; es el tonto, el buf\u00f3n o el loco, figuras que, en forma extrema, reflejan reacciones de quienes se consideran normales; al modo de los espejos c\u00f3ncavos, permiten que, a trav\u00e9s de ellos, los otros contemplen sus malformaciones.\n\nSin embargo, en _El atentado_ y _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ , el p\u00edcaro no aparece como un efecto de contraste: se transforma en abrumadora mayor\u00eda. En su ensayo can\u00f3nico _La novela picaresca y el punto de vista_ , Francisco Rico se\u00f1ala que la voz \u00abp\u00edcaro\u00bb se consolida en la segunda mitad del siglo XVI para designar a un sujeto andrajoso, \u00abde poco honor\u00bb, que pasa de un oficio a otro en la agitada trama de su vida: \u00abViles son, ciertamente, los empleos pasajeros del p\u00edcaro.\u00bb\n\nLa cr\u00edtica mexicana de los a\u00f1os sesenta y setenta del siglo pasado vio a Ibarg\u00fcengoitia como un autor \u00abligero\u00bb que en forma tan agradable como irreverente se ocupaba de los mitos nacionales, sin comprender que su operaci\u00f3n literaria era mucho m\u00e1s profunda y se inscrib\u00eda en la vasta legi\u00f3n de la picaresca. Los polic\u00edas, que tambi\u00e9n son diputados y periodistas, en _El atentado_ y los generales que se inventan cargos pol\u00edticos en _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ comparten la ruin transitoriedad de quienes buscan anular su condici\u00f3n actual en cada lance. El oportunista ejerce un puesto para tener otro. En sociedades donde existe la figura del _civil servant_ , la carrera ascendente puede depender de la eficacia: \u00abLa mejor forma de dejar de ser secretario es ser un muy buen secretario\u00bb, escribe Chesterton. El M\u00e9xico posrevolucionario es ajeno a esta meritocracia. Saltar de un trabajo a otro depende de favores, alianzas, pactos en la oscuridad, \u00abamarres\u00bb. El tunante solo prospera ah\u00ed con habilidad pol\u00edtica. No estamos en un entorno donde la cosa p\u00fablica se dirima a partir de las convicciones y los ideales. La plaza, el congreso, el tribunal, el burdel, el cementerio o el vag\u00f3n de tren son un mismo escenario: el teatro de la representaci\u00f3n donde la gesti\u00f3n \u00abc\u00edvica\u00bb se ejerce en beneficio propio. Esta confusi\u00f3n de lo p\u00fablico con lo privado define a la \u00abGran Familia Revolucionaria\u00bb, la casta dominante que pas\u00f3 de conquistar el poder con las armas a beneficiarse del erario en nombre de los intereses de las mayor\u00edas.\n\nEn Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, la actividad del p\u00edcaro adquiere dimensi\u00f3n pol\u00edtica; es el subordinado, rigurosamente provisional, que est\u00e1 en busca de otro jefe. Esta cadena acomodaticia solo se detiene en la presidencia.\n\nEl personaje escogido por el dramaturgo y novelista guanajuatense deja de ser el ganap\u00e1n harapiento, el pordiosero que enfrenta el destino sin otras armas que su ingenio para convertirse en el representante de la c\u00fapula del poder. Como L\u00e1zaro de Tormes, el general Jos\u00e9 Guadalupe Arroyo, protagonista de _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ , vive de los favores de quienes est\u00e1n \u00abarriba\u00bb, ninguna \u00abnegra honra\u00bb se interpone entre \u00e9l y su mendicidad; es, necesariamente, hombre de muchos amos; su vida es una secuencia de interesadas servidumbres. Refractario a la moral, solo atiende a su inter\u00e9s inmediato.\n\nQuien desconoce la fidelidad y vive para la ocasi\u00f3n propicia encadena peripecias; la ruta del p\u00edcaro es forzosamente epis\u00f3dica. Seg\u00fan observa Rico, esto define la estructura narrativa del g\u00e9nero.\n\nOtro elemento distintivo es la primera persona. Ante una mirada impasible, los actos del p\u00edcaro resultan deleznables. El g\u00e9nero supera este rechazo a trav\u00e9s del punto de vista narrativo: el brib\u00f3n gana la complicidad del lector admitiendo, no siempre en forma voluntaria, su responsabilidad en los desastres; a trav\u00e9s de una franqueza desarmante, causa empat\u00eda.\n\nDe acuerdo con el designio realista, el p\u00edcaro rinde un testimonio que pretende ser aut\u00e9ntico. El testigo y el escritor son uno y el mismo. En la medida en que confiesa sus debilidades, se aproxima emocionalmente a nosotros sin que dejemos de sancionar sus descalabros.\n\nTambi\u00e9n en este aspecto Ibarg\u00fcengoitia ofrece una variante singular. Su obra entera es una reflexi\u00f3n sobre las posibilidades de la primera persona. Los narradores a los que presta voz no solo narran los hechos; comentan lo que han hecho y buscan mejorarlo con alg\u00fan pretexto.\n\nEn los a\u00f1os cincuenta, las librer\u00edas de viejo de la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico ofrec\u00edan memorias de generales y coroneles que buscaban que un libro les concediera la gloria que les hab\u00eda regateado el teatro de los acontecimientos. Muchas veces se trataba de ediciones de autor donde el protagonista se elogiaba a s\u00ed mismo sin pudor alguno. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia fue un lector apasionado de esa torpe variante de la autoficci\u00f3n donde el vanidoso deseo de figurar en el pante\u00f3n de los h\u00e9roes produc\u00eda el efecto contrario. Motivadas por un delirio de grandeza, esas ingenuas autobiograf\u00edas engrosaban la biblioteca universal del rid\u00edculo.\n\n_Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ aprovecha esa desconfiable voz narrativa para contar la historia de la Revoluci\u00f3n. Arroyo escribe para justificarse y desmentir al gordo Artajo, quien ha propagado supuestos infundios sobre su participaci\u00f3n en la gesta. Para ello, se sirve \u00abde un sujeto que se dice escritor\u00bb, Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia. La novela participa del fraude esencial de la picaresca (\u00abesto es real\u00bb) y condena al protagonista con su propia voz (el relator, el \u00abamo literario\u00bb, se disuelve y solo quedan las palabras del p\u00edcaro). \u00abL\u00e1zaro escribe su libro como un pliego de descargo (aunque, si nos salimos del personaje, nosotros podamos leerlo como acta de acusaci\u00f3n)\u00bb, observa Rico. Lo mismo sucede con Arroyo: sus palabras significan lo contrario de lo que dicen. Siguiendo el precepto de Karl Kraus, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia cita a sus personajes para ahorcarlos con sus propias palabras. El texto que m\u00e1s influy\u00f3 en la construcci\u00f3n de _Los rel\u00e1mpagos_ fue _Los gobiernos de Obreg\u00f3n a Calles y reg\u00edmenes \u00abpeleles\u00bb derivados del callismo_ , de Juan Gualberto Amaya, quien comparte iniciales con Jos\u00e9 Guadalupe Arroyo.\n\nArroyo publica _Los rel\u00e1mpagos_ para enderezar las mentiras propagadas por el gordo Artajo. Por su parte, Amaya escribe para defenderse de Froil\u00e1n C. Manjarrez y \u00absu rastrera obra titulada _La Jornada Institucional\u00bb_ (en forma pasmosa, se apoya en esta obra, que considera oportunista, para demostrar que la victoria callista le cost\u00f3 al gobierno catorce millones de pesos; luego a\u00f1ade con tard\u00eda reticencia: \u00absi hemos de dar cr\u00e9dito a Froil\u00e1n C. Manjarrez\u00bb). La verdad es utilizada en forma discrecional, siguiendo la m\u00e1xima de otro caudillo del M\u00e9xico revolucionario, Gonzalo N. Santos: \u00abLa moral es un \u00e1rbol que da moras.\u00bb\n\nIbarg\u00fcengoitia tambi\u00e9n toma de Amaya la an\u00e9cdota que abre y cierra la novela: el robo de la pistola perpetrado por un militar en desgracia que luego asciende y se sabe en deuda con su v\u00edctima.\n\nLa falsa elegancia de Amaya es m\u00e1s ampulosa, pero podr\u00eda confundirse con la de Arroyo: \u00abPuedo decir con satisfacci\u00f3n que por un dictado de mi manera de ser y de mi propia conciencia nunca han podido ofuscarme los m\u00e1s justificados rencores ni las pasiones a un grado que puedan arrastrarme a cometer crueles venganzas que en mi sentir nunca dignifican ni mucho menos elevan al hombre.\u00bb Tambi\u00e9n Arroyo se condena al elogiarse: \u00abMi honradez a toda prueba, que en ocasiones lleg\u00f3 a acarrearme dificultades con la polic\u00eda\u00bb; \u00abMi simpat\u00eda personal, que para muchas personas envidiosas resulta insoportable\u00bb. El humorismo involuntario del personaje es el acierto del novelista.\n\nEn sus memorias, Amaya critica sin miramientos a Gonzalo Escobar. Luego nos enteramos de que estuvo voluntariamente a su servicio y fracas\u00f3 con \u00e9l. Escobar obedece \u00f3rdenes por tel\u00e9grafo sin saber que se las proporciona el enemigo. En su desesperaci\u00f3n, Amaya comenta que actuaba \u00absin darse cuenta quiz\u00e1 de la enorme diferencia entre avanzar hacia delante y retroceder hacia atr\u00e1s\u00bb. _Los rel\u00e1mpagos_ recrea esta comisi\u00f3n de errores donde los insurrectos siguen la estrategia de los adversarios y culpan del desastre a quien eligieron libremente como l\u00edder. Nadie se salva de esta ronda de in\u00fatiles, ni siquiera Ben\u00edtez, \u00abque tan brillante futuro hubiera tenido de no haber estado de nuestra parte\u00bb.\n\nLa novela picaresca se ocupa de los bajos fondos, la innumerable caterva de los despose\u00eddos, los irregulares. Los truhanes desdentados entran a la literatura por la puerta trasera y son confinados a los s\u00f3tanos regidos por la burla. La primera persona narrativa, impregnada de emociones, otorga una parad\u00f3jica dignidad a estas criaturas; sin negar sus latrocinios, los humaniza, convierte sus dislates en algo no solo comprensible sino gozoso. De ah\u00ed la fuerza rebelde del g\u00e9nero.\n\nEn Ibarg\u00fcengoitia la picaresca sufre un desplazamiento. La voz del aprovechado deja de ser perif\u00e9rica y se transforma en el discurso oficial de la Revoluci\u00f3n. La clase dominante entra en la esfera de lo c\u00f3mico y no reconoce otra ley que la adopci\u00f3n de amos progresivamente poderosos (los repetidos fracasos de los personajes garantizan que siempre haya alguien, un poco menos torpe, capaz de ayudarlos).\n\nAl reflexionar sobre Fabrizio en Waterloo, Stendhal comenta que la conducta de los hombres hist\u00f3ricos rara vez tiene que ver con motivaciones individuales. Hay un desacuerdo insalvable entre las causas personales y el comportamiento en los sucesos tumultuosos; el ser deviene otro en colectividad: su \u00abalma\u00bb se convierte en un \u00abdon inc\u00f3modo\u00bb.\n\nA diferencia de la intensa confusi\u00f3n de Fabrizio en _La cartuja de Parma_ , el p\u00edcaro no se ve acosado por remordimientos, dudas o recelos sobre su conducta. En su versi\u00f3n de los hechos no hay m\u00e1s que una verdad plana; ning\u00fan don inquieta su mente. Para L\u00e1zaro de Tormes esto representa un modo de supervivencia; para los generales de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, se trata de un vicio irrenunciable. El cinismo es su raz\u00f3n de ser, su motivaci\u00f3n rectora.\n\nEn 1982 Ibarg\u00fcengoitia sostuvo en la revista _Vuelta_ una breve pol\u00e9mica con el fil\u00f3logo Antonio Alatorre a prop\u00f3sito de la publicaci\u00f3n de _Los pasos de L\u00f3pez_ (que en su primera edici\u00f3n espa\u00f1ola se llam\u00f3 _Los conspiradores)_. Ah\u00ed resumi\u00f3 su idea del pante\u00f3n de la patria: \u00abNuestra historia es oscura, sangrienta y en general masoquista. Nuestros h\u00e9roes predilectos son los que perdieron las guerras y murieron por \u00f3rdenes del vencedor taimado [...]. El h\u00e9roe mexicano de segunda muere a destiempo en su oficina, el de tercera vence, el triunfo se le sube a la cabeza, comete una serie de errores, se desprestigia y es fusilado. Los grandes villanos mueren en su cama: Cort\u00e9s, Porfirio D\u00edaz y Huerta. Si Maximiliano hubiera logrado escapar ser\u00eda aborrecido. Muri\u00f3 fusilado y dando propinas, por eso en los corazones de ciertos mexicanos arde una llamita en su honor. Los \u00fanicos candidatos a h\u00e9roes que tiene el PRI \u2013en m\u00e1s de cincuenta a\u00f1os de ejercicio\u2013 son gente que muri\u00f3 en accidentes de aviaci\u00f3n inexplicados: Madrazo _& Co_. Compara este cuadro con Bol\u00edvar: sobrevivi\u00f3 a la \u00e9poca de las conspiraciones, gan\u00f3 la guerra, dividi\u00f3 geogr\u00e1ficamente Sudam\u00e9rica e inaugur\u00f3 una casta militar que en varios pa\u00edses sigue en el poder. _He is a success story_. En el Sur es el n\u00famero uno de los h\u00e9roes, en M\u00e9xico ser\u00eda el peor de los villanos.\u00bb\n\nEn _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ , los p\u00edcaros encumbrados, con el pecho cubierto de medallas asignadas por ellos mismos, carecen de figuras de contraste. Si el tunante es la excepci\u00f3n que gu\u00eda la picaresca, una elocuente rareza, en la variante invertida del g\u00e9nero no hay un solo pobre. Novela sin masas, _Los rel\u00e1mpagos_ reduce la Revoluci\u00f3n a los pasillos donde se toman s\u00f3rdidas decisiones.\n\nSabemos, por Tolst\u00f3i y Berlin, que los hombres hist\u00f3ricos no siempre hacen cosas hist\u00f3ricas. En su parodia de la lucha armada, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia exagera el procedimiento: sus personajes hist\u00f3ricos no hacen otra cosa que aliviar la sed, buscar una amante, codiciar un beneficio, evitar un mayor esfuerzo.\n\nNuestro autor padeci\u00f3 los gobiernos del PRI y fue demoledor con los Padres Fundadores del sistema pol\u00edtico mexicano. Nadie se salva entre los de esa cala\u00f1a. Al invitar a todos los hombres p\u00fablicos al banquete de lo c\u00f3mico, cre\u00f3 un gran gui\u00f1ol donde la cr\u00edtica pudo ver con prontitud al humorista pero tard\u00f3 en apreciar al continuador de la tradici\u00f3n picaresca.\n\nM\u00c1S ALL\u00c1 DE \u00abLOS REL\u00c1MPAGOS\u00bb: \u00abSABEMOS QUE USTED ES ILUSTRE, \u00bfQUIERE EXPLICARNOS A QU\u00c9 SE DEDICA?\u00bb\n\nDespu\u00e9s de renovar en forma pol\u00e9mica la novela de la Revoluci\u00f3n, el gran escenario de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia fue la imaginaria ciudad de Cu\u00e9vano, ubicada en el estado de Plan de Abajo y fugazmente mencionada en _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_. No se trata de una regi\u00f3n m\u00edtica como el Macondo de Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, la Comala de Rulfo o la Santa Mar\u00eda de Onetti, sino de un lugar costumbrista, sospechosamente parecido a Guanajuato. A prop\u00f3sito de esta invenci\u00f3n comenta: \u00abCreo que el proceso de composici\u00f3n de _Estas ruinas que ves_ fue m\u00e1s o menos as\u00ed: al tratar de evocar una ciudad conocida y real, constru\u00ed en mi mente \u2013y tambi\u00e9n en el libro\u2013 otra que es imaginaria, parecida y autosuficiente.\u00bb\n\nEl primer impulso para llegar a esa trama fue una imagen que obsesionaba al novelista: una mujer lee en un parque cartas de su amado ausente mientras escucha una canci\u00f3n pasada de moda, \u00abUn viejo amor\u00bb. La mujer es su madre, y el hombre ausente, su padre. Nada de eso est\u00e1 en el libro, pero sirvi\u00f3 como disparador para evocar la vida provinciana, dominada por los chismes, los recelos y los amores incumplidos.\n\nUna de las estrategias m\u00e1s socorridas para exaltar la propia virtud consiste en cuestionar la de los dem\u00e1s. La calumnia y la intriga han sido las armas comunes de la \u00abgente decente\u00bb.\n\n_Estas ruinas que ves_ (1975) confirma que la iron\u00eda se apropia en forma entra\u00f1able de aquello que critica. El novelista sat\u00edrico no destruye a las criaturas que ridiculiza; comprende sus defectos y en cierta forma los asume. Su especialidad no es la flam\u00edgera denuncia sino la burla piadosa, capaz de comprender y aun de amar lo equ\u00edvoco\n\nUna epopeya se entiende mejor contada como chisme. En _Estas ruinas que ves_ , Benjam\u00edn Padilla, sabio provinciano, considera que \u00abla Independencia de M\u00e9xico se debe a un juego de sal\u00f3n que acab\u00f3 en desastre nacional\u00bb. La frase encierra dos claves para entender de otro modo los conflictos sociales: toda gesta colectiva se origina por caprichos personales y su desenlace casi siempre es una cat\u00e1strofe que los vencedores disfrazan de triunfo. Con ese m\u00e9todo, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia construy\u00f3 dos versiones de la guerra de Independencia, la obra de teatro _La conspiraci\u00f3n vendida_ y la novela _Los pasos de L\u00f3pez_.\n\nDesde el punto de vista formal, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia parec\u00eda menos espectacular que sus contempor\u00e1neos. Enemigo del \u00e9nfasis, trabajaba como los mineros que tan bien conoc\u00eda, buscando vetas de oro con sabidur\u00eda artesanal.\n\nLo \u00abinfraordinario\u00bb, tan celebrado por Georges Perec, tuvo un ins\u00f3lito representante en nuestra literatura. Mientras la mayor\u00eda de los escritores latinoamericanos se adentraban en complejos experimentos intra y metanovel\u00edsticos _(Paradiso, Rayuela, Conversaci\u00f3n en La Catedral, Yo, el supremo, El oto\u00f1o del patriarca, Terra nostra, El recurso del m\u00e9todo),_ Ibarg\u00fcengoitia descifr\u00f3 \u00abmisterios de la vida diaria\u00bb.\n\nLa trayectoria a contrapelo del \u00abhumorista agitado\u00bb alcanza un momento superior en _Estas ruinas que ves_. A los cuarenta y seis a\u00f1os el escritor guanajuatense perfecciona su est\u00e9tica. La novela comienza con la descripci\u00f3n de Cu\u00e9vano y las curiosas haza\u00f1as de los ciudadanos que le dan lustre. Uno de los preceptos de Horacio Quiroga para el \u00abperfecto cuentista\u00bb es el de escribir como si el autor formara parte de los personajes. Lo mismo hace Ibarg\u00fcengoitia: la autoridad de su voz dimana de quien pertenece a un microcosmos. El forastero no tiene ah\u00ed derecho de opini\u00f3n. En _Maten al le\u00f3n_ , un espa\u00f1ol se niega a hacer comentarios por estar al margen de ese delirio tropical, y en _Estas ruinas que ves_ un capitalino se declara incapaz de intervenir en las pol\u00e9micas de Cu\u00e9vano. Solo quien naci\u00f3 en esa ciudad sin \u00abm\u00e1s forma que la que le dieron los cerros\u00bb est\u00e1 facultado para hablar de ella.\n\nEl estilo arquitect\u00f3nico cuevanense es \u00abf\u00e1cil de reconocer pero imposible de definir\u00bb. La frase tambi\u00e9n se aplica al esp\u00edritu del lugar. Ah\u00ed, la pretensi\u00f3n oculta la falta de m\u00e9ritos, y la decencia p\u00fablica, los vicios privados. En Cu\u00e9vano la contradicci\u00f3n es el segundo nombre de lo real: el gobernador ofrece \u00abuna comida \u00edntima para ciento cincuenta personas\u00bb, los intelectuales alardean de su cultura polemizando sobre las linternillas de la iglesia y un periodista es capaz de preguntar: \u00abSabemos que es usted un cuevanense destacado, \u00bfquiere explicarnos a qu\u00e9 se dedica?\u00bb\n\nExploraci\u00f3n de la doble moral, _Estas ruinas que ves_ trata de Gloria, una muchacha voluptuosa vista por Paco, el narrador, como una intangible m\u00e1rtir del deseo. En una borrachera, un amigo le dice que Gloria tiene un defecto en el coraz\u00f3n y morir\u00e1 de un infarto al experimentar su primer orgasmo. La chica hace el amor en un parque y coquetea con Paco, pero \u00e9l la juzga inalcanzable. Profesor de literatura, el narrador no comparte los prejuicios de sus paisanos, pero cae en otro, inventado por su amigo. El efecto c\u00f3mico de la novela proviene en gran parte de este error de apreciaci\u00f3n. Enamorado de Gloria, Paco no entiende lo que ve. Mientras tanto, ella practica un erotismo tan atrevido como su forma de manejar (\u00absospecho que no sab\u00eda que la velocidad de los coches se puede regular\u00bb, comenta el narrador).\n\nLos ricos juegos de perspectiva se plantean desde el primer momento, cuando el narrador toma el tren Zaragoza rumbo a Cu\u00e9vano. Paco est\u00e1 en el \u00abvag\u00f3n fumador\u00bb con otro pasajero. Ambos leen, en espera de que se desocupe el ba\u00f1o. Un pasaje descrito con enorme precisi\u00f3n visual anticipa las tensiones de la trama: \u00abAs\u00ed estuvimos un rato, \u00e9l leyendo, yo mirando, en el manuscrito, las letras, a trav\u00e9s de la ventanilla, los huizaches negros sobre el campo oscuro, en el vidrio mi reflejo, y en el interior del vag\u00f3n, la puerta cerrada, la pantalla de vidrio amarillento con sedimento de insectos muertos, y en el perchero un saco que se mov\u00eda como un p\u00e9ndulo.\u00bb El saco pertenece a Rocafuerte, el pretendiente de Gloria, que ocupa el ba\u00f1o durante treinta y dos kil\u00f3metros. El hombre que lee es Enrique Espinoza, el marido de Sarita, que ser\u00e1 la amante de Paco. Las l\u00edneas de fuerza de la novela se insin\u00faan en ese p\u00e1rrafo.\n\nEn el teatro de la simulaci\u00f3n de Cu\u00e9vano, la hipocres\u00eda se da por sentada. A nadie le extra\u00f1a que la realidad se perfeccione en forma ilusoria (servida en un banquete, la sopa de papa y berro se llama _potage \u00e0 la cressoni\u00e8re)_. Estas falsificaciones pertenecen a la costumbre y son observadas con sentido protocolario. En ocasiones, las \u00ednfulas son imaginarias, como lo revela la inolvidable descripci\u00f3n de un personaje: \u00abPara evocar a Sebasti\u00e1n Monta\u00f1a, lo mejor es agregarle atributos de elegancia, por ejemplo, imaginarlo de smoking, al smoking ponerle cuello de palomita, a los cigarros que fuma, boquilla de carey, a los dedos, anillos. Al despedirse se pondr\u00e1 fedora y bufanda antes de salir a la calle. Un bast\u00f3n y polainas gris perla completan el atav\u00edo. Pero esto no es m\u00e1s que una met\u00e1fora. La manera en que Sebasti\u00e1n se vestir\u00eda si las pretensiones de su alma se convirtieran en ropa. En realidad, la que usa es com\u00fan y corriente.\u00bb Lo que podr\u00eda tener el personaje define sus inalcanzables aspiraciones.\n\nPero no solo la tradici\u00f3n depende de apariencias. Los personajes crean nuevos prejuicios. Uno de ellos dice: \u00ab\u00bfCrees que me atraiga una mujer por honesta? A veces se me ocurre que soy un degenerado.\u00bb\n\nNadie se libra de la mistificaci\u00f3n: Justine no se llama as\u00ed por ser francesa sino venezolana, la liberada Gloria es vista como una santa y los Siete Sabios de Cu\u00e9vano ni son siete ni son sabios.\n\nEn sus di\u00e1logos, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia ofrece los momentos cruciales en que se dicen cosas inc\u00f3modas, absurdas, decisivas. Un pasaje revela su m\u00e9todo. Paco comenta que olvid\u00f3 lo que le hab\u00edan dicho en una cantina, pero no las interrupciones que ocurrieron mientras tanto. As\u00ed construye Ibarg\u00fcengoitia sus parlamentos: la pl\u00e1tica general se diluye y quedan los exabruptos. En cuanto al tono, explora las posibilidades de un idioma espont\u00e1neo sin calcar el lenguaje coloquial. Ajeno a ese recurso mim\u00e9tico, que ha causado estragos en el cine mexicano, parodia modismos locales, como empezar una frase con \u00abpos\u00bb para acabarla con \u00abt\u00fa\u00bb (\u00ab\u00bfpos qu\u00e9 no ha llegado el Doctor, t\u00fa?\u00bb) y utiliza lugares comunes para llenar los vac\u00edos del drama: cuando la cat\u00e1strofe es inminente, alguien dice: \u00ab\u00a1qu\u00e9 bonitas plantas!\u00bb o \u00ab\u00a1qu\u00e9 calor\u00f3n!\u00bb. Maestro del contraste, sabe que lo solemne convive con lo nimio. Cuando un conferencista inicia su perorata citando una m\u00e1xima latina, el narrador se interesa en otra zona de la realidad: \u00abEl resto de la hora y media que dur\u00f3 la conferencia, la dediqu\u00e9 a observar narices.\u00bb\n\nSin ser una de sus marcas dominantes, la adjetivaci\u00f3n deja significativos destellos a lo largo del libro: una calle se vuelve \u00abprecipitosa\u00bb, ciertas mujeres se adornan con peinados \u00abconvexos\u00bb y un disertador tiene voz \u00abescupitosa\u00bb.\n\nA partir de _Estas ruinas que ves_ el estilo literario de Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia fue tan sugerente e idiosincr\u00e1tico como el de Cu\u00e9vano: f\u00e1cil de reconocer e imposible de definir.\n\nLa trama del fuere\u00f1o que llega a un sitio encapsulado por el tiempo y la costumbre se repite en _Dos cr\u00edmenes_ (1979), una de las tramas m\u00e1s afortunadas de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia. El protagonista es, de nueva cuenta, un intruso en una realidad de apariencia est\u00e1tica, un citadino que busca refugio en la provincia. Poco a poco, Cu\u00e9vano revela dobleces y subterfugios y el narrador comprende que lo \u00fanico ingenuo en ese entorno es su propia mirada; sus prejuicios se desvanecen a medida que se adentra en una comedia de equivocaciones no exentas de peligros.\n\n_Estas ruinas que ves_ presenta de manera fugaz a las mujeres que protagonizar\u00edan _Las muertas_ (1977). El tema de las \u00abPoquianchis\u00bb (apodo de dos regentas de prostitutas) interesaba a Ibarg\u00fcengoitia desde 1963, cuando ley\u00f3 que las hermanas Gonz\u00e1lez Valenzuela hab\u00edan secuestrado a m\u00e1s de veinte chicas.\n\nLas Gonz\u00e1lez Valenzuela se hab\u00edan mudado en compa\u00f1\u00eda de sus pupilas de Guanajuato a Lagos de Moreno, en el estado de Jalisco, donde la prostituci\u00f3n estaba permitida. Ah\u00ed operaron hasta que su burdel se clausur\u00f3. En el operativo muri\u00f3 un hijo de las hermanas. Regresaron en coches de alquiler a San Francisco del Rinc\u00f3n, en el estado de Guanajuato, y encerraron a las prostitutas mientras trataban de lograr un permiso para volver a Jalisco. Lo que comenz\u00f3 como un abuso se convirti\u00f3 en un delito peor. Las hermanas Gonz\u00e1lez Valenzuela no dejaban salir a las chicas ni llamaron a un m\u00e9dico cuando una de ellas enferm\u00f3 de gravedad.\n\nEl secuestro masivo intrig\u00f3 al novelista. En una regi\u00f3n de aspecto apacible ocurri\u00f3 una trama de enorme sordidez que desembocar\u00eda en la muerte.\n\nEl tema se prestaba para Ibarg\u00fcengoitia pero le exig\u00eda un cambio de estilo. No pod\u00eda tratarlo en el tono de divertida iron\u00eda de _Estas ruinas que ves_ o _Dos cr\u00edmenes_. Consigui\u00f3 el expediente judicial, de m\u00e1s de mil folios, y en 1964 escribi\u00f3 una cr\u00f3nica sobre los hechos totalmente apegada a la verdad. Ese texto permaneci\u00f3 m\u00e1s de diez a\u00f1os entre sus papeles hasta que decidi\u00f3 abordarlo como ficci\u00f3n. El resultado fue _Las muertas_ , novela que combina la recuperaci\u00f3n f\u00e1ctica del periodismo con la mirada subjetiva de la novela. Aunque hab\u00eda sobrevivientes del drama, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia prefiri\u00f3 trabajar a partir de documentos para liberar su imaginaci\u00f3n.\n\n_Los pasos de L\u00f3pez_ fue publicada en 1981, pero proviene de un proyecto muy lejano, la obra de teatro _La conspiraci\u00f3n vendida_. En 1960, con el fin de celebrar los ciento cincuenta a\u00f1os de la declaraci\u00f3n de la Independencia, el departamento de teatro de Bellas Artes encarg\u00f3 obras a diez dramaturgos. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia sab\u00eda que pocas cosas funcionan tan mal como la dramaturgia subvencionada para celebrar gestas patrias. Sin embargo, se encontraba en un terrible aprieto econ\u00f3mico y supon\u00eda \u2013como en verdad ocurri\u00f3\u2013 que su obra no se llevar\u00eda a escena. Adem\u00e1s, siempre le hab\u00edan interesado los aspectos risibles de la historia de M\u00e9xico. Al est\u00edmulo de escribir un texto \u00abalimentario\u00bb se uni\u00f3 el de explorar a los h\u00e9roes en su agraviante intimidad. As\u00ed surgi\u00f3 esa pieza que, en su opini\u00f3n, carec\u00eda de relevancia. Entre otras cosas, le molestaba el determinismo de la trama: \u00abEl Cura Hidalgo habla poco pero es visionario. Dice, por ejemplo, que los que inician una revoluci\u00f3n nunca ven el final y sugiere que va a morir fusilado.\u00bb\n\nEn una obra hist\u00f3rica es un error que los personajes se expresen como si ya hubieran le\u00eddo ese episodio. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia mitig\u00f3 este efecto en la novela escrita veinte a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, sin erradicarlo del todo: \u00abser\u00eda raro que lleg\u00e1ramos a ver el final de esto que estamos comenzando\u00bb, dice Peri\u00f1\u00f3n, que representa a Hidalgo.\n\nLa s\u00e1tira se acerca aqu\u00ed a la caricatura. Los personajes llevan nombres de astrac\u00e1n o zarzuela: dos marcas de champa\u00f1a apellidan al protagonista (Peri\u00f1\u00f3n) y a su narrador (Chand\u00f3n) y son acompa\u00f1ados por el licenciado Manubrio.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 hace un novelista con los manuscritos teatrales que nunca llegaron a la escena? _Los pasos de L\u00f3pez_ es el intento de que un g\u00e9nero literario cobre venganza desde otro. El resultado es un gozoso divertimento, escala amena en un camino que apuntaba a destinos superiores.\n\nPlan de Abajo es la regi\u00f3n amplia por la que se mueven estas cuatro novelas. El pasado fundacional de la patria se encuentra en _Los pasos de L\u00f3pez_ , sus dramas fuertes en _Las muertas_ , sus desternillantes malentendidos en _Estas ruinas que ves_ y _Dos cr\u00edmenes_.\n\nJorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia invent\u00f3 pasajes de ins\u00f3lita felicidad en un pa\u00eds sufrido y muchas veces solemne. Su atrevimiento es el del disidente que goza en medio de la crisis. Cada una de sus novelas es fiel al lema de una de sus t\u00edas de Guanajuato: \u00abLa vida quiso que fuera desgraciada, pero no me dio la gana.\u00bb\n\nUN DOM\u00c9STICO M\u00c1S ALL\u00c1\n\nEn una ocasi\u00f3n, siguiendo uno de esos impulsos de los que luego se arrepent\u00eda, Ibarg\u00fcengoitia acept\u00f3 dar una conferencia. Para salir del paso, propuso un tema: \u00abEl diablo en el espejo\u00bb. Llegado el d\u00eda, imparti\u00f3 su charla y luego sobrevino el acostumbrado desencuentro con los escuchas. Alguien le pregunt\u00f3 por qu\u00e9 no hab\u00eda hablado del diablo ni del espejo. El autor se alz\u00f3 de hombros. El t\u00edtulo hab\u00eda bastado para justificar su charla.\n\nAunque fue descartada aquella vez, la frase revela un recurso esencial del autor. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia sit\u00faa a sus personajes ante el espejo y les pide que se describan con leal franqueza. Los relatores levantan inventario de sus encantos, sus magnas virtudes, los gestos augustos que contemplan en la superficie de azogue. Poco a poco, lo que dicen cobra otro sentido. El diablo de la parodia se ha hecho cargo del espejo. Queriendo enaltecerse, las voces se inculpan. Arroyo se ufana de su agudeza psicol\u00f3gica y se despe\u00f1a al revelar la forma interesada en que la usa: \u00abYo, gran conocedor como soy de los caracteres humanos, sab\u00eda que aquel hombre iba a llegar muy lejos, y no dije nada; soport\u00e9 el oprobio, y esas cosas se agradecen.\u00bb\n\nEn el espejo hechizado de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia, los aguerridos papanatas que destruyeron el pa\u00eds son fiscales de s\u00ed mismos.\n\nConviene recordar que Italo Calvino fue uno de los m\u00e1ximos entusiastas de Ibarg\u00fcengoitia en el jurado que premi\u00f3 _Los rel\u00e1mpagos de agosto_ con el Casa de las Am\u00e9ricas. Ambos autores dieron un trato ir\u00f3nico al pasado. En _El bar\u00f3n rampante_ , el protagonista sube a un \u00e1rbol y ve el siglo XVIII desde una \u00f3ptica individual, distinta, descre\u00edda. Calvino enfatiz\u00f3 las limitaciones y los placeres del punto de vista individual y tom\u00f3 en serio la met\u00e1fora de quien \u00abse anda por las ramas\u00bb. Su bar\u00f3n ve poco y est\u00e1 aislado; consecuente con la regla que se ha impuesto, narra desde una ir\u00f3nica distancia. Ibarg\u00fcengoitia comparte la idea de que toda visi\u00f3n de la historia es sesgada, forzosamente subjetiva, pero trabaja en otro registro. Sus pretenciosos generales hablan sin sombra de duda, ignoran que pueden equivocarse. El autor y el lector los ven de lejos, conscientes de que los hombres que se creen hist\u00f3ricos no saben lo que hacen. Juego de escepticismo, _Los rel\u00e1mpagos_ permite que hablen los embusteros y tengamos el placer de no creerles.\n\nA prop\u00f3sito de la melancol\u00eda que embarga a un escritor al terminar su libro, escribi\u00f3 Ibarg\u00fcengoitia:\n\nMira uno a su alrededor. El cuarto est\u00e1 en un desorden total, porque los \u00faltimos meses han sido ca\u00f3ticos. Cuando alguien le dice a un escritor que est\u00e1 en la fase final de un libro que est\u00e1 descompuesto el foco del ba\u00f1o, este contesta: \u00abpor el momento no tengo cabeza m\u00e1s que para la novela\u00bb. Sobre la mesa se han acumulado papeles, recibos, libros, letras de cambio, medicinas para la acidez y una pantalla que empez\u00f3 uno a arreglar hace a\u00f1o y medio.\n\n\u00abAhora s\u00ed \u2013dice el escritor\u2013, voy a poner todo en orden.\u00bb\n\nLlama al plomero, hace una cita con el dentista, etc. Al tercer d\u00eda lee su novela y descubre, con horror, que lo que \u00e9l escribi\u00f3 en dos a\u00f1os se puede leer en dos horas y media.\n\nConcluido el libro, el autor va al dentista, arregla la casa, paga un recibo. Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia se asign\u00f3 esa dom\u00e9stica posteridad. Mientras lo leemos, \u00e9l repara una l\u00e1mpara. Bajo esa luz sencilla, su obra permanece y dura. \n\n### EL G\u00c9NERO MONSIV\u00c1IS\n\nO ya no entiendo lo que est\u00e1 pasando o ya pas\u00f3 lo que estaba entendiendo.\n\nCARLOS MONSIV\u00c1IS\n\nUn grupo heterog\u00e9neo, al que me incorporo con la angustia del que llega demasiado tarde, aguarda en la calle San Sim\u00f3n de la colonia Portales. Distingo a un vendedor de artesan\u00edas en cer\u00e1mica, que lleva efigies del Santo y Blue Demon; alguien sostiene un portafolios que probablemente custodia grabados de Posada o del Taller de la Gr\u00e1fica Popular; un reportero aguarda turno para una entrevista, lo mismo que un fot\u00f3grafo; reconozco a un profesor de la Facultad de Ciencias Pol\u00edticas y Sociales y a dos redactores de revistas, que han ido ah\u00ed a pedir colaboraciones; diversos activistas repasan las consignas que le dir\u00e1n al maestro en busca de su apoyo. Todos confiamos en que nos atienda una extra\u00f1a figura del M\u00e9xico de fines del siglo XX: Carlos Monsiv\u00e1is, el escritor que ha adquirido el rango de gur\u00fa sobre todos los temas impresos y por imprimirse.\n\nEstoy ah\u00ed para planear un n\u00famero sobre la historia de la caricatura en _La Jornada Semanal_. La \u00faltima vez que lo hab\u00eda visitado, me recibi\u00f3 con un mensaje poco alentador: \u00abLl\u00e9vame a la C\u00e1mara de Diputados y hablamos en el camino.\u00bb\n\nLa espera se alarga hasta convertirse en tertulia; la gente comparte sus motivos para estar ah\u00ed, unos van a vender piezas para las variadas colecciones que el escritor arrumba en los rincones de su casa, otros quieren solicitarle un art\u00edculo esperando que, ahora s\u00ed, entregue a tiempo, otros m\u00e1s buscan su apoyo para mitigar alguno de los agravios del pa\u00eds. Somos los extra\u00f1os peregrinos de un autor, los feligreses que aguardan que la puerta se abra para que, del otro lado, aparezca la Verdad.\n\nCaso \u00fanico en la literatura mexicana, Monsiv\u00e1is fue un personaje escapado de sus libros. Hablar con \u00e9l, venderle o solicitarle algo, formaba parte de su singular presencia en la cultura. Sus textos desbordaron el marco de las p\u00e1ginas. Convertido en la agencia de prensa de un solo hombre y el solidario apoyador de mil causas, modific\u00f3 las noticias con su capacidad de intervenci\u00f3n social.\n\nAguard\u00e1bamos ante su port\u00f3n met\u00e1lico, sabiendo que no recib\u00eda conforme al orden de llegada. En los sitios de peregrinaje se pide sin la certeza de recibir algo a cambio. El visitante repasaba sus m\u00e9ritos morales para estar ah\u00ed. \u00bfHab\u00eda le\u00eddo suficientes escritos del m\u00e1s copioso colaborador de la prensa mexicana? \u00bfEn verdad conoc\u00eda sus ideas y comprend\u00eda sus retru\u00e9canos? Siempre en la luz p\u00fablica, Monsiv\u00e1is conserv\u00f3 un fondo de misterio. Nadie ha le\u00eddo sus obras completas por la sencilla raz\u00f3n de que no se han publicado.\n\nRecuerdo esas visitas y recupero el anhelo de encontrarlo en el presente hist\u00f3rico que favorecen los cronistas. S\u00e9 que, en principio, todo le interesa, pero dudo con justificada desaz\u00f3n pertenecer a ese todo. Me ha dado cita, pero, ante la variopinta gente que encuentro en el umbral de su casa, descubro que, antes que a m\u00ed, le dio cita a la realidad.\n\n\u00abTODAS MIS PRIMERAS DECISIONES SON P\u00d3STUMAS\u00bb\n\nNacido en La Merced, Distrito Federal, el 4 de mayo de 1938, Monsiv\u00e1is fue llevado por su madre a la colonia Portales, el barrio definitivo donde crecer\u00eda y habitar\u00eda una casa que con el tiempo se transformar\u00eda en desordenado almac\u00e9n de obras de arte y santuario para gatos. En su autobiograf\u00eda precoz, escrita a los veintiocho a\u00f1os, narra el \u00e9xodo provocado por el hostigamiento de la comunidad cat\u00f3lica hacia las familias protestantes de La Merced, y atesora, con las licencias que otorga la memoria, la imagen de su madre en la carreta de los expulsados, semejante a la Madre Coraje de Bertolt Brecht. Monsiv\u00e1is elige ese momento de escisi\u00f3n de la comunidad para definir su peculiar adaptaci\u00f3n al medio ambiente.\n\nVivi\u00f3 en la calle San Sim\u00f3n, muy cerca del California Dancing Club, al que dedic\u00f3 una de sus cr\u00f3nicas, y de la iglesia protestante, a la que no dej\u00f3 de apoyar. Cuando particip\u00f3 en la serie de conferencias \u00abNarradores ante el p\u00fablico\u00bb, en 1965, dijo: \u00abDe los participantes de este ciclo, soy el \u00fanico que admira la labor del Ej\u00e9rcito de Salvaci\u00f3n. Esta declaraci\u00f3n no pedida es la sutil manera de indicar que nac\u00ed, me eduqu\u00e9 y me desenvuelvo en el seno de una familia tercamente protestante. _Firmes y adelante, huestes de la fe_. Aprend\u00ed a leer sobre las rodillas de una Biblia, a cuya admirable versi\u00f3n castellana de Casiodoro de Reyna y Cipriano de Valera debo la revelaci\u00f3n de la literatura que despu\u00e9s me confirmar\u00edan la _Instituci\u00f3n de la religi\u00f3n cristiana_ de Juan Calvino (traducido por De Valera), _El para\u00edso perdido_ de Milton y las letras, no siempre felices, de la himnolog\u00eda bautista, metodista y presbiteriana.\u00bb\n\nEste pasaje sugiere un contacto devocional con la cultura. Un par de d\u00e9cadas m\u00e1s tarde, en _Nuevo catecismo para indios remisos_ , su \u00fanico libro de ficci\u00f3n, hace una peculiar adaptaci\u00f3n de la hagiograf\u00eda cristiana a la sociedad del espect\u00e1culo. Su irreverencia dimana del s\u00f3lido conocimiento de las escrituras y de su parad\u00f3jica observancia. Lejos de toda beater\u00eda, el autor del _Nuevo catecismo_ era un moralista. Nada m\u00e1s l\u00f3gico que, para ejercer la ficci\u00f3n, escogiera la f\u00e1bula, g\u00e9nero que desemboca en una moraleja.\n\nEl 28 de enero de 2010, Monsiv\u00e1is asisti\u00f3 al Centro Cultural de Espa\u00f1a en la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico para participar en el ciclo \u00abLa creatividad redistribuida\u00bb. Fue una de sus \u00faltimas apariciones en p\u00fablico. En ese acto, Rafael Barajas y yo dialogamos con \u00e9l acerca de una de sus pasiones: el coleccionismo. En la secci\u00f3n de preguntas, alguien quiso saber c\u00f3mo escog\u00eda una pieza. \u00bfSe dejaba llevar por una corazonada? \u00abTodas mis primeras decisiones son p\u00f3stumas\u00bb, contest\u00f3 el cronista que amaba las paradojas. Como en tantas otras ocasiones, la broma revelaba algo m\u00e1s profundo, el deseo de que incluso sus impulsos pudieran ser vistos como algo ya sucedido y susceptible de ser analizado. Comentarista en estado cr\u00f3nico, sol\u00eda terminar sus cartas, e incluso sus dedicatorias, con posdatas (m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del texto, una inteligencia \u00abp\u00f3stuma\u00bb lo explica); pod\u00eda escapar a numerosas convenciones formales, pero no al deseo de colocar o insinuar una moraleja.\n\nSu obra y su conducta p\u00fablica se definen por la voluntad de ejercer el juicio, el discernimiento, la sanci\u00f3n. Con temple volteriano, fustig\u00f3 y alab\u00f3; ejerci\u00f3 y ampli\u00f3 la libertad de cr\u00edtica con el \u00e1nimo de tener raz\u00f3n. Su copiosa bibliograf\u00eda es la pr\u00e9dica de un juez \u2013irreverente y autocr\u00edtico, pero seguro de su autoridad\u2013 que condena o absuelve. Para mitigar sus sanciones, las defin\u00eda como \u00abaproximaciones y reintegros\u00bb, comparando sus sentencias con los azarosos premios de la loter\u00eda.\n\nLas lecciones aprendidas en la Escuela Dominical protestante se reforzaron con el m\u00e1s vasto y heterodoxo men\u00fa de la cultura mexicana del siglo XX. Desde ni\u00f1o, Monsiv\u00e1is lee, oye m\u00fasica y ve pel\u00edculas con bul\u00edmica adicci\u00f3n.\n\nEn 1963 publica un texto sobre _El viento distante_ de Jos\u00e9 Emilio Pacheco y reflexiona en el papel rebelde de la infancia, que no puede verse a s\u00ed misma como una etapa de inocencia, noci\u00f3n que solo surge en la melanc\u00f3lica perspectiva de la vida adulta. Los cuentos de Pacheco le parecen muestras perfectas del \u00abh\u00e9roe derrotado\u00bb, es decir, de la incomprensi\u00f3n esencial que determina a quien no conoce los c\u00f3digos del mundo y descubre que \u00abla burla y el escarnio\u00bb son los prerrequisitos de la experiencia.\n\nA prop\u00f3sito de su propia infancia, coment\u00f3 que jam\u00e1s form\u00f3 parte de palomilla alguna ni se interes\u00f3 en los juegos pueriles de su generaci\u00f3n. Hijo \u00fanico, busc\u00f3 est\u00edmulos culturales con un criterio tan amplio que ser\u00eda reductor llamarlo \u00abenciclop\u00e9dico\u00bb. En su autobiograf\u00eda, se entrevista a s\u00ed mismo, habl\u00e1ndose de usted. Despu\u00e9s de repasar sus m\u00faltiples lecturas, el imaginario reportero le pregunta: \u00ab\u00bfSeguro no se est\u00e1 usted adornando?\u00bb La respuesta define a un estoico de la cultura. \u00abYa que no tuve infancia, d\u00e9jeme tener curr\u00edculum.\u00bb\n\nEL HOMBRE QUE SAB\u00cdA DEMASIADO\n\nSon muchos los factores y las emociones que intervienen en el acto creativo, pero casi siempre es posible advertir un tono b\u00e1sico que sostiene a los dem\u00e1s efectos. Se puede privilegiar la experiencia para transmitir una sensaci\u00f3n de algo \u00abrealmente vivido\u00bb o la imaginaci\u00f3n para urdir convincentes conjeturas. Monsiv\u00e1is escribe ante todo desde la informaci\u00f3n, explorando el valor narrativo de los datos.\n\nSu infinita producci\u00f3n se explica por un fecundo impulso propio, pero tambi\u00e9n por las revistas, los suplementos, los cat\u00e1logos, los peri\u00f3dicos y los circuitos de conferencias que le requirieron textos. Sus colaboraciones redefinieron el medio editorial y su capacidad para escribir pr\u00f3logos hizo que esa tarea se cotizara de otro modo.\n\nLa condici\u00f3n dispersa y fragmentaria de su obra tiene que ver con la forma en que la cultura de la letra circul\u00f3 en la segunda mitad del siglo XX. Las publicaciones peri\u00f3dicas se multiplicaron; aunque muchas tuvieron corta vida, hubo una desaforada proliferaci\u00f3n de espacios, y Monsiv\u00e1is procur\u00f3 estar en todos ellos, a tal grado que, para distinguirse, _La mosca en la pared_ anunci\u00f3 en su portada que no inclu\u00eda colaboraciones suyas.\n\nLa mayor\u00eda de los textos de Monsiv\u00e1is son producto de la coyuntura o la contingencia; fueron escritos para satisfacer las urgencias que impone el periodismo. Esto determina el formato, la extensi\u00f3n, la fragmentaci\u00f3n de sus trabajos y la calidad desigual de la prosa, no siempre sujeta a revisiones. De modo m\u00e1s profundo, tambi\u00e9n determina el g\u00e9nero que practic\u00f3 con mayor frecuencia: la cr\u00f3nica.\n\nRara vez Monsiv\u00e1is fue un narrador que se concentrara en los sucesos. Sus escritos no destacan por las tramas o los personajes. Incluso en las f\u00e1bulas de _Nuevo catecismo_ lo que otorga sustancia y densidad a las historias son las opiniones y los comentarios.\n\nLa realidad ocurre al menos dos veces, en el mundo de los hechos y en la representaci\u00f3n que hacemos de ellos. Esto se acentu\u00f3 con la cultura de masas. La opini\u00f3n p\u00fablica es el balance colectivo de lo que acontece y no siempre se ajusta a la verdad. Para entender lo sucedido, resulta necesario conocer los acontecimientos, pero tambi\u00e9n la percepci\u00f3n de los testigos. Tom Wolfe se\u00f1ala que la opini\u00f3n p\u00fablica representa una \u00abvoz de proscenio\u00bb, equivalente contempor\u00e1neo del coro griego. Es el modo en que La Ciudad, la nueva Atenas, sanciona el acontecer. Prescindir de ella equivale a prescindir del impacto de una noticia en la comunidad.\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is construye sus cr\u00f3nicas a partir de lo que otros y de lo que \u00e9l mismo pueden decir sobre el tema. En este sentido, se trata de cr\u00f3nicas comentadas, donde lo m\u00e1s importante es la interpretaci\u00f3n del suceso. Julio Scherer Garc\u00eda le reprochaba el uso tan frecuente de extensos par\u00e9ntesis en los que inclu\u00eda retru\u00e9canos, juegos de palabras, barrocas interpretaciones de la realidad que frenaban el texto y lo apartaban del tema principal. M\u00e1s pr\u00f3ximo a un periodismo de sucesos, Scherer descre\u00eda de esa forma, casi circense, de editorializar la noticia.\n\nOtro sesgo peculiar de Monsiv\u00e1is es la narraci\u00f3n coral. En la mayor\u00eda de sus cr\u00f3nicas acude a voces sueltas, rara vez identificables, que definen el ambiente. Este tejido polif\u00f3nico se parece al de Comala: no sabemos qui\u00e9n habla, pero las palabras crean una atm\u00f3sfera precisa. \u00bfEl cronista oy\u00f3 o invent\u00f3 eso? Sus informantes an\u00f3nimos se parecen a las almas en pena de Juan Rulfo o los heter\u00f3nimos de Pessoa: desdoblamientos de una misma voz.\n\nIgnoro si alguien grab\u00f3 al maestro en uno de sus g\u00e9neros m\u00e1s socorridos, el discurso telef\u00f3nico. Los acentos que imitaba al contestar el tel\u00e9fono para hacerse pasar por su sirvienta o su improbable jefe de asesores pueden ser vistos como un entrenamiento para la dramaturgia de sus cr\u00f3nicas, marcada por voces sin c\u00e9dula de identidad, cooperativos declarantes surgidos de su pluma.\n\nSus testimonios convocan a an\u00f3nimos informantes y a autores que han tocado el tema. Sin embargo, el cronista no pierde la voz de mando, comentando los hechos a medida que se producen. El cantante Raphael entra a escena y Monsiv\u00e1is opina: \u00abImporta el desenfreno emotivo, esa donaci\u00f3n \u00edntegra y paulatina, esa conjura de primaveras texcocanas donde las nativas se\u00f1oras Stone viven la decadente pasi\u00f3n de un personaje de Tennessee Williams sin que su c\u00f3nyuge pueda ir m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del reproche.\u00bb Esta personal\u00edsima manera de contar lo que se mira depende de numerosos filtros culturales. Estamos ante cr\u00f3nicas que son editoriales que son estudios culturales que son cap\u00edtulos de enciclopedia.\n\nLas novelas de ideas envejecen en la medida en que las opiniones que en un tiempo fueron originales se integran a la norma. _Contrapunto_ , de Aldous Huxley, preserva el atractivo de su estructura contrastada y sus cortes de montaje cinematogr\u00e1fico, pero las innovadoras ideas del autor son hoy nuestro sentido com\u00fan.\n\nLas cr\u00f3nicas de Monsiv\u00e1is importan m\u00e1s por lo que \u00e9l pens\u00f3 de los acontecimientos que por los acontecimientos mismos. En ese sentido, tienen algo de ensayos dramatizados, donde la historia es una oportunidad para opinar.\n\nToda cr\u00f3nica corre el riesgo de volverse anacr\u00f3nica. El tema y la manera de narrarlo pueden envejecer de prisa. En el caso de Monsiv\u00e1is, todo depende de su temperamento intelectual, la puesta en escena de una mente que perdurar\u00e1 en la medida en que esa apasionante y rica urdimbre siga operando como una revelaci\u00f3n o se convierta en el elocuente reflejo de una \u00e9poca que solo as\u00ed se comprendi\u00f3 a s\u00ed misma.\n\nComentarista todoterreno de la vida nacional, Monsiv\u00e1is dif\u00edcilmente ignoraba algo. En caso de duda, fing\u00eda saberlo, como si esa peque\u00f1a laguna en el conocimiento representara un error moral o una tara ontol\u00f3gica. Para sobreponerse a la ofensa de estar menos informado que su interlocutor, desarroll\u00f3 una teatralidad que le vi poner en pr\u00e1ctica, siempre con buen efecto. Si alguien trataba de sorprenderlo con una primicia sobre lo que acababa de hacer el presidente, mascullaba: \u00abEso era obvio desde lo del 26 de marzo\u00bb (si le preguntabas qu\u00e9 hab\u00eda pasado ese d\u00eda, contestaba con satisfacci\u00f3n: \u00abNo tengo la menor idea\u00bb). Cuando alguien le recomendaba un oscuro documental sobre el fin del socialismo realmente existente, dec\u00eda: \u00abMe sorprendi\u00f3 mucho que lo prohibieran en Ucrania.\u00bb Con esos trucos proteg\u00eda su condici\u00f3n de testigo absoluto del acontecer.\n\nEn una ocasi\u00f3n lo vi competir en Barcelona con el escritor catal\u00e1n Terenci Moix en un caprichoso subtema de la cultura de masas: el cine de gladiadores. Ambos eran expertos en musculosos extras de falda corta y lidiaron con enjundia de circo romano hasta que Moix se dio por vencido. Consumada su victoria, Monsiv\u00e1is abandon\u00f3 la cena sin despedirse. \u00ab\u00bfSe ofendi\u00f3 de ganar?\u00bb, pregunt\u00f3 el escritor catal\u00e1n. Nada de eso. El ubicuo Monsiv\u00e1is ten\u00eda otra cita, con un sindicato donde seguramente participar\u00eda en otro duelo ret\u00f3rico.\n\nLO CULTO Y LO POPULAR O \u00abLA COATLICUE YA NO HABLA PORQUE EST\u00c1 PASAD\u00cdSIMA\u00bb\n\nEn 1955, a los diecisiete a\u00f1os, Monsiv\u00e1is escribe del modernismo y del m\u00fasico cubano Bola de Nieve. A dos a\u00f1os de que Roland Barthes publicara sus _Mitolog\u00edas_ y una d\u00e9cada antes de _Apocal\u00edpticos e integrados_ , de Umberto Eco, el joven cronista aborda sin trabas lo culto y lo popular. Para entender un pa\u00eds y una \u00e9poca resulta imprescindible saber la forma en que ese pa\u00eds y esa \u00e9poca se representan a s\u00ed mismos. Esto ata\u00f1e tanto a las bellas artes como a la canci\u00f3n rom\u00e1ntica, el c\u00f3mic, la publicidad, el periodismo, la fotograf\u00eda, la gastronom\u00eda y los dem\u00e1s recursos con que una sociedad se define a trav\u00e9s de los sentidos.\n\nEn el _Exc\u00e9lsior_ dirigido por Julio Scherer Garc\u00eda, Monsiv\u00e1is publica la columna \u00abLa caja idiota\u00bb, pionera en la cr\u00edtica de la televisi\u00f3n. Adem\u00e1s, escribe letras de canciones para Alfonso Arau que cristalizan en el disco _Arau A Go-Go_ , extra\u00f1o momento del pop azteca, donde destaca la pieza \u00abTl\u00e1locman\u00bb, cantada al ritmo de la r\u00fabrica de la serie _Batman_. El gusto por participar en distintos medios lo lleva a hablar de cine por radio; conduce el programa _El cine y la cr\u00edtica_ y da con un lema autoir\u00f3nico: \u00abUna serie que cava cuatro veces al mes su propia tumba.\u00bb De la cr\u00edtica pasa a la actuaci\u00f3n y participa en siete pel\u00edculas como actor de reparto. En _Los Caifanes_ , dirigida por Juan Ib\u00e1\u00f1ez, logra un momento extraordinario al protagonizar a un Santa Claus borracho, hondamente deprimido, cuya peluca blanca acaba ardiendo en una taquer\u00eda. Los cameos del cronista omnipresente se multiplican hasta llegar al cap\u00edtulo final de la telenovela _Nada personal_ , donde se interpreta a s\u00ed mismo.\n\nSu desbordado inter\u00e9s en lo culto y lo popular depende de su inagotable curiosidad, pero tambi\u00e9n de un recurso poco explotado en nuestra literatura. En 1958, en su introducci\u00f3n a la _Antolog\u00eda de la poes\u00eda mexicana del siglo XX_, se\u00f1ala que la asignatura pendiente en las letras nacionales es el sentido del humor. Al respecto, afirma: \u00abUna prueba evidente de este continuo vasallaje a una lengua que, a pesar de todo, por miedo o por timidez o rencor, no nos decidimos a maltratar o a poseer, es la ausencia de humor en nuestras letras.\u00bb Aunque Novo, Arreola y Pellicer ejercieron la iron\u00eda con eficacia, esa nunca ha sido la tendencia dominante de una cultura que privilegia la desgarradura, el azote emocional, la b\u00fasqueda de lo sublime (o por lo menos de la \u00abpoes\u00eda de la transparencia\u00bb). En el canon de la literatura inglesa es casi imposible que un cl\u00e1sico carezca de sentido del humor. En nuestro pante\u00f3n cultural, la risa no suele ser vista como atributo de la inteligencia; es resultado de lo que divierte en forma superficial.\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is ve en el sentido del humor una carta de ciudadan\u00eda del idioma. Escrita desde la periferia de la civilizaci\u00f3n, la literatura mexicana padece una inseguridad que solo superar\u00e1 cuando se atreva a burlarse de s\u00ed misma. El autor de _D\u00edas de guardar_ aprovech\u00f3 el valor pedag\u00f3gico del disparate y se propuso edificar por medio del escarnio. No siempre sus bromas fueron comprendidas; para entender algunas de ellas se necesitaba haber cursado un m\u00e1ster. Un ejemplo: al decir _\u00abIn-A-Gadda-Da-Vida_ -nada te debo\u00bb, mezcla al grupo de rock Iron Butterfly con Amado Nervo de un modo tan inesperado como profundo. El t\u00edtulo original de la canci\u00f3n era \u00abIn the Garden of Eden\u00bb, tema ad\u00e1nico cercano al fervoroso Nervo, pero el cantante estaba tan intoxicado que lo malpronunci\u00f3.\n\nEn su condici\u00f3n de humorista, corri\u00f3 el albur de ser visto como un \u00abhombre de ocurrencias y no de ideas\u00bb, seg\u00fan se\u00f1al\u00f3 Octavio Paz en la c\u00e9lebre pol\u00e9mica que sostuvieron en 1977. En ocasiones, el humor despierta la reflexi\u00f3n; en otras, la inhibe.\n\nEl disparate es una venturosa forma del malentendido. Las conferencias de Monsiv\u00e1is inclu\u00edan momentos de ese tipo. El auditorio estaba tan predispuesto a re\u00edrse que soltaba carcajadas cada vez que no entend\u00eda algo. El sinsentido se transformaba en humor involuntario.\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is suele usar el chiste como efecto de contraste para cambiar de tema. En su cr\u00f3nica de la manifestaci\u00f3n del silencio, episodio decisivo del movimiento estudiantil del 68 que incluye en _D\u00edas de guardar_ , separa dos secciones del texto con un subt\u00edtulo que alude ir\u00f3nicamente a Tl\u00e1loc, dios de la lluvia: \u00abTambi\u00e9n el compa\u00f1ero prehisp\u00e1nico nos apoya con su silencio.\u00bb\n\nEn sus cr\u00f3nicas de sociedad invierte la escala de valores del periodismo rosa para mofarse de los ricos y famosos. Una voz no identificada dice con aires de cosmopolitismo: \u00abEs un infeliz. Con decirte que se sabe de memoria todos los estados de la rep\u00fablica.\u00bb Sabedor de que la iron\u00eda solo funciona si incluye a quien la ejerce, Monsiv\u00e1is convierte su sarcasmo en autocr\u00edtica: \u00abSiento invadido mi rostro, inevitablemente, por el _joie de vivre_ de la Coatlicue.\u00bb En su texto sobre la cursiler\u00eda, incluido en _Escenas de pudor y liviandad_ , un apartado lleva el subt\u00edtulo: \u00ab\u00bfT\u00fa aqu\u00ed? Yo te hac\u00eda en mis brazos\u00bb. La frase es un ensayo condensado. Abundan los ejemplos de este procedimiento. Para no abrumar, rescato solo un subt\u00edtulo en sus \u00abNotas sobre el Estado, la cultura nacional y las culturas populares en M\u00e9xico\u00bb: \u00abNaci\u00f3n es la frontera con Guatemala\u00bb.\n\n\u00abPara conocer un pa\u00eds hay que saber de qu\u00e9 se r\u00ede la gente\u00bb, dijo Rafael Barajas, El Fisg\u00f3n, en un di\u00e1logo con Carlos Monsiv\u00e1is acerca de la historia de la caricatura en M\u00e9xico, publicado por _La Jornada Semanal_. La vasta obra del cronista levanta un inventario de lo que ha dado risa en diversos momentos de la vida nacional.\n\nNo siempre sus personajes han sabido que son c\u00f3micos. Su columna \u00abPor mi madre, bohemios\u00bb fue un extenso archivo del rid\u00edculo. Como Karl Kraus, dispuesto a ahorcar a sus enemigos con sus propias palabras, Monsiv\u00e1is mostr\u00f3 la risible condici\u00f3n de pol\u00edticos, can\u00f3nigos y empresarios que buscaban ganarse una estatua con sus declaraciones y, sin saberlo, se inscrib\u00edan en los anales del rid\u00edculo.\n\nToda cita es, por definici\u00f3n, una supresi\u00f3n del contexto. De ah\u00ed el absurdo de que alguien \u2013generalmente un funcionario\u2013 se queje de ser \u00abcitado fuera de contexto\u00bb. \u00abPor mi madre, bohemios\u00bb desestabiliz\u00f3 los discursos oficiales detectando la vocaci\u00f3n autopar\u00f3dica de las figuras p\u00fablicas. El papel del cronista consist\u00eda en seleccionar los textos y escribir las acotaciones de ese teatro del absurdo.\n\nEL TESTIGO PROTAG\u00d3NICO\n\nNo hay cultura sin \u00e9lites ni jerarqu\u00edas. La noci\u00f3n de \u00abcalidad\u00bb se funda en distinguir lo que merece ser aquilatado. Bertolt Brecht se refiri\u00f3 al conjunto de actividades cr\u00edticas como los \u00abmodos de producci\u00f3n de la gloria\u00bb. Siempre subjetivo, el juicio de una \u00e9poca puede ser repudiado por la siguiente. En el M\u00e9xico de los a\u00f1os sesenta del siglo pasado, el espacio de privilegio para la cultura de la letra fueron los suplementos que Fernando Ben\u00edtez dirigi\u00f3 en _El Nacional_ y _Novedades_. Con su indiscutible olfato para descubrir talento, Ben\u00edtez confi\u00f3 en dos jovenc\u00edsimos redactores, Jos\u00e9 Emilio Pacheco y Carlos Monsiv\u00e1is. En ese grupo de autoproclamados renovadores de la cultura nacional, que Luis Guillermo Piazza retratar\u00eda en su novela sin ficci\u00f3n _La mafia_ , Monsiv\u00e1is era el m\u00e1s vers\u00e1til, el ubicuo testigo de todos los aconteceres. De manera asombrosa, su deseo de estar en los lugares m\u00e1s dis\u00edmbolos no mengu\u00f3 con los a\u00f1os. Esto llev\u00f3 a un hecho ins\u00f3lito en la cultura de masas. El cronista dej\u00f3 de ser un mero testigo de los hechos para incorporarse a ellos como personaje. Se volvi\u00f3 demasiado c\u00e9lebre para pasar inadvertido. Su cabellera revuelta, su chamarra de mezclilla, su gran mand\u00edbula cruzada por la sonrisa de quien a\u00fan no sabe qu\u00e9 pensar (o ya sabe pero prefiere no decirlo), determinaban el suceso. El icono estaba ah\u00ed. Ignorarlo era como ignorar que ya lleg\u00f3 Blue Demon. Al descubrirlo en el p\u00fablico desde el escenario, Juan Gabriel se dirig\u00eda al popular \u00abMonsi\u00bb y modificaba su repertorio, del mismo modo en que los expositores en una mesa redonda lo mencionaban al percibirlo en la sala.\n\nNo pod\u00eda ser un cronista neutro de la realidad por la sencilla raz\u00f3n de que contribu\u00eda a crearla. Este peculiar trato con el entorno no le pareci\u00f3 una limitaci\u00f3n; por el contrario, reforz\u00f3 su deseo de ser \u00e1rbitro del gusto. El saldo de esta din\u00e1mica fue que la cultura de masas lo imit\u00f3 y pos\u00f3 sin recato para \u00e9l.\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is entendi\u00f3 su oficio como un numeroso acto de presencia, no solo a trav\u00e9s de sus textos, sino de su activ\u00edsima producci\u00f3n oral. Retratista de voces, recib\u00eda el homenaje de los ecos: identificarse con sus palabras significaba propagarlas. A veces, el rumor de lo que hab\u00eda dicho superaba en repercusi\u00f3n a sus textos.\n\nLa iron\u00eda, el dislate, los datos exactos y las paradojas que pon\u00eda en juego en sus escritos prosegu\u00edan en la conversaci\u00f3n. El \u00abg\u00e9nero Monsiv\u00e1is\u00bb era un continuo que pasaba de la p\u00e1gina a las llamadas telef\u00f3nicas, los apodos que pon\u00eda con temible certeza, los programas de televisi\u00f3n en los que interven\u00eda, los aforismos con los que respond\u00eda preguntas al t\u00e9rmino de sus ponencias. El registro de su oralidad dar\u00eda para varios libros. Al menos uno de ellos deber\u00eda estar integrado por sus parodias e imitaciones. Con t\u00e9cnica teatral, alertaba sobre las debilidades propias y ajenas llev\u00e1ndolas a un disfrutable exceso. Odiaba hacerse el amable y despreciaba la cortes\u00eda protocolaria. Ante la pedanter\u00eda, la falsa erudici\u00f3n y la ignorancia, reaccionaba con firmeza. En 2009, en el Hay Festival de Cartagena de Indias, un norteamericano se dirigi\u00f3 a \u00e9l con una mezcla de inter\u00e9s e insolencia: \u00abMe gust\u00f3 lo que dijo, pero nadie me puede decir qui\u00e9n es usted, \u00bfpodr\u00eda recomendarme alguno de sus libros?\u00bb Monsiv\u00e1is fingi\u00f3 paciencia franciscana y contest\u00f3: \u00abMe limitar\u00e9 a dos: _El Llano en llamas_ y _Pedro P\u00e1ramo_. Algunos maledicentes dicen que no los escrib\u00ed yo, pero nunca le respondo a mis detractores.\u00bb\n\nSu inter\u00e9s por los liberales del siglo XIX mexicano, a los que dedic\u00f3 un libro fundamental, _Las herencias ocultas_ , contribuye a explicar su concepci\u00f3n parlamentaria de la cultura. Lanzado a un proselitismo _non-stop_ , cada acto p\u00fablico fue para \u00e9l parte de la Obra.\n\n\u00abDOCTOR _HONORIS CAUSAS_ PERDIDAS\u00bb\n\nEl moralista ama los juicios. Rara vez Monsiv\u00e1is ca\u00eda en pecado de indiferencia. Si te atrev\u00edas a darle un texto, lo desmenuzaba sin reparos. En un pa\u00eds poco afecto a la discrepancia, ejerci\u00f3 la cr\u00edtica. Para rendirle cabal tributo, la c\u00e1tedra que lleva su nombre en la Direcci\u00f3n de Estudios Hist\u00f3ricos deber\u00e1 ser un foro de la inconformidad, no solo ante los plurales desastres del pa\u00eds, sino ante todos los aspectos de la tradici\u00f3n, incluyendo la propia obra de Monsiv\u00e1is.\n\nNo siempre tuvo raz\u00f3n, pero pretendi\u00f3 tenerla. Descre\u00eda de la neutralidad del periodismo en la misma medida en que desconfiaba del intelectual comprometido con un Estado, un partido, una secta o una Iglesia. Equidistante de la apat\u00eda y el dogmatismo, fue un hombre de izquierda que cuestion\u00f3 los excesos y los dislates de la izquierda, y acept\u00f3 con gusto un t\u00edtulo m\u00e1s afectivo que acad\u00e9mico, el de \u00abdoctor _honoris causas_ perdidas\u00bb.\n\nEn su registro de la manifestaci\u00f3n del silencio se describe a s\u00ed mismo en tercera persona, siguiendo el recurso de Norman Mailer en _Los ej\u00e9rcitos de la noche_. En ese texto capital, pone en tela de juicio la imparcialidad del cronista. \u00bfEn qu\u00e9 medida puede mantenerse al margen de lo que atestigua? Como John Reed en _M\u00e9xico insurgente_ , Monsiv\u00e1is toma partido. Despu\u00e9s de sentirse como un n\u00e1ufrago en la gesta, extraviado en la multitud, decide ser uno con su tema: \u00ab\u00c9l prendi\u00f3 un peri\u00f3dico y lo sum\u00f3 a los miles de llamas que ard\u00edan como otro s\u00edmbolo evidente que ya nadie explicaba.\u00bb El peri\u00f3dico, s\u00edmbolo de su oficio, se convierte en el fuego del activista.\n\nNo hay modo de escribir sobre temas sociales sin empat\u00eda con el entorno. Esto puede ideologizar en exceso la mirada. Para ponerse a salvo del sentimentalismo o del comit\u00e9 central que todo analista lleva en su interior, Monsiv\u00e1is asumi\u00f3 la solidaridad como una forma de la cr\u00edtica: apoyaba una causa, pero la somet\u00eda a los mismos cuestionamientos a los que se somet\u00eda a s\u00ed mismo.\n\nEn agosto de 1994 el ej\u00e9rcito zapatista se abri\u00f3 por primera vez a la sociedad civil y una comitiva de seiscientos periodistas y militantes nos trasladamos a la selva tojolabal. Monsiv\u00e1is no pod\u00eda faltar a la cita. Desde las protestas de los maestros, en los a\u00f1os cincuenta del siglo XX, hab\u00eda cubierto toda clase de movimientos rebeldes y uno de sus libros lleva el elocuente t\u00edtulo de _Entrada libre: cr\u00f3nicas de la sociedad que se organiza_.\n\nSu relaci\u00f3n con el mundo de la naturaleza era conjetural. El m\u00e1s urbano de nuestros cronistas viv\u00eda en compa\u00f1\u00eda de diecisiete gatos que le permit\u00edan citar los versos de su amigo Jos\u00e9 Emilio Pacheco: \u00abVen, gato, ac\u00e9rcate. \/ Eres mi oportunidad de acariciar al tigre.\u00bb\n\nNos encontramos en San Crist\u00f3bal Las Casas, donde \u00e9l llevaba los aparejos de un _boy scout_ libresco, y enfilamos a Ocosingo en autobuses que tardaron veintiocho horas en recorrer una ruta que deb\u00eda haber durado dos. El gobierno permit\u00eda nuestro acceso al \u00abWoodstock de las ideolog\u00edas\u00bb, pero vigilaba rigurosamente el convoy. Cada cierto tiempo, un comando nos deten\u00eda para revisarnos.\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is soport\u00f3 la espera con la paciencia de quien se ha graduado en maratones del tedio como la Asamblea Nacional del PRI, de la que fue resignado cronista.\n\nEn un sitio de nombre emblem\u00e1tico, La Realidad, encontramos a los primeros enviados del EZLN. Continuamos a pie, por los irregulares surcos de un sembrad\u00edo, y Monsiv\u00e1is se lux\u00f3 un tobillo. Yo llevaba una f\u00e9rula porque me hab\u00eda roto el peron\u00e9 unos meses antes. Ya no la necesitaba, pero tem\u00eda lesionarme en la excursi\u00f3n. Se la puse a Monsiv\u00e1is mientras me dec\u00eda: \u00abJuro que ya solo apoyar\u00e9 causas urbanas.\u00bb\n\nPor la noche, poco antes de dormir en una choza, coment\u00f3: \u00abMe siento un genio: \u00a1logr\u00e9 cerrar mi _sleeping bag!\u00bb_\n\nDurante los d\u00edas en la selva, entramos en contacto con el habitual dogmatismo de los ultras, que pidieron que se prohibieran los chistes: \u00abAutoay\u00fadate que yo me autoayudar\u00e9\u00bb, les respondi\u00f3 Monsiv\u00e1is, dej\u00e1ndolos perplejos. Abandon\u00f3 la asamblea en medio de un discurso gaseoso: \u00abSiento que hice un m\u00e1ster en enigmemas\u00bb, fue su comentario.\n\nA pesar de su rictus de dolor al caminar, conservaba su sentido del humor: \u00abEstoy impedido para cualquier deporte que incluya el movimiento\u00bb, cit\u00f3 la frase de su autobiograf\u00eda precoz.\n\nEn alg\u00fan momento de desesperaci\u00f3n, recurri\u00f3 a su terapia favorita: recitar poemas. El poeta chiapaneco Juan Ba\u00f1uelos se uni\u00f3 a \u00e9l, cit\u00f3 uno de sus textos y de pronto se trab\u00f3: hab\u00eda olvidado su propio poema. Monsiv\u00e1is corrigi\u00f3 un verso mal citado y continu\u00f3 el recital. No es extra\u00f1o que Sergio Pitol lo llamara \u00abM\u00edster Memory\u00bb.\n\nEn la selva tojolabal, el archivo memorioso de la cultura mexicana recorr\u00eda el campamento en busca de temas de conversaci\u00f3n. Su pelo blanco en estado cicl\u00f3nico, su gran quijada y sus anteojos de Woody Allen lo convert\u00edan en un icono reconocible. Alguien le hizo una pregunta m\u00e1s propia de la cadena de televisi\u00f3n E! Entertainment que de una revoluci\u00f3n en ciernes: \u00ab\u00bfQu\u00e9 se siente ser famoso?\u00bb El cronista repiti\u00f3 la definici\u00f3n de s\u00ed mismo que tanto le gustaba: \u00abSoy un lugar com\u00fan de La Portales.\u00bb Luego agreg\u00f3: \u00abLo raro es que los lugares comunes circulen tanto.\u00bb\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is se sustrajo al dogmatismo de la discusi\u00f3n pol\u00edtica y al mismo tiempo se convirti\u00f3 en un referente de la oposici\u00f3n. Cualquier persona que transita por las procelosas aguas de la discusi\u00f3n p\u00fablica corre el riesgo de no ser infalible. Dependiendo de la perspectiva de quien lo analice, el autor de _\u00abNo sin nosotros\u00bb. Los d\u00edas del terremoto 1985-2005_ puede ser visto como un franco opositor al sistema o como un reformista que mantuvo complejos equilibrios para promover causas progresistas sin vulnerar del todo a las instituciones.\n\nToda personalidad puede ser analizada a contraluz; m\u00e1s a\u00fan si pertenece al M\u00e9xico del siglo XX, que combin\u00f3 la pol\u00edtica de partido \u00fanico con iniciativas gubernamentales avanzadas en materia de cultura y pol\u00edtica exterior.\n\nA la distancia, algunas de las cartas que jug\u00f3 parecen m\u00e1s bien conservadoras. Lament\u00f3 que su admirado Mariano Azuela tuviera una devastadora visi\u00f3n de la revoluci\u00f3n mexicana y fuera incapaz de advertir sus logros (a la distancia, la perspectiva cr\u00edtica del autor de _Los de abajo_ parece m\u00e1s correcta). Defensor y \u00e1rbitro de la contracultura, desconfi\u00f3 de Jos\u00e9 Agust\u00edn, la literatura de la Onda, Andr\u00e9s Caicedo y Roberto Bola\u00f1o. Como Manuel Puig, Agust\u00edn incorpor\u00f3 a la novela recursos del cine, el c\u00f3mic, el follet\u00edn y otros g\u00e9neros de la cultura de masas. Sin embargo, a diferencia de lo que ocurri\u00f3 con el autor de _El beso de la mujer ara\u00f1a_ en Argentina, las decisivas renovaciones de Agust\u00edn no siempre fueron valoradas por la cr\u00edtica y la Academia. El intercesor ideal para que eso ocurriera era Monsiv\u00e1is, pero desconfi\u00f3 de una literatura que le parec\u00eda producto del relajo y el desenfado m\u00e1s que del rigor. Al final de su vida coment\u00f3 en privado que hab\u00eda rele\u00eddo _De perfil_ y lo juzgaba un cl\u00e1sico moderno, pero no quiso modificar su dictamen p\u00fablico. En su papel de defensor del canon, conden\u00f3 a Jorge Ibarg\u00fcengoitia por criticar la tediosa dramaturgia de Alfonso Reyes, pr\u00f3cer de la cultura nacional. En 1970, dirig\u00eda _La Cultura en M\u00e9xico_ , suplemento cultural de _Siempre_! Famosamente Carlos Fuentes defendi\u00f3 al presidente Echeverr\u00eda en varias declaraciones, se\u00f1alando que no apoyarlo era un crimen hist\u00f3rico. Despu\u00e9s de la matanza del 10 de junio, Gabriel Zaid envi\u00f3 un texto a _La Cultura en M\u00e9xico_ en el que dec\u00eda: \u00abEl \u00fanico criminal hist\u00f3rico de M\u00e9xico es Luis Echeverr\u00eda\u00bb, acusaci\u00f3n temeraria en tiempos en que los tres temas tab\u00fa de la prensa nacional eran el Presidente, el ej\u00e9rcito y la Virgen de Guadalupe. Publicarla hubiera sido un gesto heroico y quiz\u00e1 suicida. En aras de preservar ese espacio, Monsiv\u00e1is cedi\u00f3 a la presi\u00f3n del director de la revista, Jos\u00e9 Pag\u00e9s Llergo, el texto no se public\u00f3 y Zaid dej\u00f3 de publicar con ese medio.\n\nComentarista de Televisa y autor de pr\u00f3logos para entidades bancarias, Monsiv\u00e1is colabor\u00f3 con sectores que criticaba y mitig\u00f3 esta contradicci\u00f3n tratando de concebir una izquierda ideal. Sin embargo, ante la \u00abfuerza de los acontecimientos\u00bb, se resign\u00f3 a apoyar a una izquierda real, burocr\u00e1tica y caudillista. El PRD y Andr\u00e9s Manuel L\u00f3pez Obrador no le parecieron intachables, pero s\u00ed preferibles a otras opciones pol\u00edticas. El rigor que puso en pr\u00e1ctica para fustigar a obispos y empresarios no siempre oper\u00f3 ante sus compa\u00f1eros de ruta. No fue un santo de la radicalidad, ni ten\u00eda por qu\u00e9 serlo, por m\u00e1s que la posteridad, siempre excesiva, intente verlo de ese modo. Prefiri\u00f3 la figura del reformador sutil a la del rebelde y esto aument\u00f3 su eficacia en la compleja arena p\u00fablica.\n\nUna de sus causas decisivas fue la lucha por el respeto a la alteridad sexual. En 1980, Jos\u00e9 Ram\u00f3n Enr\u00edquez lo entrevist\u00f3 para _El Machete_ , revista que Roger Bartra dirigi\u00f3 con heterodoxia en el Partido Comunista. El resultado fue \u00abCarlos Monsiv\u00e1is: Feminismo y homosexualidad\u00bb. Un a\u00f1o antes, Jos\u00e9 Joaqu\u00edn Blanco hab\u00eda publicado en el suplemento _S\u00e1bado_ , de _unom\u00e1suno_ , \u00abOjos que da p\u00e1nico so\u00f1ar\u00bb, texto de enorme valent\u00eda, que abordaba el tema en primera persona y trazaba una cartograf\u00eda de la discriminaci\u00f3n cuyo peor sitio era ocupado por el \u00abputo jodido\u00bb. Monsiv\u00e1is no trat\u00f3 el asunto con la contundente franqueza de Blanco ni acudi\u00f3 al expediente autobiogr\u00e1fico. Lo abord\u00f3 desde los estudios de g\u00e9nero. De manera esencial para la cr\u00edtica literaria, reflexion\u00f3 acerca de la sexualidad en Salvador Novo, en su pr\u00f3logo a _La estatua de sal_ y en _Lo marginal en el centro_. En las p\u00e1ginas de _La Jornada_ , polemiz\u00f3 con sectores \u00abduros\u00bb de la izquierda a prop\u00f3sito de los \u00absidatarios\u00bb, donde se enclaustraba a los contagiados de VIH en Cuba. Su continua intervenci\u00f3n en temas de pol\u00edtica sexual, y en busca de un entendimiento ajeno a la discriminaci\u00f3n, produjo _Que se abra esa puerta. Cr\u00f3nicas y ensayos sobre la diversidad sexual_ , antolog\u00eda que Marta Lamas prepar\u00f3 en 2011 y que re\u00fane ensayos publicados a lo largo de veinte a\u00f1os en la revista _Debate Feminista_.\n\nLA DEMASIADA GENTE\n\nEl 21 de julio de 1965, Monsiv\u00e1is publica en _La Cultura en M\u00e9xico_ un texto sobre una de sus m\u00e1s caras obsesiones: M\u00e9xico, Distrito Federal. La tarea de ofrecer una Gu\u00eda Roji alterna para entender, no el trazo de las calles, sino la forma en que son usadas, prosigue hasta llegar a _Los rituales del caos_ y _Apocalipstick_ , obras de madurez.\n\nSi en _Entrada libre: cr\u00f3nicas de la sociedad que se organiza_ retrata a la naciente sociedad civil que se opone al Partido Oficial, en _\u00abNo sin nosotros\u00bb_ recoge las jornadas posteriores al terremoto de 1985, cuando la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico adquiri\u00f3 otro rostro, m\u00e1s vulnerable y m\u00e1s genuino, gracias a la urgencia de salvar lo que quedaba del entorno urbano en un momento en que el presidente Miguel de la Madrid se negaba a recibir ayuda internacional.\n\nJunto con las canciones de Chava Flores y las historietas de Gabriel Vargas en _La Familia Burr\u00f3n_ , Monsiv\u00e1is contribuy\u00f3 a la cr\u00f3nica no oficial del laberinto urbano.\n\n\u00abLa Ciudad de M\u00e9xico es, ante todo, la demasiada gente\u00bb, escribe en _Los rituales del caos_. \u00bfEs posible lograr una entra\u00f1able foto de grupo de esa multitud? El cronista lo ensaya a trav\u00e9s de los personajes populares, los \u00eddolos de barrio, los salones de baile, las evanescentes notas de sociales del periodismo rosa. Su acoso m\u00faltiple le permite hacer una valiosa conjetura: \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 un horizonte tan amenazado como el nuestro, donde la inseguridad, la contaminaci\u00f3n, los temblores, la rapi\u00f1a y la especulaci\u00f3n inmobiliaria est\u00e1n a la orden del d\u00eda sigue atrayendo gente? La respuesta est\u00e1 en una de sus m\u00e1s significativas hip\u00f3tesis: el \u00abpost-apocalipsis\u00bb. Para la mayor\u00eda de los chilangos, el desastre que vemos en derredor no es el anuncio de una tragedia por venir, sino el extra\u00f1o resultado de un cataclismo que ya pas\u00f3 y del que nos salvamos de milagro: \u00abEstuvo duro pero la libramos\u00bb, podr\u00eda ser nuestro lema. Algo incierto y determinante nos dej\u00f3 as\u00ed, sin destruirnos por completo, lo cual es una espl\u00e9ndida noticia, pues significa que estamos m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la desgracia. Esta ilusi\u00f3n colectiva, en modo alguno avalada por los hechos, permite vivir en uno de los lugares m\u00e1s inc\u00f3modos del planeta. En su ventajosa confusi\u00f3n de temporalidades, el chilango no piensa que el drama es algo que vendr\u00e1, sino algo que ya sucedi\u00f3 y podemos recordar con refranes y canciones.\n\nLa extra\u00f1a sensaci\u00f3n de pertenencia que suscita la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico explica la sostenida pasi\u00f3n de un cronista por sus barrios, sus gentes, su accidentado devenir. \u00abNo nos une el amor sino el espanto\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Borges respecto a Buenos Aires. En la misma tesitura, Monsiv\u00e1is encontr\u00f3 que nada ser\u00eda tan grave como ser expulsados de la urbe, ignorar lo que aqu\u00ed sucede, quedar al margen. La necesitamos, aunque conozcamos sus defectos. Podemos escribirle una entra\u00f1able declaraci\u00f3n de odio al modo de Efra\u00edn Huerta o asemejarla a una puta \u00abojerosa y pintada\u00bb como hizo Agust\u00edn Y\u00e1\u00f1ez, apropi\u00e1ndose de una cita de L\u00f3pez Velarde, pero no por ello deja de ser nuestra. El autor de _Los rituales del caos_ resume a la perfecci\u00f3n este tenso sentido de la identidad: \u00abLa peor pesadilla es la que nos excluye.\u00bb Mientras podamos seguir en la ciudad, seremos sus presas voluntarias.\n\nMOTOR DE B\u00daSQUEDA\n\nA semejanza de los esforzados r\u00e9feris de la lucha libre, que imparten justicia sorteando el tope suicida de Octag\u00f3n o la patada voladora de El M\u00edstico, Monsiv\u00e1is vivi\u00f3 para dictaminar a los dem\u00e1s. Le gustaba tener autoridad moral y no vacilaba en ejercerla.\n\nEn una ocasi\u00f3n le pregunt\u00e9 a Gerardo Estrada, entonces director del INBA, c\u00f3mo decid\u00eda que alguien de la tradici\u00f3n popular fuera velado en Bellas Artes. \u00abMuy sencillo\u00bb, respondi\u00f3, \u00able pregunto a Monsiv\u00e1is.\u00bb El autor que tan pronto escrib\u00eda de Rub\u00e9n Dar\u00edo como de Agust\u00edn Lara integr\u00f3 una ins\u00f3lita Comisi\u00f3n de Arbitraje que solo respond\u00eda a su conciencia.\n\nLas variadas colecciones que integran el Museo Estanquillo, en el centro de la ciudad, provienen de esa vocaci\u00f3n de interventor que fija criterios. Solo por obra de Monsiv\u00e1is ciertas piezas califican como objetos de museo. Su pasi\u00f3n por el dato esquivo y la mosca blanca de la sabidur\u00eda se extendi\u00f3 a sus posesiones. Coleccionaba artesan\u00edas, fotograf\u00edas, pinturas, cachivaches, caricaturas y peri\u00f3dicos, sin el menor \u00e1nimo de exhibirlos en su casa. Durante d\u00e9cadas, m\u00e1s que un acervo, tuvo un almacenamiento o una sedimentaci\u00f3n de obras que en forma milagrosa sobrevivieron a los afanes de sus gatos.\n\nAntes de Google, ya se comportaba como un motor de b\u00fasqueda, estableciendo v\u00ednculos impensados entre muy diversos \u00e1mbitos de la cultura y reuniendo objetos heter\u00f3clitos que al cabo de los a\u00f1os adquirieron l\u00f3gica retrospectiva y ahora integran un museo.\n\nEn su casa recib\u00eda borradores de desplegados, cartas de renuncia, respuestas para una pol\u00e9mica. \u00abSi mandas eso, te hundes\u00bb, dec\u00eda entre dientes a alg\u00fan solicitante, y suger\u00eda modificaciones que luego aparec\u00edan como opiniones ajenas. Su impronta de _ghostwriter_ est\u00e1 en numerosos discursos, reglamentos y manifiestos. Ante las peticiones de la sociedad civil, actu\u00f3 como un or\u00e1culo sin _copyright_.\n\nMonsiv\u00e1is nunca se vio como autor \u00fanico y definitivo. Necesitaba las palabras de los otros para parodiarlas, juzgarlas, citarlas _in extenso_ , polemizar con ellas. Sus ideas m\u00e1s genuinas surg\u00edan de una dramaturgia donde interven\u00edan los otros, aliados o adversarios, santos provisionales o diablos de pastorela.\n\nSol\u00eda llegar a las conferencias con una carpeta en la que guardaba apuntes para las m\u00e1s distintas circunstancias. Ese hipertexto port\u00e1til era emblema de pasiones m\u00faltiples que no admit\u00edan conclusi\u00f3n. Su futuro como prol\u00edfico autor de libros p\u00f3stumos reclama un editor que no caiga en pecado de beater\u00eda y se atreva a discriminar, desechar y organizar con rigor los materiales.\n\nEl testigo omn\u00edvoro escribi\u00f3 tanto que se convirti\u00f3 en una forma de la atm\u00f3sfera. Sus miles de cuartillas llegaban con la constancia de la lluvia. Con su muerte en 2010, lo que d\u00e1bamos por sentado adquiri\u00f3 inaudita desmesura.\n\n\u00abAhora sabemos cu\u00e1ntos agujeros se necesitan para llenar el Albert Hall.\u00bb Con estas palabras los Beatles lograron la m\u00e1s triste descripci\u00f3n de una sala de conciertos vac\u00eda. La ausencia de Monsiv\u00e1is abruma de modo similar: el cronista de nuestros d\u00edas de guardar dej\u00f3 una inmensa colecci\u00f3n de huecos.\n\nLas muchas misiones que cumpli\u00f3 no tienen sustituto por la sencilla raz\u00f3n de que \u00e9l las invent\u00f3. Como Oscar Wilde, Woody Allen o Andr\u00e9 Malraux, construy\u00f3 una personalidad especial\u00edsima que form\u00f3 parte de su obra. Solo \u00e9l pod\u00eda practicar el \u00abg\u00e9nero Monsiv\u00e1is\u00bb.\n\nPersonas que no lo hab\u00edan le\u00eddo pero lo conoc\u00edan por foto o caricatura se deten\u00edan a saludarlo, atribuy\u00e9ndole pasiones que no siempre ten\u00eda. \u00ab\u00a1Arriba los Pumas!\u00bb, le dijeron en una ocasi\u00f3n. El equipo de la universidad hab\u00eda ganado el campeonato y sus aficionados asumieron que el cronista, siendo un referente de la izquierda, apoyar\u00eda en la cancha al equipo de los progresistas. \u00ab\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 mencionan a los Pumas?\u00bb, me pregunt\u00f3 con fingido desconcierto. \u00ab\u00bfSon ecologistas?\u00bb, a\u00f1adi\u00f3.\n\nMis\u00e1ntropo en la vida privada (\u00abLos espero en mi casa para una reuni\u00f3n que comenzar\u00e1 a las 16 horas y acabar\u00e1 a las 16 horas\u00bb), era hipergregario en la vida p\u00fablica y no se perdi\u00f3 acontecimiento alguno, del festival de Av\u00e1ndaro a la llegada de los zapatistas al Z\u00f3calo.\n\nSu itinerante oralidad \u2013de una mesa redonda a otra\u2013 lo llev\u00f3 a una curiosa forma del magisterio. Odiaba dar clases pero le fascinaba dar consejos y ser consultado como una versi\u00f3n local de la Sibila de Cumas (\u00ab... o de un cajero autom\u00e1tico\u00bb, dir\u00eda \u00e9l). No trataba de convencer con extensos argumentos; dictaba sentencia r\u00e1pida e incontrovertible, al modo de un juez que s\u00ed legisla.\n\nEl ni\u00f1o que aprendi\u00f3 a leer con la Biblia no dej\u00f3 de reflexionar en el Bien y el Mal. _Nuevo catecismo para indios remisos_ actualiza distintas versiones de esa lucha: un santo carism\u00e1tico contrata a un asesor de imagen, el diablo estudia relaciones p\u00fablicas, un iluminado da una conferencia de prensa y el agua bendita se vende embotellada. Con narcisismo celestial, los portentos ocurren para que alguien los narre: \u00abHubo una vez, en el espacio de reserva de las d\u00e1divas de Dios, un Milagro obstinado y servicial con muchas ganas de ser tomado en cuenta y de causar conmoci\u00f3n y aparecer en las hagiograf\u00edas.\u00bb\n\nNo hay celebridades sin cronistas. El oficio de dar fe y brindar la buena nueva comienza con el periodismo trascendente de los evangelistas y llega a la moderna sociedad del espect\u00e1culo.\n\nEn sus parodias cristianas, Monsiv\u00e1is admira la fuerza expresiva de lo que critica, pero es inclemente con la jerarqu\u00eda eclesi\u00e1stica y sus abusos, y defiende con temple ilustrado la cultura laica (uno de sus \u00faltimos libros es _El Estado laico y sus malquerientes)_.\n\nLas extra\u00f1as cosas que han ocurrido en los \u00faltimos cinco a\u00f1os parec\u00edan buscar su presencia. Como el Milagro que quer\u00eda ser narrado, los sucesos no se resignan a su ausencia. En cierta forma, la realidad ocurre en vano.\n\nAhora sabemos cu\u00e1ntos agujeros se necesitan para llenar el Z\u00f3calo.\n\nSALA DE ESPERA\n\nVolvamos a la escena con la que comenc\u00e9 este texto. Un grupo de gente aguarda en la calle San Sim\u00f3n para ser atendida por el maestro. Refractario a hablar de su posteridad, odiaba que le propusi\u00e9ramos crear una fundaci\u00f3n para que su obra fuera archivada: \u00ab\u00bfQu\u00e9 te pasa?\u00bb, preguntaba, y agregaba con afectuoso encono: \u00ab\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 te haces eso a ti mismo?\u00bb\n\nLa obra completa de Carlos Monsiv\u00e1is est\u00e1 por descubrirse. Una vez publicada, ameritar\u00e1 numerosos an\u00e1lisis y relecturas. Como si estuvi\u00e9ramos a la entrada de su casa, seguimos aguardando los mensajes del cronista que odiaba lo definitivo.\n\nLo recuerdo entreabriendo la puerta para decir: \u00abVuelve ma\u00f1ana.\u00bb En la mayor\u00eda de las circunstancias, esa respuesta decepciona. Trat\u00e1ndose de Monsiv\u00e1is ya era una costumbre, tan extra\u00f1a e irrenunciable como la de darse toques el\u00e9ctricos en las cantinas.\n\nEl coro de peticionarios afuera de su casa esperaba para seguir esperando. La posposici\u00f3n resum\u00eda su po\u00e9tica.\n\nLa cr\u00f3nica altera el sentido del tiempo; trata del pasado lejano o inmediato e interviene en el porvenir: narra lo que pas\u00f3 para que suceda algo distinto.\n\nCada texto de Monsiv\u00e1is parece destinado a quedar incompleto y suscitar otro que le responda. Sus p\u00e1ginas, como el ir\u00f3nico inquilino de la calle San Sim\u00f3n, no dejan de decir: \u00abVuelve ma\u00f1ana.\u00bb \n\n# IV. Infancia, lenguas extranjeras y otras enfermedades \nLA UTILIDAD DEL DESEO\n\n_a Francisco Hinojosa, hermano Grimm_\n\nHist\u00f3ricamente, la literatura infantil ha sido el g\u00e9nero de los seres subordinados. Por eso mismo busca la libertad. La palabra \u00abinfante\u00bb viene de _fante_ (servidor, criado); \u00abnepote\u00bb, que en espa\u00f1ol significa \u00abpariente protegido\u00bb, viene del griego _nepion_ : \u00abel que no habla\u00bb.\n\nCriaturas sin voz, reducidas a una condici\u00f3n de obediencia, los ni\u00f1os fueron vistos durante siglos como desali\u00f1ados pr\u00f3logos de la edad adulta. Si la idea de individuo comienza cabalmente en el Renacimiento, la del ni\u00f1o como sujeto independiente es m\u00e1s tard\u00eda y apenas se vislumbra en la Ilustraci\u00f3n. Un largo proceso cultural transform\u00f3 a los seres de orejas sucias y pelo revuelto, con la cabeza llena de ideas desmedidas y palabras que no existen en los diccionarios, en personas ya realizadas.\n\nEn las barricadas de _Los miserables_ , el peque\u00f1o Gavroche explica los motivos de la insurrecci\u00f3n: \u00abLa culpa es de Rousseau.\u00bb Se refiere a que la noci\u00f3n de justicia y su autoridad para proclamarla provienen del _Emilio_ , prontuario filos\u00f3fico para educar a un ni\u00f1o.\n\nRousseau, padre impaciente que mand\u00f3 a todos sus hijos al orfanatorio de La Inclusa, prefiri\u00f3 entender la infancia en forma te\u00f3rica. M\u00e1s h\u00e1bil en el pensamiento que en sus actos, comprendi\u00f3 que la primera edad no es una preparaci\u00f3n para la madurez, sino un singular momento de llegada. _Emilio_ logr\u00f3 en la escritura una vindicaci\u00f3n de los derechos de los ni\u00f1os que el autor no concedi\u00f3 a los suyos, abultando la estad\u00edstica de grandes pensadores que han sido p\u00e9simos padres.\n\nDe Rousseau a Piaget y Bettelheim, el ni\u00f1o pudo ser pensado en sus propios t\u00e9rminos. La literatura infantil ha sido la bit\u00e1cora de viaje de esta tarea liberadora. No es casual que Esopo, uno de los fundadores del g\u00e9nero, fuera un esclavo al que se le asignaron tareas de educador y que obtuvo su libertad gracias a las palabras. Las f\u00e1bulas, las leyendas y los cuentos de hadas surgieron de los cuartos secundarios donde los menores conviv\u00edan con los sirvientes.\n\nComo los propios ni\u00f1os, sus cuidadores han tenido una posici\u00f3n inferior. El lenguaje com\u00fan se ha forjado en los estratos inferiores. No es el idioma de los obispos o los generales, sino de la servidumbre; de ah\u00ed que lleve el nombre de \u00ablengua vern\u00e1cula\u00bb, que proviene del lat\u00edn _verna_ , \u00abcriada\u00bb.\n\nLa literatura infantil surge de esas relaciones de subordinaci\u00f3n. \u00bfCu\u00e1l ser\u00e1 su destino en una sociedad progresivamente virtual, donde se juega a estar aislado y donde los peque\u00f1os se apartan psicol\u00f3gicamente de los adultos? Ciertos padres tienen pavor de entrar a los cuartos de sus hijos adolescentes, que se han convertido en santuarios del alejamiento, donde la \u00fanica relaci\u00f3n se establece con aparatos electr\u00f3nicos. En algunos casos, la dial\u00e9ctica de dominaci\u00f3n se ha desplazado al polo opuesto, convirtiendo al ni\u00f1o en tirano del padre. Si esta tendencia contin\u00faa, es posible que la pulsi\u00f3n liberadora de la literatura infantil se vuelva provechosa para el lector adulto, siervo de los poderes infantiles.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 escribe alguien para ni\u00f1os? Se necesita un inter\u00e9s particular para dirigirse a alguien de una edad muy distinta a la nuestra. Los cuentos m\u00e1s logrados reh\u00fayen un af\u00e1n pedag\u00f3gico evidente; no escribimos para ni\u00f1os porque tengamos algo que ense\u00f1ar, sino porque deseamos contarles algo y estamos dispuestos a un desplazamiento psicol\u00f3gico que permita mostrar lo que somos con las motivaciones de lo que fuimos.\n\nObviamente, la literatura infantil transmite valores y en esa medida resulta aleccionadora, pero lo decisivo es que la imaginaci\u00f3n no est\u00e9 al servicio de un \u00abmensaje\u00bb proped\u00e9utico; es decir, que no sea mero instrumento para la ense\u00f1anza. Las grandes lecciones tienen la gracia de no parecerlo, estimulan a que el lector aprenda por cuenta propia.\n\n\u00bfQU\u00c9 EDAD TIENE LA MENTE?\n\nJ. R. R. Tolkien se\u00f1al\u00f3 con acierto que muchos de los cuentos que hoy en d\u00eda consideramos aptos para ni\u00f1os no fueron pensados para ellos. Es el caso de las f\u00e1bulas de Esopo, _Las mil y una noches, Robinson Crusoe_ o la propia obra de Tolkien, de _El hobbit_ a _El se\u00f1or de los anillos_ , libros que han encontrado otro tipo de lectores a medida que los adultos modifican sus intereses y los ni\u00f1os ampl\u00edan los suyos.\n\nEn el siglo IX, un monje irland\u00e9s escribi\u00f3 en la abad\u00eda de St. Paul, Austria, \u00abPangur B\u00e1n\u00bb, poema concebido para los adultos que hoy resulta m\u00e1s atractivo para los ni\u00f1os. Entre las diversas versiones de ese texto, escojo el fragmento que encontr\u00e9 en la biblioteca de Trinity College, de Dubl\u00edn, y que forma parte del cat\u00e1logo de la exposici\u00f3n permanente sobre el _Libro de Kells_ :\n\nSolemos yo y Pangur B\u00e1n, mi gato\n\nEn lo mismo los dos pasar el rato:\n\nCazar ratones es su diversi\u00f3n,\n\nCazar m\u00e1s bien palabras mi pasi\u00f3n.\n\nEs preferible a todo aplauso humano\n\nSentarse con papel y pluma en mano;\n\nY Pangur no me mira con rencor,\n\nSiendo \u00e9l tambi\u00e9n sencillo cazador.\n\nFrecuentemente, un ratoncillo errante\n\nCruza el camino de mi gato andante;\n\nAlguna idea m\u00e1s, frecuentemente,\n\nCoge en sus redes mi afilada mente.\n\nVigila el muro con sus ojos vivos,\n\nRedondos, maliciosos, agresivos;\n\nEscudri\u00f1ando el muro del saber,\n\nMi poca comprensi\u00f3n busco entender.\n\nD\u00eda tras d\u00eda, a Pangur su ejercicio\n\nLo ha hecho ya perfecto en el oficio;\n\nYo noche y d\u00eda alcanzo m\u00e1s verdad,\n\nTrocando en clara luz la oscuridad.\n\nEl escritor caza palabras como el gato caza ratones de biblioteca. Ambos hacen un trabajo a un tiempo sencillo y trascendente. Un tema profundo tratado con candor. El poema del monje irland\u00e9s pertenece a una zona de pret\u00e9rita inocencia, anterior al escepticismo y la desencantada experiencia del mundo; su tono juguet\u00f3n remite al entra\u00f1able \u00e1mbito de la f\u00e1bula o el sue\u00f1o, y perdura con el fr\u00e1gil encanto de lo \u00abinfantil\u00bb. Lo mismo pasar\u00e1 con algunas historias contempor\u00e1neas que en el futuro ser\u00e1n le\u00eddas como enso\u00f1aciones, h\u00e1biles \u00abinocentadas\u00bb, historias para ni\u00f1os.\n\nDistintas edades coexisten en la mente del escritor de cuentos infantiles; domina un oficio digno de la edad adulta y observa el mundo con la acumulada perspectiva de sus a\u00f1os; al mismo tiempo, piensa como el que fue o pudo ser en la ni\u00f1ez.\n\nLa dedicatoria de _El Principito_ es elocuente al respecto. Saint-Exup\u00e9ry no dedica su obra a un amigo de su edad sino al ni\u00f1o que su amigo fue a\u00f1os atr\u00e1s. Este acto de regresi\u00f3n no solo alude al pasado de cada persona, sino al de la cultura entera. Es por ello que los hermanos Grimm encabezaron la compilaci\u00f3n de sus cuentos con un lema que alude a un tiempo legendario, ya desaparecido: \u00abEntonces, cuando desear todav\u00eda era \u00fatil...\u00bb En el origen m\u00edtico, se pod\u00edan pedir deseos. La literatura infantil busca volver a esa edad primera, sepultada por el advenimiento de la historia.\n\nNarrarle a un ni\u00f1o significa volver atr\u00e1s. No es extra\u00f1o que algunos de los mejores exponentes del g\u00e9nero hayan sido fil\u00f3logos, historiadores de las palabras. Los hermanos Grimm escribieron un vasto diccionario y Tolkien impart\u00eda clases de anglosaj\u00f3n antiguo en Oxford. El retorno a una imaginaria regi\u00f3n pret\u00e9rita, donde los monstruos y los elfos tienen su oportunidad, pasa por la investigaci\u00f3n de las palabras y la b\u00fasqueda de sus or\u00edgenes.\n\nUN APARATO QUE FUNCIONA AL DESARMARSE: EL LENGUAJE\n\nLewis Carroll escribi\u00f3 _Alicia en el pa\u00eds de las maravillas_ para Alice Liddell, hija del decano del colegio de Christ Church en Oxford, coautor de un diccionario de griego cl\u00e1sico. No es exagerado decir que la aventura escrita para la hija celebra el trabajo del padre. Carroll entiende la escritura como un laboratorio ling\u00fc\u00edstico. A \u00e9l se debe un irrenunciable concepto filol\u00f3gico: las \u00abpalabras malet\u00edn\u00bb, vocablos que llevan otros dentro.\n\nNo hay literatura infantil sin juegos de palabras. Uno de los errores m\u00e1s socorridos de los malos practicantes del g\u00e9nero consiste en empobrecer el lenguaje para ajustarse a un lector de vocabulario limitado. Con el mismo af\u00e1n simplificador, consideran que, si abundan los diminutivos, la historia es \u00abtierna\u00bb.\n\nLa relaci\u00f3n con el lenguaje es una aduana dif\u00edcil de franquear; lo decisivo no es simplificar el vocabulario, sino asumir otro grado de dificultad.\n\nObviamente, la literatura infantil debe servirse de un campo ling\u00fc\u00edstico apropiado para quienes cursan la educaci\u00f3n primaria, pero eso no implica renunciar a la invenci\u00f3n de palabras o a jugar con ellas. Un personaje de los hermanos Grimm debe su fortuna a un fascinante nombre abstruso: Rumpelstizchen, traducido al espa\u00f1ol como el abstruso Rumpelstiltskin. Del mismo modo, Humpty Dumpty cautiva menos por ser un huevo que por llamarse as\u00ed. \u00a1Bienvenidos al lugar del abracadabra, el poema y el baile del Jabberwocky, de Lewis Carroll, y los ping\u00fcinos de Francisco Hinojosa que festejan la vida exclamando \u00abyanka, yanka, tub\u00fa, tub\u00fa\u00bb!\n\nEn su espl\u00e9ndido libro _Chamario_ (en Venezuela \u00abchamo\u00bb es ni\u00f1o), el poeta Eugenio Montejo honr\u00f3 la inteligencia infantil con versos que se estructuran como un juego de Lego.\n\nSu poema \u00abLa bicicleta\u00bb es un ejemplo de este gozoso ensamblaje; las palabras se convierten en un medio de transporte; giran como la rueda, no siempre visible, de un veh\u00edculo:\n\nLa bici sigue la cleta\n\npor un ave siempre nida\n\ny una trom suena su peta...\n\n\u00a1Qu\u00e9 canci\u00f3n tan perseguida!\n\nEl ferro sigue el carril\n\npor el alti casi plano,\n\ncomo el pere sigue al jil\n\ny el oto\u00f1o a su verano.\n\nDetr\u00e1s del hori va el zonte,\n\ndetr\u00e1s del ele va el fante,\n\ncorren juntos por el monte\n\ny a veces m\u00e1s adelante.\n\nAll\u00e1 se va el coraz\u00f3n\n\nen aero plano plano\n\ny con \u00e9l se va la canci\u00f3n\n\nescrita en caste muy llano.\n\nMontejo demuestra que no hay variante literaria m\u00e1s proclive a los neologismos \u2013y, en este sentido, m\u00e1s joyceana\u2013 que la literatura infantil. Ning\u00fan cl\u00e1sico ha pasado por ah\u00ed sin reinventar el idioma. Los artificios ling\u00fc\u00edsticos pertenecen a la naturaleza del g\u00e9nero por la sencilla raz\u00f3n de que sus lectores se asoman al amanecer del idioma: cuando las palabras son algo que se aprende, resulta m\u00e1s f\u00e1cil, m\u00e1s atractivo y m\u00e1s necesario transformarlas.\n\nObviamente, un poema como el de Montejo se dirige a un ni\u00f1o con buen vocabulario para su edad (descomponerlo solo divierte si tambi\u00e9n se sabe armarlo). En la literatura infantil, la alborada del idioma no ata\u00f1e a la condici\u00f3n preverbal de los beb\u00e9s, sino a una etapa posterior, en la que se descubren palabras d\u00eda a d\u00eda, los a\u00f1os en los que el lenguaje es algo a\u00fan por adquirirse. Esta continua renovaci\u00f3n permite que se juegue con mayor provecho que en la edad adulta, cuando el \u00abdominio del lenguaje\u00bb exige la expresi\u00f3n \u00abcorrecta\u00bb.\n\nAl escribir _El profesor Z\u00edper y la fabulosa guitarra el\u00e9ctrica_ me propuse crear una tecnolog\u00eda tan desconocida para los ni\u00f1os como para m\u00ed mismo, pero que pudiera entretenernos a ambos. El protagonista es experto en \u00abelectrofren\u00e9tica\u00bb, dispone de escalones \u00abquecosa\u00e9dricos\u00bb para que los ladrones se resbalen en caso de entrar a su casa y cuenta con un aparato que condensa cualquier part\u00edcula: el Supercuinch.\n\nTan importante como inventar palabras es renovar el sentido de las que ya existen. El doctor Cremallerus, temible rival de Z\u00edper, domina todas las artima\u00f1as de la villan\u00eda menos la de insultar. Me pareci\u00f3 sugerente que el personaje que encarna el mal tuviera esa limitaci\u00f3n. En su peculiar visi\u00f3n del mundo cree que el ultraje m\u00e1s ofensivo es \u00abmortadela\u00bb. Por otra parte, los nombres de los rivales aluden a un mismo concepto: \u00abcremallera\u00bb y \u00abz\u00edper\u00bb significan lo mismo; el mal y el bien tienen id\u00e9ntico origen.\n\nEscrita desde el presente, la literatura para ni\u00f1os permite un regreso imaginario al momento en que las palabras se fraguaron por primera vez. De ese caldero ling\u00fc\u00edstico no pueden surgir las voces de siempre.\n\nEn 1851, Jacob Grimm dio una conferencia en la Academia de Ciencias de Berl\u00edn sobre el origen del lenguaje. En su condici\u00f3n de fil\u00f3logo compar\u00f3 la lengua con un follaje que crece en forma inextricable. La idea de la foresta encantada ha sido esencial a los fil\u00f3logos y a los autores de cuentos de hadas. Pocos a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde, en 1884, James A. H. Murray, director del tit\u00e1nico _Oxford English Dictionary_ , public\u00f3 un anuncio para reclutar colaboradores en el que dec\u00eda: \u00abSomos pioneros de un bosque inexplorado.\u00bb\n\nLos diccionarios, la historia de las palabras y los relatos para la edad primera suceden en un bosque donde hay que orientarse siguiendo migas de pan. Escribir literatura para ni\u00f1os significa reproducir los procesos de aprendizaje, invenci\u00f3n y fijaci\u00f3n del lenguaje.\n\nLlama la atenci\u00f3n que un g\u00e9nero perfeccionado por fil\u00f3logos como Tolkien y los hermanos Grimm, matem\u00e1ticos como Lewis Carroll y A. A. Milne (autor de _Winnie the Pooh)_ y medievalistas como C. S. Lewis (autor de las siete _Cr\u00f3nicas de Narnia)_ sea tan poco estudiado en la Academia. Por otra parte, los premios nacionales de literatura rara vez van a dar a autores del g\u00e9nero. Como en los tiempos en que los ni\u00f1os se encontraban confinados a una antesala de la cultura, la reserva de la que solo saldr\u00edan en la edad adulta, la recepci\u00f3n de la literatura infantil opera en un territorio sumamente restringido, un kindergarten \u2013o quiz\u00e1 ser\u00eda mejor decir un _\u00abapartheid\u00bb\u2013_ de la cr\u00edtica y la ense\u00f1anza.\n\nY, sin embargo, su impacto en la representaci\u00f3n de la realidad ha sido mucho m\u00e1s poderoso de lo que suele pensarse.\n\nUNA FILOSOF\u00cdA PARA JUGAR\n\nResulta casi imposible escribir una historia infantil sin establecer alg\u00fan tipo de lucha entre el bien y el mal. La ficci\u00f3n adulta puede ser una evasi\u00f3n sofisticada, un entretenimiento de primer orden; la literatura infantil debe ser eso y algo m\u00e1s: una disquisici\u00f3n \u00e9tica.\n\nHay un caso ejemplar de un fil\u00f3sofo consagrado a la f\u00e1bula: S\u00f3crates pas\u00f3 el \u00faltimo d\u00eda de su vida versificando a Esopo. Poco antes de morir, demostr\u00f3 a sus verdugos que sus manos pod\u00edan ser sometidas con grilletes, pero no su mente. La elecci\u00f3n de Esopo es significativa. Toda f\u00e1bula entra\u00f1a una moraleja. Injustamente acusado, S\u00f3crates conquist\u00f3 su libertad bajo palabra. En su \u00faltima hora demostr\u00f3 lo que vale una f\u00e1bula.\n\nNo hay modo de exagerar la importancia de las aventuras para la mente infantil. Alexander von Humboldt descubri\u00f3 su fascinaci\u00f3n por los parajes remotos al leer una adaptaci\u00f3n para ni\u00f1os de _Robinson Crusoe_ hecha por su tutor, Joachim Heinrich Campe, quien tambi\u00e9n escribi\u00f3 silabarios para aprender a leer y fund\u00f3 una librer\u00eda especializada en temas educativos.\n\nLa historia de Defoe adaptada por Campe fue el antecedente de los viajes de Alexander von Humboldt al continente americano y de su tit\u00e1nico _Cosmos_. Por su parte, su hermano Wilhelm fue pionero del territorio gemelo a la fabulaci\u00f3n infantil: la filolog\u00eda.\n\nEl novelista que tanto influy\u00f3 en los hermanos Humboldt se hab\u00eda beneficiado de la lectura de John Locke. Como apunt\u00e9 en otro ensayo de este libro, Daniel Defoe estudi\u00f3 en una academia de protestantes disidentes donde se le\u00eda al precursor del liberalismo, proscrito en las universidades de Oxford y Cambridge. Entre los muchos empe\u00f1os de Locke destaca una antolog\u00eda de las f\u00e1bulas de Esopo adaptadas por \u00e9l mismo al ingl\u00e9s de su \u00e9poca. No es casual que alguien interesado en la literatura infantil concibiera la idea de la _tabula rasa_ , el desaf\u00edo de que el hombre entienda desde cero, por s\u00ed mismo. \u00bfY hay mejor representaci\u00f3n de la _tabula rasa_ que una isla desierta? Esopo influy\u00f3 en Locke, quien a su vez influy\u00f3 en Defoe, est\u00edmulo decisivo de los hermanos Humboldt. Una cadena de sentido que transform\u00f3 la cultura de Occidente.\n\nDe Crusoe a Tarz\u00e1n, pasando por los habitantes del Bosque de los Cien Acres, la literatura infantil ha practicado el principio lockiano de pensar en soledad. Aislados del resto del mundo, los personajes deben encontrar su propio m\u00e9todo de supervivencia y, algo a\u00fan m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil, de convivencia.\n\nEL ESFUERZO DE SER FELIZ\n\nCuando empec\u00e9 a escribir cuentos para ni\u00f1os pens\u00e9 que uno de los aspectos m\u00e1s relajantes del g\u00e9nero ser\u00eda el de llegar a un final feliz. La experiencia adulta nos vuelve esc\u00e9pticos: la dicha sin fisuras resulta inveros\u00edmil y un final donde los protagonistas queden contentos parece hecho en Hollywood.\n\nEn la literatura adulta, la felicidad existe en calidad de prefiguraci\u00f3n; es algo que se proyecta m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del libro. Una de las grandes paradojas de la lectura es que un placer intenso puede venir de un pasaje triste o doloroso. El arte transforma l\u00e1grimas en met\u00e1foras y angustias en melod\u00edas.\n\nEn cambio, en la literatura infantil la felicidad es un requisito moral. Su comparecencia resulta obligatoria, pero debe venir de un triunfo del bien. Estamos ante una teor\u00eda del conocimiento que reclama una soluci\u00f3n \u00e9tica. En otras palabras: la dicha de los h\u00e9roes debe ser merecida. Llegar a la meta no puede derivar de una chiripa; tiene que ser una conquista. Decir \u00abcolor\u00edn colorado\u00bb o \u00abfueron felices y comieron perdices\u00bb no basta. El teorema planteado por el autor reclama estricta soluci\u00f3n: si el h\u00e9roe carece de m\u00e9ritos, no puede gozar en la \u00faltima p\u00e1gina.\n\nAl ocuparse del mal, el escritor alude a las amenazas del mundo externo, pero tambi\u00e9n a las posibilidades de los propios ni\u00f1os de ejercer la maldad: algunos diablos y algunas brujas son internos. La mente infantil lidia con los terrores de la realidad y con los que ella misma crea. En este sentido, el final feliz representa el cumplimiento del bien en el terreno de los hechos, pero tambi\u00e9n es una tranquilizadora experiencia interna: con su lectura, el ni\u00f1o contribuye a que las pulsiones negativas, de las que \u00e9l forma parte, pierdan la pelea.\n\nSer feliz vale la pena porque cuesta trabajo.\n\nLAS SORPRESAS SON L\u00d3GICAS\n\nLas historias sobrenaturales, fant\u00e1sticas, barrocas y desmedidas tienen buena oportunidad de triunfar con los lectores infantiles, a condici\u00f3n de que cumplan reglas severas.\n\nComo toda rama del arte, la literatura infantil es una forma de la complejidad. Si el ni\u00f1o es menospreciado como lector, el resultado ser\u00e1 insulso. Estamos ante una mente de alta exigencia, determinada por un ampl\u00edsimo inter\u00e9s en la fabulaci\u00f3n, que admite tanto el realismo extremo como lo sobrenatural, pero, sobre todo, estamos ante una mente determinada por la l\u00f3gica. No es f\u00e1cil ser a un tiempo exagerado y riguroso. Tal es el desaf\u00edo que presenta el lector infantil; si las reglas se violan, el juego pierde chiste: el hada que promete tres deseos no puede regalar otro m\u00e1s.\n\nEn \u00abEl poeta y los sue\u00f1os diurnos\u00bb, Freud se\u00f1ala que lo contrario al juego no es la seriedad, sino la realidad. El espacio l\u00fadico es enormemente serio, como lo prueba la concentraci\u00f3n del ni\u00f1o que juega y accede a una zona imaginaria donde todas las posibilidades pueden cumplirse, siempre y cuando se ajusten a normas. La fantas\u00eda es estricta; divierte porque inventa su propia disciplina.\n\nMichel Tournier, que estudi\u00f3 filosof\u00eda con Heidegger, reescribi\u00f3 la historia de Crusoe para adultos _(Viernes o los limbos del Pac\u00edfico)_ y para ni\u00f1os _(Viernes o la vida salvaje)_. Alguna vez declar\u00f3 que sus lectores favoritos eran los ni\u00f1os y los fil\u00f3sofos, dos p\u00fablicos apartados en lo que se refiere a las edades, pero unidos por los intereses de la l\u00f3gica y la \u00e9tica.\n\nEntre los intereses filos\u00f3ficos de la literatura infantil se cuentan la ya mencionada lucha entre el bien y el mal, los procesos de conocimiento, el origen y el sentido de la vida, los misterios del tiempo, los insondables desaf\u00edos de la naturaleza, la fuerza de los deseos, la superaci\u00f3n del miedo y la preparaci\u00f3n para la muerte. No hay modo de escribir satisfactoriamente para ni\u00f1os sin jugar a entender el sentido de la vida. Lo divertido es demasiado importante para ser tomado a la ligera. Un juego apasiona tanto como sus reglas: en _Peter Pan_ los ni\u00f1os necesitan polvo de hadas para volar en piyama hasta el pa\u00eds de Nunca Jam\u00e1s; en este entorno, volar sin polvo es un error literario, una violaci\u00f3n del c\u00f3digo.\n\nEn ocasiones, el sentido profundo de un texto infantil se entiende avanzada la trama. En _Alicia en el pa\u00eds de las maravillas_ , la protagonista se siente inmersa en una alucinaci\u00f3n o en un sue\u00f1o hasta descubrir que eso puede ser un recuerdo. La historia es \u00abverdadera\u00bb: en otro tiempo ella estuvo ah\u00ed. La regresi\u00f3n esencial a la literatura infantil se cumple en forma maestra.\n\nDe acuerdo con C. S. Lewis, es m\u00e1s f\u00e1cil que un lector crea en la l\u00f3gica de los cuentos de hadas que en situaciones estrafalarias de la vida cotidiana. Al afirmar esto defiende el subg\u00e9nero en el que fue maestro, el _fantasy,_ pero menosprecia el desaf\u00edo de fabular a partir de lo ordinario. Resulta m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil ubicar un cuento infantil en un taxi, como hace Gianni Rodari, que en un castillo hechizado. La cotidianidad llevada al l\u00edmite es una frontera m\u00e1s lejana.\n\nMi cuento _El taxi de los peluches_ trata de un tema muy pr\u00f3ximo a los ni\u00f1os: la p\u00e9rdida de su juguete favorito. La historia no es realista en la medida en que los peluches hablan; sin embargo, discuten cosas perfectamente comunes: el cari\u00f1o o el maltrato que reciben de sus due\u00f1os o la forma de conquistar a otro peluche. Estos juguetes que han perdido a sus due\u00f1os se salvan gracias a un cocodrilo que recorre el drenaje. Aunque se trata de algo improbable, en modo alguno resulta sobrenatural (hay ciudades a las que los cocodrilos llegan por el canal del desag\u00fce).\n\nEn mi infancia, hab\u00eda taxis verdes y negros, decorados con rombos blancos que semejaban dientes. Eran conocidos como \u00abcocodrilos\u00bb. Esa imagen urbana me hizo concebir un reptil que pod\u00eda ser el taxi rescatista de los peluches. Todo esto es estrafalario sin dejar de pertenecer al orden de lo real. Adem\u00e1s, la historia surgi\u00f3 de un drama familiar dolorosamente verificable. Cuando ten\u00eda cuatro a\u00f1os, mi hija In\u00e9s perdi\u00f3 a su conejo favorito mientras yo la paseaba en carriola. Me pregunt\u00f3 ad\u00f3nde se habr\u00eda ido. De nuevo enfrent\u00e9 las interrogantes metaf\u00edsicas de la infancia: \u00bfhay un m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de los peluches?, \u00bftodos lo merecen del mismo modo?\n\n_El taxi de los peluches_ procura responder a estas preguntas, no desde un plano sobrenatural \u2013donde las explicaciones siguen una l\u00f3gica alterna\u2013 sino desde otro m\u00e1s complejo, el de los misterios de lo ordinario.\n\nLAS RAZONES DE LA MAGIA\n\nPocas cosas tan incalculables como la forma en que los libros son le\u00eddos. _El se\u00f1or de los anillos_ cautiv\u00f3 a la generaci\u00f3n hippie por su desbocada fantas\u00eda. Numerosos expedicionarios del LSD fueron a Oxford a acampar cerca de la casa de Tolkien y se encontraron con la sorpresa de que el autor no era un druida ni un cham\u00e1n, sino un erudito acad\u00e9mico. Tolkien se resign\u00f3 a tener lectores muy distintos a \u00e9l: ni\u00f1os y turistas psicod\u00e9licos.\n\nEsto lleva a algunas preguntas decisivas: \u00bfcu\u00e1l es la verdadera edad del hombre? \u00bfEs posible determinar lo que se debe leer en cierta \u00e9poca y qu\u00e9 gustos merecen pasar a otra? Genios que a los cuatro a\u00f1os pintaban como Mir\u00f3 pueden convertirse con el tiempo en diputados. No es f\u00e1cil preservar la dimensi\u00f3n infantil: \u00abTenemos de genios lo que conservamos de ni\u00f1os\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Baudelaire. El arte, el juego y el deporte son una segunda infancia recuperada a voluntad.\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1l es el sello espec\u00edficamente infantil de este camino de retorno? De acuerdo con Walter Benjamin, lo que distingue a los adultos de los ni\u00f1os no es la madurez, sino su incapacidad para la magia. Los adultos son sensatos incluso cuando no conviene. La literatura infantil es un exorcismo al rev\u00e9s: usa el sentido com\u00fan para hechizar. Esto en modo alguno significa recusar la raz\u00f3n. La magia tiene trucos, l\u00f3gica escondida.\n\nEL CONTAGIO ESENCIAL\n\nTodo lector pasa por proleg\u00f3menos singulares para descubrir el gusto por los libros. A pesar de tener padres universitarios, tard\u00e9 en entender que la lectura era algo m\u00e1s que una obligaci\u00f3n escolar. En los tempranos a\u00f1os sesenta del siglo pasado no abundaban la ediciones atractivas para ni\u00f1os ni hab\u00eda costumbre de fomentarlas. Recupero algunos episodios de mi accidentado camino hacia la literatura.\n\nA los cinco a\u00f1os recib\u00ed de regalo un su\u00e9ter \u00abacad\u00e9mico\u00bb. Ten\u00eda una U en el pecho, en se\u00f1al de pertenencia a la universidad. Mi madre lo escogi\u00f3 para el d\u00eda en que nos tomaban la foto oficial en segundo de k\u00ednder, en el Colegio Alem\u00e1n. Me pein\u00f3 con una dosis extra de goma y me dej\u00f3 en la escuela con mi su\u00e9ter de universitario talla _small_.\n\nLos percances fijan la memoria. En _Tirant lo Blanc_ , el protagonista es abofeteado por su padre sin raz\u00f3n aparente. Cuando el futuro caballero andante pregunta por qu\u00e9 ha recibido ese castigo, el padre le responde: \u00abPara que recuerdes este momento.\u00bb\n\nLa fotograf\u00eda se me grab\u00f3 gracias a una violencia similar. \u00c9ramos retratados de uno en uno. Nos sent\u00e1bamos ante un escritorio, tom\u00e1bamos una pluma y ve\u00edamos a la c\u00e1mara, como si fu\u00e9ramos sorprendidos en el acto de estudiar. Cuando lleg\u00f3 mi turno, el fot\u00f3grafo encendi\u00f3 sus reflectores y se produjo una explosi\u00f3n. El aire se llen\u00f3 de humo, hubo toses, focos destrozados, gritos hist\u00e9ricos de una maestra, el escritorio se cubri\u00f3 de peque\u00f1os cristales. M\u00e1s que un retrato aquello parec\u00eda un fusilamiento. El fot\u00f3grafo hab\u00eda disparado en el m\u00e1s literal de los sentidos.\n\nLa toma se repiti\u00f3, esta vez sin percance. Conservo la fotograf\u00eda en la que poso con la alegr\u00eda, perfectamente falsa, de quien aguarda ser acribillado.\n\nFue el momento m\u00e1s feliz de mi educaci\u00f3n primaria. Sonre\u00ed sin morir en el intento. La foto sali\u00f3 bien. Mi madre se sorprendi\u00f3 de que el su\u00e9ter regresara a casa salpicado de trocitos de vidrio y lo lav\u00f3 con el cuidado que conced\u00eda a los s\u00edmbolos universitarios.\n\nMis padres amaban los libros. Seguramente, esta pasi\u00f3n me marc\u00f3 de modo favorable; sin embargo, no se trataba de algo que se compartiera con los ni\u00f1os, sino de una afici\u00f3n adulta, como el cigarro o la siesta.\n\nSin ser muy extensa, nuestra biblioteca conten\u00eda suficientes tomos para impresionar a las visitas; salvo _El tesoro de la juventud_ y los fasc\u00edculos encuadernados de la revista argentina _Billiken_ , que mi madre hab\u00eda le\u00eddo en su infancia, no dispon\u00edamos de obras para ni\u00f1os. Muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, gracias al estudioso Adolfo Casta\u00f1\u00f3n, me enterar\u00eda de que una de las muchas traducciones de _El Principito_ , publicada por entregas en el peri\u00f3dico _Novedades_ , llevaba la firma de Luis Villoro. Curiosamente, mi padre no pens\u00f3 en compartir el texto conmigo. No consigno el dato como un tard\u00edo y ya innecesario reproche, sino como la simple constataci\u00f3n de que la literatura infantil no era entonces una pr\u00e1ctica com\u00fan.\n\nMi primer contacto con el g\u00e9nero ocurri\u00f3 en el Colegio Alem\u00e1n, cuya pedagog\u00eda era una disciplinada forma del castigo. Ah\u00ed le\u00ed _Lustige Geschichten_. Estas \u00abhistorias divertidas\u00bb adiestraban por medio del espanto. Un personaje, que para colmo era mi tocayo, caminaba viendo el cielo y se ahogaba en un lago, justo castigo para los distra\u00eddos. Una ni\u00f1a jugaba con fuego y acababa convertida en un mont\u00f3n de ceniza ante la mirada cr\u00edtica de dos ratones. Un revoltoso se mec\u00eda en la silla a la hora de comer, jalaba el mantel y se volcaba encima la sopa hirviente. Un goloso se chupaba los dedos hasta que un hombre armado de tijeras de jardinero se los amputaba. No me cost\u00f3 trabajo entender que la literatura era una variante del horror.\n\nEsta ense\u00f1anza punitiva se parec\u00eda demasiado a la foto oficial que me tomaron en k\u00ednder: las luces eran un estallido que agred\u00eda. Conservo las calificaciones del Colegio Alexander von Humboldt, y puedo rastrear ah\u00ed mi conducta. A lo largo de nueve a\u00f1os tuve dos principales defectos de car\u00e1cter: era \u00abjuguet\u00f3n\u00bb y \u00abmuy platicador\u00bb. Los maestros lucharon contra estas taras que, a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, me convertir\u00edan en autor de cuentos para ni\u00f1os.\n\nLa \u00fanica lectura que me apasion\u00f3 en la infancia fue el Libro de Texto Gratuito. Este empe\u00f1o, derivado de la revoluci\u00f3n mexicana, trataba de articular a todos los ni\u00f1os en un solo programa. Asombra la n\u00f3mina de intelectuales mexicanos que participaron en ese empe\u00f1o. El poeta Jaime Torres Bodet fue su impulsor y propuso al novelista Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n para que lo llevara a cabo. En la planeaci\u00f3n o elaboraci\u00f3n de los contenidos participaron Agust\u00edn Y\u00e1\u00f1ez, Al\u00ed Chumacero, Andr\u00e9s Henestrosa, Julio Torri, Artemio de Valle-Arizpe, Francisco Monterde, Jes\u00fas SilvaHerzog y Rub\u00e9n Salazar Mall\u00e9n. La portada era un cuadro de Jorge Gonz\u00e1lez Camarena y las ilustraciones fueron obra de David Alfaro Siqueiros, Roberto Montenegro, Ra\u00fal Anguiano, Alfredo Salce y otros. Pocas veces un proyecto educativo reuni\u00f3 a tan significativa constelaci\u00f3n de colaboradores.\n\nSeguramente, la impresi\u00f3n que me produc\u00edan los Libros de Texto ten\u00eda que ver con su calidad. Sin embargo, lo m\u00e1s importante para m\u00ed era que me rescataban de la extranjer\u00eda de la mente a la que me obligaba la Deutsche Schule.\n\nSi se cuantifican los conocimientos positivos adquiridos en clase, la educaci\u00f3n del Colegio Alem\u00e1n era muy superior a la que proporcionaba un libro destinado a ser le\u00eddo en escuelas muy desiguales y que nosotros solo us\u00e1bamos para cumplir un requisito ante la Secretar\u00eda de Educaci\u00f3n P\u00fablica. Un mes antes de que terminara el curso, revis\u00e1bamos el programa nacional concebido para el a\u00f1o entero. Yo disfrutaba extraordinariamente esa ense\u00f1anza \u00abmenor\u00bb. Me maravillaba saber que afuera de la escuela hab\u00eda un pa\u00eds donde se hablaba espa\u00f1ol, se com\u00edan guisos de ma\u00edz y los paisajes ten\u00edan volcanes.\n\nLlev\u00e9 todas las materias en alem\u00e1n, salvo Lengua Nacional, asimetr\u00eda ling\u00fc\u00edstica que me predispuso a amar el espa\u00f1ol. Cuando el Libro de Texto llegaba al final del curso era como si un cartero milagroso trajera trozos del pa\u00eds. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 maravilla leer una composici\u00f3n sobre la guan\u00e1bana, el mono ara\u00f1a, las pir\u00e1mides de Teotihuac\u00e1n o incluso los sacrificios aztecas!\n\nUna ma\u00f1ana, el mismo profesor que trataba de reprimir mis subversivos deseos de conversar me pregunt\u00f3 en clase qu\u00e9 significaba el D\u00eda de Muertos. Herr Reinhold estaba asombrado de la forma en que los mexicanos nos comunic\u00e1bamos con los difuntos.\n\nPor las _Lustige Geschichten_ protagonizadas por el sufrido Struwwelpeter, ni\u00f1o de u\u00f1as largas y pelo electrizado, sab\u00eda que Alemania es el pa\u00eds de las historias truculentas. Para quedar bien dije algo horrible: esa noche me comer\u00eda una calavera de az\u00facar con mi nombre en la frente para pensar en la dulzura de mi muerte. Herr Reinhold qued\u00f3 encantado: \u00abCu\u00e9ntame m\u00e1s\u00bb, dijo con la mirada encendida del antrop\u00f3logo, que yo confund\u00ed con la del ogro. Expliqu\u00e9 que cada 2 de noviembre pon\u00edamos cubiertos para mi abuelo, ya fallecido, y cont\u00e1bamos chistes sobre su esqueleto, al que le faltaban dos costillas (los muertos astutos se las arrancaban para tocar el tambor y pedir dinero en el m\u00e1s all\u00e1). Esa primera narraci\u00f3n fue seguida por otra, sobre los sacrificios humanos, en la que exager\u00e9 el cari\u00f1o que los aztecas del presente le ten\u00edamos a nuestros crueles ancestros. A petici\u00f3n de Reinhold, mi tercer relato tuvo que ver con las sirvientas, seres misteriosos que viv\u00edan en la casa sin incorporase a ella. Expliqu\u00e9 que eran brujas; pod\u00edan predecir el futuro pero nunca el d\u00eda en que se ir\u00edan de la casa sin despedirse. En otras palabras, debut\u00e9 en la narraci\u00f3n oral como un autor del realismo m\u00e1gico.\n\nMe gust\u00f3 el inter\u00e9s que Herr Reinhold ten\u00eda en mis historias pero no pens\u00e9 en leer por mi cuenta. No fue sino hasta los quince a\u00f1os, cuando un amigo me recomend\u00f3 _De perfil_ , que pas\u00e9 por ese definitivo rito de paso. Para entonces, ya estaba lejos del mundo infantil. Le\u00ed la novela de Jos\u00e9 Agust\u00edn como un libro de autoayuda. El protagonista ten\u00eda mi edad exacta, viv\u00eda en un barrio de clase media del D. F. y sus padres se estaban divorciando. Eso era id\u00e9ntico a mi propia vida, salvo por un detalle: \u00e9l hab\u00eda conquistado a una cantante de rock. Pens\u00e9 que, si nos parec\u00edamos en tantas cosas, acaso podr\u00edamos parecernos en esa.\n\nGracias a esa \u00ablectura en espejo\u00bb comenc\u00e9 a leer por gusto, pero cada itinerario es diferente.\n\nHAB\u00cdA UNA VOZ\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo acercar a los ni\u00f1os a la lectura? No hay nada m\u00e1s eficaz que transformarla en una forma del afecto. Cuando el abuelo, la madre o un hermano mayor le leen a un ni\u00f1o, convierten la lectura en un v\u00ednculo emotivo, no solo con la trama, sino con la persona que lee. Mi hermana Carmen, psic\u00f3loga y poeta, escribi\u00f3 un hermoso texto en el que afirma que los cuentos de hadas no tienen su origen en la can\u00f3nica frase \u00abHab\u00eda una vez\u00bb. Otra expresi\u00f3n marca el verdadero momento del origen: \u00abHab\u00eda una voz\u00bb, el tono inolvidable de quien cont\u00f3 las primeras historias.\n\nEs dif\u00edcil que maestros que no leen inculquen una pasi\u00f3n de la que carecen. La lectura no se ense\u00f1a: se contagia.\n\nSin embargo, aunque los padres o los maestros no hagan mucho para que as\u00ed suceda, ciertas historias acaban encontrando a sus lectores. Michel Tournier ha comparado la circulaci\u00f3n de los libros con el vuelo del vampiro: en la oscuridad acechan a la gente.\n\nLos libros se acercan o se alejan de nosotros seg\u00fan nos consideren dignos o indignos de ellos. Todo lector ha dejado un libro en una mesa que luego, y sin explicaci\u00f3n alguna, aparece en el bur\u00f3. \u00bfC\u00f3mo lleg\u00f3 ah\u00ed? Por lo general, nadie recuerda haberlo movido. En ocasiones los vol\u00famenes se mezclan en el librero, desafiando el orden que les hab\u00edamos dado. Podemos buscar durante meses un tomo en las librer\u00edas, olvidar la pesquisa y de pronto verlo ante nosotros como si al fin nos considerara merecedores de su contenido.\n\nNo hay una clave para descubrir la forma en que los libros se desplazan, pero no hay modo de convivir con ellos sin atestiguar este fen\u00f3meno. Se trata de algo parecido a la variante dom\u00e9stica m\u00e1s socorrida del escapismo: la desaparici\u00f3n de un calcet\u00edn. Sin que intervenga un proceso sobrenatural, una prenda pierde a su pareja. Por m\u00e1s peque\u00f1o que sea el domicilio y m\u00e1s controladas que est\u00e9n la cesta de ropa sucia y la zona de lavado, el escape resulta posible. No se trata de un robo porque nadie quiere un solo calcet\u00edn. Estamos ante una fragmentaci\u00f3n de lo habitual, tan rara como encontrar media camisa en el armario. Sin dejar rastro, un calcet\u00edn se esfuma hacia otra dimensi\u00f3n. \u00bfExiste un universo paralelo donde todos los calcetines son impares? Lo cierto es que algunos se divorcian o enviudan sin explicaci\u00f3n posible. Conjuramos su p\u00e9rdida con un hechizo casero: anudamos calcetines impares por si alg\u00fan d\u00eda vuelven los faltantes.\n\nVivimos rodeados de signos a un tiempo comunes y esot\u00e9ricos que sobrellevamos por costumbre o resignaci\u00f3n. Ante el insondable enigma de la huida de los calcetines, recurrimos a un remedio supersticioso. Consagramos una cesta a los ejemplares nones en espera de que alg\u00fan d\u00eda ocurra el milagro de que vuelvan a ser pares.\n\nLa idea de que los vol\u00famenes se acercan o alejan de un lector potencial me llev\u00f3 a escribir _El libro salvaje_. La novela trata de un texto radical, un _outsider_ de los libros que nunca ha sido le\u00eddo ni quiere serlo. Al modo de un caballo sin herraduras desprecia a los jinetes. Est\u00e1 perdido en una biblioteca; el protagonista debe encontrarlo y convencerlo de que revele su contenido. Como el final feliz, los libros deben ser merecidos. _El libro salvaje_ trata de esa conquista moral.\n\nLa pesquisa de un libro reacio permite que el lector comprenda la forma en que trabaja un escritor. Las p\u00e1ginas en blanco oponen resistencia y el autor tiene la sensaci\u00f3n de que el libro \u00abno quiere ser escrito\u00bb; hay que domarlo para que acepte una historia. _El libro salvaje_ busca que la aventura de leer se parezca a la de escribir.\n\nEl protagonista lleva el imaginativo nombre de Juan y es un muchacho sin inter\u00e9s por los libros, pero la b\u00fasqueda de un volumen fugitivo le permite descubrir que la lectura es una apasionante forma de la acci\u00f3n. Ante los desaf\u00edos de la trama, pasa por categor\u00edas y formas de interpretaci\u00f3n que se consideran ajenas a la mente juvenil. La obra abierta, el an\u00e1lisis del discurso, la puesta en abismo y la teor\u00eda de la recepci\u00f3n se convierten en peripecias pr\u00e1cticas.\n\nEn _El libro salvaje_ , los padres de Juan se est\u00e1n divorciando y \u00e9l debe pasar las vacaciones de verano con su t\u00edo Tito, solter\u00f3n que posee una inmensa biblioteca. En muchas ocasiones la literatura infantil comienza con un rito de paso que deja al personaje en la m\u00e1s inc\u00f3moda de las encrucijadas: consigo mismo. La violenta muerte de los padres en _Harry Potter_ , el naufragio en _Robinson Crusoe_ , el viaje mientras los padres duermen en _Peter Pan,_ el barco donde los dem\u00e1s tripulantes son adultos en _La isla del tesoro_ son el antecedente de la aventura, el requisito de aislamiento para poner a prueba a los protagonistas y llevarlos a un aprendizaje singular. Para educar a Emilio, su pupilo imaginario, Jean-Jacques Rousseau lo priv\u00f3 de padres. La soledad obliga a encarar el miedo, la angustia, las carencias. \u00bfC\u00f3mo sobrellevarla? Convirtiendo la vida en un relato.\n\nLeer es como el paracaidismo: en situaciones normales solo unos esp\u00edritus arriesgados lo practican, pero en una emergencia le salvan la vida a cualquiera.\n\nEMPEZAR A LEER, SEGUIR LEYENDO\n\n\u00bfQui\u00e9n debe leer libros para ni\u00f1os? C. S. Lewis escribi\u00f3 al respecto: \u00abMe inclino a considerar, casi como un canon, que si una historia infantil solo es disfrutada por los ni\u00f1os es una mala historia infantil. Las buenas perduran. Un vals que solo disfrutas cuando lo bailas es un mal vals.\u00bb\n\nLa edad mental de una persona es una conjetura sujeta a modificaciones. No hay fecha de caducidad para los libros excepcionales. Es dif\u00edcil que _La isla del tesoro, El fant\u00e1stico se\u00f1or Zorro, A trav\u00e9s del espejo_ o _La peor se\u00f1ora del mundo_ dejen de interesar a los lectores a medida que les sube el colesterol. La suerte de un libro se decide por la forma en que es le\u00eddo.\n\nEl \u00fanico antecedente para disfrutar esas historias es haber sido ni\u00f1os; es decir, conocer la subordinaci\u00f3n y el castigo, las preguntas sin respuesta, aceptar que el miedo existe y nos corroe, y querer salir de todo eso gracias a un objeto que se abre al modo de una puerta o una ventana y contiene una utop\u00eda port\u00e1til.\n\nLa educaci\u00f3n genuina es un acto liberador. Despu\u00e9s de escribir su _Emilio_ , prontuario para pensar por cuenta propia, Rousseau tuvo que exiliarse. Los pocos amigos que a\u00fan le quedaban le aconsejaron firmar con seud\u00f3nimo esa obra que atentaba contra los valores establecidos y propon\u00eda al individuo como educador de s\u00ed mismo, al margen de la Iglesia y el Estado. Sin embargo, Rousseau decidi\u00f3 asociar su destino con el de su obra. Despu\u00e9s de haber cortejado la fama en los salones de Par\u00eds, comprendi\u00f3 que la autor\u00eda sirve para respaldar atrevimientos y, en caso necesario, ser arrestado.\n\nRousseau corri\u00f3 los riesgos de un transgresor y dio forma te\u00f3rica al anhelo libertario que se fraguaba desde la antigua Grecia. Nadie anhela tanto la libertad como un esclavo. La estirpe de Esopo ha cultivado un g\u00e9nero rebelde, donde los deseos se cumplen.\n\nEn la zona del hechizo \u2013los \u00e1rboles que crecen como un lenguaje inextricable\u2013 entendemos que la valent\u00eda no consiste en ser m\u00e1s fuerte sino en triunfar siendo m\u00e1s d\u00e9bil. La tortuga supera a la liebre que se qued\u00f3 dormida y el ni\u00f1o se salva del adulto.\n\nLa vida de Esopo, cuyos detalles precisos ignoramos, brinda la irrenunciable met\u00e1fora de un oficio. La literatura infantil es la ilusi\u00f3n de los subordinados. Surgida de la esclavitud, conquista un reino soberano, donde los prodigios son l\u00f3gicos y nada es tan \u00fatil como el deseo. \n\n### TE DOY MI PALABRA\n\nUn itinerario en la traducci\u00f3n\n\nEL \u00c1LGEBRA Y LA LUNA\n\nA los cuatro a\u00f1os inici\u00e9 una traves\u00eda que se asemeja al recorrido por los bosques hechizados de los cuentos de hadas. Entr\u00e9 al Colegio Alem\u00e1n de la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico y, luego de un examen de aptitudes del que no tengo memoria, fui asignado al Grupo A de Primero de K\u00ednder, donde los alumnos eran mayoritariamente alemanes o hijos de alemanes.\n\nSi Elias Canetti y Georg Christoph Lichtenberg descubrieron que vivir en Inglaterra les permit\u00eda gozar m\u00e1s del alem\u00e1n, yo descubr\u00ed en el Colegio que nada me interesaba tanto como el espa\u00f1ol, idioma que solo hablaba en los recreos o en la clase de Lengua Nacional y que representaba para m\u00ed una reserva de libertad.\n\nEn un apunte de 1881, Nietzsche resume las bondades filos\u00f3ficas de estar inmerso en una cultura ajena: \u00abQuiero vivir durante un periodo largo entre musulmanes y, por cierto, ah\u00ed donde ahora su fe es m\u00e1s rigurosa. As\u00ed, sin duda, se agudizar\u00edan mi juicio y mis ojos para todo lo europeo.\u00bb Lo ex\u00f3tico es la mejor escuela para entender lo propio.\n\nAl inicio de _Memorias de un antisemita_ , novela que traduje para la editorial Anagrama, Gregor von Rezzori escribe: _\u00abSkuchno_ es una palabra rusa dif\u00edcil de traducir. Significa algo m\u00e1s que un intenso aburrimiento: un vac\u00edo espiritual, un anhelo que atrae como una marea imprecisa y vehemente.\u00bb El libro comienza con un problema de traducci\u00f3n: recordar es traducir, conocer de nueva cuenta. No siempre estamos seguros de la veracidad de una \u00e9poca pret\u00e9rita y nos desconcierta la forma en que nos conduc\u00edamos entonces. \u00abEl pasado es un pa\u00eds extranjero\u00bb, escribe Hartley en su novela _The Go-Between_. Nada m\u00e1s l\u00f3gico que lo evoquemos con palabras de otro idioma. Rezzori elige el ruso para titular su b\u00fasqueda del pasado del mismo modo en que Nerval titula su poema sobre la melancol\u00eda con un sustantivo espa\u00f1ol, \u00abEl desdichado\u00bb. El recuerdo entristecido provoca una extranjer\u00eda del alma; somos y no somos los mismos que actuamos en otro tiempo. Rezzori agrega al respecto: \u00abLo que aqu\u00ed relato parece tan lejano, no solo en el espacio sino en el tiempo, que a veces creo haberlo so\u00f1ado.\u00bb\n\nMi evocaci\u00f3n del Colegio Alem\u00e1n ya tiene la misma condici\u00f3n on\u00edrica. Resulta dif\u00edcil remontarse a la \u00e9poca en que los padres confiaban a ciegas en las escuelas donde crecer\u00edan sus hijos y pensaban que el \u00fanico antecedente para llegar ah\u00ed consist\u00eda en ser admitido. Un amigo de la familia nos franque\u00f3 el acceso a la selecta Deutsche Schule. As\u00ed me convert\u00ed en el primero de mi familia en aprender la lengua de Goethe o al menos de los crueles cuentos del _Struwwelpeter_. El hecho de pertenecer al Grupo A reforz\u00f3 mi extra\u00f1eza. Mis compa\u00f1eros de clase se apellidaban Roth, Schurenk\u00e4mper, Friedmann, Stransky o Weber. Curiosamente, entre los pocos ni\u00f1os de nombres hispanos hab\u00eda dos Juanes. Para distinguirlos, la titular del grupo, Fr\u00e4ulein Hahne, resolvi\u00f3 que me dijeran \u00abJuanito\u00bb.\n\nEsto favoreci\u00f3 mi identificaci\u00f3n con la primera canci\u00f3n alemana que recuerdo, \u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb (\u00abEl peque\u00f1o Juanito\u00bb). He olvidado muchas cosas de ese tiempo, pero no el estupor esencial de ese ni\u00f1o que se adentra en el mundo en soledad: _\u00abH\u00e4nschen klein ging allein in die ganze Welt hinein.\u00bb_ El bosque del conocimiento semejaba un sitio oscuro, cargado de peligros. La canci\u00f3n narra la errancia de Juanito durante siete a\u00f1os. Su madre llora de manera inconsolable mientras \u00e9l vaga por el mundo. Cuando finalmente regresa a casa, su hermana no lo reconoce, y su madre lo abraza como si recibiera a un extra\u00f1o. La historia parec\u00eda una met\u00e1fora de nuestra educaci\u00f3n. Durante nueve a\u00f1os recorrer\u00edamos un sitio desconocido hasta dejar de ser ni\u00f1os.\n\nLa melod\u00eda refuerza el tono apesadumbrado del aprendizaje. Si tuviera que elegir, al modo de Rezzori, una idiosincr\u00e1tica palabra extranjera para ese momento acudir\u00eda a _Weltschmerz_ , el intraducible dolor de mundo.\n\nEl extra\u00f1amiento de aprender en alem\u00e1n se intensificaba por lo lejos que Europa estaba entonces de nosotros. La primera vez que vol\u00e9 en avi\u00f3n (creo que a Acapulco), mi madre me puso corbata para honrar el venerable acontecimiento. En 1960, cuando entr\u00e9 al Colegio, las noticias que el cine tra\u00eda de Alemania casi siempre eran negativas. Abundaban las pel\u00edculas de la Segunda Guerra Mundial y yo las contemplaba con perplejidad: \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 estudiaba el idioma de los villanos? Mi padre hab\u00eda crecido en B\u00e9lgica y dominaba el franc\u00e9s, lengua de la Resistencia, y el idioma de moda era el ingl\u00e9s. Mientras los Beatles grababan \u00abShe loves you\u00bb, yo aprend\u00eda \u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb.\n\nLa falta de un entorno propicio para comprender las ventajas del alem\u00e1n me llev\u00f3 a estudiar en contra del idioma. Aprend\u00ed como lo hace un condenado. Sobreviv\u00ed sin reprobar pero sinti\u00e9ndome al margen de ese ambiente; era un intruso que proven\u00eda de una parte m\u00e1s limitada de la realidad donde nadie sab\u00eda qu\u00e9 eran las declinaciones.\n\nAl cabo de nueve a\u00f1os sal\u00ed del Colegio Alem\u00e1n como quien supera una ardua expedici\u00f3n. De pronto estaba en mi pa\u00eds. Sin embargo, en ocasiones, el bosque oscuro volv\u00eda a rodearme. Bajo las tupidas frondas de la noche, so\u00f1aba en alem\u00e1n. Despertaba empapado en un sudor fr\u00edo, como si estuviera preso en otra identidad. Joseph Conrad ten\u00eda una pesadilla recurrente: so\u00f1aba que olvidaba el ingl\u00e9s y solo pod\u00eda hablar polaco. Su deseo de adaptaci\u00f3n a Inglaterra hac\u00eda que la lengua del origen se transformara en una amenaza que deb\u00eda rechazar. Mi desaf\u00edo era el opuesto: alejar la lengua impuesta en la que aprend\u00ed a leer.\n\nEsta reacci\u00f3n neur\u00f3tica se deb\u00eda a la poca utilidad que conced\u00eda a un idioma sumamente dif\u00edcil que adem\u00e1s me hac\u00eda sentir en entredicho. En alem\u00e1n yo era tonto. Es posible que mis facultades no mejoraran gran cosa en espa\u00f1ol, pero no hab\u00eda duda de que en la lengua escolar estaba por debajo de mis condisc\u00edpulos.\n\nLa disciplina imperante, no muy distinta de la de las dem\u00e1s escuelas europeas de la \u00e9poca, exig\u00eda la subordinaci\u00f3n del alumno ante el maestro. Un amigo del Liceo Franc\u00e9s me dijo que los calificaban en un sistema de 20 sobre 20, pero que resultaba imposible obtener las m\u00e1ximas notas. El 20 era para Dios, el 19 para Victor Hugo y el 18 para el maestro. Los alumnos comenzaban a existir a partir del 17. Esto garantizaba tres niveles de disminuci\u00f3n respecto a la autoridad.\n\nDurante siglos, la pedagog\u00eda y la literatura infantil trataron al ni\u00f1o como bobo. En _Psicoan\u00e1lisis de los cuentos de hadas_ , Bruno Bettelheim ofreci\u00f3 una reflexi\u00f3n pionera para entender el papel liberador del _M\u00e4rchen_ (relato fant\u00e1stico) en la imaginaci\u00f3n infantil. Sin embargo, su an\u00e1lisis no est\u00e1 exento de una visi\u00f3n reductora de la infancia. Fiel a su circunstancia hist\u00f3rica, considera que el ni\u00f1o se percibe a s\u00ed mismo como alguien intr\u00ednsecamente limitado y simple: \u00abLa inadaptaci\u00f3n del ni\u00f1o le hace sospechar que es tonto, aunque no sea culpa suya.\u00bb En consecuencia, celebra que haya cuentos como _Las tres plumas_ , de los hermanos Grimm, que permiten que los ni\u00f1os se identifiquen con el personaje que es \u00abel m\u00e1s joven y el m\u00e1s inepto\u00bb.\n\nBettelheim a\u00f1ade: \u00abAl o\u00edr por primera vez un cuento cuyo h\u00e9roe es \"bobo\" un ni\u00f1o \u2013que en su fuero interno tambi\u00e9n se cree tonto\u2013 no desea identificarse con \u00e9l. Ser\u00eda algo demasiado amenazante y contrario a su amor propio. Solo cuando el ni\u00f1o se sienta completamente seguro de la superioridad del h\u00e9roe, despu\u00e9s de haber o\u00eddo la historia varias veces, podr\u00e1 identificarse con \u00e9l desde el principio.\u00bb En otras palabras, Bettelheim considera que el ni\u00f1o se siente disminuido; al ver a un personaje que se le parece, tiene miedo de identificarse con \u00e9l, pero poco a poco advierte que dicho personaje supera pruebas y gana fuerza; entonces lo acepta como modelo, aunque no deja de ser alguien limitado. El requisito para la identificaci\u00f3n es la condici\u00f3n subordinada del ni\u00f1o.\n\nEste planteamiento elude una pregunta cardinal: \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 el ni\u00f1o se siente tonto? Como mostr\u00f3 Rousseau y como han mostrado numerosos psic\u00f3logos posteriores, no se trata de una condici\u00f3n inherente a su psicolog\u00eda. La educaci\u00f3n ha sido discriminatoria y punitiva con la mente infantil. Durante siglos, el ni\u00f1o fue educado para sentirse inferior y acatar a los mayores. En este sentido, llama la atenci\u00f3n que a Bettelheim le parezca normal que la identificaci\u00f3n con \u00abEl patito feo\u00bb se deba a que el ni\u00f1o \u00abse desprecia por su torpeza\u00bb.\n\nNo es este el sitio para detallar los castigos del Colegio ni para exagerarlos con vanidoso masoquismo. Lo importante, para efectos de mi itinerario personal, es que la fascinaci\u00f3n por la lengua alemana surgi\u00f3 a pesar de una pedagog\u00eda que no fue un est\u00edmulo \u00fatil ni placentero, sino una imposici\u00f3n que me superaba en forma insalvable y, en tal medida, representaba un instrumento de dominio.\n\nAcept\u00e9, como un personaje de los hermanos Grimm, mi condici\u00f3n de tonto y sobreviv\u00ed a los rigores asumiendo que eran necesarios.\n\nEn la adolescencia procur\u00e9 no solo evitar el alem\u00e1n, sino olvidarlo. Pero nadie es amo de sus sue\u00f1os. El idioma de mi primer aprendizaje regresaba en las tr\u00e9mulas visiones del inconsciente.\n\nA los quince a\u00f1os, en las vacaciones previas a la preparatoria, descubr\u00ed que la vida ten\u00eda sentido porque exist\u00eda la literatura. Franz Kafka, Heinrich B\u00f6ll y Bertolt Brecht se convirtieron en algunos de mis autores favoritos. Sin embargo, no pens\u00e9 en frecuentarlos en su idioma original. Esto cambi\u00f3 cuando le\u00ed _El tambor de hojalata_ , de G\u00fcnter Grass, en la traducci\u00f3n de Carlos Gerhard. El encuentro fue una transfiguraci\u00f3n. La historia del ni\u00f1o que enfrenta la guerra armado de un juguete y suspende su crecimiento en forma voluntaria me remiti\u00f3 a mi propia infancia. La nostalgia por la ciudad libre de Danzig, el poder\u00edo visual de la narraci\u00f3n (\u00a1c\u00f3mo olvidar al hombre que muere junto a un castillo de naipes!) y, sobre todo, el idioma, que en la traducci\u00f3n de Gerhard conservaba la potencia vitricida de Oskar Mazerath, me despertaron el deseo de volver al bosque de la lengua alemana. La antimaduraci\u00f3n del protagonista de _El tambor de hojalata_ me llev\u00f3 a un deseo de maduraci\u00f3n.\n\nInstrumento de exactitud, la lengua alemana dispone de ricas variantes que no siempre tienen equivalente en otro idioma. En espa\u00f1ol, la palabra \u00abinfantil\u00bb puede ser positiva o negativa. El alem\u00e1n distingue lo que es bueno como un ni\u00f1o _(kindlich)_ de lo que es malo como un ni\u00f1o _(kindisch)_. Mi relaci\u00f3n con la lengua pas\u00f3 del repudio pueril a una entusiasta recuperaci\u00f3n del idioma en que transcurri\u00f3 mi infancia escolar.\n\nEn _Minima Moralia_ , Theodor W. Adorno afirma que \u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb representa el desaf\u00edo del aislamiento intelectual. El pavor que me produc\u00eda ser un ni\u00f1o perdido se transformar\u00eda con el tiempo en el deseo de explorar por mi cuenta el bosque de los signos.\n\n\u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb volver\u00eda a m\u00ed en el libro de memorias _Pelando la cebolla_. G\u00fcnter Grass narra ah\u00ed el momento en que se extrav\u00eda en un campo de batalla, cerca del frente sovi\u00e9tico. Est\u00e1 solo y angustiado. De pronto, escucha un ruido. \u00bfQui\u00e9n merodea en las inmediaciones? \u00bfUn alem\u00e1n o un ruso? Da un paso y tambi\u00e9n \u00e9l hace ruido. El otro advierte su presencia. \u00bfC\u00f3mo identificarse en busca de simpat\u00eda? El desconocido silba la primera estrofa de una canci\u00f3n: \u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb. La melod\u00eda que alude a la soledad absoluta se transforma en di\u00e1logo, se\u00f1al de reconocimiento. Grass silba la siguiente estrofa. Luego contin\u00faan a d\u00fao. Los soldados alemanes se saben a salvo. \u00bfEs posible entender la emoci\u00f3n que este encuentro produce en alguien que aprendi\u00f3 la misma melod\u00eda en un pa\u00eds remoto?\n\nLa an\u00e9cdota reproduce el proceso del traductor: el paso de lo ajeno a lo propio, del ruido amenazante a la melod\u00eda compartida.\n\n\u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb fue en su origen un ruido adverso para m\u00ed. Al reaprender voluntariamente el idioma, me identifiqu\u00e9 con esa b\u00fasqueda solitaria, a tal grado, que dese\u00e9 llevarla a otro bosque, el de mi lengua.\n\nEl impulso decisivo para acercarme a la traducci\u00f3n provino de un veterano en el g\u00e9nero. En 1978, la escritora Julieta Campos, presidenta del PEN Club mexicano, organiz\u00f3 un ciclo donde un escritor consagrado se presentaba con un principiante. Tuve la suerte de alternar con Sergio Pitol, quien ha vertido al espa\u00f1ol cerca de cien libros.\n\nEn el Museo de la Traducci\u00f3n propuesto por Ricardo Piglia para destacar los traslados que enriquecen nuestra lengua, no podr\u00edan faltar las versiones que Pitol ha hecho de Witold Gombrowicz, Bor\u00eds Pilniak, Ant\u00f3n Ch\u00e9jov y Henry James.\n\nPitol me habl\u00f3 de la importancia de la traducci\u00f3n como aprendizaje literario. Buscar equivalentes para cada palabra y cada giro permite entrar en el taller secreto de otro autor, conocer y valorar sus decisiones, precisar su est\u00e9tica. Pero sobre todo ampl\u00eda tu propio lenguaje, obligado a decir cosas imprevistas. La lengua de llegada se moderniza con los desaf\u00edos de la lengua de partida. Los alemanes disponen del \u00abnuevo\u00bb Cervantes traducido por Susanne Lange del mismo modo en que nosotros disponemos del \u00abnuevo\u00bb Laurence Sterne traducido por Javier Mar\u00edas.\n\nDe 1981 a 1984 viv\u00ed en Berl\u00edn Oriental, donde trabaj\u00e9 como agregado cultural en la embajada de M\u00e9xico. Durante esos tres a\u00f1os, las calles y los caf\u00e9s me pusieron en contacto con los matices y los sonidos que la lengua solo adquiere en el sitio donde se habla. Sin embargo, a medida que ese idioma crec\u00eda como un organismo vivo, ten\u00eda presente el principal consejo de Pitol: lo que decide la calidad de una traducci\u00f3n es la fuerza de la lengua de llegada.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 tan confiable es un traductor que adem\u00e1s aspira a escribir ficci\u00f3n? El novelista y traductor mexicano Jos\u00e9 Mar\u00eda P\u00e9rez Gay pregunt\u00f3 a Elias Canetti por qu\u00e9 no ejerc\u00eda la traducci\u00f3n. Buena parte de los intereses del autor de _Masa y poder_ proven\u00edan del contacto con otras culturas, y comparti\u00f3 treinta a\u00f1os de matrimonio con Veza, notable traductora. La respuesta de Canetti revela la inquietud de quien prefiere escribir su propia obra: \u00abEl traductor es un autor t\u00edmido.\u00bb Canetti exploraba la voz de los otros (uno de sus mejores libros lleva el t\u00edtulo de _Der Ohrenzeuge: El testigo de o\u00eddas)_ para fortalecer la suya. S\u00ed, el traductor atempera su iniciativa para resaltar la ajena. Al respecto, Jos\u00e9 An\u00edbal Campos escribe: \u00abSoy traductor, soy una sombra empe\u00f1ada en no dejarse ver, una sombra que fracasa.\u00bb Para el int\u00e9rprete de otra lengua, mostrarse es traicionar.\n\nSeguramente, los escritores que ocasionalmente traducen se distraen con mayor voluntad y frecuencia que los traductores profesionales; los poetas y novelistas metidos a int\u00e9rpretes buscan las soluciones personales que enriquecen el idioma, pero tambi\u00e9n llevan al pecado de infidelidad.\n\nDe cualquier forma, la posibilidad de falsear el texto no solo proviene de la mala interpretaci\u00f3n o la inventiva del traductor. Est\u00e1 en la naturaleza misma de la lengua ser incierta, ambivalente.\n\nNietzsche, de quien no podemos olvidar su formaci\u00f3n como fil\u00f3logo, escribe en _La voluntad de poder_ : \u00abLo que se dice siempre es demasiado o demasiado poco. Las exigencias de que uno se desnude con cada una de las palabras que dice es un ejemplo de ingenuidad.\u00bb El lenguaje comunica, pero tambi\u00e9n disimula.\n\nLa escritura busca corregir el mundo; no refleja de manera indiferente una realidad; construye otra. En _Despu\u00e9s de Babel_ , tit\u00e1nico recorrido por los misterios de la traducci\u00f3n, George Steiner comenta que el texto literario se desmarca creativamente de lo que nombra: \u00abEste repliegue ante los hechos dados, este modo de negar y contradecir son inherentes a la estructura combinatoria de la gram\u00e1tica, a la falta de precisi\u00f3n de las palabras, al car\u00e1cter fluctuante del uso y de la correcci\u00f3n gramatical. Nacen mundos nuevos entre l\u00edneas.\u00bb\n\nEn otras palabras: disponemos de un instrumento aproximativo y movedizo para decir lo que pensamos. La lengua es d\u00factil y cambia tanto como sus usuarios. Por ello, en su c\u00e9lebre ensayo sobre la traducci\u00f3n, tan herm\u00e9tico que Steiner lo considera un texto gn\u00f3stico, Walter Benjamin juzga que las malas traducciones \u00abcomunican demasiado\u00bb.\n\nLa lengua de llegada debe transmitir el significado del mensaje original. En sentido riguroso, esto no solo significa hacer comprensible un discurso, sino preservar su misterio, su ambig\u00fcedad, su desconcierto. En una traducci\u00f3n \u00f3ptima, la _Ursprache_ (la lengua primigenia) conserva sus vacilaciones, sus rarezas, sus sobrentendidos, sus alusiones vagas. La est\u00e9tica de Samuel Beckett demuestra que la confusi\u00f3n, el silencio y el sinsentido son poderosas formas de comunicaci\u00f3n.\n\nUna frase hecha revela los desaf\u00edos del traductor literario: \u00abTe doy mi palabra.\u00bb Quien hace esa promesa propone un pacto de lealtad. No solo ofrece su palabra; la empe\u00f1a: va a cumplir.\n\nEl lenguaje literario es un cuidado artificio. Solo es natural en la medida en que provoca esa ilusi\u00f3n. \u00bfQu\u00e9 clase de registro debe usar el traductor? \u00bfHasta d\u00f3nde debe acercarse a la naturalidad de su regi\u00f3n o su comunidad? La ensayista argentina Marietta Gargatagli encomia el estilo \u00abneutro\u00bb que domin\u00f3 las traducciones latinoamericanas en la primera mitad del siglo pasado. Los traductores no trataban de escribir versiones vern\u00e1culas que sonaran espont\u00e1neas en un sitio determinado; procuraban crear un habla com\u00fan, basada en el espa\u00f1ol medianamente culto compartido por todos los pa\u00edses.\n\nDesde el punto de vista de la riqueza del idioma, prescindir de localismos resulta \u00abligeramente conservador\u00bb, pero tambi\u00e9n permite una singular apuesta creativa: explorar las posibilidades naturales del habla. La versi\u00f3n \u00abneutra\u00bb no busca reproducir la forma en que se habla en una calle de Montevideo o Lima, sino la forma en que podr\u00eda hablarse sin que eso desentonara.\n\nLa traducci\u00f3n \u00abneutra\u00bb reclama un esfuerzo que debe pasar inadvertido: \u00abLo laborioso es que un discurso parezca de Denver sin decir una sola cosa propia de Denver\u00bb, dice Gargatagli. La espontaneidad es uno de los mayores artificios del traductor; para conseguirla, debe estilizar su propia lengua.\n\nAnte cualquier traducci\u00f3n, el lector sabe que enfrenta un texto intervenido, de lejana procedencia. Beatriz Sarlo ha hecho un comentario sugerente sobre la manera de leer traducciones. Durante mucho tiempo tuvo una relaci\u00f3n conflictiva con Dostoievski. Lo ley\u00f3 en espa\u00f1ol y en franc\u00e9s, lenguas que domina, sin sobreponerse a la impresi\u00f3n de desali\u00f1o y caos textual. Varios amigos le recomendaron las traducciones alemanas, que juzgaban superiores.\n\nLa autora de _El imperio de los sentimientos_ acept\u00f3 el desaf\u00edo. Aunque el alem\u00e1n le costaba m\u00e1s trabajo, le revel\u00f3 a un Dostoievski sutil y estimulante, un autor que dec\u00eda m\u00e1s cosas. Esto se debi\u00f3, en principio, a los m\u00e9ritos de la traducci\u00f3n, pero tambi\u00e9n a uno de los muchos misterios que depara el trato con diferentes lenguas: \u00abComo el ruso me es inaccesible, el alem\u00e1n para m\u00ed se convierte en una lengua literaria y no en una lengua natural. Ese extra\u00f1amiento me permite imaginar la lengua que me falta.\u00bb Adiestrada como decodificadora de textos, Sarlo agrega un aura en lo que no comprende del todo, una presencia espectral entre el ruso, que desconoce, y el alem\u00e1n, que no domina del todo. Esa zona incierta es altamente literaria; permite cerrar v\u00ednculos, reconocer y aun imaginar segundas intenciones y valores entendidos.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 tanto se acerca el traductor al original? El ejemplo de Sarlo muestra que vale la pena dejar un leve hueco entre ambos textos, sugerir una grieta de sentido, mostrar las resonancias que solo surgen en la frontera entre las lenguas. Julien Gracq extiende esta reflexi\u00f3n y llega a considerar que todo lenguaje dispone de resonancias que solo advierten los extranjeros. A prop\u00f3sito de Edgar Allan Poe, a quien considera menospreciado en la tradici\u00f3n de habla inglesa, comenta: \u00ab\u00bfEs preciso admitir que las vibraciones propias de Poe se emiten en algo as\u00ed como una frecuencia _infrarroja_ o _ultravioleta_ de esa lengua \u2013imperceptibles para los nativos y que solo perciben los ojos asilvestrados, menos entrenados, pero m\u00e1s perspicaces\u2013, de la misma forma que el animal capta sonidos que emiten instrumentos que hemos fabricado y, no obstante, no o\u00edmos?\u00bb\n\nPara ser leal al esp\u00edritu del texto, el traductor debe derrotar la tentaci\u00f3n de ser literal y buscar, de ser posible, el _efecto infrarrojo_. Lo decisivo no es trasladar una palabra tras otra sino su sentido, de acuerdo con la l\u00f3gica del lenguaje de llegada.\n\nLa paradoja comunicativa del idioma observada por Steiner (el \u00abrepliegue ante los hechos dados\u00bb) obliga a ser leal adapt\u00e1ndose a otra realidad. Jos\u00e9 An\u00edbal Campos, traductor de Peter Stamm, Ingeborg Bachmann y Hermann Hesse, lo dice de este modo: \u00abHay una especie de tragedia inherente a toda labor de traducci\u00f3n: el que la emprende sabe que, en aras de la fidelidad, habr\u00e1 de ser infiel [...]. La literatura es, digamos, \"meta-sentido\", y en la busca de ese sentido que est\u00e1 m\u00e1s all\u00e1, es preciso olvidarse de los sentidos literales, adocenados.\u00bb\n\nEl traductor trasvasa una visi\u00f3n del mundo que, para ser comprensible y natural en otro \u00e1mbito, exige modificaciones de ritmo y de sintaxis, supresiones, imaginativas equivalencias. M\u00e1s que un pacto entre realidades se sella un pacto entre fantasmas. No es casual que la traducci\u00f3n se haya asociado con la transmigraci\u00f3n de las almas.\n\nEn ocasiones, los equ\u00edvocos crean literatura. Cuando Malcolm Lowry entr\u00f3 a una fonda mexicana, dos letreros lo convencieron de que estaba en un pa\u00eds m\u00e1gico. El primero dec\u00eda: \u00abHuevos divorciados\u00bb. El autor de _Bajo el volc\u00e1n_ juzg\u00f3 estupendo estar en un sitio donde un platillo merec\u00eda esa jur\u00eddica sentencia. En este caso, su interpretaci\u00f3n de una rareza idiom\u00e1tica era correcta. El segundo letrero lo fascin\u00f3 por equivocaci\u00f3n. Lowry crey\u00f3 que esa fonda tambi\u00e9n ofrec\u00eda \u00abPollo _espectral_ de la casa\u00bb. La idea de comer un guiso invisible le pareci\u00f3 a\u00fan m\u00e1s fascinante que la de los \u00abhuevos divorciados\u00bb. La cocina del lugar no daba para tanto; se limitaba a ofrecer \u00abpollo _especial_ de la casa\u00bb, pero el _misreading_ del escritor fue digno de la atm\u00f3sfera de su principal novela.\n\nObviamente, el traductor no puede confundirse con tal creatividad. Si acaso, puede elevar el estilo del autor traducido. Al hacerse cargo de Jack London, Borges ofreci\u00f3 un despliegue estil\u00edstico muy superior al del novelista de aventuras. Las r\u00e1pidas frases de London adquirieron el tono de una saga \u00e9pica: \u00abSubi\u00e9nkov miraba y se estremec\u00eda. No tem\u00eda la muerte. Demasiadas veces hab\u00eda arriesgado la vida en esa fatigosa huella de Varsovia a Nulato, para que el hecho de morir lo arredrara. Pero se rebelaba contra la tortura. Su alma se sent\u00eda ofendida. Y esta ofensa, a su vez, no se deb\u00eda al mero sufrimiento que deber\u00eda soportar, sino al doloroso espect\u00e1culo que dar\u00eda.\u00bb Los autores de textura ling\u00fc\u00edstica d\u00e9bil mejoran al ser traducidos por un autor con mayor comando del idioma: Jack London corregido por Borges o Patricia Highsmith por Peter Handke.\n\nEn ocasiones, las libertades que se toma el traductor literario redefinen una obra. Augusto Monterroso encomi\u00f3 la soluci\u00f3n que Jos\u00e9 Bianco encontr\u00f3 para _The Turn of the Screw_ , de Henry James. El traslado literal del t\u00edtulo es \u00abla vuelta del tornillo\u00bb, expresi\u00f3n de ferreter\u00eda que dice poco en espa\u00f1ol. En sentido figurado, la frase significa \u00abla coacci\u00f3n\u00bb. Un traductor competente hubiera optado por esto. Bianco decidi\u00f3 crear una nueva frase con sentido figurado: _Otra vuelta de tuerca_ , ampliando as\u00ed el registro del idioma.\n\nLa expansi\u00f3n del significado en el idioma de llegada se manifiesta con especial fuerza en la poes\u00eda. El primer verso de \u00abEl desdichado\u00bb, de Nerval, es: \u00ab _Je suis le T\u00e9nebreux, \u2013le Veuf\u2013_ , \u2013 _l'Inconsol\u00e9\u00bb_. Octavio Paz lo traduce de este modo: \u00abYo soy el tenebroso \u2013el viudo\u2013 el sin consuelo\u00bb. Aunque no conserva la rima del soneto original, el poeta mexicano obliga a que el lenguaje d\u00e9 un giro inusitado: traduce _l'Inconsol\u00e9_ como \u00abel sin consuelo\u00bb. Es evidente que esta original manera de decir \u00abdesconsolado\u00bb o \u00abdesolado\u00bb solo pod\u00eda surgir de la necesidad de reaccionar con vitalidad ante un modelo previo.\n\nEn las grandes traducciones po\u00e9ticas, el texto original es un acicate para alcanzar novedosas soluciones. En su pr\u00f3logo a _Versiones y diversiones_ , Paz comenta: \u00abA partir de poemas en otras lenguas quise hacer poemas en la m\u00eda.\u00bb No se refiere a poemas propios (las libertades que se toma son muchas, pero no tan grandes); su cometido es lograr que el espa\u00f1ol disponga de nuevos versos gracias a otras literaturas.\n\nTom\u00e1s Segovia extiende esta tarea al ritmo de la lengua. En el pr\u00f3logo a su deslumbrante versi\u00f3n de _Hamlet_ se adentra en un tema decisivo en el traslado de obras: la ilusi\u00f3n de naturalidad que deben provocar. Esto depende de las palabras elegidas, pero tambi\u00e9n del ritmo en que se dicen. Cada tradici\u00f3n responde a una sonoridad distinta. Por ello, Segovia propone cambiar la m\u00e9trica de Shakespeare, sustituyendo el pent\u00e1metro isabelino por la \u00absilva modernista\u00bb, m\u00e1s pr\u00f3xima a la respiraci\u00f3n habitual del espa\u00f1ol. Vale la pena seguir al poeta Segovia en su viaje en pos de equivalencias r\u00edtmicas: \u00abMi primera reflexi\u00f3n ten\u00eda que ser la cuesti\u00f3n del nivel y el tono. Intentar escribir de veras en espa\u00f1ol del siglo XVII es a la vez imposible y absurdo. Pero tampoco quer\u00eda hacer yo una \"trasposici\u00f3n\" de _Hamlet_ al mundo moderno \u2013ni literalmente al espa\u00f1ol moderno\u2013. Hay cosas que una traducci\u00f3n no puede dar, sino solo sugerir. Yo quer\u00eda sugerir a mi lector que esa tragedia no sucede en sus d\u00edas ni en su barrio citadino, pero a la vez no quer\u00eda hacer una reconstrucci\u00f3n de cart\u00f3n-piedra de la lengua y el mundo en que sucede.\u00bb Este modelo, dif\u00edcil de alcanzar, representa una meta ideal en la traducci\u00f3n.\n\nAcaso lo m\u00e1s fascinante del ejercicio de comerciar con lenguas sea que adem\u00e1s de equivalencias reales se obtienen reflejos, ecos, espectros del original. La meta decisiva no se alcanza nunca.\n\nBorges capt\u00f3 a la perfecci\u00f3n este intangible objetivo en su poema \u00abAl idioma alem\u00e1n\u00bb:\n\nMi destino es la lengua castellana,\n\nEl bronce de Francisco de Quevedo,\n\nPero en la lenta noche caminada,\n\nMe exaltan otras m\u00fasicas m\u00e1s \u00edntimas.\n\n[...]\n\nT\u00fa, lengua de Alemania, eres tu obra\n\nCapital: el amor entrelazado\n\nDe las voces compuestas, las vocales\n\nAbiertas, los sonidos que permiten\n\nEl estudioso hex\u00e1metro del griego\n\nY tu rumor de selvas y de noches.\n\nTe tuve alguna vez. Hoy, en la linde\n\nDe los a\u00f1os cansados, te diviso\n\nLejana como el \u00e1lgebra y la luna.\n\nEN EL CAMPO DE EROS\n\nNo es posible traducir sin amar otra lengua. Esto se refiere al deseo plat\u00f3nico de atrapar por entero su inalcanzable riqueza, pero tambi\u00e9n a la sensualidad misma de las palabras, al fraseo, el ritmo, los giros que transforman el lenguaje en una materia viva, determinada por la \u00e9poca, la geograf\u00eda, las infinitas y apasionadas huellas que le han dejado sus usuarios.\n\nEn los ex\u00e1menes de idiomas, el m\u00e1s alto grado de dominio suele ser descrito como \u00abposesi\u00f3n total\u00bb, expresi\u00f3n claramente sexualizada. De modo semejante, alguien dice que al fin ha logrado \u00abpenetrar\u00bb en el sentido de un idioma.\n\nEn _Los libros que no he escrito_ , George Steiner comparte proyectos inconclusos que le hubiera gustado llevar a cabo y tuvo que interrumpir por diversas razones. Uno de ellos hubiera llevado por t\u00edtulo _Las lenguas de eros_. Ah\u00ed pretend\u00eda repasar sus encuentros con las mujeres que ha amado en cuatro idiomas distintos. Si la relaci\u00f3n con el lenguaje es en s\u00ed misma er\u00f3tica, la relaci\u00f3n con alguien que habla otro lenguaje hace que la traducci\u00f3n sea doblemente sensual.\n\nComo su planteamiento era autobiogr\u00e1fico, Steiner no habr\u00eda podido desarrollarlo sin incurrir en indiscreciones. Se contuvo, pero adelant\u00f3 significativas an\u00e9cdotas y reflexiones sobre las diferencias entre amar en un idioma o en otro.\n\nEl lenguaje no solo refleja las emociones; las gu\u00eda. Es instrumento pero tambi\u00e9n personaje. Sentimos de manera distinta en otra lengua. Somos los mismos pero dejamos que la pasi\u00f3n nos traduzca. En _Las lenguas de eros_ no deseaba ocuparse de la traducci\u00f3n literaria, sino del territorio \u00edntimo de los amantes. \u00bfQu\u00e9 sucede cuando dos personas de distinto idioma se unen carnalmente? El coito puede ser un enredo o un acuerdo idiom\u00e1tico. En su \u00faltimo p\u00e1rrafo, concluye: \u00abEs posible que el orgasmo compartido no sea otra cosa que un acto de traducci\u00f3n simult\u00e1nea.\u00bb\n\nLa representaci\u00f3n del sexo cambia de una cultura a otra; admite apodos, escatolog\u00edas, claves, albures y dobles sentidos que pertenecen a una comunidad definida. El entorno contribuye al amor con la moral de la \u00e9poca y, sobre todo, con la posibilidad de transgredirla. Pero tambi\u00e9n con las canciones, las pel\u00edculas, los refranes y los esl\u00f3ganes publicitarios que acompa\u00f1an la relaci\u00f3n, determin\u00e1ndola desde las palabras. Los amantes llevan a la cama las referencias de su tiempo. Con el orgasmo, regresan al origen del idioma, pronuncian, como dir\u00eda el poeta Ram\u00f3n L\u00f3pez Velarde, el \u00abmonos\u00edlabo inmortal\u00bb, que en una lengua depende de las vocales y en otra de las consonantes.\n\nPara Steiner, la multiplicaci\u00f3n de las lenguas ocurrida \u00abdespu\u00e9s de Babel\u00bb no es una tragedia sino un est\u00edmulo sem\u00e1ntico. Transitar de un idioma a otro aumenta las posibilidades del conocimiento y de la pasi\u00f3n.\n\nNumerosos traductores han asociado su oficio con el intercambio sexual. Al respecto, Jos\u00e9 An\u00edbal Campos observa: \u00abPara m\u00ed traducir es c\u00f3pula: es transferencia de flujos, es penetraci\u00f3n y entrega [...], en ese acto de pro-creaci\u00f3n hay tambi\u00e9n mucho de renuncia por ambas partes.\u00bb El traductor se abandona en el otro para serle fiel.\n\nAunque resulta imposible resumir las pr\u00e1cticas que se llevan a cabo en las alcobas de una cultura, ciertos detalles ling\u00fc\u00edsticos aparecen en un sitio y no en otro. As\u00ed como los esquimales disponen de cientos de vocablos para referirse a la nieve, los franceses cuentan con una refinada enciclopedia sobre la cambiante geometr\u00eda del amor.\n\nLa lengua alemana depara er\u00f3ticos asombros. Como en muchas frases el verbo debe ir al final, se trata del idioma perfecto para posponer el cumplimiento del deseo. La espera se convierte en un principio del placer. No es casual que en el idioma donde el verbo tarda en llegar Lichtenberg haya escrito que la felicidad comienza con su anticipaci\u00f3n.\n\nLa literatura francesa cuenta con c\u00f3digos tan precisos para la seducci\u00f3n que el veneciano Giacomo Casanova decidi\u00f3 escribir sus memorias en esa lengua. Las proezas amatorias suenan m\u00e1s convincentes si se exageran en franc\u00e9s. En _La monta\u00f1a m\u00e1gica_ , Hans Castorp declara su amor en franc\u00e9s, no solo porque se siente menos comprometido al usar una lengua que no es la suya, sino porque ese idioma lo lleva a una elocuencia trabajada por miles de amantes previos. El franc\u00e9s es la lengua de los trovadores c\u00e1taros que en el siglo XII perfeccionaron la ret\u00f3rica del amor no correspondido, de los _boudoirs_ sobrepoblados por los libertinos del siglo XVIII, de la fantasmagor\u00eda proustiana de los celos en el siglo XX. En comparaci\u00f3n con la literatura francesa, la alemana y la espa\u00f1ola tienen una relaci\u00f3n menos enciclop\u00e9dica con el trato carnal y lo subliman en forma diferente. El alem\u00e1n combina la procacidad con los cielos f\u00e1usticos de la abstracci\u00f3n, y el espa\u00f1ol alterna la escatolog\u00eda con la mirada oblicua de la picard\u00eda.\n\nSteiner observa que la cultura alemana asocia el desfogue amoroso con ciertos juegos infantiles, no ajenos a la escatolog\u00eda. Esto es tan com\u00fan en el cabaret como en la literatura. \u00abLas funciones naturales desempe\u00f1an un papel constante en el erotismo alem\u00e1n\u00bb, comenta Steiner: \u00abLa excitaci\u00f3n y el gozo que provocan tienen algo regresivo, infantil; as\u00ed conservan un toque de inocencia.\u00bb\n\nEn numerosos pasajes literarios (a continuaci\u00f3n veremos uno) el vello p\u00fabico se asocia con el musgo, que cubre la superficie del bosque, espacio primigenio del _M\u00e4rchen_. Los animales tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1n presentes en la f\u00e1bula er\u00f3tica alemana. El pene puede ser descrito como _Schwanz_ , cola, y la c\u00f3pula como una actividad de p\u00e1jaros: _v\u00f6geln_. Por otra parte, el glande se asocia con la bellota _(Eichel)_ , otra referencia al bosque de los cuentos.\n\nAdem\u00e1s, la gram\u00e1tica alemana permite unir dos o m\u00e1s palabras en una sola, creando un _Kompositum_ , variante gramatical de la c\u00f3pula.\n\nPor el sonido rico en consonantes y la gr\u00e1fica exactitud de las palabras, una taberna, un establo o un prost\u00edbulo adquieren especial concreci\u00f3n al ser descritos en alem\u00e1n. Sin embargo, tambi\u00e9n estamos ante el idioma que m\u00e1s y mejor ha definido los conceptos filos\u00f3ficos. En la patria del _Dasein_ , el erotismo es una teor\u00eda del conocimiento. _Magd Zerline_ de Hermann Broch, _La muerte en Venecia_ de Thomas Mann, _Mine-Haha_ de Frank Wedeking y _Tres mujeres_ de Robert Musil son tratados sobre el deseo de una hondura reflexiva inencontrable en otras lenguas.\n\nUn alto desaf\u00edo de la literatura er\u00f3tica consiste en abordar el sexo sin restarle misterio, sin que desaparezca la incertidumbre que provoca. El hecho consumado, el tr\u00e1mite anat\u00f3mico, carece de enigma y, por lo tanto, de relevancia literaria.\n\nEl erotismo convierte las relaciones en un problema que no tiene interpretaci\u00f3n un\u00edvoca y donde la reflexi\u00f3n se renueva tanto como el placer. En este sentido el traductor tiene una condici\u00f3n de amante insatisfecho; se acerca a su objeto del deseo sabiendo que nunca lo poseer\u00e1 del todo.\n\nAl traducir _Memorias de un antisemita_ , de Gregor von Rezzori, encontr\u00e9 un pasaje que reflejaba la condici\u00f3n inagotable del acercamiento sexual. De manera simb\u00f3lica, tambi\u00e9n capturaba las fatigas del traductor, que se acerca a un cuerpo que se le repliega.\n\nEn esta novela de formaci\u00f3n, Rezzori hace que el protagonista llegue a una escena en la que al fin puede estar con una mujer. Ella es una gitana de la que no conf\u00eda pero que le atrae profundamente. Entran a un hotel de paso y alquilan un cuarto. \u00c9l act\u00faa con nerviosismo; ella es due\u00f1a de la situaci\u00f3n. Entonces se produce un momento de elevada tensi\u00f3n er\u00f3tica: la posibilidad del fracaso se mezcla con el hechizo de la belleza. \u00bfEs un encuentro o un malentendido? Misteriosamente, se trata de ambas cosas: \u00abLe baj\u00e9 la blusa y no baj\u00f3 la mirada; me mir\u00f3 a los ojos, sonriendo como si supiera que no iba a poder con ella. Por un momento me qued\u00e9 at\u00f3nito ante sus senos desnudos, sobrecogido por una realidad m\u00e1s extraordinaria que todas mis enso\u00f1aciones. Aquellos senos firmes y moldeables, de una sedosa suavidad, tibios, que ol\u00edan a almendra, con respingados pezones color de rosa, reaccionaron al contacto con mi mano. Los sent\u00ed contraerse, ponerse r\u00edgidos. Eran testigos del maravilloso temblor que recorr\u00eda su cuerpo hasta la oscuridad del sexo, la negra oquedad, la gruta h\u00fameda, cerrada con avaricia entre los muslos que ahora se entreabr\u00edan [...], eso era lo que hab\u00eda visto con mayor claridad y deleite en mis fantas\u00edas er\u00f3ticas. La anticipaci\u00f3n del goce me cerraba la garganta y colmaba mi est\u00f3mago con una dulce ternura: el s\u00edmbolo de la mujer, la m\u00e1s pura imagen de la feminidad, esa figura siempre extra\u00f1a, sonriente, esquiva, inasible, que tem\u00eda y odiaba y estaba condenado a amar hasta mi perdici\u00f3n.\u00bb\n\nEl protagonista ve el torso desnudo de la mujer deseada. El resto del cuerpo permanece oculto. La mujer se ha entregado a medias. En ese momento llaman a la puerta. Es el encargado de la recepci\u00f3n. Dice que ha recibido una moneda falsa y pide otra. Molesto, el enamorado da el dinero y sigue con su tarea. Segundos despu\u00e9s vuelve a ser interrumpido, por la misma raz\u00f3n. La escena se repite hasta que la gitana le revela que, cada vez que le piden otra moneda, se la cambian por una falsa. El joven amante ha ca\u00eddo en una red de estafadores. Indignado, se enfrenta a golpes con el recepcionista y todo termina de la peor manera.\n\nTraducir es el arte de cambiar monedas en nombre del amor. El int\u00e9rprete debe buscar divisas que circulen con validez en otro \u00e1mbito. No puede falsificar palabras; debe acu\u00f1arlas. La escena de Rezzori ofrece una met\u00e1fora perfecta de los l\u00edmites del erotismo y del impreciso romance del traductor, que paga su pasi\u00f3n con moneda extra\u00f1a.\n\nEn _El tambor de hojalata_ , la novela que me llev\u00f3 a recuperar la relegada lengua alemana, G\u00fcnter Grass mezcla el erotismo con la confusi\u00f3n de identidades. Oskar Mazerath no es hijo de su padre, sino de Jan, amante polaco de su madre. El sexo no llev\u00f3 a una paternidad comprobable sino fantasmag\u00f3rica. Tambi\u00e9n esto se asocia con la traducci\u00f3n.\n\nUn episodio de esa novela condensa en forma ins\u00f3lita numerosos aspectos de la tradici\u00f3n er\u00f3tica alemana. El protagonista tiene algo infantil: Oskar es un enano voluntario; se resiste a crecer para no ingresar al nefasto mundo de los mayores. Su pasatiempo favorito es tocar un tambor de hojalata; la percusi\u00f3n t\u00edpica de la lengua alemana se potencia con su redoble. Como veremos, en este pasaje el cuerpo de una mujer se asocia con un bosque donde se pueden buscar frambuesas y su vello p\u00fabico con el musgo.\n\nLa gran novela de Grass se ha traducido en dos ocasiones al espa\u00f1ol. La primera de ellas en 1963, por Carlos Gerhard, catal\u00e1n de origen suizo y alsaciano que se exili\u00f3 en M\u00e9xico. La segunda es obra de Miguel S\u00e1enz, tit\u00e1nico traductor que se ha hecho cargo de la obra entera de Thomas Bernhard y de la de G\u00fcnter Grass. En 2009 public\u00f3 su versi\u00f3n de _El tambor_. Ah\u00ed reconoce que la traducci\u00f3n de Gerhard le parece admirable, pero agrega que no podr\u00eda haber acompa\u00f1ado a Grass en su dilatada trayectoria sin abordar su novela decisiva. Se trata, pues, de un acto de pasi\u00f3n.\n\nRecuperemos el episodio en cuesti\u00f3n. A los diecis\u00e9is a\u00f1os, Oskar se enamora de Mar\u00eda, una chica de su edad. Hace que ella pruebe polvos efervescentes que la excitan. Vierte su saliva en la palma de Mar\u00eda y ella experimenta un goce raro; no se entusiasma con el procedimiento, pero permite que suceda, con un placer despersonalizado.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de lamer el polvo en la palma de Mar\u00eda, Oskar lo unta en su ombligo y descubre un alfabeto que hasta entonces no hab\u00eda conjugado. Grass demuestra que el erotismo es m\u00e1s eficaz cuando no se refiere a la anatom\u00eda, sino a las emociones que suscita. En la versi\u00f3n de Gerhard: \u00abSu ombligo le quedaba m\u00e1s remoto que el \u00c1frica o la Tierra del Fuego. A m\u00ed, en cambio, el ombligo de Mar\u00eda me quedaba cerca, y as\u00ed, pues, sum\u00ed en \u00e9l mi lengua en busca de frambuesas, de las que siempre iba encontrando m\u00e1s, de modo que en mi b\u00fasqueda me extravi\u00e9, llegando a las regiones en las que ning\u00fan guardia forestal solicitaba la exhibici\u00f3n de un permiso de buscar, y me sent\u00eda obligado a no desperdiciar frambuesa alguna [...] y cuando ya no encontr\u00e9 m\u00e1s, entonces y como por casualidad hall\u00e9 en otros lugares cantarelas. Y comoquiera que estas crec\u00edan m\u00e1s escondidas bajo el musgo, mi lengua no alcanzaba ya, y dej\u00e9 que me creciera un und\u00e9cimo dedo, porque los otros diez tampoco alcanzaban. Y as\u00ed fue como Oskar vino a hallar su tercer palillo, para el que ya su edad lo autorizaba. Y ya no di sobre la l\u00e1mina, sino en el musgo.\u00bb\n\nEl descubrimiento de la erecci\u00f3n y del primer encuentro sexual es modificado por S\u00e1enz en un detalle m\u00ednimo pero digno de comentario. En su versi\u00f3n escribe: \u00abmi lengua no alcanzaba, y _me dej\u00e9_ crecer un und\u00e9cimo dedo\u00bb. En este caso, Oskar tiene mayor dominio de su voluntad: se deja crecer un dedo en vez de permitir que le crezca, como en la versi\u00f3n de Gerhard.\n\nEl espa\u00f1ol de Espa\u00f1a es m\u00e1s enf\u00e1tico y autoritario que el de Am\u00e9rica Latina. Quien habla en modo peninsular protagoniza m\u00e1s los sucesos. Hay cierto resabio imperial en la forma en que las frases se imponen en el espa\u00f1ol de Castilla. Si el mexicano dice \u00abped\u00ed un vodka\u00bb, el espa\u00f1ol dice \u00abme ped\u00ed un vodka\u00bb.\n\nGerhard hace que Oskar sea un sorprendido testigo de s\u00ed mismo. S\u00e1enz ofrece una versi\u00f3n igualmente correcta en la que hay mayor participaci\u00f3n, no del protagonista, sino de la lengua espa\u00f1ola.\n\nEn ese encuentro con Mar\u00eda, Oskar creer haber concebido a un hijo. Sin embargo, la paternidad le ser\u00e1 adjudicada al se\u00f1or Mazerath, su presunto padre, que una vez m\u00e1s inseminar\u00e1 en forma espectral.\n\nLa siguiente escena resume las fantas\u00edas de todo traductor. El peque\u00f1o Oskar sorprende a Mar\u00eda en un sof\u00e1, siendo penetrada por Mazerath. Desesperado, toca su tambor. Ella le pide al hombre que la arremete que tenga precauci\u00f3n y no eyacule dentro de ella. Al mismo tiempo le pide que no se salga. La raz\u00f3n y la excitaci\u00f3n oscilan al comp\u00e1s de la c\u00f3pula y del tambor. Mazerath promete salirse pero sigue adelante.\n\nEn su cruda y deformada carnalidad, la escena parece un dibujo expresionista de Georg Grosz: \u00abEl vestido y las enaguas de Mar\u00eda se le hab\u00edan arremangado por encima del sost\u00e9n hasta las axilas. Las bragas se le bamboleaban en el pie izquierdo que, juntamente con la pierna y feamente contorsionado, colgaba del div\u00e1n. La pierna izquierda, replegada y como ajena, reposaba sobre los cojines del respaldo. Entre las piernas, Mazerath. Con la mano derecha le agarraba este la cabeza, en tanto que con la otra ensanchaba la apertura de ella y trataba de ponerse sobre la pista [...]. \u00c9l hab\u00eda clavado los dientes en un coj\u00edn con la funda de terciopelo, y solo dejaba el terciopelo cuando hablaban. Porque por momentos hablaban, sin por ello interrumpir el trabajo\u00bb (versi\u00f3n de Gerhard). La presencia del di\u00e1logo es esencial: \u00abPorque por momentos hablaban.\u00bb El reloj da la hora y ellos lo comentan. Tienen prisa pero deben alcanzar el cl\u00edmax, todo se puede arruinar si ella queda pre\u00f1ada, y no se separan. El deseo se alimenta de tensi\u00f3n. Adem\u00e1s, hay un tercero incluido, Oskar, que se lanza sobre la espalda del amante. Tambi\u00e9n \u00e9l es contradictorio: empuja a su enemigo y as\u00ed lo retiene en la c\u00f3pula, obligando a que eyacule dentro de la mujer. \u00bfQui\u00e9n es el verdadero padre de la criatura as\u00ed concebida? Oskar fantasea que es \u00e9l, pues ya antes hab\u00eda hecho el amor con Mar\u00eda. Adem\u00e1s, es \u00e9l quien impide que el otro se salga de la mujer. El se\u00f1or Mazerath, su presunto padre, solo podr\u00e1 ser presunto padre de otro hijo. Si su semen llega a Mar\u00eda es porque Oskar se encarama en su espalda e impide la separaci\u00f3n. El \u00fanico que quiere la fecundaci\u00f3n es el amante indirecto.\n\nLa fidelidad del traductor es como la del desesperado Oskar Mazerath. No puede ser el indiscutible padre de la criatura, pero se acerca lo m\u00e1s posible a ese acto amoroso, busca formar parte sin dejar de ser un sustituto.\n\nEste cap\u00edtulo ejemplar lleva el elocuente nombre de \u00abComunicados especiales\u00bb. Mar\u00eda tiene la radio encendida todo el tiempo. Quiere atrapar noticias en una \u00e9poca en que los mensajes que flotan en el \u00e9ter cambian el destino. No son palabras cualesquiera: son \u00abcomunicados especiales\u00bb. Sin embargo, en ese \u00e1mbito, el mensaje m\u00e1s importante, de clave indescifrable, no proviene del frente de guerra sino de la confusi\u00f3n er\u00f3tica, en la que nadie sabe muy bien hasta d\u00f3nde participa.\n\nEl gozo y el esfuerzo de Oskar no ser\u00e1n recompensados por la paternidad que reclama. Su destino ser\u00e1 id\u00e9ntico al del traductor. Dos maestros del oficio, Carlos Gerhard y Miguel S\u00e1enz, tradujeron la novela. Sus versiones var\u00edan como las caricias y los gestos del erotismo. El resultado final, como lo demuestra el episodio \u00abComunicados especiales\u00bb, no puede tener due\u00f1o, es el milagro que se produce en la intersecci\u00f3n de las lenguas.\n\nConfusas, tentativas, inciertas, las palabras buscan lo imposible: definir el sentimiento. El di\u00e1logo trunco entre Mar\u00eda y el se\u00f1or Mazerath implica que algo se rompe cuando algo se une. En la versi\u00f3n de S\u00e1enz: \u00abY entonces quiso que Mar\u00eda le dijera si estaba bien como lo estaban haciendo. Ella respondi\u00f3 afirmativamente a la pregunta, varias veces, y le rog\u00f3 que tuviera cuidado.\u00bb\n\nEn el m\u00e1s alto punto de la pasi\u00f3n, el amante, como el traductor, no puede tener cuidado. Walter Benjamin asocia la tarea de traducir con la de ensamblar los fragmentos de una vasija rota. En \u00abLa tarea del traductor\u00bb escribe: \u00abEn vez de asemejarse al sentido original [...], la traducci\u00f3n debe m\u00e1s bien, amorosamente y en detalle, en su propio idioma, tomar forma de acuerdo al modo de significar original [...], para que ambos sean reconocibles como las partes quebradas de un lenguaje m\u00e1s vasto, tal como los fragmentos son las partes quebradas de una vasija.\u00bb\n\nSolo se reconstruye lo que se ha roto. Bajo el redoble del tambor, Mar\u00eda y el se\u00f1or Mazerath se dejan arrastrar por su libido y dejan de ser prudentes. Algo inesperado saldr\u00e1 de ese febril enredo: un hijo sin padre definido, una traducci\u00f3n.\n\n\u00abDAS KOMMT MIR SPANISCH VOR\u00bb\n\nCada idioma escoge a otro para nombrar lo extra\u00f1o. En espa\u00f1ol, lo incomprensible \u00abest\u00e1 en chino\u00bb. Cuando recuperaba el conocimiento de la lengua alemana, me divirti\u00f3 saber que ah\u00ed las cosas inextricables est\u00e1n \u00aben espa\u00f1ol\u00bb: _Das kommt mir Spanisch vor_. Otro aliciente para traducir.\n\nEn 1984, luego de mi estancia de tres a\u00f1os en Berl\u00edn Oriental, comenc\u00e9 mi primera traducci\u00f3n formal: _El retorno de Casanova_ , de Arthur Schnitzler. No ten\u00eda contrato con ninguna editorial. Pensaba proponer la novela una vez terminada, aprovechando que los derechos ya eran de dominio p\u00fablico.\n\nSchnitzler representaba un buen inicio para el traslado literario. Su alem\u00e1n es suficientemente rico para estimular y poner a prueba el idioma al que se traduce, y suficientemente directo y descriptivo para evitar excesivas ambig\u00fcedades.\n\nDisfrut\u00e9 la trama en la que el seductor veneciano regresa a su ciudad natal y se enfrasca en una de sus \u00faltimas conquistas a la \u00abvetusta\u00bb edad de cincuenta y tres a\u00f1os. Para seducir a una joven, Giacomo Casanova suplanta a otra persona. En la oscuridad, ella lo confunde con su amado. El libertino se \u00abtraduce\u00bb en otro para lograr su fin.\n\nMientras me ocupaba de esta historia de mistificaci\u00f3n entend\u00ed que tambi\u00e9n el traductor busca convencer con voz ajena. La mayor lecci\u00f3n que recibe un int\u00e9rprete es la de descubrir las ignotas posibilidades de s\u00ed mismo. No se trata de un acto de despersonalizaci\u00f3n, sino de exploraci\u00f3n interior gracias al dictado de otra voz. En ocasiones, necesitamos de un largo rodeo para descubrir un misterio \u00edntimo. En este sentido, los viajes se asemejan a la traducci\u00f3n. Nos alejamos del entorno en busca de algo diferente, pero de pronto advertimos que lo m\u00e1s significativo est\u00e1 en el punto de partida. Fue la lecci\u00f3n que Goethe recibi\u00f3 en Italia: \u00abEste viaje no responde al deseo de formarme falsas ideas sobre m\u00ed mismo sino al de conocerme mejor.\u00bb\n\nEn _El retorno de Casanova_ me convert\u00ed en espectro de un espectro (el libertino veneciano deseoso de ser tomado por otro), hasta que supe que tambi\u00e9n como traductor era un fantasma. Me enter\u00e9 de que la UNAM acababa de publicar el mismo libro, traducido del italiano por el extraordinario Guillermo Fern\u00e1ndez.\n\nMe concentr\u00e9 entonces en los relatos de Schnitzler e hice una antolog\u00eda en torno al tema del enga\u00f1o amoroso. De nuevo el texto trataba de suplantaciones. Como traductor, deb\u00eda ser fiel a una ronda de infidelidades.\n\nCuando la antolog\u00eda se public\u00f3 con el nombre de _Enga\u00f1os_ , en el Fondo de Cultura Econ\u00f3mica, hab\u00eda hecho un doble aprendizaje. Conoc\u00eda los estimulantes desaf\u00edos de la traducci\u00f3n y lo dif\u00edcil que es vivir de eso. Cuesta trabajo pensar en otra ocupaci\u00f3n en la que haya m\u00e1s disparidad entre los m\u00e9ritos que se requieren para ejercerla y la remuneraci\u00f3n que se recibe.\n\nMi siguiente traducci\u00f3n sigui\u00f3 en la \u00f3rbita austr\u00edaca. En 1984, la \u00f3pera de Richard Strauss _Ariadna en Naxos_ se estren\u00f3 en M\u00e9xico y me pidieron que tradujera el libreto de Hugo von Hoffmannsthal para ser publicado en el programa de mano.\n\nLa trama es una par\u00e1bola sobre el disfraz. Un mecenas ha solicitado dos espect\u00e1culos, uno dram\u00e1tico y otro _buffo_. Se entera de que las obras duran demasiado y retrasar\u00e1n los fuegos artificiales, que es lo que en verdad le importa. Para abreviar la funci\u00f3n, ordena que las dos obras se fundan en una sola.\n\nLa historia de dos espect\u00e1culos que se despedazan para transformarse en uno ofrece una imagen extrema de los retos del traductor, obligado a respetar impulsos muchas veces contradictorios. Lo que \u00e9l hubiera resuelto como comedia se presenta como tragedia, y viceversa.\n\nMi versi\u00f3n de _Ariadna en Naxos_ circul\u00f3 en las cinco o seis funciones de la \u00f3pera, y desapareci\u00f3 en la noche de los tiempos.\n\nEn las vacilaciones y las fatigas de aquellos primeros esfuerzos en la traducci\u00f3n me serv\u00eda de modelo heroico la trayectoria de Sergio Pitol. Durante un tiempo, \u00e9l vivi\u00f3 exclusivamente de la traducci\u00f3n. Para lograrlo, resid\u00eda a bordo de barcos cargueros que le alquilaban un camarote a precio de paqueter\u00eda. Cuando atracaba en Barcelona, entregaba un manuscrito.\n\nA partir de fines de los a\u00f1os sesenta y setenta del siglo pasado, casi todas las traducciones del idioma comenzaron a hacerse en Espa\u00f1a. M\u00e9xico y Argentina perdieron el predominio ganado durante el franquismo. Esto llev\u00f3 a que el traductor latinoamericano se conformara con obras de dominio p\u00fablico o probara suerte en Europa.\n\nAlg\u00fan d\u00eda se escribir\u00e1 la saga de los peregrinos en busca de manuscritos traducibles. Pensemos, tan solo, en la di\u00e1spora peruana y en los viajes necesarios para que Ricardo Silva-Santiesteban tradujera a Joyce, C\u00e9sar Palma a Savinio, Juan del Solar a D\u00fcrrenmatt, Luis Loayza a Arthur Machen.\n\nMi modelo, Sergio Pitol, vivi\u00f3 en barcos como un personaje de Conrad y luego continu\u00f3 su trabajo en las aguas no siempre pl\u00e1cidas de la diplomacia. Es posible que me hubiera apartado de la traducci\u00f3n de no ser porque en 1986 recib\u00ed una invitaci\u00f3n a hacer un curso de especializaci\u00f3n en el Instituto Goethe de M\u00fanich. Pitol me propuso que hiciera escala en Barcelona para entrevistarme con Jorge Herralde, director de la editorial Anagrama. \u00abDebes sorprenderlo con un t\u00edtulo que no conozca, algo exquisito que est\u00e9 en sinton\u00eda con su cat\u00e1logo\u00bb, recomend\u00f3. Por entonces, Herralde hab\u00eda publicado _El rey de las Dos Sicilias_ , de Andrzej Kus\u00b4niewicz. Decid\u00ed proponerle _Marte en Aries_ , de Alexander Lernet-Holenia, que hab\u00eda dejado algunas alegor\u00edas de rara belleza como _En los acantilados de m\u00e1rmol_ y la propia _Marte en Aries_.\n\nLernet-Holenia cumpl\u00eda con el requisito de ser un autor raro, pero su prestigio era incierto. Para algunos cr\u00edticos, se trata de un representante de lo que en alem\u00e1n se llama _Edelkitsch_ , una aristocratizante cursiler\u00eda. Sin embargo, _Marte en Aries_ merec\u00eda ingresar al cat\u00e1logo de Anagrama.\n\nEn ocasiones, ofrecer un libro sirve para conseguir otro. Herralde escuch\u00f3 con atenci\u00f3n mi arenga sobre la enrarecida est\u00e9tica de Lernet-Holenia. Esto no lo convenci\u00f3 de contratar el libro, pero s\u00ed de que yo tradujera una obra ubicada en la Bucovina, la punta rumana del imperio austroh\u00fangaro, _Memorias de un antisemita_ , de Gregor von Rezzori.\n\nRecuerdo mi felicidad al salir de la oficina en el barrio de Sarri\u00e0, cargando esa novela como quien lleva un pa\u00eds. Una vez m\u00e1s mi contacto con el alem\u00e1n se orientaba hacia Austria y sus alrededores. Por razones complejas y acaso esot\u00e9ricas, la monarqu\u00eda imperial y real de Francisco Jos\u00e9 ha cautivado a un importante sector de la cultura mexicana.\n\nMaximiliano de Habsburgo dej\u00f3 una ambivalente reputaci\u00f3n en M\u00e9xico. Lleg\u00f3 como un monarca impuesto, pero lo hizo con peculiar ingenuidad, convencido de que era querido y necesario. Fue una figura impositiva y tr\u00e1gica a la vez, un monarca t\u00edtere, manipulado por conspiradores. No es casual que la novela mexicana m\u00e1s celebrada por la cr\u00edtica en los \u00faltimos treinta a\u00f1os, _Noticias del imperio_ , de Fernando del Paso, trate del emperador que se desliz\u00f3 por el pa\u00eds como por un sue\u00f1o ininteligible y muri\u00f3 como un hombre cordial y educado, dando propina a sus verdugos.\n\nM\u00e9xico pudo haber sido un imperio m\u00e1s o menos austr\u00edaco. Por otra parte, la larga dominaci\u00f3n de Francisco Jos\u00e9, dilatado ejercicio del poder en el que nada parec\u00eda cambiar, donde conviv\u00edan comunidades muy diversas y en pugna que depend\u00edan de una inexpugnable burocracia, parec\u00eda una met\u00e1fora de otro pa\u00eds presidido por el \u00e1guila, el M\u00e9xico del PRI.\n\nCuando Jos\u00e9 Mar\u00eda P\u00e9rez Gay public\u00f3 _El imperio perdido_ , reuni\u00f3n de ensayos sobre escritores austr\u00edacos, la cr\u00edtica celebr\u00f3 la estupenda reconstrucci\u00f3n de esa cultura. Lo extra\u00f1o fue que un libro de tema bastante especializado se convirtiera en _best seller_ instant\u00e1neo. El t\u00edtulo mismo ten\u00eda un aire nost\u00e1lgico. Solo perdemos aquello que nos pertenece. \u00bfEn qu\u00e9 medida ten\u00edamos que ver con Robert Musil y Hermann Broch? M\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la importancia de esos autores, admirados pero poco le\u00eddos en M\u00e9xico, el libro interes\u00f3 porque pon\u00eda en juego un campo de fuerzas que nos resultaba vagamente familiar. La Austria de principios del siglo XX fue un vivero del carnaval y la decadencia bajo un gobierno autoritario que permit\u00eda la discriminaci\u00f3n racial, sexual y pol\u00edtica. En 1986, la exposici\u00f3n sobre la cultura austr\u00edaca en el Centro Georges Pompidou de Par\u00eds llev\u00f3 un t\u00edtulo que podr\u00eda aplicarse a la cultura mexicana: \u00abEl apocalipsis gozoso\u00bb. Las rondas de aniquilaci\u00f3n y creatividad que marcaron la Viena de principios del siglo XX ofrecen paralelismos con la cultura mexicana. \u00bfHay mejor descripci\u00f3n del D. F. que la de Karl Kraus para Viena: \u00abEl laboratorio del fin de los tiempos\u00bb?\n\nDurante d\u00e9cadas, nada parec\u00eda cambiar en la Austria de las dos \u00e1guilas y todo cambiaba por debajo del agua. Esta tensi\u00f3n, perfectamente captada por P\u00e9rez Gay, convirti\u00f3 su libro en un espejo distante de nuestra convulsa tradici\u00f3n.\n\n_Memorias de un antisemita_ fue escrita por un ap\u00e1trida exiliado en Italia. Si Gregor von Rezzori no se hubiera movido de su natal Bucovina, el siglo XX le habr\u00eda deparado tres nacionalidades: austroh\u00fangaro, sovi\u00e9tico y rumano.\n\nUn tema obsesivo de la cultura mexicana ha sido la b\u00fasqueda de la identidad. De _La querella de M\u00e9xico_ (1915) de Mart\u00edn Luis Guzm\u00e1n a _El dif\u00edcil oficio de ser mexicano_ (2010) de Heriberto Y\u00e9pez, pasando por _El laberinto de la soledad_ (1950) de Octavio Paz y _La jaula de la melancol\u00eda_ (1987) de Roger Bartra, la inteligencia mexicana ha explorado la indecisa forma que tenemos de aceptarnos a nosotros mismos. La cultura austroh\u00fangara tambi\u00e9n sucumbi\u00f3 al v\u00e9rtigo de la identidad. Musil sol\u00eda decir que un austr\u00edaco era alguien a quien se le hab\u00eda restado un h\u00fangaro.\n\n_Memorias de un antisemita_ es la reconstrucci\u00f3n de un pa\u00eds que ya solo existe en la memoria. Educado para odiar a los jud\u00edos, el narrador se vincula de m\u00faltiples modos con ellos. La novela celebra a contrapelo a quienes han sido designados como enemigos.\n\nEn su evocaci\u00f3n memoriosa, Rezzori asume una cadencia proustiana; busca el detalle significante y convierte el recuerdo en un ejercicio de precisi\u00f3n sensorial.\n\nEl diapas\u00f3n ling\u00fc\u00edstico de esta tentativa es mucho m\u00e1s amplio que el de Schnitzler. Sin llegar a la exuberancia de Thomas Mann, Rezzori otorga especial importancia a la minuciosa y adjetivada creaci\u00f3n de atm\u00f3sferas. En su est\u00e9tica, la an\u00e9cdota importa menos que la atm\u00f3sfera, la temperatura del aire, la gestualidad de las personas, la inclinaci\u00f3n de los rayos del sol.\n\nDurante seis meses viv\u00ed inmerso en el libro. El mayor reto fue narrar en mi lengua situaciones del todo ajenas a mi experiencia, como las batidas de caza y las descripciones agr\u00edcolas.\n\nRezzori mira de cerca los objetos. Como autor de ficci\u00f3n soy impaciente y reh\u00fayo las cadencias morosas. Por eso mismo, agradezco la obligaci\u00f3n a la que me someti\u00f3 _Memorias de un antisemita_. Ofrezco un ejemplo sobre la voracidad de un personaje. En un texto m\u00edo habr\u00eda sido incapaz de explorar tan a fondo ese momento al que solo pude llegar con la voz vicaria del traductor:\n\nDurante las comidas, Stiassny se sentaba en un extremo de la mesa, por lo general a mi lado o cerca de m\u00ed. Com\u00eda con una fruici\u00f3n que se volvi\u00f3 proverbial en casa de los t\u00edos. \u00abTraga como Stiassny\u00bb, se dec\u00eda, por ejemplo, de un caballo que hab\u00eda dejado de comer por estar enfermo y ya empezaba a recuperarse. Por m\u00e1s que su apetito me chocara, no pod\u00eda dejar de mirar a Stiassny de reojo. Ve\u00eda ese perfil noble, de rasgos hermosos, sensible, mimado, que tragaba como un animal. En ocasiones com\u00eda compulsivamente; en forma casi maquinal, daba cuenta de toda clase de platos, en cantidades insospechadas. Esto me deparaba un oscuro placer, semejante al de los cuadros manieristas donde la belleza aparece junto a su oscuro rev\u00e9s. Stiassny era demasiado sensible para no advertir mis miradas furtivas. Con implacable constancia me sorprend\u00eda cuando menos lo esperaba; entonces se volv\u00eda hacia m\u00ed y me ofrec\u00eda, por as\u00ed decirlo, su repulsi\u00f3n en face: posaba para m\u00ed con una sonrisa de perverso entendimiento, como si supiera que \u00e9ramos c\u00f3mplices del mismo vicio.\n\nEs interesante la forma en que alguien que jam\u00e1s escribir\u00eda por decisi\u00f3n propia con demorado deleite y giros tentativos como \u00abpor as\u00ed decirlo\u00bb, expanda su lengua a trav\u00e9s de una obsesi\u00f3n estil\u00edstica ajena.\n\nA prop\u00f3sito de sus muchas traducciones, Jos\u00e9 An\u00edbal Campos comenta que la m\u00e1s insoportablemente dif\u00edcil fue la teolog\u00eda del papa Joseph Ratzinger y la m\u00e1s disfrutablemente dif\u00edcil _Edipo en Stalingrado_ , de Gregor von Rezzori. Comparto su sensaci\u00f3n de placer y esfuerzo.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de dedicarme a la detallada resurrecci\u00f3n de la Bucovina de entreguerras, mi siguiente proyecto se orient\u00f3 al otro extremo: el misterio de la brevedad.\n\nAlejandro Rossi escrib\u00eda una columna mensual en _Vuelta_. Formado como fil\u00f3sofo, ofrec\u00eda textos miscel\u00e1neos donde la reflexi\u00f3n se mezclaba con situaciones narrativas. En una ocasi\u00f3n no encontr\u00f3 tema y decidi\u00f3 desaparecer bajo el disfraz de otro: tradujo del italiano un pu\u00f1ado de aforismos de Georg Christoph Lichtenberg. Fue un descubrimiento cardinal para m\u00ed. Busqu\u00e9 m\u00e1s cosas del autor. Hall\u00e9 algunos aforismos en la _Antolog\u00eda del humor negro_ preparada por Andr\u00e9 Breton y una brev\u00edsima selecci\u00f3n de sus textos publicada en Argentina por Ediciones Br\u00fajula, posiblemente traducida del franc\u00e9s.\n\nLa reputaci\u00f3n de Lichtenberg era enorme. Freud, Nietzsche y Goethe lo citaban. En nuestra lengua, apenas se le conoc\u00eda. Guillermo Cabrera Infante escribi\u00f3 un art\u00edculo pidiendo tener mayor acceso a su obra. El t\u00edtulo parodiaba el _\u00abmehr Licht\u00bb_ (\u00abm\u00e1s luz\u00bb) de Goethe: _\u00abMehr_ Lichtenberg!\u00bb.\n\nDurante dos a\u00f1os (1987-1989) me dediqu\u00e9 a buscar ediciones de y sobre Lichtenberg. La tarea no era f\u00e1cil en tiempos anteriores a internet y sin acceso a buenas bibliotecas alemanas.\n\nLichtenberg representa una de las m\u00e1s fecundas vertientes de la Ilustraci\u00f3n. Su sentido cr\u00edtico incluye la tolerancia de las debilidades ajenas. La iron\u00eda, el ingenio, la curiosidad irrestricta, la independencia de pensamiento y la versatilidad de estilo hicieron que se convirtiera para m\u00ed en un modelo de escritura.\n\nAunque public\u00f3 tratados cient\u00edficos y textos de divulgaci\u00f3n sobre variad\u00edsimos asuntos, sus p\u00e1ginas m\u00e1s significativas tuvieron car\u00e1cter privado. Al final del d\u00eda anotaba ideas en sus _Sudelb\u00fccher_ , \u00ablibros de saldos\u00bb donde llevaba los haberes y deberes de su mente. El hecho de que se tratara de apuntes privados, sin otro destinatario que \u00e9l mismo, hizo que quedaran sin corregir. Cuando un paisaje le parec\u00eda abstruso se limitaba a agregar: \u00abYo me entiendo.\u00bb A veces a una palabra le falta una letra y puede significar dos cosas diferentes.\n\nEn este caso, traducir significaba conjeturar un sentido que no acaba de cristalizar en la frase. Mi edici\u00f3n de los _Aforismos_ apareci\u00f3 en 1989, tres a\u00f1os antes de que Wolfgang Promies publicara en la editorial Hanser la edici\u00f3n definitiva de las _Obras completas_ de Lichtenberg. Pocos meses despu\u00e9s de mi versi\u00f3n apareci\u00f3 la de Juan del Solar, excelente traductor peruano afincado en Sitges. Es interesante cotejar ambos traslados. Del Solar es un traductor m\u00e1s pr\u00f3ximo al original; yo procuro aumentar las libertades del texto de llegada (espero que sin alterar el sentido). Su ordenaci\u00f3n es cronol\u00f3gica, lo cual enfatiza su sobriedad; la m\u00eda es tem\u00e1tica, lo que refuerza mi lectura personal.\n\nLichtenberg repar\u00f3 en la paradoja de que las traducciones literales casi siempre son malas. A fuerza de acercarse a un texto ajeno, se pierde el ritmo y la naturaleza del propio idioma. Uno de sus m\u00e1s c\u00e9lebres aforismos repara en la subjetividad inevitable que cada lector agrega al texto: \u00abUn libro es como un espejo: si un mono se asoma a \u00e9l, no puede ver reflejado a un ap\u00f3stol.\u00bb\n\nLa frase anticipaba mi siguiente escala en la traducci\u00f3n, que iba a depender m\u00e1s de las alusiones que del sentido evidente del texto. El director de teatro Ludwik Margules me propuso enfrentar a Heiner M\u00fcller. Durante mis tres a\u00f1os en Berl\u00edn Oriental vi muchas de sus obras y admiraba la fuerza deliberadamente oculta de su lenguaje. M\u00fcller fue un maestro de la sugerencia. Como los dem\u00e1s autores de la RDA, deb\u00eda sortear la censura y procuraba que lo m\u00e1s significativo ocurriera entre l\u00edneas.\n\n_Cuarteto_ , la pieza que traduje, se basa en _Las relaciones peligrosas_ , de Choderlos de Laclos. M\u00fcller combina la obscenidad y el oprobio de los cuarteles y las tabernas del siglo XX con la ret\u00f3rica de la Ilustraci\u00f3n. El resultado es una enrarecida po\u00e9tica. La literatura en lengua espa\u00f1ola del siglo XVIII no es tan potente como la alemana; carecemos, como se\u00f1alaba Octavio Paz, de una Ilustraci\u00f3n literaria. Nuestro XVIII no tuvo tantas luces. Para crear un efecto equivalente al de M\u00fcller acud\u00ed a giros de nuestra m\u00e1s conocida edad cl\u00e1sica, el Siglo de Oro. Reproduzco un pasaje donde la condesa de Merteuil se dirige en forma imaginaria a su pupila Madame Tourvel como lo har\u00eda Valmont, amante de ambas:\n\n\u00a1En qu\u00e9 suciedad he medrado! \u00a1Qu\u00e9 arte del disimulo! \u00a1Qu\u00e9 depravaci\u00f3n! \u00a1Pecados como escarlatina! La sola vista de una mujer hermosa, y ni siquiera una mujer, \u00a1el trasero de una criada bastaba para transformarme en animal de presa! Un precipicio, madame. \u00bfDesea echar un vistazo, o mejor dicho, desea usted bajar la vista desde la cima de su virtud? Veo que se ruboriza. \u00a1C\u00f3mo sube el rojo a sus mejillas, amada m\u00eda! Qu\u00e9 bien le sienta. \u00bfDe d\u00f3nde toma su fantas\u00eda los colores para pintar mis vicios? \u00bfAcaso del sacramento del matrimonio, con el que cre\u00eda acorazarse contra la mundana violencia de la seducci\u00f3n? [...] Su rubor me permite al menos suponer que tiene sangre en las venas. \u00a1Sangre! El triste destino de no ser el primero. No me haga pensar en ello. Aunque se abriera las venas por m\u00ed, toda esa sangre no podr\u00eda compensar su boda: alguien se anticip\u00f3 para siempre. El momento irrecuperable. La mortal singularidad del parpadeo. Etc\u00e9tera.\n\nEl trabajo con Margules en _Cuarteto_ me hizo volver a Schnitzler y su idea de la voz hablada. Me interesaba como dramaturgo (una de mis ilusiones canceladas fue la traducci\u00f3n de _La cacat\u00faa verde_ , singular expresi\u00f3n del teatro dentro del teatro), pero, sobre todo, me deslumbraba el mon\u00f3logo donde se anticip\u00f3 a Joyce en la t\u00e9cnica del _stream of consciousness: El teniente Gustl_.\n\nFreud declar\u00f3 que nunca visit\u00f3 a Schnitzler porque tem\u00eda conocer a su doble. En su opini\u00f3n, el escritor revelaba en forma intuitiva los secretos del inconsciente. La novela breve _El teniente Gustl_ , escrita en 1900, transmite los pensamientos inconexos de un oficial del ej\u00e9rcito austroh\u00fangaro que pasa la noche en vela, repasando un episodio en el que se comport\u00f3 con cobard\u00eda. El logro maestro de Schnitzler consiste en hacer que el lector entienda lo contrario de lo que dice el personaje. Al tratar de justificarse, Gustl se incrimina.\n\nPara traducir el mecanismo de asociaci\u00f3n libre de ideas se requiere de un idioma espont\u00e1neo. Ante un desaf\u00edo as\u00ed, el reflejo instintivo del traductor es el de usar coloquialismos para sonar natural. Esto ha dado lugar a peculiares versiones de la obra. El espa\u00f1ol Miguel \u00c1ngel Vega hizo una muy correcta de _El teniente Gustl_ y aport\u00f3 valiosas notas aclaratorias, pero cedi\u00f3 a localismos que expulsan a los lectores de los dem\u00e1s pa\u00edses hispanohablantes. Un tipo fornido es descrito como \u00abun cachas\u00bb y la frase \u00abBokorny sigue en Sambor y tal vez se quede otros diez a\u00f1os ah\u00ed, cada vez m\u00e1s viejo y canoso\u00bb se espa\u00f1oliza de la siguiente manera: \u00abEl Bokorny est\u00e1 todav\u00eda en Sambor y puede chuparse diez a\u00f1os hasta hacerse viejo.\u00bb Solo en Espa\u00f1a los a\u00f1os se chupan.\n\nUno de los mayores logros de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua fue el de introducir en el diccionario la palabra \u00abespa\u00f1olismo\u00bb. Los usos asentados en Espa\u00f1a no necesariamente son correctos o generalizables.\n\nToda versi\u00f3n tiene algo impuro. Sin embargo, es posible aspirar a un tono com\u00fan, a la conjetura de una lengua \u00abneutra\u00bb. El reto se complica cuando el texto en cuesti\u00f3n pone en juego un idioma improvisado, roto, inconexo y coloquial, que sigue el desordenado fluir de la conciencia. Es el caso de _El teniente Gustl_ , mon\u00f3logo que reclama el reto \u00ablaborioso\u00bb de la naturalidad, como dir\u00eda Marietta Gargatagli.\n\nEn vez de aportar otra versi\u00f3n regional del texto, me propuse crear una ilusi\u00f3n de espontaneidad que pudiera ser compartida por cualquier hispanohablante. La voz narrativa deb\u00eda circular con inmediata sencillez y al mismo tiempo conservar la expresividad de lo que es tentativo y no ha sido repensado: \u00abSi llegaras a cumplir cien a\u00f1os y recordaras que alguien parti\u00f3 tu sable y te llam\u00f3 \"imb\u00e9cil\" y te quedaste ah\u00ed, sin poder hacer nada... No, no hay nada que reflexionar... a lo hecho, pecho... tambi\u00e9n lo de mam\u00e1 y Klara es una tonter\u00eda... ya lo superar\u00e1n, todo se supera... \u00a1C\u00f3mo llor\u00f3 mam\u00e1 cuando muri\u00f3 su hermano y a las cuatro semanas ya no pensaba en eso!... Sol\u00eda ir al cementerio... primero cada semana, luego cada mes... y ahora solo va en el aniversario de su muerte... Ma\u00f1ana es el d\u00eda de mi muerte... Cinco de abril.\u00bb\n\nUna creciente pasi\u00f3n por la dramaturgia, es decir, por la voz hablada y las apariencias de naturalidad que puede adoptar, me llev\u00f3 a aceptar en 2009 una encomienda desmesurada: traducir y adaptar _Egmont_ , de Goethe, para la Compa\u00f1\u00eda Nacional de Teatro.\n\nEl estreno de la obra en 2010, a doscientos a\u00f1os de nuestra Independencia, mostraba la pertinencia contempor\u00e1nea del pasado. Egmont, noble holand\u00e9s que lucha por la autodeterminaci\u00f3n y la coexistencia de distintas religiones, es perseguido y ultimado por las tropas de Felipe II. La actualidad de la trama se volvi\u00f3 a\u00fan m\u00e1s curiosa porque los pa\u00edses que disputan en escena, Holanda y Espa\u00f1a, llegaron ese a\u00f1o a la final de la Copa del Mundo en Sud\u00e1frica.\n\nEl arte no prospera sin atrevimientos. Uno, no necesariamente perdonable, es el de retocar a Goethe. Para hacerlo, contaba con un aliciente decisivo: _Egmont_ es una obra fallida. Goethe lo entendi\u00f3 as\u00ed y busc\u00f3 auxilio en la m\u00fasica de Beethoven. La asociaci\u00f3n de titanes no lleg\u00f3 a buen t\u00e9rmino. Tranquiliza adentrarse en un proyecto en el que fracasaron predecesores tan ilustres. _Egmont_ solo tuvo fortuna en la versi\u00f3n de Schiller, propiciada por el propio Goethe.\n\nLa reescritura de material ajeno seduc\u00eda a Goethe. En alg\u00fan momento pens\u00f3 en reescribir el _Dux de Venecia_ , de Lord Byron, que le parec\u00eda una obra extraordinaria pero demasiado extensa, prolija, falta de efecto dram\u00e1tico. Lo mismo puede decirse de _Egmont_ , cuyo montaje \u00edntegro dura cinco horas. Goethe no pensaba alterar los parlamentos de Byron ni suprimir escenas o personajes decisivos, sino resumir la obra con su propia l\u00f3gica, condensando su efecto. Segu\u00ed ese principio en mi versi\u00f3n, a diferencia de lo que hizo Schiller, quien elimina personajes decisivos, como la Regenta, protagonista del conflicto.\n\nGoethe trabaj\u00f3 de manera intermitente en _Egmont_ de 1774 a 1788. En esos catorce a\u00f1os perdi\u00f3 la fibra dram\u00e1tica e infl\u00f3 la ret\u00f3rica. Dej\u00f3 pasajes memorables para ser le\u00eddos pero dif\u00edciles de escenificar. Desde su fallido estreno, _Egmont_ surgi\u00f3 como una obra destinada a ser intervenida.\n\nEn la pieza campea un esp\u00edritu de rebeli\u00f3n. Goethe no admir\u00f3 la revoluci\u00f3n francesa. El ba\u00f1o de sangre al que llev\u00f3 el Comit\u00e9 de Salud P\u00fablica le produjo horror. No aceptaba la violencia, pero cre\u00eda en la autodeterminaci\u00f3n del pueblo. En sus conversaciones con Eckermann se\u00f1ala que si los monarcas fueran justos no habr\u00eda revueltas y precisa que todo levantamiento obedece a la injusticia de un soberano. No se entusiasma con la insurgencia, pero la acepta \u2013o, m\u00e1s precisamente, la reconoce\u2013 como una necesidad del pueblo para liberarse de la opresi\u00f3n.\n\nEn cuanto lo apresan, el rebelde es abandonado por los suyos. Solo una mujer lo defiende. En su celda, cae en la incertidumbre; no puede dormir; se sabe perdido y, pese a todo, no depone su rebeld\u00eda. Su arenga es un momento superior de la prosa alemana. M\u00e1s de medio siglo despu\u00e9s de haber aprendido \u00abH\u00e4nschen klein\u00bb, transcribo esta escena, final anhelado de mi traves\u00eda. Un preso duerme en una celda. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe le otorga libertad bajo palabra:\n\nSue\u00f1o, leal y viejo amigo, \u00bftambi\u00e9n t\u00fa me abandonas? \u00a1Con qu\u00e9 gusto descend\u00edas sobre mi mente despejada!... En medio de las armas y en la marea de la vida me entregu\u00e9 a ti tranquilamente... Cuando la tormenta agitaba el follaje, soplando entre las ramas y las hojas, mi coraz\u00f3n permanec\u00eda intacto en su interior profundo. \u00bfQu\u00e9 te inquieta ahora? \u00bfQu\u00e9 turba la firmeza y la lealtad de tu sentido? Lo s\u00e9: es el ruido del hacha letal que ya se encaja en las ra\u00edces. Todav\u00eda sigo en pie, pero un escalofr\u00edo me atraviesa. S\u00ed, triunfa la traici\u00f3n, va minando el tronco alto y recio. Antes de que la corteza se seque, la copa se desgajar\u00e1 con terrible estruendo. T\u00fa, sue\u00f1o leal, que tantas veces libraste a mi cabeza de preocupaciones poderosas como si fueran simples pompas de jab\u00f3n, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 no consigues ahuyentar ese presentimiento que de mil maneras me trabaja? \u00bfDesde cu\u00e1ndo le temes a la muerte? Enfrentabas sus variadas formas con la misma relajaci\u00f3n con que enfrentas los variados espect\u00e1culos de la Tierra... Pero no est\u00e1s ante el veloz enemigo que se enfrenta a pecho descubierto: la c\u00e1rcel es una imagen anticipada del sepulcro, tan repugnante para el h\u00e9roe como para el cobarde... No eres m\u00e1s que una imagen, el sue\u00f1o recordado de la dicha que fue m\u00eda por tanto tiempo. \u00bfAd\u00f3nde te ha llevado el traidor destino? \u00bfSe niega a concederte la muerte instant\u00e1nea que jam\u00e1s temiste, cuando pod\u00edas enfrentarla bajo el sol, y te ofrece el sabor anticipado de la tumba en el repugnante lodo del presidio? \u00a1Con qu\u00e9 asco percibo su aliento en estas piedras! La vida se adormece en este lecho como el pie en la sepultura. \u00a1Oh, zozobra!: comienzas el asesinato antes de tiempo. \u00a1D\u00e9jame! \u00bfDesde cu\u00e1ndo Egmont est\u00e1 solo, completamente solo? La dicha que nunca pudo desarmarte es vencida por la duda. La justicia del Rey, en quien confiaste toda la vida, la amistad de la Regenta que \u2013ahora puedes confesarlo\u2013 casi parec\u00eda amor, \u00bfhan desaparecido de repente como brillantes meteoros de la noche para dejarte solo en una senda oscura?... \u00a1Oh, muros que me apresan, no impidan que lleguen hasta m\u00ed los impulsos de tantos esp\u00edritus bien intencionados! El valor que una vez sali\u00f3 de mis ojos hacia ellos regresar\u00e1 desde su coraz\u00f3n al m\u00edo. \u00a1S\u00ed, se movilizan por millares! Vienen a ponerse de mi lado. Su piadosa s\u00faplica sube al cielo en busca de un milagro. Si un \u00e1ngel no desciende para ponerme a salvo, empu\u00f1ar\u00e1n lanzas y espadas. Por sus manos las puertas saltan en pedazos, las cadenas revientan, los muros se derrumban y la libertad del nuevo d\u00eda saluda alegremente a Egmont. \u00a1Cu\u00e1ntos rostros conocidos vienen gozos a mi encuentro! Ay, Clara, si fueras hombre seguramente llegar\u00edas aqu\u00ed antes que nadie y tendr\u00eda que agradecerte lo que es dif\u00edcil agradecer a un Rey: la libertad. \n\n### LA PLUMA Y EL BISTUR\u00cd\n\nLiteratura y enfermedad\n\nUn hombre entra a un cuarto y enfrenta a un desconocido que lo escruta con ojos \u00e1vidos que buscan s\u00edntomas, el modo en que la vida dirime sus cuentas con la muerte. El testigo de ese cuerpo puede ser por igual un m\u00e9dico o un escritor: trazar un diagn\u00f3stico significa construir un destino. Uno indaga las condiciones de un organismo; otro, sus posibilidades imaginarias.\n\nLa casa museo dedicada a Gustave Flaubert en Ru\u00e1n es, simult\u00e1neamente, una galer\u00eda donde se exhiben recuerdos del novelista y los instrumentos de cirug\u00eda de su padre, m\u00e9dico de renombre en la Normand\u00eda del siglo XIX. Ambas profesiones est\u00e1n menos lejos de lo que podr\u00eda pensarse. En _La org\u00eda perpetua_ , su vasto ensayo sobre Flaubert, Mario Vargas Llosa encomia la precisi\u00f3n quir\u00fargica en la prosa del autor de _Madame Bovary_.\n\nFlaubert tuvo una convulsa relaci\u00f3n con su padre y no era muy afecto al oficio de la medicina, que adjudic\u00f3 a su protagonista, Charles Bovary. Sin embargo, sublim\u00f3 estas tensiones diseccionando manuscritos con ins\u00f3lita disciplina. Nada m\u00e1s l\u00f3gico que la casa museo albergue el instrumental cl\u00ednico que el novelista utiliz\u00f3 por otros medios.\n\nLa cirug\u00eda es una forma de la escritura, seg\u00fan revela una escena de la vida del dramaturgo ingl\u00e9s Tom Stoppard. Nacido en 1937, en la comunidad jud\u00eda de Checoslovaquia, Stoppard sufri\u00f3 la persecuci\u00f3n nazi. Su padre, que era m\u00e9dico, fue arrestado y conducido a un campo de exterminio. La familia huy\u00f3 con lo que ten\u00eda puesto, sin guardar siquiera una foto, una carta, una prenda del padre desaparecido. El futuro dramaturgo no cont\u00f3 con un objeto que le permitiera decir: \u00abEsto le perteneci\u00f3.\u00bb Lo \u00fanico que ten\u00eda de \u00e9l eran historias. Muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s conoci\u00f3 a una mujer que hab\u00eda sido operada por su padre. Ella le mostr\u00f3 una delicada cicatriz en la mu\u00f1eca: \u00abTu pap\u00e1 hizo esto\u00bb, dijo. El escritor pidi\u00f3 permiso para tocar la herida, ya sanada, que abr\u00eda otra. Ese m\u00ednimo trazo sobre la piel era el \u00fanico legado de su padre. Fue como si recibiera una carta, firmada por su padre.\n\nEn _El cuerpo herido. Un diccionario filos\u00f3fico de la cirug\u00eda_ , el m\u00e9dico espa\u00f1ol Crist\u00f3bal Pera establece una estrecha relaci\u00f3n entre el uso del escalpelo y la escritura: \u00abEn la Medicina operatoria cl\u00e1sica se describ\u00edan, con cierto aire de virtuosismo, cinco posiciones b\u00e1sicas del bistur\u00ed, de acuerdo con la incisi\u00f3n que se iba a realizar.\u00bb Conviene detenerse en la primera de ellas: \u00abBistur\u00ed cogido entre los dedos \u00edndice, medio y pulgar como una _pluma de escribir.\u00bb_\n\nLos riesgos que derivan de los cortes m\u00e9dicos son m\u00e1s severos y evidentes que los de la mala prosa. El cuerpo no puede ser tratado como un borrador; es siempre la versi\u00f3n definitiva. Un gesto habitual del buen escritor consiste en tirar su manuscrito a la basura; el cirujano puede apostar por el riesgo, pero no desecha el material.\n\nCon frecuencia, el escritor siente que su novela no quiere ser escrita; la historia se resiste a ser contada. En forma equivalente, el cirujano debe vencer las barreras f\u00edsicas y psicol\u00f3gicas que presenta el cuerpo tratado. En tiempos anteriores a la anestesia, el cirujano requer\u00eda de un temple acorazado para soportar los gritos del paciente. En _El loro de Flaubert_ , Julian Barnes reflexiona en lo impresionante que habr\u00e1 sido para el joven escritor vivir al lado de un consultorio en tiempos en que la medicina estaba cargada de dramatismo y no era, como ahora, una sucesi\u00f3n de \u00abpastillas y burocracia\u00bb.\n\nUn largo proceso de adaptaci\u00f3n social y cultural permiti\u00f3 que la cirug\u00eda fuera vista como parte prestigiosa de la medicina. Ni Hip\u00f3crates ni Galeno hicieron disecciones. Vale la pena recordar que uno de los lemas del juramento hipocr\u00e1tico es \u00abNo usar\u00e9 el bistur\u00ed, ni siquiera en los que sufran de la piedra\u00bb. Abrir un cuerpo significaba traspasar un l\u00edmite moral. Cuando se generalizaron las sangr\u00edas, la tarea fue encomendada a los barberos y los matarifes. Durante mucho tiempo, las academias de medicina no aceptaron cirujanos. La literatura registra el largo camino de reconsideraciones que llev\u00f3 del hombre visto como carnicero al m\u00edstico interventor del cuerpo que hoy en d\u00eda maneja un Mercedes Benz. Para Cervantes, quien abre un cuerpo est\u00e1 m\u00e1s cerca del rastro que del hospital; en cambio, a mediados del siglo XX, Frigyes Karinthy narra con idol\u00e1trica admiraci\u00f3n la forma en que fue operado por el neurocirujano sueco Olivecrona en su deleitable _Viaje en torno a mi cerebro_.\n\nUna frase de Anax\u00e1goras sirve para encomiar los m\u00e9ritos de la cirug\u00eda: \u00abEl hombre piensa porque tiene manos.\u00bb Los imperativos manuales y la indiscutible habilidad de los dedos obligan a tomar decisiones. El intelecto se desarrolla si tiene un objetivo pr\u00e1ctico. Esto se aplica al arte de cortar un cuerpo y al de deslizar la pluma sobre el papel. Ciertas ideas provienen del contacto con los materiales. Frente al teclado o la p\u00e1gina, el novelista tiene una concepci\u00f3n de lo que desea escribir, pero la caligraf\u00eda y la percusi\u00f3n sobre las teclas descubren otra textura en el idioma, una sorpresa en el ritmo, un desconocido giro en la historia. El sentido profundo del oficio no puede ser anticipado y aparece en la pr\u00e1ctica. Lo mismo sucede con la cirug\u00eda, que no se limita a seguir un patr\u00f3n sino que explora y cambia de rumbo de acuerdo con lo que encuentra. No es casual que un m\u00e9dico escritor, Ant\u00f3nio Lobo Antunes, haya comentado que los mejores textos no provienen de la cabeza sino de la mano, cuando el autor agota sus prenociones, olvida lo que \u00abpensaba escribir\u00bb y se deja llevar por un procedimiento m\u00e1s \u00edntimo, el contacto directo con su material: \u00abEl hombre piensa porque tiene manos.\u00bb\n\nAl respecto, el fil\u00f3sofo Emilio Lled\u00f3 escribe: \u00abLa cita de Anax\u00e1goras es, pues, algo m\u00e1s que una brillante met\u00e1fora. Ese mundo de la posibilidad que las manos abren empieza a ser creaci\u00f3n de ellas. La sorprendente plasticidad de esa parte de nuestro cuerpo deja aparecer, entre sus dedos, m\u00faltiples formas del mundo, las estructuras de la realidad que se adecuan a la diversa y palpitante concavidad que las recibe y las modula.\u00bb En otras palabras, el tacto ofrece un viaje de ida y vuelta entre lo que pensamos y lo que constatamos; la mano y el cerebro resuelven juntos algo que no podr\u00edan hacer por separado.\n\nCatedr\u00e1tico de Cirug\u00eda de la Universidad de Barcelona, Crist\u00f3bal Pera se\u00f1ala que, etimol\u00f3gicamente, la palabra \u00abcirug\u00eda\u00bb se refiere a \u00abhacer algo con las manos\u00bb, \u00abpracticar un arte\u00bb e incluso \u00abta\u00f1er un instrumento\u00bb. La repulsa que causaba el oficio en sus sangrientos inicios mejor\u00f3 notablemente con la invenci\u00f3n de la anestesia en la segunda mitad del siglo XIX. La lucha cuerpo a cuerpo con el paciente que gritaba y padec\u00eda estertores desapareci\u00f3 con el uso m\u00e9dico del \u00e9ter. En la entrada \u00abAnestesia y cirug\u00eda\u00bb de su apasionante diccionario, Pera se\u00f1ala la modificaci\u00f3n que sobrevino con el paciente \u00abanonadado\u00bb, materia del cirujano que \u00abhiere para curar\u00bb, y recuerda que T. S. Eliot se refiere a la anestesia en un poema fundador de la modernidad, \u00abLa canci\u00f3n de amor de J. Alfred Prufrock\u00bb. Escrito entre 1910 y 1915, el texto desconcert\u00f3 a la cr\u00edtica y se\u00f1al\u00f3 nuevos derroteros para la versificaci\u00f3n. Eliot se sirve de la t\u00e9cnica del flujo de la conciencia para expresar el desasosiego de su protagonista, incapaz de descifrar los misterios del amor y la vida en com\u00fan. Escindido de los dem\u00e1s y de s\u00ed mismo, inicia su traves\u00eda ante un paisaje enfermo:\n\nVayamos entonces, t\u00fa y yo\n\nMientras la tarde se extiende en el cielo\n\nComo un paciente anestesiado sobre una mesa.\n\nEl horizonte del atribulado siglo XX es visto como una vigilia donde el sujeto se abandona a un letargo del alma, la crisis existencial que caracterizar\u00e1 las reflexiones literarias y filos\u00f3ficas de la modernidad.\n\nPero la exploraci\u00f3n interna del cuerpo no solo ha dependido de las armas blancas que se abren paso hasta llegar a las entra\u00f1as.\n\nEn sus enciclop\u00e9dicas indagaciones sobre la historia de la medicina, Ruy P\u00e9rez Tamayo se ha detenido en la figura de un m\u00e9dico bret\u00f3n cuyos muchos nombres no lograron compensar su baja estatura: Ren\u00e9 Th\u00e9ophile Hyacinthe La\u00ebnnec. El doctor recib\u00eda, sencillamente, el mote de \u00abPetit La\u00ebnnec\u00bb. Cirujano de enorme prestigio, tambi\u00e9n era un hombre t\u00edmido, conservador en pol\u00edtica y religi\u00f3n. En 1816 invent\u00f3 un aparato que transformar\u00eda la ciencia m\u00e9dica, el estetoscopio. La escena que inspir\u00f3 su decisiva contribuci\u00f3n parece ideada por un novelista afecto a los psicologismos. La\u00ebnnec fue visitado por una joven que ten\u00eda una afecci\u00f3n cardiaca y no pudo sobreponerse a cierto nerviosismo. El pudor fren\u00f3 al m\u00e9dico: \u00abLa edad y el sexo de la paciente me imped\u00edan la aplicaci\u00f3n directa del o\u00eddo en la regi\u00f3n precordial\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 en sus apuntes. Entonces record\u00f3 que los ni\u00f1os jugaban con un trozo de madera y que, al poner el o\u00eddo en un extremo, pod\u00edan o\u00edr el ruido de un alfiler que percut\u00eda en el otro. Fue la primera pista para inventar el estetoscopio. En forma reveladora, el est\u00edmulo vino de una reticencia moral. El talante reservado del m\u00e9dico le imped\u00eda colocar el o\u00eddo en el pecho de la chica; para descifrar la deficiencia de un coraz\u00f3n, deb\u00eda vencer las limitaciones que le impon\u00eda el suyo.\n\nLa timidez tambi\u00e9n contribuy\u00f3 a otro notable avance en la indagaci\u00f3n interna del cuerpo. Hombre taciturno y silencioso, Wilhelm Conrad R\u00f6ntgen viv\u00eda sumido en cavilaciones. Su esposa lo describ\u00eda como alguien que ni siquiera contestaba sus preguntas, aunque quiz\u00e1 en esto se parec\u00eda a muchos otros maridos. Incapaz de la extroversi\u00f3n que exige la vida mundana, el qu\u00edmico y f\u00edsico de la Universidad de W\u00fcrzburg decidi\u00f3 explorar el interior del cuerpo e invent\u00f3 los rayos X. En 1901 recibi\u00f3 el primer Premio Nobel de F\u00edsica, que don\u00f3 a su universidad. Se neg\u00f3 a patentar su invento y dej\u00f3 escrito que los rayos X no llevaran su nombre. Alemania lo desobedeci\u00f3 con orgullo y cre\u00f3 una palabra compuesta para honrarlo: _R\u00f6ntgenstrahlung_. Adem\u00e1s, desde 1991 un asteroide se apellida como \u00e9l. La excepcional trayectoria \u00e9tica y cient\u00edfica de R\u00f6ntgen transform\u00f3 la percepci\u00f3n del cuerpo en un sentido cl\u00ednico pero tambi\u00e9n cultural: el organismo adquiri\u00f3 un \u00abadentro\u00bb. La cirug\u00eda, el estetoscopio y la radiograf\u00eda alteraron radicalmente la concepci\u00f3n de lo que somos, lo cual repercuti\u00f3 en las letras.\n\n\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 forma nos reconocemos? La percepci\u00f3n de nosotros mismos entra\u00f1a una paradoja. El espejo permite que sepamos qui\u00e9nes somos. Lo extra\u00f1o es que la _certeza de ser_ proviene de un reflejo, una imagen externa. En rigor, la identidad no est\u00e1 en el cuerpo. Identifico mi cara lejos de mi cara.\n\nNos reconocemos por fuera pero nos entendemos por dentro. \u00abCon\u00f3cete a ti mismo\u00bb, el lema escrito en el templo de Apolo en Delfos, no invita a revisar el estado de las u\u00f1as sino de las emociones y las ideas.\n\nLa historia de la narrativa es la de una progresiva interiorizaci\u00f3n de los personajes. Tuvieron que pasar milenios para que el desconocido que habla de s\u00ed mismo en primera persona pudiera ser visto como un sujeto ficticio y no como alguien que rinde un testimonio real. Para llegar a esa voz interior, fue necesaria una conquista previa: el progresivo acercamiento a la intimidad f\u00edsica. En _Anna Kar\u00e9nina_ , Tolst\u00f3i narra un parto con una exactitud cl\u00ednica impensable incluso en escritores tan cercanos al cuerpo como Boccaccio o Cervantes. El entendimiento del cuerpo y sus funciones represent\u00f3 una larga preparaci\u00f3n para comprender los trabajos de la mente.\n\nLa novela moderna se ha volcado en la exploraci\u00f3n del \u00abyo\u00bb, que incluye no solo los pensamientos estructurados sino el delirio, la asociaci\u00f3n libre, el sinsentido, el disparate, el olvido, los falsos recuerdos y otros recursos o perturbaciones del campo cerebral. Nada de esto habr\u00eda sido posible sin la conquista paralela que la medicina hizo del interior del cuerpo, del estetoscopio a los rayos X, pasando por la cirug\u00eda.\n\nEs posible que la literatura practique hoy en d\u00eda una variante arcaica del trato m\u00e9dico, cuando los s\u00edntomas no depend\u00edan de an\u00e1lisis ni ultrasonidos sino de un conocimiento amplio del paciente y sus costumbres. La novela es un consultorio donde el doctor todav\u00eda tiene tiempo disponible. \u00bfHasta qu\u00e9 punto la medicina ha perdido la visi\u00f3n de conjunto?\n\nRuy P\u00e9rez Tamayo preconiza el conocimiento global de la enfermedad. En _Las transformaciones de la medicina_ , afirma: \u00abEl m\u00e9dico que no atiende al _padecimiento_ integral de su paciente, sino que se limita y conforma con diagnosticar y tratar su enfermedad, o que lo abandona cuando ya ha agotado sus recursos curativos y paliativos, comete una grave falta de \u00e9tica _m\u00e9dica_ porque est\u00e1 ignorando los objetivos espec\u00edficos de su profesi\u00f3n, y no solo es un m\u00e9dico malo y un mal m\u00e9dico, sino que es tambi\u00e9n un m\u00e9dico inmoral.\u00bb\n\nEn gran medida, la p\u00e9rdida de una concepci\u00f3n amplia del contexto y la circunstancia en que vive un cuerpo proviene de la excesiva especializaci\u00f3n. En su ponencia en el Congreso Mundial de Cardiolog\u00eda de Bruselas, en 1958, Ignacio Ch\u00e1vez se\u00f1al\u00f3: \u00abEs cierto que la especializaci\u00f3n trae en su interior una enorme fuerza expansiva de progreso, responsable en buena parte del avance espectacular que estamos presenciando; pero tambi\u00e9n contiene el germen de una regresi\u00f3n en el orden intelectual y espiritual. Especializaci\u00f3n quiere decir fragmentaci\u00f3n, visi\u00f3n parcial, limitaci\u00f3n de nuestro horizonte. Lo que se gana en hondura se pierde en extensi\u00f3n.\u00bb\n\nA medio camino entre la ciencia y el arte, la medicina est\u00e1 nimbada de s\u00edmbolos. La bata blanca y el caduceo sobre el escritorio transmiten la autoridad que dimana de la investidura y el talism\u00e1n, y resulta innegable que la sala de operaciones tiene mucho de ritual.\n\nEn un entorno guiado por el conocimiento objetivo y apoyado en la tecnolog\u00eda, el m\u00e9dico tambi\u00e9n depende de una fuerza excepcional e indefinible, la intuici\u00f3n, que en ocasiones se describe como \u00abolfato cl\u00ednico\u00bb o \u00abcapacidad de diagn\u00f3stico\u00bb. El escritor act\u00faa en forma parecida al situarse mentalmente en la piel de otra persona y acaso prolongue cierto h\u00e1bitos de los viejos m\u00e9dicos, que hac\u00edan visitas a domicilio y entend\u00edan la conversaci\u00f3n como un dilatado recurso para trazar la historia cl\u00ednica (hablar del malestar, precisarlo a fuerza de tanteos, era, en s\u00ed mismo, un acto curativo).\n\nENFERMEDADES LITERARIAS\n\nLa ficci\u00f3n encuentra en los malestares signos de car\u00e1cter. Si el rapsoda griego describ\u00eda a sus h\u00e9roes con atributos legendarios (el Domador de Caballos, el de los Pies Alados), el novelista contempor\u00e1neo se ocupa de neur\u00f3ticos que encienden un cigarro con el \u00e1nimo de dejar de fumar o adictos que buscan prevenir la \u00falcera mezclando el whisky con Pepto-Bismol.\n\nLas disfunciones y los calambres brindan se\u00f1as de identidad. En su ensayo sobre Goethe y Tolst\u00f3i, Thomas Mann se\u00f1ala: \u00abEl esp\u00edritu es la enfermedad.\u00bb La salud inquebrantable borra la relaci\u00f3n con el cuerpo. En cambio, a partir de los 37 grados de temperatura, en el vacilante umbral de la febr\u00edcula, perdemos la confianza en el organismo y pasamos al territorio del anhelo y el nerviosismo. El esp\u00edritu despierta cuando necesita aspirinas.\n\nNumerosos artistas se han servido de dolencias para descubrir su sensibilidad. Un narrador con mala vista puede prestar especial atenci\u00f3n al o\u00eddo.\n\nEl m\u00e9dico Adolfo Mart\u00ednez Palomo se ha dado a la tarea de escribir las historias cl\u00ednicas de los grandes compositores. Al abordar el caso de Robert Schumann, se refiere al tr\u00e1nsito bipolar del entusiasmo al abatimiento y de la creatividad al malestar: \u00abLa biograf\u00eda m\u00e9dica de Schumann no debe interpretarse como el estigma de una enfermedad mental que afect\u00f3 a un gran artista, sino, al contrario, como el ejemplo de un genio que pudo sobreponerse a los efectos negativos del padecimiento y tal vez logr\u00f3 utilizar las fases de exaltaci\u00f3n mental de su enfermedad para ofrecer al mundo una de las obras art\u00edsticas m\u00e1s originales\u00bb, comenta en _M\u00fasicos y medicina_.\n\nEl caso del poeta Giacomo Leopardi es semejante. Un hombre p\u00e1lido, jorobado, con toda suerte de quebrantos f\u00edsicos, consagrado a las tareas inm\u00f3viles de quien lee y escribe con poca luz. Resulta imposible saber si se dedic\u00f3 al arte a causa de su mala salud o si enferm\u00f3 por dedicarse al arte.\n\nLas molestias minan el organismo y despiertan otro sentido de la percepci\u00f3n, tan agudo que el alivio puede ser percibido como una p\u00e9rdida; recuperar la salud representa en este caso una puesta en blanco, una ausencia de s\u00edntomas, el grado cero de la experiencia sensorial.\n\nLa obra entera de Juan Jos\u00e9 Mill\u00e1s es un tratado sobre la mente y el cuerpo. Sus personajes no necesitan un mal mayor para mezclar la imaginaci\u00f3n con la fisiolog\u00eda; el dato m\u00e1s nimio puede llevarlos a un v\u00e9rtigo especulativo que trastoca la percepci\u00f3n de la realidad. En estas circunstancias, la curaci\u00f3n rebaja la conciencia y la sit\u00faa en un plano inferior: \u00abLo peor de la gripe no es lo que te da cuando viene sino lo que te quita cuando se va\u00bb, escribe Mill\u00e1s. El bienestar recuperado le provoca cierta nostalgia. Cuando el catarro termina, algo falta: \u00abLa gripe se hab\u00eda llevado el 80 % de m\u00ed al desaparecer.\u00bb\n\nEl cuerpo debilitado adquiere m\u00e9ritos de centinela. La literatura, nunca ajena al narcisismo, abunda en vanidosos del dolor que no hacen otra cosa que estudiar sus llagas. Por suerte, tambi\u00e9n existen los malestares de los otros. En las narraciones protagonizadas por m\u00e9dicos _(Semmelweis_ , de Louis-Ferdinand C\u00e9line; _La ciudadela_ , de A. J. Cronin; _Arrowsmith_ , de Sinclair Lewis), los s\u00edntomas son el alfabeto del mundo; los dem\u00e1s se entienden por sus carencias.\n\nSi un escritor mira el mundo a trav\u00e9s de un protagonista que se dedica a la medicina, debe dotarlo de una mente adiestrada por su oficio. El internista que asiste a una cena distingue manchas en la piel de los comensales, la falta de firmeza en el pulso, una extra\u00f1a coloraci\u00f3n en lo blanco del ojo, la preocupante forma de un lunar, signos que para los dem\u00e1s pueden pasar inadvertidos. Al ver un \u00e1rbol, un carpintero intuye una mesa. El m\u00e9dico tiene el privilegio, por momentos agobiante, de encontrar _algo m\u00e1s_ en las personas que frecuenta, su posible historia cl\u00ednica. La mirada literaria busca una aproximaci\u00f3n similar.\n\nEl m\u00f3rbido acercamiento a los dem\u00e1s puede producir declaraciones de amor que sean un parte m\u00e9dico. En un hospital para tuberculosos, el sedante cautiverio de _La monta\u00f1a m\u00e1gica_ , el alem\u00e1n Hans Castorp se le declara a la rusa Claudia en franc\u00e9s para mitigar los nervios de hablar en su propio idioma. De modo significativo, esta lengua lo lleva a una cercan\u00eda anat\u00f3mica: Castorp habla de la oxidaci\u00f3n de la comida en el intestino y el trabajo triunfal de las gl\u00e1ndulas seb\u00e1ceas en el cuerpo idolatrado. El protagonista de Thomas Mann adora lo que nunca podr\u00e1 ver en su amada, su confuso interior.\n\nEsto recuerda el \u00abSoneto a tus v\u00edsceras\u00bb, de Baldomero Fern\u00e1ndez Moreno, m\u00e9dico y poeta argentino de principios del siglo XX:\n\nHarto ya de alabar tu piel dorada,\n\ntus externas y muchas perfecciones,\n\ncanto al jard\u00edn azul de tus pulmones\n\ny a tu tr\u00e1quea elegante y anillada.\n\nCanto a tu masa intestinal rosada,\n\nal bazo, al p\u00e1ncreas, a los epiplones,\n\nal doble filtro gris de tus ri\u00f1ones,\n\ny a tu matriz, profunda y renovada.\n\nCanto al tu\u00e9tano dulce de tus huesos,\n\na la linfa que embebe tus tejidos,\n\nal acre olor org\u00e1nico que exhalas.\n\nQuiero gastar tus v\u00edsceras a besos,\n\nvivir dentro de ti con mis sentidos...\n\nYo soy un sapo negro con dos alas.\n\nEn la novela _Lolita_ , Humbert Humbert comparte esta insaciable sed de interioridad. Asesino enamorado de una n\u00ednfula de doce a\u00f1os, Humbert lamenta no poder gozar de los encantos subcut\u00e1neos de su amada: \u00abMi \u00fanico reparo contra la naturaleza era que no pod\u00eda volver del rev\u00e9s a Lolita y aplicar mis labios voraces a su coraz\u00f3n desconocido, a su h\u00edgado nacarado, a las esponjas de sus pulmones, a sus graciosos ri\u00f1ones gemelos.\u00bb\n\nComo es de suponerse, no todos los amantes literarios comparten tal fervor de bistur\u00ed; a algunos les basta un peque\u00f1o rasgo f\u00edsico para definir su objeto del deseo. Este detalle suele ser una dolencia, un diente desviado, una cicatriz inconfundible: las carencias individualizan.\n\nCuando la fisura ata\u00f1e a la persona amada, adquiere otro valor. Una escena de _Muerte en Venecia_ ilustra la forma en que una deficiencia pone a prueba y refuerza el deseo. Aschenbach coincide con su idolatrado Tadzio en un elevador. Hasta ese momento, la belleza del muchacho desconcierta al protagonista. Escritor en el ocaso de su vida, Aschenbach no hab\u00eda sentido ninguna veleidad homosexual. De pronto, se obsesiona con un chico que representa la fuerza de la vida y la naturaleza, y quiz\u00e1 tambi\u00e9n la genuina tendencia sexual que \u00e9l reprimi\u00f3 hasta entonces. En el espacio enclaustrado del elevador, siente la tensi\u00f3n de estar a solas y en proximidad con el muchacho y por primera vez observa de cerca su sonrisa: los dientes del \u00e1ngel \u00abno son del todo impecables\u00bb. Esto no disminuye su fascinaci\u00f3n; le da otro sesgo: la sonrisa turbia de Tadzio lo vuelve pr\u00f3ximo, vulnerable; deja de ser un absoluto, el tir\u00e1nico emblema de la perfecci\u00f3n. En el ascensor, _desciende_ hacia Aschenbach, quien, muy a la manera de Mann, vive entregado a un \u00abhero\u00edsmo de la debilidad\u00bb.\n\n\u00abEn cuanto se padece un defecto, se tiene una opini\u00f3n propia\u00bb, escribi\u00f3 Lichtenberg en el siglo XVIII para oponerse a los fisiogn\u00f3micos convencidos de que la belleza era un atributo moral y la fealdad inclinaba a cometer actos de villan\u00eda.\n\nLos malestares mitigan la soberbia humana. Por m\u00e1s sublime que sea, toda persona tiene un est\u00f3mago sujeto a c\u00f3licos, empachos y retortijones. La s\u00e1tira le debe mucho a la contradicci\u00f3n entre la mente y el cuerpo: alguien se cree estupendo, pero de pronto estornuda y suelta un moco. Esto lo humaniza en forma c\u00f3mica.\n\nLa literatura evita a los medallistas ol\u00edmpicos y se concentra en los incapaces. Los mejores relatos sobre el deporte se desprenden de una lesi\u00f3n, una apuesta arreglada, un fracaso posible. Los campeones que baten r\u00e9cords y anuncian desodorante no producen buenas tramas.\n\n\u00c1lvaro Mutis brinda un compendio de la devastaci\u00f3n corporal en _Rese\u00f1a de los Hospitales de Ultramar_. Ah\u00ed, las debilidades f\u00edsicas se transforman en principio po\u00e9tico:\n\nUna gran hambre que aplaca la fiebre y la esconde en la dulce cera de los ganglios [...].\n\nLa desaparici\u00f3n de los pies como \u00faltima consecuencia de su vegetal mutaci\u00f3n en desobediente materia tranquila [...].\n\nUn apetito f\u00e1cil por ciertos dulces de maicena te\u00f1ida de rosa y que evocan la palabra _Marianao_.\n\nLa divisi\u00f3n del sue\u00f1o entre la vida del colegio y ciertas frescas sepulturas.\n\nLos impedimentos f\u00edsicos y mentales registrados por la literatura dan para llenar varias bibliotecas. Menos estudiada es la paradoja m\u00e9dica que podr\u00edamos llamar \u00abexceso de salud\u00bb. El neur\u00f3logo Oliver Sacks observ\u00f3 que ciertas disfunciones comienzan con una sospechosa sensaci\u00f3n de bienestar. La salud solo se percibe cuando falta; desde el punto de vista psicol\u00f3gico tiene un contenido neutro, es un componente invisible, que no puede ser medido ni razonado. Por ello, cuando se presenta como un sobrante y un personaje cobra conciencia del magn\u00edfico estado de su cuerpo, el desastre se avecina. Algunas de las escenas m\u00e1s logradas de la literatura dependen de ese contraste. Si una v\u00edctima de Kafka se siente bien, llega una orden de captura; si un h\u00e9roe de Dostoievski alcanza un \u00e9xtasis extremo, se insin\u00faa un ataque de epilepsia.\n\nLa literatura que se ocupa del cuerpo indaga el acabamiento, pero tambi\u00e9n lo transforma en un proceso liberador. En su relato \u00abEl inmortal\u00bb, Borges hace que su protagonista, harto de la reiteraci\u00f3n que implica la vida eterna, busque un remedio que lo devuelva a la ef\u00edmera condici\u00f3n de quienes padecen el olvido y la muerte, y, por lo tanto, atesoran la milagrosa fugacidad de la existencia. Por su parte, en \u00abEl cazador Gracchus\u00bb, Kafka se ocupa de un hombre que vive para matar presas. En una excursi\u00f3n, cae en una zanja y queda atrapado entre la vida y la muerte, un punitivo comp\u00e1s de espera, un infierno sin t\u00e9rmino donde la aniquilaci\u00f3n representa un alivio.\n\nLa aceptaci\u00f3n de la muerte entra\u00f1a diversos dilemas \u00e9ticos, de ah\u00ed que uno de los m\u00e1s h\u00e1biles m\u00e9dicos escritores del siglo XX, Ernst Weiss, haya situado el tema en el centro de su doble vocaci\u00f3n. Para Weiss, el m\u00e9dico debe sanar o, dado el caso, acompa\u00f1ar al paciente en el tr\u00e1nsito final. Nacido en el seno de una familia jud\u00eda, Weiss es conocido en la literatura alemana por su novela p\u00f3stuma _El testigo ocular_ , que trata del m\u00e9dico de Hitler. Fue admirado por Kafka, Mann y Zweig; a fines de los a\u00f1os treinta encontr\u00f3 refugio en Francia y se suicid\u00f3 el d\u00eda en que las tropas nazis entraron a Par\u00eds.\n\nUno de sus mejores relatos lleva el emblem\u00e1tico t\u00edtulo de \u00abEl m\u00e9dico\u00bb y trata del doble destino de un m\u00e9dico residente. El cuento comienza una ma\u00f1ana en que el joven estudiante se hace cargo de la anestesia en una operaci\u00f3n, est\u00e1 a punto de perder al paciente y lucha con denuedo para salvarlo. En esa misma jornada acompa\u00f1a a su maestro a un manicomio y conoce a un enfermo torturado por toda clase de lacras f\u00edsicas y mentales. En forma oblicua, el paciente pide al joven m\u00e9dico que lo libere de su c\u00e1rcel corporal. El hombre que horas antes luch\u00f3 para salvar una vida, ayuda a morir a un paciente terminal. Weiss plantea el dilema de la eutanasia y alude al compromiso de la medicina ante la vida y la muerte.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 ocurre cuando la enfermedad se apodera de toda una comunidad? _La peste_ , de Albert Camus, y _Ensayo sobre la ceguera_ , de Jos\u00e9 Saramago, son alegor\u00edas sobre las facultades que aparecen cuando un mal suspende la costumbre. Asediadas por la epidemia, las personas descubren formas inauditas de relaci\u00f3n. Gracias a la cat\u00e1strofe, adquieren la repentina oportunidad de entenderse al margen de su rutina y asumen atributos b\u00e1rbaros o sutiles que requer\u00edan de una sacudida may\u00fascula para aflorar. Para Camus y Saramago, la norma, que a veces llamamos \u00abtradici\u00f3n\u00bb y a veces \u00abhistoria\u00bb, es un padecimiento sordo, una anestesia de la que solo se despierta con una dram\u00e1tica y regeneradora enfermedad colectiva.\n\nEs raro que un paciente se resista a hablar de sus dolencias. En _Masa y poder_ , Elias Canetti estudia los delirios compensatorios de los mutilados. Las amputaciones reclaman una pr\u00f3tesis que a veces asume la forma del discurso. Narramos porque nos quitaron algo, porque escupimos sangre y tosemos y no soportamos nuestra piel. Los irregulares, los lun\u00e1ticos, los vulnerables tienen tendencia literaria. Un t\u00edtulo de Gesualdo Bufalino resume este impulso: _Perorata del apestado_. La ret\u00f3rica desbocada es un efecto secundario de la enfermedad.\n\nReverso degradado de _La monta\u00f1a m\u00e1gica_ , la novela de Bufalino se ubica en un sanatorio para tuberculosos que no es un magno hotel de la inteligencia sino un recinto del dolor, la supuraci\u00f3n, las ideas oblicuas. Los pulmones inermes son el peaje que los personajes pagan para discurrir sin ataduras.\n\nSi la enfermedad despierta una poderosa ret\u00f3rica, la lectura es una ben\u00e9vola forma del contagio. Como en la homeopat\u00eda, sanamos con dosis de la infecci\u00f3n. Uno de los enfermos m\u00e1s c\u00e9lebres de la dramaturgia, el de Moli\u00e8re, padeci\u00f3 males rigurosamente inventados hasta que un m\u00e9dico lo distrajo de s\u00ed mismo. No son otros los remedios que ofrece la literatura. El placer del texto proviene del dolor trascendido. Su cambiante espejo refleja s\u00edntomas para enfermedades a\u00fan no clasificadas y transmite la imaginativa salud de los enfermos.\n\nEXPEDIENTE PERSONAL\n\nUn accidente me permiti\u00f3 comprobar que los trenes perjudican la vista. Todo empez\u00f3 en 1979, en la estaci\u00f3n de Atocha de Madrid. Mi equipaje pesaba demasiado y en esa \u00e9poca precaria, anterior a las maletas con ruedas, la soluci\u00f3n consist\u00eda en comprar un carrito que sujetaba el equipaje con tensores. El aparato se llamaba \u00abpulpo\u00bb y no resultaba f\u00e1cil dominar sus tent\u00e1culos. Uno de ellos se zaf\u00f3 cuando trataba de sujetarlo y me dio un latigazo en el ojo. Como un boxeador en su asalto fatal, sent\u00ed que se apagaba la luz.\n\nSub\u00ed tuerto al tren, en espera de que alguna reacci\u00f3n interior de mi organismo me devolviera la vista. No fue as\u00ed. Las tierras de Castilla, Arag\u00f3n y Catalu\u00f1a pasaron por la ventanilla sin que yo pudiera registrarlas. El accidente se convirti\u00f3 en rumor en el vag\u00f3n y varios pasajeros me recomendaron ir a la Cl\u00ednica Barraquer de Barcelona. Explicaron que se trataba de un hospital que operaba gratis ojos de alto inter\u00e9s m\u00e9dico y donde los jeques \u00e1rabes pagaban fortunas para curarse sus conjuntivitis. Me sorprendi\u00f3 la fama de una instituci\u00f3n tan especializada y sent\u00ed el p\u00e1lpito de la oportunidad, como si encontrara un billete en el camino a Las Vegas. Ya que me hab\u00eda lastimado un ojo, era una fortuna que me dirigiera a la ciudad del eminente Barraquer.\n\nUn dato me convenci\u00f3 de la celebridad del establecimiento: a nadie le pareci\u00f3 necesario darme la direcci\u00f3n (\u00abtodos los taxistas la conocen\u00bb, fue la un\u00e1nime respuesta). En efecto, llegu\u00e9 al sitio sin otra referencia que su nombre. A partir de ese momento, se sucedieron los asombros. En la entrada encontr\u00e9 un jerogl\u00edfico egipcio, el ojo de Osiris. El vest\u00edbulo estaba decorado con los signos del zodiaco. En vez de los muros blancos comunes a los hospitales enfrent\u00e9 planchas de m\u00e1rmol negro y pisos ajedrezados. Los pasillos conduc\u00edan a escaleras helicoidales. Una casa de los signos.\n\nEl doctor Barraquer era un explorador de la visi\u00f3n en el doble sentido de la palabra, el \u00f3ptico y el trascendente. Una de sus frases m\u00e1s expresivas se refer\u00eda a la pintura y al hecho de que el artista no se limita a usar colores sino a descubrir en ellos su intuici\u00f3n. En la primera mitad del siglo XX, Barraquer leg\u00f3 novedosas t\u00e9cnicas (entre ellas la extracci\u00f3n de catarata que le inspir\u00f3 un bicho en un acuario); cre\u00f3 un hospital que sirvi\u00f3 de universidad a varias generaciones de m\u00e9dicos y promovi\u00f3 la oftalmolog\u00eda como una delicada misi\u00f3n que parec\u00eda custodiar no solo los ojos sino las cosas que entraban por ellos.\n\nLas visitas a la cl\u00ednica me sugirieron un cuento: \u00abLa vista de Su\u00e1rez\u00bb. Siempre hab\u00eda querido escribir sobre m\u00e9dicos. Me cautiva el espacio cerrado de un hospital, esa ciudad dentro de la ciudad, sometida a otra l\u00f3gica, y estoy convencido de que la literatura, exploraci\u00f3n del cuerpo y de lo que lleva dentro, es una forma t\u00edmida de la medicina. Adem\u00e1s, estuve a punto de estudiar esa carrera. Mi mejor amigo en la preparatoria, Xavier Cara, tambi\u00e9n dudaba entre ser m\u00e9dico o escritor. Recuerdo las largas caminatas al salir del Colegio Madrid en las que repas\u00e1bamos las ventajas y desventajas de nuestras posibles vocaciones. Admir\u00e1bamos a Ch\u00e9jov, que hab\u00eda conciliado ambos oficios, pero sab\u00edamos que en los tiempos actuales eso era m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil. Mi abuelo paterno hab\u00eda sido m\u00e9dico en Barcelona y mi padre estudi\u00f3 medicina, aunque luego se dedic\u00f3 a la filosof\u00eda. Sus an\u00e9cdotas de la antigua Facultad de Medicina, ubicada en el palacio de la Inquisici\u00f3n en la plaza de Santo Domingo (que Fernando del Paso recre\u00f3 en su original\u00edsima novela m\u00e9dica _Palinuro de M\u00e9xico)_ , me impulsaban a seguir esa carrera. Sin embargo, algo me detuvo. Quiz\u00e1 me acobard\u00e9 ante los rigores de esa disciplina (el m\u00e9dico madruga y el escritor se despierta a cualquier hora, al menos hasta que tiene hijos) o quiz\u00e1 tem\u00ed seguir en exceso las huellas de mi padre. Lo cierto es que Xavier opt\u00f3 por la medicina y yo por la literatura. Volver\u00e9 a este amigo en un momento.\n\nEl relato \u00abLa vista de Su\u00e1rez\u00bb, intuido luego de mi visita a la Cl\u00ednica Barraquer, trataba de un oftalm\u00f3logo que se est\u00e1 quedando ciego pero ha logrado que sus disc\u00edpulos sean una extensi\u00f3n de su vista; \u00abve\u00bb a trav\u00e9s de los alumnos que ha formado; se sirve de ellos como de una mirada externa. Explorar la pedagog\u00eda como una prolongaci\u00f3n del cuerpo es un tema bastante abstracto y fui incapaz de concluir ese relato.\n\nOcho a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, en 1987, volv\u00ed a tomar un tren de Madrid a Barcelona. Algo me entr\u00f3 en el ojo, provocando un molesto lagrimeo. En aquella \u00e9poca no usaba lentes, mi relaci\u00f3n con la oftalmolog\u00eda se limitaba a lo que me pasaba en los trenes. Sent\u00ed que la coincidencia era una sugerente deliberaci\u00f3n del azar: las supersticiones y la paranoia son aliadas del que inventa historias.\n\nDe nuevo fui de la estaci\u00f3n a la Cl\u00ednica Barraquer, donde conservaban mi expediente cl\u00ednico y donde me extrajeron una part\u00edcula que parec\u00eda de metal. La segunda visita tuvo un curioso efecto retrospectivo. Record\u00e9 mi primera estancia y el deslumbrante contacto inicial se present\u00f3 como un est\u00edmulo para provocar el regreso y entender de otro modo el laberinto. Vi los s\u00edmbolos en las paredes no como el pretexto para un cuento, sino como los subrayados de algo mucho m\u00e1s extenso, una novela a\u00fan por escribirse.\n\nUn hijo de Barraquer hab\u00eda abierto una cl\u00ednica en Colombia. Pens\u00e9 en la posibilidad de que un disc\u00edpulo suyo creara una r\u00e9plica en M\u00e9xico. En vez del ojo de Osiris, colocar\u00eda en la entrada el espejo humeante de Tezcatlipoca. El hospital comenz\u00f3 a traducirse en otro. El resultado fue _El disparo de arg\u00f3n_ , publicada en 1991, doce a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s del accidente que le sirvi\u00f3 de motivaci\u00f3n inicial.\n\nPara fijar una retina, los oftalm\u00f3logos utilizan un rayo l\u00e1ser alimentado de un gas noble, el arg\u00f3n. Me pareci\u00f3 sugerente que una novela sobre la vista llevara como t\u00edtulo _El disparo de arg\u00f3n_ , un tiro a la mirada.\n\nLa literatura permite inventar destinos compensatorios y llevar mentalmente la vida de nuestros personajes. Al escribir sobre un hospital, con un narrador en primera persona que es m\u00e9dico, pens\u00e9 con frecuencia en Xavier Cara, mi amigo de la preparatoria. La publicaci\u00f3n de la novela me llev\u00f3 a buscarlo. Entonces supe que hab\u00eda muerto seis a\u00f1os antes, durante el terremoto de 1985, mientras hac\u00eda guardia en la secci\u00f3n de Ginecolog\u00eda del Hospital General.\n\nConstruimos una trayectoria no solo con lo que hacemos sino con lo que dejamos de hacer. Soy la persona que estuvo a punto de estudiar la misma carrera que su mejor amigo y acaso pudo correr su suerte. Tal vez por el deseo de reparar la p\u00e9rdida de una vida, se acrecent\u00f3 mi admiraci\u00f3n por el mundo de los m\u00e9dicos, al que a\u00fan deber\u00eda pertenecer Xavier.\n\nEl cuerpo es un sistema de alarma, pero sus reacciones no siempre son inmediatas. Ciertas cosas requieren de tiempo para revelar su significado. Gracias al doctor Mauricio Maqueo, que me permiti\u00f3 asistir a operaciones en el Hospital de la Ceguera, acept\u00f3 que lo sometiera a un vasto interrogatorio y ley\u00f3 con paciencia el manuscrito, pude escribir una novela sobre la vista en la \u00e9poca en que no usaba anteojos y solo pod\u00eda llegar al tema por accidente. Di por cerrado ese cap\u00edtulo, regres\u00e9 varias veces a Barcelona (en coche o en avi\u00f3n, nunca en tren) y viv\u00ed tres a\u00f1os en la Ciudad Condal sin visitar la cl\u00ednica.\n\nEn 2006, el azar (\u00abese fantasma sincronizador\u00bb, como dec\u00eda Nabokov) me hizo tomar un tren de Madrid a Barcelona. Hice escala de una noche en Zaragoza. A la ma\u00f1ana siguiente me vi al espejo. Mi ojo derecho era una esfera de sangre.\n\nComo en las otras dos veces, fui de la estaci\u00f3n a la Cl\u00ednica Barraquer. Me dijeron que ten\u00eda un cardenal provocado por alg\u00fan esfuerzo. \u00bfHab\u00eda hecho algo especial? El derrame ocurri\u00f3 mientras dorm\u00eda, de modo que la desmesura solo pod\u00eda venir del sue\u00f1o.\n\nLa diferencia entre la se\u00f1al y la coincidencia es que la primera transmite un mensaje. En 1987 entend\u00ed que el accidente de 1979 era una se\u00f1al. \u00bfQu\u00e9 representa el ojo ensangrentado de 2006? En ninguna otra ruta he tenido experiencias similares. \u00bfEs el anuncio de otra historia o el castigo por haberla contado? \u00bfPodr\u00e9 recordar el sue\u00f1o que derram\u00f3 sangre en mi ojo? Lo \u00fanico cierto es que hay una ruta en la que debo pagar un peaje con la mirada.\n\nLos trenes y los ojos son instrumentos para alcanzar la lejan\u00eda. Viajero taciturno, el cuerpo se resiente ante lo que se alcanza a toda prisa, como si dijera \u00abfalto yo\u00bb. Supongo que cada quien dispone de una meta a la que llega dos veces: primero con el cuerpo lastimado y luego con el remedio lento de lo que se convierte en una historia.\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1l es el \u00faltimo contacto de una persona con la medicina? Antes de renovar la novela, el escritor ingl\u00e9s J. G. Ballard sigui\u00f3 la ruta de Galeno. En 1949 entr\u00f3 como estudiante al anfiteatro de cirug\u00eda de la Universidad de Cambridge y supo que los cad\u00e1veres que ten\u00edan a su disposici\u00f3n proven\u00edan de dos tipos de personas: hab\u00edan sido delincuentes o m\u00e9dicos. En los duros a\u00f1os de posguerra, los profesores sol\u00edan legar su organismo como \u00faltima forma de la ense\u00f1anza. Ballard escribi\u00f3 dos veces acerca de esa etapa de su vida. En su novela _La bondad de las mujeres_ cuenta que lleg\u00f3 a admirar en tal forma el cad\u00e1ver de una doctora que su novia sinti\u00f3 celos de ella. En su autobiograf\u00eda, _Milagros de la vida_ , refiere el hecho con mayor sobriedad, concentr\u00e1ndose en la generosa decisi\u00f3n de los m\u00e9dicos de legar sus cuerpos en tiempos tan austeros. En ambos casos, transmite el estremecedor y entra\u00f1able asombro de saber que los maestros se han convertido en objeto de estudio.\n\nNo es casual que Ballard concluyera su autobiograf\u00eda con un elogio al onc\u00f3logo que atendi\u00f3 su c\u00e1ncer de huesos. En 2006, el doctor Jonathan Waxman se hizo cargo de \u00e9l; con toda claridad, le advirti\u00f3 que el fin estaba cerca, pero le aconsej\u00f3 que llevara el mejor tipo de vida posible y lo anim\u00f3 a que escribiera su autobiograf\u00eda. Nada mejor para un novelista que un m\u00e9dico que da consejos literarios. Las \u00faltimas l\u00edneas que escribi\u00f3 Ballard fueron: \u00abJonathan es un hombre de elevada inteligencia, considerado y siempre amable, y posee la rara habilidad de ver el desarrollo de la enfermedad desde el punto de vista del paciente. Estoy muy agradecido de pasar mis \u00faltimos d\u00edas bajo el cuidado de un m\u00e9dico decidido, sabio y afectuoso.\u00bb\n\nIncluso el acabamiento admite mejor\u00edas. Los escritores vivimos obsesionados por el desenlace de las historias. No encuentro otro superior para una vida que el descrito por Ballard.\n\nEl destino ama las coincidencias: es posible que el buen doctor que me acompa\u00f1e en mi tr\u00e1nsito final sea uno de ustedes.\n\nDesde ahora, le doy las gracias. \nEdici\u00f3n en formato digital: septiembre de 2017\n\n\u00a9 Juan Villoro, 2017\n\n\u00a9 EDITORIAL ANAGRAMA, S.A., 2017  \nPedr\u00f3 de la Creu, 58  \n08034 Barcelona\n\nISBN: 978-84-339-3843-5\n\nConversi\u00f3n a formato digital: Newcomlab, S.L.\n\nanagrama@anagrama-ed.es\n\nwww.anagrama-ed.es\n. Conferencia inaugural del III Festival Puerto de Ideas, pronunciada en Valpara\u00edso, Chile, el 8 de noviembre de 2013.\n\n. La mayor\u00eda de los textos mencionados en este ensayo est\u00e1n incluidos en _Paisaje caprichoso de la literatura rusa_ , antolog\u00eda y traducci\u00f3n de Selma Ancira (Fondo de Cultura Econ\u00f3mica, 2012).\n\n. Discurso de ingreso a El Colegio Nacional, le\u00eddo el 25 de febrero de 2014.\n\n. Conferencia inaugural del XL Congreso del Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana. El Colegio de M\u00e9xico, 9 de junio de 2014.\n\n. \u00abEl g\u00e9nero Monsiv\u00e1is\u00bb fue le\u00eddo en la inauguraci\u00f3n de la C\u00e1tedra Carlos Monsiv\u00e1is. Direcci\u00f3n de Estudios Hist\u00f3ricos, 2 de septiembre de 2015.\n\n. Conferencia pronunciada en el setenta aniversario del Instituto Nacional de Ciencias M\u00e9dicas y Nutrici\u00f3n, el 26 de mayo de 2016. \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nFor Mary Frances and Charles, but most of all, for Gary: friend, great love, D.D.E.\n\n## Contents\n\nAnkara, Turkey\n\nJune 1975\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nJuly 1975\n\nChapter 3\n\nAugust 1975\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nSeptember 1975\n\nChapter 7\n\nOctober 1975\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nNovember 1975\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\nChapter 12\n\nDecember 1975\n\nChapter 13\n\nChapter 14\n\nChapter 15\n\nChapter 16\n\nChapter 17\n\nJanuary 1976\n\nChapter 18\n\nChapter 19\n\nChapter 20\n\nFebruary 1976\n\nChapter 21\n\nChapter 22\n\nAcknowledgments\n\n## Ankara, Turkey\n\nTHE TELEPHONE CHIMED AS IT ALWAYS DID, IN THE DEEP, DEAD middle of the night. The jangling noise reached the farthest corners of the apartment, calling out to us from the table in the hallway\u2014the table with the pencil and the notepaper, beside the coatrack, the wood-edged mirror, the prayer rug. Drugged with sleep, we climbed up to the sound in our separate, darkened rooms, each of us hoping someone else would make it stop.\n\nI heard the phone replaced and then his footsteps; a narrow angle of light woke beneath my door. My father moved heavily down the hall, collecting his necessities. He passed my room, and then he was in the closet, taking out his suitcase. At the time, I thought all fathers kept a small, heavy suitcase packed in the hall closet, with another pair of shoes, perpetually shined, and several changes of clothes. From time to time, he checked it, inventorying the contents, replacing one thing, removing another. It was not uncommon to see him crouched in front of the closet, his knees splayed and his face in worried profile, his hair thinning at the temples. Each time he opened the suitcase he buffed those shoes, fitting them onto his hands like ungainly gloves, studying them up against the light.\n\nFor a while\u2014in other apartments, other houses, other countries\u2014I'd checked the suitcase closet every morning as a matter of habit, even if I'd seen my father only moments before over breakfast. The sight of it, safe amid boots and the finishes of coats, was more reassuring to me somehow than his smell of hair tonic and drugstore aftershave, the sound of the ancient coins he jingled in his pockets, or the Russian folk music he liked to play on the hi-fi. (My mother, stopping in the doorway, would say: Will you please, I beg of you, turn that racket off?)\n\nThe wind that morning was already busy\u2014I heard it through the open window of my room\u2014fretting leaves in the street, harassing tendrils of vine in the vineyard across the road. The air was full of the smell of changing seasons, stained faintly with smoke and dying leaves, the odor of tar from the construction site next door. Autumn was quickly turning to winter.\n\nIn those days my father traveled often and we rarely saw him go, dispatched as he was in secret by the government agency he worked for. Anytime he walked out the front door he might as well have been vanishing off the face of the earth.\n\nI was lying in my brass bed\u2014French, my mother liked to remind me\u2014and the apartment was still thick and smoky from a party the night before. There was the lingering smell of liquor and fried foods, the echoes of pleasant, politic chatter. Our maid Firdis was gone, having left bags by the front door, filled with bottles and the detritus of cooking and cocktails: the emptied-out ashtrays, the lipstick-smeared napkins. I closed my eyes and opened them, over and over, faster and faster, keeping myself awake, trying to make the spots come. Would he remember to say goodbye? Would she remind him?\n\nMy father had left many times, and since we never knew where he went, we certainly couldn't predict when he'd be back. We must have trusted the government to return him to us when they were finished with him. To us, his leaving reinforced how indispensable he was, how direly needed elsewhere, and in that way we were taught, tricked, into making a prize of our sacrifice.\n\nI heard my mother get up from the couch in the den, where she had been sleeping\u2014I pretended not to know about these arrangements\u2014and pad down the hall. I heard whispering, the familiar edge to their voices. I couldn't make out the words.\n\nHe did not come to my room. The front door closed and he was gone. His footsteps sounded on the marble stairs, three flights down to the lobby. The sun was not yet up, and his steps were all I heard: clear, measured, strong.\n\nMoments later my mother moved down the hallway past my room, headed for the master bedroom, the warm, rumpled sheets he'd just abandoned. In his absence she reclaimed many territories: chairs and beds, the best coffee cup, the moral high ground. She spread out like a great moth, laying dusty, ashy wings across everything in sight.\n\nHow does a woman hear her husband leave the house one morning\u2014listen, as I did, to the sound of his steps receding, his ring hand scraping the railing, the hushing our lobby door made, closing softly, as if the air itself were being squeezed\u2014and think so little of it? Didn't she feel, as I did, the sudden loneliness of the rooms, the sighing of the bedclothes as we readjusted in the dark, the changes, when he had gone, in the very texture of the atmosphere around us, in the molecules and the spaces between them, in even the temperature of the air?\n\nMy father's driver would be waiting downstairs; he often stood on the sidewalk holding open the door of the blue station wagon, his peaked hat in his hand at his side. His name was Kadir: a big, kind man with a million children, a great black mustache, fraying cuffs, a stiff, endearing pride in his job. Sometimes, especially when my father was gone, Kadir drove me to school\u2014the Ankara streets slid by, curving down the hill into the city's teeming center and then up again, into affluent \u00c7ankaya, where the apartment buildings were taller and clean faced, where windows gleamed and the oasis of the city's botanical garden stretched west, a glittering emerald in an otherwise unbroken line of concrete-colored streets and buildings.\n\nThe apartment grew quiet; I felt the hallways and corners fill up with our breathing, my mother's and mine\u2014we were alone together again\u2014and I imagined my father's other life, his life away from us, beginning.\n\nIt was a December morning; I was nearly thirteen years old. Later that day it snowed, the first of the season, and that night shadows flickered on the snow and the hill below our apartment became a mass of dark and milling bodies, bundled in coats and scarves and balaclavas. Screaming children hurtled down the darkened slope, riding the metal lids of trash cans, scraps of plastic and even garden chairs, affixed somehow to makeshift runners.\n\nThat was the last time I heard or smelled or saw my father: his heavy steps and the drifting breath of his aftershave, the gray suitcase thudding on the stairs, the hushed strains of an argument, loving or bitter\u2014how was I to say?\u2014between them. What did I know then? I knew everything; I knew nothing.\n\n## 1\n## June 1975\n\n## 1\n\nMY FRIEND CATHERINE AND I WERE PLAYING A GAME OF can't-touch-the-ground in the alleys behind my apartment at the crest of the hill. The buildings were set against the hillside in terraces, a descending series of walls, separated by concrete ledges, iron railings and great spiked fences. Sometimes I would stand on our own balcony, look down and map the walls we had climbed so far; the ledges we had traversed, teetering, our arms spread wide, breath held\u2014the entire perilous terrain of our makeshift playground. Catherine stood on the ground with her pale hands stretched up, waiting for me to pull her onto the ledge. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright as a bird's. I grabbed her wrist and hauled her up beside me. Her shoes scrabbled against the stones; bits of cement kicked away under her feet. We stood at the top and looked around. Below us was the garden of another apartment building; in the middle, an enormous woman was hanging enormous sheets. All around, the neighboring gardens were bare brown rectangles littered with cheap plastic toys, abandoned kites, their stillness occasionally interrupted by the darting motion of a stringy cat, moving hungrily, slinking up a wall in a gravity-defying way, pausing, then leaping into another garden, to begin again. Crisscrossed above these walled spaces was a web of clotheslines that on predetermined days streamed and billowed with washing: vast white sheets, enormous underthings, men's shirtsleeves and pant legs that animated with Ankara's polluted air; all day they bobbed and flapped, ducked and waved.\n\nCatherine and I clung with our toes scrunched in our shoes to the edge of the cement wall. Laundry moved in the hot wind; our arms strained against the iron rail for balance. I pointed up, at the ledge several feet above us\u2014we'd need to be cats almost, to get to that one.\n\n\"But it's too narrow,\" Catherine said. \"Too high.\" The woman in the garden looked up at us, shook out her sheets, spat onto the dirt. She made the kind of hissing noise people use to shoo cats, waved her arms and stepped a little nearer. She spoke angrily in Turkish; I ignored her.\n\n\"It's not,\" I said. \"Martin and I did it all the time. Besides, you say you're a ballerina. Act like one.\"\n\nI inched away from Catherine, away from the woman's voice, her miserable garden and depressing laundry, along the edge, and scrambled up onto the next wall. Catherine followed, her face unhappy, her steps reluctant (she had wanted to go to the pool today, but no one would drive us).\n\nAt her back now was my apartment building: my window, our balcony, and on it, watching us, our huge white cat. I had found him under a car on our street only three months earlier, just days after we'd arrived in Ankara; he'd not been even half his current size then, bedraggled, filthy, spitting with fury.\n\nALREADY, IT seemed like we'd followed my father halfway around the world. The Middle East, and Germany, and just before Turkey we'd waited Stateside, on a baking street on a military base, while my father went off to work as other fathers did, in a business suit and polished shoes, carrying his briefcase. Six months passed there and my mother and I grew docile and stupefied, as blunted as pack animals. We were killing time on a street called Olson Loop, drained almost entirely of hope and sick to death of each other's company. We waited side by side with other families just like ours, in temporary quarters, with derelict furniture and hand-me-down decor and the accumulated scents of other people and their own waiting, and all of it made my mother quite pale with unhappiness. She'd always liked the traveling better than the waiting, the knowing rather than the wondering\u2014and she liked almost anything better than being stuck all day alone with me, obligated to provide regular meals and her own lackadaisical brand of maternal interest. When they came, the papers said Turkey, and my mother faced it with regulation stoicism, with the relief of having something\u2014anything\u2014to do. She set about packing and organizing, filling out shipping forms, rolling up her sleeves for inoculations.\n\nHere in Ankara, my parents had been in a rush\u2014school was in session, we were living in a hotel\u2014and they'd taken this apartment across from an abandoned vineyard and a mountainous coal heap, next to a new building under construction (perpetually, it would turn out) in a section of the city called Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa. The apartment building, ten squat stories, sat at the top of a perfectly arcing hill, with a long, wide flight of steps leading down one side onto a boulevard lined with hotels and ice cream vendors, corner groceries and bakeries. Catherine lived with her parents on the other side of the hill, where it flattened out again, on a street more residential than ours\u2014there were no construction sites, no desolate vineyards\u2014a road lined prettily with shade trees and tiny, fenced gardens, where even the apartment buildings seemed friendlier, smaller and more congenially arranged, their balconies painted in creamy pastels.\n\nIn the alleys, our rules were simple. The staggered walls were the highways of the game, the tall black fences obstacles to be skirted post by post, feet clinging to the lower rail, hands curling around iron spikes. Once we were up, once we had hoisted ourselves onto the first wall, the ground was off-limits. The walls ran mazelike between the colorless apartment houses, past dirty windows and gardens\u2014we could, if we wanted, make it all the way down to the broad, busy street at the bottom of the hill without ever touching a foot to the earth.\n\nMartin, the English boy I'd invented the game with, had once impaled his knee on one of the ugly rusted spikes that intersected the railings. My mother still told the story as a caution, in grisly, manufactured detail. But Martin and his family were gone, their tour of duty in Ankara finished. They'd returned to England with their scarred son and numerous, wriggling pet ferrets, which the mother had cooed to as though they were kittens. Personally, I'd been glad to see Martin go; I had grown to hate his mother, her doughy face, her smell of black-currant syrup, her coy references to a romance between us. They had taken Martin to the hospital with a piece of spike still through his knee\u2014absolutely skewered, my mother said, like a shish kebab.\n\nBut Martin's mishap in no way discouraged me. Ankara was hellish in the summer; in the morning the heat came on like a sudden fever, and when it did, the electricity snapped off almost immediately. Energy rationing began in June; the power was cut at midday and the city simmered until evening, when lights finally splashed onto the darkness from the windows and appliances started up again. The cycle was utterly reliable, marked by the strange, expansive silence of the daylight hours and the sudden, audible sound of electricity coursing again, whirring, speeding across the city, buzzing toward outlets and the spoiling contents of iceboxes, neon advertisements over kebab restaurants, baking ovens, bedside lamps. Cooking chores, left off in the morning, were resumed; televisions snapped on (Starsky and Hutch dubbed in Turkish; incomprehensible, but oddly riveting); lights reached for and clicked on, satisfyingly, at last.\n\nIt was hotter, my mother liked to say, than the very sizzling hinges of hell. Letters she wrote to her friend Edie often contained clever lines like: What do Turkish women do when it's 110 in the shade? Go to the hamam, of course! So, left to our own devices\u2014our mothers were usually busy playing cards and shopping, socializing or planning to\u2014Catherine and I waited, entertaining ourselves as best we could, hoping for a ride to the pool, for school to start, for a spike through a soft, tender place. Really, we welcomed almost any distraction. Catherine and I had met in school at the British Embassy. I had been drawn to her quiet, her pretty clothes and manners and her dancer's grace. I'd talked to her and bothered her and followed her down the street from the bus stop until she finally relented and became my friend. By summer, we were inseparable.\n\nWe went to the alleys to escape the noisy silences of our own rooms and the suffocating heat that seemed to consume all the breathable air inside by noon. We avoided Catherine's, where even when her mother was gone the apartment was dominated by John, the houseboy. He was a young man with skin like toffee and beautiful hands, but his eyes, behind thick, girlish lashes, were hostile and cold. John both fascinated and repelled us\u2014his effete mannerisms, his slender waist, his disregard: for people, for animals, and most of all, it seemed, for us. Also, he seemed to belong, in every way imaginable, to Simone, Catherine's icy mother. Simone had been a minor kind of ballerina herself once, at home in Montreal, and now she directed those dreams and a coiled, manic energy into socializing and endless games of one-upmanship.\n\nAT THE end of the alley, the finish of our game, were a house and garden we always assumed to be abandoned. If we got there without touching the ground, we'd won\u2014the prize was nothing, of course, but the satisfaction of having arrived in the chosen manner, shunning the earth, leaping wall to wall, jumping down the stepped cement. That it was a real house\u2014not a massive concrete cube housing hundreds\u2014made the place valuable. That it had an actual garden, with a stone bench, fruiting trees, dark cool spaces and an iron gate with a catch, thrilled us almost as much.\n\nOn summer afternoons like this one, when we were not taken to the pool, Catherine and I picked our way along the walls to the end of the alley, clambered down, and sat on the stone bench in the relative cool of the garden. Our pockets bulged with sweets, our hands were sticky with sugar and dirt, the toes of our shoes scuffed in the dry earth. The house was shuttered and quiet. Early on, we lost the need to creep around it like thieves, having grown quite certain that no one lived there, that no one had for years. We felt proprietary. We would have been offended had a face appeared in the window, or a hand unlatched the gate. A grimy, blackened trellis climbed one corner of the house, and the stone walls were greening with moss. From the street front, where we walked during the school year to meet the bus, this house was invisible, obscured by another square-faced apartment building with stacked balconies and an etched-glass door. So the house was a doubly secret place, likely belonging at one time to the vineyard across the street, but finally abandoned in the same thoughtless way.\n\nIt never occurred to us to enter the house itself. We were happy enough with the small garden, the overgrown bushes, fruit trees that dropped their rotting yields\u2014overripe apricots, bitter little oranges, bursting figs\u2014onto the ground for us to find. Before leaving, we carefully gathered up our wrappings and discarded cellophanes; we latched the gate behind us and strolled back up the alley with our feet firmly on the ground, the day's game concluded.\n\nThat day we were eating candy and comparing wounds. I had a tear in my shirt; a cat scratch on my arm like a line of red stitching, a raw knee from the rough wall we had just scrambled down. Catherine sat on the listing iron bench, white terry shorts hiked up around her thighs, elbows on her knees, staring down at a spider making erratic progress across the crumbling flagstone. The spider scuttled back and forth as if confused, into the cracks and out again, its tiny shadow round and blurred. The sunlight through the trees made a filigree on the brown earth of the garden, a duotone, and there was almost no grass at all; pitiful tufts of it grew here and there in the dirt.\n\nAgainst the red ribbing of Catherine's shorts, between her legs, was a spatter of round bruises, plummy and soft-looking, no bigger than the small lira coins we used to buy individual scoops of ice cream or pieces of gum. She hadn't accounted for them and I reached out to touch one: a question. She stood swiftly and moved away from me, and in that abrupt movement was the faint implication that I'd overstepped. I fell back, looked around, put fingers to my hot face. Catherine turned away and bent to examine the spider more closely, at eye level, squatting down to the ground.\n\nI watched her back: the gathered-together, winged jut of her shoulder blades as she hunched over, the wispy tendrils of hair at her neck, clinging there in the heat, pasted down. I drew in an airless breath; the garden was still and primitive, the noise of traffic seemed faraway.\n\n\"Where did those come from?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nI could barely hear her. Her back was to me and her voice sounded blurry, muffled by her posture, distorted by her downward gaze. Standing again, she lifted one sneaker and let it hover, the elongated shadow of her foot dwarfing the spider, erasing its silhouette; it was just a dark pinprick under her sole. She brought her foot down slowly, grinding it on the ground\u2014there was no noise, just the shift of dirt, the horseshoe of her heel mark.\n\nWhen she walked away I put my hand down on her shoulder to make her stop.\n\n\"The bruises on your legs. What are they from?\"\n\n\"The barre,\" she said. She looked me straight in the eye and my hand fell away. Catherine's eyes were hazel, shot through with yellow and green, the irises wide. Her eyebrows were thin and looked cultivated, though I don't believe they were. They were a fine architectural detail, a surprised peak in each one. My own brows were mismatched, arcing in an irregular way. I had tried to correct this with my mother's tweezers but had only made matters worse.\n\nThe bruises made me think of John, Simone's houseboy, and the way his fingers looked in the kitchen pressing tissue-thin dough out on a wide marble board. The shallow indentations left when he lifted his hands away; the delicate swirls of his fingerprints etched in pastry. When we ate the things he'd made I always felt a shivery sense of something like cannibalism, as if I were taking him inside me\u2014his smell of lemons and starch, his crisp shirts and dark eyebrows, his pretty, insolent manners.\n\n\"Any more questions?\" said Catherine and raised one of those perfect brows; her forehead wrinkled.\n\nWe watched each other. Her skin was pale; her lips sucked in at the corners, as though she were biting hard at the insides of her cheeks.\n\nSo I brushed my hand on my backside, ostentatiously, as if I had dirtied it on Catherine's hot, round shoulder. Beneath my hand her shoulder had felt like a rock warmed in the sun, perfectly hard, smooth as an egg.\n\nCatherine let the air out of her mouth, whistling; it resolved into a short little tune she'd learned from my mother.\n\n\"Stop,\" I said and hit her on the leg. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't master whistling, could not get the components of my mouth to cooperate. My mother's whistling was an accompaniment to the sound of her bangles, which she'd acquired in the gold district on Tunali Hilmi. She moved through the apartment completely without stealth, the notes of music and bracelets fading and approaching, pausing, resuming. The sound made my teeth hurt.\n\nCatherine moved toward the gate, still whistling, and hurried her steps to avoid my hands, which hustled the air, lightly smacking at her as she unhitched the gate, slid out. Then she took off down the alley at full speed, her shoes making rubbery noises on the cement, the whistling coming in sharp, jagged bursts as she ran.\n\nAnd then there was a roar of wind in my ears and that tune of my mother's was caught up in it like the eye, the vortex: I heard a woman screaming in Turkish at a neighbor high above, many floors up, the two of them shouting from balcony to balcony. The laundry flapped like great white wings above us. The noise of the traffic grew louder, we were running toward it\u2014it was a wall of sound we were approaching, headlong, as solid and impenetrable as steel.\n\nTHE LOBBY of Catherine's apartment building looked like this: dim, gritty floored, a dirty-orange railing running tubelike along open concrete stairs. The smell of something floral mixed with dirt. Our school shoes scuffed on grime, sliding through swooping wet tracks left by the kap\u0131c\u0131's wife. Three or four times a day she squatted beside a leaking bucket, dunked a rag and made crablike progress across the lobby, from one side back to the other, cleaning. The kap\u0131c\u0131\u2014whose name we were told over and over but never retained\u2014hunched outside in a box of shade thrown by a balcony and clenched squat cigarettes between his lips. His mustache was thick, dripping over his mouth at the corners, and his uniform\u2014a frayed pinstriped shirt and sagging workpants\u2014never changed. His duties were almost as mysterious as our own fathers'. For one thing, he dug his finger in his ear like a man who'd lost something valuable, digging and digging before withdrawing his filthy nail, examining it and then returning to business. He could, and did, do this for hours. At the top of the first flight of stairs, a quick turn around the railing\u2014fingers trailing on the orange cylinder\u2014and then two doors opened into Catherine's apartment: one to the entry hall, the other to her parents' bedroom suite, which was strictly off-limits.\n\nInside, quiet: our footsteps made a brief clatter on parquet and then nothing; our feet sank into the muted patterns of carpet after carpet. We made a game of leaping from one to another. Through the swinging door at the end of the hall was the kitchen. Inside we could hear John working\u2014the clatter of china, the ping of crystal, the heavy, muffled whoosh of the refrigerator door. Even when he was not audibly busy, we could sense him in there\u2014leafing through a comic, patting his winged black hair, scrutinizing his impeccable white shirttails for stains.\n\nIn Catherine's room down the narrow hall\u2014one, two, three doors on the right\u2014were two twin beds with matching ruffles, a dresser, framed prints of ballerinas. All was neatness, order, girlishness. Shoes off on the white carpet, quiet games only when Catherine's mother was home\u2014but when she was gone, as she was today, we mounted furtive expeditions into her perfumed bedroom.\n\nWe moved cautiously down the hallway, Catherine behind me, her hand hovering just above my shoulder. Inside: the oversweet smell of gardenia, the nose-clogging dust of talcum rising in motes, captured in the freckled light that filtered through the bunched damask draperies. The dressing table was a world unto itself: crystal atomizers, a drape of beads, a lone earring, the little stool upholstered in velvet tucked into the crotch of the mahogany table. The room whirled with damp, secret scents; our hands reached for things and drew back; we glanced over our shoulders, edged open drawers for a glimpse of lace and lilac silk, brushed them with our fingers and then pulled back as if burned.\n\nI reached for one of Simone's atomizers\u2014a delicate, crystal thing, designed to hold scent or genies\u2014and it slipped from my hand and fell with a muffled thud to the floor. As it rolled under the bed we scrambled, our hands touching and grabbing beneath the bed skirts, feeling desperately for its shape, its weight, its diamond-cut facets. We heard footsteps outside the door and froze. The noise moved away; it was only John, on some unrelated errand.\n\nWe left the room breathless, gardenia in invisible blankets around our bodies; we used our hands to beat it from our clothes and ran silently, on tiptoe, back to Catherine's room. Noiseless laughter, amazement at our boldness, our narrow escape\u2014we fell on the twin beds and pulled our knees to our mouths, bit the soft flesh like fruit and rocked ourselves back to calm, until our breathing was smooth and even and our trapped hearts arrived again at a bearable pace.\n\nCatherine said, \"Are you my best friend, Canada? Absolutely and forever?\"\n\n\"I am,\" I chanted, giddy. \"I am, I am, I am.\"\n\n\"Feel my heart.\" She pressed my hand to her chest, flush against its hammering cadence. I felt her thin collarbone, the starch of her school shirt, the frantic drumbeat of her center.\n\nAfter school, as afternoon wore slowly away to evening, sounds would awake in the dining room beyond Catherine's closed door: John, moving through the hallway holding a stack of laundry\u2014tiny ironed panties and undershirts, knotted pairs of anklets\u2014would straighten a perfectly straight carpet with his sock feet (the hushed noise like leaves moving restlessly on a forest floor) and suddenly, Catherine's mother would be moving through the apartment like an angry little wind, checking up on the evening's preparations. Then I would get up, locate my book bag and my shoes, let myself out onto the landing and clatter down the concrete steps into the evening air\u2014which would not have changed appreciably, or cooled, but quieted somewhat, the traffic noises having given way to those of insects whirring in the trees, the shadows throwing leafy semaphores across uneven sidewalks, the waning light against the long hill that led up to my apartment glowing a deep, burned red, and the slopes and hillocks of the empty field between our homes taking on human forms. I saw hips and haunches curling in sleep, breasts pressed together in flirtation, the profile of a woman in a sulk, her lips a mogul we had once flown bumpily, dangerously over while sledding alongside the Turkish children, children who did not speak to us or acknowledge us except to spit in our direction, or shoulder us aside at the top of the hill. This didn't disturb us particularly; we didn't want to be included or liked by them, and their hostility was no more or less than we expected.\n\nWhat kind of girls were we? We were similar in many respects, easy in the company of adults, well read through necessity, adept at amusing ourselves, and mostly secure in our secret lives, aware that our parents\u2014those adults we shared rooms with, under whose loose, sporadic authority we lived\u2014were generally disinterested in us, and could be counted on, for the most part, to be otherwise occupied.\n\nWe were not children who believed their parents' lives revolved around them\u2014we would never have entertained such a conceit. We were adaptable, malleable, we went along: reading books under the table at restaurants, fading into the scenery at cocktail parties when babysitters could not be found, trailing our parents through churches and ruins and, though bored stiff, maintaining pleasant expressions, rarely whining, and able to sleep in the most unaccommodating circumstances.\n\nOf course, we had the normal talents\u2014listening at doors, piecing together through fragments the substance of our parents' discord\u2014but we had others as well. We could muddle whiskey sours and set a reasonably elegant table, count to twenty in at least three languages, competently hail taxis and make simple transactions in foreign currencies. It didn't occur to us that these were uncommon dexterities; they were nothing more or less to us than knowing how to play hopscotch, jump rope or hold our breath under water.\n\nBut we were different from each other. Catherine's biddable exterior disguised a certain immovability; I was impulsive and suggestible, given to quick passions and imaginings of every stripe: romantic, vengeful, fantastical. Catherine was steadier and more disciplined, a cautious, watchful girl. At least that's what people thought of us, and we believed it ourselves, falling into our roles comfortably. And perhaps we just liked to be thought of at all, to be categorized or noted, by anyone.\n\nDuring the school year Catherine and I sat in her room and played games of our own devising and long, dull matches of concentration with packs of dog-eared cards. We didn't speak as adults will of interests and activities\u2014we never discussed Catherine's ballet, for example; and later on, the subject of my horses never arose between us. Our points of intersection were those of children\u2014immediate, discrete and confined to the small places and rooms of our friendship. When I left her house I often did not think of her until the next day, when she appeared at the bus stop, or met me in front of my apartment building's iron gate to make the walk together. We were busy after all, having our own tricky domestic landscapes to negotiate. We sometimes traded books back and forth\u2014boarding-school series, thick anthologies of poetry, gothic paperbacks and enormous sagas of Welsh families beset by tragedy, volume after excruciating volume. We stole some of these books from our parents, hid them beneath our pillows and mattresses, though really, I can't imagine anyone would have cared what we were reading. That kind of censorship wouldn't really have occurred to our mothers, and if they'd found us with these books their response would likely have been a vague, amused disapproval, or the flick of an overplucked eyebrow. It might have been something they'd mention to their friends at a cocktail party\u2014they might even have liked, within certain strict parameters, to believe us precocious.\n\nBut in truth, or this version of it, I can really only speak for my own mother.\n\n## 2\n\nFOR GRACE, THE DIM AND SWELTERING AFTERNOONS BRING endless games of whist, small plates of olives and cheese and honeyed pastries scattered on lace tablecloths. She's joined a group put together by the embassy, advertised as a meeting of Turkish and English-speaking ladies for the purpose of exchanging culture and language. She assumes, of course, that it's intended to keep them all out of trouble.\n\nShe sits with these new friends, playing the unfamiliar game\u2014where hands are swiftly dealt, bids made and quips and affectionate insults fly by in both languages. The afternoons in the dark put her in mind of hours spent with Edie, her friend from Olson Loop in the States, where they'd bided their time before the orders for Turkey had arrived. But here the noise of the city is heard through the windows, its raucous tenor softened by the height at which the days are idled away, high above the city among Mediterranean furnishings. The walls are swagged here and there with velvet draperies, and painted in hues that make Grace think not of the color but rather of the taste of cinnamon. All day handsome young houseboys move quietly through, replacing plates, refreshing tea served in voluptuous gold-rimmed glasses, set on tiny saucers.\n\nAll these women speak exquisite English when they need to, and under their gentle tutelage, during the sleepy afternoons, Grace's Turkish progresses nicely. Flicking cards, their slender wrists sing with stacks of scored gold bangles; Grace has recently affected ones just like them. Beside them, the foreign women\u2014American, British, Canadian\u2014seem drab and stiff; their glasses of tea balanced carefully, their faces arranged in attentive expressions. Powder, pinkish and overapplied, cakes in the lines of their polite faces; their limbs, set rigidly on the antimacassared arms of divans, remind her of old-fashioned china dolls. Grace stirs the cloudy tempest of sugar at the bottom of her glass and daydreams of Victorian women dropped into a sheik's harem: she loves the Turkish ladies and their hazy, nodding, pouting hours, their languid postures across pillows sewn from exquisite remnants of carpet.\n\nHer hostesses, dark and diffident, hold children with one drowsy arm as the other hand takes tricks, ringed fingers clicking on the sharp edges of cards. Grace hears that odd Turkish noise of disgust when a hand is lost, a sharp cluck of contempt or dismissal that she herself has picked up\u2014it is strangely satisfying, and perfectly articulate.\n\nEveryone rises in unison when the muezzin calls for the fourth time; even Grace tells time by him now. Soon the electricity will hum to life again and chores will be resumed, husbands will arrive expecting dinner and consolation, children will be roused by the noises, by the cooling air, and demand attention. At home, in a nearby section of the city, Canada will return wrung out from her day with Catherine.\n\nAlways, these afternoons must be shaken off like overlong naps, or hours lost in an opium den, deep and disorienting. Grace wanders home, half drugged, through the newly familiar streets, past the shops and rug merchants, stopping along the way to buy pastries or dates, to finger an evil eye, a silver puzzle ring. The faces of the merchants no longer seem sinister, but friendly, eager to enter into a haggling session over some trinket. In this way Grace acquired the Ma\u015fallah pendant around her neck, and the string of rough blue beads she has hung over the kitchen doorway for luck. Ma\u015fallah, In\u015fallah, Avallah, as they say in Turkey. God bless, God willing, praise be to God.\n\nOften Grace walks home with wealthy, beautiful Bahar, who lives close-by, in her own concrete aerie. Today, they pause in the tiny park that lies at one end of Tunali Hilmi. A sign shaped like a swan hangs at the gate and inside is a round coin of water surrounded by benches. Here a few women carry babies or let them totter around on the grass. The swans on the lake\u2014a gift from Beijing\u2014are huddled together and the women stand near the edge and watch them. The park is buffered from the traffic by a ring of ancient poplars, though the main street of the market is still visible through a leafy arch, and apartment buildings encircle the skyline.\n\nBahar has become one of Grace's closest friends in Ankara, a frighteningly chic woman with a wicked tongue and an expensive European education. She befriended Grace quickly, with the irresistible force of her personality, her seductive way of inclusion, her confiding, intimate manner.\n\nBahar kicks with her heel at a loose stone on the cobbled walkway. In the background, small children run past, screaming, and a few women give halfhearted pursuit.\n\n\"How is Ali?\" Grace asks her. \"The boys?\" Bahar has two little ones, miniatures of her bearish doctor husband, dark fire hydrants of boys, always hitting each other, racing around Bahar's feet in one war game or another, which she serenely ignores.\n\nBahar lights a cigarette with a mosaic lighter, blows curling streams from her wide nostrils. She shrugs, and moves her mouth in that uniquely Turkish way, that disdainful gesture of \"so what?\"\n\n\"Husbands,\" she says. \"Children.\"\n\nGrace looks at the water: the swans move their feathers in a motion like a shiver. The grass is browning: there has been no rain for weeks, just the soupy heat, the swelter, the broiling, rancid smell of the city. Not far away she hears the faint cacophony of traffic, the honking and screeching of tires that has become background music to virtually everything.\n\nThis city, Grace has written to her friend Edie, is an utter contradiction: in places it is the worst of bedlam, ugly, concrete and charmless, but turn a corner and ivy grows on the walls of brick houses, at night the Ankara castle glows from a hilltop, minarets reach up through the smog and flowers explode from window boxes. Men spit on the street like animals, then offer an arm to help you through traffic. The streets are filthy, but trees bloom and there is always color and music. Everything is in opposition. But, it is magical, in its way, she has written, and I think I will love it.\n\n\"What about you?\" Bahar says. \"How do you like our roasting pan of a city?\"\n\nGrace smiles. \"I do like it, very much.\"\n\n\"And Rand? Is he happy too?\"\n\nGrace lifts her hands, palms up. \"Who knows,\" she says. \"He doesn't say. Locked in the embassy all day playing at his secret job, he doesn't tell me a thing. Can't or won't, who knows which.\"\n\nBahar puts her hand on Grace's arm. Her nails are tapered, perfect, the color of dark plums. \"Well,\" she says, \"this is why we have our own lives, our days, our card games. Do you think I pay attention to what Ali says, when he comes home from the clinic? Or do I nod, like this, and hand him a plate of something? I do not think to confide in him my troubles. That would be foolish. I do not ask where he is when he is late or when he travels. And I do not care particularly, because my life is quite nice.\"\n\nGrace, lost for a moment in thought, does not respond.\n\n\"What will worry accomplish?\" Bahar says. Her open hand strikes Grace's shoulder in a playful gesture. \"We'll go to the baths, or to that rug merchant on Tunali. Forget it, you will only make yourself unhappy.\" She grinds her cigarette out with the fragile heel of her sandal and continues. \"I am not unsympathetic, but what you describe is the manner of all marriages I know. I went to Switzerland, you remember, a few weeks ago? Was this for jewelry shopping, as I said? No. It was for a plastic surgery and to get rid of a baby. Did Ali notice? And he is a doctor.\"\n\n\"You did what?\"\n\nBahar smiles her mysterious smile. \"I am like a movie star now, yes?\"\n\n\"But wouldn't Ali have wanted another baby?\"\n\nBahar tucks her arm inside Grace's as they cross the street. She has the enviable, imperious quality of all women who are wealthy and beautiful: she does not wait for traffic to pause, rather she halts it with her eyes, or steps carelessly into the middle of it. When horns blare and drivers curse, she stares them down or offers an obscene gesture, which from her is a strangely elegant motion.\n\nGrace says, \"If I did that, I'd be squashed.\"\n\n\"Certainly Ali would want a baby; if it were his.\"\n\nCrossing the street into the gold district, they are surrounded by street merchants and shopkeepers, caught up and swept along, suddenly part of the city's frantic daily business. Always here, Grace feels her senses rushed, overwhelmed. She smells lamb roasting, the char of bread in a wood fire, a sharp scent of dried apricots, the heavy animal damp of wool. Gold glitters in window cases and everywhere men sit high on piles of rugs, drinking tea from slender glasses. They throw dice, smoke pipes and stunted cigarettes, laugh raucously.\n\nBahar, calm as an island, smiles, fingers the gold chains and bangles held out to her and shakes her head no. From the corner of her eye, as they walk along, Grace catches Bahar looking at her. Some expression, some interior decision-making process, works swiftly across her features.\n\n\"Otherwise it would not be worth the screaming,\" she says, \"the\u2014how do you call them? Interrogatories. My friends and I always go to Europe, in such a predicament.\"\n\nGrace is silent for a moment. Long enough that Bahar nudges her arm and laughs. \"Are you so na\u00efve?\" she says. \"If so, then I apologize for being indiscreet.\"\n\n\"No,\" Grace says. \"Not at all.\"\n\nShe is thinking of Bahar's husband, his charm and practiced hands. She remembers a recent cocktail party she and Rand gave and how Ali's laughter had echoed around the small space, how he had helped Rand to bed when he'd staggered and then afterward, in their bedroom, how his hands had strayed down the back of her dress, suggestively but without commitment, a touch that might have been a friendly accident.\n\nStanding on the street corner in the shimmering heat, with Bahar's silk cuff against her wrist and the smell of sesame from the simits stacked on the heads of the vendors, Grace feels a faint shiver of hope, an odd and unexpected lightness. It might be the glint of Bahar's jewelry, or the merchant winking at her as he holds up a cheap cotton dress, but it might be something else\u2014some promise of intrigue, perhaps, or adventure. Maybe it's just the allure of these new cosmopolitan women\u2014women who seem to inhabit airy and secret places, in which they are free to live out their private, fantastical lives.\n\nDespite the bad publicity, and all her initial misgivings, Grace does love Turkey. On the mad streets, with crowds streaming by, and this new foreign friend, Olson Loop and America seem a million miles away. It's almost hard to remember now\u2014the numbing sameness of those days, the churchy darkness of Edie's house across the street, the raging irritability brought on by the heat and the waiting.\n\nWHEN THEY arrived on Olson Loop it was summertime, bright and humid; all day bicycles whirred in increasingly reckless orbits, gathering speed for the steep hill down the far side near the school. Children shouted and mothers called out cautions in ever-louder tones, rarely leaving the stoops where they gathered in clutches, drinking coffee or iced things, collectively smoking or quitting, painting their faces or nails, tanning their shoulders and thighs, gossiping from sunup to nightfall.\n\nGrace quickly learned the facts: Olson Loop was a tight circle of asphalt and rumor. Stunted driveways bore numbers painted in acid yellow, and the semidetached brick structures\u2014two families sharing a common wall, a front lawn, a porch\u2014were separated only by a low brick divider, easily stepped over.\n\nNoisy, she'd complained to Rand. It's so goddamn loud here. (She could not say why this bothered her so. They had just come from a post in Frankfurt, Germany, a city far louder than this place. Perhaps it was merely the nearness to the ground that irked her.) Rand just turned on the television and ticked the volume up, up, up.\n\nBut before long she had befriended Edie, or perhaps it was the other way around. Edie lived directly across the street with her own uniformed husband, in her identical little house. She was small framed, of Spanish descent, and she ate tapioca pudding all day, spooning it from an earthenware bowl in the refrigerator, hunkered down inside her dark brick house.\n\n\"Those women,\" she said to Grace early on, speaking of the stoop-women. \"They make me tired.\"\n\nEdie was perpetually tan, lion-shaded\u2014tawny skin, chestnut haired, golden eyed\u2014though she seemed never to leave the house, never ventured much beyond the stoop or the two short steps below it. Instead she paced barefoot, like an edgy housecat, through the shag carpeting. She set the table for dinner, using her good service and silver, every day at ten in the morning. These gestures and protocols, without meaning in the shared purgatory of Olson Loop, were things Grace easily understood. Edie set the table for the same reasons Grace herself had unwrapped her few boxes of knickknacks and breakables and photographs and arranged them on the scarred furniture they'd found when they'd moved in. The same reason she'd moved an end table to cover a virulent, juice-colored stain on the carpet and scrubbed the walls until they lightened almost imperceptibly, by half a dingy beige shade.\n\nEdie kept her house shuttered and dim, a manufactured darkness enhanced by heavy, carved furniture and low, flickering votive candles. Unlike Grace and Rand, Edie had all her own things\u2014she and Greg had been on Olson Loop nearly two years. Most of Grace and Rand's household goods remained in storage in some distant warehouse, ready to be shipped as soon as their new orders arrived. \"Your house makes me want to genuflect,\" Grace once said to her, when they were friendly enough. And that had happened in the sped-up way Grace had come to expect\u2014there was no wasteful dawdling over preliminaries on Olson Loop, no auditions.\n\nUsually they sat just inside the screen door of Edie's house, on the cool tiled floor beside a potted hibiscus and the ornate carved legs of a hallway table, watching the street through the wire netting. They played simple card games, and once in a while the hearts and spades and queens and jacks, loosed from their fingers, would catch a rare breath of wind and slide or scuttle across the grooved entryway. They would scramble after them in a halfhearted way, laughing. When they rose for a drink or to visit the bathroom, they found that the diamond-shaped tiles of the floor had embossed the backs of their bare legs. They carried those grooves, etched by the long idle days, around with them, through dinners and television and marital arguments, until sleep smoothed them away.\n\nWhile they played and mixed pitchers of iced tea, Edie relayed information, details Grace thought she couldn't have learned just by watching the street in her patient, flickery-eyed way.\n\n\"That one,\" Edie said once, pointing sideways into the street, toward an overweight woman in blue shorts standing on her scrap of lawn. The woman was mysteriously lifting up first one leg and then another, like a shorebird. \"That one and her daughter, they kiss with tongues. I've seen it.\"\n\nEdie had no children of her own and the subject was one she mostly veered from. Inside her friend's house, Grace kept one ear tuned for Canada's voice; the screen door was all that separated her from the street, but the difference in light was so great that even when she stepped to the door to check\u2014infrequently, with a sudden jolt of guilt\u2014it took a few long moments for her eyes to adjust, to roam the small circle, to identify Canada in the bunch, to classify her as alive, kicking.\n\nThe children were still swarming when the sun went down, as Grace picked her way across the hot, rocky street in bare feet and began to think about getting her husband's dinner. By then they were playing statues and red rover, swinging one another wildly by the arms or barreling toward a line of clasped wrists. The grass was green and prickly, the insects gathered, and Grace stood for a moment shading her eyes. The children moved from one lawn to another as though in a public park\u2014no fences, no boundary lines. A mutt dog chased up and down behind them, a bicycle bell rang endlessly, the sound of hot wind whipping spokes, a smell of hamburgers somewhere close. She shivered. The heat on her body, after the long hours indoors, chilled her.\n\nDuring the days, while Grace was closeted inside with Edie, Canada became briefly close with the girl across the street, the mother-kissing girl, a little doll with dimpled legs and long blond ringlets. Grace was relieved: the appearance of a playmate, someone with whom her daughter engaged from time to time in some inexplicable, painstakingly ruled game, made her feel a little less neglectful.\n\nThen one afternoon near the middle of the summer, for no apparent reason, Canada gave this little girl a fairly brutal shove, knocking her down hard in the driveway. The screams brought Grace and Edie to the screen door, then outside it, and finally across the street to where Canada was standing over her friend without any trace of remorse. Her face was blank as the street itself; she looked up as Grace came running, blinking as though she'd just been woken from a dream. The girl came up screaming, spitting blood\u2014she'd struck her chin hard on the driveway\u2014dark specks of gravel embedded in her knees and palms. Briefly, there was some emotion\u2014chilly and triumphant\u2014on Canada's face, which Grace caught as she crouched barefoot on the hot tar and examined the victim's fat, raw knees. But still, even later, shaking her, she could not get out of Canada why she'd done it\u2014what on earth had possessed her. She called Rand at the office, then sent Canada to the willow tree to break off a switch. That she'd even thought of this amazed her, but she was terribly angry and it had made her inventive.\n\nRand laughed when he came home and saw the switch on the hall table. He'd accused her of hysteria. Then, standing at the screen door, his back to the street, he turned angry. Didn't she know, he said coldly and slowly, that he was busy? Did she have any idea what he did for a living? Did she think he'd nothing better to do than solve the problems of little girls? He'd meant\u2014she understood him clearly\u2014all of them: her and Edie and Canada and the girl with the torn-up knees\u2014all you little girls, your petty squabbles. Then he left, banging the screen door hard behind him.\n\nWhen he'd gone, everything was terribly quiet. She heard nothing from Canada's room, where she had been sent to think about it, and even the street outside, normally so caught up in itself, so bursting with noise and activity, seemed now to be hung up in a long, airless lull.\n\nAfterward, Grace began taking Canada with her across the street. They let her watch television in the darkened living room for hours while they baked and played cards and kept their eyes on the street. One day in the middle of July, she and Edie stood staring out the narrow kitchen window, watching a car pass at a snail's pace.\n\nEdie said, \"It's strangling here, don't you think? I feel that way, like there's always something around my neck.\" She put her hands there. \"Never mind. Let's play cards: I need to do something with my hands. I'm trying not to smoke.\"\n\nThe summer wore on. In other brick two-families, up and down Olson Loop, orders were received. Boxes were packed and sealed, vans stole up to doors in the dawn hours, families peeled off and drove away, waving. Write, people called to each other, and the departing families called back, We will. But nobody really did. Certainly not for longer than a month or two.\n\nOne night in the fall, Rand came home even later than usual. It was early October by then. The trees were creeping with color, the air brisk. Canada had started school. Grace heard the sound of a car pulling away and looked up to see him standing on the sidewalk. He'd worn his uniform that morning and for a moment he looked quite handsome to her: he might almost have been someone else. The papers in his hand fluttered. He came to the screen door and called for her. In the kitchen, washing her hands, Grace took her time. There was salmon loaf in the oven, something on the radio\u2014she had the fanciful thought that it might float out to him on the sidewalk. She moved quietly, not answering him, drying her hands, refolding the dishtowel. The moment had, just then, the feel of a Christmas morning: the knowledge Rand held out on the walkway seemed at once as enormous and as trivial, an item to be eagerly torn into, exclaimed or despaired over, but in the end, it would be what it was. She wanted to know; she didn't. She raised her eyes and looked out the window, over Rand's shoulder, toward Edie's house. Their orders had finally come in last week\u2014Saudi Arabia\u2014and Edie seemed happy enough.\n\nGrace ran her hands along the countertop; she used her fingernail to pry up a sticky little stain. She studied her husband's expression for some sign. He had a slight smile and he swayed a little, side to side. The street beyond him was unsettlingly hushed.\n\nHe called her name again, louder this time.\n\nShe went to the screen and looked at him through the torn wire\u2014the cat had clawed herself a little exit on the left, by the frame. Clever cat, she'd thought, but then the small hole she'd torn kept ripping, tearing away from the flimsy wood, and the flies came in, the mosquitoes and the no-see-ums. Grace pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she said. \"Just tell me. Don't make me guess.\"\n\n\"Guess,\" he said.\n\nShe went back inside. Clearly he'd found out earlier, gone to celebrate with the boys. He'd known for hours and kept it. She sat down at the dining room table, feeling murderous. She sat there until he came inside and put the paper on the table in front of her, back in its envelope\u2014official-looking, with a big blue seal. Grace picked up the envelope and held it square in her hands, then turned it. She lifted the flap with her thumb, smelled its gumminess, tested it with her finger. Dry.\n\n\"It's Turkey,\" he said. He was in the kitchen then, rummaging in the fridge for a beer.\n\nShe put the envelope down. \"Turkey?\"\n\nThe kitchen door pushed back open and he came in. \"Ankara. There's a book coming, and a dictionary. Briefings. Shots. Not gamma globulin though, thank Christ. Better start soon. Tell the school.\"\n\nHe surveyed the room, mentally packing. He looked exasperated at the prospect, though most of their things were still in storage.\n\n\"I'll take the cat to the pound some morning this week,\" he said.\n\nHe flicked on the television and sat down in his chair. The news was on; they were moving to Turkey. Grace went across the street to tell Edie. The frame of the screen banged behind her in a suddenly resonant way\u2014once, twice, a diminutive little third, then the bare brush of a fourth note. She rubbed her dry hands on her hips and let them open at her sides to push the cooling air in front of her.\n\nShe spent the next week packing, attending briefings, learning about a country she'd barely even heard of. She was suddenly busy, and it lit a little blaze inside her. The night before they shipped out, she and Edie carried sweet sherry in thimble glasses out onto the stoop and sat down. Canada was hugging a dog a patch of grass away; her pigtails were ragged, her knees raw.\n\n\"We'll write, won't we? We'll make the effort.\"\n\nGrace leaned back, her hands flat on the rough concrete of the stoop. Directly opposite, only a few hot steps away, were her own temporary twinned steps, her door, the empty, peeling window boxes. She sipped the warm, viscous liquid from her glass, then set it down. \"We will,\" she said, with more certainty than she felt. \"We absolutely will.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" said Edie. \"Is that dog humping Canada?\"\n\nGrace leaned forward. \"Absolutely yes,\" she said. \"Yes, he is.\"\n\nThey sipped their drinks and watched the sun go down; they made some promises, exchanged their new temporary addresses on carefully folded slips of paper.\n\nGRACE LEAVES a letter addressed to Edie on the telephone table in the hallway and slips out the door to meet Bahar for lunch. She rushes down the steps, crosses the marbled lobby and pulls the front door shut behind her. She wants to miss Hidayet, the kap\u0131c\u0131. Who ever heard of such a thing? she'd written Edie early on. Here the apartment super does your grocery shopping. Fresh bread twice a day, milk, fruit. Will wonders never cease? But now she wants to avoid him: his eyes, his cringing brand of insolence, the way he holds pieces of fruit up for her to admire, apricot by apricot, peach by peach.\n\nAfter lunch in the gold district, they walk through the crowded streets to the park. Bahar deftly eludes the merchants and beggars, towing Grace behind her. \"You need a maid,\" Bahar says. \"She'll keep the kap\u0131c\u0131 in line. That's how it's done.\"\n\nThey've only been in the apartment a month but Grace already hates being cornered by this smelly little man on the landing, forced to admire what he's brought, to fumble in her coin purse for small lira.\n\n\"Fine,\" she tells Bahar. \"A maid. How do I get one?\"\n\nSoon, they're standing in the park near the swans. \"Or a houseboy,\" Bahar says, passing her a cigarette. \"Either one.\"\n\nGrace considers it. Maids and houseboys, she's discovered here, are not quite the same animal. Houseboys lend an undercurrent of voltage to a household, a quiet, subterranean pulse that makes her think, unwillingly, of sex. Furtive, illicit sex: in pantries and closets, against household appliances, the kind of acts committed in daylight with one's eyes closed and never spoken of again. Standing there with Bahar's eyes fastened on her, Grace thinks that the choice between the two alternatives, maids and houseboys, probably speaks some essential truth about the chooser.\n\nShe thinks of Canada's friend Catherine and her dreadful mother, Simone. Grace doesn't much care for their houseboy. He materializes as if conjured when a glass is empty, holding a champagne bottle, his arrogant, beautiful head cocked in question. All the reservations Grace has about houseboys are distilled in Simone's: his air of scorn, a faint expression of derision\u2014vanishing as if imagined when one looks again\u2014his serene, appraising manner. With merely a glance in the doorway as he relieves her of a wrap, he manages to make her feel old and small.\n\nGrace knows she is not alone in the opinion that something unusual is afoot in that household. If Simone is absent from a card game with the Turkish ladies and talk turns to servants, someone will mention Simone and then, almost always, a conspiratorial, gossipy hush will hang for a few moments above the table and the women's eyes will slide from one to another, twinkling. A houseboy, passing through the room on some innocuous errand, might be subject to a long, evaluating glance. And Bahar, to put an end to it, will slap her fan of cards against the table's edge, and with wicked eyes make a crack about how hard it is to find good help in this city.\n\nGrace glances at Bahar, who is watching her carefully. A boy in ragged clothes passes, simits are piled high on his head and he's calling out his quavering sales pitch: simit, simit, simiiiiiiit.\n\n\"Houseboys make me nervous,\" she says. It's true. Grace does not think she can abide that cool arrogance in her own home: lately, living with Canada brings all the domestic disdain a person can be reasonably expected to tolerate. \"A maid,\" she says to Bahar. \"Definitely.\"\n\nAnd Bahar raises her eyebrows and laughs in a way that might mean anything.\n\nNot long after, Rand gets a tip from someone at the embassy and they drive over to \u00c7ankaya together one evening. Not to meet the maid, but to be interviewed by her current employers. They hope to inherit this woman\u2014this being the way domestic help commonly changes hands in Ankara\u2014from a Mormon family leaving for another post. The maid is called Firdis.\n\nGrace stands with the wife, completing the transaction, in a pantry they've custom built for the apocalypse. A staggering sight: stacked boxes of powdered milk, sacks of flour, towers of cans and rolls of toilet tissue and candles and batteries. The woman seems to think all this is perfectly normal.\n\n\"Have you begun stocking up?\" she asks. \"Remember, one never knows.\"\n\nGrace shakes her head. She feels cramped, skeptical and awed; but she's also a little on edge. She herself is lapsed, devoid of any recognizable brand of faith. She loves Ankara's mosques and minarets, the men bent on prayer rugs, the idea of a whole city facing one direction in unison, responding to an ancient, nearly tuneless call. Ezan, it's called here. In contrast, the antiseptic church gatherings on the British compound\u2014which at first they'd all attended regularly, at her insistence\u2014now seem tiresome and terribly staged. She'd skipped the previous Sunday, let Rand and Canada sleep, and when they woke up and wandered out, confused and relieved, she pretended to have forgotten what day it was. While Grace speaks with the woman about the maid, Rand drifts out onto the balcony with the husband, probably tamping tobacco into his pipe, admiring tomato plants and home-grown peppers, or something just as useless. Since they've arrived in Ankara, Rand has been supremely unhelpful, leaving, as usual, all the pedestrian details of life to her. She'd chosen the apartment. He had stood in the bare, dusty living room, swiveled once around, said \"fine,\" and decamped immediately for the embassy. She'd fought with the shippers over water damage, filed the reimbursement claims and trotted Canada to her cursory interview at the British school. She'd even waited, for nearly seven freezing hours one day at a depot, for his beloved red car to arrive on a trailer from Istanbul. (\"It smells of rot,\" he'd said accusingly, when she presented it to him at the embassy.)\n\nNear the end of the interview about the maid\u2014a one-way interrogation, Grace wrote to Edie later, in entirely the wrong direction\u2014the woman says, \"Now she's wonderful, don't get me wrong. She's miraculous. There is just the one thing.\"\n\nGrace is standing pressed against a shelf of canned beans, desperately wanting out. The space is suffocating; the shelves loom precariously. Hand built, she assumes. This Rand will later confirm, shaking his head and muttering about fanatics.\n\n\"What thing?\" Grace asks.\n\nNot that it matters. Lately she's been weeping over the wringer-washer, pulling torn, mangled clothing from its pernicious jaws. She can't communicate at all with the kap\u0131c\u0131, who just grins at her and nods every time she speaks to him from her phrase book. Grins and nods and vanishes.\n\n\"Well,\" says the woman as she lowers her voice and leans too close. \"Things move.\"\n\nGrace shakes her head a little. She runs a hand through her sticky hair. \"Move? She steals?\"\n\nThe woman draws back and puffs herself up. \"Certainly not,\" she says. \"I'm just saying that items change places. When I haven't touched them.\"\n\nGrace assumes, comfortably, that the woman is certifiable. She confirms it with a glance around her\u2014the teetering canned goods, the bedrolls and flashlights and first-aid paraphernalia.\n\nRand and the husband come in off the balcony together a moment later, looking satisfied and male and jolly. As she and Rand leave, he offers to sell the contents of the pantry to them\u2014lock, stock and barrel, he says, including shelving.\n\n\"Can't take it with you?\" Rand says heartily. The two men are shoulder clapping each other, saying goodbye.\n\nGrace stands nearby, her hand on the doorknob. She squeezes it hard. Miniature plastic rain boots are lined up under the coat hook in military formation. Orange, red, blue, green.\n\nThe woman reaches around Grace for the door. \"It's all specific for the climate, for Ankara,\" she says seriously. \"We'll have to start again in Paris.\"\n\nIn the car, Grace says, \"Paris? They're going to Paris?\"\n\nRand says, \"I pity Paris.\"\n\nGrace sighs and leans back in her seat; Rand steers around a clump of dirty sheep congregating on a residential roadway. Canada is playing at her friend Catherine's\u2014Grace hopes she will stay for dinner. At home, there is nothing in the refrigerator or the cupboards; Grace cannot seem to accomplish even the minor everyday haggling that constitutes commerce in Turkey. The price of nearly everything, it seems\u2014flour, fruit, bread, floor polish\u2014is infinitely negotiable.\n\n\"Who suggested this woman?\" she asks him. \"Who gave you the tip?\"\n\n\"Paige Trotter,\" he says. \"You like her. The one who reads cards.\"\n\n\"He's CIA, isn't he? That's what everyone says.\"\n\nRand doesn't answer\u2014she isn't surprised. No one discusses what the men do for a living here, or whom they work for. It isn't polite; not even appropriate, it seems, between husbands and wives. But Grace does like Paige Trotter. Many of the other wives here remind her of the insipid women from Olson Loop; at parties, they gather and chatter in little parliaments around the room, giggling and making eyes\u2014but not Paige. She drifts around in caftans and turbans, drinking scotch neat and laughing just as loudly as the men. Late at night, in her own messy house, she lays out fortune-telling cards, rolls back the carpets and initiates dancing and games of charades.\n\nGrace watches her husband's big hands gripping the steering wheel; it seems like a child's toy under them, a circus car. \"I had a letter from Edie yesterday,\" she says. \"She says Saudi reminds her a little of Paris. The shopping, I suppose.\"\n\nRand ignores her through \u00c7ankaya's winding hills. They pass the American Residence and Ankara University; the electricity returns as they drive and she watches it punch bright holes through the darkness. As they enter Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa, Rand says, \"I wouldn't advise either of them to get too comfortable there. They can't possibly last out a full tour.\"\n\n\"She sounds quite happy.\"\n\n\"Goldfish are happy,\" he says. \"Greg hasn't got mettle enough for Saudi...and she's not exactly made of the ideal stuff either. In fact, he should probably be filing papers somewhere right now, not in a sensitive field post.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you're wrong.\"\n\nRand shakes his head wonderingly. \"I'd have bet money they'd be sent to Guam or something. But Saudi Arabia, for God's sake. Saudi.\"\n\n\"You don't sound very happy for them.\"\n\nHe keeps his eyes on the road and doesn't respond. She lets it go. Rand has always disapproved\u2014in his maddeningly oblique way\u2014of Grace's friendship with Edie. Of all things, he'd said, when he'd learned where they were going. Of all the goddamn things. And when she'd asked, What goddamn things? he had merely looked at her as if she were shockingly dim. Never mind, he'd said, popping a beer and sucking foam from the lip. Forget it.\n\nHe glances at her now in just the same way and eases the car into a space across from their apartment building.\n\nSMALL THINGS move first. Almost imperceptibly. A picture that has been propped against a wall seems to hang itself, directly above its original resting spot. At first Grace wonders if she's done it herself. Then a carpet shifts, from one side of the bed to the other. Silver serving dishes go from inside the china cabinet to the outer shelf; a chair from the right side of the fireplace to the left. A heavy crystal ashtray sweeps around a room\u2014on a coffee table one day, a side table the next, then the mantel, then the sideboard, before finally landing on the desk in the corner by the window.\n\nOn the fifth day Grace comes home and finds her dressing table moved\u2014mere inches, from east to west. The contents are untouched, but the table itself has definitely moved.\n\nShe says to Rand, \"Do you notice this?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"The moving, is what. Do you not notice it?\"\n\nAnd like a line in a radio skit, he says, \"Who's moving?\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Grace says and concludes, not for the first time, that she's married a handsome, brilliant idiot.\n\nShe gets used to it. When an entire seating section of the living room gets up and rearranges itself in a different corner, she sits down there and smokes a cigarette. When the contents of the kitchen cabinets change entirely, up going down and down going up, she asks Canada where the powdered milk has gone and proceeds accordingly. Because Canada always seems to know. If Grace comes home and finds her nose-down in a book, oblivious, and asks her where such and such is, Canada knows. \"She put it there,\" she'll say. At times, Grace suspects collusion. Others, she chalks it up to Canada's observant nature\u2014very little gets by her. Even when she has a pulpy paperback tucked inside the pages of a huge, battered poetry anthology, she'll have managed to memorize some terrible, boring poem, in case she is asked.\n\nA few weeks into Firdis's tenure, Grace is at lunch with Bahar and brings the subject around to her new maid. \"The woman is miraculous,\" she says. \"But I do feel as though she's taking over my house.\"\n\nFirdis scours and cooks and cleans from morning until night; she hunches on her knees, polishing the wood floors one meticulous inch at a time, swaddled in her many layers of multicolored fabric. The woman is a walking, scrubbing coatrack. She also leaves in her wake a pungent combination of sweat and lemon oil, which Grace has become almost completely accustomed to.\n\nBahar lifts an eyebrow and plays with her salad. \"This is something wrong? A bad thing?\"\n\n\"No. I suppose not.\"\n\nThey pay the bill and walk over to the park. Grace has with her a thick military-issued binder on cultural matters, on protocol, on navigating the city and tipping: Dependents' Guide to the Customs and Culture of Turkey. \"Turkey\" is typed in on a separate line below the other words, indicating that an entire library of such books exists somewhere, with the names of other lands filled in by some anonymous clerk.\n\nShe shows it to Bahar. \"Military efficiency,\" she says.\n\nBahar takes it from her, flips it open and skims the pages. She laughs out loud. \"No,\" she says. \"Not correct. Nor this. This is not true either. Who writes this merde?\"\n\nGrace leans over to follow Bahar's finger. She has read the book several times but is still drawn to its peculiar information: how much leg is appropriate, how one must avoid stray dogs, respect Islam and Kemal Atat\u00fcrk. A strange collection of topics, a glossary of phrases, bits of trivia compiled, she imagines, in the same choppy, haphazard way it's presented: religion leading into history, government flowing into the role of women, economics and foreign exchange devolving into matters of courtesy.\n\nBahar is absorbed in the binder when Grace notices a woman standing nearby at the marshy end of the lake, holding the hand of a dark toddler who gnaws busily at its fist. The woman is wrapped in clothing and headscarves and wears heavy socks under pink plastic sandals. The layers of fabric beneath her coat are wild and mismatched and she seems perilously overdressed for the weather. Grace cannot tell where one article of clothing ends and another begins. The child is similarly bundled; no determining if it is a boy or a girl. When the woman smiles back at her, Grace sees gold teeth and wide, dark gaps between them.\n\nThe binder and the briefings Grace attended before shipping out have taken pains to point out the chasm here between East and West, Christianity and Islam, between the poor and the privileged. Driving to the city from the airport on the night of their arrival, their host had pointed out the shantytowns\u2014ge\u00e7ekondus\u2014cobbled together from bits of tin and cardboard, where families lived in huddles, barely sheltered from the elements, cooking over smoky coal fires. These were squatters' camps, erected at night and torn down quickly in the morning. Bleary-eyed from travel, Grace saw ragged children running alongside the car or stepping brazenly into its path, holding out their hands. Don't give them a thing, the binder warns (and their uniformed host had echoed sternly from the front seat that evening), or you'll never get away. On the other hand, with no hint of irony, it suggests that one always carry American cigarettes and booze, if possible. Charity is frowned upon, she gathers, bribery openly sanctioned. Rand's nondescript government car already holds a stash of bottles and red and white cartons stacked in the trunk.\n\nGrace feels around in her pockets and finds some peppermints. They are quite old, left over from the airplane, in fact. For a moment she examines them\u2014the wrappers are slightly soiled, the pink stripes running together from heat and moisture\u2014then looks up to find the child's eyes watching her above a grubby fist. She decides it's a boy, for no particular reason. But when she offers him the candies, the woman's face changes swiftly. She shakes her head and begins to back away. The little boy bursts instantly into tears and pulls at her hand; they tug at each other like that for a few moments until the woman, with her brute strength and harsh tone, prevails. She sweeps the child into her arms and carries him away. Embarrassed, Grace tucks the candies back in her pocket.\n\nWhen she turns back, Bahar is watching her.\n\n\"You think we let our children take candy from strangers?\" she says. \"I wonder: would I do this in your country, with your children?\" She closes the book, sets it down on the bench and stands up. Grace feels her face burn as she hurries across the grass behind Bahar, apologizing. Bahar slows, finally, before she crosses the street and lets Grace tuck her arm into hers.\n\n\"Not everyone here wants your American charity,\" she says, more kindly. \"You cannot learn everything from that silly book.\"\n\nBut as time passes and summer comes on in earnest, the early missteps she'd made seem humorous, just beginner's mistakes. Grace grows comfortable with the Turkish ladies and their afternoons, with the crazed bustle of the streets, the barking of vendors and the constant presence of Firdis, who continues to effect her own arbitrary changes within her household.\n\nSoon, summer weekends bring driving trips to the scalloped coastline, to the ruins and treasures at Ephesus, Pamukkale, Pergamum, Bodrum. Nights are spent in cheap beachside hotels where snails cluster above the beds like textured wallpaper. She is folded into the clique of English-speaking women with the same ease with which Canada had joined the children on Olson Loop. There are long days at the pool; card games and shopping in the Old City with Bahar. Under her expert instruction, Grace learns to study the intricate knot-work to tell a good rug from a cheap one, to weigh gold appraisingly in her palm, to click with her mouth when she is outraged by a price. She becomes close with Paige Trotter as well. The Trotters live in a real house, not an apartment, and in the pretty garden out back, tattered Japanese lanterns are strung from fraying clothesline, weighing down the stunted trees that grow up through the patio. The furniture is rickety and weather stained and Grace ruins countless dresses with rust marks from leaning up against the tables and chairs. But she spends some of her loveliest hours there, in Paige's garden and the untidy living room, with its low windows and sprung couches, among the dusty spill of books and artifacts and papers and general material confusion.\n\nSome days it feels as if she's been swept up in a great, ongoing party, without consequences or repercussions, where drinks flow and food appears, where the women are lovely, the men bright and interested, and the children out of sight and productively occupied.\n\n## July 1975\n## 3\n\nSIMONE. SIMONE OF THE FRENCH-BLUE BEDROOM SUITE, THE gardenia and vetiver, the atomizers and glass pots of face cream, the jewel-hued bath beads and lace-trimmed bed jackets. Simone Tremblay, Catherine's mother: climbing, bloodless, her heart as frosty as her perfectly coiffed hair. Simone and her houseboy, John: her minion, her underling, her co-conspirator, and something else we couldn't yet define.\n\nOn Tuesdays, in the heat of the day, John folded laundry in the small, matching blue room off Simone's bedroom suite. Tuesday was Simone's day at the salon. Of course, it didn't occur to Catherine to ask her mother to go along, and Simone would never think to offer.\n\nSometimes, passing the doorway, bored and ill at ease, Catherine and I would linger, watching John fastidiously fold Simone's panties and delicates, his hands moving quietly among the lace and silks, his mouth slightly curled. The iron hissed on the table and we heard the bright tinkling of oud strings from the small black radio, its antenna pointed toward the tiny square of window that looked over the alley and, we'd been told, toward Mecca. This was also the room in which John prayed in the afternoons, on a rug he kept rolled behind the washing machine.\n\nIn a pile on the floor were Simone's clothes\u2014lavender silks and demi bras, camisoles, madras shirts and long, pleated skirts requiring meticulous ironing. As John aimed the iron into the darts and cuffs and creases, wet heat gathered in the air and seemed to us like some emanation from his body.\n\n\"What do you want?\" he said. \"Go away. I do not wish to be watched by you.\"\n\nClean clothes, folded and stiff and fresh, grew in stacks around him. They piled up on the ironing board, the floor, the dryer. The radio crackled; he adjusted the antenna.\n\nCatherine pulled me away from the door. \"Let's go out,\" she said.\n\n\"I want to stay.\" I turned to John: \"Can we help?\"\n\n\"No.\" He turned back to the laundry and his hands became more purposeful, his folding more vigorous and impatient.\n\nBut I liked watching John; he was so different from Firdis, who slammed and slung and tossed things: John used such care touching Simone's lingerie, folding the tap pants trimmed with lace, turning bra cups inside each other, his fingers tugging down silky straps. Simone favored silks and crepes\u2014in dusky roses, lilacs, peach. I often thought: Who is this woman, Simone, to wear these fabrics and colors\u2014so chaste, so innocent\u2014next to her body? Who does she think she is? Perhaps John wondered the same thing.\n\nLater, as we were walking down the hall to the kitchen, Catherine suddenly said, \"I don't think he likes girls seeing him do the laundry.\"\n\nI looked at her over my hand. \"We watch him cook and clean and do the dishes.\"\n\n\"It's different.\" She shrugged. \"Laundry is beneath him. It's women's work.\"\n\nOn afternoons when she was home, Simone and John huddled together in the kitchen and spoke in low tones, studying menus and seating charts, flower arrangements and butter clovers. The two of them were always scheming some upcoming social triumph.\n\nWe pushed open the door\u2014looking for a drink, an approved snack, some distraction or another\u2014and they both looked up as if intruded upon during some private, occult rite. Foodstuffs were spread on the counter, silver was drying on soft towels, the refrigerator hummed. Simone huffed, straightened her skirt with her long, pale hands and launched an interrogation.\n\n\"Have you done your homework, Catherine? Practiced at the barre? Why are your faces dirty? Your hands? You aren't wearing shoes inside the house, are you? Surely I'm seeing things.\"\n\nWe backed away and tiptoed down the hall to Catherine's room, settling for the candy we hoarded in her closet and water straight from the bathroom tap. The latter was ill-advised, but we had both, since arriving in Turkey, developed cast-iron stomachs.\n\nWe kept our candy hidden in a shoebox behind Catherine's neatly hung clothes\u2014Peter Pan\u2013collared shirts, pleated tartan skirts, navy blue trousers. Over the summer months a kind of bargain had blossomed silently between John and Catherine. And the candy was part of it; all of it came from him, delivered in secret, payment for some dark thing growing between them.\n\nShe told me a little of it that same afternoon. She told me that when he came to her room to deliver laundry, to straighten her bed or dust her dresser, he stayed just a bit longer than the task required. He carried in her white cotton panties, pink leotards and clean tights, collared shirts and school skirts\u2014and all the time, he whispered to her. The whole time, most of it, his hands slid shirts onto hangers, crisp cottons into her dresser. He never stayed more than a few minutes, she said. Perhaps he needed to compose himself for Simone's return, to anticipate the instructions she would insist she'd given him earlier, which would most certainly have come to her under the hair dryer. And yet to Catherine, these moments alone with John had the breadth and substance of hours.\n\n\"Your mother is a bitch,\" he would whisper to her. \"A filthy woman, an oppressor, a whore.\"\n\nThough she was not inclined to disagree, the sound of his accented voice saying these words must have provoked in her some involuntary surge of loyalty, some small instinct to object. I imagine his words accompanied by the sound of fabrics, the shush of cotton, the crinkle of starchy shirts and the vaguely stiff leotards Catherine had by the dozen, which Simone had shipped from Montreal.\n\nJohn was slight, wiry and strong; he smelled of clean clothes and hair oil and he moved as Simone herself did, glidingly, and was not much for eye contact. If he touched Catherine, which he did not often do, being restrained by some odd chivalry, he left grease marks on the collar of her shirt, across its crisp alabaster front. When he left he would hold out his arms to take the stained garment away and she would slide it off and place it in his hands. She said he always turned his eyes from her body, as if it didn't interest him.\n\n\"Your mother,\" he would murmur, \"she is a bad person, she treats people poorly. In\u015fallah she will go to hell. Do you agree?\"\n\nJohn's English was exceptionally good, though the words came out with odd inflections: ah-gree, he said. Beesh.\n\n\"She does not care for you. Orospu. Only for her perfect parties, her china, her position.\"\n\nCertainly this was true. Simone was peremptory, imperious and snide, always jockeying for position. (What's that thing stuck to the ambassador's backside? went a common joke among my mother's friends. Oh, that? Just Simone Tremblay.) Simone, almost always dressed for some affair: her clothes silky around her frame, her eyes glittering with pleasure\u2014taking in what John had done: the crystal and china, the sprays of orchids and individual ferns set spikily into vases, the polished silver that threw back her reflection, which she bared her teeth into, bending over the table, checking for stray lipstick.\n\nWhen Catherine was dispatched to the kitchen to assist John in some preparatory task\u2014folding napkins into intricate designs, polishing water glasses or fruit knives\u2014John mouthed things to her behind Simone's straight back, the knobs of her spine visible under a tennis outfit or a thin cotton dress. She heard the words in her head as though he were placing them there, one by one, as carefully as he laid silver on a table. Whore. Slut. Dog. She could read his lips precisely, in the instant when their eyes met, when he compelled her to look at him. She watched him form those words, hearing his voice in her head, and it was as if he were painting Simone in brilliant, poisonous colors, while the woman herself was occupied with some triviality, clicking her pen over the evening's menu, repositioning a blade of greenery.\n\nYou could not help but notice the obsession in Ankara with domestic servants. These strangers in our homes\u2014bending, washing, scrubbing, serving\u2014seemed to have a value greater than any amount of actual currency. Among the ladies they were constantly discussed, traded, inherited, loaned, lauded and complained about. And Simone's relationship with John was particularly interesting to the other women in my mother's circle.\n\nStill, the young man they gossiped about, this swarthy, libidinous houseboy, sly-eyed and hostile, was strangely confined by perimeters known only to him. He never touched me, for example, though I certainly wanted him to. I settled for far less, treasuring even the slip of his cool hand against mine in the hallway. Passing me in the corridor leading to Catherine's room, he would turn his body away from mine; he was taut, bladelike, and the suggestion of a mustache above his upper lip reinforced the implication of a sneer. But our hands would incongruously meet, so quickly and deftly it would be hard later to imagine how it had happened, and I would come away with some bit of cellophane or foil curled inside my palm, a thing to be unwrapped later, privately, savored and adorned with meaning\u2014the flavor, the color of the paper, the comic hidden inside like a Chinese fortune.\n\nBut John pressed these riches on us with his typical disinterest, with the manner of one paying a debt he is not quite convinced he owes. From time to time he brusquely deposited in Catherine's room paper bags filled with candy or chewing gum, the sickeningly sweet sugared squares called lokum, which we disposed of down the toilet, for fear, of all things, of hurting his feelings.\n\nIt's a mystery why he included me. Perhaps he simply saw how easily my silence could be purchased, how eager I was to be included in what went on between them. Generally, if John spoke to me at all, it was by way of instruction or criticism, reminding me to take off my shoes, or wash my hands, not to touch Simone's breakables or his beautifully laid dining table. He was often Simone's intermediary, taking up her causes when she was absent. You would never have said they were united, of course, but I believe John liked the idea of giving us orders, and he sought out opportunities to do so.\n\nIn her bedroom, Catherine and I divided up the candy and rationed it out. I tried to pry from her the details of their encounters\u2014when had he come last, what had he said or done? I felt as entitled to his trespasses as I would if they'd been directed at me.\n\n\"Do you think I should tell someone?\" she asked me that afternoon. \"Should I tell my mother?\"\n\nThe candy was spread between us on the bed, like treasure poured from an undersea chest. The little mound glittered and winked.\n\nI put my hands deep inside the pile: the cool of cellophane and the squish of caramel, hard sour candies colored like jewels and mysterious little bundles we would have to unwrap to identify. To lose all this booty, to give up the thrill of its secret provenance, seemed tragic to me, and stupid.\n\n\"Tell Simone?\" I said. \"No. Why on earth would you?\"\n\nCatherine stared at me. I unwrapped a green sour ball and fitted it inside my mouth. \"She'd have to fire him,\" I pointed out. \"She'd hate you for it.\" I sucked vigorously on the candy; artificial lime flavor burst bright stars in my mouth. \"But then again,\" I said slowly, \"what if she didn't? What if she didn't do anything?\"\n\nCatherine looked around the room. She smoothed the flowered bedspread under her fingers. \"It's nothing anyway,\" she said then. \"It isn't anything.\"\n\nLooking back, perhaps there was a time when Catherine wanted my advice, or even my approval: she was timid by nature, afraid to walk home from the bus stop alone, terrified of the dogs that roamed the streets and the construction workers who muttered at us incomprehensibly when we passed their work site in the mornings, in our tights and school uniforms, carrying our books.\n\nWHEN CATHERINE and I weren't in the alleys, we spent summer afternoons at the pool at the Canadian Residence, lying side by side on the hot tile, our feet splashing gently in the deep end. The sun beat warm strokes along our bodies; surrounding the pool the lawns were emerald green, thick as carpet, bordered with bright flowering hedges. It was lush, almost suffocating, and the trees overhead seemed to close us in, to gather the sky in a perfect sphere above where we lay prone, lethargic and baking. Outside the tall iron gates the city was dirty and hot and bleak, but it seemed to me as distant as Olson Loop. At lunchtime, we pulled apricots from the trees; they came free still warm from the sun, blushing pink, skins soft and furred.\n\nThe scritch of a lighter being flicked repeatedly. I had one arm thrown over my face, a sticky apricot stone clenched in the other hand. I widened my fingers and saw my mother\u2014an alien in enormous sunglasses, a wide hat, a skirted bathing suit, on a lounge chair nearby. She was examining the lighter, looking concerned, the unlit cigarette a little white stick resting in the middle of her luridly pink chest. Simone lay beside her under an umbrella, stretching like a cat, scribbling something on a pad of paper.\n\nMy mother disliked Simone, though they were friendly socially. Friendly, but by no means friends. There was something between those women, some sporting camaraderie, but it was limned with something distinctly ungenerous. Catherine and I suspected they were united only in the face of what they mutually disapproved of: slouching girls, back-talking girls, loud, silly, inconsiderate, thoughtless girls.\n\nClosing my fingers, I waited for the sunspots to recede and briefly considered the idea of my mother. She swam long, endless-seeming laps, always breaststroke, her chin never dipping below the surface. She wore a bathing cap studded with plastic flowers. Her white legs frog-kicked end to end, her mouth slightly open, sunglasses propped up on her head. Coming out of the water, she toweled herself vigorously all over, even between her legs; she dragged the cap from her head with a big snap. But aside from Simone, she was liked; you couldn't have said she wasn't. I found it surprising, less than pleasing, an ongoing mystery. And those bracelets she'd begun wearing, they drove me crazy. Maybe a dozen thin, scrolled bangles, they clinked and tinkled along her freckled arms. She went around jingling like our cat and seemed to enjoy it, hearing the sounds she made moving, dressing, brushing her hair, shouldering through the world. Catherine had asked for ones like them and Simone had called them common and sniffed\u2014a sound like a kitten sneezing. Catherine could imitate it perfectly.\n\nThe two of them were Canadian by birth, Simone and my mother, but my mother was an American now because she'd married one, which was the first thing Simone found objectionable. But my being named Canada\u2014a bizarre patriotic gesture my father had strenuously opposed\u2014this she called \"the height of bad taste.\" Simone never, ever called me by name. Even when I was not around she said: your friend, or that American girl, or simply her. It was a rudeness she wouldn't have tolerated from Catherine but blithely allowed herself. Simone, I believe, put up with our friendship only because it was temporary, because, of course, everything among us was\u2014posts and schools and apartments and houses, certainly friendships. And what Catherine really wanted, I think, was permanence, a house in a place that stood still, and trees and plants that flowered seasonally, predictably, a school she might graduate from, friends who wouldn't ever change or move or leave. She might have become the kind of woman who nurses a vague agoraphobia or one who earns a living from home, putting papers into envelopes. But then perhaps she would have become the prima ballerina Simone was grooming her to be. Even though I know the truth, I still sometimes picture her as a pin on a map, a little figure of a ballerina, like one on a music box she had, spinning gracefully, somewhere in Quebec.\n\nUnder the edge of my blue towel\u2014side by side with Catherine's\u2014I kept a little lump, a mound I rested my hand on periodically, palm flat, fingers wide. I edged the towel back and my fingers rustled in the assortment, culling what I wanted from the rest. I slid a fruit pastille\u2014not a black-currant one, those I kept for myself\u2014against the edge of Catherine's hand. She pushed it back gently and I pushed again, insistently.\n\n\"Too hot,\" she hissed. \"It's too hot.\"\n\n\"Look what's left.\"\n\n\"You have it.\"\n\nThere was silence, long and scorching; the sun throbbed against my eyelids.\n\n\"Really? You don't mind?\"\n\n\"I wish you would.\"\n\nI sighed and wriggled on my towel, shifting my shoulders, greedy fingers busy again in the pile. Papers unfolding, quiet as could be\u2014I submerged each crinkle, snap, or tear beneath a cough, a sigh\u2014each sound allowed to dissipate before another was initiated.\n\nThe afternoon wore on into early evening, when lights blinked on in the residence and down the hillside and insects began stirring in the trees. My mother and Simone rose from their chairs and began to gather their towels and lotions and hats. A party was being held at the pool that night and the two disappeared into the cabana to shower and paint their faces and change into dresses. Servants began moving up the path with bottles and folding tables and platters of food wrapped in plastic.\n\nCatherine and I watched them, staying right where we were. We knew we would be conscripted into service soon enough\u2014another thing that both our mothers believed in was silent, well-mannered children circulating through parties with trays. Soon the pool lights flickered on and the water brightened to a deep, unnatural shade of blue. We smelled fried pastries and pungent white cheese and heard the clink of liquor bottles and glasses. Music sputtered through speakers hidden in the bushes, and houseboys in dinner jackets began lighting torches around the pool.\n\nMy father had returned from a trip that very morning, smelling of the unknown, his shoes uncharacteristically dusty, his eyes tired. He'd changed and gone over to the embassy but I expected him to arrive at any moment. He and my mother had argued about it and she'd won.\n\nCars began pulling into the driveway and people wandered down the illuminated path to the swimming pool, lifting drinks from trays as they came, chattering and laughing. My mother and Simone emerged from the changing room at last, both in long skirts and silver jewelry, and they glared at us until we retreated from our towels and sat on a low stone wall in the background. We cadged Cokes from the bar and dunked lemon slices down through the ice with paper straws. We braided and unbraided each other's wet, chlorine-scented hair.\n\nBefore long, my mother and the other women pressed Mrs. Trotter into reading cards. She was one of my mother's favorite people in Ankara\u2014a lovely person, she always said, a real person, one of the best. Paige sat curled and barefoot\u2014with her turban, clunky jewelry and knotty, unpainted toes\u2014on a striped chair as they gathered around her. One by one, she built their futures in the shape of a cross, the cards shifted and slid on the plastic chair, seemingly tuned to the women bending over them, the motion of their hips and breasts, their intent, leaning bodies.\n\nBefore long my father came, kissed me hello and then settled on a lounge chair and got busy with his pipe. He still looked tired to me and he gave me a smile I'd seen before\u2014it said: I hate this, and you hate this, but we can get through it together. Soon the smell of his tobacco drifted on the night air, lovely, rich and whiskey-dark, purely him. He wore long pants and a dress shirt\u2014the rest of the men were in swimming trunks and the thick, dark-rimmed eyeglasses that were fashionable at the time. Eventually, they all gathered around him for a photograph; Simone was taking it. I heard my father laugh, his voice thick with booze and exhaustion. People congregated by the drinks table; boys in jackets passed trays. I hovered nearby, my back against the low stone wall, watching, smelling the alcohol rising off their glasses. Everything felt a little heady; everyone seemed a little drunk. I shivered; white lights sparkled in the trees, midges and tiny flies swarmed the food. Simone had come for Catherine and now she too was passing drinks, her hair still damp and the back of her shirt stained dark. I'd been overlooked, forgotten.\n\nI watched Catherine skirt the edge of the pool. Lights danced on the water and underneath, the bottom of the pool seemed to undulate in wide, aquamarine ripples. It looked unearthly and beautiful, a place you might elect to drown in.\n\nI was wearing only my American-flag bikini, and goose pimples came up on my arms. Still, I was waiting until someone explicitly instructed me to get dressed. In the dank, chlorinated cool of the dressing room, with its benches and compartments and slatted wooden walls, were my shoes and street clothes. Rolled inside, tight in the middle, was a small stash of John's candy. A breeze moved across the pool, the clustering adults; it blew through the trees and ruffled the flowers. Pink and yellow petals drifted from the trees and made kaleidoscope patterns on the grass. The American Residence was just up the hill from the Canadian one; the gardens met at a discreet fence. I could see their lights, the bunched shadows of their trees.\n\nI tried to catch Catherine's eye. John was standing near her, taking glasses from the tray she held. Simone had lent him to the ambassador's wife for the evening; it wasn't unusual for him to appear in places like this, in homes and at parties where he didn't actually belong. But it always gave me a shiver when he turned up looking both apart and at ease, as though his presence were merely a fateful accident. But there was always about John the implication that he was doing us a great and undeserved favor just by being where he was. As I watched, he spoke into Catherine's ear and she laughed. A hot flush of jealousy skittered along my arms, made my neck itch.\n\nI pushed off the wall I was leaning against and started toward her, meaning to pull her away, to take one of them\u2014which? I have to wonder\u2014from the other. But I never made it. Halfway there, I saw my father lurch up from his chair and stagger toward the men standing for the photograph. Instinctively, the men moved back, shifting clear of him. A glass crashed to the tile; a table went over. Frozen in my place, I watched as his arms windmilled, and then he pitched hard into the pool, his legs scissoring in his long pants, his head striking the concrete edge. There was a sickening noise. He was wearing his dress shoes. A bright red flower grew at the pool's edge. My mother screamed.\n\nPRELUDE TO a marital argument:\n\nMy mother and I sat on the edge of a communal well in a small, dirty village on the Antalya coast. Fishing boats and pleasure craft dotted the harbor nearby, none of them the least bit splendid. They bounced on the roughening water, tethers slapping the waves. A storm was gathering, a dark, domed headpiece of clouds in the distance. The tree we were sitting under had jaundiced slowly in the changing light\u2014the yellow of maturing bruises, coming thunder.\n\nMy father had been gone well over an hour and my mother was hopping. We had watched streams of people stop at the shabby little mosque nearby to wash their hands at the taps and rub the crumbling mosaic wall with their fingers. But now the square was nearly deserted and fat raindrops had begun to splatter the ground beyond the tree. A goat tied to a rusted bicycle folded its knees solemnly, then lowered its haunches to the ground. My father had disappeared with a man promising to show him some antiquities, undoubtedly looted from a nearby archaeological dig or tomb. I had a Coke my mother bought me from a street vendor, tepid, the bottle filmed with dust, very nearly an artifact in its own right. Bored, I picked at a scab on my knee; I was familiar with this scenario. In the beginning, new to Turkey, we often made weekend trips to tourist attractions and historic sites, and my parents fought habitually about the things he acquired and the manner in which he did it. These unsavory characters you turn up, my mother said every time. You'll have us all killed.\n\nThis morning outside the pillars of Ephesus my father had made contact with a dirty little man who sidled up to us speaking pidgin English: Roman coins, he said. Authentic artifacts. Follow me. My father turned to him with amused eyes and spoke rapidly in Turkish. Before long the talk quickened and the eyes of the peddler brightened. He knew another man, as it happened. A bargain was struck. It was only a short walk. His wife would make tea. It was the same every time, and my mother and I had watched him go, marching off with the diminutive man, the two of them speaking and laughing and gesturing, until they vanished down the dusty road.\n\nStrange bedfellows, my mother once said to me, in a rare moment of humor. We were sitting on the hill beyond the Virgin Mary's little stone house, gnawing at bread we'd bought earlier that day by the roadside. The waters of the spring below were teeming with pilgrims. Twisted olive trees rustled overhead; the air smelled of oranges and the sea. My mother used a house key to cut a corner of crumbling white cheese; she spoke through a mouthful, her manners momentarily abandoned. Miniver Cheevy, she said. Born too late. She trailed off, chewing.\n\nYou had to wonder: how did my father find these men, or what was it about him that drew them, these slit-eyed, craven little men, dressed in ragged clothes, with their terrible teeth? They always seemed to recognize each other. Unlike my mother, though, I enjoyed these transactions. I liked the furtive commerce, the way the men glanced over their shoulders and touched my father's sleeve in a pleading way, the way they offered up their bundles of rags and pockets full of coins. And my father's excitement was contagious.\n\nWe'd trooped to innumerable dirty houses and apartments, to tumbled burial sites where ragged articles were spread across stone slabs on which chiseled lettering, finger-wide, grown shallow and worn, had faded almost entirely away. Huddled together over ancient epitaphs, my father haggled happily with these men over the price and authenticity of countless dirty, unidentifiable relics. But eventually my mother refused to accompany him.\n\nThe rain became serious. The tree was no longer an awning but an honest-to-goodness gutter, sluicing water onto our shoulders and knees. Raindrops the size of marbles bounced on the dusty ground and the air thickened with the smell of wet stone and dirt. I glanced over at my mother, who sat, her hands folded on her knees and her eyes closed, while water ran in rivulets down her cheeks. The edges of her scarf drooped; her makeup ran. I looked around for a place to get out of the wet, but she said, \"Stay put.\" I closed my eyes against the water; I understood what we were doing. The rain slicked my skin and needled at my sunburned knees; my socks went sloppy and my cheap white tennis shoes soaked through, expanding by at least two sizes. My mother's eyes stay closed, and somehow, between the expression on her face and the streaming water, she managed to look beatific. Which was, of course, the point.\n\nWhen my father returned, carrying some heavy wrapped thing, he took one look at us and doubled over, hooting with laughter. \"You,\" he said to me. \"You, I thought had more sense.\"\n\nWe were back in the car for a while before the rain finally stopped. Mountains rose in the near distance; the sea below was one of those unnatural, natural hues\u2014crystal, cerulean\u2014lapping at an alabaster shore. I was in the backseat, my clothes dried cardboard stiff, reading a lurid version of Sinbad, my hand busy between my legs under a blanket, head turned into the fragrant, smoky leather of the seat. The argument was on, held in hushed tones, my mother's voice chilly and hard. My father laughed, which outraged her.\n\n\"It isn't safe,\" my mother said finally. \"You disappearing off who knows where, leaving us in the middle of some godforsaken hellhole. One of these days you're going to get your head bashed in.\"\n\n\"Not today,\" he said, with a smile in his voice. \"Sorry to disappoint you.\"\n\n\"Pull over,\" my mother said after a moment. \"Stop the car.\"\n\nI closed my eyes and stilled my hands on the pages. The car continued to move, snaking along the road; the sunlight was hot on my eyelids, intrusive, insinuating.\n\n\"Stop this car this minute.\" Her voice rose; her teeth were clenched. I heard her fingers scrabbling at the nub of the door lock. But the car gained speed. I smelled sand and salt in my hair, a gritty feeling along my arms and neck, the day's sand and dirt caked into the creases of my skin.\n\n\"I'm not kidding,\" she said.\n\nMy father was quiet. I couldn't even hear him breathe\u2014just the hum of the little red car, the noise of air beating against the windows.\n\nThen the car stopped. There was the sensation of it lurching onto the shoulder, the wheels dipping onto the packed earth. The passenger door opened; my mother exited and slammed it behind her. A few hot moments passed.\n\nHe said, \"I know you're awake.\"\n\nI sat up and looked around. We were stopped on a cliff, the sea glittering below. In the distance on the other side of the car a hill rose gently, the vegetation sparse among the usual tumble of gray-white stones the size of oranges, and a few whiter ones, more square in shape, that dotted the field. Farther away were the rounded woolly bodies of sheep. I saw the plumed tail of one of the Turkish sheepdogs and the glint of its great spiked collar as it circled its flock in wide arcs.\n\nMy mother walked slowly along the roadway. Her scarf lifted in the wind rising from the sea; she swayed along in tight cigarette-style pants. White pants, and I saw the silhouette of her underwear clearly. She was wearing small heels and teetering a little on the uneven surface.\n\n\"Look,\" said my father happily, pointing up the hill outside the passenger window. \"Graves. Let's go see.\"\n\nWe got out of the car and started up the hill together. My mother didn't glance back. I was wearing shorts, a sun hat tied below my chin. The grasses were spiky, leaving thin red lashes along my calves. My father moved purposefully but slowly, his eyes on the ground. I'd done this a thousand times with my father: he had infinite patience and we could be there for hours. He bent down and with his handkerchief wiped a slab clean of grit and debris, sheep droppings. The marble was veined and cool to the touch, a surprising contrast in the heat. The lettering was Roman; there were numbers I could almost decipher. My father stood with his hands on his hips and looked down at it. He kicked around gently, found other markers and cleared them off as well. He did this almost reverently, humming a little tune. The bald spot on the top of his head reddened and sweat sprang up on his forehead.\n\nAfter a while we shared the candy bar he had in his pocket, sitting beside a tomb in the dirt. I made a little wreath of grasses and tiny purple flowers. Anemones, I think; they peppered the field as far as the eye could see. My father licked the chocolate from his fingers, then stood and wandered farther up the hill, and in his absence I experienced a rare moment of spiritual consternation. I had taken the little wreath and placed it on one of the marble slabs. But it occurred to me suddenly that this might be sacrilege\u2014I had sufficient schooling in my mother's faith to grasp this. I removed the wreath from the stone but suddenly was afraid of offending the Roman gods. It went back and forth like this for a while. I put the wreath down; I picked it up.\n\nWhen my father returned, we walked back down the hill to the car. There's no telling how much time had passed. My mother was sitting in the passenger seat, and when we got in the car she made a small noise in her throat and turned her head away, staring fixedly out the window. I understood she was angry with me as well, that I had committed some betrayal, but certainly not the first one between us.\n\n\"And we're off,\" my father said cheerfully. He started the car and we drove back to the city. Soon the view became monochromatic again, and the pleated hills looked like nothing so much as great swaths of canvas flung out across the land and allowed to gently billow down.\n\nAll that had been months earlier, in the summer, when Catherine and I were set free of the chilly schoolroom with its slanted caramel light, the deserted garden, the dirty city and frantic streets, the dense, troubled silences of our city homes. We'd run wild, and not only in the alleys of Ankara. On many weekends we'd also shared the cramped backseat of the Rover, piled high and soft with pillows and blankets, the floor littered with books. We played games\u2014Ghost, I Spy\u2014on endless drives as the road wound along the coast, past jagged peninsulas and villages, past women squatting in fields, past boys driving sheep and cattle, along countless tumbled ruins and fields of scrubby brush.\n\nSometimes the landscape was ferociously bare, sometimes wild formations of stone and caves jutted startlingly from picturesque meadows. Behind my father we crept together through ancient caves and catacombs, holding ropes strung along damp, streaming walls, crawling in tunnels and passageways, deep into the hearts of rock churches and subterranean cathedrals where our whispers came back strangely shaped, echoing and distorted. In a hotel in Pamukkale, a place too expensive for us to stay in, we swam through ruins they'd flooded to make a swimming pool, chasing each other's kicking legs through cloudy green water, hiding from each other behind submerged stone colonnades. In hot springs nearby, steam rose in columns around our bodies and we scrambled down calcified terraces barefoot, stunned by the whiteness, the amazing, endless, stepping whiteness of the view. We shared small beds in cheap beachside hotels, where sand blew up in mounds against the wooden steps and pilings of the cottages, where snails traveled unmolested along the walls and floors and we played all day in shallow blue water, faces clownish with sun cream.\n\nAFTER THE accident, Bahar's husband came daily to our apartment when he had finished with his patients. My mother, for her own reasons, had not wanted my father treated at the American hospital. Even before the fall, my father had had a reputation for drinking too much, for staggering at parties, for needing to be taken home by the elbows. \"Your father is fine,\" my mother told me the morning after the accident, \"but we're telling people he's gone on a trip. So he can recover in peace. It's a little secret.\" She narrowed her eyes. \"You can keep a secret, can't you?\"\n\nBahar's husband, Ali, was big and stocky, a man who loved his beautiful wife, adored his wild boys, dressed immaculately and carried himself with an air of friendly dispassion. He treated my parents' bedroom as if it were a sickroom, tiptoeing in and out, opening the door just wide enough to permit his not-insubstantial body to slide through and then silently closing it. He carried a very expensive-looking satchel; the scratched exterior, its general distress, seemed to enhance its luxury, and I often contrived to touch it when he wasn't looking. Inside the bedroom\u2014even my mother sensed she was unwelcome\u2014I imagine that dressings were changed and medicines dispensed and certain words exchanged. I heard them laughing in there from time to time. Men's laughter\u2014rough and low and secretive.\n\nLater, he and my mother would speak in quiet tones in the hallway, or behind the frosted-glass doors of the living room. He would often poke his head into the kitchen on his way out and say something in Turkish to Firdis, who would giggle insanely and cover her head with her apron. Ali had a strange effect on Firdis: he undid her completely. Firdis was a woman of an indeterminate age and body type, so swathed and swaddled in garments that there was nothing remotely womanly about her shape. Her husband was a kap\u0131c\u0131 in \u00c7ankaya and she seemed to have children in litters. When Ali's fleeting, male attentions were turned on her, she reddened and cowered, would knock to the floor some item from the kitchen counter or the mantel, then scramble for it, nearly hysterical, one hand pressed to her mouth.\n\nMY FATHER had been in bed nearly a week, receiving his daily calls from Ali, when my mother and Simone and Catherine and I took a trip together to the baths. In the taxi to the Old City Catherine had the window and I was pressed unhappily between the two women, their thighs tight against mine, the fabric of their respective dresses cool and hot against my bare legs. Simone, so close, with her cakey, creamy smell, wore cotton; my mother had on some slithery synthetic that trapped humidity and made me itch. Every time I slid my hand between our too-close legs to scratch myself, she cut her eyes at me and wriggled a millimeter away. On the far side of the car, Catherine stared out the window. Simone argued furiously with the taxi driver about the route he was taking\u2014in a fumbling patois of Turkish, French and English. Finally, he gave up fighting her and took the road she pointed out, and immediately we were trapped in traffic that seemed unlikely to move again, ever. The noise was earsplitting.\n\n\"He should have known there was construction. He should have said so.\" Simone adjusted her body in the seat, her hips pushed against me; she extracted her arm from her side and reached into her handbag.\n\n\"He did, I think,\" my mother said, but with no discernible note of victory. The cab was steamy with our breath, the mingled chemistry of our bodies, even though the windows were rolled down. The air outside was motionless.\n\nSimone handed a tissue to Catherine and told her to blow her nose. Catherine took the tissue, studied its weave, then bunched it up and held it tightly in her fist.\n\n\"This is crazy,\" said Simone. \"It's a hundred and fifty degrees. I'm melting into a puddle.\" And yet it was like sitting next to a penguin, she was so cool and smart and immaculate.\n\nWe were meeting some of the Turkish ladies at the baths; it was their monthly pilgrimage and we'd been invited. The previous night at a function, Simone and my mother had discovered their mutual plans\u2014accidentally, unhappily\u2014and so, for economy's sake, we were sharing a cab.\n\nSimone blew her nose with a kitten-sniff; my mother stared out her window and fingered her bracelets.\n\n\"You know, Grace,\" Simone said suddenly. \"Marjorie didn't know anything about Rand's trip. So unexpected. And he must still be recovering from that fall. I asked Marjorie and she was mystified.\"\n\nMarjorie was the Canadian ambassador's wife. They'd been to a party the night before at the Canadian Residence\u2014all blond wood and oriental furnishings, exotic flower arrangements and food wrapped in seaweed. It made my mother nervous to step foot in there\u2014she felt, I think, a mixture of longing and infidelity. She'd given up her citizenship to marry my father and had never stopped reminding him of it. But she also envied Simone's relationship with Marjorie; I could tell because she called it \"sickening\" and \"shamelessly self-serving.\"\n\n\"Well, why would she?\" said my mother. \"I can't imagine why she would.\" She was examining the view outside her window and craned her neck to watch a heated argument taking place nearby over a fender bender.\n\nSimone zipped her patent leather handbag closed. \"Oh, Grace,\" she said with something like a sigh. \"Marjorie knows everything. She's completely on the inside. You know it as well as I do.\"\n\nMy mother turned her head and looked across me at Simone. Her face was pink and her nostrils flared slightly.\n\n\"Honestly, Simone, I can't imagine what all the interest is. Rand is fine; it was barely a scratch. Besides, men go; they come back. I've never known anyone to notice particularly.\"\n\nI didn't look at my mother, staring instead at the back of the cabbie's head, where a jagged scar showed beneath the bristly hairs at the nape of his neck.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Simone, without any certainty at all. \"I just don't recall anyone mentioning a trip.\" She looked at me. \"Didn't I ask after him the other day?\"\n\n\"I forgot,\" I said. I scratched myself more furiously. My mother lifted her warm polyester hip and edged it away.\n\nOn the other side of Simone, Catherine didn't flinch, though Simone was pinching her quite hard, because she had not yet blown her nose. She was studying her shoes, her elbows propped on her knees. What had I told her of all this? For a moment I honestly couldn't remember. I was ashamed of my father's fall at the pool, the same hot shame I would have felt had I myself taken a public spill and scraped my knees. I was embarrassed by his clumsiness, his drunkenness, the bandages and bruises, by his lumbering gait through the apartment on his way to the bathroom. I was not advertising anything about him these days.\n\nHow in the world had my mother thought to slip something like this by Simone, with her hound nose for intrigue and deception, her hatred of being excluded? Had she really thought Simone wouldn't follow up? After all, she'd seen the fall with her own eyes, had tended my father while I was closed up in the chlorinated changing room, clutching John's candies in my clammy hands, stuffing them into my mouth like a junkie, the slick of the tile slimy and cold beneath my bare feet. I could hear the adults beyond the thin walls; they were so incompetent, dithering around, half drunk themselves, useless in a crisis.\n\nJohn had put his sleek head in at one point, while people milled outside; his collar was open, his features obscured by the dim of the changing room. He stared at me for a few long moments. Please, I thought, please. He looked slowly around the room, as though someone else might have been concealed there. When I looked at him, he withdrew his face from the doorway without apology. He had come for Catherine, of course. Not even a calamity, not even my father, his head cracked open, possibly dead, could make him think of me.\n\nWhen I saw Catherine next\u2014I'd been hustled home by some well-meaning adult, mostly asleep, cried out, exhausted\u2014we both pretended that nothing terrible had happened.\n\nWe arrived late at the baths and the women were already in the marble chambers, splayed and naked on low stone slabs; they looked like volunteers for ritual sacrifice. I saw Bahar and Ben Gul and other women I recognized but couldn't name. Everything moved at a crawl and the room was cavernous, the air thick and swampy. Even walking through it felt like an enormous effort, as if we were moving upright against living water. Dark, leathery women edged along the vast perimeter, their limbs stringy, their movements cautious. In shallow marble pools, others hunched in the steam, their slack bellies and arms draped over doughy knees as they worked to locate themselves, all their crevices and hollows, with rough scraps of washcloths. Lining the room were little stone cubicles where you could have a modest amount of privacy, where both hot and cold water spurted forcefully from faucets set deep in the marble walls.\n\nCatherine and I lay cautiously down on the marble slabs. Suddenly, breasts\u2014slick and damp and heavy, entirely unlike the cool, powdered flesh I was familiar with\u2014swung unapologetically against my bare back. A woman began scrubbing me. The sponges felt like steel wool, like the ones Firdis used to scour the kitchen sink. I heard my mother speaking to Bahar in low tones in the pool behind me. I rubbed my own dead skin between my fingers, the grimy, fascinating little balls that came off with the rough sponges.\n\nBahar was telling my mother about a restaurant she'd recently been to and my mother said she'd like to try it, perhaps when my father returned from his trip.\n\nBahar laughed. \"Very well,\" she said. \"When he returns. But remember please, you already went there with me. Last week, if anyone asks.\"\n\nCatherine said, \"What does she mean by all that?\"\n\nI turned my face on the marble and we were eye-to-eye.\n\n\"By what?\"\n\nWe were whispering. Above us, the huge Turkish women talked between the tables in sharp bursts. All the sounds of voices ricocheting around the chamber and hissing steam and running water made it almost impossible to tell who was saying what to whom.\n\n\"Your father went away? You never said.\"\n\n\"I thought I did.\"\n\n\"You didn't.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No.\" Catherine breathed heavily and reached her arms down to brush against the floor. I saw her pale flesh ripple under the force of the scrubbing. \"You said he was home in bed indefinitely. You said he was all banged up.\"\n\n\"I don't remember that.\"\n\n\"I do. I remember it specifically.\"\n\n\"Look,\" I said, and I heard in my voice the heavy, affected exhaustion of a lie. \"He went on a trip. I forgot.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" she said. \"I really don't care. But, still.\"\n\nShe turned her face away and her breathing became even and calm. I thought she'd fallen asleep.\n\nThen she said, \"You should say if we aren't going to tell things. You should just say that we're not saying.\"\n\nMy skin tensed over my bones. \"You don't tell me every last thing.\"\n\n\"Oh, but I have,\" she said. \"Until now.\"\n\nI turned my face away on my own bed of marble and closed my eyes. Though I didn't quite believe her, I heard a finality\u2014new, adult, implacable\u2014in her tone. When the women were finished with us and we rose, shaky on our legs, and made for the cubicles to rinse off, we didn't speak. Usually we went together and fought over the cold water, but this time Catherine closed herself into a single stall and left me standing in the steam, my hand outstretched for the door she had just shut behind her.\n\nSimone, wrapped in a towel, sat on the edge of a pool nearby. Her hair, usually so perfect, lacquered and arranged, was pasted stiffly around her pale face. My mother and Bahar were naked, languid and soaking, their big breasts floating on the misty surface like pastries at the bakery.\n\nMy mother tilted her head back and looked up at me from that angle, her hair on the marble, her arms outstretched along the edge. Her nipples broke the surface; the water was milky, frothing like foam.\n\n\"Lovely, isn't it?\" she said, in a drunken tone that seemed to me stagy and put on, overly suggestive.\n\nI went into another stall and closed the door. The pounding water revived me somewhat and I left the suffocating baths and went to the lockers for my clothes. I pulled on my shorts, my dumb shirt, my stupid shoes and went to sit in the lobby. The steaming walls dripped, and everything\u2014my clothes and hair and body\u2014smelled of this water and the dank underground labyrinth of the hamam. Groups of women came out, paid the crone behind the counter and left through the dark tunnel that led to the street. I was parched, my skin flayed and red, my muscles turned to taffy. I drank four tiny glasses of thick, sweet juice that someone would have to pay for and sat there, staring at the slimy floor, waiting for them to emerge.\n\nWhen they came out\u2014laughing, damp and glowing, scrubbed of makeup and superfluous skin\u2014it didn't seem they had missed me at all. Outside, in the equally airless afternoon, we wilted into separate taxis and dozed home through the choked streets. What an odd recreation, on such a day. We must have looked as we felt: raw and scoured, tired, for the moment, beyond politeness, beyond questions or recriminations.\n\n## August 1975\n## 4\n\nIN THE LIVING ROOM WHERE BAHAR AND GRACE SIT THE LIGHT IS dimming. Grace's fingers itch for a lamp but the ornate clock on the wall tells her it's too soon. Beside her, Bahar is blond and beautiful\u2014a new shade, the blond, and against her dusky complexion the contrast is stark. Grace sits in silence and inhales the scent that rises from her friend\u2014stale flowers and warm, tanned skin, frequently touched.\n\nIn the hallway Firdis is readying for home. Grace hears her taking her things from the closet, moving surreptitiously, like a thief in the house, stealing away.\n\n\"G\u00fcle g\u00fcle,\" Bahar calls. \"\u00c7ok mersi.\"\n\nGrace opens her mouth and then shuts it: she is uncomfortable using Bahar's own language in front of her. It makes her feel thick-tongued, strangely vulnerable. She gets to her feet.\n\n\"Drink?\" she says, instead.\n\nBahar sighs and checks her wrist, though the time is all around them, ticking, moving too slowly. She half rises and then sits down again.\n\n\"Scotch?\" she says. \"Do you have the good kind?\"\n\n\"I'm sure we do.\" Grace crosses to the liquor cabinet, turns the key and finds the bottle. She dislikes scotch but pours them each a glowing glass. She sits back down.\n\nBahar raises her glass and drinks. She sighs with pleasure; a breath of sweet air escapes her mouth, lingers and then dissipates. \"This stuff you Americans have is much better than the shit we find here. And on the black market it is ridiculously expensive. You cannot imagine.\n\n\"So,\" says Bahar, after a pause, \"I have a favor to ask of you.\"\n\n\"Shoot.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"Go ahead. Ask.\" Grace props her legs on the coffee table and shoves an ashtray aside with her foot. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"I was thinking that while Rand is here, while he is recovering, you might help me out someway.\" Bahar takes a long drink that seems barely to stir the surface of her glass. She sets it down. \"Where's the girl?\"\n\n\"The girl is with her friend, I expect. They run around in the streets like wild Indians. Sometimes I wonder if I should worry.\"\n\nBahar nods absently. \"That's good,\" she says. \"That's fine.\" She settles back into the couch and lifts her slender feet next to Grace's.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"No reason. I want to talk to you. You are my good friend. We have had so little time lately. I miss you.\"\n\nBahar draws her knees to her chest. She is wearing slim pants and a flowing blouse; the silk gathers around her updrawn knees, floats onto the surface of the sofa. She sighs.\n\n\"Here it is, as you say. Ali is here very much now, yes? This is helpful to you, I think. To not have the embarrassment of the American doctors. People asking questions that might be difficult.\"\n\nGrace senses the stillness of the apartment\u2014Rand is drugged half to death in the other room. A broken rib that punctured a lung, a significant concussion. The American medical facility was closed when he fell; he'd spent the night in the Turkish hospital and then had come home to be cared for by Ali, after some frantic calls to Bahar. It seemed wiser, in those early hours after the accident, to keep his drunken tumble off the radar screens of his superiors. Paige, who had been there that night, had strenuously agreed. It had been her idea to say he'd been called away on business.\n\n\"I'm very grateful,\" she says.\n\n\"That's good,\" says Bahar. \"And it's a pleasure to help you. These things are neat in this way, aren't they? I help you, you help me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Grace. \"I was helping before, remember?\"\n\nFor some little time Grace had been doing favors for Bahar. Her life was distant enough from Bahar's that a real intersection between them was not possible. She was that American woman Bahar played cards with, the one who had asked Ali for a referral to a pediatrician. Just then Bahar was having an affair with her riding teacher, out at the stables in Balgat, a man considerably older than she was, with a rugged and lined face and a wide and smiling mouth. He was charming, with the bandy legs of a lifelong horseman. Grace had met him once at an exhibition at the cavalry grounds where they'd gone as families: Bahar's hooligan boys, Ali, Grace and Rand and Canada. Sitting in crowded bleachers\u2014it was a holiday, some national celebration or commemoration\u2014Bahar rose suddenly from her seat and threaded down through the crush, her bright hair a thing you could follow with your eyes, her big stylish sunglasses propped on her head. She had returned with a man in tow, an upright figure in a uniform, his hair fully white, his posture casual but erect. A man clearly comfortable anywhere, in any situation. Hands were shaken all around.\n\n\"Ahmet bey,\" Bahar had said, by way of introduction.\n\n\"Efendi,\" said Ali and then Rand, each rising slightly from his seat.\n\nThe man bowed a little over Grace's hand. Chatting, his eyes strayed to the field, where horses were moving in formation. His gaze was professional, evaluating. Flags snapped in the wind. The day was brilliant, blue and hot. Around them, families opened picnics on their laps, mothers passed food, bright orange soft drinks in bottles.\n\nBahar's hand rested on the man's forearm; she leaned back against the rail, her summer dress filmy and clinging to her legs. He lit her cigarette, the lighter coming from nowhere, vanishing again into a pocket. A little wreath of smoke circled their heads; Bahar was several inches taller in her heels. The band struck up something stirring.\n\nIn the bleachers, Ali turned back to the boys, lifting them by their belts as they scrambled away, up to mischief as always, and bent close to whisper some halfhearted threat or admonishment. Bahar and her friend spoke in Turkish for a few moments. Grace caught only a word here or there; it was still too fast for her.\n\nTurning to her with a quick laugh, the man said, \"But we are being rude.\" He then directed to her some question about the city, and she fumbled for a reply. There was some quality about this man that undid her a little.\n\nSearching for something, she heard herself say, \"My daughter, Canada, loves horses. She's always wanted to ride.\"\n\n\"Is it so?\" Ahmet said and he swung back to Bahar. \"You must bring the girl to the stable with you sometime. Perhaps it is a good distraction for everyone.\"\n\nBahar had been looking out over the field; she said without turning, \"Yes, I will. What a nice idea.\"\n\nGrace was suddenly aware of the heat of the day on her shoulders and cheekbones, the warmth of sun through the fabric of her dress, like the sudden flush of a sunburn you hadn't known you had. She'd turned her eyes to the husbands, Ali and Rand, by then engaged in some conversation of their own, Ali pointing to some distant place in the stadium, Rand following his finger. Canada had wandered off somewhere. It astonished her that anyone could miss this\u2014this electricity, the shocking radiance of Bahar's smile, the coy tilt of her head. The angle of this man's slim, uniformed body toward hers. To Grace, their studied nonchalance screamed of intimacies.\n\nSo, in hidden moments of the day, while ostensibly elsewhere, Bahar was closeted away on the top floor of the Buyuk Ankara hotel, or in Ahmet's trailer at the stables. Often she told Ali she was with Grace\u2014shopping, at the hamam, the zoo\u2014some frivolous but plausible activity. It was Grace's job merely to keep up this pretense at the rare social events where she crossed paths with Ali, to remember that they had been here one day, there the next. And Ali's interest in his wife's whereabouts was negligible, amounting to little more than conversational courtesy: did you have a nice time at this place, or that one? He's a robber, that merchant. I hope you had the dolma, it's very good there. Moving around the apartment in the stultifying daylight hours, without electricity, as Rand recuperated in the bedroom, was maddening, embittering. All day Grace pictured Bahar wrapped in cool linens, running ice cubes along her cheeks and collarbone, her limbs striped with shadow and muscle, while Grace hunted up powdered milk in the kitchen, ferreted out some vital kitchen implement that had grown legs, or wondered vaguely, if at all, where her daughter might be.\n\nBut now it seems that Bahar has another favor to ask of Grace and she tucks her shining hair behind her ears. \"That is absolutely correct and I do not mean to diminish it. It was very kind, what you did for me. You told Ali we had lunch, is that right? I am very appreciative. Thank you.\"\n\nGrace looks around the darkening room. Outside the windows she sees lights splashing on; she senses the hum of the city starting up again. The cord of the lamp hangs within reach but she keeps her hands in her lap. On the table in front of her, the amber glass of scotch seems to lose its glimmer, its luster dulls and the light seems to leak away.\n\n\"What do you need?\" she says. \"Tell me and I'll do it.\"\n\n\"Tamam!\" says Bahar. \"Okay.\" Her voice is bright with satisfaction but holds not a trace of gratitude\u2014but after all, she is a not a woman accustomed to the word no. \"Here is what we will do. You will remember what Ali said about the horses, and perhaps also you wish to take Canada off the streets\u2014it is not altogether safe, this running around in Ankara....\"\n\nGrace puts her scotch down, pulls her legs onto the sofa and girdles her body with her arms. She presses her cheek against her knee and watches Bahar speak with her hands; she nods in the right places but she has already stopped listening.\n\nSOMETIMES WHEN she is alone in the apartment, as Rand sleeps heavily in the other room, and Canada is off with Catherine, Grace leafs through the photo albums she has meticulously assembled over the years. Always she has the sensation of looking at photographs of strangers. Here she and Rand are leaning against the Rover at a beach in the States; her legs are slim and outstretched, her backside resting on the hood of the car, her hair tied in a scarf with the wind a nearly visible thing\u2014the fabric fans out from her face like a cowl. She is smiling. Another picture has Canada standing between her legs, Grace's hands putting weight on her shoulders, both their faces flushed and freckled. It must be Rand behind the camera.\n\nShe remembers that trip well. Some months before orders had come, while they were living on Olson Loop, they took a weekend drive to Rehoboth Beach. The car wheezed over a great, cabled bridge, along endlessly flat roads until the sea came into view, announcing itself subtly, with just a change of light. Finally, the green gave way, revealing a pure glint in the distance. It was as though the world had leveled off, been smoothed by a spatula. There was something lively playing on the radio.\n\nRand was in a good mood, banging his hands on the steering wheel, tamping a cigarette, his profile clean and slender: he smelled pleasingly of drugstore aftershave. In the backseat, Canada slept, fists balled, lengthening legs pulled to her chin. The Rover, red on the outside, caramel leather on the inside, was finned in the rear and the front, a cheerful little car they had shipped from Germany. Rand loved that car like some people love small dogs. He talked baby talk to the dashboard, and somehow coaxed from it an unnatural longevity.\n\nThe place, when they arrived, was clearly army-issue: a long line of barracks, the quarters only nominally converted from their original purpose\u2014a tiny kitchenette had been added, a room lined with bunk beds, a master bedroom the size of a closet. The beach was over a rise of dune and the water concealed a fierce, churning undertow. There was no television, no phone and a rusted shower-head around the back where Grace made Canada strip after the beach: she pushed her under the hard, stinging spray while Canada cowered, covering herself, hands everywhere, trying to fend off the water.\n\nThe days became a long, pleasant blur, punctuated by small events: Canada sat on a wasp one afternoon while looking through the grass for four-leaf clovers and they waited the requisite period of time to determine whether she was allergic. Grace was caught in the undertow one morning and went ass over teacup into the surf, her thin white legs sticking up as though she were doing a handstand, for laughs. Rand had thought it hilarious, though Grace had been thoroughly shaken and become cautious of the water.\n\nAt the waterline ghostly sand crabs scuttled at high speeds, surprised by the ebbing waves, and Canada chased them, first their little white bodies and then the trail of bubbles they left behind: her hands scrabbled through the wet sand after them with occasional success.\n\nThere was a small store on the property, a short walk across the sandy compound, where a meager assortment of groceries could be found and a disproportionately large selection of beer; they carried cigarettes and squishy packages of bread, playing cards, bottles of suntan lotion. In the evenings Grace made meals of peanut butter sandwiches, hot dogs and potato chips. Rand drank steadily at the kitchen table, his hands shuffling cards, dealing out hands of blackjack for himself and Canada. A bare bulb over the table spotlighted ancient stains and spidery fissures in the Formica.\n\nRand also did card tricks for Canada at the scarred table, her freckled legs pulled up on the chair, her forehead furrowed. He fanned out cards: passing his hands over them, shuffling them deftly, cutting the stack clean as a knife and then miraculously discovering hers in the deck. He also had a sleight in which a saltcellar disappeared right through the table, a napkin swirling over it in graceful folds. At the end, his hand came down with a crash, flattening the empty napkin onto the table, making the furniture, and the audience, jump. Where had it gone? He would never say. Grace, watching that trick more than a decade before, had been delighted. Canada adored it too.\n\nAt night they slept under army blankets\u2014stiff and green, smelling of mildew, the sheets coarse as sandpaper. If Grace rolled toward Rand he rolled away, either feigning sleep or lost in a drunken fugue. If his hand touched her hip it was accidental, or in the brush of a dream. Grace fell asleep to his sounds, his snoring, interrupted and confused, his wide nostrils and bare broad chest, stippled with hair. During those long nights she found him inexplicably repulsive and desirable, both.\n\nEdie and Greg had come along on that trip to the beach, though to look at the photograph album you would not know it. During the day Edie and Grace set up camp near the dunes, by the tall, waving beach grasses. They carried down a small cooler filled with Thermoses and sandwiches, then spread their blankets and paraphernalia around them in ever widening circles, taking over the nearly empty stretch of beach, inch by inch. They made jokes about soldierly conduct, about encroaching on neighboring territories, though there were no neighbors to speak of, no enemy camps to overtake. Far down the beach were the shimmering mirages of other little lands like their own, other bases and provinces, with figures that acted out their own miniature plays and maneuvers\u2014running, splashing, roughhousing, all in slow motion.\n\nEdie and Grace had no umbrella and they lay mostly with their shirts across their faces, using their hands to anchor them against the wind. Still, the sand blew and infiltrated and formed a thin film on their bodies, a second, gritty skin that resisted water or scrubbing. The feeling accompanied them throughout the trip and even later; after they'd returned home and taken many hot baths, both women thought they still felt it on their bodies and imagined that it lingered even in the weave and nap of clothing that had stayed behind, folded away in drawers on Olson Loop.\n\nRand and Greg walked endlessly, restlessly, up and down the beach, fading in and out of sight, behind dunes and curves of coast, strangely unfamiliar in their civilian clothes, their casual short-sleeved shirts and rolled-up trousers, their bare feet. They returned from time to time with pockets full of beach treasure\u2014green glass, bits of driftwood and shells, battered starfish and urchins. They emptied their pockets for Canada's scrutiny and then left again, as though on the trail of something more significant.\n\nEdie and Grace spoke casually, loopingly, of inconsequential things\u2014dinners and lunches and possible shopping trips they might take to nearby tourist towns. Saltwater taffy and shellfish, the famous migrating ponies. They drank from the shared red plastic cap of the Thermos, powdered lemonade with slivers of ice cubes swimming in it. The taste was stale and metallic, and as the day passed it grew watery and gritty with sand.\n\nGrace rose to her elbows from time to time and shaded her eyes to watch Canada playing at the shore. When Edie fell asleep, Grace would get up and begin some project with Canada, a sand castle or a catalog of her beach treasures. But before long Grace would grow bored and wander away, scuffing her feet in the surf, wading ankle-deep but not an inch more. The undertow had given her a good fright. She stared out at the flat gray-green water and waited for Edie to wake from her catnap. Edie grew darker by the day. The sand on her skin shimmered like a golden dust; on Grace's arms it was nowhere near as sultry, it gathered aggressively, dirtily, in the creases of her elbows and at the hollow of her throat.\n\n\"What do they talk about, I wonder,\" Edie said one afternoon, propped up on her arms, watching Canada gather and mound sand in some mysterious design.\n\nThe men were visible, but barely, in the distance. Rand's sun hat moved down the beach jauntily; he bent to pick something up and resumed walking.\n\n\"I can't imagine,\" Grace said. They seemed to have nothing in common, these men, yet they had spent the days together quite easily. Grace knew that Rand thought Greg weak and ineffectual, and if his career was stalled, Rand clearly felt it was entirely through some fault of his own. Though, of course, being Rand, he wouldn't discuss it with her in any detail. It was Greg who had championed this trip, had needled and coaxed Edie until at last she'd packed a small bag and stood reluctantly in the sunlight beside the car, looking as if she might at any moment make a dash for the shadows, for the comforting gloom of her own house.\n\n\"She's very self-sufficient,\" Edie said then, presumably referring to Canada. Grace felt a quick, skittering shiver of remorse.\n\n\"She's had to be, I guess.\" Though really, Grace did not have to guess at this. It troubled her: Canada's odd independence, her satisfaction with her own manufactured amusements.\n\n\"You should have one,\" Grace said then, thinking to change the subject.\n\nEdie was quiet. A seagull landed nearby and hopped gracelessly around their encampment. Grace sat up on the bright beach towel and drew her sandy knees up to her chin. \"Sorry,\" she said after a moment. \"That was thoughtless.\"\n\nEdie shook her head back and forth. \"No,\" she said. \"It's fine.\"\n\nThey sat there in the sand and pretended to watch Canada mucking near the waterline.\n\n\"Well, why not?\" said Grace, finally. \"You want to, right?\" She spoke slowly, feeling the distinct sensation of crossing a boundary.\n\nEdie laughed and it sounded quick and harsh, a little like the gulls crying overhead.\n\n\"Two people have to be interested,\" she said after a while. \"At least that's what I continue to tell Greg. Unless I've missed something important. Have I?\"\n\nEdie stood abruptly and began to shake out her towel: sand flew wildly, a tiny storm of it blew in their faces, stung their eyes, stuck in their sunblock.\n\n\"God,\" said Edie, brushing her hands at her face, \"I'm such a clod. Sorry.\"\n\nShe turned her face away and her hair fell across it: she stayed that way, her features, her expression, hidden.\n\nGrace rose and began to pick up their things. She replaced the cap on the Thermos, refolded a half-eaten sandwich in wax paper, shrugged her shirt on. She glanced down the beach, but the men were nowhere in sight. She called to Canada, who looked up at her strangely, her eyes taking in the packed bundles and rolled towels, their fully dressed bodies. It was hours before the time they usually went in.\n\nThey walked back slowly. Canada trailed them, whining. The noise of her spade dragging in the sand seemed designed to make Grace angry, to register her unhappiness at the turn the day was taking. Grace thought about Greg, his unfailing pleasantness, his rather antiquated chivalry with both her and Edie. He was a man who rose from his seat when a woman entered a room and stood until she had situated herself. He had a habit of laughing with his mouth closed, as though he was ashamed of his teeth\u2014for no reason Grace could discern. He treated Edie as though she were exceptionally brittle, not designed to withstand any but the gentlest handling. Beside him Rand seemed coarse and overlarge, too loud, a bit rough-edged.\n\nOn their last night at the beach Edie had dropped a glass, it was plastic and merely bounced across the floor but Edie had burst alarmingly into tears and stood sobbing in the middle of the kitchen. After a moment she said, \"You don't know what I'm up against.\"\n\n\"No?\" Grace said. \"What?\" She had not moved from the sink; her hands were deep in soapy water.\n\nThe wind moved outside, banging the flimsy screen door. The men were still on the beach; they'd taken Canada to watch the sunset.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she said, but she kept her back to Edie and her eyes on the dishes.\n\nAfter a long moment, Edie said, \"I mean do you really think we've been here cooling our heels for two years because they've forgotten about us? Hardly. They're trying to think of somewhere to stash us, someplace remote and horrible. They just haven't come up with anything suitably dreadful yet.\"\n\nGrace finished wiping a plate and inserted it into the dish rack. She turned around. \"I'm not sure what you're saying.\"\n\n\"Of course I want children, Grace. It's killing me not to have a baby. Maybe I could live with it if I had one. Maybe this would be bearable.\"\n\n\"Then why not? Is there a problem?\"\n\nEdie looked up at her, her face wet and angry. \"He's not interested in me,\" she said. \"That's it. Not even slightly interested.\"\n\n\"Oh well,\" Grace said. \"I can't say Rand is all that enthralled with me either.\"\n\nEdie picked up the glass from the floor and set it carefully down on the counter. \"And that's not all,\" she said. \"He'll never be promoted. He'll never advance. His career is shot.\"\n\n\"Edie,\" Grace said, \"I am utterly lost.\"\n\nThey stood there in the kitchen and looked at each other. Grace heard the cheap clock keeping track on the wall behind her. A child, someone else's, she hoped, screamed outside.\n\n\"It's all my fault,\" Edie said. \"I'm not the right kind of wife. They all think I'm completely unsuitable.\"\n\n\"That isn't true,\" Grace said. \"I know it's not.\"\n\nRegardless of what Edie had meant, what Grace felt just then was almost maternal\u2014maybe the closest thing to it she'd known. She felt the need to console or make right. The feeling would haunt her: so unexpected and foreign, so obviously misplaced. She held Edie's small brown shoulders as she knelt weeping on the linoleum, stroking her hair and speaking nonsense, until Greg's face appeared at the doorway\u2014he saw them there and turned away without a sound, his expression suddenly weary but utterly without surprise.\n\n## 5\n\nCATHERINE AND I WERE DOWN THE HILL, PERCHED ON HER kitchen counter, daring each other to eat butter straight from the refrigerator. In the background, John hovered, muttering to himself, polishing an ornate silver tea service. The smell of chemicals was acrid and strong. Sunlight came through the kitchen in a wide aisle, like light through a church.\n\nWe'd been shaving our arms with Simone's razor\u2014an act we would come to regret\u2014and we both rubbed unconsciously at them, feeling the fresh smoothness of the skin. Our fingers kept returning there, the way a tongue will to an abscess or a cavity.\n\nI was flipping the pages of a book I'd nicked from my mother's shelves called The Officer's Wife, some thirty years old. Catherine and I had been having a lot of superior fun with it: the book advised young military brides on the nuances of proper conduct, on military etiquette and how to have parties:\n\nYou are your husband's ambassador, it said. Never underestimate your responsibility for his advancement! Your home, how you conduct yourself, the gracious way you entertain, the admirable deportment of your children\u2014all these things are critical to his career. Let us not forget the example of one busy young wife who forgot to write a proper thank-you note to the wife of a superior officer\u2014this gaffe would stymie her poor husband, and hinder his advancement, for years to come.\n\n\"Listen,\" I said. \"'Take a large polished pumpkin and fill it with blue morning glories. At the last moment, sprinkle the flowers with ice that has been crushed to a sparkling powder\u2014the effect is one of glistening dew.'\"\n\nCatherine was tentatively licking butter from a knife; she made a noise.\n\n\"Or,\" I said, \"'Crystal cocktail glasses filled with crushed ice, holding a small fruit cup, can be made very attractive by tinting the ice with a few drops of cr\u00e8me de menthe.' Let's do that.\"\n\nWe were bored. The heat was still fierce during the day but no one was offering to take us to the pool. At night, now, tired of tossing and turning, I often crept into my parents' bedroom and watched my father sleep. I'd become obsessed with the idea of his death, and couldn't seem to count on his ability to keep breathing. These thoughts gnawed at me, making sleep impossible. They drove me from bed, propelled me down the hallway\u2014raised on tiptoes when I passed the den where my mother had taken to sleeping\u2014and compelled me to stand beside the bed. I'm just checking, I told myself every night. Just checking.\n\nLying huge under the white sheets, my father dwarfed the bed, his belly rising and falling with his inhalations. They seemed steady enough while I stood there, one hand on the pineapple shape of the bedstead finial, toes curling against the prayer rug under my feet. The bandages on his head were getting smaller: at first he'd looked mummified, his entire head enveloped in muslin. Now there was just a small white patch on the side of his head, above his right ear, though a terrible yellow bruise remained along his cheek, and I knew his ribs were taped beneath the bedclothes. He lay with his mouth open and his breath was strong and stale. On the bedside table were a glass of water, a small brigade of pill bottles, extra bandages. Every afternoon Ali came by to change them, to prod around with his delicate fingers and announce progress. Ali was a kind, cheerful man, ever an optimist, an accomplished smoother-over of uncomfortable situations. He patted my head reassuringly; he slipped forbidden pieces of gum into my pockets.\n\nDuring these examinations my mother sat in the living room, wan, quiet and angry. I sensed this\u2014it did not take a genius\u2014and gave her a wide berth. She smoked relentlessly, sitting in a brocade chair with her arms stiff and her legs crossed. Sometimes Bahar was there as well, doubling the smoke and thickening the general air of tension. The two sat mostly in silence, though from time to time there was a harsh laugh or a flurry of whispering.\n\nLately even Firdis had been working with exaggerated caution, taking baby steps down the hallway, moving in such a falsely solicitous way that it made me want to scream. She'd developed a habit of standing too close, cornering me, her broad dark face at a level with my own as she shook her head back and forth, making tsking noises. \"Poor Baba,\" she would say, with a very grave expression. \"Poor, poor Baba.\"\n\nI extricated myself ungraciously, my stomach turning over, face afire. I couldn't stand Firdis; her dank smell, her oily hands. She liked to grab my cheeks and tug at them, saying, \"\u00c7ok g\u00fczel, \u00e7ok g\u00fczel.\" I was not \u00e7ok g\u00fczel\u2014very beautiful\u2014anyone could see that. I stayed shut inside my room, rereading books, memorizing epic poems.\n\nAt night, standing in the dark, I watched my father for what seemed like hours. The room was full of his breathing and his intermittent snores. The furniture seemed close and vaguely alive. The shapes grew as familiar in the dark as they were in daylight, a low silhouette of jutting corners and angles, of bedposts and window edges, the glowing trinkets on my mother's vanity, a white smile of doily edging the bedside lamp.\n\nBut during the daylight hours Catherine and I had taken to harassing John, to being underfoot in the kitchen and following him around making nuisances of ourselves. Since my father's accident, something imperceptible had shifted in our triad. Now John brushed against Catherine more than ever, his hand touched her waist and when she stepped away from him her face was flushed pink and her eyes avoided mine.\n\n\"'Suggested Luncheon Menus,'\" I read. \"Fruit cup. Broiled chicken. Tomato-avocado salad. Jellied consomm\u00e9. Spinach ring.\"\n\nCatherine brushed wisps of hair from her face, which she had pulled back in a tight ponytail, the way Simone liked it. Catherine's face was elfish and pale, but still beautiful. I should have been used to it but it was a continuing, unhappy surprise. When we stood side by side in the mirror, I concentrated on Catherine's features instead of my own, her broad forehead and delicate nose, her wide mouth and perfect teeth. What would it be like in there\u2014moored inside Catherine's flawless self?\n\nThe phone rang and John answered it in the kitchen. He spoke in Turkish into the receiver, and Catherine and I went through the refrigerator, looking for ingredients we could transform into something else.\n\nJohn had begun letting us do foolish things, probably dangerous things, in his kitchen. He let us use Simone's food coloring to tint ice and butter and mayonnaise. He let us make hollandaise sauce and selections from The Officer's Wife's list of \"Twenty-five Suggested Appetizers.\" Seeded green grapes, split and filled with Gruy\u00e8re cheese. Seasoned cream cheese wrapped in dried beef funnels. Celery stuffed with Roquefort. He let us arrange the table in the way the book advised: we manufactured Easter luncheons and festive Mexican-themed teas and we speared all sorts of things with Simone's fancy ruffled toothpicks. We devoted an entire afternoon to the \"Dresden Bouquet\" salad, reputedly a luncheon favorite at the Argyle. We followed the directions to the letter:\n\nThe cauliflower is first boiled; then the flowerets are separated and each tinted with food coloring in delicate shades of blue, pink, orchid, green and yellow. The bouquet is placed in a basket of lettuce or rose leaves and French dressing is poured over all.\n\nHad she known about any of this, Simone would have had a litter, so all the evidence had to be completely eradicated from the kitchen before she returned home. Into a bag it went, unceremoniously: the colored vegetables, the sparkling greenish ice, the tiny, perfect stacks of cheeses and olives. John helped us do it, fussily and with little humor, never making a noise about the waste. We carried the garbage out to the broiling alley behind the apartment building, skirting the little Turkish girls jumping rope and the kap\u0131c\u0131, introspective as ever, busy with his ear.\n\nCatherine hummed while we cleaned, a piece of disco music that was forever coming out of John's radio. Often, in the kitchen on those long afternoons, they seemed like a very young married couple, slightly built and similarly boyish, moving around each other with ease, handing things to each other, exchanging smiles when they bumped.\n\nSchool would be starting soon and though we wouldn't have admitted it, we were looking forward to it. We missed the regimentation of days, the structure of lessons, the odd comfort of queuing for everything. We were tired of being left to our own devices; perhaps we were even amazed by what we'd gotten up to.\n\nJohn ended his conversation and put the phone down. He took the things Catherine was holding and began to stack them and return them to the refrigerator. I was watching his hands touch Catherine's as he did it\u2014the dusk against the white, the almost indiscernible caress of his fingers on hers.\n\n\"Your cat is finished,\" he said.\n\nA moment passed before I realized he was talking to me. It happened so rarely. \"I beg your pardon?\" I said. \"I'm sorry, what?\"\n\n\"The cat is gone. Firdis let him go.\"\n\n\"Let him go? What do you mean let him go? Go where?\"\n\nJohn shrugged. He clearly had no interest in the cat or what had happened to it.\n\n\"He doesn't go out,\" I said. \"Never.\"\n\nJohn ignored me. He put the food away; he returned to the silverware. The matter was closed as far he was concerned and my panic made no impression on him.\n\nIt took Catherine to extract the details from him. That morning, while my father lay in bed recuperating, Firdis had let Pasha escape. Apparently, he'd slipped out while she was taking bread from the kap\u0131c\u0131 and arguing with him about the state of the fruit he'd brought.\n\nPasha, the cat we'd rescued from the street, now liked to sit on the edge of the balcony and look down disdainfully on the place he had come from. He'd grown up to be massive and imperious: a Persian cat of some kind, with snow-white fur and mismatched eyes and a terrible disposition. I was perpetually covered with claw marks, the result of trying to love him and make him love me back. Pasha had strange habits. He would snooze twenty-three hours a day on the sofa in the living room, in a patch of sun, until something stirred him and he would spring up and fly hysterically around the room, skidding on the hardwood floors, ricocheting off furniture in a blur of white angora. When he sat on the balcony, flicking his tail gently, quiet and contemptuous, his chest would puff out like the feathery breast of a great white bird.\n\nI made Catherine come with me to look for Pasha. He couldn't have gone far, I thought, surely he would be somewhere on our street, a place I knew like the back of my own hand. It was her idea to bring John.\n\n\"He can ask people,\" she said. \"He can help.\"\n\nJohn said, \"I do not care about this stupid cat.\"\n\nNonetheless, he came. He walked behind us, with his hands in his pockets, and made not even the slightest pretense of looking for any cat.\n\nOnce in a while that summer we tagged along with John on errands he was dispatched to do for Simone. We were never expressly invited, but he made no move to stop us. Striding ahead of us through the streets, we had the impression that he wanted not to be seen in our company. We always had to hustle to keep up, to maintain sight of his slim, straight back, the triangular wings of his arms jammed casually into his pockets. His cool never left him, never burned off in the heat of the day, it could not be shaken by irate crowds or crabby shopkeepers. He brushed away the goods held out to him, lifted his chin sharply and kept moving, sliding through the solid mass of bodies like a wraith.\n\nOn this day, as we walked through Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa calling out for the cat, John hung back and studied the trees and the sidewalks. He whistled from time to time, but only to himself. He checked his wristwatch occasionally. The neighborhood sprawled across several hills and there were a thousand places to look. Catherine and I crawled under cars and opened trash cans; we looked in the glittering coal heap and walked the empty field where children sledded in the winter\u2014we'd done it once or twice ourselves, until some Turkish boys had taken our sled from us and flung it into the street. We yelled ourselves hoarse, and by the end our feet hurt and my eyes stung with tears I could not allow myself to shed in front of John. We walked all the way to the Russians, where we stood and stared at their gates, at the stiff-legged men with guns who strode back and forth behind them.\n\nMy mother had driven me by this compound once or twice but I had never seen it so closely. I had always imagined the Kremlin looking like this, huge and fortified and angry at the world. The whole thing was several city blocks, invisible from the street, sealed off by a huge surrounding wall. The Russians lived and worked inside; my father said they weren't allowed out. I had a vague idea that what all of us were doing in Turkey, and what our fathers did all day, had something to do with the people who lived behind those walls.\n\nCatherine and I had always been fascinated by the Russian compound, by the very idea of it. Standing there in the broad daylight, glimpsing the facade through the heavy gates, gave me a shivery kind of pleasure. In light of what we'd been told\u2014about the confinement of its inhabitants, the secrecy of their lives\u2014we felt freer, more independent and less shut-in ourselves. In Catherine's room, we'd even manufactured a lovely Russian girl named Vassilissa, who peered out from the window of her prison and dreamed of walking around in the streets as we did: eating apple tarts from the bakery, buying ice cream cones from the street vendors. She always went about in a fur coat, saying, da, da, da, which was the only Russian word we knew, aside from koshka, for cat, and we didn't allow Vassilissa to have one of those. We didn't think Russians kept cats.\n\nJohn slipped away, into a store, and Catherine and I stood near the gates, trying to get our bearings. The air smelled of ripe fruit from a vendor across the street, where flies swarmed on mounds of dark plums and apricots. Catherine leaned against a thin tree and took a stone out of her shoe. When John came back, he was eating a plum, catching the bright juice in his hand. He steadied Catherine's elbow as she shook out her other shoe, then he held the bitten plum up to her mouth. Purple juice dripped lazily onto the sidewalk and I looked away.\n\nThe buildings there were a little larger and set farther apart. My mother had a Turkish acquaintance who lived nearby, an unmarried woman who slept at night in an enormous hammock under a blanket of rescued cats, surrounded by flowering tropical plants. Perhaps Pasha might find his way there, to Ben Gul; her name meant a thousand roses. My mother had taken me to her one afternoon to have my ears pierced, and the woman came at me in the kitchen with a darning needle and ice cubes. The procedure did not go smoothly\u2014I was fidgeting, Ben Gul said\u2014and my mother fainted inconveniently in the middle, going limp against the counter that held the coffeepot and then sliding down it luxuriously, her eyes blinking like a butterfly's wings. While Ben Gul attended to her, the darning needle remained halfway through my ear, quivering in the cartilage. I looked around the kitchen (I could see the tip of the needle out of the corner of my eye): an orange cat was sitting on top of the refrigerator; a collage of cherry pits adhered to the counter; on the floor underneath the stool they put me on was a cat turd, dried and nearly fluffy with age, which moved with the motion of the air in the room, rolling gently back and forth. Ben Gul fanned at my mother's face with a fluted coffee filter. In the end, I had holes that didn't match, and wearing earrings made me look asymmetrical and strange.\n\nWe didn't find Pasha until we'd walked almost all the way home. By then John was in front of us, annoyed at the turn the day had taken and no doubt thinking of Simone and what she'd have in store for him when he returned. I was planning to sit outside our building, on the front steps, holding a can of cat food as long as necessary. All night if I had to. It was John who spotted Pasha at the deep end of an alley several blocks from the apartment. Some Turkish boys had found him first. It was stunning what they'd done to him. He was pinned against the fence in the corner of the alley; his lovely fur had been ripped out in hunks, and a match had been taken to his tail; they had probably killed him with stones at the end, for the ground around him was littered with rocks. He was such a dignified creature, Pasha, so pompous and regal. The twisted creature we saw\u2014claws extended, mouth frozen in a silent yowl\u2014might have been unidentifiable were it not for the little belled collar on his neck.\n\n\"Was this your cat?\" John said, and he put out his arm to hold Catherine back. He didn't have to\u2014neither of us was going to go any closer.\n\n\"Don't look,\" he said to her and then spun her around so that she faced the street. Standing there, my own legs did something strange\u2014they both turned to rubber and wanted to run; my whole body quivered with those competing instincts\u2014the need for speed and movement and the desire to fall screaming to the ground. I wanted to break and throw and destroy things: kill people, tear down buildings, desecrate mosques.\n\nWe left his body there. Neither of us was brave enough to pick him up, and John would not even consider it. Then we walked home in silence, shaking, too horrified for words.\n\nIt speaks to the state of things in our house that when I told my mother, she shook her head as if confused and went first to look for him in the living room, then under my bed and finally, out on the balcony. Then she came back and said, \"Now tell me this again.\"\n\n## 6\n\nGRACE SETS HER ELBOWS ON HER DRESSING TABLE. IT IS SEVEN o'clock but the day seems to be ceding nothing to evening, not in terms of temperature. Her evening gloves\u2014clean, pearl buttoned\u2014are folded on the edge of the table. Her mother's silver dresser set sits at a neat slant in the center of the vanity\u2014a white-bristled brush, a rattling mirror\u2014each with similarly patterned reliefs: voluptuous Victorian women and cherubic babies, frolicking in tarnished sterling.\n\nThe dressing mirror hangs on hinges between two carved wooden posts. It reflects in the background the double bed she used to share with Rand, a four-poster with pineapple carvings, a peaked headboard. A nubby chenille bedspread, two flat pillows, her bedside lamp, now casting pools of light on the tatted doily. Rand is bulkily asleep, the air stale with his breathing: the whole room needs a good airing out.\n\nGrace is forty years old today. Right now, this very minute. Forty.\n\nShe hears stuttering flamenco notes from the other side of the wall, from the den, where she has been sleeping, where Canada sits now with her classical guitar teacher. Another elusive Turkish name. Grace shakes her head a little, attempts a laugh. She tries it for the mirror. Wrinkles. No. Parentheses. They stack up on either side of her mouth when she smiles. She runs a hand down the left side of her nose, her fingernail in the slice that runs from the edge of her nostril to her chin. Funny. She hadn't thought she'd laughed all that much.\n\nDear Edie, she writes in her head, I'm ancient, how about you?\n\nGrace forces herself back to the mirror. She leans forward and examines her face. The changes are both imperceptible and obvious; she contemplates the incongruity of that, holding a powder puff in one hand.\n\nAmong other things, Grace cannot bring herself to mention this newest disgrace of Rand's to Edie: the details seem shameful, and it's as if they reflect even more poorly on her than on her husband. Reputations here are built on such shifting sands; the potential for disgrace seems to lurk around every corner. Now the women's eyes seem to study her, evaluate her and find her wanting. Still, it's been surprisingly easy to sell the story of his trip to the embassy people; they are all so immersed in their own secrecies that it doesn't faze them when one of their number disappears without explanation. Grace mattes her face with powder, buffs it from the tiny lines, where it gathers, cakes. She's never felt quite as pale as she does in this country. She brushes out her hair in hard, strong strokes, then twists it behind her head in a knot. She is wearing her slip and underwear, the thin silky straps slip from her shoulders, the sheath of it hugs her belly, the wide lace hem is tight against her thighs.\n\nShe hears the door of the den open; the lesson has ended. Now she'll listen to Canada's fingers picking little riffs, practicing, for the next week. Strings buzzing, the notes jarring and discordant, but once in a while she'll hear a pretty little thing, a little Latin waterfall of strings. She gets up to write a check, shrugs her robe on. She hears Canada's footsteps padding down the hall, the front door opening and closing. Heading for Catherine's down the street, no doubt, which is where Grace is going too in a few hours, for a party Simone is giving. Grace sighs at the thought of it and opens the door to face the guitar teacher, a man whose fingers seem too wide and thick to produce the agile sounds she hears from his instrument: \"Malaguena\" and \"Adagio,\" other swift, familiar pieces. With Grace he is obsequious; in the den with Canada, the door closed, his voice rises, admonishing, threatening. Grace knows he takes her fingers and stretches them across the frets\u2014so, she hears him say, and so. Canada's fingers, when she catches a glimpse of them, are raw and calloused and each pad carries a short, deep stripe left by the cat gut.\n\nShe cannot turn up the checkbook and Firdis has gone for the day, on the bus home to \u00c7ankaya, where her husband is a kap\u0131c\u0131 in a better apartment building than this one. Why, oh why, can't this woman leave things where they belong?\n\nIn apologetic gestures, she communicates all this to the guitar teacher, who bows his concession but is clearly displeased. He sucks his belly in and lifts his guitar through the door. She hears him humph on the landing, and curse in English as the case bangs against the rail.\n\nGrace pads down the narrow corridor, past the closets (neither bedroom has its own; they line the hallway, little boxes, hardly deep enough for the shoulders of Rand's suits and uniforms), past the postage-stamp-size kitchen, where three grown people cannot stand comfortably. The curtains on the balcony door hang in the still air; Firdis has left the door cracked, despite what Grace tells her, and now the kitchen smells of the city. There is a phrase the Americans like to throw around, about apartment hunting: Mutfak utfak, ama farketmez. The kitchen is too small, but it doesn't matter. In the beginning, they like the way it sounds\u2014almost naughty, a silly little phrase, nearly rhyming. But now it does matter. You can't turn around without touching something\u2014the tiny round table, the avocado-green refrigerator. It makes Grace itch to stand in there, where the smell of Firdis and her cooking gathers and coils, invisible and inescapable.\n\nGrace dreads tonight's party. She steps down the hall to the closet at the far end and studies its contents. Dressing for Simone\u2014perfect, meticulous, climbing Simone\u2014is always perilous. She'll have Catherine in a princess dress, passing canap\u00e9s and clearing glasses\u2014Catherine, with her squared shoulders and lowered head, her remote eyes, her polite, murmuring answers. What do they have in common, those two girls? Catherine's behavior is always impeccable but she often seems to Grace more like a mannequin than a child\u2014almost too beautiful, too perfect and robotic to love. Simone is grooming Catherine for a career in ballet, carting her to lessons, choreographing recitals, terrorizing the teacher. Everyone has heard about Simone's own career in dance, but the general suspicion is that the stories are highly exaggerated. Also, she has installed a barre in the hallway, Grace heard recently.\n\nSimone's parties are all the same: dully elegant, engineered by that houseboy she holds in such suspiciously high regard. John is not his name, of course, but it's what Simone chooses to call him. So classically, so perfectly Simone.\n\nGrace selects a dress\u2014pale, simple, unremarkable\u2014and returns to her room. She would very much like to know where the checkbook has got off to; there is something about Firdis's reordering of her household that strikes her lately as proprietary, presumptuous. She imagines Canada will be down the hill tonight as well\u2014that she will run into her own daughter at a party. She anticipates being amazed by her good manners, her helpfulness\u2014the Simone effect\u2014enviable, but not, as far as she can see, replicable.\n\nBefore she leaves she wakes Rand and doses him with pills. He is very nearly better now, though Grace can hardly bear to look at him. When she does, she cannot help but think of Bahar and Ahmet, and all the imagined details of their trysts. In recent weeks, Bahar has become breezy and distant, and since her appearance at card games can no longer be counted on, Grace's attendance has slipped as well.\n\nAT THE party later, Grace's eyes find Catherine standing by the balcony doors, a macram\u00e9 plant holder dangling behind her, cradling a potted ivy. Catherine's head is raised to John's and he leans near her, whispering, a tray upheld on one palm, the other hand shielding his mouth. The black shoulder of his jacket presses the ruffled cap of Catherine's sleeve, flattening it, and the girl's expression is wholly unreadable. Her own daughter is nowhere in sight.\n\nGrace studies them for a moment and then turns away, with the feeling that her attention\u2014and that alone\u2014is interrupting something private. They seem engrossed and strangely complicit, the two of them\u2014an island, the party lapping at them gently but without consequence.\n\nGrace catches Simone's eye then; she is standing by the doorway in a cluster of men in dress uniform. In her expression and the angle of her body, her bright smile and fluttering hands, is a kind of antic, half-hysterical vivacity. Something passes between the two women then and Simone turns her head away. Then she touches the shoulder of a man in a tuxedo and glides toward Grace, her dress the color of champagne, rustling softly around her ankles.\n\n\"Having a nice time?\" she says. \"Single girl out on the town.\"\n\nGrace smiles tightly. \"Lovely. I'm forgetting what it's like to be married.\"\n\n\"No such luck though, right?\" says Simone. Her eyes are heavily lined, her lips sugary pink. \"Unless you've killed him and not told us how you've gotten away with it. Which would be dreadfully mean of you.\" She wags a finger. \"Unforgivably so.\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" says Grace, \"you'll be the first to know.\"\n\n\"Will I?\" she says, ever so lightly. Her head swivels, surveying the room. \"Sometimes I think I don't know a blessed thing. I feel totally out in the cold half the time.\"\n\nGrace sets her glass down on the piano. Simone deftly slides a napkin beneath it and then, rubbing her fingers together, brings some small pearls of moisture from the glass to her lips. \"I mean, you and Bahar are so chummy these days, and Rand has been off on one of his superimportant missions. It seems like years since we've seen him.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Grace, \"I know what you mean.\"\n\n\"Maybe we should play bridge? Just us English-speaking girls? I can't stand all the language nonsense, personally. I always feel as if they're making jokes at my expense.\"\n\n\"Really?\" says Grace. \"I think they've been quite gracious.\"\n\nSimone smiles. \"Well, they like you, don't they? You fit in so well, you're so awfully good that way. It's a talent of yours I envy. Always flattering them and currying favor. Complimenting their awful decorating, that terrible hair, their spoiled children. You're the real diplomat, Grace. We could all take lessons.\"\n\nGrace touches her hand to her warm face and laughs. But it comes a beat too late and Simone pinches her upper arm, as if to suggest she was just being mischievous. As if either of them thought her capable of it.\n\n\"And now,\" she says brightly, \"I must go whip the help into shape. That fellow visiting from Riyadh is stag too, so I've put you next to him. Do try to behave yourself, though\u2014we wouldn't want any nasty rumors started.\" She laughs. \"I mean we're totally full up in that department already, don't you think?\"\n\nLater that night, Grace opens the door to the bedroom where Rand is sleeping\u2014she's a little tipsy, the evening has been filled with questions that were a little too piercing, a little too hard to deflect\u2014and finds Canada standing half asleep, rocking a little on her feet, at the foot of the bed. The air in the room is sticky with alcoholic breathing. (Rand is sneaking booze again; she's begun to find smeary glasses behind the curtains and underneath the bed.) She takes Canada back to bed, pulls the covers around her shoulders and sits there for a moment in her dress and tight shoes, looking around her daughter's unfamiliar room.\n\nAfter a while she gets up and walks into the den. She unfolds the blanket from the back of the rough tweed couch and props a pillow against its hard wooden arms. The space is cramped; her knees knock against the coffee table if she shifts position in any dramatic way. Still, she sleeps soundly enough. The things she would like to say to Rand she keeps to herself. The fear she saw in his eyes those first few days is gone. Now he is defensive and falsely jolly. How does he remember that night anyway? She hasn't asked and doesn't intend to. He's gracefully held up the story: water-slick tile, the confusion of lights and darkness, a freak accident, one that might have happened to anyone. A bump on the head, and then the call in the night, the secret business he'd suddenly been called away on. In fact, she'd overheard him on the phone with some superior in the States a few days earlier, telling this very same story. Their pretenses have coincided again, conveniently, and to his benefit.\n\n## 2\n## September 1975\n\n## 7\n\nIN SEPTEMBER SCHOOL BEGAN. CATHERINE AND I MET IN FRONT of my apartment and walked together to the bus stop at the end of the street. The building next to ours was still under construction; the workmen stood around drinking coffee, eating simits over a fire in a rusted barrel. The flames licked up into the morning air and the men shouted at us, as they always did, when we crossed the street to walk on the rough wall that bordered the vineyard. I replied with an expression John used routinely with beggar children, and offered the corresponding hand gesture. Their laughter carried across the street, followed us all the way down to the corner, where we waited under spreading trees. Turkish schoolchildren in their uniforms drifted by in twos and threes, the boys in short pants, the girls in dark skirts and white blouses, chattering. Standing there, kicking at the ground, I held all of them responsible for Pasha's death. My mother had offered to get another kitten, but her callousness about it infuriated me. I was not speaking to Firdis, either. I often dreamed about Pasha and the way we had found him\u2014tortured, mutilated, discarded.\n\nBoth Catherine and I attended a private school at the British Embassy, though I had lobbied hard for the American school on the base. My mother wouldn't hear of it: she had strong, ingrained ideas about the inferiority of American education. Our school was housed on the British Embassy grounds in a low-slung, modernish building with glass windows tinted the color of Coca-Cola in bottles. A cricket pitch was being laid behind the school and above that sat the embassy and the Anglican Church, which we'd attended with some regularity when we first arrived in Ankara. The embassy also had a swimming pool in which we were obligated to take morning lessons\u2014regardless of the weather. It was nothing like the Canadian pool and we dreaded it. The water was glacial, the changing rooms moldy and cramped. We crowded in on chilly mornings before classes, when both air and water were far too cold, and swam straight through the first frost. We stood shivering at the edge in bathing caps and regulation navy one-pieces, toes curling, goose pimples peppering our skin, while the swimming mistress, a thick, squeaky woman with no common sense, wetly shrilled a whistle. She called to us in nasal English syllables to: \"Crack it, girls. It's worse standing here than it is in the water.\"\n\nBut it wasn't. The water was bone chilling, breath stealing. We swam, still shivering, always shivering, up and down the roped-off lanes, until our turns mercifully ended and we scurried into the changing rooms to paste our clothes back on, wring out frigid suits and pull off leaky bathing caps. We passed the boys walking in a line back down the hill, all of them skinny and sharp featured, whispering to one another, reaching out with bony hands to grab someone's hair, a sleeve, the hem of a skirt. Hands were slapped, there were urgent, thrilled whispers of, \"Stop it. Cut it out. Don't.\" Our two lines were parallel for only a few moments, but in those instants a range of sophisticated interactions occurred: sweets changed hands, plans were formed, threats were made and met.\n\nThe school was a gathering of embassy children from all over the world. We followed the English curriculum, studying Latin and algebra and literature and French. We segregated ourselves, the boys and the girls, steering well clear of one another except when we were forced to mingle\u2014for dancing lessons or field days or the production of plays. Toad of Toad Hall was planned for the winter pageant and I was to play Rat, a role of which I was terrifically proud but which I pretended, with elaborate weariness, to feel was a great, unwelcome chore.\n\nAt lunch Catherine and I sat on the hill above the cricket pitch and spoke idly of the boys. They did not, for the most part, interest us. They ran wildly around on the pitch below, fighting with one another and kicking soccer balls around, running up the hill occasionally to torment us with profanities and innuendo.\n\nEvery day Catherine wore a long grosgrain ribbon in her hair, very old-fashioned, and a blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her legs were smooth and pale, like the marble limbs of statues I had seen with my father. I knew that Simone picked out her clothes for her and laid them out on the bed every evening. I was left to myself in this regard and as a result I generally looked very silly, or messy, or dirty. In the mornings my mother brushed my hair, which was long and dark and horribly tangled. The ritual often ended in tears, and in the second week of school it concluded with the back of my mother's silver hairbrush smashing into my mouth. I went to school humiliated and frightened, and had hidden my bloody mouth\u2014I was certain teeth were loose\u2014from everyone, including Catherine. I kept my mouth closed and went to the bathroom three times to cry.\n\nAfter school, I walked up the hill slowly and was surprised when I reached the top to find my mother waiting there. She and Bahar were spending the afternoons together, visiting the orphanage or driving to the outlying villages to help teach English to the local schoolchildren.\n\nBut there she was on that afternoon, sitting in the red Rover, wearing sunglasses and a headscarf, her face puffy. She was smoking a cigarette out the window, and when I climbed into the car she grabbed me fiercely. Her chin dug into my shoulder; she knocked the breath clean out of me.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said wildly. \"I'm so sorry. I'm just having a terrible time right now.\" She pulled her scarf away from her face. \"I must be a terrible, rotten, miserable mother.\"\n\nIt was not my mother's custom to apologize to children. But I heard her usual, overdramatic manner, her desire to be placated and comforted. Most of all, she was fishing to be told that she was not as bad as that, not as bad as she said.\n\nAnd it was soon after that that I was allowed to begin horseback riding lessons.\n\nGETTING TO the American base, Balgat, required a long drive down unpaved roads, past Atat\u00fcrk's tomb\u2014a huge memorial and mausoleum that could be seen from virtually everywhere in the city. While Catherine went to ballet after school, my mother began driving me there and I learned to ride on a vaulting saddle and eventually on an actual saddle on an actual horse. I had campaigned for years to ride. I'd been told it was too expensive, or inconvenient or impractical.\n\n\"It's simply convenient now,\" she'd said when I asked. \"Bahar's friend has offered to teach you. It's very kind of him. Say thank you.\"\n\nOn a horse Ahmet looked like a statue you might find crowning a monument; striding around the ring, he slapped his tall boots with a whip and called out to me that he could see Atat\u00fcrk's tomb between my backside and the saddle, which was his way of scolding me. \"Sit it down,\" he said, \"or I will glue it to the saddle. I have done it before.\"\n\nWhile he taught me in the big dusty ring, my mother sometimes watched from a white bench nearby. But on many days she never even left the car. Bahar was usually there as well, cantering her big chestnut horse over red and white barrels in the jumping ring. Beyond the ring were long stretches of open land, scrubby green fields that rose up to the horizon.\n\nThe stables soon occupied almost all my free time. I loved being there\u2014the big heads of the horses hanging over their stalls looking for sugar and peppermints, the smell of hay and oats and the extraordinary, matchless feeling of being aloft, of flying around the ring. I learned to tack and groom, to fall and remount, to clean saddles and bridles, to muck out stalls. Often we did not get home until well after dark. It must have been exceptionally boring for my mother, who eventually, as the weather turned, began spending the whole time in the car, reading travel brochures and writing letters. In the late afternoons Bahar and Ahmet bey often sat together in the little trailer near the entrance that served as his office. It had a couch and a lamp, a big desk on which he did paperwork and a hot plate. They consumed huge quantities of tea in there, and you could often hear their laughter through the flimsy walls.\n\nSometimes in the afternoons, while she waited, my mother would obsessively plan trips to points of artistic or cultural or archaeological interest. Perhaps this distracted her. When I opened the car door and slid inside, she would go on and on about her plans, pushing pictures under my nose and telling me to look at this or that, to think of the history, the significance, to appreciate the opportunity we had to see these places. I could not have been less interested.\n\nThe car was filled up with her\u2014the cigarettes and Arp\u00e8ge, the smell of laundered clothes and the noise of those bracelets moving on her wrists\u2014and it overwhelmed and infuriated me. I rode home with my nose pressed against the cold glass, counting telephone poles or yellow automobiles, whatever I had arbitrarily chosen, ignoring her.\n\nMeanwhile, my father recovered. His driver brought to the apartment large stacks of paperwork and other documents and he began moving around, slowly at first, but with increasing strength and humor. I had never seen so much of him.\n\nIt was growing colder, the leaves had turned and the air was perfumed with woodsmoke from the fires that burned on the streets, and with the hot smell of street food\u2014roasting lamb and sesame and bread. Swimming at school stopped\u2014even the hearty British drew the line somewhere\u2014and Catherine and I sat above the cricket pitch with our skirts pulled over our knees and our hands under our sweaters for warmth. We wore our heavier tights and watched the boys' exertions below us, their white breath mingling in the air, their shoes making a faint noise on the frost. Inside, the school smelled of coats and scarves and gloves\u2014of damp wool and sweet sweat, of chalk and the pages of books, the breezy perfume our Latin teacher wore.\n\nWe said to each other: Hic, haec, hoc. Huius, huius, huius. Agricola, agricolarum. Amo, amas, amat. We were both struggling with Latin pluperfect, but Catherine's French was exquisite, compliments of Simone's insistence on speaking French at the dinner table.\n\nWhen our afternoons were free, which was rarely, we went to Catherine's apartment. We had plowed through the entire text of The Officer's Wife, had followed many of its recipes and drilled each other on matters of protocol. Though we did it laughingly, disdainfully, I think we both harbored the vague notion that these skills might one day be valuable. We thought we might end up like our mothers\u2014leading the same glamorous, vagabond lives, traveling in diplomatic circles.\n\nCatherine's father, like mine, was not around much. He was an attach\u00e9, with sloping shoulders and nicotine-stained fingers. When he was home he was quiet and unobtrusive and Simone bossed him around mercilessly; he had the air of a man who'd been long neutered. It was clear that Simone did not need a husband, except in the most desultory of ways, and she moved through the world with an off-putting competence, battering down walls with the force of her personality. What Simone did all day, and what my mother occupied herself with, was somewhat obscure. They overlapped in social circles and sometimes played cards together. But Simone was tight with the Canadian ambassador's wife and had wrangled a little position as her social secretary: she spent a few afternoons a week penning invitations and thank-you notes, which on the surface seemed beneath her but was actually a social leg up, a way of knowing nearly everything.\n\n\"All serving of food is from the left, and dishes are removed from the right. It's not rocket science, and since the ambassador will be here you will please take pains to do it correctly.\"\n\nWe overheard Simone as we slid into the apartment, already taking off our shoes. She called us in: she was in the dining room with John, who stood with his hands folded at his back and his feet apart like a soldier at attention.\n\n\"Girls,\" she said. \"I'm glad you're here.\"\n\nCatherine and I glanced at each other in the hallway; being summoned by Simone was ever a thing to dread.\n\nShe wore a red and white striped day dress and low-heeled shoes; she looked like an awning or a deck chair, and her creamy skin carried two spots of bright blush on the cheekbones. They were a little riveting, those two apple-colored circles.\n\n\"You're gaping,\" she said to me, very snappily. \"Don't gape. How's your father?\"\n\nThe whole time she was fussing around the table, moving a salad fork a centimeter to the right, examining a water goblet for streaks.\n\n\"Fine,\" I said.\n\n\"Has he come back?\"\n\nI considered this for a moment.\n\n\"No,\" I said finally, uncertainly. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to say that at that very moment, he probably was in our apartment; I had seen him just hours earlier, going through papers in his dressing gown.\n\nSimone narrowed her eyes. \"Really?\" she said. \"It's very mysterious. No one's seen hide nor hair of him since he took that nasty fall.\" She paused. \"Your father is one of those people who really shouldn't drink.\"\n\nIt did not trouble Simone at all to say things like this\u2014she was extraordinarily tactless, though I believe she thought herself forthright.\n\nShe stared at me for a moment. I heard John shift position, ever so slightly. I glanced over; he might have been made of wood. Then she brushed her hands together brusquely and said to Catherine, \"I need you dressed this evening. I've hung it up on the closet door. Put it on and brush your hair. Better yet, have John do your hair. You'll make a botch of it. You'll pass canap\u00e9s during cocktails and then have dinner in the kitchen.\"\n\nWe all stood there for a beat until she clapped her hands and said, \"Well? That's all. Don't stand around like automatons, go do something productive.\"\n\n\"Jesus,\" said Catherine under her breath, as we escaped down the hallway. \"What a cunt.\"\n\n\"A what?\" I said.\n\n\"It's a very bad word,\" she said. \"Maybe the worst. John told it to me. He says it all the time.\"\n\n\"What is it in Turkish?\"\n\n\"Amcyk.\"\n\n\"Huh,\" I said. I rolled it around in my head, committing it to memory.\n\n\"What else did he tell you?\"\n\nThat afternoon I learned all the foul language John had taught Catherine, all the native profanities, the colorful insults and curses he used to describe Simone. Cross-legged on Catherine's twin beds, with her neat dresser holding her matching comb and hairbrush and mirror, the ruffled lamp on her bedside table, her pictures in little silver frames, we quizzed each other on the terrible words John whispered to her, all the vulgar things we had known to be true about Simone, but had only, until then, had one inadequate set of words for. The whole time we talked, she fingered a string of rough blue beads like the ones my mother had at home. I had never seen them before.\n\nJohn had given Catherine a few pieces of jewelry\u2014a bracelet with an evil eye bead, a Ma\u015fallah pendant like the one my mother wore around her neck. Catherine had given some of these to me to hold and I kept them taped inside the lid of an orange plastic record player. I looked at them often in secret, touching the graceful strokes of the Arabic symbol, or putting the beads to my tongue, feeling the strange protrusion of the blue eye, the cool, lacy metal of the silver. Neither of us wanted to be seen with these items but I hoarded them like a dragon's treasure, as if they were gifts from my own boyfriend.\n\nLater, while Catherine bathed, I helped Simone set the dinner table: you would have thought that the precise positioning of salad forks was a matter of life and death. When I returned to Catherine's room, John was standing behind her at the dressing table, brushing her hair\u2014gently lifting the dark weight of it and hefting it in his hand. He pulled the brush through it in long, slow, sleepy strokes. I thought of my mother yanking through mine that morning and how that had ended and I saw the tenderness in his touch and then, suddenly, the way he pulled her head back hard and bent his face over hers. He was about to say something; his lips parted. He saw me in the mirror then and his hands moved away. He stepped back, laid the brush down on the table and left the room. Unhurried, unfazed.\n\nBoyfriend. I used that word, ribbing Catherine.\n\n\"Is that what you think?\" she said, rising from the vanity and bending into the closet. That hair swung around and whisked across her face. Her dress was hanging on the door\u2014a childish confection, cherry-colored, with ribbons and smocking.\n\nI shrugged my shoulders. \"No,\" I said. \"Maybe.\" I folded a candy wrapper into a tiny square, then folded it again.\n\n\"You like him,\" I said. I was fishing, of course. \"I can tell.\"\n\n\"Then you're stupid,\" she said quickly. \"I hate him. I can't stand the sight of him. He makes my skin crawl.\" She'd been holding a pair of ballet shoes in her hand and she threw them, hard, against the dresser, knocking the music box to the floor and setting off that tinkling little Nutcracker tune.\n\n\"Damn it,\" she said. \"God, god, god damn it.\" She crawled over on her knees and snapped the lid closed with such force that the ballerina was nearly decapitated. Honestly, I had not thought her capable of such passion.\n\n\"Maybe you should tell your mother,\" I said to her. \"Maybe you should.\"\n\nShe wasn't looking at me, but down at the pink tea roses that scrolled her bedspread; she traced a vine with her finger. \"I did.\"\n\n\"You did? When? What happened?\" Why hadn't she told me this? It irritated me.\n\n\"Nothing happened is what happened.\"\n\n\"What did you tell her?\"\n\n\"I told her he touched me. She said I was silly, of course he touched me. She said I had an overactive imagination. She said you give me too many dirty books.\"\n\nI was offended but still, somehow, not entirely displeased. \"I told you she wouldn't care,\" I said.\n\nTHE WORKINGS of Catherine's home remained mysterious, an enigma I could never quite unwrap, not entirely. Once after school we came quietly past the living room and saw a terrible and strange thing. Though it was broad daylight, the blinds were drawn and the room was dim. Simone was on the couch, her shoes were off and her feet lay in John's slender hands. Her shoes were askew under the glass coffee table. There was something soft and French playing on the stereo. John was crouched in front of her, rubbing her bare feet, while Simone breathed softly, like a sleeping animal, her eyes closed. We stood at the edge of the door, frozen. Then I felt Catherine's hand on my shoulder, pulling me away.\n\nJohn didn't look up when he heard us, nothing in his posture suggested he knew we were there\u2014but he did. We slipped silently away, down the hall to Catherine's room. She shut the bedroom door behind us and stood breathing heavily, her straight back flush against the frame.\n\n\"What?\" I said.\n\nShe shrugged.\n\nWe didn't say it aloud but it could not have been worse had we found her naked, with her breasts bared and her legs splayed, bone-bright against the black leather.\n\nA while later we heard Simone humming in the hallway, the rustle as she gathered her bag and fussed in the foyer. The scent of her\u2014musky and floral\u2014drifted under the door.\n\nSimone, as you would expect, was militant about privacy, about the sanctity of her room. Had we ever been caught in there, the punishment would have been dreadful. But John had license and slid inside often, carrying laundry or sheets or dusting cloths, shutting the door softly behind him. He must have made her bed and cleaned the fragrant bathroom\u2014the bath rail trailing a jungle of silk stockings and hand-washables, the vanity lined with expensive lipsticks and cut-glass bottles, the whole place saturated with the luxurious, concentrated scent of Simone and her myriad toiletries.\n\nSometimes we saw him coming out of the bedroom, with empty hands and a glowering face. If we met in the hallway, near one of Simone's ugly, incomprehensible paintings, he might glare at us, say something under his breath. His expression didn't soften as it landed on Catherine but seemed instead to resolve.\n\nAnd soon, not long after we saw them together in the living room, Catherine and John began stealing things from Simone's bedroom, from her drawers and bathroom\u2014perfumes and lipsticks, silver spoons and tiny glass figurines. They didn't stash these in Catherine's room, but instead gave them to me to keep. I do not remember our discussing this, or that I asked any questions; I'm sure I didn't, as I wanted only to be included. I took these trinkets home as I had taken the jewelry, hidden under my clothes or in my coat, and kept them under my bed, inside board games or in the back of my closet in the hallway.\n\nMy father returned to the embassy and a small scar on his forehead was all that remained of those weeks and the lies we had told to protect him, to protect us. It all seemed tied to the changing season\u2014the new coolness, strange smells on the air, the scent of horses and schoolbooks and powdered milk. Gusts of wind traveled the alleys behind the apartment building, gathering up dirt and swirling it down the length of the alley in tiny funnels of grime and debris, sending cats scattering. Leaves dropped from the plane trees along the far end of the street and we jumped into them, crunching them to bits under the soles of our shoes and tossing them wildly at each other, fat fistfuls of crackling brown confetti.\n\nMy mother was overly bright and cheerful for a stretch of time, driving me to the stables and venturing past the parking lot, wrapped tight in scarves and woolens, watching me circle the ring. Ali came to the apartment less frequently now, only for social visits with my father. They'd become friends during his convalescence. In the afternoons they drank scotch together in the living room, smoking their pipes and speaking, I imagined, of politics and rising anti-American sentiment.\n\n## October 1975\n## 8\n\nON A BRISK AFTERNOON GRACE SITS IN THE PARKING LOT ABOVE the stables at Balgat, running the heat on high and smelling the stale, recycled air pumping from the vents. She smokes through a crack in the window and stares out at the banked dirt in front of the fender. With one hand she fingers a rip in the leather seat; it started small, but she has been worrying it to ruin. It's been over a month now that she has been coming here in the afternoons, providing flimsy cover for Bahar and Ahmet, waiting out their private moments.\n\nWhen a knock comes at the passenger window, she jumps. She sees Ahmet's face leaning down to the glass, his cloud of prematurely white hair, his knuckles resting in a fist on the window. She leans across the seat and cranks the glass down.\n\n\"Hello,\" he says. \"Merhaba.\"\n\n\"Merhaba.\" She drops the cigarette out the window and looks up at him, aware of his scent of horse and something else, less definable, like the smell of sun and wind.\n\n\"Come down,\" he says. \"She is cleaning stalls, it will be a bit. I'll make tea.\"\n\nHe is holding a saddle, the pommel of it resting on his knee. He hefts it up and adjusts it against his body.\n\n\"It's all right,\" she says. \"I'll wait.\"\n\nShe lifts the book that is sitting spine-up on the dash and gestures with it, to indicate that she's occupied. His face disappears from the window and she thinks for a moment that she's insulted him, that he's gone off in a huff. But he has merely stepped to the other side of the car, and now he opens the door, extending his free hand to help her out.\n\n\"Please,\" he says. \"Sit with me.\"\n\nIn his trailer, where she has been before only for moments at a time, there is the gathered scent of horse and leather and sugary tea. On a plastic tray by the hot plate are a bowl of lump sugar and mugs, three limp carrots, a snaffle bit. The trailer is overly warm; there is the buzzing, electric sound of a space heater, Turkish voices coming from a radio on his desk. She sits cautiously on a stained floral couch; a thin spotted kitten sleeps at one end, its paws twitching in dreams.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she says. She accepts the tea and holds it between her hands; steam rises.\n\n\"She is doing well here,\" he says to her. \"Canada.\"\n\nGrace nods: she too has been surprised by Canada's aptitude for this, her uncharacteristic display of discipline. \"It's good for her, I think.\"\n\nShe is startled to find that she means it. She had hated this mightily, being manipulated by Bahar, more or less forced to bring Canada here, part of Bahar's romantic subterfuge. Bahar had said to her, \"I can only take so many riding lessons a week. There is a limit, and Ali may become suspicious. But if you are there, and the girl, then my time is more easily explained. I am helping you, translating and so forth.\" Of course Ahmet's English is quite perfect; no translation is required.\n\nHe watches her now, one hip resting on the corner of his desk, the saddle balanced on his knee. Grace has noticed in Canada all the markings of a schoolgirl crush on this man\u2014her high color and tittering laughter, her willingness to attempt all manner of dangerous, absurd, unnatural-seeming things. As Grace drives her home her daughter is warm-faced and pensive, smelling all over of animals, her eyes distant, her posture hunched and inimical.\n\n\"Bahar is a beautiful woman,\" Ahmet says then, thoughtfully.\n\nHe rubs his hands along the smooth, worn seat of the saddle. The tea shimmies in the mug Grace holds.\n\n\"She is also a very selfish woman. But I think you know this.\"\n\nGrace looks up at him, surprised. \"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.\"\n\n\"I think you might,\" he says. He rises from the desk and places the saddle over the arm of the couch. He sits down beside her, dislodging the kitten, which mews and repositions itself. \"She has said to me what this is about. I am aware of the circumstances.\"\n\n\"What circumstances are those?\"\n\nAhmet hesitates for a moment. He rests his hand lightly on her knee. \"That your husband drinks too much and injured himself. That there is the matter of keeping this unfortunate event quiet, that Bahar's husband is caring for him. I hope he is doing well.\"\n\nHe rattles these off, his fingers drumming a little beat on her knee. She stares at his hands. They are finely shaped, roughened by work and weather.\n\nShe says, \"Canada has wanted riding lessons for some time. I've been meaning to do it.\"\n\nHis eyes are the color of cognac, and, actually, the eyes of a dog she remembers from childhood, a freckled spaniel called Brigadier.\n\n\"Well,\" he says. \"Then it has worked out for everyone. You will continue with the lessons then, in spite of Bahar?\"\n\n\"In spite of Bahar what?\" she asks.\n\n\"Have you not seen her lately?\" He takes his hand from her leg and begins rubbing his palms on his knees\u2014he is wearing slim-fitting britches and tall boots, his feet look surprisingly small and delicate.\n\nGrace has not, actually. She telephoned several times but couldn't raise her. She assumed they had merely been missing each other at the stable.\n\n\"Bahar is a woman who changes her mind very frequently. I have not seen her recently. Maybe a week, maybe more.\"\n\nGrace considers this. She recalls the sketchy answers the housekeeper has given on the telephone, the way her English suddenly deteriorated.\n\n\"What does that mean?\"\n\n\"It means she is tiring of this place, or not. It means she will come back or she won't. It means someone has to exercise that horse of hers. I do not know, precisely, what it means. Only Bahar does.\" He laughs, a low sound but not a harsh one, and then rises and shakes a cigarette from a pack on the desk. He holds it out to her and she takes it, pulling off her glove to fit it into her mouth, reaching forward for the light he offers.\n\nSitting stiffly on the couch, inhaling the harsh Turkish tobacco, Grace realizes she is furious. She is angry with nearly everyone\u2014with Rand, for being such a jackass, with Bahar for using her so badly and with herself for allowing it, for going along the way she does, the way she always has. Sometimes, lately, she even feels as though she might be the woman her daughter imagines she is\u2014irritable, middle-aged, beneath interest. Now she sees in Canada that look with which children will inevitably come to regard parents, as though she suddenly recognizes in her mother every despicable, hidden thing. Grace is disgusted with herself, with all of them, and she stands abruptly, putting the mug down hard on the table, watching the tea slosh over the sides and pool on the surface. Ahmet leans forward on the couch, palms pressed together in front of his face.\n\n\"I understand,\" he says quietly.\n\n\"I doubt it,\" she says, turning to leave.\n\n\"You are welcome anytime,\" he says to her, as she opens the door and the brisk air rushes in. \"Come back anytime.\"\n\nShe stands outside the trailer catching her breath. The sky is clear, the air scented autumn gold and red; fallen leaves, still soft, dying only at their very edges, litter the uneven concrete. Around the corner, the stables are quiet except for the sound of the horses' mingled breath, their huffing, indecipherable conversations.\n\nGrace thinks of that terrible party she'd been to at Simone's and of the sound the hairbrush made slamming into Canada's teeth the following morning. She'd had a rare hangover; there had been too many questions the evening before and too much innuendo. Paige Trotter had come up on her at the party, just after Simone had glided away. Grace was relieved to see her.\n\n\"This is dreadful,\" Grace told her, her eyes on Simone's back. \"I'm a terrible fraud.\" She was aware of John and Catherine, whom she had just seen disappear into the kitchen together, and of Canada\u2014who was hiding behind the grand piano with what looked like a brandy snifter.\n\nPaige laughed. \"Well, it does take some practice.\"\n\nPaige observed the room appraisingly and popped a canap\u00e9 into her wide, bright mouth. She smiled as John passed\u2014there he was again, out of thin air\u2014and lifted a fluted glass from his tray. Then she touched her hand to his sleeve to halt him and spoke to him in Turkish. He nodded, replied softly, the whole cant and affect of his body surprisingly deferential. As he moved away, threading effortlessly through the mass of bodies, Paige turned to Grace and looked at her through decorative, jewel-rimmed spectacles.\n\n\"Buck up,\" she said. \"You presume people are more interested in you than they are. It's a common mistake. Look at this lot. Do you really think they give a damn where your husband is? Do you think they care if you tell them the truth? That's a bit of an arrogance, if you don't mind my saying.\"\n\nThey were standing then beside the perfectly arranged dinner table. At each setting was a cut-glass bowl of glittering ice, tinted Aegean blue; fat pink shrimp nestled close around the rim.\n\n\"Look,\" said Paige. \"John has discovered food coloring.\"\n\n\"Even he knows I'm lying,\" said Grace. \"The damn houseboy.\"\n\n\"Oh well,\" Paige said. \"If anyone does, it's him. But he's got his own secrets, that one. He couldn't be less interested in yours.\"\n\n\"What is it about him that makes me so uncomfortable?\" Grace asked. \"And that girl. I get a shiver every time I see them together. Doesn't Simone notice?\"\n\nPaige shrugged. \"Don't let your imagination run away with you.\"\n\nGrace surveyed the table. The flowers and the shimmering silver, the glowing tapers, the snowy linen. \"My, but Firdis is a clod,\" she said. \"This is so beautiful.\"\n\n\"Isn't it exquisite?\" Paige said. \"Don't you want to just smash it to bits?\"\n\nAnd then the next morning, while brushing Canada's hair out, Grace had noticed a tiny bluish bruise in the place Simone's fingers had been. The woman had actually pinched her. Grace's head throbbed; her eyelids felt fat as slugs. She had not liked Simone's insinuating tone; the whole situation had her jumpy as a cat.\n\nGrace was thinking about this, all of it, while she was tugging the brush through Canada's horrendous rat's nest, wondering, Did she sleep in chewing gum? And just then Canada had snapped her head around, whining that Grace was yanking her bald, and in that instant, which seemed in retrospect frozen and wide, full of opportunities for withdrawals and retractions, Grace had not stilled the brush\u2014not slowed it at all.\n\n## 9\n\nSIMONE WAS WILD. SHE BANGED THROUGH THE APARTMENT, slamming doors and tearing through the contents of drawers. We heard silverware clanging, cabinet doors opening and closing with force. We heard her swear\u2014unusual, for Simone hated vulgarity. No, that's not entirely true: she hated it in others.\n\nSitting on the twin beds in Catherine's room, we were folding her leotards into little pink squares. We had accumulated several cubes on the bedspread. Catherine looked up and our eyes met.\n\n\"What is she looking for?\" I whispered. Though the door was closed we took no chances\u2014we suspected Simone of having supernatural hearing, as well as eyes in the back of her head.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nIn my mind I inventoried the things of Simone's that were hidden in my room\u2014stray bits of cutlery and camisoles, a crystal saltcellar, pieces of costume jewelry. Why did they do it? They each had their own reasons, I suppose, but part of it must have been to drive her a little mad, to shake her composure.\n\nSimone opened the door to the room and stood there in the doorway. Her hair was mussed and her expression stormy\u2014she looked like a woman who had been on a killing spree, or was contemplating one.\n\n\"I'm missing my diamond earrings,\" she said. \"The good ones your father gave me for our anniversary. Have you taken them?\"\n\n\"No,\" Catherine said with total self-possession. Simone no longer had the power to rattle her. She had taken something of John's too, I saw then, some of his coolness, his disdain.\n\n\"Well, if they don't turn up by this evening there's going to be serious trouble.\" What could Simone have meant by that? She certainly couldn't have been offering amnesty.\n\nCatherine shrugged. She patted the stack of leotards and smiled.\n\n\"You must have misplaced them.\"\n\n\"When have you known me to misplace something?\"\n\nThere was a moment of impasse; they observed each other.\n\nI said, \"Did you look in your jewelry box?\"\n\nSimone's eyes slid to me and narrowed. \"Yes,\" she said. \"Of course I have. Were you two playing dress-up?\"\n\n\"We don't play dress-up,\" Catherine said calmly. \"We haven't in ages.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" I said. \"We're too old for that.\"\n\nBut we had done, and not so long ago. Harem girls and bedouin brides, favored daughters of the caliph\u2014whirling in filmy bits and pieces taken from Simone's bedroom, scarves tucked into our waists and necklaces strung round our foreheads, fat stolen jewels of topaz and amethyst and aquamarine, like great glittering tears, dangling in our eyes.\n\nSimone closed the door with a bang; the noise took a moment to die away. I looked at Catherine.\n\n\"Diamond earrings?\" I said. \"You took her earrings?\"\n\n\"She left them by the sink in the kitchen. Stupid cow.\" Catherine began plaiting a bit of her hair. Her expression was serene.\n\n\"Where are they?\"\n\n\"John sold them, down on Tunali. She pays him next to nothing; his family is so poor you can't imagine.\"\n\n\"Are you kidding me? Are you crazy?\" They'd obviously lost their minds.\n\n\"Relax,\" she said. \"They're gone anyway.\"\n\n\"She's going to kill you. I can't imagine what she'll do to him.\"\n\n\"Calm down,\" she said. \"She'll never know.\"\n\n\"Have you met your mother?\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" said Catherine, in that new, preternaturally calm voice. \"I don't care at all.\"\n\nBut I was terrified: I pictured Simone storming up the hill to our apartment and rummaging around in my room. I thought about whether or not my mother would let her. I couldn't decide.\n\n\"I'm getting rid of it all,\" I said. \"Today.\"\n\n\"Do what you want.\"\n\nI stood up. \"Jesus,\" I said. \"Good God.\"\n\nCatherine smiled. She said, \"Avallah.\"\n\nReally, what could Catherine have known of John's family? We lived like kings in Turkey. I did not need my mother to point this out to me, though she liked to. Once, my father had taken his driver Kadir home and I had been along in the car. The poverty, the difference in our situations, shocked me\u2014their tin-roofed house was little more than a run-in shed, open to the street; there were hordes of dirty, barefoot children, a fire burning in a rusted barrel. It struck me that Kadir was ashamed for us to see where he lived\u2014even me, a mere child, no one of the least importance.\n\nBut my father climbed from the car as though it were the easiest thing in the world, as if anyone could do it, and let the children swarm him. They rummaged through his pockets\u2014which contained, it turned out, all manner of small, delightful, mysterious American things, made of sugar and plastic\u2014and then he sat down on a box in the courtyard, mindless of his suit, his coat, his shoes, and they crawled into his lap and he made them giggle and blush, the girls and boys alike. Somehow nearly an hour passed in this way\u2014all of us sitting on upturned boxes in the packed-dirt yard, shadows flickering on the corrugated tin roof, my father and Kadir speaking in Turkish and English\u2014until the light was entirely gone and then my father sighed and climbed to his feet and shook Kadir's hand. We got back into the car and drove home through the dark streets. We climbed back through the hills of Ankara into the bright sections, the warm hotels and restaurants and shops, and my father pulled me near him on the seat and when I turned my face into his collar he smelled of smoke and all those children's bodies and himself, all of it together.\n\nYet, I had never thought of John outside of Simone's apartment, beyond her clutches. Certainly he left at night and returned early in the morning, but in my memories he was always there, ever busy. I had never considered where he lived or that he might have a family waiting for him\u2014brothers, sisters, aunts, a mother. It was beyond my imagination.\n\nThen, sometime in October, he took Catherine home to his family: they rode in a dolmu\u015f\u2014a kind of shared taxi\u2014through the city and into a section of it she could not satisfactorily describe. I was shocked to learn that Catherine and John had left the apartment together. I pictured the two of them side by side in broad daylight, how he would have shepherded her through the traffic and the surging crowds. She was always nervous in crowds, and disliked the noise and the closeness, the shoving and coarse talk of the merchants and shoppers. When I imagined them together, out in the world, I was half mad with jealousy. I saw his hand comforting her elbow, his mouth close at her ear.\n\nThe winding streets always confused Catherine, though the city was laid out like a map in my mind\u2014the hills of Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa, the twisting ascent to \u00c7ankaya above the botanical gardens and the British Embassy, the descent into the business district or the longer drive through the gates of the Old City, where we sometimes went to the baths.\n\nI questioned her mercilessly about that trip:\n\nHow had they gotten out?\n\nQuite easily, she said. Through the front door.\n\nWhere had Simone been?\n\nAt the dressmaker.\n\nWhen was this trip?\n\nI don't quite remember; not so very long ago.\n\nBut I wanted to know every detail: the condition of the seats in the dolmu\u015f, the markings of the animals they would have seen, every smell and shadow and hue of the day. But she was different by then and it was no longer only Simone who could not reach her. This was a new Catherine: taciturn, superior, dismissive.\n\nIt was fine, she said. Nothing too interesting. She had lately begun observing herself in the mirror and I remember her braiding her hair, looking at me in the glass.\n\nI pressed her to tell me about his family, his home, his manner around them. \"Why in the world do you want to know?\" she asked. I thought, not for the first time, that he was wasting himself on her.\n\n\"We had tea with his mother and about a hundred other smelly old women,\" she told me finally, her fingers still busy in her hair. \"All of them look just like your mother's maid.\"\n\nSomething dark and thick rose in my throat. \"What did you talk about? How did he act? Where did Simone think you were?\"\n\nBut by then she had pulled the curtains around the two of them, and I was outside, searching for even a chink of light, the briefest admittance to their private world.\n\n\"I thought you hated him,\" I said.\n\nShe put the brush down then and turned around. It was as if she hadn't heard me. \"Those women crawl all over him,\" she said, and a thrilled amazement crept into her voice. \"Patting him and patting him, kissing his cheeks.\"\n\nBut quickly her voice grew adult again. \"But really, it was terrible,\" she said. \"The place smelled to high heaven.\"\n\nHow like Simone Catherine was at times. How had I not seen it before?\n\nWe grew sick of each other, and the subject, and we wandered out into the kitchen and watched John prepare borek for the evening. I sat on the counter; she helped him. I despised seeing them together, working side by side, Catherine rolling the little cigars filled with spinach and cheese, John frying them in spitting grease, then draining them on paper towels laid on the counter. They whistled the same stupid little tune.\n\n\"He simply worships me,\" she would say from time to time. And her nose would wrinkle with the thought of it. Her face would flush pink and she would make her hands busy. My whole body would go squirmy with hatred.\n\nOn the afternoon I'm thinking of, Catherine was wearing a crepey cotton shirt with a crocheted inset at the neck\u2014we both had them, they were sold downtown and my mother had given in and bought them for us. Mine was red checked, Catherine's blue. They had wide bat sleeves that ended in a point, edged with crochet work. Catherine's sleeve was dragging in the bowl that held the filling, then dripping shreds of cheese and spinach across the counter and onto the polished floor. I thought for a moment to tell her but instead closed my mouth. I was sitting on the counter, banging my heels against the wood. John stepped away from the heat of the stove, lifted Catherine's arm by the elbow and held it up to show her the mess she'd made. To accommodate this she had to drop her shoulder and let her arm be twisted up unnaturally, but she didn't protest or pull away. Instead, her mouth formed a little o of surprise and then they laughed together, bodies bent toward each other. Then, while I watched, he bent his silky head and put the end of her sleeve in his mouth, pulling it through his teeth. He drew the wet point from his lips and let it fall against her skin. For a moment I almost felt it: the dampness of the crochet against my inner elbow, the idea of his mouth brushing my skin.\n\nI pushed off the counter and slammed out through the swinging kitchen door. I nearly collided with Simone, who was standing there, quiet as a statue. My breath was coming in ragged little gasps.\n\n\"What is it?\" she said. Why did concern or interest from Simone always sound the same\u2014so treacly, so poisonous? She moved her thin eyebrows, one at a time; they twitched like pale, prehistoric millipedes.\n\n\"It's too hot in there.\"\n\nShe watched me carefully; we were standing close to each other. I saw the freckling on her neck, the way the skin there was getting papery. She put her hand out and touched the place where my heart was pounding. I don't believe she'd ever laid a hand on me before.\n\nMECCA LIES south of Ankara. In the afternoons, John knelt on a small prayer rug in the laundry room, facing the alley. He bent with his hands outstretched on the faded rug, his forehead to the ground. I often came across him in this position, the sun pulsing through the small window onto his prostrate form. Passing the open door, I barely even glanced at him. His voice was low and muttering, and the words ran together. 'Allah' was the only one I could isolate.\n\nThen one afternoon, there was Catherine, bent similarly, with a dresser scarf over her head, alone in the aisle between the twin beds in her room, muttering something at first I couldn't make out. No, then I recognized it: she was reciting the Lord's Prayer, but in a singsong voice, jamming all the words together.\n\nI stood and watched her for a moment. Her blinds were closed; the light came in striped and angled. She was wearing a leotard and tights; the soles of her feet were gray.\n\n\"What's this?\"\n\n\"Ikindi Namaz\u00fd,\" she said. Her head was touching the floor as John's did; it looked exceptionally uncomfortable.\n\n\"Which is?\" My voice must have held an edge of discomfort, of nervous superiority, the unease that comes of finding a familiar person engaged in an utterly foreign activity.\n\n\"Afternoon prayer.\" She sat up on her heels and pulled the scarf from her head. \"Not to be confused with sabah, \u00f6\u011fle, ak\u015fam, or yats\u0131.\"\n\n\"I don't think they say the Our Father. I'm pretty sure it appears nowhere in the Koran.\"\n\n\"Technically no,\" she said. \"But my Arabic's a little iffy.\"\n\nI sank down on her bed. Catherine had rosary beads, for heaven's sake. She could rattle off Hail Marys like nobody's business. I stared at her, her slim shape, the not-quite-flatness of her chest beneath the bubblegum-colored leotard, her legs sheathed in those pig-pink tights.\n\nShe showed me a book he'd given her with a tattered blue cover. She had been keeping it under her pillow.\n\n\"What?\" I said. \"You're converting? Give me a break.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" she said. \"Who knows.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh,\" I said.\n\nI opened the book randomly. I read this: \"'As a young child, the angel Jibreel visited Muhammad, ripped his chest open, removed his heart, extracted a blood clot, and returned him to normalcy.' Wow. Great stuff.\"\n\n\"Oh, shut up,\" she said.\n\nNeither of us said anything for a long time. I couldn't remember the last time John had given us candy, or we had done something secretive together, just the two of us.\n\n\"Hey,\" I said. \"Want to go up to the garden? Throw rocks at the construction site?\"\n\n\"Not so much,\" she said. \"I think I want to read.\"\n\nShe took the book back from me and flipped through the pages. I picked up the copy of The Officer's Wife; it was sitting on her bedside table, sandwiched among a collection of boarding-school books.\n\nI read out loud: \"'Detailed Weekly Schedule for Household with One Maid. Monday\u2014general cleaning of the house. Collect laundry, dry cleaning and leather to be polished. Inspection. Tuesday\u2014laundry. Iron silk underwear. Wednesday\u2014defrost Frigidaire.'\"\n\nCatherine said, \"Do you mind?\"\n\n\"'Thursday\u2014clean stove, breadbox, cake box. Friday\u2014clean silver. Polish flatware one week and hollow ware the next.' What's hollow ware?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" she said. She riffled pages. \"'The five pillars of Islam. Belief in the oneness of God and the finality of the prophethood of Muhammad. Establishment of the daily prayers. Almsgiving to the needy. Self-purification through fasting. The pilgrimage to Mecca.'\"\n\n\"'An inspection of the house once a week is essential, no matter what a jewel your maid may be. All the more reason if she is lax or inexperienced. A close inspection tones up the morale of a household, lets a servant know you have your finger on the pulse of the household, that you know what the score is.'\" I stopped. \"Like Simone, I guess.\"\n\n\"She doesn't know the score,\" said Catherine. She paused and read on for a moment. Then she looked up.\n\n\"For instance, she's been giving alms to the needy, and she certainly doesn't know that. Listen: 'there is none worthy of worship except God and Muhammad is the messenger of God. That's Shahada.'\"\n\n\"Simone is giving alms to the needy how exactly?\"\n\n\"Her earrings, for one. A few other things.\"\n\nI snapped the book shut. \"You're going to get in serious trouble here. I hate to be the one to break it to you.\"\n\n\"We're saving money to go somewhere.\"\n\n\"Whose money? We who?\"\n\nCatherine lifted her hands. The book was open on her lap; she was sitting Indian-style. \"There's somewhere we want to go,\" she said. \"John and I. Mecca, maybe. Istanbul. Somewhere.\"\n\n\"Mecca?\" I said. \"You and the houseboy are going to Mecca? That's rich.\"\n\nCatherine shot me a look. She closed the book with a bang. She said, \"We're done here, right?\"\n\nOf course I was struck stupid by the romance of it\u2014the hazy idea of the two of them running off through the city, traveling through the countryside, along the seashore, through poppy fields and olive groves and miles of ocher-colored nothingness. I was dazzled by the lyricism of trains, by the mechanics of shared meals and too little money and highly improper sleeping arrangements.\n\nThe next day, I threw myself into riding, into life among horses, into the dusty otherworld of Balgat. I polished saddles and bridles and crusty bits. My fingers were striped with cuts from baling wire; I stank of manure and the wet, brown, sticky sweet of oats. I mucked out stalls and threw hay bales from the loft onto the concrete strip below; my back ached, I grew stronger. There were older girls at Balgat then, slinky, lanky teenage girls who went to the American school on the base and rode their expensive horses with finesse. They allowed me to pal around with them in a distant way; they admitted me to the fringes of their hysteria, their debauched laughter. Everything about them, everything they did, reeked of sex and mystery. Up in the hayloft they furthered international relations with the grooms via cross-cultural sex games in which more was insinuated than accomplished. Some afternoons I was allowed to sit with them and listen, though what went on was largely incomprehensible to me. We perched on hay bales, some stacked as high as the ceiling: the boards gaped beneath our feet and below we heard the movement of the animals, glimpsed a sleek curve of wither or ducking neck. Looking down was dizzying, a distinct sensation of danger. The loft was dark; the air danced with insects and was warm with the powerfully green aroma of hay. Blades of it pricked ankles and arms and the light from the one small window made everything glow golden, glancing off polished black boots and hard hats, the corn-silk hair of the girls, the bare, honeyed flesh of their breasts in dipping sweaters. The grooms slouched and leered, huddled together, occasionally stretching their long, dark arms and legs in a pretense of ease, exchanging studied, offhand remarks that no one understood.\n\nAt school Catherine wrinkled her nose when I sat down beside her. The look on her face made me think of her mother.\n\nWhen a horse went wild one day and tore loose through the barn, slipped in a river of muck and tea-colored urine and ripped his knee wide and bloody, I stayed long past dark, after my mother had gone, holding the stripped, flayed skin together while Ahmet repaired it carefully with a long and vicious-looking needle. We knelt together in the warm straw, only a lantern illuminating the wound and the deep corners of the stall. The wind whipped around the buildings outside, leaves blew in against our faces, and U\u011furlu\u2014it meant Lucky\u2014stamped and shivered, his skin fluttering like black silk across the great scaffold of his bones. Ahmet murmured quietly, clucking with his tongue, putting his big hands on the horse's leg to still him.\n\nHe looked up at me once and said, \"He wasn't today, was he? U\u011furlu?\"\n\nAhmet finished, smearing ointment on U\u011furlu's sewn-up foreleg, patting his soft, blowing nose, and then he took up the lantern and went for something else. I stood freezing in the dark, clinging to U\u011furlu's huge, warm neck. It seemed like a long time there: my arms around the steaming heat of his body, my voice reaching for his fur-lined ear. The scent of what Ahmet had concocted reached me long before he returned: molasses and bran and steam, apples and something else, something heady and milky and powerful.\n\nHe winked at me; the heavy, sloshing bucket was no struggle for him. He put the lantern and the bucket down in the straw. \"Sahlep for horses,\" he said. \"For comfort.\"\n\nHe saw my face in the flickering light. \"Poppies?\" he said. \"You've heard of poppies? Opium? No? Taste.\"\n\nI put my finger in the dark bucket and tasted oats, sickly sweet with molasses and hot milk, and something else that tasted strangely of sleep. I pulled my finger from my mouth to say this but U\u011furlu's head was there at my shoulder, impatient and nuzzling. He pushed me aside and buried his great, white-splashed nose in the bucket.\n\nWe closed up the stall against the wind and Ahmet drove me home. My hands were stained with Betadine and blood, his ancient car chugged reluctantly into Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa; we rode mostly in silence. In the flickering night light of the city, half dozing, I watched his hands on the wheel, his stern, hawkish profile facing forward.\n\nRiding is like driving a car, he always said, never look down. Look to where you're going, not where you are. I fell asleep on the seat beside him and he half carried me upstairs: his coat smelled of rubbing alcohol and that sweet, sleepy mash and I was happy in his arms; I pretended to be far more drowsy and helpless than I was.\n\n## November 1975\n## 10\n\nSHIVERING, GRACE SIPS SAHLEP FROM A MUG BY THE SIDE OF THE riding ring. It's November now and the wind is bitter, whining around the corners of the buildings: the sky seems like an enormous pewter serving tray, etched with tarnish. Ahmet has brewed the drink for her in his trailer\u2014powdered orchid root mixed with hot milk and cinnamon. It tastes warm, exotic, and the ingredients look a bit like an illegal substance; the orchid root is ground to a fine powder, like pale, sugary sand. It is a common remedy for sore throats and coughs but today Grace feels quite well. She wears boots and a long sheepskin coat, a style borrowed from Bahar. Kismet is a word you hear often in Turkey.\n\nThis is what Ahmet calls it, their meeting as they have, here at this dilapidated stable with the two dusty rings, the swaybacked fences, the peeling row of bleachers between two scrawny trees. The stables are shaped in a long L; the rows of stalls meet in a neat right angle.\n\nThis year she is ahead of schedule: she has mailed her Christmas cards and begun to hang the ones she has received around the fireplace, a custom that bewilders Firdis. Sitting bundled by the ring, her legs drawn up and tucked inside her coat, Grace watches Ahmet canter easily around on Bahar's horse, in a fisherman's sweater and tan britches, his hands in leather gloves, his legs tight against the saddle. To the left, in the distance, is Atat\u00fcrk's tomb, a stark, somber memorial with columns and long stretches of flat marble: there's the impression, the dark, glassine look, of water.\n\nAnd where is Bahar? It's been weeks since Grace has heard from her and each day that passes without word brings a kind of relief. Now, during the days, while Canada is in school, Grace is at the stables, huddled in the trailer with Ahmet. She cannot help but feel a kind of comparison, a need to measure up against Bahar's exotic beauty and fashion, her polished demeanor, her chilly wit.\n\nNot that Ahmet has touched her. But there is a growing sense of comfort and well-being, an ease she hasn't felt in years. It is like suddenly breathing without a catch in one's chest, after having become entirely used to one. She thinks: I've never really been at rest with anyone. And she believes that here, in this shabby little trailer with a near stranger\u2014who remains, no matter how many hours they talk, seductively unfamiliar\u2014she is being fully and entirely herself.\n\nThey speak of all sorts of things, of his wife, who is ill, of Rand, who has gone back to the embassy and fallen into his usual routine. They talk of Canada, of Grace's inability to reach her in any significant way.\n\nSometimes Grace thinks to call out to her, when she hears her key in the lock, if she is sitting in the living room, reading, leafing through a magazine, or thinking through a menu. But on the rare occasions she's given in to this urge, the outcome has been less than encouraging. Canada stands in front of her, hands locked behind her back, expression not exactly friendly. Innocent questions are met with monosyllables and her feet are in constant motion, shuffling on the parquet\u2014itching, it seems, to be gone. Grace gives up. If this is growing up, then so be it. If this is what teenagers are like, shades of what's ahead of her, fine.\n\nAhmet laughs at this, but remotely, as he has no children of his own. He talks of serving in the cavalry, and of horses, always of horses. This is a lovely thing about him, his way with animals, his gentle authority. Perhaps Bahar felt like this as well, that she would like nothing more than to be a creature in his competent care, subject to the warmth of his practiced hands. Everything else is so tangled, so knotty and intricate; there is beauty in the simplicity of animals, and in Ahmet's manner around them\u2014his hand running down a foreleg, feeling for heat, the gentle clucking noise he makes in his throat, the way the horses duck supple heads into his sure hands. Their needs seem so elemental.\n\n\"Tell me about your husband, this marriage you have,\" Ahmet asks. Grace sees in his quiet, knowing manner, his drowsy-eyed glance, his quick flash of teeth, that many women have found him irresistible. He does not hide that and it does not detract from his charm. On the contrary.\n\n\"My maid is pregnant,\" she says instead. \"It's quite a conundrum. I can't imagine doing without her. Isn't that awful? She seems to want me to help somehow.\" Grace laughs; it is a nervous, vulnerable sound.\n\nAhmet looks at her over his tea. He is assembling a bridle in his lap; he seems not to need to look to do it. The leather pieces, jumbled, darkly slick with oil, come together like a puzzle ring in the market.\n\n\"Your husband,\" he says gently. \"What is he like?\"\n\nReally, what is there to say? Grace travels the facts in her mind: the details of her life, each isolated in a particular city, an apartment, each connected and influenced by trivial facts\u2014a south-facing window, an unpredictable elevator, a fruit stand on the corner. She sees her life in these small aspects, thinks of her shoes traveling uneven sidewalks, the noise of new languages in her ears like an assault, the fright of assimilating, and of adapting, always adapting. New people, new obligations, new social structures to decipher and navigate\u2014places where the smallest misstep holds the potential for irreversible disaster.\n\nThey'd met on a blind date and she'd pursued him; it's not a fact she can overlook. She had wanted to shake off her childhood, the tight, icy little Canadian town and her father's magnificent, untempered disapproval. But Rand had had a different sort of life\u2014the youngest in a houseful of sisters, and the women, smothering, pink and lacy, forever smelling of biscuits, had kept him like a pet. He'd not much wanted marriage, or children; he had not wanted a household's worth of furniture and bric-a-brac.\n\nStill, there had been moments, drives through the Alps and wine and cassoulet, dancing and easy laughter. Christmases and holidays had been captured in photographs; there were gingerbread villages and pillow talk, cathedrals and ruins. Once, they had punted down a sun-speckled river, under a dreamy canopy of greenery. Always, of course, there was talk of his career, of who needed to be buttered or snubbed, feted or one-upped, letters she'd helped write requesting better posts or positions, people she hated whom she had cozied up to nonetheless, time spent studying protocols and hierarchies. It seemed like years of striking flimsy bargains, of walking on tiptoe and selling out, a little flesh at a time; hardly noticeable, barely missed.\n\nBut all she can think to say to Ahmet is, \"It's terribly complicated.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he says, putting aside the bridle, flashing that smile of his. \"Perhaps less so than you think.\"\n\nWhile they visit, Canada is absorbed in the daily activities of the stable: she's become a companion to the Turkish grooms\u2014rough trade, these young men, with their bad teeth and uneasy grins, drooping trousers, cheap shoes. At Ahmet's instruction they teach Canada to care for the animals, but their manner with her is not exactly willing or generous. Grace sees them exchanging looks over Canada's bent head, as she leans to clean a hoof or bandage a leg, looks that might be construed as lewd or unfriendly, signaling that she is an intruder, unwelcome, and forced on them. But Grace doesn't bring this to Ahmet's attention. She doesn't want to make something of nothing, or in any way threaten the time they spend together. Nor does it escape her that Canada doesn't like her new friendship with Ahmet. She's not altogether displeased by the look on Canada's face when she finds them together, which she reads as bitter surprise.\n\nSometimes lately, provoked by an astonishing new boldness, she stands behind him and rubs at the knots in his shoulders, feeling the wool of his sweater beneath her fingers, and under it, the contour of bone and muscle. Though he is older, Ahmet's body seems younger than Rand's. Ahmet is slender framed, almost lupine, and she imagines that his back is covered with soft hair, but the idea does not repulse her, not at all. He moves his shoulders under her touch, not making sounds of enjoyment\u2014which would seem a weakness on his part, a thing she would not like\u2014but turning his neck from side to side like an animal, putting against her fingers the places he wants attended. She closes her eyes and feels his skin under her hands, the knobs of his spine: she inhales the lovely mixed-up scent of him. She thinks of the previous week, when Paige Trotter had found the shape of a bird in her coffee grounds. Look, she'd said, a wish your heart desires.\n\nAnd one autumn day Ahmet catches her hand with his own, bringing it down across his shoulder to his face. He breathes against her palm, warm air brushes her skin; he puts each of her fingers to his lips.\n\n\"Grace,\" he says, \"I think you are making your life more complicated.\"\n\nIt isn't clear what he means. She stands motionless behind him, her hand frozen in his, her knees locked.\n\n\"I mean,\" he says, and his grip loosens, letting her hand fall awkwardly away, \"that for a woman who desires simplicity, you have a way of tangling things.\"\n\nGrace pulls her hand back; she rubs her palms against her hips. She hears herself breathing and strives to quiet it.\n\n\"Don't misunderstand,\" he says.\n\n\"Have you heard from Bahar?\" Grace feels suddenly breathless; the air has turned to glass.\n\n\"She was here,\" he says after a moment's pause.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Recently.\"\n\nGrace steps away from him; her hand still holds the warmth of his. Her face is hot, her skin itches. She drags a hand down the side of her face and then begins to tidy the papers on his desk, to shuffle them together: invoices and bills in illegible scripts, Turkish handwriting\u2014with its cedillas and breves, ogoneks and carons\u2014scrawled across slips of colored paper.\n\n\"Please don't do that,\" he says. \"Please sit down.\"\n\nShe perches on the arm of the sofa; it creaks under her weight.\n\n\"I should go,\" she says, but makes no move to.\n\n\"It's not as you think,\" he says, after a moment. \"Bahar is not a woman who knows what she wants. She is always changing her thoughts. She does not expect that those of others might change as well.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\nHe sighs. Grace studies his face for clues as to what he is thinking. He seems tired. She wonders if she has misjudged again, if this man she has decided to fall in love with is a cad, if she has made, or is on the road to making, a monumental fool of herself.\n\nShe thinks of an argument she had with Rand just this morning; how willing she's been in recent weeks to provoke him, to instigate trouble. She's been reckless and impulsive\u2014calling things the way she sees them, for once. She'd looked at him standing in the doorway of the apartment, his eyes puffy, the map of broken capillaries around his nose more prominent than usual. His shirt was pressed and he smelled of that familiar amalgam of his\u2014liquor and aftershave, too much alcohol altogether.\n\n\"Straighten up,\" she said. \"Pull yourself together. I'm sick to death of it.\"\n\nHe looked confused\u2014when did she ever speak to him like that? He kept his hand on the doorknob, staring at her.\n\n\"What's wrong with you?\"\n\n\"Me?\" she said. \"Nothing I can think of. Except being married to you, in this hellhole, with little to no modern conveniences, the stink of this city, the gamesmanship, the craziness\u2014I'm fed up.\"\n\nHe shifted on the step in his polished shoes and rubbed his red face with one big hand. His eyes were watery and he fell back to brace himself against the wall. Hung over, as usual, and badly. \"You couldn't possibly understand the pressure I'm under,\" he said. \"You have absolutely no idea.\" He assumed a familiar posture: a man supremely misunderstood, colossally unappreciated.\n\nIt infuriated her. \"Of course I don't. How could I? It's all so bloody important. So classified. So triple top secret. I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you. Honestly, Rand, what a bore you are. All of you. Can't you see it?\"\n\nWhat had seemed glamorous about it all those years ago\u2014promises of intrigue and romance, exotic locales, matters of national security\u2014now seemed like an almanac's advertisement for some quackery, a charlatan outfit promising eternal youth in a bottle.\n\nOf course, she'd been thinking of Ahmet, saying all that to him. Thinking of the drive to Balgat in the morning air, escaping the gunmetal pall of the city, the long uphill drive through the rocky landscape, the parking lot with the stable nestled below, where the days held a new kind of possibility, the bright electricity of hope.\n\nStanding in the trailer, Grace feels a sudden surge of regret and anxiety, an edgy, discomfiting energy. She feels a nerve twitch at the corner of her mouth and claps her hand to it.\n\n\"Ah well,\" Ahmet says, and gets to his feet. \"It doesn't matter.\"\n\n\"Do you love her?\" Grace is surprised at herself; though the words are out, she had not really expected to hear them.\n\n\"Bahar?\" he says, and this strikes her as deliberate obtuseness, stalling.\n\nHe walks to his desk and begins to rearrange the very papers he has asked her not to touch. \"That is complicated,\" he says, after a minor eternity.\n\n\"Oh,\" she breathes. \"I see.\"\n\nIt's then that he kisses her. He steps across the room and pulls her close to his chest\u2014that familiar, fraying, horsey sweater\u2014and bites at her lips and neck. His breath smells of tobacco and crushed orchids; his body against hers is lithe and solid, shockingly present.\n\nAs he pushes her down on the couch, the kitten\u2014bigger now, proprietary\u2014cries out and leaps to the ground. The telephone rings, quivering against the papers it rests on; Ahmet reaches up and pulls the curtains closed across the window. They rattle together along the rod, a cheap floral pattern in waxy fabric, the ring of the metal hooks; the dimming room.\n\n## 11\n\nTHE BUS RATTLED, THAT FIRST COLD SATURDAY, INTO THE OLDER part of the city, left the main thoroughfare and entered a poor, rundown neighborhood. Bouncing along on the torn green seats, we peered out the thick windows. There was no laughter, no chatter, we were locked in our private miseries, mute and helpless.\n\nMy mother had signed me up for charity visits to the Turkish orphanage. The idea had struck her when she and Bahar visited there, and nothing I did or said could dissuade her. Some girls my age from the American base were along and a few other unfortunates, some of whom I knew from school. All the mothers had cooked this up together; clearly it had been coming for some time. But not Catherine, of course, for Simone, with her fear of germs and the unwashed foreign masses, would never, ever have enlisted her in this.\n\nKate, who was the headmaster's daughter from my school, was the only person who spoke on the drive. She sat slumped in the rear of the bus, her oily hair hanging around her face, her big, chapped hands dangling between her knees.\n\n\"Bloody buggering orphans,\" she said and then fell silent.\n\nThe orphanage was on the corner of two streets, a spreading brick monstrosity held fast behind barbed-wire fencing. Around it, the streets were quiet and depressed. Uncollected garbage gathered in heaps in the gutters and stringy cats stood atop them like royalty, kneading refuse, arching their backs. Not a living human soul was evident. The buckling roofs of the houses seemed verging on collapse and the streets we traveled were barely paved. The bus sank into a pothole, lurched and stuttered, then gained momentum and sped too fast into the drive. We stood up, involuntarily, clutching the backs of the seats and stared unbelievingly through the windshield.\n\nThe gates were huge, rusted and Gothic, overgrown with bushes and greenery, and they swung open slowly, creakily, just wide enough to admit the big yellow bus. The road curved through a small passage, branches snatched at the roof and windows and then there was a sudden noise like gunfire\u2014we'd blown a tire.\n\nThe bus rolled to a pitchy stop. For long moments no one moved. The driver stood and gestured us off; he was already rolling a cigarette and violently cursing the roads, the tire, us, our mothers and their mothers. We hesitated, looking around for things we hadn't brought, adjusting our socks and sweaters. We came down the steps at last, rubbing at ourselves and stretching\u2014delay tactics\u2014and clustered together in a sympathetic knot. Suddenly, standing in front of the grim, peeling doors of the orphanage, we were all friends.\n\nThen they were flung open\u2014not a speck of light escaped, blackness gaped in the background\u2014and several bright, fluttery church ladies came tripping down the stone steps to greet us, flapping their arms: they would split us up, one announced, take us to the playground, the nursery. How lovely it was that we had come. How kind. What nice children we were.\n\nWe went off casting desperate looks at one another, checking our watches and glancing back at the bus as if it might disappear and leave us there...stranded, forever. Already, the driver had the tire off and was studying it, perplexedly, as if considering whether all of them, all four, were really absolutely essential. Perhaps everyone was wondering, as I was, if this was part of some more diabolical plan our mothers had concocted to get rid of us.\n\nInside, the hallways were narrow and dark, plaster peeled from the walls and we scurried to keep up with the women striding ahead of us. The only sound was that of our shoes echoing on the tiled floors. For safety's sake we kept our hands at our sides or stuffed deep in our pockets; the whole building and all the air trapped inside it seemed contagious. The matron led us immediately to the nursery\u2014large and dim, it was lit only with naked bulbs, filled with the cloying smell of souring formula, of unwashed diapers and unhappiness.\n\nMetal cribs stretched along the walls, quiet women standing among them here or there, heads bent, hands reaching. Inside the cribs, the babies lay like forgotten dolls, lost on beaches of cheap plastic\u2014dark shocks of hair, diapers held shut with masking tape, rosebud lips coated with pasty white film. The babies either howled despairingly or lay utterly still. It was as though human touch were foreign to them, completely without meaning. We moved around the room in silence, looking into the barred cribs, unable, unwilling to utter the cooing noises that seemed expected of us.\n\nWe escaped outside finally\u2014sneaking off one by one, with assorted excuses\u2014to a small, dilapidated playground at one side of the building. The swing set had one working swing, its rubber seat nearly frayed through on one end. The slide listed so dramatically you had to climb it sideways.\n\nAt the orphanage Kate and I stayed together\u2014on that first morning and subsequent ones\u2014though we were not really friends. I was wary of her; she was the kind of girl who liked to hide other people's clothes in the changing room after swimming. More than once she had taken knickers from the younger girls and hidden them inside her own things. Then later, on the playground, she would display them to the boys, while their mortified owner shrieked and cried and chased after her with flailing arms. She could be as cruel, and as inventive, as any boy.\n\nKate wanted nothing to do with the orphans. She had no compunction about this\u2014it did not embarrass her at all to seem uncharitable. She could have joined the others, who after the second Saturday began avoiding the matrons\u2014it turned out that the other girls were all earning a badge for Girl Guides\u2014but for some reason she seemed to prefer my company. The others played marbles under the shade of a tree near the entrance and watched the driver roll and smoke cigarettes until it was time to leave. He could get through about fifteen before he would let anyone back on the bus.\n\nSo Kate and I sat together, taking turns on the lone swing, and waited out the mornings. A small girl began hanging around us, an orphan named Aynur, maybe six or seven years old. She smelled of old milk and clothes that had not been washed; she wore plastic sandals with torn bindings and mismatched socks.\n\n\"Go away,\" Kate would say to her, kicking her feet in Aynur's direction. \"Scram.\"\n\nAynur ignored her. She sat at our feet in the dirt and moved rocks from one place to another. This seemed to absorb her completely. It is fair to say that the orphans wanted no more to do with us than we did with them. Most of the children Aynur's age vanished when we arrived, leaving the playground deserted.\n\n\"Why doesn't she go with her friends?\" Kate would say. \"What does she want with us?\"\n\nNothing much, it seemed. She played silently at our feet, following at a safe distance if we moved from one piece of broken equipment to another.\n\n\"Hey,\" Kate said once. \"What are you doing here anyway? Where are your parents?\"\n\nAynur barely looked up. She was sucking loudly on her sleeve, playing with her rocks and clumps of dirt.\n\n\"Don't,\" I said, for no real reason.\n\n\"Don't what? I bet she doesn't speak a single bloody word of English. Hey, ugly little girl, tell us something. Is your mother a dirty Turkish whore? And is your father, by any chance, a donkey-fucking pig?\"\n\nAynur smiled up at her, pleased with the sudden attention and Kate's new conversational tone. Encouraged, Kate continued. She had an extraordinarily foul vocabulary.\n\nAynur was an unsatisfactory victim, oblivious to abuse, and eventually Kate pushed off the swing and grabbed for her hand. \"Show us around,\" she said, gesturing indiscriminately, \"Show us something. We want to bakmak. Look. Bakmak istiyoruz.\"\n\nAynur scrambled to her feet, thrilled.\n\nThe playground was at the back of the building, pressed up against the fence that bordered the deserted residential street. The orphanage itself was brick faced, tall and wide: beyond it, the rest of the city, its crammed buildings and crazed bustle and occasional beauty, might not have existed at all. But the few trees were golden, the sky was smoke and a brisk wind stirred the dirt around our feet. Led by Aynur, we wandered around the side of the building where thick bushes and trees obscured the windows. Quickly we came face-to-face with the undergrowth. Above, the stone building rose several severe stories.\n\nAynur pointed, showing us a trampled little path through the bushes. The trail was clearly well used\u2014bottle tops and candy wrappers on the ground, a doll's plastic head crushed flat, the marks of a toy car etching its soft pink scalp\u2014but the path was made for children her size, not ours.\n\n\"Capital,\" said Kate. \"A secret passage.\" She bent her gangly body and ducked down through the undergrowth. \"Come on,\" she said to me, peering over her shoulder. \"Crack it.\"\n\nWe nearly walked smack into the building, it came up so quickly. The cool, greening stone was suddenly right in front of us. It was claustrophobic in there and more than a little spooky\u2014the dank stone in our faces and the dense tangle of bushes behind.\n\nI half turned away. \"This is stupid,\" I said. \"I'm going back.\"\n\nKate's fingers snatched at my jacket. \"She's showing us something,\" she said. \"Don't be such an invertebrate.\"\n\nOn Aynur's heels, we shoved through the thick vegetation alongside the building until we came to a tiny window set nearly into the ground. Thick iron bars, reddened with rust, crossed it in narrow xs.\n\n\"Look,\" Kate said with pleasure. \"A dungeon.\"\n\nShe leaned down beside Aynur and gripped the bars with her hands. She motioned me to do the same; next to her, Aynur was nodding her head, her features working busily.\n\n\"Bozuk,\" said Aynur, pointing.\n\nBozuk. I couldn't think what it meant. I crouched down beside Kate. The window was filthy with grime, but a smeary patch had been cleared in the middle, as if made by someone's sleeve, rubbed in circles. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust.\n\nIt was a basement of some kind, a large room without a stick of furniture; a single bulb swung from the ceiling, the light it threw dusty and yellow. For a few moments I saw nothing\u2014then a flash of white near the far corner. I squinted and the room came clear. I heard Kate's intake of breath, the low whistle as she let it out.\n\n\"Now, that's something,\" she said.\n\nThere were maybe a dozen children, all of different ages, some wearing diapers, the rest in little more than rags. Children nearly our own age were naked but for diapers; a girl with huge breasts rocked herself, backed flat and terrified against the wall, her face twisting in monstrous expressions. And there were children Aynur's size as well; one was hitting his head repeatedly against the wall, as if he had been doing it for years.\n\nInfants like the ones we'd seen in the nursery lay marooned in the middle of the room, on the concrete floor, their faces slack. There were no mattresses, no cribs. Everywhere we saw contorted limbs and faces, the walls were smeared with dark streaks and once our eyes adjusted it all became unmistakable: puddles on the floor, garbage in the webbed corners. In the middle of an opposite wall was a heavy door with a window set up high and bars like the ones we leaned on.\n\nBozuk. Broken.\n\n\"Bozuk,\" said Kate. \"No fucking joke.\"\n\nShe patted Aynur on the head and then, slowly at first, she began to kick the bars on the window. The sound rang out and she kicked faster and faster, wildly. Aynur shrieked with joy; the rusted metal quivered and sang. The children in the room looked up, and a few rose and staggered to the window. They reeled there below us, pointing, gabbling noiselessly. I felt as if I'd swallowed a stone. Suddenly, I was in a film my mother would never have allowed me to watch.\n\nAynur glanced at Kate for approval and then grabbed the bars and began to shake them. I snatched quickly, clumsily, at her hands, trying to pull them away, but they were claws, her grip deathly, and her face moved in parody of the expressions that gazed up at us. The room below erupted. Some of the children opened their mouths in noiseless howls. One grabbed his head and shook it violently. The girl with long, horrible breasts held them up in her hands; her lips babbled and drooled and she grinned up, showing toothless gums. I heard Kate whistle again. I could imagine, I could very nearly taste, the smell in there.\n\nI dragged Aynur away. Her laughter was like bells pealing. Clear of the undergrowth, standing up straight again, I took her and shook her hard by the shoulders; she was frail under my hands but suddenly grotesque. Shabby, ugly, demonic. How had I ever felt sorry for her? Kate came rustling out a few moments later, her face flushed, hair tangled with leaves. She uncurled her body and put her hands on her hips.\n\n\"Good show,\" she said. \"I bet they do that all the time, the little monsters.\"\n\nI glanced down at Aynur; she'd sidled over to Kate and taken her hand.\n\n\"Sik sik?\" I said. \"Siz?\" I pointed back through the undergrowth, toward the window. \"Oraya?\" Often. You. There.\n\n\"Evet.\" She nodded furiously. \"Bize. Hep.\" Us. All the time.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" Kate said, clearly pleased. And on the bus that day, through the teeming Ankara streets, she whistled all the way home.\n\nThat night I dreamed of secret children, hidden away in the crevices of our tiny apartment; they peered out from the depths of my closet: stolen, disfigured and forgotten. Children for whom no one would ever go looking.\n\nI did not go to the orphanage again. My mother seemed to lose interest in the whole business and several Saturdays came and went before she noticed I was still at home and underfoot.\n\n\"DID YOU know that Ahmet has offered to teach me to ride as well?\" my mother said one evening as we drove home from the stables. \"Wouldn't that be fun?\"\n\nNo. It would not.\n\nThe electricity was back full-time and it had become darker in the afternoons. By the time we left Balgat the city was illuminated, and it seemed we were driving from pitch blackness behind us\u2014it gathered coldly at the skirts of our taillights\u2014straight into a low, distant skyline, into a galaxy of multicolored constellations.\n\nIt was then, in that fuzzy time period, while everything was in its seasonal flux\u2014we were unearthing winter tights and testing coats for fit and suitability, finding mismatched mittens and thinking prematurely of Christmas\u2014that she began her full-fledged pursuit of Ahmet.\n\nI already hated my mother's intrusion into my world at Balgat; her gawky movements around the animals, her silly laugh and fresh way with Ahmet, her proprietary gestures and glances.\n\nThe day of her third lesson I caught her slipping out of his trailer as I came around the corner, her face flustered and triumphant. That very afternoon he had put her up on U\u011furlu\u2014beautiful U\u011furlu, with the perfectly sewn scar on his knee, the one Ahmet and I had made together. I saw his hand adjusting her leg as he did mine, his palm at the small of her back. She was wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes and giggled as she sat up there, hunched over and terrified.\n\n\"That was fun,\" she said to me.\n\n\"It didn't look fun,\" I said. \"You looked petrified.\"\n\n\"Ahmet said I did very well.\"\n\nI snorted, turned away and stared fixedly out the window, jabbing the glass with my index finger as we drove. I heard her sigh beside me and then she turned up the radio and began to hum along. She sounded so pleased with herself that I wanted to strangle her.\n\nIt was only November but there was a sprinkling of Christmas cards taped around our fireplace, occasionally fluttering in some unseen movement of air across the room. At school, in the basement of the Anglican church, we were practicing for our pageant. Catherine was excused from the production because it interfered with her ballet: I almost never saw her anymore. During recess she sat above the cricket pitch wrapped in her blue woolen coat, staring off into space. I was spending time with Kate\u2014she was Toad, the star of our play\u2014and we developed an alliance based on that, that and a mutual, new-found desire to be cruel to Catherine.\n\nKate invited me home for lunch. Hers was a real house with a walled garden in a neighborhood some distance from ours. Directly across the street was a public school behind a chain-link fence. The schoolyard was dirt and there was no play equipment, not a bit more comforting than the orphanage. While we walked from the bus, she yelled obscenities at the boys who ran to the fence and clung there, their fingers and toes jammed between the diamond-shaped links. Girls jumped rope frenetically behind them, singing out rhymes. Like the orphans, and the children on the sledding hill, the boys who had killed Pasha, they seemed to us like children of a different species.\n\nKate's mother, the headmistress of our school, made us egg and chips, the oilcloth on the table stained with vinegar droppings and dehydrated egg yolk. At an upright piano in the other room her younger brother banged out the first bars of \"Eleanor Rigby,\" over and over again.\n\nKate, as ever, was fierce and fearless. She proudly showed me her bra\u2014undoubtedly a hand-me-down, grimy pink with a thousand escaping nubs of elastic. When she pulled up her shirt in the back to show me, I saw her underwear coming out of her trousers: it too was dingy and less than new-looking. Inside, the house was dirty and wild. Her mother\u2014so sedate in the classroom, moving around at the pace of a luxury liner\u2014banged pans and swore, slung dishes on the table and cuffed her children with great, swatting paws. Everyone ignored her.\n\nAfter lunch Kate took me into the garden behind the house and we climbed into the low tree that grew against the wall.\n\nKate leaned back against the trunk, her legs straddling the crotch of the tree, fingers plucking at her eyelashes. Freckles splotched her face and arms. \"So tell me about that odd girl you're friends with,\" she said. \"The Canadian? Catherine, her majesty.\"\n\nI shrugged. The bark rubbed at my back, my feet were slipping from the tree limb I had been given to sit on, a flimsy one; Kate took the sturdiest.\n\n\"Miss Priss,\" said Kate, and made a sour face. She lifted her feet an inch or so and pointed her toes; she fluttered her hands around her face. \"Pas de who cares,\" she said. \"She makes me sick.\"\n\nIn the garden that bordered Kate's house a dirty sheep was running around willy-nilly, butting at the stone wall, bleating. \"Shut up,\" she yelled, and snapped a branch from the tree we were sitting in and hurled it, hard, over the wall. It bounced off the sheep's back and skittered across the dirt.\n\n\"Are you still friends? I thought you two were like this.\" Kate twisted two of her long fingers together, like a vine against a tree. \"Bobbseys.\"\n\n\"Not really,\" I said. \"Our mothers are friends.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" said Kate. She mimed smoking a cigarette, holding a twig to her mouth, drawing it away, breathing out like a stage actress. \"I hate her.\"\n\nThe noise of the school across the street was buffered by the house between us. The wind scuffed leaves across the garden floor. A door on Kate's house banged loudly. Through a cracked window I heard her sister, Josephine, screaming obscenities at her brother.\n\n\"Do you know why that sheep is yellow?\" she said matter-of-factly. \"It's piss. It sleeps in its piss. Shit too. If you want to come back at Kurban Bayram\u0131 they're going to kill it. Everyone says they run around like this afterward.\" Her index finger made lazy circles in the air. \"I can't wait.\"\n\nI took a breath. \"I could tell you some stuff about Catherine.\"\n\nI FOUND my mother sitting at her vanity table holding a scrap of lilac lace in her hands, turning it over and holding it up as though thinking about its fit, considering measurements. My mother and Simone were about the same size but Simone was taller and my mother wore more demure and matronly underthings\u2014full slips and satiny nightgowns that buttoned at the neck.\n\nFirdis had uncovered some small items of Simone's and they'd begun turning up around the house\u2014on the china cabinet, on my dresser, in a kitchen drawer\u2014wherever she thought they best belonged. I had not thrown these things away as I'd threatened Catherine I would.\n\n\"Does this look at all familiar to you?\" my mother said. The room was quite dim, with only the bedside lamp illuminating the dark mahogany and the polished floor. The white bedspread gave off a pinkish glow. \"I found it in my drawer.\"\n\nI shrugged, shook my head. I was standing in the doorway, my feet angled for escape.\n\n\"Really?\" she said. \"It's not at all mine.\"\n\nI made a noise of disavowal, gathered myself for motion. She was still carefully studying the lace-trimmed camisole.\n\n\"Wait,\" she said. She dropped it ostentatiously on the dresser top and turned. \"How are you?\" she said.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said. \"Fine, thanks.\"\n\nThere was a pause; she was waiting for me to elaborate, but even her interest made me uneasy.\n\nShe sighed heavily. \"Fine,\" she said. \"Be uncommunicative. It isn't like I'm not used to it.\" She put her hand to her head. \"Do you like my hair like this? What do you think?\"\n\nI looked and noticed that she'd had it cut: it was quite short, probably stylish.\n\n\"It's okay.\"\n\nFor a moment it seemed she was thinking. Then she threw her infamous silver hairbrush hard across the room. It skittered on the floorboards and disappeared under the bed.\n\n\"It's funny,\" she said, after the noise subsided. Her voice was flat, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. \"I used to think it was your father's job that made him this way. But maybe he was like this all along. Maybe it's genetic.\"\n\nAny mention of my father piqued my interest; I stood shifting in the doorway.\n\n\"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,\" she said thoughtfully. \"I guess you come by it honestly.\"\n\n\"Come by what?\"\n\nShe began arranging her hair, backcombing it, moving one short piece from side to side, examining the effect. She waved a hand. \"You're very like him, you know.\"\n\n\"Like him how?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"lots of ways. Sneaky, secretive. Always up to something furtive. I live here too, you know. I'm not blind.\"\n\nShe lifted the camisole with her smallest finger and dangled it. It settled against the air, faintly shimmering. \"How do you think this got into my drawer?\" she asked.\n\n\"Firdis?\" I said. It must have been, anyway. How it got into the apartment was another question.\n\n\"The two of you,\" she said. \"You and your father. You're always against me. I don't think you've ever once been on my side. I'm your mother, for heaven's sake.\" She looked past me with distant eyes, as though cataloging these betrayals.\n\nWhen I was smaller I would sometimes\u2014rarely\u2014come upon my parents standing together in an embrace, my mother's head tilted back, smiling up at him. I would hurl myself frantically between them, wrestling into the middle of the hug, grasping my father's legs with my arms, using my body to lever them apart.\n\n\"How you presume,\" my mother said, studying herself in the mirror. \"You always have. That I'll always be here for you. That nothing will ever change. But people's feelings change all the time. For no good reason. Mine change for you too.\"\n\nShe began to cry softly then, bare shoulders shuddering. The strap of her slip fell from one shoulder. How I despised her when she did this; I pivoted and left the room. Her voice followed me down the hall.\n\n\"You think it's easy for me? This is not fair to me, any of it. And I'm so tired. I'm just so goddamn tired.\"\n\nTHREE DAYS later, when my mother was out on an errand\u2014to the Old City, she'd said, for some sahlep to send to Edie\u2014Firdis was rearranging her drawers. (I had already removed Simone's trinkets from the apartment\u2014the ones I could remember and locate. I'd given them to Kate, who secreted them somewhere in her untidy room. I had the impression that virtually anything could be concealed in that household\u2014people, animals, medium-size explosions.) Firdis had the drawers turned upside down on the floor and was squatting there, her broad hands refolding nightgowns and underthings. She'd made several piles on the bed and I saw that a thin sheaf of papers sat between two stacks of silky polyester.\n\nIt was his handwriting I recognized first; I'd seen it so often. And the paper, torn from a pad, with the heading ANKARA HUNT AND SADDLE CLUB. These pads were everywhere in Ahmet's office, and one always poked from his breast pocket: he took notes on them and made lists of things that needed ordering or replacing. The papers were bound together with a bit of silk ribbon. I picked them up and skimmed them. Some were completely benign; you would wonder why she'd kept them. Tuesday? said one, and nothing more. But others were more incriminating.\n\nFirdis, looking up at my expression from her place on the floor, said, \"Okay? Tamam? Hasta m\u0131s\u0131n?\" Yes, I was sick. I had never felt quite so sick.\n\nI left carrying those letters. For days I moved them regularly, from inside my pillowcase to under my mattress, from the pages of a book to the interior of my right winter boot. For a while I could not think of a place in the apartment where Firdis did not go, or a thing she did not interfere with. I hated her for it, for her relentless exposure of our secrets.\n\nBut in the end, the place I settled on for the letters seemed safe as houses.\n\nI HADN'T stopped seeing Catherine entirely. Some afternoons I would still wander down the hill and climb the stairs to her apartment, but the distance between us was widening. When I was around her I felt oddly detached, as if perhaps she were something I'd been sent to study and I would later report back to my superiors what I'd learned\u2014albeit embellished and darkened.\n\nOne afternoon Kate and I put into motion a plan we'd hatched sitting in the tree in her backyard. We invited Catherine to play with us at Kate's house after school. I'd approached her at lunch above the cricket pitch several days before, my heart speeding, my stomach churning. I felt a quick surge of pleasure when she agreed: she seemed so hesitant, so grateful. She'd shaken her hair, nodded her head\u2014and she looked, at that moment, more like the girl I used to know. So, on the designated afternoon, we sat on the bus together, the three of us, talking intermittently. Kate was full of plans, the games we were going to play, the things she would show Catherine. She was so false and friendly; I admired how guileless she seemed.\n\n\"We'll have sweets,\" Kate said. \"I have tons. I'll show you how to play something on the piano. Maybe you can stay for supper.\"\n\nCatherine nodded slightly; her hair swung. \"I'd have to check,\" she said.\n\n\"Grand,\" Kate said. \"It'll be grand.\"\n\nThe streets slid by. Behind us, boys hissed and fought in furious whispers. Kate grabbed my hand beneath the seat and squeezed it hard. I saw Catherine's face in profile, she sat on the edge of her seat, turned slightly backward toward us; her mouth looked carved and what I read there, in the brief moment I studied her, was a cautious hope.\n\nWhen the bus arrived at Kate's stop, we hung back as Catherine climbed down. We stalled, pretending to struggle with our coats and books. From the window, I saw Catherine on the sidewalk, adjusting her book bag, leaning down to straighten her tights around her ankles. She looked up for us, her eyes scanning the windows.\n\n\"I'm not getting off here today,\" Kate called to the driver. \"Keep going.\"\n\nKate and I sank back into our seats, squeezing each other tight, collapsing, gasping, with laughter. The doors wheezed closed and we left Catherine standing on that strange Ankara street corner, a long, terrifying distance from home.\n\nOf course, I'd told Kate about Catherine's terror of the city, of the confusing streets and too-similar buildings and neighborhoods; her fear of the crowds and the dogs, the flea-bitten animals and plaintive beggars, the guttural language she seemed unable to master. I had made fun of all this, sitting in the tree in Kate's backyard. I'd exaggerated it for her benefit. But I hadn't exaggerated by much.\n\nWe spent the rest of the afternoon in alternating states of horror and joy; Kate and I would look at each other, put our hands to our mouths, and simply fall apart laughing.\n\n\"Maybe she'll be eaten by dogs,\" said Kate, \"or kidnapped by white slavers.\"\n\nWe were standing on the balcony of my apartment, where we had ended up, looking down over the alleys Catherine and I used to frequent. Kate was peeling an orange and a film of rind and pith grew under her already dirty fingernails. She dropped pieces onto the ground below the balcony and leaned dangerously far out over the railing, spitting seeds in the general direction of a tattered stray cat.\n\nIn truth I had not thought much beyond the moment when the bus pulled away and Catherine's figure had receded, then disappeared. How would she get home? She had never been to Kate's house. In my mind I drew a little map: right down this street and left at the hill, past the corner grocery that carried Tipitip gum and then up to the far side of our hill, where she would have to walk along the opposite side of the buildings Kate and I were facing and then climb the long, wide steps to get to my street. Would she know this? Would she figure it out?\n\nAll evening I was jumpy and irritable. Once Kate had gone home\u2014strolling easily down the street in her too-short trousers, her stringy hair flattened against her back, swinging her mannish hands\u2014the thrill of the episode dissipated entirely. Through dinner and homework and bedtime I waited for the phone to ring, for Simone to call, telling my mother what we'd done. She would ring looking for Catherine, wondering if she had come home with me from school, or worse, declaring her missing, lost or savaged. I thought of Pasha in the alley, what had happened to him. Catherine was no savvier, no more suited for those streets than he was: she could easily have been eaten by dogs or kidnapped by white slavers.\n\nBut that isn't what happened.\n\n## 12\n\nGRACE IS IN THE CLOSET, PUSHING AMONG THE HANGERS FOR AN evening dress. She's studying things she knows all too well, wondering if one or another might take on miraculously different properties this particular evening. Disheartened by the row of stale dresses and seeking distraction, she kneels for a moment and snaps open the latches of Rand's suitcase. It's an old habit, looking inside this suitcase, as if she might learn something about her husband that she doesn't already know. The locks are finely filmed with dust and it surprises her: to realize he hasn't traveled despite the story she's told. In fact, her husband has been altogether too present of late. It was an enormous relief to have him finally return to the embassy, to go off in the mornings as men should, leaving the house a breathable, habitable place again.\n\nThe heavy lid of the case flies upward and Grace peers into it a little absently, her mind on the upcoming party\u2014Ahmet will be there\u2014with no particular expectations. Inside is the usual masculine assortment of toiletries and pressed shirts and laundered underwear, which always return, she knows from experience, in exactly the same order and condition in which they left. What this signifies, she's not quite sure. But what she finds now\u2014lying alongside the carefully folded shorts and undershirts, his stack of handkerchiefs, a tin of shoe polish\u2014is a complete surprise. She lifts the notes from Ahmet and holds them lightly; she leans back on her heels and thinks.\n\nBut she is not as horrified as she might be. She doesn't really believe Rand has looked in there lately. The question is, who is responsible? There are only two possibilities: her daughter, or her maid, both of them given to the same kind of prying and ransacking. They are both competent poachers and trespassers. Those items she believes are Simone's, for example, that have recently turned up around the apartment. Some of them she easily recognizes: that camisole was most certainly Simone's. She knew that well before she questioned Canada about it. And it doesn't really bother her that Simone is missing her things. In a way, she thinks, it rather serves her right. Is she becoming a little more permissive of late? Grace senses in herself a new willingness to cut everyone some slack. She assumes Canada's light-fingeredness has something to do with her new friendship with the headmaster's daughter; perhaps a kind of passing adolescent rebellion. It's also possible, she supposes, flipping through the incriminating little sheaf of papers, that Canada intended her father to find these letters, but Grace finds this neither alarms nor shocks her, not really.\n\nShe gets to her feet, taking the letters and leaving the suitcase open. She wanders down the hall to the bedroom and pulls open the top drawer of her vanity. She drops the letters inside\u2014exactly where they'd been\u2014and pushes the heavy wooden piece back into place: it slides in reluctantly, with a muffled little shriek. She doesn't bother to seek out a more secure hiding spot. There had been a time in their marriage when she might have wanted Rand to find her out, but she is no longer such an ingenue. Some years earlier, in another foreign country, she'd swallowed a fistful of pills\u2014enough to make her dopey, but certainly not enough to do harm\u2014and staged herself on a chaise under a sunny window. She had spilled a few tablets onto the coffee table and taken care that Canada was elsewhere. Rand had come in three sheets to the wind that evening, evaluated the room for a moment and then sternly instructed her not to be so dramatic. He'd called her, if she remembers correctly, childish and inconsiderate.\n\nShe leaves the letters in the bedroom and returns to the closet to examine the dresses\u2014the view, the selection, is exactly the same as when she left it. Disappointing.\n\nSTANDING IN Paige's kitchen, swiping ineffectually at a sticky countertop, Grace listens for Ahmet's arrival. Simone's houseboy slinks about, opening the refrigerator and closing it again, fetching things from cabinets, acting perfectly at home. He detaches one of Paige's cats from a curtain and tosses it none too gently out of the room. Paige herself is engaged in making drinks\u2014using a blender and salt and a counter's worth of exotic ingredients. She is consulting a book propped against the toaster.\n\n\"How,\" says Grace, once John has left the room, \"did you pry him away from Simone? And for God's sake, why?\"\n\nThe blender slaughters ice cubes; a chartreuse froth bubbles up in the pitcher. Paige tastes the mixture with her finger and grimaces. \"He's useful,\" she says. \"And Simone loves to have him where she isn't going to be, in case you haven't noticed. He's like a familiar, sent by some horrible witch who's otherwise occupied\u2014baking children and so on.\"\n\n\"He gives me the shivers.\"\n\n\"Taste this? I think it's absolutely poisonous.\" She hands Grace a glass. \"Of course he gives you the shivers, he entirely intends to.\"\n\n\"Why would he?\" Grace pours the drink into the sink. \"Battery acid. Please throw it away.\"\n\n\"I think someone will drink it,\" she says, \"don't you? Hand me down those big glasses? Those. Oh, Grace, you must find him a little sexy. That's all part of his appeal.\"\n\n\"Not as far as I'm concerned. He's oily.\"\n\n\"Really? Well, I daresay Simone would not agree. Speaking of your type, has he arrived?\"\n\n\"Is Bahar coming?\" Grace turns on the taps at the sink and runs cool water on her wrists.\n\n\"Please,\" says Paige. \"I might invite your lover and your husband to the same party but never your lover, your husband and your lover's former lover. Though I did hear from her. Just back from some cosmopolitan jaunt. Have you seen her?\"\n\nGrace has, actually, just the week before. Still, she thinks she will keep the details to herself. She looks at Paige with affection. Her hostess is flushed, valiant, drinking the blender concoction, washing it down with swigs of scotch from the bottle.\n\n\"Briefly,\" she says, and stretches past her for the scotch; she screws the cap back onto the bottle.\n\nShe hears Ahmet's voice at the door just then: his big laugh, the noise of greetings and the bustle of coats and scarves coming off, being swept away by obedient children stationed for that purpose. She senses Paige's eyes, kind and shrewd.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" she says to her. \"Just fine.\"\n\nBut that is not entirely true.\n\nTwo days before, Bahar had stood arch and knowing in her doorway, filling it up with silver-tipped fur, clearly amused.\n\n\"So what have we been up to?\" she said, and then, before Grace could think of a sidestep or a retort, she went on. \"Forget it anyway. I am very busy at the moment and this is not a matter on which a friendship should be broken. Look, I've brought baklava. Shall I come in?\"\n\nShe held up a box tied with red string. When Grace stepped back, she breezed in as if no time had passed at all and threw herself down on the couch in the living room, pulling off her trendy shoes and sighing as she dropped them one at a time.\n\n\"Much better,\" she said. \"Now, I wish to discuss another thing which has come up. We will not talk about this silly business with the horse man; it is a subject I am quite weary of. I am very happy for you, et cetera, et cetera.\"\n\nGrace had taken a seat, warily, and she studied Bahar. She couldn't imagine where Bahar had come across this information, though it did not much surprise her that she had. Bahar took a cigarette from the silver case on the table and began tapping it briskly against her watch. \"Ali tells me you have come to him with the matter of your pregnant maid and this procedure you have in mind. Perhaps he has told you it is a bit late for that remedy?\"\n\nGrace nodded. She had been fretting about it nonstop, and Firdis, though not appreciably changed in bulk, was given to bursting into wet, snotty tears at the slightest provocation. Firdis had presented the problem to Grace as if it was hers to solve, and she was eventually made to understand that it was, if she wished to keep her household running smoothly. And Grace could not, she was ashamed to admit, imagine getting by without Firdis. She was maid, cook, babysitter, negotiator and intermediary. Grace had made some gentle inquiries at the American hospital but they had rebuffed her smartly. Even Ali had been less than encouraging; he had, in fact, been brusque. Grace considered Bahar in her living room and inventoried her feelings on the matter.\n\n\"I believe his words were: that ship has sailed,\" Grace said. \"She should have come to me much earlier. Or I should have noticed something.\"\n\nBahar smiled and leaned forward; she wagged her unlit cigarette in Grace's direction. \"That is true, except I was thinking the other day and there is this interesting something that occurs to me.\"\n\n\"Which is?\"\n\n\"Some while ago, I remember you are telling me about this friend of yours from America\u2014a friend who is also in the military. When you told me about this friend you mentioned this friend has a lack of a baby problem, which is a difficulty for her. Remember this? Yes, well, I remembered it as well. And so I think, Do we have a solution to the problems of not one person but two, perhaps even more?\" Bahar leaned back, beaming: she opened her hands at Grace. \"Voil\u00e0.\"\n\nGrace had stared at her. \"Voil\u00e0, what?\"\n\nThe music filters in from Paige's living room. Voices\u2014men's and women's, a shout of laughter, glasses clinking. Grace imagines Ahmet moving through the party\u2014ever easy, ever relaxed. He will kiss the offered cheeks\u2014skin creamed with rouge, matte with powder\u2014shake men's hands. He will surely encounter Rand there and they will step to the bar together, touch glasses and toss back a drink. Ahmet will be wholly untroubled; it does not concern him at all to be in this position. He had affected the very same nonchalance running into Ali at the cavalry grounds. Once, in her own home, she watched as Ahmet held a match to her husband's pipe and Rand bent forward to meet his cupped hands, their bodies and faces drawn quite close and momentarily illuminated. It was merely a gesture, of course, a nicety between gentlemen\u2014you would see such a thing every day between strangers on a train. But it had made her neck prickle.\n\nStill, Grace stays where she is, leaning against the counter, even after Paige has left the kitchen carrying her sloshing glasses. She lingers in the kitchen for some time, listening to the party, considering Bahar's proposal and what she, Grace, has said or done to lead them all here.\n\nIt was certainly true that she'd described Edie to Bahar, she'd mentioned the time on Olson Loop, the interminable days and the incessant wild noise of the children. It had been months earlier, when the two of them had walked the Ankara streets together, had lunched in small caf\u00e9s and spoken of their lives, in the way that one will bring a new friend up to date. Bahar had said once, while folding a grape leaf neatly between her fingers, \"This sounds like a strange woman. This staying in the house all day, in the dark, polishing silver and saying rosaries and whatnot. It seems very, very dull.\"\n\nGrace had tried to explain. The heat and the circling street, the smell of burning grass and hamburgers, the stoop-women, the men returning in the evenings smelling of beer and cramped offices, picking at their dinners\u2014stuffed peppers and meat loaves, rice pilafs and mixed vegetables\u2014then throwing their feet, in damp black dress socks, onto the inherited coffee tables and falling asleep in front of the news. But Bahar was unimpressed. It seemed to offend her, their shared impotence, all those helpless, commiserating hours. And so perhaps Grace had revealed such a thing, in the hopes of distracting her new friend, of excusing their behavior. My friend was sad, she might have said, she would so like to have a child.\n\n\"Don't you wish to help your good friend?\" Bahar said. She leaned forward, conspiratorially, \"This could be arranged. I have seen such things happen. It is not novel. Ali himself has facilitated such matters. It is a supply-and-demand type of business, like any other.\"\n\n\"Business?\" said Grace.\n\n\"Arrangement.\"\n\n\"You've done this before,\" Grace said, and it dawned on her suddenly. \"The trips. The orphanage.\"\n\nBahar did not move a perfect muscle for a long moment. Then she sighed. \"Are you so na\u00efve?\" she said. \"I had thought you had seen what I had to show you. I thought you were not just another selfish American.\" And then Bahar lit the cigarette with a twisted mouth, as if she'd been driven to it, and regarded the room with a disgusted expression.\n\n\"You've shown me things?\"\n\n\"That people suffer and children have no homes. I took you to these places.\"\n\nGrace exhaled. \"So?\"\n\n\"So indeed. I am fixing this in a small way. I am helping people, saving the children.\"\n\nGrace remembered standing on Tunali with Bahar on that sweltering afternoon. A street vendor had held up a glittering bracelet. The sun struck it hard, sending prisms into her eyes. \"You said: I went to get rid of a baby.\"\n\n\"Did I?\" Bahar's hands moved; scarves of smoke drifted languorously away. She stubbed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray and shoved it away with the heel of her hand. It thudded heavily across the table. \"I am so glad I am quitting these things. They are that bird on your neck, that albatross.\" She leaned back and then forward again, just as quickly. \"I am merely presenting an opportunity to do something good. To do a charity.\"\n\nGrace lit another cigarette and smoked in silence for a moment. \"So this is all the traveling?\"\n\nBahar shrugged her shoulders. She was wearing a soft sweater nearly the color of her summer skin.\n\n\"Listen,\" she said. \"You were at the orphanage, you sent your girl there. Where do you think those children come from? They come from families like those of Firdis. Families who can't afford to feed their children, not on what you foreigners pay them.\"\n\n\"So,\" said Grace, \"money is involved?\"\n\nBahar made a huffing noise. \"Consideration,\" she said. \"Consideration for your maid, who is very poor, as we know. Of course, a small amount of consideration for Ali, who will go out of his way to make this possible.\"\n\n\"My maid wants to sell her baby and you're going to arrange it?\" said Grace.\n\n\"That surprises me,\" said Bahar. \"Perhaps I made a mistake in you. In sending Ali here to care for this troublesome husband of yours. In being so quiet about all this scandal\"\u2014she waved a hand in the air\u2014\"you and the horse teacher, everything.\"\n\n\"I thought we were friends,\" Grace said, and to her own ears the words sounded pathetic.\n\nBahar smiled, and her voice turned a little emphatic: \"We are friends. Yes, we are. This is exactly what I'm saying. Will you listen?\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Grace\u2014suppressing a desire to get up, to leave the room, the city, the country. \"Go on.\"\n\nBut then Bahar rose abruptly from the sofa in a cloud of perfume. She crossed the room and kissed Grace on both cheeks, bending to reach her. \"You think about it,\" she said. \"Ali has already discussed it with Firdis and she is very much in agreement. She likes the idea very much. She is \u00e7ok grateful.\"\n\n\"Really? What about her husband?\" said Grace. She turned around in her chair as if expecting to find Firdis standing there, nodding furiously. \"It can't exactly be ethical.\"\n\nBahar looked down at her; her hair moved softly around her face. \"The husband will not know,\" she said. \"That is not necessary. There are always mishaps with babies and births. It is a dangerous business when one is poor. And I think,\" she went on, \"that I will not broach the topic of morality at the moment. I will not use a word such as hypocrisy, because that would not be in the spirit of our friendship.\" She glanced at her watch. \"Bok,\" she said. \"Shit. I must dash. We will speak again soon. You see what your friend thinks at least. What can be the harm in that?\"\n\nAnd so Grace had made a few furtive phone calls from Bahar's apartment, while Bahar sat nearby like a voluptuary or a sultana, with her cat-ate-the-cream expression, her knees tucked beneath her. And Edie had been nothing but overjoyed; she had not hesitated for a moment. Grace thought of the woman she knew\u2014though barely, really, when she thought about it\u2014sitting with her chilly bowls of tapioca and her sun-starved house, her milquetoast husband and downy thighs, and of the words that came through the line across the cities and deserts between them, into Bahar's opulent living room: How much? No, never mind how much. How long?\n\nAnd hearing Edie's gratitude, brushing away her thanks, Grace had felt (she couldn't say she hadn't) the magnanimous sensation of having given a showy and extravagant gift.\n\nThis, of all things, she's kept from Paige\u2014though she has confided far more, on infinitely more personal subjects. But she wonders, standing in that woman's grease-filmed kitchen, pouring careless fingers of scotch into a smeared glass, listening to the party rise in volume, what Paige and Bahar might have to say to each other about her. After all, they have known each other for some time. It was Paige, in fact, who'd introduced them, who had taken Grace into the group of Turkish and embassy ladies and advertised the benefits of afternoon card games and pleasant, uncomplicated female society.\n\n## December 1975\n## 13\n\nWHEN CATHERINE TURNED UP AT SCHOOL AFTER OUR PRANK, I couldn't bear her not looking at me, the tilt of her head when she joined the queue in the courtyard, the way she held her books protectively to her chest. Kate stood behind me in line, jabbing me in the ribs and snorting with laughter. I angled my body away from her. Quit, I said. She kept on; her breath was warm on my neck and her long, witchy fingers dug into my side.\n\nAt lunch, Catherine turned her body away as I approached and kept her eyes fastened on her apple, rubbing at it with her sleeve. I ate with Kate and the younger children, sitting on the edge of the sandpit, all of us kicking at a line of ants. Kate built obstacles for the ants to navigate, bits of sticks and stones, a plastic shovel, a young Swedish girl's hair clip, the last of which she took roughly, provoking indignant tears that drew no adult attention. Eventually the smaller children gathered around her to watch, even the little Swedish girl with the flyaway curls, her tears drying in rivulets on her fat cheeks. She snuck her hand inside Kate's and Kate shook it away. She was too busy for comforting and she disdained tears; they moved her not at all.\n\nI watched Catherine, seated above the pitch where we used to huddle, picking at her food. Leaves scudded across the dirt, rustling. I heard the boys' shouts. They were out of sight, down the steep hill in the pitch. I pressed my knees together and warmed my hands between my thighs; my tights were faded and scratchy, covered in pills and the beginnings of ladders.\n\n\"Look,\" Kate said. She pointed at the ground. She was trying to break the line, the strict linear formation the ants seemed bent on maintaining. It was shaping up into a little battle. She put the hair clip down and the ants swarmed over and then around it, falling back immediately into their configuration. It didn't matter what she did, even when she stomped on a cluster of them, the rest scrambled over the corpses of their comrades and rejoined the line. \"Plucky buggers,\" she said. \"Un-bloody-deterrable.\"\n\nWe moved the little hurdles so the ants had to turn right and left quickly to scale each peak. We made a little mountain range of summits, forcing the ants to backtrack and zigzag, which they did with no sign of frustration. We eventually gave up and crushed them under our shoes. Catherine never looked over, even when Kate worked the younger children into a frenzy, encouraging them to scream, \"Die, commie ants. Die!\" This, eventually, did bring the glowering attention of a teacher and we were all marched back inside, in a line much more ragged and reluctant than that of our victims. I looked over at Kate, saw her face glowing pink with cruelty and happiness.\n\n\"Well, they were red ants.\"\n\nLater, when I walked home from the bus alone\u2014Simone had picked Catherine up and whisked her off\u2014I kicked along the crumbling sidewalk and constructed an apology. I had plenty of experience apologizing, but only at my mother's command, under threat of violence, being frog-marched out to a relative or a guest with her hand under my elbow. Walking down to Catherine's apartment, I felt unusually grown-up: perhaps I even imagined a mending of our friendship that afternoon, that we might sit around in the kitchen, hoisted up onto the counter, watching John cut fruit or brew tea. He might show us a new way to fold napkins or to ribbon a lemon the way he did, in one beautiful, curling strip.\n\nI climbed the steps to the second floor of her building, holding the grubby orange rail tight in my hand, dragging myself along it until I reached the landing. I stood outside the front door and inhaled. I set my back straight and raised my fist to knock. My palms were wet and my thighs itched furiously beneath my tights. I took a moment to compose myself, scratching between my legs with a fingernail and thinking of what I would say.\n\nThe door swung inward suddenly and John stood there in profile, holding a bag of garbage in one hand. He was not looking at me but had his face turned inside while he worked his sock-feet into his shoes, which were lined up with the other family members' on a small rush mat just inside the door. I cleared my throat.\n\nHis head turned and we looked at each other, both of us quite surprised. He straightened his back and stared at me, the bag of garbage dangled from his hand.\n\n\"Sen!\" he said. Then he laughed. It was not a pleasant noise, though it held traces of genuine amusement.\n\n\"Is Catherine home?\"\n\nHe didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he stepped out into the hall, forcing me to move back, and shut the door softly behind him. He was standing very close. I smelled clove cigarettes on his breath and lemon on his hands. He kept a lemon half beside the sink and brushed his fingers against it to freshen them\u2014another little compulsion of his.\n\nPerhaps it seems strange that just then, in that instant of over-closeness and intimacy, when I saw lucidly every perfection and imperfection of his face, in that deserted, echoing stairwell, I thought for a moment that he might finally kiss me.\n\nHe put his hand up and touched his crow-black hair, patting it gently. His eyes slid around the landing and he looked down the stairs: empty. The entire building was quiet as a tomb. Even the kap\u0131c\u0131's wife and her bucket were nowhere in sight.\n\nLooking at him, I found that I could barely, barely breathe.\n\nHe spoke very clearly, softly, in perfect English. He said, \"You people care for nothing. You are like animals. And you. You are an ugly stupid girl. I have always said this.\"\n\nThen he slapped me. Hard.\n\nHe said, \"Now go away and don't come back.\"\n\nMy legs went weak. I put a hand to my scalded cheek.\n\nHe looked at me for a moment. \"Stupid girl. Go cry somewhere else. Go to your mother maybe, who will not care either.\"\n\nAnd then he turned and opened the door, leaving the garbage on the mat, and went back inside. The door clicked firmly behind him.\n\nWalking home, I kicked around at the obsidian fragments in the hollow midway up the hill. The Turkish children were always using these as missiles, hurling them at one another, and early last spring, when there had been a sudden snowstorm and we'd gone sledding, Catherine and I had both come home with our faces and clothes streaked with inky-black marks, our mittens irredeemable. My mother had thrown me in the bath and scrubbed violently at my head, her short, square nails raking my scalp.\n\nIt was growing dark. I picked up a piece of coal and crumbled it in my glove; it fell apart in shiny, iridescent bits. These trailed me uphill, like bread after the woodcutter's children. In apartment buildings across the street, lights flickered on, illuminating kitchens and the shapes of women inside them. They seemed to move slowly, almost as if choreographed, bending and reaching, gesturing, lowering their heads. One side of my face felt as if it were glowing; my knees shook.\n\nAt the top of the hill I stood across the street from my apartment building. I rested my back against the vineyard wall and looked up at our windows. The living room curtains were open and through the sheers I could see brighter patches that indicated lamplight. I imagined the circumference of the room as I knew it: the couch backed against the window, the two berg\u00e8re chairs alongside an occasional table, the fireplace, the desk in the corner, the other small grouping of table and chairs. The room was lit, but inside, nothing moved or shifted or seemed remotely lifelike. I wondered if my mother was in there; I pictured her little halo of smoke, her dark cap of hair, her absent eyes.\n\nUgly, he'd said. I had known it of course; I'd often seen his eyes pass over me without any recognition at all. Once, walking with my mother on Tunali, we passed him near the carpet merchants. He was standing, passing the time with a young man his own age, both of them smoking. He carried a string bag heavy with fruit, a loaf of bread protruding between the handles. My mother was several paces ahead, studying the cases in a jeweler's window. Drawing beside them, I had lingered for a moment, pretending to fumble in my pocket, to make some legitimate business of loitering there on the street. But the moment wore on without his turning, though his companion's eyes passed over me briefly before resting on the traffic beyond\u2014cars crawling by, horns screaming, boisterous Turks conducting their daily traffic squabbles. I heard John speaking rapidly in Turkish and that familiar, derisive laugh of his. People shoved past me, annoyed; I saw my mother turn to scan the crowd. I put my hand up finally, to touch his sleeve, planning in my head some expression of surprise, some adult exclamation of greeting. But when I touched him he turned his head only briefly in my direction, his eyes fastened on that sleeve. Then he shook my hand away severely, the gesture automatic, utterly dismissive. He made a quick hissing noise, as he did in the alley behind Catherine's apartment when cats had gotten into the garbage. \"Hay\u0131r,\" he said coldly, as he would to a beggar, and then he moved away from the shop door with his purchases, falling into pace with the crowd.\n\nIt was now fully, completely dark. Dogs barked in the near distance. These packs took over the streets at night: shadowy mongrels, all ribs and yellow eyes, raggedly joined and scavenging the city, low, desperate noises in their throats. As if reciting from some script they'd been given, our parents had terrified us with stories of excruciating shots in the stomach, dozens of them, with needles big as loaves of bread. If the shots came too late, they'd warned, we'd die of thirst as we struggled against our own disintegrating brains, petrified of water. It sounded like some gruesome tale from Greek mythology. Still, I stood there, imagining that the barking grew closer. The throbbing in my cheek subsided and was replaced with the heat of humiliation, which I felt all over. I touched my hands to the cold stone wall behind me, feeling its valleys and bumps, the unique roughness of its surface. Above, in my living room, someone drew the curtains and the window went dim. A few minutes passed and then headlights appeared in the distance, their beams rising as they climbed the hill at the far end of the street. I sank into the shadows and froze.\n\nThe car stopped opposite where I stood, beside the low iron railing of our building; it was the long blue station wagon that carried my father around the city. The driver's door opened and the interior of the car was suddenly illuminated; I saw his bulky figure in the backseat, his head bent into his hands. Kadir stood beside the open door and stared into the distance beyond the car. My father stayed hunched inside. For a long moment nothing happened. Then my father got out and grasped Kadir's hand. I heard them exchange words; there was low, comradely laughter. Kadir climbed back into the car and drove away, the lights bounced back down the hill.\n\nMy father steadied a hand against the gate and stood looking up at the same windows I was observing. He seemed to gather himself to go inside. I heard him huff out air, bring it back in. Then he fumbled in his pockets and began to fiddle with something. I heard his lighter flick, the plastic noise of the tobacco pouch opening. He swore in a language I didn't recognize.\n\nI tried to make myself smaller, remembering the giveaway rustle my winter coat made when I moved. I held perfectly still. I wanted to watch him for hours.\n\nHe managed to get the pipe lit and then turned on his heel, swaying a little. The dogs set up again and he lifted his head for a moment and listened.\n\nHe said, \"I know you're there.\"\n\nI stayed where I was, silent, still. There was a long pause. Then he laughed.\n\n\"Canada,\" he said. \"Come out. I know it's you.\"\n\nI ran across the street and threw myself against his warm, liquory body. He held me tight; I lifted my head for air, trying to breathe without complaining. The bowl of the hot pipe brushed my ear but I didn't even squeak.\n\n\"Where have you been?\" he said. \"Who hurt you?\"\n\nI shook my head into his chest and he said wonderingly, \"Where do you go? What do you do?\"\n\nRhetorical questions, clearly. He lifted me off my feet and hugged me close. I put my shoes on top of his and he danced me a few steps, the smell of Captain Black drawing a warm circle around us. He staggered and I stepped down from his shoes and took his elbow.\n\n\"How did you know it was me?\" I led him up the walkway, pushing open the door to the yellow light of the lobby, looking up at the long flight of steps ahead of us.\n\nHe tapped his temple with one finger. \"Intuition,\" he said. And then, after a boozy pause: \"I know my girl. I'd know you anywhere.\"\n\nI walked with him up the steps and he said, \"So, what's your old mother up to? No good as usual?\"\n\n\"I'll never tell.\"\n\nHe thought we looked out for each other, my mother and I. I didn't bother to tell him otherwise. I didn't really hold him accountable for things he didn't do, or even the ones he did. The morning my mother had hit me with the hairbrush he'd been home, still recovering from his fall, moving somewhere about in the apartment. After the brush landed there had been a long moment of shock, and my mother and I were motionless, frozen and staring at each other. I swung back to the mirror: my lip was split. Blood flooded my mouth; in the mirror I saw myself open it to scream. My mother quickly touched her hands to her mouth, to her ears, and left the room. Then I heard his footsteps, moving somewhere\u2014coming, going. I flew down the hallway, down the narrow space between the closets, around the corner past the black rotary telephone, in pursuit of his rounded, hurrying back. But he didn't stop, and it was only when I reached him in the doorway of the bathroom, when he was obviously involved in some decision\u2014interfere or not\u2014that he finally looked at me.\n\n\"God,\" he said, but not really to me. He was speaking to the air, the closets, the kitchen. And then he turned, limped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. \"No,\" I wailed at the door. \"No. No. No.\"\n\nHis voice came from behind it, thin and helpless. It said, \"I'm sorry,\" and \"I can't.\" He turned on the water, drowning me out.\n\nNow I had him at hand and I gripped his elbow. His shoes kicked and scuffed at the risers of the stairs. \"Listen, have I told you about Suppiluliumas? Probably the greatest of the Hittite kings? No, I didn't think so. He ruled four decades and refortified the citadel at Bo azk\u00f6y. It's spectacular. Would you like to see it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"Sure.\"\n\nHe patted my hand. \"I'm fine,\" he said. He extricated his elbow and braced himself on the railing. \"I'm going to show you amazing things. Stick with me, kid.\"\n\nI watched him fumble in his pocket for the key. \"Okay,\" he said, when he'd found it. \"Onward. Morituri te salutant.\"\n\nHe looked down at me and grinned; it seemed we stood for a moment before we tackled the last, steep staircase. The stinging in my cheek was a dull, steady throb and I was terrified of the vast, blind love I felt for him.\n\nThe next morning, before daylight, he left the house without saying goodbye. Later that day it began to snow.\n\n## 14\n\nFAST ASLEEP, GRACE HEARS THE PHONE RING FROM THE hallway\u2014its panicked midnight sound of emergency and distress. But for Grace, indoctrinated as she is, that noise always means the same thing and it is no longer so alarming. Soon Rand is moving around, and she rises from the couch and finds her slippers and meets him in the hallway. She senses rather than hears Canada in her bedroom, awakened by the noise, always sensitive to her father's movements.\n\nIn the hall, Rand is nearly dressed, in a suit designed for warmer weather, and he's struggling with his tie.\n\n\"Let me,\" Grace says. She's still half asleep but her fingers know the job and do it automatically.\n\nShe stands with him in the drafty hallway near the mirror and the coatrack and the telephone and finds she wants to say something to him, something he will remember.\n\nBut he beats her to it. He says, \"Will you finish this thing? This business with the riding teacher? Everything else?\"\n\nShe doesn't argue or deny it or fumble for explanations. She just says, \"It isn't what you think anyway.\"\n\nShe shrugs inside her dressing gown. The space between them seems enormous\u2014but it's merely the breadth of a prayer rug, one step in bedroom slippers, over a gold-domed mosque stitched on a faded background of red.\n\nA clock strikes in the hallway then, one of the German ones; there are five or six of them and the chimes overlap. Another goes, and then another.\n\n\"So where are you going?\" she says. She thinks he will know the question is a capitulation, an overture: it's now so far outside the conventions of their relationship.\n\nBut he shakes his head quietly and picks up his suitcase. He lifts a raincoat from its hook beside the mirror. \"I don't know when I'll be back,\" he says.\n\n\"Of course not. And what shall I tell Canada when she asks?\"\n\n\"I'll say goodbye to her. I'll go in.\"\n\n\"Don't,\" she says and puts up her hand to stop him. \"Don't wake her.\"\n\nShe stands behind the solid door and listens to his steps down the marble stairs, and once or twice the noise of the bulky gray suitcase striking the iron railings, making them ring, and then the sound of the lobby door as it closes behind him.\n\n\"IT'S FUNNY,\" Grace says to Ahmet, \"to hear you say what time you will come, or that you need to go to the pharmacy.\" They are walking along a quiet street near Ahmet's apartment. She has asked him to meet her. \"Everything my husband does is veiled in this absurd secrecy.\"\n\nHe says, \"It's his work, I suppose, that makes him like this.\"\n\n\"That's what he would say. Don't excuse it. You can't imagine what it's like to live with that manufactured drama all the time\u2014it's as though he's living in a black-and-white movie. Everything is so fraught.\"\n\nAhmet laughs. She is holding his elbow in broad daylight. The bare trees overhead creak with the wind; the sound is musical, faintly antique. Ahmet wears a yellow scarf wrapped tight around his neck and street clothes.\n\n\"What is it you wished to talk about?\" he asks.\n\n\"About Bahar. I wanted to know what you thought of this adoption business she's involved in.\"\n\nAhmet draws a little away and slows his pace. \"I don't wish to discuss this matter. It does not concern me.\"\n\n\"It concerns my maid, though.\"\n\n\"Still,\" says Ahmet. \"I have told Bahar that I do not wish to know about it. I will tell you the same thing.\"\n\nThey walk in silence for a time. Ahmet waves to a shopkeeper. The day is cool and clear and the part of the city they are strolling in feels almost European. They pass under striped awnings, by flower vendors, a store selling fancy hats, a bakery with beautiful confectionery stacked architecturally in the window. Beside her, Ahmet has the upright quality of a military officer\u2014which he is, but a different kind than the one she married. Ahmet is stoic and elegant and implacable. He makes her think of foreign legions, of campaigns waged in deserts, of rapiers, crimson sandstorms, silken tents.\n\n\"I would advise you not to get involved,\" he says. \"That is my advice.\"\n\nWhat more can Grace tell him? She is beholden to Bahar and Bahar sees no reason to release her. She cannot seem to take a step without getting in deeper over her head.\n\n\"What do you know about all this? Is it even remotely proper?\" By this she means legal, but she cannot quite bring herself to say it.\n\nAhmet shrugs. \"Do not think this is the first time she is making such arrangements. It is a business for her and her husband. I believe it is very lucrative.\"\n\n\"Still, I'm surprised Ali is involved in something like this. He seems so decent.\"\n\n\"Hmm. You are talking of all his charitable work with the poor women of the city.\"\n\n\"You're being facetious.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\" Ahmet takes her elbow. \"Let's have a coffee.\"\n\nHe steers her deftly through the traffic to a caf\u00e9 across the street. When the coffee arrives\u2014very sweet for her, medium for him\u2014he removes his leather gloves and leans forward across the rickety table.\n\n\"I am fond of you, as you know. I believe we have become friends.\"\n\n\"That sounds ominous.\"\n\nHe smiles. \"Probably. But I want to tell you not to mix yourself up in this. No good will come of it.\"\n\nGrace sips her sludgy coffee; the tiny cup is enameled in a pretty mosaic pattern. At some point in this country, without noticing it, she's grown accustomed to coffee you could eat with a spoon.\n\n\"My friend is overjoyed,\" she says. \"Maybe it isn't so terrible. Unorthodox, but only that. I mean, Firdis wanted to get rid of the baby entirely.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you think this means she does not care about this child. Perhaps it does not occur to you that she sees no other choice.\" He looks around for a moment. The place is quiet, only a few other tables are occupied. \"Look,\" he says, \"it is easy to find Bahar alluring. She is an unusually convincing person.\" He pauses, twirling the small cup between his palms.\n\nGrace watches him. They have not spoken of his relationship with Bahar, not explicitly. When Grace tries to raise the subject, Ahmet invariably changes it. It's funny how easy it is to put it from her mind, to not think, when his hands are on her, of those same caresses on that familiar woman's skin, of his lips at her slender neck, pressed to the locket of bone at the base of her throat.\n\n\"Still,\" he says, \"this is no simple indiscretion. I am speaking of Bahar now. The matter of this baby.\"\n\nShe understands him clearly: what is here between them is temporary. She folds her hands together on the table. \"Well, anyway. It's done. And the situation on the other end is more complicated than you might think.\"\n\n\"You are talking like your husband now. All this intrigue and deception. Perhaps you are making too much of it. Maybe all this conspiracy is contagious.\"\n\nFor a moment Grace is certain he is patronizing her. She bristles a little, feeling the need to say something that will absolve her, Edie, even Bahar.\n\n\"My friend is really desperate for a child. There's some trouble in their marriage.\"\n\nAhmet regards her across the table. \"You Americans are too concerned with what happens in the bedrooms of others.\" He says this in a perfectly level tone, with a faint hint of amusement.\n\n\"No doubt. But these things are foolishly complicated when one is with the government. The military. Whoever he works for now. They pay attention to the smallest things.\"\n\nAhmet raises an eyebrow, but still covers his hand with hers on the table. She curls her fingers inside his gratefully. Suddenly, she feels as though exposing herself might be the answer, or the antidote, to all the displeasing, secretive, fatiguing aspects of her life.\n\n\"Do you have any idea,\" she says, in a confiding rush, \"how they watch us? How they evaluate what we do and what we say, even the parties we give? Rand never much liked this friend of mine. She didn't toe the line, or do what they expected. I think he was afraid it might rub off.\"\n\n\"And do you always do what is expected?\" He squeezes her hand; she feels his knee, warm against hers beneath the table.\n\n\"We're under a microscope half the time. Honestly, it's lunacy.\"\n\n\"You should kiss me,\" he says. And he leans forward so she can.\n\nShe thinks, I really should remember this. This feeling of being eaten up alive, this wholesale surrender. His face, so close and so amused; that waiter over there, watching, fingering his collar.\n\nShe goes on, too hurriedly, \"He wanted me to join this club, that one. Knit, sew, organize. Be on the PTA.\"\n\n\"The what?\" Ahmet's face is very close. She smells coffee, his cologne\u2014even, she imagines for a moment, his ailing wife.\n\n\"Rand never thought Edie was up to being an officer's wife. Can you imagine anything sillier? The list of qualifications is not exactly exhaustive.\"\n\nHe kisses the palm of her hand and lets it go. \"It seems very complicated to me. But I am a simple man.\"\n\nHe sighs and drains his coffee cup. \"Anyway, I do not know what to tell you. I think you have set on this path and what happens will happen. In\u015fallah, it will not be a catastrophe.\" He looks at his watch. \"I must go and run some errands for my wife. I have already been too long.\"\n\nGrace stays at the caf\u00e9 nearly a half hour after he's gone: he'd kissed her cheeks formally and strode off, his coat held close around his body. She orders a pastry and looks around the neighborhood. She suspects it was a mistake to come; no more than her childish need to have a man tell her she's doing the right thing. For all that, she does not feel very much better.\n\nHow odd, really, the position she finds herself in. Could Ahmet be right? Has she courted as much intrigue as Rand does? And yet, for all the risks, she feels that disaster\u2014real disaster\u2014is not imminent. Maybe she has caught it at last, the ennui of the diplomatic wife: little will not be washed away with time, with mitigating years and intervening miles. Another post, another country; different friends, new rooms, closets, streets, servants. She feels a quick swell of equanimity, the sort of composure she so often envies in Paige Trotter\u2014Paige with her turbans and fortune-telling, her pragmatism and quick mind\u2014a charming, disheveled competence Grace has admired since they first met.\n\nEventually, Grace rises from the table, nods to the waiter and walks home. She leaves thinking of what Paige has said to her on more than one occasion: Soldier on.\n\nWhen she returns to the apartment in Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa, Firdis is clattering and banging around. In recent days she's become clumsy, and it seems to Grace that she is deliberately making more noise than the chores require, that she is unnecessarily, even purposely, underfoot. She is also, to Grace's eyes if no one else's, quite, quite pregnant.\n\nGrace has recently had a letter from Edie. They are thrilled, it says\u2014she can almost hear Edie's soft, trilling voice\u2014they cannot wait. The letter has a European postmark; Edie had gone to Germany for her ostensible confinement, on Bahar's instruction. It was odd how those two women, strangers to each other, had fallen so quickly into the roles of customer and purveyor. Through Ali, a doctor had been found in Saudi Arabia, and he had produced papers insisting that Edie complete her pregnancy in a climate less harsh than that one. But Edie wrote: I don't feel at all delicate. To tell you the truth I am having a marvelous time. Were it not for this package you are sending I might never go back to the desert!\n\nGrace sighs. In the tiny kitchen, smashing pots together, Firdis is waiting to pounce on her, to grab her hands and kiss them punishingly, in her hard-lipped way, to say, \"Mersi, madam, mersi. \u00c7ok te\u015fakk\u00fcr.\" Over and over and over again.\n\nAnd Grace will say, as she does at least once or twice a day, \"Evet, evet, evet,\" and hurriedly leave the room. Lately she can hardly look at this woman, this shapeless stranger in her house, who would so casually trade her child for American money.\n\nShe draws the curtains and stares down through the apartment buildings into the bowl of the city below. Snow has fallen again and it lies across the roofs of the city like an icing she might have made in her kitchen, of sugar and lemon; it frosts the minarets and glazes everything with a sudden prettiness. The day seems to stretch out in a lovely, lazy, Turkish way. She goes out of the room humming \"O Little Town of Bethlehem\" and thinking of Christmas.\n\nHer romance with Ahmet is happily consuming. She lets herself shiver under his touch, she cultivates the queasiness in her stomach, the electricity coursing along her arms when she catches sight of him\u2014bent over his desk through the grimy window of the trailer, or cleaning out a horse's hoof with deep, sweeping motions, slinging bales of hay. She likes him in her social circle, sitting in the living room during some function, sipping amber liquor from a heavy tumbler, his white hair perfectly groomed, his jacket and tie an odd fit on his small, compact body\u2014he seems to her shorter away from the horses, and altogether more human. And in rooms like these, women and men both surround him, drawn to his gentle charisma, and they coax from him stories of wars and engagements in lands even more distant and exotic to her than this one.\n\nShe and Bahar have made an odd peace now, the kind that incorporates their new circumstances and treads more lightly around sensitive topics. They do not mention Ahmet by name; in fact, they do not speak of romance at all, in any form or fashion. Grace is learning, at last, to keep a piece of herself in reserve. She might have taken this lesson to heart years ago, she thinks, and saved herself heartbreak. Grace had noticed long ago that Canada was like this\u2014her friendships were always conditional, more apt to dissipate and fray. They were not the passionate kind Grace remembered having as a girl.\n\nAt the table in the living room later, she leafs through travel brochures and thinks of a trip to Istanbul to see the Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque and the Topkapi. She wants photographs of the Golden Horn at sunset, when the red light strikes the water in that famous, overdocumented way, building a little bridge of radiance from one shore to another. She wants to fight her way through the Grand Bazaar and haggle for trinkets and treasures, and she wants Ahmet to take her. But it won't be easily arranged, he says. There is not a place for them in that city. He will not risk taking a hotel room.\n\nBut Grace wants more than snatched hours in the trailer like a teenager, more than moments in the hayloft, where they might at any moment be discovered by the grooms or the leggy, knowing American girls, who lately give her glances that she shrugs off, telling herself she is imagining things. Flipping the pages of her pamphlets, she dreams of walking through ruins with Ahmet, of crossing the Bosporus in a small rented boat, of fresh fish and wine in a dockside restaurant, of sitting near the water's edge as the sun sets while long, gorgeous minutes slip by.\n\n## 15\n\nTHE SNOWFALL SENT ME TO THE CLOSET. I WAS LOOKING FOR A scarf I wanted, some hand-knitted disaster sent by a relative, one that matched the equally terrible hat I was wearing. I was thinking of going to the sledding hill\u2014hoping I might run into Catherine there. Early last spring, Catherine and I had swept down the steep hill together, pressed front to back astride a one-man wooden sled, afraid to part company even for the swift, blinding seconds that carried us to the foot of the slope. The run ended only inches from the street, where hurtling cars threw up a dark vomit of muddy snow and soot and wet, flecked coal. We'd come to a stop with our boots outstretched, the toes spotlighted a sickening yellow by the headlights. Then, mitten in mitten, we'd struggle back to the top, dragging the sled, our eyes on the ground, chattering. Beside us, all around us, the Turkish children screamed and shoved and laughed on the darkening slope. Bundled in coats and balaclavas, with only their eyes showing, they looked hostile to us (and dangerous). Catherine had needed me then. There were always skirmishes: boys pushed us, girls plucked jeeringly at our coats. One evening a tall, bold boy grabbed our sled away and took it into a circle of his friends. They stood around it, laughing, kicking at it with their boots, leaning over in bulky coats to punch it with their fists. Then three of them clambered aboard and rode it clumsily down the hill; when they reached the bottom they tumbled shouting to the ground in a pile, scrambled up and kicked the sled over. Then they stepped off the curb and vanished between the passing lights, their bodies sliding into the darkness like shadows, leaving the sled upturned, its runners in the street. It was the last we saw of that sled, our last time on the hill.\n\nLooking for the scarf, I went pushing around in the front closet, jamming aside the stiff shoulders of coats, cursing in John's Turkish. Suddenly, hands deep inside the closet, I stopped. An absence struck me.\n\nI shoved around among the things on the floor with my foot, accidentally kicking over the straw cr\u00e8che my mother treasured, the one she assembled in a tableau every Christmas with meticulous, childish care\u2014every figure: each sheep and goat and robed, myrrh-bearing wise man; the baby Jesus, swaddled in blue ceramic, and Mary, with her concerned, peaceful, painted-on countenance. In the fracas, in my hurry, Joseph fell to the floor and was injured, his blue robe chipped and his beard dislodged, revealing a weak, crumbly white chin. Panicked still, I pressed on, pushing my hands deep into the recesses of the closet, fumbling around on the floor, running my hands over every object\u2014every shoe and boot and box and tennis racket. My hands reached the rough walls at the end and I sank back on my knees.\n\nThen I pushed myself upright and stood, brushing my hands on my hips, stopping to check my new breasts as I passed the hall mirror\u2014an obsessive habit I could not break, even in catastrophe. I poked my head into the living room, where the furniture was neatly arranged, the heavy shot-silk curtains hung motionless at the windows and my father's old typewriter sat at the desk in the corner, a fresh piece of paper spooled between the cylinders. The apartment smelled thickly of ammonia and furniture polish, tinged with the tangy, bitter scent of artificial lemon.\n\nIn the kitchen I stepped over Firdis, who was bent bulkily on her knees, scrubbing back and forth across the gray-flecked linoleum and humming tunelessly. The door to the balcony was ajar and the curtains drifted inward, admitting the cool, smoky breath of the city.\n\nOf course, it flooded back, then, with Firdis hunched on the floor at my feet: the phone ringing, the sound of my father moving in the house in the darkness, his footsteps, the whispering I'd heard in the hallway. Still, I needed confirmation.\n\n\"Where's the suitcase from the front closet? My father's suitcase?\"\n\nI mimed a square with my hands, holding them in front of her face. \"Gray,\" I said. \"Bavul. Gri.\"\n\nShe leaned back on her heels and stared up at me. \"Baba go. Evet,\" she said, nodding. She waved her hand, mirroring mine. \"G\u00fcle g\u00fcle Baba.\" She smiled fiercely, exposing rotten teeth, patches of purply gum.\n\nI flew out of the kitchen and returned to my room, first sitting down on the bed and then getting up and pacing back and forth, from the window to the door, again and again. Outside, the snow deepened, the hill grew soft and white; I heard the distant clamor of children, but I forgot all about it: my scarf, Catherine, sledding.\n\nIN THE weeks after he left, my mother and I sometimes wandered down Tunali to the kebab place by the park, sat at long, communal tables and ate from tin plates, pressed close to loud, happy Turkish families. We ordered lamb smothered in yogurt and tomato sauce, salads of cucumbers and olives and sharp white cheese, and warm Cokes in dusty bottles, which we drank through delicate paper straws. Sometimes Bahar would stroll in, like a minor celebrity, with Ali or one or another of her shiny-faced, eager little boys. My mother brought along her travel books or her stationery, chewed her disintegrating straw, and penned notes in the margins or long letters to her friend Edie.\n\nWith my father away, my mother didn't attempt to draw me into conversation, and she virtually ignored my table manners. She abandoned the pretense that I was well brought up and polite, capable of small talk, that I could be trusted not to play with my food. I wonder if she ever noticed that my father cared very little for such things. My mother's concern for decorum was hers alone, and mostly for show. My father never did have a military man's obsession with rules and regulations, with posture and correctness; these were her impositions, though she preferred to attribute them to him. \"Try to show your father you weren't raised by wolves,\" she'd say, before punching me between the shoulders to encourage good posture. But when he was gone, her concentration shifted, her eyes watched doorways instead of other people's cutlery, her hands fidgeted with napkins and linens, and she didn't notice if I stared at unfortunates, if I scraped my fork on my teeth or slouched like a hunchback over my book. She was clearly preoccupied with her own troubles in those days, the outlines of which were clear, though their interiors remained opaque to me.\n\nPaige Trotter came around more often, reading the dregs of coffee or laying out her cards on the coffee table in elaborate designs. Folky music played on the hi-fi. My mother banged out rudimentary carols on the piano. Often, the women\u2014Paige, Bahar, Ben Gul and others\u2014sat around drinking steaming beverages that smelled of liquor, laughing uproariously. By evening the room was always a haze and my mother retired with a crashing headache.\n\nPaige and my mother taught me to play whist and hours passed like this: a fire burning in the grate; raki, giving off its pungent smell of licorice, swirling cloudily in their glasses. We decorated a spindly tree, and when my mother unwrapped the cr\u00e8che she discovered the tragedy that had befallen Joseph. When she blamed Firdis and swore and wept, I didn't bother\u2014or it didn't occur to me\u2014to correct her.\n\nI didn't miss my father, not so much. I was too accustomed to his absence. It was as familiar to me as smoky rooms and airports and languages I understood only in snatches. In fact, there was very nearly a familiar warmth to it, to the way the rooms shifted and reconfigured themselves, the way we ate the things we wanted and never worried if there was nothing for breakfast in the mornings. We subsisted on bread and fruit and pastries, and I was nearly always a little high from the unaccustomed sugar\u2014that, and the thick and heady remains of the women's glasses, which I drained every evening in the kitchen.\n\nThough time had passed, Catherine still wouldn't talk to Kate or me. At school she swung in wide and graceful arcs, ignoring us completely. Not in the studied, careful way girls scorn other girls, but in a quiet way that suggested we did not even exist. She didn't stare through us or turn her head abruptly in another direction when we passed; no, her eyes gave us the same flat, casual attention you would give any insect or inanimate object or stranger. Though it didn't faze Kate at all, it made me queasy. I'd grown to dislike Kate: among other things, she used her position as the headmaster's daughter to extract special favors from the teachers and lord it over the younger children. My mother, too, professed not to care much for her (\"a bit sly, isn't she?\"), and I found myself defending her, this friend I no longer liked, a compulsion I resented in the extreme.\n\nRamadan was ending and my mother began to plan for a party. Since my father was gone, it would be a gathering of her friends, the Turkish ladies and their husbands, Paige Trotter, some friends she'd made at the stables. In the days leading up to it she made lists of foods and things she wanted, sending Firdis scurrying all over the city, and at night she sat on the floor in front of the ancient stereo and piled record albums into stacks. She rolled up the big carpet in the living room and polished the more intricate silver herself with a toothbrush. One afternoon, I heard her on the phone trying to borrow a punch bowl.\n\nThe morning of the party, I went to Kate's house to watch the slaughter of the lamb. It was Kurban Bayram\u0131, the Feast of Sacrifice. All over the city, people would be killing animals\u2014sheep, goats, even camels\u2014and giving the meat to the poor. For many Turks, for millions, my father had said, this might be the only meat they would see in the entire year.\n\nThe day was chilly and we were out of school for the holiday. The air was clear and the tree was swept of leaves; there were little frost heaves in the earth, and ice palaces, minuscule but intricate, had formed in the depressions made by our tramping feet. Kate's brother and sister had clambered into the limbs above us and they hung there like monkeys, cackling and crinkling cellophane wrappers. We had a clear view over the wall into the neighbor's courtyard. There was a great deal of activity\u2014laughter and shouting, snatches of song. But for a long while nothing important happened. The lamb was standing as it usually was, its face butted into the corner of the wall. We could see the black tip of its tail, its stained bottom, two diminutive hind feet.\n\nNestled in the tree, we hugged ourselves and stamped our feet against the branches, liking the way they groaned. Kate and I talked and teased, we grabbed at the small ankles and feet that dangled from the upper limbs and pretended to pull at them, to dislodge their owners. When we looked up, the men were already advancing on the lamb with exaggerated steps and gestures. We quickly left off what we were doing\u2014I had Josephine's anklebones pinched between my fingers and when I let go, a little bleat escaped her, a tiny breathless noise of relief.\n\nI smelled fire somewhere nearby; the houses of the neighborhood were spread below us in a patchwork, and smoke rose from chimneys and twisted in the air. Down in the courtyard, men dragged the squealing lamb into the center: the whole family was there, men and women and children. A skinny dog ranged through their legs, barking and whining, taking kicks good-naturedly. The father, large and mustached and jolly with holiday spirit, suddenly caught sight of us, pointed up at our tree and laughed. He waved a hand in a slow, exaggerated fashion, as if he were communicating with the deaf or the infirm, as if he was uncertain whether it was a universal gesture.\n\nKate's mother came out just once and shook her head in disbelief. \"Little savages,\" she said, and then disappeared again. A few moments later she materialized on an upstairs balcony almost level with the tree and began shaking duvets out over the yard. Feathers flew, crumbs scattered, the down comforters snapped white in the air and then billowed softly down.\n\nThe men struggled to hold the lamb quiet; then one produced a piece of cloth and tied it over the animal's eyes. It wriggled desperately under their hands, and for a moment it seemed like they were playing a game at a fair, that the lamb would emerge unharmed, frightened but intact. Then suddenly they stopped, bowed their heads and began to pray. The wind carried the strange words up to us in the tree. The men stood gathered around the animal, their hands disappearing into the wool of its back, their mouths moving and their voices joined in a chant, guttural but somehow lovely, drifting with the smoke and the cold. The rhythm was mesmerizing, singsong and sad; I wanted to close my eyes and listen. But then, just as quickly, the prayer was over and the blade flashed\u2014it seemed to come from nowhere, glinting, curved, massive\u2014and we heard a sharp, strangled cry, a noise like taps left open in a sink and suddenly there was blood: splattering, splashing, pouring.\n\nWe hung breathless in the tree, the silence loud as bombs all around us. We were paralyzed by the sudden color, by the actual, astonishing moment of slaughter. Even Kate, so cool, so gaily blood-thirsty, went altogether white in the face.\n\nThe men took their hands away and the lamb staggered away from them. In diminishing revolutions it circled the courtyard, tilted awkwardly to one side, just as Kate had said it would. I had not really believed it; I suspect she hadn't either. It was a strange, macabre version of blindman's bluff: the lamb spinning with the rag tied around its head, the hooves beating a frantic little patter on the ground and around its white neck a wide scarf of blood, startlingly red. Little splatters of crimson sprayed the ground and the onlookers\u2014the men, the women and children, the skinny dog. We heard the thud of the animal's last steps before it collapsed, and then cheers went up. One man, the one who had waved, stomped a little dance in the sodden earth, kicking away the too-curious dog, and then, taking a little boy in his arms, he raised him, high, high above his head, circling as he turned\u2014an airplane game I remember my father playing with me, years before, on some distant tree-shaded lawn.\n\nKate recovered quickly. She scrambled down through the branches. \"That was absolutely fantastic,\" she said. \"I could eat a horse. Are you staying?\"\n\nI couldn't, I said, and before I had let myself out the side gate, Kate was running the short distance to the house shouting for her mother, demanding lunch.\n\nIn the alley behind the house, leading to the shortcut I took to get home, I relinquished breakfast, and then all the contents of my stomach. I brushed my hair back, spit, and looked up to find a pair of eyes regarding me over the edge of the ragged stone wall. Josephine's placid eyes, bright blue beneath her home-cut bangs, her arms in a heathery sweater resting on the uneven stones. She smirked at me. I brushed my arm across my face.\n\n\"Bugger off,\" I said, and she disappeared. I heard her feet hitting the frozen earth as she ran. Walking home, I could only imagine what she would or would not say, sitting across from Kate's piercing gaze, subject to her familiar, tormenting manner, her taunting queries. I saw their huge dining table, the stained oilcloth, the smeary bottles of vinegar and the gritty plastic saltcellar. I saw their mother coming in from the kitchen, smelling of sausage fat and chips, and slumping into a seat beside them, her hands and apron grease-stained: she would press them for all the details in her rough, chiding, affectionate tone.\n\nThe day only got worse. At home, Firdis was missing and John was in my mother's kitchen, wiping out crystal punch cups with a soft towel. I recognized him from behind immediately: his back and shoulders, the tapered fit of his white shirt against his body, the way he stood resting his weight on one heel, his toe tapping out a slow, soundless beat. For a moment I thought I must have taken a turn and walked into the wrong apartment.\n\nI opened the door to my parent's bedroom and slid inside. My mother was on the bed, one arm thrown across her eyes, a coverlet up around her ankles. Her mouth was closed, her nostrils distending and closing. She was wearing a slip and one leg was bent, her knee pointed toward the window. She was not asleep but she wasn't quite faking either. Her eyes blinked open.\n\n\"Yes?\" she said.\n\n\"What's he doing here?\"\n\nShe rubbed at her eyes with her elbow and shifted on the bed. \"Party tonight,\" she said throatily. \"I'm lying down.\"\n\n\"I see that. What's he doing here?\"\n\n\"I have to take a bath.\" She lifted her body slightly and then fell back heavily against the pillows. \"What time is it?\"\n\n\"Why is John here?\" I said again. \"You hate him.\"\n\nHer skin was greasy with night cream; she reeked of orange oil. \"Can't be too fussy,\" she said thickly. \"Everything went haywire today. I borrowed him.\"\n\nI thought about it. \"Where's Firdis?\" I said. \"He's mucking everything up in her kitchen.\"\n\nMy mother sighed; she made that little Turkish harrumph of disgust. \"Firdis,\" she said. \"I can't worry about everyone's feelings right now. I need someone presentable.\" She got creakily up and swung her legs onto the floor. \"I feel like hell,\" she said. \"I'm going to need your help tonight. Passing and so forth.\"\n\n\"No one told me about this,\" I said. \"I didn't hear a word.\"\n\nShe patted my back lightly with her hand, a friendly little slap. \"Who's a grump-bunny?\" she said. And then, in a tone I recognized better: \"Sorry you didn't receive the engraved invitation.\"\n\nShe stood and stretched her arms above her head. Her armpits were stippled with black hairs; her pallid upper arms had developed a sag.\n\n\"You wouldn't have him here if you knew anything,\" I said. \"You wouldn't let him past the lobby.\"\n\n\"Huh,\" she said. She was already bending into the mirror above the dressing table, pulling up the skin around her eyes. She smeared something onto her face. A scent rose in the room, medicinal, like the one my father had given off lying there all those weeks.\n\n\"Is Firdis having a baby?\" I said. \"Daddy said she was.\"\n\n\"Did he?\" she said, turning slightly, taking me in. \"Well, I wouldn't take everything he says as gospel. Though I know it goes against everything you believe in.\"\n\nI left the room and closed the door behind me, as hard as I dared.\n\nMy mother fussed in the living room in that strange, formal period before guests arrived. The house was immaculate, candles lit, the silver gleaming on the table. A bar was set up in hallway outside the kitchen and John stood behind it, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore no discernible expression. In front of him were glasses and bottles, the twisting ribbons of lemon peel he made, olives and onions, toothpicks, a white fan of squared napkins. His eyes did not even flicker\u2014not once\u2014in my direction.\n\nPeople came. They streamed, milled, chatted and kissed one another near the front door. I took their coats and carried them back to my parents' room, laying them across the bed, where they quickly grew into a disordered mound of material and hides. Just a few months earlier I would have buried myself under that pile, crawling beneath it and breathing in the mingled perfumes and tobaccos, the rich foreign scents of strangers. But such childish activities no longer interested me and I tossed the coats down without a thought and left the room.\n\nMen clustered at the bar and John served them silently. Ice clinked, voices rose, perfumes combined with liquors and smoke. I saw his hands moving efficiently, the robotic turn of his head. The smell of borek baking drifted from the kitchen. I wandered by him in makeup stolen from my mother's drawers, clinking necklaces, a stuffed bra, a floating, twirly skirt; he did not look up.\n\nBahar didn't seem pleased to see John either: coming in the door later in her fur and heels, with Ali behind her, she paused and spoke quickly over her shoulder. Ali helped her with her coat\u2014she shrugged and it seemed to drop like a great soft animal into his arms\u2014then he put his hand briefly on her shoulder, as if to calm her. My mother was flustered: she wore a long, pleated skirt and a black sweater shot through with silver threads. She greeted people and fussed, at a too-high pitch, full of empty compliments and banter. She had a fall pinned to her new shorter haircut and her bracelets moved musically on her arms. Ahmet arrived alone and he spoke to me briefly in the hallway, his hand against my hair. If you could weave scent, I believe my mother and I would both have wanted a sweater, or a blanket, made entirely of the one that enveloped him.\n\nSoon the apartment was full of Turks and internationals. Music played on the stereo, food piled up on small napkins, drinks glasses became smeary with lipstick and were mislaid by their owners.\n\nGenerally my mother's parties were exceptionally boring, composed of the right people doing the right things, working diligently to impress one another. But that night my mother was unusually gay and wound up. In the hallway she took Ahmet from me and swept with him into the living room, in the manner of a woman whose date has just arrived. It was what she meant people to think; it was certainly what she meant me to think. But Ahmet, always gracious, seemed unfazed; he went about on her arm as though it was nothing to him, as if he was accustomed to being co-opted by strange women, to being temporarily owned by them and shown off.\n\nMy mother must have been trying to re-create the atmosphere Paige Trotter conjured so effortlessly in her own dirty, whimsical house\u2014the lightness, the bohemian gaiety, the abandonment of diplomacy and politesse. But it would not come off; I could sense it from the start.\n\nThe music she played went unnoticed: no one was moved to dance, and when she tried to pull one man and then another from his seat, each politely refused. The guests didn't mix, but instead formed little national cabals in respective corners. You could hear Turkish in the dining room, English near the window, something Scandinavian from the front hall. The room stiffened like meringue and even Paige, with her loud laugh and strange outfit, couldn't alter its disposition.\n\nFor hours people drank steadily, though the general mood did not improve. The room slumped. More ambitious guests took the initiative and left, gathering their coats, making their excuses. Paige read cards quietly on the coffee table, and in the unforgiving light of our living room her bare feet looked less exotic than horny, and a little dirty at the edges. Only Bahar formed a small bright spot near the fireplace, where she had gathered a group of admirers and was holding court. Standing in the doorway, a plate half full of meze in my hand, I realized that the party was missing my father. Without him, my mother seemed desperate, half of something that, if not quite a whole, was still an expected convention, and entirely necessary to everyone's comfort.\n\nEdgy and a little frantic\u2014from the atmosphere or the booze, it was unclear\u2014my mother fairly clung to Ahmet. As things declined, as more people made for the door or shifted uneasily in their chairs, trying to catch the eye of their spouses, she goaded them into antiquated parlor games: she suggested charades and forfeits, concentration, blindman's bluff. Over and over again she changed the records, leaping up and pulling them off midsong, sending the needle shrieking across the vinyl. I heard Judy Collins being killed again and again by cats.\n\nMaybe my mother had underestimated the importance of social rules and regulations, of the intricacies of guest lists and suitable pairings, gatherings that hummed quietly around a shared understanding of their purpose. She'd forgotten how such protocols were needed in those circles, how without the boundaries and little rules the whole delicate illusion began to unravel. The people in that room were not truly friends, and they seemed thronged but solitary, like dancers we'd once seen on the Antalya coast: isolated, spinning endlessly in place.\n\nI passed John once on my way to the kitchen. He was behind the bar with his hands folded behind his back. \"My mother doesn't even like you,\" I said. \"Our maid is having a baby, that's the only reason you're here.\" Of course he didn't respond, but turned and took a glass from a uniformed man standing nearby and refilled it.\n\nMy mother had had far too much to drink: when I left for bed she was seated too close to Ahmet on the couch. He looked stiff and uncomfortable for once, his hands gripping his knees, his gaze on some spot on the far wall. I stood in the doorway and saw Bahar catch his eye from the across the room, where she lounged against the mantel, rolling an unlit cigarette between long fingers. She was momentarily alone and she stood with supreme ease; her body had the draping posture of a great cat and her eyes were slitted. I saw her flick one eyebrow upward\u2014a minuscule gesture, but laden. Ahmet glanced away and my mother sagged against his shoulder and then pulled herself together. Her face was puffy and her skirt wrinkled: I saw Bahar delicately smooth her own hips, smiling, as some eager man came toward her. I saw her again in the hallway a little later, arguing with John. She put her hand on my head as I passed, and her rings tangled in my hair. \"It does not matter what you think,\" she was saying, and she paused for a moment to extricate her jewelry. \"It is not your concern.\"\n\nHe replied in Turkish and I was surprised by his anger, so out of place, so unexpectedly raw and masculine. It was as though he were any man, arguing with a woman of any station. Bahar made that noise Turks are so fond of and gave a contemptuous gesture with her hand, rings flashing. I saw his face as she moved away; whatever it was they were discussing, it was not finished.\n\nAs I closed my door my mother was pushing herself off the couch and saying, in a smudgy voice, \"Now, who will dance with the hostess?\"\n\nFor hours I listened to the activity outside, the muted traffic back and forth between the bathroom and the living room. Once, the phone rang. I kicked the covers off and pulled them on again, stared at the window above my head and traced through the room the strange bluish light that entered through the blinds.\n\nIt was quiet when I woke, there was no light from the windows, and the hall beyond my door was silent. I got up and slid into the hallway. I wanted to see the remains of her disaster: the smoky living room, the jumble of glasses and ashtrays and discarded records. I wanted to see if she and Ahmet were tangled on the couch, in a heap of limbs and torn-off clothes. I wanted to see all that human and material debris, the smut they had left behind.\n\nMy mother and John were standing in the hallway, the light from the living room showed them clearly. She had her hands at her throat and his hands touched her waist. She seemed to bend backward for a moment and then fall against him, laughing at herself. He stepped away, releasing her, and she steadied herself against the wall and stood watching him. She was in her nightgown and he began to gather together the things that were near the door\u2014the bags and boxes and bottles. I saw him pull his loosened tie from his neck and stuff it into the pocket of his slim pants. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, patted his head in that way I knew so well, that old preening, self-conscious gesture. I'd seen him do it a thousand times on Tunali, passing a shop window, half turning to watch himself go by. Vain as a peacock, Catherine had said once, in a proprietary, womanish tone, as we lingered behind him on the pavement.\n\nHe turned as he opened the door, placing the garbage and the clinking bottles outside it. He said to my mother, \"I think you should see to your daughter. It is far too late for children to be awake.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said uneasily, and put her arms around herself. \"Good night then. Thank you for everything. Coming at the last minute like this. You've been a godsend, such a help.\"\n\nAnd I heard the door close behind him, her little sigh as she stood there in the deserted hallway.\n\nSometime before morning I dreamed of her in that same pale nightgown, standing surrounded by dark-faced men in the courtyard outside my school. She was turning in circles, holding her own head by the hair, swinging it in wide and casual arcs. The gown, green as grass, was gorgeous with blood, and John was painting her with the point of a great knife he held in one hand, dipping it into her neck and drawing the blade from her throat to her ankles. He painted her in fine stripes, the sun shone and somewhere, someone was whistling like a bird.\n\nMy mother had said once that no one, not even one's lover or mother, is interested in the tedious details of another person's dreams.\n\n## 16\n\nIT WAS THE SECOND DAY OF THEIR TRIP TO REHOBOTH BEACH and Edie was napping on the sand, her cotton shirt anchored with her hands across her face. A breeze lifted it, and from where Grace stood near the shore Edie was merely a golden torso and splayed legs, a pink and green madras shroud billowing around her head. Grace waded out into the water; goose bumps rose on her pale arms and legs, scraps of seaweed twined around her ankles. She felt the current at her feet, a sinuous living thing, tendrils of water, coiling shackles that she shook off with a gentle kick as she waded deeper\u2014to her knees, her thighs. The water reached her belly and she recoiled at the cold, suddenly at the core of her and so unexpectedly intimate.\n\nFarther out, Greg and Rand were treading water, speaking in little shouts across the green hills of waves. She had something to say to Rand, a question about lunch, a warning against sunburn, some trivial thing. She waved her hand; he waved back, absently. Greg's body was slight and dark beside Rand, who wore a sodden white undershirt and a hat. Greg smiled, head bobbing with the motion, his fingers playing on the surface of the water. Grace took one more step and the current tightened around her legs, a wave loomed, sudden and larger than she could have expected, and her balance was suddenly gone, her feet swept from under her. Then she was under water with her eyes shut tight and her head slamming against the wave-smoothed sand, little rocks and bits of grit pounding at her eyelids. The moment was a swirl, a froth of panic, and she gulped seawater and flailed with her hands and there was the sensation of dragging, a strange deafening silence and the green solitude of drowning. Then she was upright again, her hands grabbing at the body that had lifted her: her nails raking skin, lips gulping air, the light of the surface weird and blinding.\n\nShe was in Greg's arms, not her husband's, and he was carrying her back to the shore and murmuring kind words and patting her back to make her cough, though she didn't need the help, and then he knelt beside her on the sand and watched her, his whole face and the lean of his body a portrait of concern. And when she sat up, Rand was just wading to shore and laughing, and saying something she couldn't hear because water and sand still filled her ears and then he stood over her, blocking the sun, his thick legs, red-kneed, above her, and his face twisting with laughter he was trying to disguise and behind her Edie woke and said, \"What's happened?\" and Rand shouted out, \"Just Grace, doing her ostrich impression.\"\n\nShe heard Edie say, \"Oh.\" Then the noise of Rand fumbling in the cooler for a beer\u2014the sound of ice sloshing\u2014and whispers between the two of them and more laughter, sheepish and delighted from Edie, low and conspiratorial from Rand.\n\nLater she said to him, \"I could have drowned,\" and the words sounded plaintive and dramatic and she bit back tears and he looked at her from across the room where he was toweling off and said, \"Not with our hero around. Not with Mr. Fantastic to save the day.\"\n\nBut now just three days after the party, and the birth of Firdis's baby, there is a letter from him, from Mr. Fantastic, and Grace reads it standing on the landing outside the door of the apartment in Ankara, her hand braced on the wall, tumbling shopping bags at her feet.\n\nEdie has left him, Greg writes. Certainly the baby business was the final straw. Grace had surely known about the complications they'd had, the baby they'd lost? The doctors had told them not to try again; the risks to her health were too great, and the results would likely be the same. But then the adoptions that fell through, the false pregnancies and the crazy schemes, and then staying locked up in that dark house on Olson Loop for all those months. The incident in Cairo had been a public scandal\u2014she had snatched a baby, right out in the street. His career would certainly never be the same. It had taken two years to persuade them to send him to Saudi, for him to prove that she was stable enough for another post. Grace must have noticed something? After all, Edie would barely venture past the front stoop. And now he hears she has arranged for a baby on the black market. Has she, by any chance, had word? After all, the two of them are such great friends. I'm so sorry, he writes in closing, so sorry to lay all this on you. It must come as a terrible shock.\n\nGrace stumbles into the apartment and sinks into a chair in the living room. She rereads the letter several times and lets it flutter to the floor. She hears Firdis on the landing, hears the noise of her gathering up the oranges and the cans that have spilled from the string bag, hears her open the door and stand for a moment in the hallway, staring at the back of Grace's head before she shuffles off to the kitchen.\n\nIn the living room, Grace thinks about this letter from Greg. Once, just once, Grace tried to talk Edie out of wanting children; it seemed the least she could do. At the beach that weekend, she had recited, with an accuracy and quickness of thought that surprised even her, all the disadvantages, the negatives, the irretrievable losses. It felt less like a betrayal of her family than a confession, and it helped that she was a bit drunk and had smoked one of Edie's stunted little joints. They sat on the crumbling concrete outside the converted barracks and lifted their shirts when a breeze came in from the water. They held their tops up around their shoulders, biting the fabric in their teeth, letting the air play on their breasts. Edie wore no bra; Grace could not bring herself to go quite that far.\n\n\"And this, for one thing,\" she said, pointing to her ugly, matronly bra, tugging it down to reveal a puckered white seam in her flesh. \"And the noise, and the demands and the dirt.\"\n\n\"I don't mind dirt,\" said Edie.\n\n\"You haven't seen dirt,\" said Grace.\n\n\"I appreciate the thought,\" said Edie. \"Really, I do.\"\n\n\"There are times,\" said Grace, \"I'd happily trade.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that.\"\n\n\"I might. I think I really might.\"\n\n\"Even so,\" said Edie levelly, \"you shouldn't say it.\"\n\nWhat Grace heard in her voice was not so much sanction as caution. Against calling up bad luck and ill will. Edie stored superstitions like Grace collected trinkets: she lifted her feet when driving over railroad tracks, held her nose past graveyards, read her horoscope obsessively.\n\nAll this was before Grace herself ever thought of such things. But just a week ago now she'd wrapped an evil eye bead in a small envelope and tucked it inside a letter she was sending to the address she'd been given in Frankfurt. She thought Edie would get the joke. She, Grace, so long lapsed from faith, a new convert to cards and tea leaves and kismet.\n\nBut what now? In the living room, Grace folds the letter from Greg and places it in the envelope. At this point, it simply seems like more information that she doesn't need to know. And after all, there is nothing, nothing, that she can do.\n\nFIRDIS HAD gone into labor the day of the party she'd given and at the last minute Grace had to ask Simone for John, which galled her. The messy bits happened here, in the kitchen, and, panicked, Grace called Bahar, who'd come quite calmly and taken Firdis away in a taxi. Later, Bahar appeared at the party and reported that everything was fine: Grace, by then flustered and overwhelmed, had needed several moments to remember the bloody and chaotic events of the afternoon.\n\nGrace and Bahar take a taxi to the orphanage just days after that awful letter comes from Greg. Grace can think of few things she'd less rather do, but when Bahar appears at the door and says she is holding a taxi downstairs, there does not seem to be any graceful way to excuse herself. She picks up her coat and handbag and slips away without a word to Firdis. The taxi ride is quiet: Grace does not intend to share the contents of Greg's letter with Bahar: not yet, not unless she has to.\n\nAt the orphanage, Grace sees immediately the power Bahar wields in the grim hallways, the deference she is shown by the frumpy administrators and the weary matrons, who are scurrying in her presence and falling over themselves to please her. Bahar takes the tea they bring her and sets it down politely on a table in the corner of the nursery; she does not even pretend to put her lips to the glass. As they move through the nursery toward the crib that holds Firdis's baby, Grace senses the branching arms of what Bahar called consideration, the oiling of unseen machinery, the backroom transactions and private dealings. She sees how the benefit will be spread around, but it is Bahar and Ali, no doubt, who will take the lion's share. It will be Bahar who will travel and deliver the child to Edie in that distant German city.\n\nInside its crib, the baby looks like any other baby. Grace cannot quite say why this surprises her as it does. Except that this is the only child in the nursery wearing clothing that is not threadbare; in fact, its tiny footed outfit looks brand new.\n\nBahar leans into the crib and almost touches the baby's clenched fist. But then, instead, she brushes her hand across the terrycloth fabric of the little blue suit he wears. \"This belonged to one of my boys,\" she says. \"I brought it over.\"\n\nGrace looks down at the baby. The matrons have moved away and a few babies cry softly in their cribs. In their small, whimpering sounds Grace registers a note of resignation, as if these infants do not expect to be comforted or consoled, and are crying only out of habit, and only to themselves. Grace feels something seize inside her chest.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" Grace ventures, \"this isn't such a good idea. Firdis seems very down. I think maybe she's changed her mind.\" Firdis has returned to work, but her activity in the kitchen has taken on a plodding, despondent note.\n\nBahar steps back from the crib and makes a sharp noise, then she tempers it with a laugh. \"Such emotions are common, believe me. When she has this American money she will hum a new song. And anyway, this thing, it is quite done. But it's a shame the baby was a boy. Had it been a girl there would not be this upset, this second thinking.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\nBahar looks hard at Grace for a moment. \"You should not have had that houseboy that evening. You should not have told Simone about Firdis.\"\n\n\"I had to tell her something,\" Grace says. \"I certainly didn't tell her everything.\"\n\n\"It never even occurred to me that you might do such a thing.\" Bahar shakes her head, wonderingly, in a way that reminds Grace of Rand, when he is trying to impress upon her the stupidity of something she's done. \"Simone talks too much. And this is not a nice young man. Trouble. I thought you knew this.\"\n\n\"I was desperate. Anyway, what does it matter?\"\n\n\"It does not,\" Bahar says, in a tone that effectively closes the subject. She turns and begins to make her way back across the nursery and Grace follows. Bahar does not even glance into the cribs as she passes them; she simply steps around them with the same blank face she wears on Tunali Hilmi. As though the babies are merely things in her way on the sidewalk, or some street smut that she does not want to get on her shoes.\n\nLater, Grace thinks to address it all with Firdis herself, but she's put off by the complications of language, to say nothing of the embarrassment and dismay that would attend such a wholesale unraveling of hopes and plans. She begins avoiding Firdis's eyes and the sensation\u2014real or imagined\u2014that Firdis is itching to be engaged in conversation. It seems that the most innocuous inquiry or eye contact might provoke some heartfelt confession or plea from Firdis and, accordingly, Grace moves quietly, in the margins of her home, and does not quite light.\n\nGrace cannot begin to imagine how a child of Firdis's might turn out in Edie's care. Firdis's children were thickset, their features hinting of mushrooms. But in a different atmosphere, might one blossom differently? In the dark rooms Edie favored, eating tapioca pudding and pound cake smothered in cream, listening to her accented English, her French records on the turntable, her wizardry with all things fine\u2014needlework and delicate smocking, the musical click of flashing needles\u2014could some transforming miracle occur? Edie had not once said to her, What do the others look like? Are they clever or lovely or imaginative? Tall or short or dull-witted? It had puzzled Grace, and it shamed her, Edie's great, uncomplicated need, utterly without conditions or qualifications.\n\nIn her own marriage Canada had been a surprise and Rand had been displeased, suspecting her, she thought, of deception, some woman's trickery.\n\nHe didn't know her well enough to know that this is not a trap she'd have set for either of them.\n\nRAND'S ABSENCE has been pure relief. Without him, everything feels fresher, cleaner, more alive. Even Canada, who has always been a creeper, an unsettlingly quiet child, thuds a bit more down the long hallway and closes the front door with a resonant little bang. Grace does not bother to scold her. She no longer feels the edginess that sharing a space with her daughter always provoked. She even enjoys her presence at the card games they get up in the afternoons, the women coming in flushed with cold and smelling of coal fires and chill.\n\nCanada, her growing hands dealing out cards with her father's precision, or picking at the candied almonds and dried apricots set in crystal dishes along the table's center, is more and more a young lady. Suddenly her daughter's self-sufficiency and autonomy seem like things to be proud of, rather than defiances to be quashed. Grace feels a trace of regret. She's watched with such unease her daughter's lengthening limbs, the peaks that have appeared at the front of her cotton blouses, the smudge of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She'd never really wanted a pretty daughter, not a daughter like Catherine anyway, whose mournful face and bursting mouth are arresting, whose perfection seems unnatural, a little dangerous. Grace suspects Simone does not much like it either; that she will do what she can to hide it, or disguise it, or banish it. She thinks this accounts for Catherine's ridiculous dresses and face lift\u2013tight hairdos, and for more than a little of Simone's own pinched personality. (Envy, her own mother used to say, is bad for the complexion.) She thinks of Simone sharing rooms with her daughter's beauty and wonders if she hopes that the blush on Catherine may only be youth, and fade accordingly. Does Simone sense, as Grace has in that apartment, the lingering glances her darling houseboy throws at Catherine, and does it make her feel as invisible, as irrelevant and time-ravaged, as it does Grace?\n\nBut recently Grace has had fleeting feeling of invincibility, of the kind of power and ease she has long envied in other women. And an entirely new generosity, one that comes of having affection in surplus; she detects a glow to her skin, a new lightness in her limbs. She cannot keep herself from laughing, and she begins to understand Bahar's irresistibility; it is just the beauty of being desired. Now it seems that eyes follow her in the street, and in restaurants waiters hover near her place, anticipating things she hadn't known she wanted.\n\n## 17\n\nAT CHRISTMAS THE CITY WAS ICY AND COLD AND DARK. A GRAY pall of coal smoke hung so close in the air that it seemed you might thrust out your hand and see it disappear to the elbow. The day itself was long and dull: my mother and I opened our packages and ate a silent meal together at the table. It felt as though we were going through the motions, though we lit the tree for show and my mother made an elaborate holiday feast, using the good china and the Christmas linens. Music tinkled from the stereo and in the afternoon we went to church at the British Embassy. Later, when the dishes were cleared, we sat in the living room reading and adding logs to the fire. Dressed in silky lounging pajamas, my mother took photographs that would later show an entirely different Christmas: none of the dragging hours and edgy little conversations, my mother's attempts at seasonal cheer, my rude rebuffs. It was as though we were waiting for something to happen\u2014the doorbell to ring, the phone to trill in the hallway\u2014and it was a relief when the clock at last struck a reasonable hour for turning in. My mother sighed and rose from the couch, stretching as though she had enjoyed the day and zigzagging off to bed with a wineglass.\n\nA few nights later she dragged me to a party at Simone's. Catherine was locked away in her room\u2014avoiding me, I assumed\u2014and while looking for a place of my own to hide I ran into John in the hallway. We were caught together for a moment, in an awkward dance, trying to pass each other.\n\n\"You and my mother,\" I found myself saying. \"I saw you.\"\n\nHe looked at me curiously. \"You have bad dreams,\" he said. \"It is common in children.\" And then he was gone, slipping gracefully around me and disappearing into the kitchen. His hatred for us\u2014all of us\u2014was like an object you could weigh in your hand.\n\nI stood for a time in the bathroom, washing my hands again and again with the lavender guest soap and staring at myself in the mirror. Then I left the bathroom and went uninvited into Catherine's room. It was strange to be there; so much time had passed.\n\nHer face was pitying, her voice stony. After I spoke, repeating what I'd said to John in the hallway, she said, \"You. You've been a sick puppy around him forever. I'm not blind. And you're only saying these things because he cares for me.\" But I think my story must have shaken her a little. How could it not?\n\n\"Besides,\" she said nastily, \"he would never have anything to do with your mother.\"\n\nWhen she said it, I knew she was right. He wouldn't. You could see that John wanted nothing to do with imperfection. He had no use for the old or the bruised, for anything tired or overtouched. Hadn't I seen him choose fruit?\n\nBut that didn't stop me. \"He's doing it with your mother too,\" I said. \"They all say so.\"\n\n\"With everyone but you,\" Catherine said. And she smiled her beautiful smile and returned to her book. Her finger had kept her place the whole time.\n\nBut after a moment she looked up and said in a more conversational tone, \"That day...\" The words held an inquiring note, though I knew of course what day she meant. \"That day. Well, I got home. I guess you know that. But I saw your mother. Kissing someone in the street, at a caf\u00e9. Not your father of course. She must be very busy, your mother, very popular.\"\n\n\"That's not true,\" I said. But my face grew hot and I could well imagine it.\n\n\"Really?\" said Catherine. \"Actually it was John who pointed them out. We were walking together that day. You wouldn't know that. But he came to meet me. Strange, that. The way he turned up. I guess he knew something was wrong. He never liked you, of course. Never trusted you.\"\n\nIt seemed I stood there for an eternity, and I do not remember leaving the room.\n\nShe said one more thing before we were finished with each other. She said, \"You should be careful. You and that mother of yours. I've never seen John so angry. He can't stand either one of you.\" She tossed her head and her thick hair, and her eyes were no longer tranquil but hard as agate, and just as unforgiving. Oh, I saw it clearly then\u2014though there'd been a million signs that Catherine was outgrowing me. Once, I'd come up behind her in the kitchen and tickled her waist\u2014it was just silliness, giddiness\u2014but she'd whirled on me with a dark, adult, furious face.\n\n\"Sorry,\" I'd said, throwing up my hands and backing away from her. \"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she'd said. \"Yes, you are.\"\n\nHow did she outpace me so completely, in those few short months? When did her concerns become grown-up ones, and the games we'd manufactured suddenly grow so tiresome and immature?\n\nTHE LAST days of the year were smothered in smog and filth: everything I'd looked forward to had slumped by disappointingly. Without my father, without the promise of excursions or his company, the remainder of the school break stretched like an eternity. And then suddenly my mother had plans I wasn't privy to: a little trip that involved museums, shopping and mosques. A train ride, a cheap hotel. She assured me I'd be happier with friends, but she made the arrangements without consulting me.\n\nUltimately it was not hard to figure out where she was going: she left her paperwork and guidebooks scattered around the apartment. I was sent to stay with Kate and her family. We staged water fights on the rooftop garden of the house despite the cold and played complicated games of truth or dare. We slid back and forth on the icy patches we'd made on the roof and went sledding on the hill down from their house, where Kate and her siblings interacted fearlessly, even belligerently, with the Turkish children. I shared Kate's crumb-littered bed and fought with her for three nights over a share of the grubby duvet.\n\nI was reading a book upstairs one night when Kate came clattering up after supper, breathless. She swung back and forth on the edge of the door and said, \"She's bloody gone.\"\n\n\"Who is?\"\n\n\"Who do you think? The Canadian. Your friend. She's actually buggered off somewhere, run away.\"\n\nKate did not know this for a fact, and she had no details, but she'd gleaned bits and pieces. Her parents had been talking loudly, without discretion, over running water and dirty dishes.\n\n\"It's supposed to be a secret. Simone's off her rocker. Mum heard the whole thing from someone at church.\"\n\nKate tore open a chocolate bar\u2014she had an endless supply of them hidden under her mattress\u2014and licked the brown, sweating inside of the wrapper. \"It's bloody marvelous. It's absolutely the most excellent thing I ever heard.\"\n\n\"I have to go home,\" I said. \"My mother's come back early.\"\n\n\"That's a bloody lie,\" she said. \"But I don't care. Do what you want. I'm tired of you anyway.\"\n\nI told her mother a fib and left Kate's house. I walked all the way home and made the kap\u0131c\u0131 let me in. He lived in the basement and I had to bang on the door for a full five minutes before he appeared\u2014heavily mustached, wiping his nose with his sleeve and very irritated by the interruption. For a long moment, as he decided what to do with me, the whole wild impulse hung in jeopardy. Finally he tossed a burning cigarette over my shoulder into the hallway, wrestled his ring of keys from his belt, yelled something to his wife and trudged up the stairs in front of me, speaking incomprehensibly, angrily, under his breath.\n\nI had been alone in the apartment many times, but never once overnight. I opened the windows and the kitchen door that led to the balcony. I ate cold borek from the refrigerator and sat in the living room, playing my mother's records. I did not have quite enough courage to build a fire or pour a glass of brandy, though both those things seemed entirely appropriate to the occasion.\n\nLater, my father telephoned and I picked it up in the hallway. I was thrilled to hear his voice, even the sound of the miles buzzing between us. Had he known somehow that I was alone? I wouldn't have been surprised, he had always seemed that powerful to me. But he said nothing about it, and so when he asked for my mother I didn't bother to make an excuse for her. I made my voice cold and casual, saying I hadn't the faintest idea where she'd gone, that she'd left in a taxi, with her makeup done and a weekend bag. I had no riding lessons scheduled either, I mentioned into the echoing hum of the telephone connection, for coincidentally, Ahmet too had gone away.\n\nWe stayed on the line in silence for a few moments. \"Where are you?\" I said finally. \"When are you coming back?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure,\" he said, \"but I can tell you one thing, it's damn cold here.\"\n\nHe said goodbye then and the line disengaged abruptly.\n\nAfterward, sitting in the quiet alone, I imagined I was Catherine and that it was my hand that John held, leading me down the staircase, my fingers curling inside his. I saw the taxi he called waiting, the hurry in his step because I'd finally agreed but might yet change my mind. As I imagined moving through that morning, I carried Catherine's blue wool coat, her white gloves, a book.\n\nI'd often imagined myself as Catherine: in her skin, her clothes, in the hollows of her bones. Sometimes, I even wore the jewelry she'd given me to hide, the sparkling little pieces from John. Once, Paige spied the bracelet on my wrist and swung me around in her kitchen\u2014where did that come from? She pried back my cuff, bent her powdered face and her blue-caked eyelids, down close to it. That's a lovely one. Where did you find it? Alone in Catherine's room on a thousand occasions I touched her belongings\u2014trailing my fingers along them the way we had done in Simone's bedroom. But I wanted to carry it all away with me\u2014her calm and her undeserved beauty, all her terrible advantages.\n\nIn September\u2014it seemed years ago\u2014we'd walked home from school once with a boy who rode our bus. In the center of the construction site near my apartment building was an enormous pile of bricks; every day the men wheeled barrows of these around to various spots. This activity\u2014and eating, and smoking\u2014was the entire extent of any progress we'd seen made there. Passing the site that day, the boy, Marcus, casually lifted a stone from the ground and lobbed it in the direction of the brick pile; it landed squarely, to our amazement, and shattered several. They broke with a surprisingly musical noise, a kind of tinkling: it made you think the bricks were flimsy to begin with and poorly made. A worker was bending over a trough of cement with a shovel and he paused at the noise, lifting his head and turning it slowly, taking in the situation: the boy, the girls, the bricks, and the offending rock, still bouncing across the dirt. Without a word he straightened and lifted the shovel, holding its load of sloppy cement, and flung the contents toward us where we stood, rooted, on the sidewalk. Marcus ducked. But Catherine stood stock-still and the cement hit her full force: it landed on the side of her head and made its way, dripping clingingly, down her cheek, her shoulder, onto her schoolbooks and the tops of her patent shoes. The boy fled; I saw his back, the worn soles of his shoes as he flew the rest of the way down the street and disappeared around the corner.\n\nUpstairs, I put her in the bath like a child, peeling the clothes from her, dropping them on the floor. The cement had hardened in her hair; a tear caught in the gray sludge on her cheek and quivered. There was one bathroom in our apartment, green and ugly; you could in no way compare it to the steamy, scented paradise of Simone's invention. Sometimes, in her absences\u2014stolen minutes, each counting as hours\u2014we had bathed there together, pouring into the steaming water ever less conservative capfuls, heady mixtures of her oils and salts and lotions, until the room was suffocating in steam and competing scents and Catherine and I lounged opposite each other in curving ceramic corners, smiling and drowsy and quite breathless with danger, our lips smeared with lipsticks we had swiped and swiped again in the mirror, sugars and corals and deep-deep darks, applied in thick, vampish smears.\n\nBut in my family's bathroom, cheap, too-dark panty hose hung like disembodied legs from the shower rail and the wringer washer squatted in a corner, primitive and unsightly, a heaped basket of neglected ironing to one side. I ran the water scalding hot and put Catherine's head under the faucet. She was suddenly pliable, as easy to move as a doll. She sat with her head flung back, shoulders pearly in the steam, elbows braced on the edges of the tub, the toes of my mother's stockings, with their thick, oversewn seams, trailing over her collarbone and cheeks. From time to time she pushed them from her eyes absently, like bangs grown long. For over an hour I pulled cement from her hair. We didn't speak; my fingers grew puckered and white ridged in the steam. When we heard the front door I slid out of my own wet clothes, quickly, quickly, and eased my body into the water, hands pushing the small globs of cement to the bottom, trapping them under my feet. For a moment we faced each other, knees drawn up to make way in the too-tight green tub\u2014it seemed sudden, that fit; had we grown? I noted for the millionth time her carved features, her smooth skin, the sleek dark curtain of her loosed hair. Then she closed her eyes tight, shutting me out, and it was as if I were suddenly alone in the cooling gray water. The door opened and my mother stood there, surprised but not especially intrigued, then went away.\n\nSitting alone in the living room that night, having turned on every light in the apartment, I thought of John and Catherine, of my mother and Ahmet, and then suddenly of Angie, the little girl I had played with on Olson Loop. I remembered the hot sticky tar of the driveway and the long yellow curls she twisted around her finger. One night she had slept at my house and then, late and in the dark, when my parents were downstairs with the television going, she had lifted her legs wide in the air and taken my hand and pushed it deep between them. I thought of that, and the vast toy store of her bedroom, the deep shag carpet littered with Barbie clothes and little plastic shoes and cars and furniture, the ovens cooking miniature cakes with lightbulbs, the snap-together train tracks winding through perfect plastic towns and deep green forests. And again, it's that blistering day and across the street my mother is locked away with Edie and there will be nothing for lunch and Angie is standing in front of me in her red playsuit and her white socks and she is running the wheels of her wagon back and forth and somewhere a dog is barking and a bicycle bell is ringing and the sun is hitting her golden hair from behind and I look down at the complex, glistening pattern of tar beneath my dirty sneakers and suddenly I want, I want, I want\u2014I want to see her there. And my hands fly forward and strike her shoulders and she falls backward onto her fat bottom and then gets to her feet, her face too stupid with surprise and that isn't good enough at all so I push her again and she falls forward onto her plump knees and then there is bright blood and screaming and then, only then, am I satisfied. Perfectly, perfectly satisfied.\n\n## 3\n## January 1976\n\n## 18\n\nTHE ISTANBUL APARTMENT IN THE SULTANAHMET DISTRICT BELONGS to the consulate and is kept for important guests and state visitors: Paige, ever influential, has arranged it for the holiday weekend. She's described it to Grace in detail: the quiet, tree-lined street, the views of the river from wide windows, and in the distance the six minarets of the great Blue Mosque. Close to shopping, she said, and lovely little restaurants.\n\n\"If you manage to get outside.\" This said archly. \"If not, don't tell me.\" She's given Grace a list of attractions she must visit, shops they must look in on, using her name. \"Lie to me,\" she says. \"The bartering. The sights, the food. In descriptive detail.\"\n\nBut they do leave it. Early mornings and late at night, when the city is at its fitful rest, they creep into the streets and buy groceries and fresh bread and pastries from the bakery and then, roughhousing and laden with packages, they climb back up the staircase to the light-filled rooms and sink into their temporary domesticity\u2014their hours of food and tea and sex and temporary intimacies. At night they walk the quieted streets of the bazaar and squint into the darkened windows of the shops: here is where she might buy a rug, he tells her, on another trip. She should remember the address. And at this place, she will find the kind of puzzle rings that children like; here, the sort of copper that is beautiful but cannot be used for cooking. But to her small and unstated dismay, they shun the city's daylight pleasures. Ahmet does not care for the crowds, the tourists, all the common, well-frequented sights.\n\nAnd try as she might, Grace cannot draw him into any conversation of a future between them. He will not comfort her in this way. She only wants him to say he wants it, not that he will do it. She's not sure she even wants it herself, only this feeling and to pretend it might not end. But Ahmet is a man who does not like talk of imaginary, impossible things: these are ephemera, frivolous and unsatisfying, and they do not intrigue him.\n\nLying on the floor, overlooking the river, as the sun sets and that suspension bridge of light she has seen in photographs and books suddenly connects one shore, and one continent, to another, a new feeling creeps up on her. Grace thinks of Bahar, who has left for Europe with Firdis's child: she imagines the meeting between her two friends, in a city once so familiar to her. She can see the wet cobbled streets and the arching lamps overhead and she imagines them in a caf\u00e9 or a gasthaus, sitting across a table from each another, while one and then the other jiggles the dark baby on her lap. What will they speak of? She is fleetingly jealous of these women together: she imagines them making little jokes at her expense, speaking of her in light, disparaging terms. It is what she is occupied with when Ahmet presses his hand against her bare stomach and offers a few million lira for her thoughts.\n\n\"My friend Edie,\" she tells him. \"This baby business.\"\n\nAhmet sighs and rolls away on the carpet. His back is pale and lightly freckled; naked, his age is more apparent.\n\n\"Sorry,\" she says. \"I know you don't want to think of it.\"\n\n\"No,\" he says. \"I don't want you to think of it. This is why I agreed to come to Istanbul this weekend. To distract you from these arrangements.\"\n\nIs this true? Grace does not have the courage to press him. She makes a joke of it instead and jollies him until he turns and gathers her up once more in his arms. But it gives her something else to think about, to imagine that she has been capitulated to like a pouting child.\n\nShe went to Istanbul seeking peace. But despite her hopes for the trip and all the superficial pleasures it undeniably holds, Grace begins to feel that something intangible has slipped from her fingers.\n\nAhmet gets up now and moves to the window. He takes his shirt from a chair and buttons it over his chest. Then he lifts his wallet from a table in the corner and tucks it into his pocket. He turns to look at her for a few seconds before leaving the room; Grace watches him go without saying a word.\n\nThe room is quiet: just the murmur of water traffic on the Bosporus, the closing of a door in the hallway outside, the gentle whir of the ceiling fan pushing a breeze from the windows. Lying on the floor, Grace is surrounded by the remains of the afternoon\u2014the stained wineglasses and heels of bread, the crumbs of cheese and scattered pillows. She sits up and rests her head on her knees. A sepia-toned photograph on the wall catches her eye: a wedding picture of some old-fashioned strangers, a beaming young bride in white posing with a stiff young man in a dark suit. He is trying so hard, she sees, to look somber and adult but has succeeded only in looking terrified. There is something intensely sweet about the picture, something hopeful and lovely and brave.\n\nIt makes Grace think of her own wedding\u2014had she ever felt that way, had it ever shown? She remembers a small stone church in the middle of a once familiar city, her demure ivory suit and tight, borrowed shoes, and the sight of Rand at the end of the aisle, in his dress uniform, surrounded by his army buddies, their faces a childish mixture of alarm and propriety. Later there was cake in someone's drab apartment, and champagne in snap-together flutes, small gifts elaborately wrapped\u2014an enormous lollipop etched with the words \"To our favorite sucker,\" which Rand had mugged with, absurdly, a little grotesquely, for the camera.\n\nRand had shipped out to Baghdad right after the wedding, with Grace in tow like a new piece of luggage, her packing skills wholly inadequate for the challenge. That would change. A girlfriend had given her a book as a wedding gift, The Officer's Wife, and even then it had been a gag. They'd turned the pages together, giggling at the stilted language and the straight-faced suggestions, the rigid politesse of this new life she was embarking on. But it was one she was certain she could triumph over armed with nothing but her modern thinking, her youth, her fine complexion, her handsome husband. It had seemed laughably easy: a lark, a girlish scamp. She hadn't known at the time that she was already pregnant.\n\nBut even so it had gone on that way for nearly two years\u2014the pregnancy was easy, and Baghdad was a whirl of exotic scenery and locales, men in uniforms dipping over her hand at parties. Then one morning there was a telephone call from the embassy telling her to pack and pack quickly. One small suitcase, the baby's essentials. Leave the rest, the official on the phone instructed. She was not allowed to speak to Rand, who was reportedly occupied.\n\nSuddenly, bombs were exploding in the city and smoke rose in plumes over the Tigris. They came for her in a convoy, and the truck was filled with other women and their children, women she knew from parties and coffees and the makeshift little church on the American compound. It struck her that she had never seen them without makeup; it was early morning and some still wore house-coats and curlers. Others wore slacks\u2014forbidden in the streets but suddenly those protocols seemed irrelevant. Some, like Grace, carried sleeping babies and fistfuls of diapers, their pockets stuffed with oddities: eyeliners and jewelry, a wooden kitchen spoon, baby booties, wedding photographs folded into squares. A few wept and clung together but for the most part they huddled silently along the hard benches beneath the canvas tarp and turned their faces away from one another, as though they had been caught together in some embarrassing, potentially compromising position. As they drove through the city that morning they saw pitiless young men, wild-eyed and glancing behind them, running aimlessly in the streets, and shouting, looking for a melee or a mob to throw themselves into. Coming across a dog these boys would surely kick it bloody, leave it half dead and broken in the street: such was their great, pointless, uncertain hurry.\n\nBut the trucks carrying the women left the city swiftly, turning from the main roads and striking out toward the desert and the border with Iran. Young men with rifles leaned out from the edges of the trucks, clinging to the sides and the frames, their baby faces hardened into soldierly masks. If it hadn't been so terrifying, Grace might have laughed at the thought of them under the protection of these uniformed children. As the trucks met the desert, the women spoke in whispers of their husbands and eventually, as they calmed, of more commonplace valuables, their china and evening gowns and family cookbooks, bedding and cabinetry and photo albums.\n\nMost of them had lost track of their men for the first time. Days passed without word, with only ambiguous briefings from tired officials, who gathered them in dreary rooms and met their questions with statements read from file folders. Later, in a safer country, they would reunite in an airport hangar, the men climbing down from fat-nosed green aircraft and trudging toward them, their clothes smelling of the unknown, their skin gritty and their hands roughened.\n\nPerhaps other men recounted for their wives the events of those six lost days. For his part, Rand was mute and distant, his features remote and his manner terse. Those days seemed to stand between them, and their separate experiences of them: for Grace, the dusty caravan of women and children, the bawdy joking of the soldiers, the cold, fear-filled desert nights, the sick babies and the low, nervous chatter they relied on to pass the hours were insurmountable objects grown up suddenly in the rooms they now shared. The air grew close with their silences and they deliberately spoke of inconsequential things, of their left belongings and goods. They waited nervously for their new orders to arrive. There was no talk of returning to that city, to the little house with the garden and the lemon trees, to the wide streets and boulevards, to the arched doorways and cool tiled floors of their first shared home as a married couple.\n\n\"What happened over there?\" she had asked in the hours after he first returned. His eyes were squinted up with exhaustion. When he didn't answer she went on in a happy rush; she was overflowing with saved-up stories, with the details and inconveniences she had accumulated for this occasion. She had imagined they would laugh over them together.\n\n\"You can't believe how terrible it was. I want to tell you about the soldiers, about what pigs they were, how they watched us go to the bathroom in the sand dunes. They were awful, like naughty little boys.\"\n\n\"That's too bad,\" he said. \"I'm sorry to hear it.\"\n\nAnd it did not take a deck of cards to sense he was not interested in these discomforts, that it seemed to him she was mewling, that her stories were plays for sympathy and her troubles feminine and small.\n\nAnd so she said, \"Will you tell me what happened? Tell me about the war. What did you do?\"\n\n\"The bathrooms were fine,\" he said. \"Nothing to complain about.\"\n\nStung, she had left the room. And for inexplicable reasons\u2014reasons that still bewilder her\u2014Grace let that coldness harden between them so that by the time they left those temporary rooms and made for another city, a western one this time, to be reunited with their property, it had become something they packed and carried with them, erecting it again and again in the new quarters they would share.\n\nTHE LAST night in Istanbul, near morning, Ahmet lies in the low, tumbled bed while Grace stands at the window, chilled and sleepless. Suddenly her eyes find a figure standing at the curve of the street, in a low doorway. The gulls, everywhere in this city, tremble like broad, ghostly moths above the spired roofs, dipping down into the street, then fluttering up to rest on a lamppost. Still, she can't say for certain. The light is too dim, the figure too shadowed, too still and unmoving. But she feels a prickle on her arms and along her spine; the coat looks like the one, the conformation of the body is right and its stance and the familiar turn of its head in silhouette.\n\nShe stands for several minutes, staring. Then quite suddenly the form in the doorway vanishes, and she can't say if she turned her eyes away for a moment, or blinked, or whether it was a phantom, a chimera; that he was never really there at all.\n\nAfter a moment she leaves the apartment without her coat, slipping down the steps in her bare feet. In the covered doorway outside\u2014colder than mere hours before, a smell coming up from the streets that is fresh only in the absence of other, more immediate, human scents\u2014she stands shivering for a moment and then steps forward into the cobbled Istanbul night.\n\nBut everything remains quiet and her voice saying his name is merely a hiss in the dark, empty and echoing, a breath of steam. It's dark overhead and there's no moon at all. She glances up at the window above; it too is dark. No life shows on the street but there are sounds\u2014the scuffle of a rat in an alley, a scrap of paper blowing. She pulls her nightgown up around her neck and runs back up the stairs with the distinct feeling of being pursued. Inside the apartment, nothing has changed: yastiks are scattered on the floor and empty wineglasses, heels of bread and olive pits litter the table. Ahmet sleeps like the dead and clouds drift almost imperceptibly outside the windows. She crawls into the bed beside him, trembling, and tries to sleep.\n\nIn the morning, as they are packing their small bags for the train, Paige calls on the telephone, her voice calm and conversational. \"I have a favor,\" she says. \"There's a package at the train station. Could you possibly retrieve it?\"\n\nAt the station, in an overheated office swarming with men and luggage and official business, Grace and Ahmet are surprised to find Simone's daughter, Catherine. She is sitting on a chair calmly reading a book; there is a small suitcase held tightly between her feet. She is, as always, quite impossible to talk to.\n\n\"What on earth?\" Grace says to her, but receives no satisfactory reply. They leave the office with Catherine in tow\u2014no one there seems particularly interested in what becomes of her\u2014and Ahmet goes off to check the schedule. Waiting for the train to Ankara, the three of them stand on the grimy platform beneath the old arches of the station; Grace holds Catherine's ticket, Ahmet stares off into space. Grace finds that she is annoyed.\n\n\"What is she doing here?\" she says to Ahmet, who simply shrugs and wanders off to buy a newspaper.\n\nGrace looks down at Catherine; not far, for she is very nearly Grace's height. \"I'd like an explanation,\" she says. \"Since I'm suddenly your chaperone. If you please.\"\n\n\"I was on a trip with a friend. Our plans changed.\" The girl watches a train chug into the station on the opposite track. She lifts her suitcase and then puts it down again.\n\nGrace studies her smooth forehead, thinking of Canada. It seems odd that these two girls, so similar in coloring and shape and features, could somehow be so different in terms of beauty, that most abstract of qualities.\n\nThey had taken Catherine on trips to the sea more than once, and to see the Sufi dancers during the summer months; she and Canada had once been so close. Grace remembers men's eyes on this charge of hers, in teahouses and caf\u00e9s and shops that made a certain famous pottery, the way talk would turn to joking and barter\u2014might they not leave this girl, trade her for a lovely plate or bit of ceramic, might she not wish to marry this one's son, another's cousin? And Canada would smile tightly and press herself a little forward, aching for notice, longing for such a magnificent compliment\u2014to be similarly desired and haggled over. Such a valuable friend you've brought along, Rand said to her once, winking. Perhaps we should keep her. Catherine, with her lowered eyes and coy smile, pretending confusion, feigning indignation; and Canada, feet moving in the dirt, a kind of death in her eyes. Grace wanted to slap her: Stop it. Buck up. Show some dignity.\n\nBut from time to time the girls were mistaken for sisters and you could see how the comparison pleased one, and how it surprised the other. With Catherine, Grace saw clearly what beauty did for its owner; she noticed how much kinder one felt toward beautiful children, how much more giving, loving and gracious. Still, it was never long before Grace found Catherine difficult. And was the girl perhaps just a little too ethereal? Grace tried to imagine these two, only a few years from now, doing the things girls would do, wearing showy things and setting their mouths in hard lines, smoking stolen cigarettes, wandering away from parties with boys.\n\n\"Does Canada know where you are?\" Grace says at last.\n\n\"Does she know where you are?\"\n\nAfter a moment Ahmet returns. As they board the train to return to Ankara and Catherine goes swaying ahead of them into the carriage, Grace clutches his elbow: she wishes desperately that he will say something to her, something she can hold on to. Standing there, watching Catherine climb into the car, she is suddenly suffused with a terrible feeling of loss, as though this trip has been their final destination. The look Ahmet gives her, as the train wheezes away from the station and gathers speed, as the three of them trip silently toward their compartment, serves only to confirm this feeling.\n\nIt is a long ride in close quarters and Grace tries again to engage Catherine. The girl is staring out the window at the passing landscape but finally turns cool greenish eyes on her and says, \"John and I were going to Mecca but it didn't work out. They wouldn't let me buy a ticket on my own. So here we are.\"\n\n\"How old are you?\" says Grace. Surely this girl, with this unnatural calm, is older than Canada.\n\nCatherine ignores her. \"I'd rather not talk about this anymore,\" she says. \"It's going to be bad enough at home.\"\n\nGrace reflects on this and cannot help agree. Simone will certainly skin her alive. \"John?\" she says, after a moment. \"Why would you go anywhere with the houseboy?\"\n\nThe girl shrugs and returns to the view.\n\n\"Oh my goodness,\" says Grace, suddenly feeling at least a hundred years old. \"Tell me, are you hurt?\"\n\nAhmet is engrossed in his paper; he goes on reading. When they go for lunch in the dining car, leaving Catherine behind, Grace holds him up in the rattling corridor. \"I think that child was abducted by the houseboy.\"\n\n\"Or ran off,\" he says. There has not been, since the moment they encountered Catherine in the station, the slightest betrayal of his feelings on this matter.\n\n\"Ahmet,\" she says, \"what on earth are you thinking?\"\n\n\"That it is odd what you choose to involve yourself in, to become disturbed about.\"\n\n\"You'd think the police would be involved, wouldn't you? You'd think Simone would be simply wild.\"\n\n\"From the looks of it,\" he says, \"your friend simply wants it quiet. No harm done.\"\n\nGrace stares at him. \"What an astonishing thing to say.\"\n\nHe leans down and kisses her head affectionately. It does not escape her that the gesture is utterly without romantic feeling. \"You are very na\u00efve,\" he says. \"It seems to me this situation is not so very unlike another I might name. Though I see it seems very different to you.\"\n\n\"The two are hardly comparable,\" she says. \"That's a young girl, a child. I always knew there was something odd going on in that house.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he says, \"if you did, surely this Simone did as well. That seems a reasonable assumption.\"\n\n\"Surely not,\" she says firmly. Surely, surely not.\n\nAhmet looks at her in a way that is hard to interpret, and then makes his way ahead of her through the wild, windy platforms between the cars, with the rails racing beneath and the stubborn, sticking doors, and finally into the hazy dining car, where the smoke is a gauze and the smells\u2014of unwashed bodies and scorched coffee and the anisette odor of raki\u2014are almost nauseating.\n\nOutside the train station in Ankara, snow has been falling lightly and the skyline is wreathed in smog. It seems hours later than it is. Ahmet leans in the window of the taxi with his body and tells the driver where to take them, handing a sheaf of garish bills over the seat as if they are just an ordinary family, in some everyday situation. He thumps the taxi's trunk as it pulls away and she sees him through the rear window when she turns, he is hailing his own cab, his bag over his shoulder\u2014suddenly he is just any other stranger on the street.\n\nAs the car bounces away, Grace thinks of Canada and what all this\u2014Istanbul, Ahmet, Catherine, Edie\u2014might mean for them later. All at once, she doesn't like the feeling, the idea that she's been so unforgivably absent, and that she's often visited with the thought, without so much as a glimmer of remorse, of perpetrating her own great, romantic escape. On the seat beside her Catherine's profile looks adult and knowing, and when she glances over at Grace, though it may be her imagination, the girl seems more contemptuous than usual.\n\n\"I don't suppose,\" Catherine says as they drive down the hill toward her street, \"that you would leave me off here and let me walk?\"\n\nGrace doesn't answer. The thought strikes her that in later years, though it seems improbable, she might even mourn the loss of her child as better mothers do. Canada's absence from her household, her disappearance into the distant, labyrinthine territories of adulthood.\n\nAnd so, unhappily, Grace returns home with an icy clutch around her heart and the feeling that had she only stayed put, had she not tempted fate with her grandiose plans and schemes, things might have continued on indefinitely. But she cannot be sure if she is only borrowing trouble\u2014for hadn't he kissed her as he put her into the taxi, and hadn't he said they'd speak soon?\n\nStepping inside the doorway of the apartment, the contents of her home feel entirely different\u2014both askew and strangely etched. The items she knows so well\u2014the plates and artifacts, the dervish figurines on the sideboard, the crystal ashtray glinting in deep and thoughtful amber on the coffee table\u2014all of it strikes her as off. Standing there, looking around, smelling the quiet, the layers of tobacco and ammonia and lemon, she catches sight of herself in the hall mirror, trembling and out of sorts. Entirely unlike herself. And then, for some reason, this stirs in her a half moment of uneasy joy. She thinks\u2014hesitates, considers, moves in one direction for a purposeful instant and then stops. She had been thinking she might want to pour a drink, put some old record on. Her mind races\u2014a thousand things jumble through. Skin and words, unkind phrases, clever jokes, words spoken in loving tones but tense with undercurrent, uncomfortable silences suddenly relieved, and unexpected moments of sympathy and tenderness. Does he, did he, mean any of it?\n\nCanada, too, is subdued and the apartment reeks of stale smoke and some small attempts at airing. Grace doesn't really think to tell Canada of her friend's aborted journey, of the purely accidental intervention: she is drained and the prospect seems prohibitively unpleasant. Catherine had slid swiftly from the taxi as it drew up outside her apartment building, and though she'd thanked Grace as if she'd been taken for lunch or an outing, there was disdain in her manner. Grace watched the girl go inside, carrying her suitcase, taking her time. On the ride up the hill, Grace thought her over. What had gone on under Simone's nose, and what, indeed, would become of John?\n\nShe remembered the party she'd given, where she'd drunk too much too quickly, and thought briefly of Rand, for she'd had the sensation of trying to drown something quite deep, something infinitely buoyant. She wondered for a moment if he felt that same unpleasant sensation, every minute of every day. Later, when they'd all gone and she was coming from the bathroom with her face shiny and washed and creamed, she found John readying to leave in the front hallway. He was making a pile of packages, things she had told him to take: leftover food, half-empty liquor bottles, the accumulated debris of the evening. It made a ragged, not insignificant little mountain by the front door. Seeing him, she had jumped and pressed her hand to her heart to convey the shock and then stumbled for a split second over the hallway carpet. He caught her and his arms lingered momentarily at her waist. His face was very close; she could make out his pores, the little filings of stubble on his cheeks. He bowed his head, a little apology or admission, but his mouth was immobile and his eyes as insolent as ever. Then he set her upright again.\n\nIT IS less than a week after Grace brings Catherine home from Istanbul that Simone sends her a picture through the mail. In it Rand is sitting on a lounge chair by the Canadian swimming pool, holding a nearly empty glass. Other men stand around in clumsy tableau, hands all at loose ends. Their owlish glasses reflect the light. In the background, Catherine is holding a tray with smeared tumblers and John's disembodied hand hovers at the nape of her neck, like a cat about to grab an errant kitten. In the foreground, the pool glows with underwater lighting; the ripples on the surface look like some opulent material you could pleat with your fingers. In her pinched, precise hand, Simone has written the date on the back of the photograph. As if Grace would need the reminder\u2014it might have been yesterday.\n\nRand had been trying to catch John's eye for several minutes for a refill. Grace, too, had noticed, but wasn't going out of her way to assist him. In fact, she was on her way to Canada, who stood against the wall, half naked in a bathing suit. Grace was planning to say something sharp to her, something about covering up. Where on earth did she think she was?\n\nMeanwhile, Simone fussed with the camera, taking her time. Rand grew uncomfortable; he could never abide his own drained glass, the sorrowful noise of ice cubes meeting without liquor to buffer them. The men shuffled and adjusted; one held a towel draped around his shoulders as if it were a scarf. The man stood still for so long waiting for Simone to snap the picture that he began to look waxen and absurd. His smile petrified, his glasses fogged. The shutter clicked at last and Rand scrambled to his unsteady feet, tipping the chair, stumbling to get clear of it.\n\nEven now, Grace can see the glass from his hand crashing to the tiles just after that picture was snapped\u2014and then all the rest of it unfolds, rapid-fire, slow motion, it unwinds in her memory with every cinematic trick. Why had Simone finally decided to hand it over, and what had she meant to remind her of? That she and Grace were no different; that they each had things they would rather keep quiet?\n\nSimone's face before the panic erupted: cool and superior, oddly knowing\u2014and strangely, almost immodestly pleased.\n\nNow the situation with Catherine seems to require something of her. At the very least it demands moral outrage and Grace works diligently, with some small success, to dredge it up. Funny that over the next few days, as she waits for the inevitable fallout from this scandal\u2014some official disgrace for John, some phone call from Simone that deftly skirts this indelicacy, some talk among the women in her circle\u2014almost everything goes on quite as usual.\n\nBut Firdis does not turn up immediately, which is alarming, for she is nothing if not punctual. Maids and children, Grace thinks more than once, picking up her own overflowing ashtrays. Everywhere when you don't want them, nowhere when you do. Not until the third day does a shrunken Firdis materialize in the kitchen, and they pick up where they had left off.\n\nIt is several days later and purely by accident that she discovers what has happened down the hill. She has occasion, simply, to see John on the street. As she drives past in a taxi he is walking quite routinely, even jauntily, down the hill toward Simone's apartment, carrying packages.\n\nAnd when she rings Paige, thinking to hear some explanation that is reasonable, she hears merely an echo of Ahmet's words on the train. What did you expect? said Paige, everyone's safe and sound. A minor misadventure. And thanks, she added as an afterthought, for your help. I didn't relish going there myself, I'll tell you.\n\n\"But why in the world,\" said Grace, \"did Catherine call you to fetch her? Why not Simone?\"\n\n\"Why not Simone indeed?\" said Paige. \"In any case, it wasn't Catherine who called me.\"\n\nGrace hung up the phone entirely puzzled. When she had said, finally, in a tone that felt commensurate with the situation, \"Shouldn't that young man be in jail or something?\" Paige had only laughed.\n\n\"For what? Simone thinks he's a national treasure, in case you hadn't noticed. Anyway, don't you forgive Firdis a great deal?\"\n\nWHEN THE call from Germany comes at last Grace snatches the phone from the cradle and stands on her tiptoes in the hallway. Firdis is instantly underfoot; she begins to polish the legs of the small telephone table, muttering apologies, wedging herself beneath Grace's knees. It is Edie on the line, and then Grace can hear Bahar in the background, her lilting syllables, the noise she makes on a cigarette. She is right at Edie's side; they must have the phone between them.\n\n\"Oh, Grace,\" says Edie, and her words spill into Grace's ear. \"Oh, it's wonderful. I'm so happy. So grateful.\"\n\n\"So sick of strudel,\" Grace hears Bahar say, and then the two of them laugh together for an irritating and overlong moment.\n\nBut all's well, they tell her. It has gone off just as Bahar promised. (Didn't I say so? she purrs.) Their mingled breath on the line is noisy and Grace cannot catch all of what they are saying. But she intuits that her predictions were not so off the mark: they are getting along beautifully. They talk in shared sentences of museums and sights, of the zoo and the park and a day trip by train to Cologne.\n\nWhen Grace puts the phone down, she does not feel much relieved, and Firdis, naturally, is still there, hunched at her feet, paying excessive attention to the beveled legs of the telephone table. Grace squeezes out of the tight space and pats Firdis's back gingerly. \"Everything's fine,\" she says to her. \"Tamam. All is okay.\" And Firdis, as she should have expected, bursts immediately into tears and runs away wailing to the kitchen.\n\n## 19\n\nWE RARELY SPOKE OF MY FATHER, OR WONDERED ABOUT HIS RETURN, but we were likely no different from anyone else in those circles: too accustomed to our lives without husbands and fathers, too used to filling the days, too self-sufficient and devoted to ourselves. It seemed he left not so much a hole in our lives as a faint impression, no more noticeable than a dent in the couch or a fading bruise.\n\nSome evenings my mother could be found alone at our dinner table, which she'd set for an intimate meal, with flowers between the silver candlesticks and a little silver bell to the left of her place setting. She used the bell to signal the next course, to summon Firdis\u2014an affectation she'd picked up from Simone and from formal dinners at the American Residence. She would sit with her legs crossed, overdressed for an evening at home, smoking cigarettes and drinking a sweet Rhine wine from a crystal goblet. Some part of a meal would remain on the plate in front of her\u2014a few bites of lamb, a brussels sprout, a forkful of whipped potato. Perhaps she wanted to give the impression that she always dined in this fashion, alone and surrounded by silver and cut crystal, like an aging stage actress or a nightclub chanteuse. Coming in, I would watch her from the doorway, listening to the romantic music she was playing, wondering if there was anything for me to eat. I might walk into the kitchen, looking for Firdis or leftovers, but I would steer quite clear of my mother. Even her shoulders had the posture of a person you did not particularly wish to engage.\n\nThere were phone calls. She would whisper into the clunky black receiver in the hallway. Then dialogue that included the words, if not the tone, of a disagreement, of a woman trying very hard not to sound dismayed but still in search of an explanation she could swallow. I knew it was Ahmet she was talking to, and I knew that he was throwing her over.\n\nOnce, when Firdis's husband came to the house to retrieve her, I saw my mother attempt to engage him in conversation. It went badly. She was complimenting Firdis, moving her hands in a pantomime of gratitude and appreciation. I just couldn't live without her, she was saying, and she brought her clasped hands up to her heart. He stood unsmiling in the stairwell, his thick brows beetled, and when she'd finished he made a motion past her with his hand and then the kind of noise one might make toward an animal or a child, telling it to get cracking. \"Well,\" my mother said shakily, when they had gone, Firdis trailing him obediently down the stairs, \"isn't he charming?\"\n\nWhatever was between those two women by then crackled in the air of our apartment, clear in the way they stepped wide around each other. Firdis became, if not neglectful, a bit slack in her duties: the things in our apartment lost their burnished gleam and a thin film of dust settled across everything.\n\nMy mother even screamed at Firdis once, for misarranging pillows on the sofa. While Firdis stood by with no expression on her face, my mother snatched up the pillows and clutched them to her chest, then plunked them back angrily in the order she preferred. \"Like this,\" she said to Firdis. \"Like this! Understand?\"\n\nAnd then just as quickly, Firdis disappeared. A week passed, maybe more. My mother refused to discuss it. She would open the refrigerator door and study, with seeming bewilderment, the empty interior. When the kap\u0131c\u0131 rang the bell, my mother ignored it. I saw her once, drifting furtively away from the door as the bell shrilled, almost on tiptoe.\n\nSuddenly, I missed my father.\n\nI grew bold, wearing the jewelry Catherine gave me to hide, the things that came from John\u2014the Ma\u015fallah pendant, the evil eye bracelet\u2014and I didn't bother to conceal them from my mother.\n\nWithout Firdis, the apartment fell into melancholy disarray. The dust accumulated, and fruit spoiled, springing tiny flies. Laundry piled up. Everywhere was the thick, unpleasant odor of powdered milk and the unswept ashes, accumulating in a soft, volcanic heap in the fireplace.\n\nONE MORNING after my mother returned from Istanbul, she insisted on driving to the barn early. She woke me impatiently, hustled me through toothbrushing and dressing, rushed me into the car and drove through traffic with a new and purely Turkish recklessness, her hands gripping the leather cover of the steering wheel, which was unraveling slowly, bits of caramel braiding coming apart one piece at a time. Parking, she checked and reapplied her lipstick in the rearview mirror, patted down her hair, adjusted her bra straps and ran her tongue over her teeth. She seemed just slightly overdressed, one accessory too many; shoes a bit too high of heel, trousers too pale and too tight, a coat you wouldn't think should come in contact with horse slime.\n\nIt was very cold and I was annoyed; she'd rushed me and I'd forgotten my gloves. As we came down the hill to the stable entrance we found a car sideways near the gate, where people were discouraged from parking: a big gleaming sedan, silver colored, of German make with dark-tinted windows. It oozed affluence; it was Bahar's car. My mother slowed her steps looking at it and then, in the next moment, quickened them, teetering down the gravel path, touching her hair and nearly breaking a heel on the stones. I slowed down, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my coat and kicking at the ground.\n\n\"Hurry up,\" she said, turning. \"Come on.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I said. \"What's the darn rush?\"\n\nThe trailer door was closed but you could see there was life inside\u2014a light showed beneath the curtains. My mother seemed unsure what to do next.\n\nThen something came to her. \"Go see if you left some gloves in there,\" she said. \"Or borrow a pair.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I'm fine.\" I started to walk away, down the path toward the stalls. I meant to leave her there to work it out herself.\n\n\"I said,\" she said then, in a tone that did not brook disobedience, \"go see.\"\n\nI stopped and turned around. She was shifting from one foot to the other, the collar of her coat was pulled up around her neck and her lips, despite the touch-up, were pressed thin, suddenly pale.\n\n\"Do it yourself,\" I said. \"You go see.\"\n\nWe looked at each other. In the distance, horses nickered; I heard the grooms arguing over their duties.\n\nShe stepped up to the trailer door\u2014it was metal framed, with a torn screen\u2014and raised her fist. She hesitated, then rapped on it lightly. I walked back then, slowly, away from the horses. The door opened after a moment and Bahar stood there, her fur coat taking up most of the small doorway. She looked like a model in a framed picture. She laughed and stepped outside, kissing my mother on both cheeks and exclaiming in both Turkish and English. She came down and I moved forward to let her kiss me as well. I caught her scent of warm flowers, felt her cool powdery cheek. How happy I was to see her.\n\n\"Nasils\u0131n?\" she said. \"What a nice surprise. Hello, Canada!\"\n\nIt seemed as though we had been the ones absent from the stable, not she. As if she'd been waiting, and we were irresponsibly overdue. You could not have mistaken her tone. Under the coat, which she shrugged off and tossed back inside the trailer, she was wearing riding clothes: black britches and high boots, an impossibly soft-looking sweater.\n\nAhmet came out behind her holding a mug of something hot: steam swirled prettily in the air. He didn't look flustered or caught out. He was as composed as always.\n\nHe glanced at his watch. \"You're early,\" he said. \"But go tack up. Bahar is going to jump and you can join us.\"\n\nHe came forward and kissed my mother in the same manner Bahar had just done\u2014politely, casually. Then he wandered off toward the stalls with his tea and Bahar fell in step beside him. They were built similarly, long-legged and slim, not tall people but exceptionally well made; their hips touched from time to time and they were speaking rapidly in Turkish, laughing in low tones that advertised familiarity.\n\nMy mother stood stock-still for what seemed an eternity. Until I socked her in the arm and said, \"Pull yourself together.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" she said, but mostly to herself. \"Quite right.\" She tugged her collar up and headed off after them, her shoes clattering on the cement strip that ran along the stall fronts.\n\nI watched from the gravel courtyard and when my mother reached them, to my surprise it was Bahar's arm she took and held, and it was Bahar she pulled to the side under the corrugated metal awning of the stalls and she with whom my mother began to speak, rapidly, her face shifting between dismay and consternation. Bahar stood with her arms folded and her chin tucked inside the ribbed neck of her sweater. She kicked a little with her riding boots at the stones near her feet. Her face was placid, serene. And then the two women were lost to sight for a moment; a groom led a great gelding past them, he danced in the chill, tossing his head, dappled flanks gleaming, hooves sliding on the ground.\n\nFor many days after that Ahmet bey and Bahar took long rides alone across the frostbitten fields; you could hear their hoofbeats coming and going, punching the ground, snapping the frozen scrub. An occasional snowfall would leave the ground strangely patterned, white and wind-marbled. Cold rimed the black mare's nostrils and our breath came out like cartoon bubbles; in her stall I pressed up against her neck for warmth, burying my hands in her mane, stealing extra straw for her bedding. When he was around Ahmet spent more time with me, seeing to my horsemanship, complimenting my riding; he became warmer and kinder, more solicitous than ever. I found I did not begrudge Bahar his company, and even found vicarious pleasure in it, in the attention Ahmet paid her, and what it did to my mother.\n\nA WEEK or so after the Christmas break I was called to the headmaster's office and found my mother waiting there. On the scarred desk were arrayed the little things of Simone's that I had given Kate to hide. Spread on the desk, what they'd taken made a bizarre display. Most of them I'd forgotten, a saltcellar, for instance, a cheap earring, an abstract figurine.\n\n\"I'm afraid Kate couldn't keep your secret any longer,\" said Kate's father. He was hunched behind the desk, smoking. He looked put-upon, grave and dismayed. Kate's father was a big, weary man with a rough beard and a parade of shabby tweed jackets. On Saturday nights, in the basement of the church up the hill, the British transformed the grim room into the Red Lion pub, complete with a ratty embroidered flag. All night Kate's father pulled pints, acting the part of the jolly innkeeper. Sunday mornings he looked as if he'd been dragged by horses.\n\nNow he rubbed his beard vigorously, as if trying to remove it with his hand. \"It was wrong of you to involve Kate in this,\" he said.\n\nMy mother sat impassively in a wooden chair with her hands on her lap. She crossed and recrossed her legs.\n\n\"Stealing is something we take very seriously. Normally we would expel you as a matter of course, without asking further questions.\"\n\nThe headmaster cleared his throat. Still no reaction from my mother.\n\n\"But your mother has asked us to reconsider.\"\n\nAnd now my mother looked at me, her eyes sliding over to the doorway where I stood, my knees locked, hands gripping my thighs. The room was bright and cold, a haze of smoke drifted, an undulating white ribbon, over its upper atmosphere.\n\n\"She's explained the difficulties with your father having been away, and the recent loss of your grandmother at home. Mrs. Tremblay has agreed not to pursue this\u2014provided you return the remainder of her missing belongings. There is a list here which she has put together.\" He inhaled deeply on a cigarette and regarded my mother. A piece of paper, folded, passed between them across the desk. \"I'm sure you'll understand why my wife and I can no longer allow Canada and Kate to socialize outside of school. You won't be surprised to learn that Mrs. Tremblay feels the same way about Canada's friendship with Catherine.\"\n\nMy mother indicated that she understood this; her expression suggested that she would not much want a child of hers associating with me either. She collected Simone's belongings from the desk and stuffed them inside her handbag. We left the building together and walked up the long hill in silence, accompanied by the puffs of pinkish dust our shoes stirred up on the powdery ground.\n\nWhen we got into the car she glanced at me, saying, \"I don't want to know. I thought I would but it turns out I don't.\"\n\n\"I didn't take those things. I didn't touch them. John did.\" Why did it matter what she thought of me? She herself took whatever she wanted; she could never see herself, never, not at all.\n\n\"I don't care,\" she said. \"Not interested.\"\n\n\"What grandmother?\"\n\nShe didn't answer, just gripped the wheel with her hands and merged carelessly into the stream of traffic headed up the hill.\n\n\"When's Daddy coming home?\"\n\nShe glanced at me. \"I have absolutely no idea. Maybe next week, the one after.\"\n\nI didn't believe her; she didn't even believe her.\n\nTurkey had changed my mother; it had turned her into a woman who would do the most convenient thing, who would choose expediency over principles. Before we reached the stables, she pulled over on the side of the winding dirt road and dumped those things of Simone's onto the ground, shaking her purse violently free of them. Bits of paper drifted out, tobacco lint, a small pink tablet. She cursed, retrieved her wallet from the ground, her cigarette case, a few papers and a lipstick. Then she snapped the door shut and cut the wheel hard to the left, she gunned the engine and drove on.\n\n## 20\n\nONE AFTERNOON IN JANUARY, GRACE DECIDES TO TRY RAISING Greg on the telephone and braces herself for an ordeal: navigating the international operators and the military protocols required no small amount of patience. But when she finally does locate him\u2014long moments while the call is patched, while desk sergeants hunt him up, while the line clicks ominously\u2014his voice is cold and his manner abrupt.\n\n\"Listen, Grace,\" he says, after a few moments of clumsy talk (the line echoes and she hears their voices layered over each other's, punctuated with static), \"I'm afraid all this is going to cause me big trouble over here. I've spoken to Edie. Why on earth would you get involved in something like this?\"\n\nGrace cannot think of one reasonable thing to say. The silence lengthens.\n\n\"Well, never mind,\" he says, after a moment. \"I'm probably cooked anyway\u2014with all Edie's goings-on. Past and present. I'll end up in a basement somewhere Stateside, filing requisitions.\"\n\n\"I'm sure not,\" she says, though of course he would, there was no other likely scenario. Perhaps Rand had been right after all.\n\n\"I don't know how you managed this, frankly, the two of you. Didn't you know her history? And don't you know they look very dimly on baby-selling in this part of the world?\"\n\n\"Adoption. It's an adoption and I thought you knew. Edie said you were thrilled. I'm so sorry, Greg, I wish there was something I could do.\n\n\"Greg,\" she adds, after a pause, \"I wanted to ask you something. Did Rand know about this\u2014about this business with Edie? About whatever happened in Cairo?\"\n\nGreg laughs unhappily. \"Well, we certainly spoke about it often enough. I bent his ear mercilessly.\"\n\nGrace shakes her head back and forth. Finally she says, \"He never breathed a word of it to me.\"\n\nThe silence on the line seems to indicate his astonishment\u2014not at her words, but at the thought that she might have anticipated anything different.\n\nHis voice, when it comes, contains this and more. \"Well, Rand's the original sphinx, isn't he? You'd know that better than I.\"\n\n\"It's what you talked about that weekend at the beach,\" Grace says. \"All that walking.\"\n\n\"Mmm,\" he says. \"I thought it would help her, getting out. Rand was concerned about you too\u2014all that time inside, like a couple of mushrooms. Tell me, do you ever swim in the ocean these days?\"\n\nGrace laughs neutrally.\n\nGreg continues in a different tone, \"You know it was Rand who helped get us reposted. He put in a word with someone. We might still be cooling our heels on Olson Loop if he hadn't stepped in. It was kind of him. Very unexpected.\" He pauses. \"I'll assume he doesn't know anything about this.\"\n\nThey end the conversation soon after, and Grace puts the phone down with a churning stomach and white knuckles. She thinks of Rand extending himself to Greg, the uncharacteristic largesse. Why had he done it? Perhaps he'd only been hoping to get rid of them, to put distance between Edie and his own wife. He'd have been surprised, and not necessarily happily, to find out they'd been posted to Saudi Arabia, a place he himself had often mentioned as desirable.\n\nSitting in the hallway beside the telephone, Grace recalls so many long and silent evenings with Rand\u2014and her relentlessly bright talk of her day, of the street's doings, of the gossip that had drifted past Edie's screen door. In the living room on Olson Loop, Rand sat in a stupor in front of the television, the news flickering blue on the screen in front of him, the rabbit ears tilted backward and slightly to the left, the only position that ensured reception. Still, Grace had kept up that cheerful, strained patter as long as she could\u2014until Rand rose to change the channel, or push into the kitchen for a beer, his posture telegraphing disinterest, boredom, contempt. At times she had tried to speak of Edie, to recount something Edie had said or done, some charming peculiarity, and Rand would snort dismissively, lift his pipe from the standing ashtray and, with an enraging concentration, begin to fill it, as though tamping Soviet spies into its capacious, burled bowl.\n\nShe thought of standing on cool wet sand beside Greg, on the morning they were meant to leave the beach; it was the night before that Edie had broken down in the kitchen. The ocean was still; she studied his profile as he stared out at the water. How handsome he is, she thought.\n\n\"Thank you for being such a good friend to Edie,\" he said. \"She's been so unhappy here. You've really cheered her up.\"\n\n\"It isn't me she needs, Greg.\" But she'd heard the preachy little note in her voice and tried to laugh it away.\n\n\"No?\" he said. \"What is it, do you think?\" But there was no sarcasm in his question\u2014rather curiosity, real interest. He was playing with his wristwatch and she heard the repetitive click of the winding mechanism.\n\nShe was thinking how to put it when he said, \"I don't know what she's said to you. Maybe it was all a mistake, perhaps she did just mean to admire it, to hold it for a moment. But no one took it that way, if you know what I mean. It didn't look like that at all.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"okay.\" She didn't know anything about it then and for the life of her she couldn't imagine what he was referring to: she felt as if she'd walked into a conversation at its end, or woken up in the middle. Later, she'd thought of shoplifting, which she'd seen Edie do once or twice, in the commissary or the PX\u2014dropping a toiletry item into her bag, or a box of pudding into her pocket. But Grace had never mentioned it. She'd pretended she didn't see and distracted herself with her purchases, her wallet.\n\nWhat else had Grace overlooked, in her blinding desire for a friend and a confidante? Might Rand have wondered after her own sanity, those long hours she spent with Edie?\n\n\"The tapioca,\" Greg then said. \"The damned tapioca. It's all they fed her in the hospital. She came out craving it.\"\n\nHospital?\n\nAfter hanging up with Greg, Grace sits near the small telephone table, on a sturdy milking stool from Germany, for long minutes. She picks up the phone several times and replaces it; she cannot quite think whom to call.\n\nAFTER THE evacuation from Baghdad, they'd landed in Frankfurt. Their boxes had taken weeks to come, and when they finally did, she unwrapped their scant belongings expectantly. She felt as if she were being reunited with lost family members, old friends. But other hands had packed their things, carelessly, hurriedly, and many were broken or chipped or entirely destroyed. She knelt in the empty, too-bright apartment overlooking the shopping district of that new city and held up one and then another of her lost treasures. She broke down then, over the cr\u00e8che with its thatched roof, now in tatters, which she remembered from childhood, and the photographs of her sisters and her stern father, scattered and dead, respectively. The pictures were glued together with damp, and tore heartbreakingly when she tried to separate them, leaving rough white patches on the paper, the faces fractured and blotched.\n\nWas it unreasonable that she blamed Rand for this? For the loss of her memories, her precious childhood? And when he had come in waving the papers of his commendation, his award for meritorious service, she'd just held up her dead mother's ring, the diamonds obviously pried from the setting not by hands but by clever little tools. Look what it's gotten me, she said, your wonderful medal, your marvelous commendation.\n\nThere had been a flurry of career successes following the war and the evacuation. What for Grace had been trying and frightening and deracinating had for Rand been a boost; whatever he had done in those lost days had made him a kind of minor hero. She saw that afterward, in the commendation ceremonies and the parties that followed, the way men clapped his shoulder and looked at him with admiration, and even women whispered when he entered the room and shoved at one another like schoolgirls. She resented it, being congratulated on her husband's mysterious successes, having no idea what she was approving of, what atrocities he might have committed, what he might have detonated or destroyed or smuggled away. She detected in him a new smugness and self-devotion that irritated her. It made her want to see him brought low. For a time she called him the Big Fish, and joked to the other wives that he was too puffed up to share an apartment with. They'd probably thought her mean-spirited. But really, she was mostly annoyed at being left out, at being excluded so completely and so casually.\n\nHer husband's charm had always had the quality of a bright, warming light, but the radiance was unpredictable and too easily redirected. For all his complaining and reluctance about the pregnancy and the baby's ultimate arrival, he became, for a time, fascinated by his daughter. As an infant she didn't interest him\u2014her needs were too base and unglamorous. Diapers had horrified him, and during feedings he had looked on in rapt disgust. But in Germany, when she began to demonstrate intelligence and curiosity and the most rudimentary signs of personality, Rand had thrown himself assiduously into fatherhood. He taught Canada the German equivalents of all the English words she mastered and liked to parade her into shops and bakeries and show her off. In museums and cathedrals he lectured her\u2014Canada in ruffled knickers and smocked dresses, her fat hands patting his cheeks\u2014on art and ecumenical histories. As Christmas approached, bright packages tumbled concussively from the closets and cabinets.\n\nNothing Grace said or did, none of her protests or pleas, made any difference. In Canada, Rand found an unquestioning disciple, one who could no longer be counted on to keep the daily secrets of the household. If a critical dinner ingredient fell to the floor and Grace retrieved it and used it anyway, Canada would meet Rand at the door and inform him of the contamination; when Canada got stuck alone in the elevator\u2014Grace had been looking elsewhere, chatting with a neighbor\u2014and the fire brigade had to be called, Canada wasted no time in telling her father the details of her mother's neglect. It wasn't long before Grace felt quite competently ganged up on: she was raising a clever little turncoat. It seemed to her as well that Canada's language skills were far too advanced for her age. Often she felt locked in a battle with her daughter and her husband, no longer a war for affection, because that had been quickly decided, but rather one for survival, for merely keeping her head above water.\n\nGrace complained of it to friends she made through the embassy\u2014older women who'd been at it much longer. She quickly sensed their world-weariness, their inattention to their own children. Not one of them, Grace discovered, wanted to own up to a good marriage. Domestic happiness seemed to them dull and provincial. Instead they preferred to complain, to trade miseries and trespasses: they swarmed like ants at the first sign of marital distress.\n\nBut Germany was a coveted post. Many were resting there between wars and less attractive postings, taking a breather from more exotic cities and cultures, from strict dress codes and burdensome religious protocols. In Germany, the life suddenly felt a little glamorous. They could buy the things they needed; they became accustomed to more-sophisticated goods. The women could exchange pleasantries in German and make themselves understood in the grocery store. However simple these skills, they seemed to signal a longed-for polish and worldliness. Sometimes, her heels clicking along the cobbled sidewalks of the city, returning from shopping, Grace felt the way she had meant to feel on her wedding day\u2014stylish and traveled and urbane. And at night there was an atmosphere of abandon. The parties were nonstop, the scandalous antics of the wives winked and whispered about, the men drinking and carousing and a general feeling of ease and self-satisfaction.\n\nBut after a time Grace perceived a widespread ennui, an exhausting vacancy, a whiff of corruption. It permeated the air at parties and functions, at endless coffees. She felt a flood of maternal remorse, redoubled her efforts to win Canada's affection: she took an active role in the nursery school and went along as chaperone on trips to the zoo. But her involvement seemed only to spur bad behavior: twice in one week Canada climbed on a desk during lessons and removed her dress as if performing a burlesque. It was gently suggested to Grace that she might find other ways to occupy her time, that Canada's conduct was indicative of her need to separate from her mother. She did that long ago, Grace thought to tell them. In fact, Canada had never been a child who clung to her mother's skirts or wept inconsolably when she left the house. Her father, that was another matter. If Rand was called away on a trip Canada went into an immediate decline: she became impossible to manage and threw world-class tantrums.\n\nGrace began to dread the phone calls in the middle of the night summoning her husband away. The long, uninterrupted days and nights alone with her daughter were a kind of torture, the weekends especially dismal. She did not have the wherewithal, the maternal fortitude, for endless games of Old Maid, for singing a hundred choruses of the \"Wheels on the Bus,\" for dressing up teddy bears in doll clothes. Grace hated this about herself but could not seem to shake it off.\n\nShe took German classes several evenings a week and often left Canada with Ava, the maid they had found through a bulletin board at church. Canada had her father's aptitude for languages: each time Grace came home, she was just a little more fluent. It was another barrier between them, another thing that put Canada firmly in her father's camp. When he was home, the two of them spoke together in German, a language Grace could not understand beyond the basics. Her husband and her daughter curled in the tweed chair near the window and read together from the Little Bear books, which Canada preferred in German. If Grace picked up the English version, Canada would shake her head violently and open her mouth to howl\u2014and it seemed to Grace that she understood too well her mother's failings, that she had sensed her weaknesses and ferreted out her fears.\n\nEven here in Turkey, Grace senses in Canada a too-acute understanding of things she couldn't possibly know. At the barn, now that Ahmet has grown cool\u2014not unfriendly but aloof, which is somehow worse\u2014Canada snuggles up to him with a new, almost womanish coyness. When Grace approaches them at the stable\u2014they will be grooming a horse, or taking apart some contraption built of leather\u2014they stop talking, or their voices lift from whispers to become bright and smooth. Once, when she finds them together in a stall, Canada is wearing Ahmet's jaunty little cap and when Grace nears she plucks it from her head and returns it to his. There is something deliberately intimate in her gesture, something she wants Grace to appreciate. Now the glances Canada gives Grace over her shoulder telegraph that she is intruding, that she is less than welcome there, among the horses and the grooms and the piled-up hay, the young girls in their riding gear, with their purposeful hands and strong, fluent legs; Grace has no real business in this place.\n\nCanada is always so much more accessible in Grace's imagination than in the living room. Some nights when she and Canada are alone in the apartment, she creeps in and watches her daughter sleep.\n\nSince their return from Istanbul, Ahmet's eyes are apologetic, and once or twice he raises his hands at her in a helpless gesture, one that might encompass any situation, any difficulty at all. When she telephones him, thinking a conversation is in order, his voice is even and polite. She invites him for dinner but he doesn't show up, despite cordial assurances that he will. And now that Bahar has returned\u2014her interest in horses kindled again, for some baffling reason\u2014the two are nearly always together. Sometimes, waiting for Canada, Grace's heart contracts to see their two diminutive figures riding in the fields beyond the flat fenced rings, their horses side by side, their bodies moving in effortless harmony. They return flushed and warm from exertion, the horses foam-flecked from their gallops, their laughter coming up ahead of them, drifting on the wind down the hill, where Grace waits with an all too familiar catch in her throat, hands clasped together inside her sleeves.\n\nAlone with Canada, Grace often thinks she might jump out of her own skin. She is waiting for her daughter to say something cutting or mock sympathetic, to let her know that she intuits Grace's ruin, that it's no secret between them. But Canada says nothing, and sometimes Grace wonders if she is dreaming up these things, all this ill will and evil intent she ascribes to her daughter. She thinks of Catherine, home again with Simone, with John. Grace had delivered the girl right to the front door: she'd been folded back into that household with its inexplicable boundaries and its terrible unspoken consents.\n\nOnce after Istanbul, Grace meets Ahmet coming around the corner at the stables; she is holding a travel book near her face, her collar turned up against the wind.\n\n\"Don't overdo it,\" she tells him, \"with Canada. Go easy on her.\"\n\nHe looks bewildered. It's such an affectation on his part, that blankness, she suddenly sees it clearly.\n\n\"Oh, don't give me that,\" she says. \"You know what I mean.\"\n\nHe doesn't answer, but turns and strikes up a conversation with a groom, the two of them vanishing into a stall. He seems churlish now, this man she had not loved, and she goes away feeling wearied by the whole thing.\n\nShe thinks how easy it is in the beginning\u2014friendships, romances, new countries\u2014how easily bewitching they can be. One can feel such affinity with a stranger, or think to throw an entire life over for the promise of some untested ardor.\n\nEVENTUALLY, WORRIED by silence and inaction, cut free of Ahmet and his distracting attentions, Grace decides to confide once more in Paige, who listens to her somberly over coffee in her cluttered living room.\n\nWhen she finishes, there is a long stretch of silence.\n\nPaige sighs. \"Listen, Grace, I like you. I do. You've made some silly mistakes since you've been here, some rather whopping missteps, but on the whole I like you. I've always told people that. But what do you expect me to do with this extraordinary information?\"\n\n\"I understand,\" says Grace, and her tone and the movement of her hands are more impatient than she intends. \"I understand all that. But what should I do? Shall I just forget the whole thing, hope nothing comes of it? It certainly seems to be working for Simone.\"\n\nPaige shuffles a deck of cards on her lap; the sound is irksome. \"The two situations are quite different.\"\n\n\"I agree. That one seems far more sinister.\"\n\n\"Does it?\" says Paige. \"I wonder why.\"\n\nGrace is amazed, as she was on the train that day, hearing Ahmet's similarly offhand reaction.\n\nPaige says, \"Perhaps Catherine seems like a different sort of child to you. A bit more valuable.\"\n\n\"No,\" she says. \"That's not remotely the case.\"\n\nPaige looks at her over folded hands. She says nothing.\n\nGrace says, \"I'd like you to tell me you didn't know about this. About John and Catherine. Simone.\"\n\nPaige returns to her oversize cards, with their ornate renderings of knights and pages and emperors. \"I don't pretend to understand everything, Grace. And I don't ask questions about what doesn't concern me. I'd advise you to do the same. It's rarely profitable.\"\n\n\"I find this all utterly outrageous.\"\n\n\"Do you? Perhaps you simply think you should.\"\n\n\"Either way. Take it as you like.\" Grace feels petty and obstinate; she stares at her hands: the ropy veins, the plain gold band.\n\n\"You shouldn't be so heartfelt, Grace, so provincial. So damned American. Tell me, does Rand know about this? Edie? The baby?\"\n\nGrace looks up, a little desperately. The American remark pricked. \"Yes. No. Paige, look, I know full well I'm living in a glass house, but honestly, isn't this a bit different? Doesn't this violate...some...some boundaries of decency?\"\n\n\"You misunderstand me, Grace. I couldn't care less about the horse teacher. That is what it is. You tell me\u2014diversion, exercise, recreation. But, to put it plainly, you seem to forget you've arranged for a baby to be sold on the black market. To a woman you've just come to me and described as a lunatic.\"\n\n\"Hysterical, I think. Troubled. Not crazy. You'd agree there's a difference.\"\n\n\"As you like. But wouldn't you agree your position is precarious? You do know you live in a foreign country? And not the most progressive one in the world either.\"\n\nThis is hard to argue and Grace temporarily abandons the matter; perhaps Paige is right, and what does Catherine have to do with her, really? All this trafficking in children and servants\u2014it's begun to seem almost commonplace. And she remembers Catherine's stubborn expression from the train; it fuses in her mind with the one Canada lately wears.\n\n\"I'm probably making something of nothing,\" she says. \"Let's change the subject. Where's Fred these days? Is he off as well, on some mysterious trip?\" Fred, Paige's husband, was absent more frequently than Rand. Unassuming and bespectacled, he seemed more interested in antiquities than in his rumored work with the clandestine service. He and Rand had always been chummy; Fred was an eager audience for all Rand's archaeological show-and-tell. They had traveled together into Kurdish territory, into wild places unsafe for women and children, and they had spent hours huddled in the corner of this very room, discussing one arcane object or another.\n\n\"He's quite well, I believe, though not at all mysterious,\" Paige says. \"He's at Catal Huyuk as we speak, digging around in the dirt, happy as a clam.\"\n\nFor some reason these words strike Grace, in this moment, as simply too much to be borne. \"Oh, come on, Paige,\" she says. \"Do we always have to be so Byzantine? I mean we all know. It's not exactly a secret what he does.\"\n\nPaige lays out an untidy cross of cards on the sofa in front of her. She is occupied with them for several minutes, turning them up and then down again, clucking a little in her throat.\n\nShe looks up at Grace. \"What he does?\" she says finally. \"He's an anthropologist. Publishes papers regularly. Lectures at the university. What did you think?\"\n\nGrace stares at her. It seems incredible, even outrageous, that at this juncture Paige would keep up these pretenses. After a few moments of stilted silence Grace vacates the couch and lifts her coat from the back of a chair. She brushes the cat hair from it automatically and stands awkwardly before shrugging it on.\n\n\"Think,\" says Paige, without looking up, studying a card with two naked, androgynous figures depicted on its face. \"Think hard.\" The card is one Grace had often hoped for in readings\u2014the lovers\u2014but she'd learned that its meanings were mercurial, and not necessarily benign.\n\nWhat Paige suggests is not lost on her, but quite suddenly something else occurs to her as well. \"All this,\" she says, still holding the heavy coat, gesturing with it. \"Bahar. Firdis. This isn't a surprise to you, is it? I haven't told you anything you didn't know.\"\n\n\"I think,\" Paige says reflectively, \"that Bahar really meant it as a kindness. Helping this friend you'd spoken of so often. Someone else could have been found just as easily. It wouldn't have mattered had you refused. Not in the slightest.\"\n\nDespite her tone, Grace thinks she sees in Paige's eyes a flash of recognition, of understanding, some sliver of tenderness or pity: she seems to see that on Grace's part, all this had really been no more than a display of feathers, a show of influence.\n\n\"But that isn't true,\" Grace says. \"She never expected me to say no, she didn't allow for that, not for a minute. She never does.\"\n\n\"Maybe not. But it really doesn't matter anyway. You didn't say no. And if it eases your mind at all, it is not your maid's baby that is now with your friend. That didn't quite work out. So you can comfortably forget all this. In fact, you can pretend it never happened.\"\n\nGrace stares at her, bewildered.\n\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"What I said. Bahar took a different baby to your friend in Germany. Firdis's child is now with relatives in Istanbul.\"\n\n\"And Firdis knows this?\"\n\nPaige shrugged. \"I don't think so. It's a little complicated. Anyway, Grace, you were never important in this to Bahar, not really.\"\n\nAs Grace stands there, mulling all this, a matted Siamese cat steps daintily across her shoes and makes her jump.\n\nFOR DAYS after that, Grace goes around in a fog. It's brought on obliquely by Paige's revelations and Rand's continuing absence, by Ahmet's withdrawal, by the distant, worrisome matters of Edie and the child, but also by a bottle of pills that Paige had given her that same afternoon, and suggested she use to \"take the edge off.\" Certainly they work\u2014they quiet her racing heart and send little messages of calm through her jangling nerves, they facilitate long afternoon naps and a sense, if not exactly of well-being, then of disaster indefinitely postponed. But there is danger in this, and Grace knows it. She takes the pills sparingly and eventually cuts them with a kitchen knife into tiny chips, with the thought of policing herself.\n\nShe cannot help but wonder, in lucid moments, what it is about her, Grace, that creates these impossible situations, these complicated human snarls. The lives of other people seem so straightforward. If she thinks about any of it for too long Grace finds herself reaching for fragments of the little pink pills\u2014one and then another\u2014with their promise of temporary, muzzy-headed peace.\n\nSo when Paige appears at the door a week after their conversation carrying a casserole and puts this ridiculous scheme to her\u2014the idea that they will all drive out into the countryside late at night and learn to take the wheels off cars\u2014Grace is less than enthusiastic. A number of women have been invited, some exercise to make them all more self-sufficient, or so goes the advertising. They will drive out beyond the city, Paige says, and take turns changing a tire. Once, Grace might have found this a reasonable entertainment, but now it seems like the absolute height of absurdity. Fancy Dress, says the invitation that comes to the apartment later by messenger. Evening gloves. Still, Grace does not see how she can possibly decline.\n\nShe drops the invitation on the kitchen counter and fumbles in her pocketbook for the pill bottle. Firdis has quit, suddenly and without any coherent explanation. Rand has vanished\u2014he has been gone nearly two months\u2014and Canada is utterly a stranger. From the inside of her head to the unfamiliar, muscular curve of her legs, Grace finds her daughter bewildering. Grace watches her surreptitiously, wondering what ever will become of her, of them. When they talk, or when they are close to each other, Grace will get a whiff of her scent\u2014her girlish, horsey, filched bath-salts odor\u2014and feel an odd catch in her throat. It might be anything, that feeling. Savage and indefinable, it could be love, possibly, or the other.\n\nIt seems to Grace these days that Canada's eyes hold too large a question, too vast a worry, and that her hair, so long unnoticed by Grace, is now sleek, tended by hands that are suddenly knowledgeable and adult. She cannot imagine where these skills came from, or the budding breasts she sees beneath childish blouses, or the bracelet around her wrist that Grace did not buy. Canada's Turkish is better than her own now, like her German years earlier. She has her father's dry wit, and, out of nowhere, his sudden, overwhelming shyness.\n\nLater that afternoon, reading a book at the stables, the heat turned up high in the little red car, Grace is surprised to find herself missing Rand. How strange. She thinks of all his charms, lost or long forgotten. She remembers the pride she had in him so many years earlier, the way he looked in his uniform, the private jokes they'd shared. And, with the forgiveness of nostalgia, and the renewal of affection that comes on the heels of a close call, her husband begins to seem like not so bad a bargain after all.\n\nSome afternoons Grace and Bahar stand in the cold beside the ring and watch Ahmet circle it astride one of the bigger, more spirited horses. Often Canada trails along behind him, or points her mount toward some obstacle he has indicated with a finger. Bahar leans with her elbows on the splintered railing, her chin propped in her fist. Now Grace sees fresh angles in her old friend, flaws she had quite overlooked. Bahar returned from Germany having gained several pounds\u2014the strudel, no doubt, and the bratwurst, and the beer. Though she is not as perfect as she'd once seemed, she is characteristically breezy\u2014the alarming information Grace had relayed about Edie's history seemed barely to faze her at all.\n\n\"She has some talent,\" Bahar says, watching Canada ride.\n\n\"Does she?\" says Grace, with blank and honest surprise, for such a thing had not occurred to her.\n\nBut overall there is new quiet between the two women, a sense that much has been said or silently agreed to and little remains. Now they speak of the most pedestrian things\u2014Bahar even speaks of her boys, of their behavior at school, their wild ways amid her delicate furnishings, and of Ali and his ever-busier practice. The subject of orphans does not arise between them; the matter of Firdis goes undiscussed.\n\nOnce, Bahar says this: \"It is only a matter of time before your maid becomes pregnant again. Mark my words.\"\n\nGrace says nothing of Firdis's absence and replies easily, \"If that is the case, I don't wish to know about it.\"\n\nThey laugh for longer than the moment requires, and their mirth seems to sum up all the thoughts they have decided not to voice, all the blame and accusation, the possible disasters, the barely averted calamities.\n\nAnd there has recently been some news from Edie herself. She has returned to Saudi Arabia and she and Greg have reconciled. The baby\u2014whoever's it is, wherever it came from\u2014has gone with her and Edie writes a few bright, delighted letters about the joys of motherhood. Where Firdis's baby may be, the details of it, its disposition, who knows?\n\nWhen Grace opens these envelopes, photographs slide out with the stationery. Bahar keeps several of these\u2014\"For the scrapbook I am making,\" she says with what seems to be sincerity, but this may merely be what she thinks is expected of her. The pictures show Greg, Edie, and the child among Edie's old furnishings, or on a busy street with shopping bags, or once, the baby alone, teetering listlessly atop a camel festooned with ribbons. When Grace studies them, she feels both relief and exhaustion\u2014they're an unwelcome reminder of her foolishness, the dire repercussions and possibilities that seem to lie just beyond their plain white margins. Grace wonders, too, if there is something about this baby\u2014in its vacant eyes and strangely clenched hands\u2014that does not seem quite right.\n\nEdie's letters recount the tedium of infancy and child rearing, the discomforts that Grace feels she's just barely recovered from herself, though all that was years ago. Edie has questions Grace can no longer answer: at what age should a baby babble, smile, grab for dangerous objects? Grace skims these with a little shudder, sensing Edie's vague, unspoken worry, then folds them away to reply to at a later date. It is easier to let it slide, to relegate Edie and Greg and those memories to a back corner of her mind, among the clutter and debris of other lost friendships and homes, all those distant, splintered recollections.\n\nON THE evening of Paige's excursion, Grace dresses hastily. She takes from the back of a drawer a pair of evening gloves that are on their way out anyway\u2014one pearl button missing, some stubborn soiling at an elbow. She chooses a dress she doesn't much care for, one already somewhat overexposed.\n\nShe waits at the appointed time just inside the heavy glass door of the lobby, scanning the street for headlights. In her hand she carries a small evening bag\u2014tissues, lipstick, a jeweled compact that had belonged to her mother\u2014and wears on her feet a pair of evening sandals she will not much mourn if they are altogether ruined. In the bag is also a letter from Edie she received that very morning\u2014she intends to discuss the disturbing contents with Paige. But really, Grace does not expect much excitement from the evening: several hours of forced gaiety in the backseat of a car, a bottle passed among the occupants, the eventuality of winding up the evening at the Officers' Club with a story to tell, minimally grease-stained and not much enlightened on matters of automotive repair.\n\nGrace knows most of these women, some better than others. They wind out of the city in a little caravan, driven by their silent, uniformed chauffeurs. Grace shares a car with Paige and several others; their dresses rustle together, they edge their shoes off and curl their stocking feet in the gritty pile of the carpet. Paige has brought champagne, someone else an ornate flask of expensive scotch. They leave the city lights behind them and for a while the conversation is about children and husbands and the absurdity of this particular expedition, which they seem almost to have forgotten they undertook willingly.\n\nGrace wishes to be nearly anywhere else. In fact, for most of the ride, she finds herself thinking of Rand, and of certain quiet evenings before the insanity of diplomatic life overtook them. She thinks, for instance, of the little apartment she had lovingly maintained before they were married, the amateur meals she cooked for him there, pretending to be grown-up. They'd played cards after dinner and he showed her his repertoire: his fancy shuffles, his sleights of hand, his many disappearing tricks.\n\nShe remembers the first time he left in the middle of the night: it was in Baghdad, before the war, when everything was still contented and lovely. She can recall the way the cool tile felt on her feet as she slid from the bed they shared in the middle of the night when the baby cried. He didn't have that suitcase yet\u2014not packed, not ready to go at a moment's notice\u2014and when the call came she'd risen from bed with him and gone through the drawers to help. She took out his dark folded socks, his snowy underclothes: she took his second uniform from the depths of the closet and brushed its stiff shoulders free of lint. She remembers his excitement at the prospect of what lay ahead, his thrill at the stealthy, midnight nature of it all. She liked that sudden spark in his eyes, and they shared something like an intoxication as they knelt together in the near dark, whispering so as not to wake the baby. She found an old suitcase in a closet and knelt on the floor beside it while he shaved hurriedly in the bathroom. The light was warm on the bare floors and the sight of the bed\u2014rumpled, still holding their shared heat\u2014made her nearly purr with pleasure. She felt a reluctant, reawakened love for him, the almost-ache of his approaching absence. She imagined the cool of the night air beyond the arched gate of their garden, the swaying palms, the car idling there on the street, waiting to take him away.\n\nWhere are you going?\n\nI don't know, he told her. Can't say.\n\nShe had thought then of the not too distant desert and the night lights of the city, illuminated somewhere beyond her view, outside her imagination, far from the warm little room with the crumpled counterpane and the sleeping baby, the open suitcase on the floor, its contents lovingly stowed, his toiletries neatly packed in the silky elastic side pockets, socks rolled by her own slim hands.\n\nAnd since it had all still been between them then\u2014desire, affection, good feeling\u2014she'd pulled him down beside the gray suitcase and made love to him on the floor, her gown riding up around her hips, their bodies sliding and catching against the tiles, while he protested and then succumbed, chuckling, his lemony soap and his smooth skin warm and redolent against her neck.\n\nThen he was gone and the bed felt different\u2014both worse and better, emptier and more full. His departure left a pretty ache, a small, coin-size hollow at her center, and she thought of him abroad in the world without her, thought of him moving through airfields as dawn broke and climbing onto cold metal transports\u2014huge, whirring, dangerous\u2014that would lift him into the air and carry him away, a suitcase his only anchor to her, their baby, their brand-new, freshly minted life.\n\nIT'S QUITE cold and Grace's evening coat does not properly break the chill: little handfuls of snow beat up against her face, her ankles feel frozen through. The sky is grimy with stars. The women stand on the side of the road and take turns handling the tire iron. They heft it in their gloved hands, remarking, Oh it's cold! or Beastly heavy, and then pass it along. There are perhaps seven of them there\u2014pretty, snow-blown figures in evening dress, a little tipsy from the ride, laughing, stamping their feet.\n\nThey are waiting for someone to call this whole thing off, for Paige to shepherd them back into the cars for cognac and petit fours, to give the order for the Officers' Club. But still they linger, pressing their nearly bare feet to the hard earth, grabbing their coats closer. The drivers stand a safe distance off, deliberately unhelpful, smoking. In the dark their cigarettes glow and fade; a brief, arcing ember flares as a spent butt is tossed to the ground, a cascade of sparks.\n\nAnd then Paige is leaning down with the heavy iron to undo the lug nuts. They hear her pant in the darkness, the noise of unfamiliar exertion.\n\nSimone says, \"You have got to be kidding me. Those tires are perfectly good. They got us here.\"\n\nThen the sound of the nuts striking the ground, of Paige saying, \"Someone get those, we don't want to lose them.\"\n\nScrambling, fingernails on gravel, swearing, the clicking of the weighty little objects in someone's hand. Grace has her arms folded at her chest; the wind ruffles her hair, bites down on her neck.\n\nSomeone puts an object into her hands. The women have taken off a front tire and Paige is bent over awkwardly, wheeling the spare from the rear of the car.\n\nThe tire iron is heavy and cold; the chill penetrates the silky, slippery fabric of her gloves. Grace balances it in her hands like a stick of dynamite.\n\n\"Here,\" says Paige. \"Come over here and I'll show you.\"\n\nGrace approaches. She hears the gritty noise of her heels in the dirt, the swish of her gown against the material of her coat and her sheathed legs. The women stand huddled together around the car; there is the glug of liquid in the flask, laughter, Simone's peevish voice. The drivers in their dark uniforms are little more than a smudge at the edge of her vision.\n\nShe bends, feeling the wind between her legs and a gentle fizzing in her veins; she'd swallowed two of the pink pills before leaving the house. She pulls her hands free of the gloves, wraps her bare hands around the icy metal cylinder. Paige holds a flashlight and a cone of light plays over the bare wheel well, the tire discarded on the ground, the spare she has balanced against her knees. Simone's feet, in ridiculously high-heeled shoes, are shifting back and forth; her ankles disappear beneath the velvet folds of her gown.\n\nThrough the dark, Simone's voice says, \"So, I guess Rand is off traveling again?\"\n\nGrace doesn't answer; she is trying to figure out the purpose of the tire iron, which slips and shifts uncooperatively in her cold hands.\n\nSimone laughs. \"Oh well, I probably shouldn't ask you. You've so much on your plate these days, and I know how you like to be mysterious.\"\n\n\"I do?\"\n\n\"So I hear.\" Her tone is languid, distant, disembodied. \"But what do I know? Catherine seems to be the one who knows everything these days\u2014who goes where with whom, who doesn't go anywhere at all. She's such a dreadful, precocious girl.\"\n\nGrace hefts the tool, she leans forward, aiming it in the direction Paige indicates. Paige is holding the tire where it is meant to go, Simone is fumbling for the lug nuts in the pocket of her coat. Then Simone's long fingers are on her shoulder and Grace reaches back with her hand. But reflexively, it is the hand with the tire iron that she moves, and the cold off-balance weight of it carries her hand back farther and with more force than she intends, and then there is the horrible noise of metal striking Simone's face, which is just there above Grace's shoulder, though she did really not know it. You could never say she knew it for certain.\n\n## February 1976\n## 21\n\nI THOUGHT I SAW JOHN FROM TIME TO TIME THAT WINTER. BUT there might have been a thousand young men just like him prowling the Ankara streets: foxy and effete, their humdrum bundles and packages at odds with an aristocratic demeanor that was too studied, perhaps, and too put-on, but credible nonetheless\u2014quite good enough for girls. Maybe they moved in mirrors, in apartments all over that city, places shining with chrome and glass, with jagged art and blond wood, and there bowed and scraped to their own Simones, and took quiet revenge on their daughters.\n\nSometimes I imagined meeting him in the garden, and played out these fantasies hunched on the stone bench, surrounded by the winter-seared earth, the empty house, the naked trees. If he came through the gate, I thought, he might seem suddenly more ordinary than he had in Simone's home, an average young man, stripped of mystique, and accordingly, of his chancy appeal. With the traffic a rumor in the distance we could speak of new banalities, of my schoolwork, his squabbling aunts and sisters, the predictably terrible weather. Or maybe not: after all, what had ever been between us but Catherine?\n\nIn time I learned more about the trip to Istanbul. And I was wrong, she told me. John had not taken her; on the contrary, he had sent her home. She must have followed him: caught up with him at the station, or on the street outside the apartment building as he hailed a taxi. I imagine her begging him to take her along, using all his own words about Simone to make him agree. He was hurried and distracted, and allowing her to come with him may have seemed, in the moment, like the simplest thing.\n\nBut above all, John was a practical and even-minded young man. At some point, having accomplished his private errand, he would have been horrified to find himself in Istanbul, with the runaway daughter of a diplomat, and so he'd quickly arranged to return her, unharmed to the naked eye, the way any small stolen thing can be slipped back secretly to where it belongs.\n\nPerhaps they found some solace in each other, my mother and Catherine, watching the miles of brown and jagged country flow by outside the train's grimy windows. I picture them locked in their reveries, beside each other on the vinyl seats, their hopes for a grand finale fading with every passing curiosity of landscape. Ahmet, buried inside his paper, was already back in Ankara, vanished from that compartment in all the important ways, and John, having rid himself of Catherine and made his delivery, toured the fleshpots of the city and returned, after some small time, to Ankara, trusting that anything unpleasant would by then have passed.\n\nAnd my mother and Catherine, for whom everything had changed, found, of course, that little of importance had.\n\nI think Catherine and my mother had both wanted, above all, only to be asked. But Simone and I were stubborn and silent. Neither of us ever brought up Istanbul; we could not, would not, give them the satisfaction. My mother returned to the apartment with a look of expectation about her. I imagine Catherine's face, opening her own door, wearing the very same expression. Simone and I met them, in those different yet suddenly similar rooms, with blank and disinterested countenances, and not a single question, no trace of shock. We turned our heads away, and our embittered hearts, and would not indulge them.\n\nThat long-ago day on the Antalya coast, when they'd argued and my mother had stepped from the car, I'd leaned forward over the seat and whispered into my father's sun-scorched ear, \"Let's just leave her here. Let's drive away.\" Yes, I was that careless with her, willing to abandon her by the side of a bright, stony road. Had she been any less cavalier with me? He'd turned to face me, saying, with only a trace of amusement, \"Not today. Perhaps another time.\"\n\nOften, at the barn, inside the mare's warm stall, or walking the windy streets of my neighborhood, I imagined my father's return. But I no longer really believed in it. When I'd put those letters in his suitcase, when I'd hinted to him about her trip to Istanbul, I'd certainly imagined consequences, but only as they pertained to her\u2014not to me.\n\nMore than once that winter, I had the feeling, the suspicion, and the dread, that soon there would be no one left for my mother and me to blame, not a single soul, but each other.\n\n## 22\n\nSITTING IN THE WAITING ROOM OF THE TURKISH HOSPITAL, while Simone can be heard screaming from an examining room, Grace sits stunned alongside Paige and the other women, all of them still in evening clothes, extravagantly smeared with blood and oil.\n\nThey do not speak, only look at one another from time to time with expressions of shock and wonderment. A headache creeps up on Grace, a remnant of the liquor, a little drumbeat behind her eyes, and she folds and refolds her one remaining glove, shaking her head at the floor. The drive back to the city was chaotic, and without the benefit of good lighting it's unclear whether Simone's injuries are minor or traumatic. Somewhere in between, it turns out. When they arrive in the bare-bulb brightness of the hospital, Paige goes immediately to call Ali from a pay phone, so that he can come down and bully the on-duty doctors.\n\nThey make quite a picture\u2014Paige points this out as she comes back down the hallway\u2014all of them standing around in their ruined gowns. Like refugees, she says, from a fancy dress ball in a horror film.\n\nIn time Ali arrives in his usual manner, sweeping in with his luxurious bag, wearing a cashmere coat over crisp, striped pajamas. He leaves his car running outside and throws his keys to the doctor in charge, who scrambles like a lackey to park it, with no indication of having been insulted.\n\nAli comes out from behind the curtained partition within a few moments of having gone in, his expression a little wry. Grace has not laid eyes on him in some time, not since she'd visited him with Firdis in tow and Firdis had refused to let him examine her, because she considered it improper. \"These women,\" he'd said to Grace that day in his waiting room, \"they are like children. They do not know up from not.\"\n\nHe nods gravely in Grace's direction and addresses himself to Paige. He speaks quietly and uses his hands to touch his face gently, indicating here, and here. The two consult inaudibly, until Grace rises from her seat and walks over, whereupon Ali turns to her and says, \"I am saying that your friend is very excitable and will not let the doctors very close to her. But there is some damage, mainly to the teeth, which will have to be dealt with by a specialist. Something else may be fractured as well, but she will not agree to let us use the machinery.\" His voice is deep and smooth, like the sound of mahogany. \"Mrs. Tremblay is very upset. Distraught, I think, is the word I want in English. I've given her a tablet and will drive her home myself.\"\n\nHe bows a little at the waist. \"It is quite an evening you ladies have had. I'm very appreciative my own wife was not included in your plans.\"\n\nGrace takes his arm before he leaves, drawing him aside, suddenly aware of the bright, unflattering light and the disreputable state of her clothes. She hears herself speak urgently: \"I feel just awful. It was a dreadful accident. Is she very angry?\"\n\nAli regards her curiously. \"I hear Rand is traveling again. I am glad he is feeling better. You must be relieved.\"\n\nGrace nods absently. \"Thank you for everything you've done for us. You've been very kind. She'll be all right, won't she? Simone.\"\n\n\"Fine, I think,\" he says. \"May I give you a piece of advice?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\" She folds her arms.\n\nHe hesitates before speaking. \"Bahar has told me about your friendship with the riding instructor. I know it is not my concern, but...in either case, I think you should be careful with this man. Bahar herself feels that perhaps she is responsible for this matter. That she has facilitated this situation by her introductions, by saying to him how fond she is of you, how you have been lonely here and in need of companionship. She has been very distressed about it.\"\n\nGrace stares at him stupidly. In the hall where they stand, some orderlies are making a racket; they push an empty gurney between them, arguing. The blue sheets catch in the wheels. Grace and Ali step back, automatically, as if synchronized. \"There is nothing to be concerned about,\" she says. \"Nothing at all.\"\n\nAli inclines his head. \"As you say. But I thought I would mention it.\"\n\nWhen he turns to go, she puts a hand on his arm. \"What has happened to Firdis's baby?\" she asks. \"Why didn't he go to Germany with Bahar? That was our arrangement.\"\n\nAli shakes his head at her and presses his lips together. \"Your friend has a baby now, yes?\"\n\n\"It's very strange, Ali. Is this baby you've given her...is it healthy?\"\n\nAli seems to think for a moment. \"There are many children. One is very like another. Your friend is pleased, I think?\" Then he moves his hands, as if to indicate a shuffling of papers, some bureaucratic necessity. \"There was some uproar in the family, I believe. You know this Kemal? The boy Simone calls John? A very angry young man. Very unpleasant. At the last moment there had to be some reorganization. Not to worry.\"\n\nHe turns then and goes, strangely elegant in his nighttime ensemble. Something about his carriage and dress suggests the nineteenth century, some dense and antiquated Russian novel. Grace remains standing where he's left her, her eyes on the door, unseeing and unfocused. Simone comes out a few moments later, her face swathed in bandages up to the eyes, throwing off the arm of a male doctor who is trying to assist her. Paige steps forward and they disappear outside together. Simone does not look once at Grace, and truth be told, Grace is somewhat relieved.\n\nAs they drive home together later through the quieted streets, Paige says, \"I suppose this was not the best idea I've ever had.\"\n\n\"I don't think this could have been anticipated,\" Grace says, wearily.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. No intelligent person goes handing out weapons with Simone around.\"\n\n\"Are you making a joke?\" says Grace.\n\n\"I suppose I am,\" she replies. \"Not in good taste, I know. Still. A little levity never hurts.\"\n\n\"Do you think Bahar handed Ahmet off to me when she was finished with him?\"\n\n\"The way Simone passes that houseboy around?\" Paige says. \"That's more it, I think. I would like to know why you hit her, if you don't mind.\"\n\nGrace, staring out the window, cannot summon the energy to respond. The car begins to chug down into Gasi Osman Pa\u015fa; Grace feels the customary lurch in her stomach.\n\n\"How did Simone end up with John anyway?\"\n\n\"I believe I arranged that. If I remember correctly. He's related to your Firdis, you know. I believe she's his mother.\"\n\nOutside, the darkened windows shops go by, and traffic, in a blur of streaky yellowy light. Grace gathers her single glove and her bag on her lap. She says, \"It's a little Alice down the rabbit hole, living with all you people.\"\n\n\"I expect so,\" says Paige. \"I'd think it would be infuriating.\"\n\n\"That's very much the case,\" says Grace.\n\nThey share a wintry silence for a few moments, then Paige looks up and says, \"It's not as bad as you think. That Catherine was never really his sort, you know. I really think much of it was her doing, terrible though it is to say. Encouraging him and so forth, making up stories to entertain Canada. I certainly know Simone thinks so.\"\n\nThe car eases to a halt and Grace opens the door and climbs out. She leans her head back inside before the car can pull away. \"I'm wondering, is there anything you don't have your hand in? Anything you don't orchestrate? It's funny; I used to think Rand was sneaky.\"\n\n\"Oh, Grace,\" Paige says, \"don't be melodramatic. It doesn't suit you at all.\" And then with a noise of exasperation she reaches out her gloved hand to pull the door closed. \"You're letting in the cold,\" she says. \"And besides, hasn't there been enough upset for one evening? Let's call it a night.\"\n\nWholly unsatisfied, reeling a little from the accumulated horrors, Grace makes her way upstairs and lets herself into the apartment. In the living room she takes from her bag and rereads the letter she received from Edie that very morning\u2014the contents have confirmed her nagging suspicions. Doctors have been consulted, Edie writes, and they all agree. Simply: the baby is not healthy, it is not perfect; it is not the child they were promised, or paid for. For this Edie and Greg blame her squarely. And what, they ask her, is she going to do about it?\n\nA WEEK later, purely by chance, Grace runs into John on Tunali Hilmi near a fruit seller. She hasn't seen him since that day she'd passed him on the street walking to Simone's, when she'd been so astonished to find everything going on just as usual.\n\n\"I saw you in Istanbul,\" she says without preamble. \"Why?\"\n\nHe stands without shifting; his hands are empty of packages and he makes his body quite still. Though it's broad daylight, he seems adequately menacing. A moment or two go by like this and then, surprisingly, he shrugs and the threat falls away. \"I was watching,\" he says.\n\n\"What is it to you what I do?\"\n\nNearby, a woman dawdles over apricots; she turns them over in a broad, hefting hand. The merchant approaches, dark and suspicious. The honking and blare of traffic form a solid wall behind them; it's difficult to hear and as always he speaks softly.\n\n\"You treat my things with such disdain,\" he says. \"My family; co\u00e7ukllarimiz; the things that belong to my country. This was no longer acceptable to me.\"\n\n\"What did you want?\"\n\n\"You think American dollars can buy anything\u2014whiskey, cigarettes, our children. My family is not for sale. I would have told you this. Also, perhaps I wanted to frighten you.\"\n\n\"Ne i\u00e7in? You did frighten me. And what about the girl? Catherine. What did you do to her?\"\n\n\"That girl,\" he says quietly. \"That girl has too much imagination. Too much bad feeling. I do not think it is normal to hate a mother like this.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know about that,\" Grace says. But part of her, she can't deny it, wants to believe him\u2014to ascribe it all to Catherine, as Simone had so easily done: to think her too advanced, too calculating, too manipulative and ripe.\n\nHe bends at the waist then, but minimally. \"Tamam,\" he says. \"We are finished here, I think.\"\n\n\"Kemal?\" she says as he turns. \"Why don't you tell your mother where her baby is?\"\n\nHe stares at her for a moment, as if the suggestion is quite extraordinary.\n\n\"O kad\u0131n,\" he says with disgust. \"She does not deserve to know this. She has the money she wanted, your American money. She will have to suffer the consequences of her actions. This was not done for her.\"\n\nNearby, the argument over apricots grows heated. Grace steps aside to make room for it.\n\n\"Perhaps I shall tell her.\"\n\n\"I do not think so,\" he says. \"It will make no difference to you. What do you people care for children? I have seen the way you treat your own. It is not a thing to admire.\"\n\n\"Would it have been different if the baby had been a girl? Would that have changed anything?\"\n\nShe has the impression that she's boring him. \"I do not wish to talk to you in 'ifs,'\" he says. And then, quickly, he is gone, swallowed up in the crowds.\n\nShe would not see him again.\n\nOF COURSE, Grace learns, Catherine had never been part of John's plan. No, he'd had other, more important business to attend to in Istanbul. It was John, of course, who'd called Paige about Catherine and she who had mentioned that Grace was in Istanbul. But that is really the least of it.\n\n\"He went to the orphanage on the day Bahar was picking up the child,\" Paige tells her later, reluctantly, when Grace finally has the courage to go over to her house and insist on some answers. Grace has found her in the kitchen, doing some baffling thing with raw chicken and pottery.\n\n\"Who knows how he figured it out?\" Paige says. She is chopping eggplant ferociously on the counter. \"He's a clever boy. Anyway, he made such a scene. He frightened everyone. Not Bahar, of course, but those other women. They operate on such a shoestring anyway and he was making all kinds of threats. He wanted the baby. My brother, he kept saying. Give me my brother. Bahar was very annoyed as you can imagine. Very annoyed indeed. Anyway, from what I understand, it got ugly\u2014lots of shouting and yelling. Talk about the police, the authorities.\"\n\n\"So Bahar gave him the baby?\"\n\nPaige looks at Grace over her shoulder. \"Of course she did. She doesn't need this kind of trouble. She needed a baby. Firdis's baby or another one. It didn't much matter.\"\n\n\"But why,\" says Grace, \"why...?\" she trails off, unable to say the words aloud. Edie's accusations still haunt her. We were all misled, Grace has protested in a final, desperate letter, we were all taken in. She's received no reply.\n\n\"That I don't know,\" Paige says. She waves a hand; the knife makes big, shining arcs in the air. \"Perhaps it seemed to the women at the orphanage an easy way to get rid of one of them. Imperfect babies aren't adoptable in the traditional sense. There was so much upset. She needed a baby, they gave her one. She didn't ask a lot of questions.\"\n\n\"Jesus.\"\n\n\"You can say that again.\" Paige scrapes a load of vegetables and chicken parts into the clay pot. \"Guve\u00e7,\" she says, gesturing toward all this with the knife. \"The lid actually bakes right onto the pot. You crack it open with a hammer at the end. It's wonderful. Very dramatic.\"\n\n\"You're having a party?\"\n\n\"Just a small one. Very small. Listen, Grace, I think Bahar feels terrible about this. I know she does.\"\n\n\"So she'll take the baby back? Give Edie her money?\"\n\nPaige laughs. \"Not quite that terrible,\" she says. \"It isn't that kind of business, you know. No seven-day-return policy. No store credit. That's why it's so important you trust who you're doing business with. I'd say it's really the most important thing.\"\n\nGrace looks around the room. The unapologetic film of grease across the lemon-colored counters, which has always struck her as charming and liberated, suddenly seems merely filthy. A creamy cat twines insistently through her ankles, making its terrible Siamese yowl. She gives it a small nudge with her shoe.\n\n\"I'm going to go,\" she says.\n\n\"Are you sure?\" Paige calls; now her head is deep inside a kitchen closet. \"I know I had a hammer somewhere. One of those small ones. Ahmet is coming. Maybe Bahar as well. Just a few people. You're welcome to stay.\"\n\n\"Thank you, no.\" Grace lets herself out the front door and stands in the tiny courtyard in front of the overgrown house. She turns back just once from the sidewalk to look: the kitchen windows glow with warm light, the ivy on the facade is illuminated with blinking strings of leftover Christmas bulbs, there is smoke from the chimney in the living room, that pretty, cozy room in which she has laughed and dozed and had her fortune told\u2014inaccurately, it seems\u2014far too many times to count.\n\nShe turns away and begins walking. It will be three blocks before she can get a taxi. She wishes she'd had Kadir bring her; she wishes she'd worn a heavier coat.\n\nIN THE end, Catherine was sent away to boarding school. Switzerland, I think, though it may have been France. We would hear things in later years, through the usual murky channels: that she'd run off again, sometimes with more success; that longish periods of time would pass without word of her whereabouts. We heard about psychiatric hospitals, drugs and promiscuity, violence, wild behavior. Times had changed by then, and no one, least of all my mother, seemed surprised.\n\nIn short order Simone left Ankara\u2014she refused to have her face attended to by barbarians in a backward foreign country. This was commonly known and much repeated among women in my mother's circle.\n\nSimone and Catherine's father would divorce, of course, but that was later. For a time he stayed on after Simone had gone, finishing up his business, living in the bare, evacuated rooms, and sometimes I would walk down the hill in the evening and stand in front of their apartment building: a few lights still glowed inside.\n\nOn the street, hearing the dogs in the distance, and the children shrieking on the sledding hill, I stood in the black, tossing shadow of a pine and stared up at the second-story windows. Sometimes I could almost imagine Catherine was still in there, that I might climb those stairs and find that odd interior landscape entirely preserved: John in the kitchen, fussing quietly; Catherine, with her saved-up stories, surrounded by the frilly, outgrown trappings of her room, waiting for my arrival, and even Simone, out of view but still silent and knowing, everywhere and nowhere at once.\n\nOccasionally I stood at the crest of the hill and watched the Turkish children sledding down the rough slope. I lurked, half hidden behind the eroding mound of coal, and studied their masked and bundled faces, thinking I might recognize one or another of them\u2014the boys who stole our sled perhaps, a girl who had once smiled at us, shyly.\n\nBut in truth, once Catherine was gone, I found I did not miss her nearly as much as I had when she had lived just a steep block away, when our broken friendship had seemed like an ever-present tragedy. Suddenly, it was almost as if she'd never existed, and I could pretend I'd done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.\n\nIt was the beauty of disappearing people\u2014surely my mother knew it\u2014the way you could rewrite things as you preferred, recast yourself in the action; you could make yourself fresh, innocent, blameless. And you would, wouldn't you? Would there be any other choice?\n\nWHEN PAIGE calls at last, Grace goes. She's been half expecting it for some time\u2014since Edie's letter, since the disaster with Simone, since Bahar has suddenly become so completely unavailable. Grace has not been able to reach her, not once, since she spoke with Paige that evening.\n\nShe sits with them at a table in the basement of the embassy\u2014the windowless room is stark, crammed with particle-board furniture and stacks of boxes\u2014and reads the paper they hand over. Official-looking, with that all-too-familiar seal.\n\nThere's a copy, too, of an interview they've done with Edie. Grace glances up once at Paige. Edie's account is quite detailed and almost entirely accurate, signed and witnessed. It might make Grace laugh, on another occasion, to see how her role has been maximized. How clever she seems in their documents, how important and manipulating. She'd be impressed with herself, really, to have been capable of stage-managing all this. She sees Greg's scrawl at the bottom as well, next to Edie's familiar looping signature.\n\nGrace reads it all slowly, paying no attention to the faces watching her around the room. She looks up finally and meets their eyes.\n\n\"Simone?\" she says. \"Or John?\"\n\n\"One or the other,\" Paige says, shrugging. \"It's hard to know.\"\n\nAnd though Grace doesn't believe her, not at all, it seems unimportant: both of them would certainly have had reasons to betray her.\n\n\"What happens to the baby now?\"\n\nPaige looks surprised. \"I haven't the slightest idea. Does it matter?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. So where is Rand? I'm sure he can help straighten this out. I assume you've been in touch with him.\"\n\n\"The thing is, Grace, I can't really say where he is. I thought perhaps you might be able to tell us.\"\n\n\"Oh, you,\" Grace says. \"For God's sake. Spare me.\" And then she puts the papers down. Though she wants very much to tear them to bits and drop the shreds on the table in front of her. \"So what about Bahar and Ali?\"\n\nPaige, in her official capacity now, suddenly looks sympathetic; she reaches a spotted, ringless hand across the table. \"The thing is, they insist you leave the country immediately. The Turks. This kind of business smells very bad to them. It isn't at all modern, if you know what I mean.\" She adjusts her glasses. \"Ali, as you know, is a very prominent physician in Ankara. Very well regarded. He's told them this was all a terrible mistake, that he was badly misled.\"\n\n\"Of course he did. So what about my husband? Where is he?\"\n\n\"Well, frankly,\" says Paige, sighing, \"I'd have expected you to come to us much sooner. I thought perhaps you knew something we didn't. We presumed some marital trouble, something private. Those pills you've been taking, Grace...well, maybe you haven't been thinking clearly. And that ugly business with Simone. Everything else. Of course, I haven't wanted to pry. But if there's anything, now would be the time to tell us. Has he left you? It does happen.\"\n\n\"No,\" she says, uncertainly, \"he hasn't. Of course not. He's away.\"\n\nPaige lifts her hands helplessly. The small movement puts Grace, for a moment, in mind of Ahmet. \"You see, Grace, the thing is...we didn't send Rand away on assignment. Not any that I know of.\" She pauses and looks around the room. The men, five or so of them, with their stiff uniforms and practiced expressions, stare off into distances Grace cannot imagine. \"When you said he was gone, I assumed, well...I assumed you were making it up.\"\n\n\"That's nonsense,\" Grace says. \"The phone rang. The phone rang and he left. You knew. You've known all along.\"\n\nPaige shrugs, as though Grace has defeated her with some ancient, insoluble riddle.\n\n\"Oh, I see,\" Grace says, looking around at the men. She knows every one of them, but cannot recognize a single face. \"I'm crazy? Is that it? Delusional? Hopped up on drugs? How utterly perfect.\"\n\nFor a long moment, Grace hears just the noise of papers moving, of fabric against fabric as someone adjusts his legs beneath the table. A man flicks a silver lighter, over and over and then stops abruptly, leaving a hole, a kind of caesura, in the strange, tuneless music of the room. There's the smell of mildew and the noxious heat from the rattling radiators. Breathing, a subdued cough, a car backfiring in another world, somewhere outside.\n\n\"I wouldn't blame myself if I were you, Grace,\" Paige says at last.\n\nAs she stood and efficiently gathered the papers, as the men shuffled and shoved back their chairs, Paige had said, Say whatever makes you comfortable, Grace, but please understand our position, won't you? We can't let this go on indefinitely. Something must be said. There will have to be paperwork. Of course, we'll keep you informed.\n\nAs one of the men opened the door for her (as if, she thought, he were ushering out a disease), Paige said quietly. \"Consider seeing someone when you get home, will you, Grace? A doctor maybe? Someone to talk to?\"\n\nNo one says anything more; she couldn't have expected they would.\n\nTheir eyes were on her, all of them, as she left the room.\n\nDriving away from the embassy, Grace thinks again and again of one small thing: the way Rand had asked her, before he'd gone, if she would be all right, and how it had every quality of a question that didn't want an answer. Of course she'd heard that tone before, and used it herself with Canada from time to time as she hesitated at the door, on her way out for the evening. Anything Grace might have said to him in response that December morning, anything remotely truthful, would have seemed petty and contentious\u2014and he'd always thought her too free with such childish maneuvers.\n\nSo, of course she'd said to him, yes, in an indifferent tone of her own, as people did.\n\nI DON'T think Edie would have cooperated with them, had it not turned out the way it did; had the baby not been, in Aynur's strangely apt parlance, broken.\n\nMy mother formed one resolution at the embassy, while she was reading their documents and their accusations, conscious of the eyes that were evaluating her, of the net drawing in so neatly around her. It came to her before she'd even looked up from the papers. Now she'd be free to choose an ending that better suited her, one she found more consoling. Who was there to disagree? Not a single soul was left.\n\nSo she travels home through the Ankara traffic, and in the backseat weaves the threads that will become, in time, the story as we choose to understand it. An accounting of our family, of my father's disappearance, and of the impossibility of his return. After all, I knew\u2014didn't I?\u2014that tragic things happened every day, in every part of the world, and he might well have been in the middle of any of these, so shrouded was his life, his undertakings, his duties. He becomes just another casualty of our year in Turkey, his death likely, but unconfirmed\u2014in some distant place, under circumstances that could not be explained.\n\nAnd in some ways I will prefer the explanation she builds for me, and even the way she is implicated within it. That morning she must have contemplated our future and the uncertain path that lay ahead of us: what would she do now, my mother, where would she take us? How would we live outside the close and sheltering world we'd always bucked against, but always known? We would be suddenly, in all ways, unmoored, ill equipped, stark naked.\n\nShe tips her head against the icy glass of the car window, thinking. And this fabrication will seem to her\u2014on the streets of a chilled winter morning in Ankara, watching a tired human parade that she is suddenly, unwillingly, a part of\u2014like some tepid consolation. It is a bedtime story to soothe a child, and seems like the very least she can do.\n\nSo this is the way my mother comes to rewrite the ending for both of us, and to concoct a fable about our lives, one that is, perversely, more palatable than the truth, more prettily made.\n\nEVEN TODAY I can almost see her as she was that morning: sitting behind Kadir for the last time, upright against the vinyl seat, a clutch purse on her lap, her profile both hopeful and resigned. She is impossible to love, but lovely in her way. And there will be latitude, life being what it is. We will each think we catch sight of him from time to time, in unlikely places, in impossible cities, on certain fantastical days. The edge of a coat vanishing around a building; a dark car slowing past the house, lingering overlong at the corner; a man in the parking garage holding a dated gray suitcase, his back turned as he fumbles for keys.\n\nFor a time my mother stands on the sidewalk near the construction site\u2014not much improved in this long, long year\u2014holding her scarf at her neck and looking across the low wall of the vineyard. Snow is falling, coating the dormant arbors and heaping up in painstaking concentration on each gnarled vine; and on the far side, past the whitening rows, the hill drops down to the Tremblays' old street and beyond that to Tunali Hilmi and the bakery and the gold merchants, the shabby little park and the improbably regal swans. She fingers the scripted pendant at her throat, and pulls the scarf down from her neck into her hand. Kadir waits with soldierlike bearing at the car, with his mustache and his fraying cuffs; reliable, ever patient. From the window above, I watch her shoulders whiten, as if she is being slowly covered in ashes; the crimson scarf the single flash of color in this endless gray and alabaster landscape. Suddenly, even Kadir is only an aging statue beside the car and I wonder: is this strange, familiar scene already fading in her mind?\n\nWatch: she is walking toward the door now to face me, rehearsing this new ending, preparing to tell me her story. She disappears under the awning without glancing up. A woman who is suddenly small in this picture, in this city, this world; she is a million miles from home, walking away from one life and toward another, dragging a red scarf.\n\nI hear the lobby door, her little heels on the marble stairs, unhurried but committed, and I know she is coming to tell me what has happened to us.\n\nWait, I would still call to her if I could...wait.\n\n## Also by BETH HELMS\n\nAmerican Wives\n\n## Acknowledgments\n\nMuch is owed to the people and animals who tolerantly share their lives with a moody, difficult, psychologically untidy writer: Gary, Lauren, Lindsay and Jessie-Cat, Gulliver, B. and C. I treasure each one of you.\n\nAll writers need readers and questioners; mine have been Karen S., Dana K., Michelle Z., Rene U. As well as teachers, touchstones and fellow writers: Diane Seessel, Nance Van Winckel, Francois Camoin, Kate Walbert, Peter Rock, Robin Hemley, Ralph Angel.\n\nI am grateful also to my tribe of walking and riding companions; together we've covered untold miles: Jody, Marty-Ann, Annette, Samantha, Elizabeth S., Heather, LisaClaire, and Surrya. E. M. Traynor was also promised she would find her name here; Peter Griffin wasn't, but he shouldn't be surprised. Thanks also to Tracy Stone-Manning, whose reappearance in my life has been an unforeseen blessing.\n\nMy thanks also to Aybars Ortan, for gently reminding me how much Turkish I've forgotten\u2014and correcting it.\n\nMostly, I am fortunate beyond measure to have had this book land in the care of my editor and friend, Sam Douglas, whose patience, guidance and wit have brought this story into coherence (and for whom I blame everything), and I am indebted to my agent, the always wise and kindly Chris Calhoun, who lies eloquently, consistently, on my behalf. And to the ever-gracious Frances Coady and all the good people at Picador.\nDERVISHES. Copyright \u00a9 2008 by Beth Helms. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.\n\nwww.picadorusa.com\n\nPicador\u00ae is a U.S. registered trademark and is used by St. Martin's Press under license from Pan Books Limited.\n\nFor information on Picador Reading Group Guides, please contact Picador.  \nE-mail: readinggroupguides@picadorusa.com\n\nISBN: 978-1-4299-3994-2\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by David Widger from page scans generously provided\nby Google Books\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE COMIC ENGLISH GRAMMAR:\n\nA NEW AND FACETIOUS INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH TONGUE.\n\nBy Percival Leigh\n\nEmbellished with upwards of forty-five Characteristic Illustrations By\nJohn Leech.\n\n1845.\n\n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.\n\nFashion {003}requires, and like the rest of her sex, requires because\nshe requires, that before a writer begins the business of his book, he\nshould give an account to the world of his reasons for producing it; and\ntherefore, to avoid singularity, we shall proceed with the statement of\nour own, excepting only a few private ones, which are neither here nor\nthere.\n\nTo advance the interests of mankind by promoting the cause of Education;\nto ameliorate the conversation of the masses; to cultivate Taste, and\ndiffuse Refinement; these are the objects we have in view in submitting\na Comic English Grammar to the patronage of a discerning Public.\n\nFew persons there are, whose ears are so extremely obtuse, as not to\nbe frequently annoyed at the violations of Grammar by which they are so\noften assailed. It is really painful to be forced, in walking along the\nstreets, to hear such phrases as, \"That 'ere omnibus.\"\n\n\"Where've you bin?\"\n\n\"Vot's the odds?\" and the like. Very dreadful expressions are also used\nby cartmen and others in addressing their horses. What can possibly\ninduce a human being to say \"Gee woot!\"\n\n\"'Mather way!\" or \"Woa not to mention the atrocious \"Kim aup!\" of the\nbarbarous butcher's boy.\n\nIt is notorious that the above and greater enormities are perpetrated\nin spite of the number of Grammars already before the world. This fact\nsufficiently excuses the present addition to the stock; and as serious\nEnglish Grammars have hitherto failed to effect the desired reformation,\nwe are induced to attempt it by means of a Comic one.\n\nWith regard to the moral tendency of our labors, we may be here\npermitted to remark, that they will tend, if successful, to the\nsuppression of _evil speaking _; and as the Spartans used to exhibit\na tipsy slave to their children with a view to disgust them with\ndrunkenness, so we, by giving a few examples here and there, of\nincorrect phraseology, shall expose, in their naked deformity, the vices\nof speech to the ingenious reader.\n\nThe {004}comical mind, like the jaundiced eye, views everything\nthrough a  medium. Such a mind is that of the generality of our\ncountrymen. We distinguish even the nearest ties of relationship by\nfacetious names. A father is called \"dad,\" or \"poppa;\" an uncle, \"nunkey\nand a wife, a \"rib,\" or more pleasantly still, as in the advertisements\nfor situations, \"an encumbrance.\"\n\nWe will not allow a man to give an old woman a dose of rhubarb if he\nhave not acquired at least half a dozen sciences; but we permit a\nquack to sell as much poison as he pleases. When one man runs away with\nanother's wife, and, being on that account challenged to fight a duel,\nshoots the aggrieved party through the head, the latter is said to\nreceive _satisfaction_.\n\nWe never take a glass of wine at dinner without getting somebody else to\ndo the same, as if we wanted encouragement; and then, before we venture\nto drink, we bow to each other across the table, preserving all the\nwhile a most wonderful gravity. This, however, it may be said, is the\nnatural result of endeavoring to keep one another in countenance.\n\nThe way in which we imitate foreign manners and customs is very amusing.\nSavages stick fish-bones through their noses; our fair countrywomen\nhave hoops of metal poked through their ears. The Caribs flatten\nthe forehead; the Chinese compress the foot; and we possess similar\ncontrivances for reducing the figure of a young lady to a resemblance to\nan hour-glass or a devil-on-two-sticks.\n\nThere being no other assignable motive for these and the like\nproceedings, it is reasonable to suppose that they are adopted, as\nschoolboys say, \"for fun.\"\n\nWe could go on, were it necessary, adducing facts to an almost unlimited\nextent; but we consider that enough has now been said in proof of the\ncomic character of the national mind. And in conclusion, if any other\nthan an English or American author can be produced, equal in point of\nwit, humor, and drollery, to Swift, Sterne, Dickens, or Paulding, we\nhereby engage to eat him; albeit we have no pretensions to the character\nof a \"helluo librorum.\"\n\n\"English {005}Grammar,\" according to Lindley Murray, \"is the art of\nspeaking and writing the English language with propriety.\"\n\nThe English language, written and spoken with propriety, is commonly\ncalled the King's English.\n\nA monarch, who, three or four generations back, occupied the English\nthrone, is reported to have said, \"If beebles will be boets, they must\nsdarve.\" This was a rather curious specimen of \"King's English.\" It\nis, however, a maxim of English law, that \"the King can do no wrong.\"\nWhatever bad English, therefore, may proceed from the royal mouth, is\nnot \"King's English,\" but \"Minister's English,\" for which they alone-are\nresponsible.\n\nKing's English (or perhaps, under existing circumstances it should\nbe called, _Queen's_ English) is the current coin of conversation, to\nmutilate which, and unlawfully to _utter_ the same, is called _clipping_\nthe King's English; a high crime and misdemeanor. Clipped English, or\nbad English, is one variety of Comic {006}English, of which we shall\nadduce instances hereafter.\n\nSlipslop, or the erroneous substitution of one word for another, as\n\"prodigy\" for \"protegee,\" \"derangement\" for \"arrangement,\" \"exasperate\"\nfor \"aspirate,\" and the like, is another.\n\n[Illustration: 015]\n\nSlang, which consists in cant words and phrases, as \"dodge\" for\n\"sly trick,\" \"no go\" for \"failure,\" and \"camey\" \"to flatter,\" may be\nconsidered a third.\n\nLatinised English, or Fine English, sometimes assumes the character\nof Comic English, especially when applied to the purposes of\ncommon discourse; as {007}\"Extinguish the luminary,\" \"Agitate the\ncoramunicator,\" \"Are your corporeal functions in a condition of\nsalubrity?\" \"A sable visual orb,\" \"A sanguinary nasal protuberance.\"\n\nAmerican English is Comic English in a \"_pretty particular considerable\ntarnation_\" degree.\n\nEnglish Grammar is divided into four parts-Orthography, Etymology,\nSyntax, and Prosody; and as these are points that a good grammarian\nalways stands upon, he, particularly when a pedant, and consequently\nsomewhat _flat_, may very properly be compared to a table.\n\n\n\n\nPART I. ORTHOGRAPHY.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. OF THE NATURE OF THE LETTERS, AND OF A COMIC ALPHABET.\n\nOrthography is like a schoolmaster, or instructor of youth. It teaches\nus the nature and powers of letters and the right method of spelling\nwords.\n\nComic Orthography teaches us the oddity and absurdities of _letters_,\nand the wrong method of spelling words. The following is an example of\nComic Orthography:--\n\n     islinton foteenth of my {008}Deer jemes febuary 1844.\n\n     wen fust i sawed yu doun the middle and up agin att the bawl\n     i maid Up my Mind to skure you for my oan for i Felt at once\n     that my appiness was at Steak, and a sensashun in my Bussum\n     I coudent no ways accom For. And i said to mary at missis\n     Igginses said i theres the Mann for my money o ses Shee i\n     nose a Sweeter Yung Man than that Air Do you sez i Agin then\n     there we Agree To Differ, and we was sittin by the window\n     and we wos wery Neer fallin Out. my deer gemes Sins that\n     Nite i Ha vent slept a Wink and Wot is moor to the Porpus\n     i'Have quit Lost my Happy tight and am gettin wus and wus\n     witch i Think yu ort to pitty Mee. i am Tolled every Day\n     that ime Gettin Thinner and a Jipsy sed that nothin wood\n     Cure me But a Ring.\n\n     i wos a Long time makin my Mind Up to right to You for of\n     Coarse i Says jemes will think me too forrad but this bein\n     Leep yere i thout ide Make a Plunge, leastways to aUThem as\n     dont Want to Bee old Mades all their blessed lives, so my\n     Deer Jemes if yow want a Pardoner for Better or for wus nows\n     Your Time dont think i Behave despicable for tis my Luv for\n     yu as makes Me take this Stepp.\n\n     please to Burn this Letter when Red and excuse the scralls\n     and Blotches witch is Caused by my Teers i remain till deth\n     Yure on Happy Vallentine\n\n     _jane you No who_.\n\n     poscrip nex sunday Is my sunday out And i shall be Att the\n     corner of Wite Street at a quawter pas Sevn. {009}\n\n     Wen This U. C. remember Mee j. g.\n\n[Illustration: 018]\n\nNow, to proceed with Orthography, we may remark, that a letter is the\nleast part of a word.\n\nOf a _comic letter_ an instance has already been given. Dr. Johnson's\nletter to Lord Chesterfield is a capital letter.\n\nThe letters of the Alphabet are the representatives of articulate\nsounds.\n\nThe Alphabet is a Republic of Letters.\n\nThere {010}are many things in this world erroneously as well as vulgarly\ncompared to \"bricks.\" In the case of the letters of the Alphabet,\nhowever, the comparison is just; they constitute the fabric of a\nlanguage, and grammar is the mortar. The wonder is that there should be\nso few of them. The English letters are twenty-six in number. There\nis nothing like beginning at the beginning; and we shall now therefore\nenumerate them, with the view also of rendering their insertion\nsubsidiary to mythological instruction, in conformity with the plan on\nwhich some account of the Heathen Deities and ancient heroes is prefixed\nor subjoined to a Dictionary. We present the reader with a form of\nAlphabet composed in humble imitation of that famous one, which, while\nappreciable by the dullest taste, and level to the meanest capacity,\nis nevertheless that by which the greatest minds have been agreeably\ninducted into knowledge.\n\n\nTHE ALPHABET.\n\nA, was Apollo, the god of the carol,\n\nB, stood for Bacchus, astride on his barrel;\n\nC, for good Ceres, the goddess of grist,\n\nD, was Diana, that wouldn't be kiss'd;\n\nE, was nymph Echo, that pined to a sound,\n\nF, was sweet Flora, with buttercups crown'd;\n\nG, was Jove's pot-boy, young Ganymede hight,\n\nH, was fair Hebe, his barmaid so tight;\n\nI, little Io, turn'd into a cow,\n\nJ, jealous Juno, that spiteful old sow;\n\nK, was Kitty, more lovely than goddess or muse;\n\nL, Lacooon--I wouldn't have been in _his_ shoes! {011}\n\nM, was blue-eyed Minerva, with stockings to match,\n\nN, was Nestor, with grey beard and silvery thatch;\n\nO, was lofty Olympus, King Jupiter's shop,\n\nP, Parnassus, Apollo hung out on its top;\n\nQ, stood for Quirites, the Romans, to wit;\n\nR, for rantipole Roscius, that made such a hit;\n\nS, for Sappho, so famous for felo-de-se,\n\nT, for Thales the wise, F. R. S. and M. D:\n\nU, was crafty Ulysses, so artful a dodger,\n\nV, was hop-a-kick Vulcan, that limping old codger;\n\nWenus-Venus I mean-with a W begins,\n\n(Veil, if I ham a Cockney, wot need of your grins?)\n\nX, was Xantippe, the scratch-cat and shrew,\n\nY, I don't know what Y was, whack me if I do!\n\nZ was Zeno the Stoic, Zenobia the clever,\n\nAnd Zoilus the critic, whose fame lasts forever.\n\n\nLetters are divided into Vowels and Consonants.\n\nThe vowels are capable of being perfectly uttered by themselves.\nThey are, as it were, independent members of the Alphabet, and like\nindependent members elsewhere, form a small minority. The vowels are _a,\ne, i, o, u_, and sometimes _w_ and _y_.\n\nAn I. O. U. is a more pleasant thing to have, than it is to give.\n\nA blow in the stomach is very likely to W up.\n\nW is a consonant when it begins a word, as \"Wicked\n\nWill Wiggins whacked his wife with a whip but in every other place it\nis a vowel, as crawling, drawling, sawney, screwing, Jew. Y follows the\nsame rule.\n\nA consonant is an articulate sound; but, like an old bachelor, if it\nexists alone, it exists to no purpose.\n\n[Illustration: 021]\n\nIt {012}cannot be perfectly uttered without the aid of a vowel; and even\nthen the vowel has the greatest share in the production of the sound.\nThus a vowel joined to a consonant becomes, so to speak, a \"better\nhalf:\" or at all events very strongly resembles one.\n\nA dipthong is the union of two vowels in one sound, as ea in heavy, eu\nin Meux, ou in stout.\n\nA tripthong is a similar union of three vowels, as _eau_ in the word\nbeau; a term applied to dandies, and addressed to geese: probably\nbecause they are birds of a feather.\n\nA proper dipthong is that in which the sound is formed by both the\nvowels: as, aw in awkward, ou in lout.\n\nAn {013}improper dipthong is that in which the sound is formed by one of\nthe vowels only, as ea in heartless, oa in hoax.\n\nAccording to our notions there are a great many improper dipthongs in\ncommon use. By improper dipthongs we mean vowels unwarrantably dilated\ninto dipthongs, and dipthongs mispronounced, in defiance of good\nEnglish.\n\nFor instance, the rustics and dandies say,\n\n\"Loor! whaut a foine gaal! Moy oy!\"\n\n\"Whaut a precious soight of crows!\"\n\n\"As I was a cornin' whoam through the corn fiddles (fields) I met Willum\nJones.\"\n\n\"I sor (saw) him.\"\n\n\"Dror (draw) it out.\"\n\n\"Hold your jor (jaw).\"\n\n\"I caun't. You shaun't. How's your Maw and Paw? Do you like taut\n(tart)?\"\n\nWe have heard young ladies remark,--\n\n\"Oh, my! What a naice young man!\"\n\n\"What a bee--eautiful day!\"\n\n\"Im so fond of dayncing!\"\n\nAgain, dandies frequently exclaim,--\n\n\"I'm postively tiawed (tired).\"\n\n\"What a sweet tempaw! (temper).\"\n\n\"How daughty (dirty) the streets au!\"\n\nAnd they also call,--\n\nLiterature, \"literetchah.\"\n\nPerfectly, \"pawfacly.\"\n\nDisgusted, \"disgasted.\"\n\nSky, \"ske--eye.\"\n\nBlue, \"ble--ew.\"\n\nWe might here insert a few remarks on the nature of {014}the human\nvoice, and of the mechanism by means of which articulation is performed;\nbut besides our dislike to prolixity, we are afraid of getting _down in\nthe mouth_, and thereby going the _wrong way_ to please our readers.\nWe may nevertheless venture to invite attention to a few comical\npeculiarities in connection with articulate sounds.\n\nAhem! at the commencement of a speech, is a sound agreeably droll.\n\nThe vocal comicalities of the infant in arms are exceedingly laughable,\nbut we are unfortunately unable to spell them.\n\nThe articulation of the Jew is peculiarly ridiculous. The \"peoplesh\" are\nbadly spoken of, and not well spoken.\n\nBawling, croaking, hissing, whistling, and grunting, are elegant vocal\naccomplishments.\n\nLisping, as, thweet, Dthooliur, thawming, kweechau, is by some\nconsidered interesting, by others absurd.\n\nBut of all the sounds which proceed from the human mouth, by far the\nfunniest are Ha! ha! ha!--Ho! ho! ho! and He! he! he!\n\n[Illustration: 023]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. OF SYLLABLES.\n\nSyllable {015}is a nice word, it sounds so much like syllabub!\n\nA syllable, whether it constitute a word or part of a word, is a sound,\neither simple or compound, produced by one effort of the voice, as, \"O!\nwhat, a lark!--Here, we, are!\"\n\nSpelling is the art of putting together the letters which compose a\nsyllable, or the syllables which compose a word.\n\n[Illustration: 024]\n\nComic spelling is usually the work of imagination.\n\nThe {016}chief rule to be observed in this kind of spelling, is, to\nspell every word as it is pronounced; though the rule is not universally\nobserved by comic spellers. The following example, for the genuineness\nof which we can vouch, is one so singularly apposite, that although we\nhave already submitted a similar specimen of orthography to the\nreader, we are irresistibly tempted to make a second experiment on his\nindulgence. The epistolary curiosity, then, which we shall now proceed\nto transcribe, was addressed by a patient to his medical adviser.\n\n     \"Sir,\n\n     \"My Granmother wos very much trubeld With the Gout and dide\n     with it my father wos also and dide with it when i wos 14\n     years of age i wos in the habbet of Gettin whet feet Every\n     Night by pumping water out of a Celler Wich Cas me to have\n     the tipes fever wich Cas my Defness when i was 23 of age i\n     fell in the Water betwen the ice and i have Bin in the\n     habbet of Gettin wet when traviling i have Bin trubbeld with\n     Gout for seven years\n\n     \"Your most humbel\n\n     \"Servent\n\nAmong the various kinds of spelling may be enumerated spelling for a\nfavor; or giving what is called a broad hint.\n\nCertain rules for the division of words into syllables are laid down\nin some grammars, and we should be very glad to follow the established\nusage, but limited as we are by considerations of comicality and space,\nwe {017}cannot afford to give more than two very general directions. If\nyou do not know how to spell a word, look it out in the dictionary, and\nif you have no dictionary by you, write the word in such a way, that,\nwhile it may be guessed at, it shall not be legible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. OF WORDS IN GENERAL.\n\nThere is no one question that we are aware of more puzzling than this,\n\"What is your opinion of _things_ in general?\" _Words_ in general are,\nfortunately for us, a subject on which the formation of an opinion is\nsomewhat more easy. Words stand for things: they are a sort of counters,\nchecks, bank-notes, and sometimes, indeed, they are _notes_ for which\npeople get a great deal of money. Such words, however, are, alas! not\ngenerally English words, but Italian. Strange! that so much should be\ngiven for a mere song. It is quite clear that the givers, whatever may\nbe their pretensions to a refined or literary taste, must be entirely\nunacquainted with _Words_worth.\n\nFine words are oily enough, and he who uses them is vulgarly said to\n\"cut it fat;\" but for all that it is well known that they will not\nbutter parsnips.\n\nSome say that words are but wind: for this reason, when people are\nhaving words, it is often said, that \"the wind's up.\"\n\nDifferent {018}words please different people. Philosophers are fond\nof hard words; pedants of tough words, long words, and crackjaw words;\nbullies, of rough words; boasters, of big words; the rising generation,\nof slang words; fashionable people, of French words; wits, of sharp\nwords and smart words; and ladies, of nice words, sweet words, soft\nwords, and soothing words; and, indeed, of words in general.\n\nWords (when spoken) are articulate sounds used by common consent as\nsigns of our ideas.\n\nA word of one syllable is called a Monosyllable: as, you, are, a, great,\noaf.\n\nA word of two syllables is named a Dissyllable; as, cat-gut, mu-sic.\n\nA word of three syllables is termed a Trisyllable; as, Mag-net-ism,\nMum-mer-y.\n\nA word of four or more syllables is entitled a Polysyllable; as,\nin-ter-mi-na-ble cir-cum-lo-cu-ti-on, ex-as-pe-ra-ted, func-ti-o-na-ry,\nmet-ro-po-li-tan, ro-tun-di-ty.\n\nWords of more syllables than one are sometimes comically contracted into\none syllable; as, in s'pose for suppose, b'lieve for believe, and 'scuse\nfor excuse: here, perhaps, 'buss, abbreviated from omnibus, deserves to\nbe mentioned.\n\nIn like manner, many long words are elegantly trimmed and shortened;\nas, ornary for ordinary, 'strornary for extraordinary, and curosity for\ncuriosity; to which mysterus for mysterious may also be added.\n\nPolysyllables are an essential element in the sublime, both in poetry\nand in prose; but especially in that {019}species of the sublime which\nborders very closely on the ridiculous; as,\n\n     \"Aldiborontiphoscophormio,\n     Where left's thou Chrononhotonthologos?\n\n[Illustration: 028]\n\nAll words are either primitive or derivative. A primitive word is that\nwhich cannot be reduced to any simpler word in the language; as, brass,\nYork, knave. A derivative word, under the head of which compound words\nare also included, is that which may be reduced to another and a more\nsimple word in the English language; as, brazen, Yorkshire, knavery,\nmud-lark, lighterman. Broadbrim is a derivative word; but it is one\noften applied to a very _primitive_ kind of person.\n\n\n\n\nPART II. ETYMOLOGY.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. A COMICAL VIEW OF THE PARTS OF SPEECH.\n\nEtymology {020}teaches the varieties, modifications, and derivation of\nwords.\n\nThe derivation of words means that which they come from _as words_; for\nwhat they come from _as sounds_, is another matter. Some words come from\nthe heart, and then they are pathetic; others from the nose, in which\ncase they are ludicrous. The funniest place, however, from which words\ncan come is the stomach. By the way, the Mayor would do well to keep a\nventriloquist, from whom, at a moment's notice, he might ascertain the\nvoice of the corporation.\n\nComic Etymology teaches us the varieties, modifications, and derivation,\nof words invested with a comic character.\n\nGrammatically speaking, we say that there are, in English, as many sorts\nof words as a cat is said to have lives, nine; namely, the Article, the\nSubstantive or Noun, the Adjective, the Pronoun, the Verb, the Adverb,\nthe Preposition, the Conjunction, and the Interjection.\n\nComically speaking, there are a great many sorts of words which we have\nnot room enough to particularise j individually. We can therefore only\nafford to classify them. For instance; there are words which are spoken\nin {021}the _Low Countries_, and are _High Dutch_ to persons of quality.\n\nWords in use amongst all those who have to do with horses.\n\nWords that pass between rival cab-men.\n\nWords spoken in a state of intoxication.\n\nWords uttered under excitement.\n\nWords of endearment, addressed by parents to children in arms.\n\nSimilar words, sometimes called burning, tender, soft, and broken words,\naddressed to young ladies, and whispered, lisped, sighed, or drawled,\naccording to circumstances.\n\nWords of honor; as, tailors' words and shoemakers' words; which, like\nthe above-mentioned, or lovers' words, are very often broken.\n\nWith many other sorts of words, which will be readily suggested by the\nreader's fancy.\n\nBut now let us go on with the parts of speech.\n\n1. An Article is a word prefixed to substantives to point them out,\nand to show the extent of their meaning; as, _a_ dandy, _an_ ape, _the_\nsimpleton.\n\nOne kind of comic article is otherwise denominated an oddity, or queer\narticle.\n\nAnother kind of comic article is often to be met with in some of our\nmonthly magazines.\n\n2. A Substantive or Noun is the name of anything that exists, or\nof which we have any notion; as, _tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,\napothecary, ploughboy, thief._\n\nNow the above definition of a substantive is Lindley Murray's, not ours.\nWe mention this, because we have an objection, though, not, perhaps, a\nserious one, to {022}urge against it; for, in the first place, we have\n\"no notion\" of impudence, and yet impudence is a substantive; and, in\nthe second, we invite attention to the following piece of Logic,\n\n     A substantive is something,\n     But nothing is a substantive;\n     Therefore, nothing is something.\n\nA substantive may generally be known by its taking an article before it,\nand by its making sense of itself; as, a _treat_, the _mulligrubs_, an\n_ache_.\n\n3. An Adjective is a word joined to a substantive to denote its quality;\nas a _ragged_ regiment, an _odd_ set.\n\nYou may distinguish an adjective by its making sense with the word\nthing: as, a _poor_ thing, a _sweet_ thing, a _cool_ thing; or with any\nparticular substantive, as a _ticklish_ position, an _awkward_ mistake,\na _strange_ step.\n\n4. A Pronoun is a word used in lieu of a noun, in order to avoid\ntautology: as, \"The man wants calves; _he_ is a lath; _he_ is a\nwalking-stick.''\n\n5. A Verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer: as, I\nam; I calculate; I am fixed.\n\nA verb may usually be distinguished by its making sense with a personal\npronoun, or with the word to before it: as I yell, he grins, they caper;\nor to drink, to smoke, to chew.\n\nFashionable accomplishments!\n\nCertain substantives are, with peculiar elegance, and by persons who\ncall themselves _genteel_, converted into verbs: as, \"Do you _wine?_\"\n\"Will you _liquor?_\"\n\n6. An Adverb is a part of speech which, joined to a verb, an adjective,\nor another adverb, serves to express quality or circumstance concerning\nit: as, \"She swears {023}_dreadfully_; she is _incorrigibly_ lazy; and\nshe is _almost continually_ in liquor.\"\n\n7. An Adverb is generally characterised by answering to the question,\nHow?'how much? when? or where? as in the verse, \"_Merrily_ danced the\nQuaker's wife,\" the answer to the question, How did she dance? is,\nmerrily.\n\n8. Prepositions serve to connect words together, and to show the\nrelation between them: as, \"Off _with_ his head, so much _for_\nBuckingham!\"\n\n9. A Conjunction is used to connect not only words, but sentences also:\nas, Smith _and_ Jones are happy _be~ cause_ they are single. A miss is\n_as_ good _as_ a mile.\n\n[Illustration: 032]\n\n10. An {024}Interjection is a short word denoting passion or emotion:\nas, '_Oh_, Sophonisba! Sophonisba, _oh!_\" Pshaw! Pish! Pooh! Bah! Ah!\nAu! Eughph! Yaw! Hum! Ha! Lauk! La! Lor! Heigho! Well! There! &c.\n\n[Illustration: 033]\n\nAmong the foregoing interjections there may, perhaps, be some unhonored\nby the adoption of genius, and unknown in the domains of literature. For\nthe present notice of them some apology may be required, but little will\nbe given; their insertion may excite astonishment, but their omission\nwould have provoked complaint: though unprovided with a Johnsonian title\nto a place in the English vocabulary, they have long been recognised by\nthe popular voice; and let it be remembered, that as custom supplies the\ndefects of legislation, so that which is not sanctioned by magisterial\nauthority may nevertheless be justified by vernacular usage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. OF THE ARTICLES.\n\nThe {025}Articles in English are two, _a_ and _the_; _a_ becomes\n_an_ before a vowel, and before an _h_ which is not sounded: as, _an_\nexquisite, _an_ hour-glass. But if the _h_ be pronounced, the _a_ only\nis used: as, _a_ homicide, _a_ homoepathist, _a_ hum.\n\n_A_ or _an_ is called the indefinite article, because it is used, in a\nvague sense, to point out some one thing belonging to a certain kind,\nbut in other respects indeterminate; as,\n\n     \"A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!\"\n\nSo say grammarians. Eating-house keepers tell a different story. A\ncheese, in common discourse, means an object of a certain shape, size,\nweight, and so on, entire and perfect; so that to call half a cheese a\ncheese, would constitute a flaw in an indictment against a thief who had\nstolen one. But a waiter will term a fraction, or a modicum of cheese,\na cheese; a plate-full of pudding, a pudding; and a stick of celery, _a\nsalary_. Here we are reminded of the famous exclamation of one of these\ngentry:--\"Sir! there's two teas and a brandy-and-water just sloped\nwithout paying!\" _The_ is termed the definite article, inasmuch as it\ndenotes what particular thing or things are meant as,\n\n     \"_The_ miller he stole corn,\n     _The_ weaver he stole yarn,\n     And the little tailor he stole broad-cloth\n     To keep the three rogues warm.\"\n\nA substantive to which no article is prefixed is taken in {026}a general\nsense; as, \"Applesauce is proper for goose that is, for all geese.\n\n[Illustration: 035]\n\nA few additional remarks may advantageously be made with respect to\nthe articles. The mere substitution of the definite for the indefinite\narticle is capable of changing entirely the meaning of a sentence. \"That\nis _a_ ticket\" is the assertion of a certain fact; but \"That is _the_\nticket!\" means something which is quite different.\n\nThe article is not prefixed to a proper name; as, Stubbs, Wiggins, Brown\nor Hobson, except for the sake of distinguishing a particular family, or\ndescription of persons; as, He is _a_ Burke; that is, one of the Burkes,\nor _a_ person resembling Burke.\n\nThe {027}definite article is frequently used with adverbs in the\ncomparative and superlative degree: as, \"_The_ longer I live, _the_\ntaller, I grow or, as we have all heard the showman say, \"This here,\ngentlemen and ladies, {028}is the vonderful heagle of the sun; the\n'otterer it grows, the higherer he flies!\"\n\n[Illustration: 037]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I. OF SUBSTANTIVES IN GENERAL.\n\nSubstantives are either proper or common.\n\nProper names, or substantives, are the names belonging to individuals:\nas William, Birmingham.\n\nThese are sometimes converted into nicknames, of improper names: as\nBill, Brummagem.\n\nCommon names, or substantives, denote kinds containing many sorts, or\nsorts containing many individual\" under them: as brute, beast, bumpkin,\ncherub, infant, goblin, &c.\n\nProper names, when an article is prefixed to them, are employed as\ncommon names: as, \"They thought him a perfect _Chesterfield_; he quite\nastonished the _Browns_.\"\n\nCommon names, on the other hand, are made to denote individuals, by the\naddition of articles or pronouns: as,\n\n\"There was _a_ little man, and he had little gun.\"\n\n\"_That_ boy will be the death of me!\"\n\nSubstantives are considered according to gender, number, and case; they\nare all of the third person when spoken _of_, and of the second when\nspoken _to_; {029}as,\n\n     Matilda, fairest maid, who art\n     In countless bumpers toasted,\n     O let thy pity baste the heart\n     Thy fatal charms have roasted!\n\n[Illustration: 038]\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II. OF GENDER.\n\nThe distinction between nouns with regard to sex is called Gender. There\nare three genders: the Masculine, the Feminine, and the Neuter.\n\nThe masculine gender belongs to animals of the male kind: as, a <DW2>, a\njackass, a boar, a poet, a lion.\n\nThe feminine gender is peculiar to animals of the female kind: as, a\npoetess, a lioness, a goose.\n\nThe {030}neuter gender is that of objects which are neither males nor\nfemales: as, a toast, a tankard, a pot, a pipe, a pudding, a pie, a\nsausage, &c. &c. &c.\n\nWe might go on to enumerate an infinity of objects of the neuter gender,\nof all sorts and kinds; but in the selection of the foregoing examples\nwe have been guided by two considerations:--\n\n1. The desire of exciting agreeable emotions in the mind of the reader.\n\n2. The wish to illustrate the following proposition, \"That almost\neverything nice is also neuter.\"\n\nExcept, however, a nice young lady, a nice duck, and one or two other\nnice things, which we do not at present remember.\n\nSome neuter substantives are by a figure of speech converted into the\nmasculine or feminine gender: thus we say of the sun, that when he\nshines upon a Socialist, t he shines upon a thief; and of the moon, that\nshe affects the minds of lovers.\n\n[Illustration: 039]\n\nThere {031}are certain nouns with which notions of strength, vigor, and\nthe like qualities, are more particularly connected; and these are the\nneuter substantives which are figuratively rendered masculine. On the\nother hand, beauty, amiability, and so forth, are held to invest words\nwith a feminine character. Thus the sun is said to be masculine, and the\nmoon feminine. But for our own part, and our view is confirmed by the\ndiscoveries of astronomy, we believe that the sun is called masculine\nfrom his supporting and sustaining the moon, {032}and finding her the\nwherewithal to shine away as she does of a night, when all quiet people\nare in bed; and from his being obliged to keep such a family of stars\nbesides.\n\n[Illustration: 040]\n\nThe moon, we think, is accounted feminine, because she is thus\nmaintained and kept up in her splendor, like a fine lady, by her husband\nthe sun. Furthermore, the moon is continually changing; on which\naccount alone she might be referred to the feminine gender. The earth\nis feminine, tricked out, as she is, with gems and flowers. Cities\nand towns are likewise feminine, because there are as many windings,\nturnings, and little odd corners in them as there are in the female\nmind. A ship is feminine, inasmuch as she is blown about by every wind.\nVirtue is feminine by courtesy. Fortune and misfortune, like mother\nand daughter, are both feminine. The Church is feminine, because she\nis married to the state; or married to the state because she is\nfeminine--we do not know which. Time is masculine, because he is so\ntrifled with by the ladies.\n\nThe English language distinguishes the sex in three manners; namely,\n\n1. By different words; as,\n\n     MALE.      FEMALE.\n\n     Bachelor    Maid.\n\n     Brother     Sister.\n\n     Wizard      Father And several other\n\n     Witch      Mother, &c.\n\n          Words we don't mention,\n          (Pray pardon the crime,)\n          Worth your attention,\n          But wanting in rhyme.\n\n2. By {033}a difference of termination; as,\n\n     MALE.    FEMALE.\n\n     Poet     Poetess.\n\n     Lion     Lioness, &c.\n\n3. By a noun, pronoun, or adjective being prefixed to the substantive;\nas,\n         male.         female.\n\n     A cock-lobster    A hen-lobster.\n\n     A jack-ass        A jenny-ass (vernacular.)\n\n     A man-servant,    A maid-servant, or flunkey. or Abigail.\n\n     A male flirt (A common animal)   A female flirt (A rare animal.)\n\nWe have heard it said, that every Jack has his Jill. That may be; but it\nis by no means true that every cock has his hen; for there is a\n\n     Cock-swain, but no Hen-swain.\n\n     Cock-eye, but no Hen-eye.\n\n     Cock-ade, but no Hen-ade.\n\n     Cock-atrice, but no Hen-atrice.\n\n     Cock-horse, but no Hen-horse.\n\n     Cock-ney, but no Hen-ney.\n\nThen we have a weather-cock, but no weather-hen; a tum-cock, but no\nturn-hen; and many a jolly cock, but not one jolly hen; unless we except\nsome of those by whom their mates are pecked.\n\nSome words; as, parent, child, cousin, friend, neighbour, servant and\nseveral others, are either male or female, according to circumstances.\n\nIt is a great pity that our language is so poor in the terminations that\ndenote gender. Were we to say of a woman {034}that she is a rogue, a\nknave, a scamp, or a vagabond, we feel that we should use, not only\nstrong but improper expressions. Yet we have no corresponding terms\nto apply, in case of necessity, to the female. Why is this? Doubtless\nbecause we never want them. For the same reason, our forefathers\ntransmitted to us the words, philosopher, astronomer, philologer, and\nso forth, without any feminine equivalent. Alas! for the wisdom of our\nancestors! They never calculated on the March of Intellect.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III. OF NUMBER.\n\nNumber is the consideration of an object as one or more; as, one poet,\ntwo, three, four, five poets; and so on, ad infinitum.\n\nThe singular number expresses one object only; as a towel, a viper.\n\nThe plural signifies more objects than one; as, towels, vipers.\n\nSome nouns are used only in the singular number; dirt, pitch, tallow,\ngrease, filth, butter, asparagus, &c.; others only in the plural; as,\ngalligaskins, breeches, &c.\n\nSome words are the same in both numbers; as, sheep, swine, and some\nothers.\n\nThe plural number of nouns is usually formed by adding _s_ to the\nsingular; as, dove, doves, love, loves, &c.\n\n     Julia, dove returns to dove,\n     Quid pro quo, and love for love;\n     Happy in our mutual loves,\n     Let us live like turtle doves!\n\n[Illustration: 044]\n\nWhen, {035}however, the substantive singular ends in _x, ch softy sh,\nss, or s_, we add es in the plural.\n\n     But remember, though box\n     In the plural makes boxes,\n     That the plural of ox\n     Should be _oxen_, not oxes.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV. OF CASE.\n\nThere is nearly as much difference between Latin and English\nsubstantives, with respect to the number of cases pertaining to each, as\nthere is between a quack-doctor {036}and a physician; for while in Latin\nsub-stantives have six cases, in English they have but three. But the\nanalogy should not be strained too far; for the fools in the world (who\nfurnish the quack with his cases) more than double the number of the\nwise.\n\n[Illustration: 045]\n\nThe cases of substantives are these: the Nominative, the Possessive or\nGenitive, and the Objective or Accusative.\n\nThe Nominative Case merely expresses the name of a thing, or the subject\nof the verb: as, \"The doctors differ;\"--\"The patient dies!\"\n\nPossession, which is nine points of the law, is what is signified by the\nPossessive Case. This case is distinguished by an apostrophe, with the\nletter _s_ subjoined to it: as, My soul's idol!\"--\"A pudding's end.\"\n\nBut {037}when the plural ends in _s_, the apostrophe only is retained,\nand the other _s_ is omitted: as, \"The Ministers' Step;\"--\"The Rogues'\nMarch;\"--\"Crocodiles' tears--\"Butchers' mourning.\"\n\nWhen the singular terminates in _ss_, the letter _s_ is sometimes,\nin like manner, dispensed with: as, \"For goodness' sake!\"--\"For\nrighteousness' sake!\" Nevertheless, we have no objection to \"Burgess's\"\nStout.\n\nThe Objective Case follows a verb active, and expresses the object of\nan action, or of a relation: as \"Spring beat Bill;\" that is, Bill or\n\"William Neate.\" Hence, perhaps, the phrase, \"I'll lick you _elegant_.\"\nThe Objective Case is also used with a preposition: as, \"You are in a\nmess.\"\n\nEnglish substantives may be declined in the following manner:\n\n\nSINGULAR.\n\n     What is the nominative case\n     Of her who used to wash your face,\n     Your hair to comb, your boots to lace?\n                                  _A mother!_\n\n     What the possessive?\n     Whose the slap\n     That taught you not to spill your pap,\n     Or to avoid a like mishap!\n                                 _A mother's!_\n\n     And shall I the objective show?\n     What do I hear where'er I go?\n     How is your?--whom they mean I know,\n                                _My mother!_\n\n\nPLURAL.{038}\n\n     Who are the anxious watchers o'er\n     The slumbers of a little bore,\n     That screams whene'er it doesn't snore?\n     _Why, mothers!_ Whose pity wipes its piping eyes,\n     And stills maturer childhood's cries,\n     Stopping its mouth with cakes and pies?\n                                 _Oh! mother's!_\n\n\n     And whom, when master, fierce and fell,\n     Dusts truant varlets' jackets well,\n     Whom do they, roaring, run and tell?\n                                 _Their mothers!_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. OF ADJECTIVES.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I. OF THE NATURE OF ADJECTIVES AND THE DEGREES OF COMPARISON.\n\nAn English Adjective, whatever may be its gender, number, or case, like\na rusty weathercock, never varies. Thus we say, \"A certain cabinet;\ncertain rogues.\" But as a rusty weathercock may vary in being more or\nless rusty, so an adjective varies in the degrees of comparison.\n\nThe degrees of comparison, like the Genders, the Graces, the Fates, the\nKings of Cologne, the Weird Sisters, and many other things, are three;\nthe Positive, the Comparative, and the Superlative.\n\nThe Positive state simply expresses the quality of an object; as, fat,\nugly, foolish.\n\nThe Comparative degree increases or lessens the signification {039}of\nthe positive; as fatter, uglier, more foolish, less foolish.\n\nThe Superlative decree increases or lessens the positive to the highest\nor lowest degree; as fattest, ugliest, most foolish, least foolish.\n\nAmongst the ancients, Ulysses must have been the _fattest_, because\nnobody could _compass_ him.\n\nAristides the Just was the ugliest, because he was so very _plain_.\n\nThe most _foolish_, undoubtedly, was Homer; for who was more _natural_\nthan he?\n\nThe positive becomes the comparative by the addition of _r_ or _er_; and\nthe superlative by the addition of _st_ or _est_ to the end of it; as,\nbrown, browner, brownest; stout, stouter, stoutest; heavy, heavier,\nheaviest; wet, wetter, wettest. The adverbs more and most, prefixed to\nthe adjective, also form the superlative degree; as, heavy, more heavy,\nmost heavy.\n\nMonosyllables are usually compared by er and est, and dissyllables by\nmore and most; except dissyllables ending in y or in le before a mute,\nor those which are accented on the last syllable; for these, like\nmonosyllables, easily admit of er and est. But these terminations are\nscarcely ever used in comparing words of more than two syllables.\n\nWe have some words, which, from custom, are irregular in respect of\ncomparison; as, good, better, best; bad, worse, worst, &c.; but the\nYankee's \"notion\" of comparison was decidedly funny; \"My uncle's a\ntarnation rogue; but I'm a tarnationer.\"\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II. A FEW REMARKS ON THE SUBJECT OF COMPARISON.\n\nLindley {040}Murray judiciously observes, that \"if we consider the\nsubject of comparison attentively, we shall perceive that the degrees of\nit are infinite in number, or at least indefinite:\" and he proceeds to\nsay, \"A mountain is larger than a mite; by how many degrees? How much\nbigger is the earth than a grain of sand? By how many degrees was\nSocrates wiser than Alci-biades? or by how many is snow whiter than\nthis paper? It is plain,\" quoth Lindley, \"that to these and the like\nquestions no definite answers can be returned.\"\n\nNo; but an impertinent one may. Ask the first news-boy you meet, any one\nof these questions, and see if he does not immediately respond, 'Ax my\neye or, \"As much again as half.\"\n\nBut when quantity can be exactly measured, the degrees of excess may be\nexactly ascertained. A foot is just twelve times as long as an inch; a\ntailor is nine times less than a man.\n\nMoreover, to compensate for the indefiniteness of the degrees of\ncomparison, we use certain adverbs and words of like import, whereby\nwe render our meaning tolerably intelligible; as, \"Byron was a _much\ngreater_ poet than Muggins.\"\n\n\"Honey is _a great deal_ sweeter than wax.\"\n\n\"Sugar is _considerably_ more pleasant than the cane.\"\n\n\"Maria says, that Dick the butcher is _by far_ the most killing young\nman she knows.\"\n\nThe words very, exceedingly, and the like, placed before the positive,\ngive it the force of the superlative; and {041}this is called by some\nthe superlative of eminence, as distinguished from the superlative of\ncomparison. Thus, Very Reverend is termed the superlative of eminence,\nalthough it is the title of a dean, not of a cardinal; and Most\nReverend, the appellation of an Archbishop, is called the superlative of\ncomparison.\n\nA _Bishop_, in our opinion, is _Most Excellent_.\n\nThe comparative is sometimes so employed as to express the same\npre-eminence or inferiority as the superlative. For instance; the\nsentence, \"Of all the cultivators of science, the botanist is the most\ncrafty,\" has the same meaning as the following: \"The botanist is more\ncrafty than any other cultivator of science.\" Why? some of our readers\nwill ask--\n\nBecause he is acquainted with all sorts of _plants._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. OF PRONOUNS.\n\nPronouns or proxy-nouns are of three kinds; namely, the Personal, the\nRelative, and the Adjective Pronouns.\n\n_Note_.--That when we said, some few pages back, that a pronoun was\na word used instead of a noun, we did not mean to call such words as\nthingumibob, what-siname, what-d'ye-call-it, and the like, pronouns.\n\nAnd that, although we shall proceed to treat of the pronouns in the\nEnglish language, we shall have nothing to do, at present, with what\nsome people please to call pronoun-_ciation_.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I. OF THE PERSONAL PRONOUNS.\n\n\"Mr. {042}Addams, don't be personal, Sir!\"\n\n\"I'm not, Sir.\"\n\n\"You am, Sir!\"\n\n\"What did I say, Sir?--tell me that.\"\n\n\"You reflected on my perfession, Sir; you said, as there was some people\nas always stuck up for the cloth; and you insinnivated that certain\nparties dined off goose by means of cabbaging fiom their customers. I\nask any gentleman in the room, if that an't personal.\n\n[Illustration: 051] {043}\n\n\"Veil, Sir, vot I says I'll stick to.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir, like vax, as the saying is.\"\n\n\"Wot d'ye mean by that, Sir?\"\n\n\"Wot I say, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a individual, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're another, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're no gentleman, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a humbug, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a knave, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a rogue, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a wagabond, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a willain, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a tailor, Sir!\"\n\n\"You 're a cobler, Sir!\" (Order! order! chair! chair! &c.\n\nThe above is what is called personal language. How many different things\none word serves to express in English! A pronoun may be as personal as\npossible, and yet nobody will take offence at it.\n\nThere are five Personal Pronouns; namely, I, thou, he, she, it; with\ntheir plurals, we, ye or you, they.\n\nPersonal Pronouns admit of person, number, gender, and case.\n\nPronouns have three persons in each number.\n\nIn the Singular;\n\nI, is the first person.\n\nThou, is the second person.\n\nHe, she, or it, is the third person.\n\nIn the plural;\n\nWe, is the first person.\n\nYe or you, is the second person.\n\nThey, is the third person.\n\nThis {044}account of persons will be very intelligible when the\nfollowing Pastoral Fragment is reflected on:\n\nHE.\n\n     I love thee, Susan, on my life:\n     Thou art the maiden for a wife.\n     He who lives single is an ass;\n     She who ne'er weds a luckless lass.\n     It's tiresome work to live alone;\n     So come with me, and be my own.\n\nSHE.\n\n     We maids are oft by men deceived;\n     Ye don't deserve to be believed;\n     You don't--but there's my hand--heigho!\n     They tell us, women can't say no!\n\nThe speaker or speakers are of the first person; those spoken to, of the\nsecond; and those spoken of, of the third.\n\nOf the three persons, the first is the most universally admired.\n\nThe second is the object of much adulation and flattery, and now and\nthen of a little abuse.\n\nThe third person is generally made small account of; and, amongst other\ngrievances, suffers a great deal from being frequently bitten about the\nback.\n\nThe Numbers of pronouns, like those of substantives, are, as we have\nalready seen, two; the singular and the plural.\n\nIn addressing yourself to anybody, it is customary to use the second\nperson plural instead of the singular. This practice most probably arose\nfrom a notion, that to be thought twice the man that the speaker was,\ngratified the vanity of the person addressed. Thus, the {045}French put\na double Monsieur on the backs of their letters.\n\nEditors say \"We,\" instead of \"I,\" out of modesty.\n\nThe Quakers continue to say \"thee\" and \"thou,\" in the use of which\npronouns, as well as in the wearing of broad-brimmed hats and of\nstand-up collars, they perceive a peculiar sanctity.\n\nGender has to do only with the third person singular of the pronouns,\nhe, she, it. He is masculine; she is feminine; it is neuter.\n\nPronouns have the like cases with substantives; the nominative, the\npossessive, and the objective.\n\nWould that they were the hardest cases to be met with in this country!\n\nThe personal pronouns are thus declined:--\n\n===> See page image.\n\n     CASE. FIRST PERSON SINGULAR. FIRST PERSON PLURAL.\n\n     Nom.       I                  We.\n     Poss.      Mine               Ours.\n     Obj.       Me                 Us.\n\n\n     CASE. SECOND PERSON. SECOND PERSON.\n\n     Nom.      Thou           Ye or you.\n     Poss.     Thine          Yours.\n     Obj.      Thee           You.\n\nNow the third person singular, as we before observed, has genders; and we\nshall therefore decline it in a different way. Variety is charming.\n\nTHIRD PERSON SINGULAR.\n\n     CASE. MASC.        FEM.      NEUT.\n     Nom.  He           She       It.\n     Poss. His          Hers      Its.\n     Obj.  Him          Her       It.\n\n\n     CASE. PLURAL.\n\n     Nom.  They.\n\n     Poss. Theirs.\n\n     Obj.  Them.\n\n\nWe {046}beg to inform thee, that the third person plural has no\ndistinction of gender.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II. OF THE RELATIVE PRONOUNS.\n\nThe Pronouns called Relative are such as relate, for the most part,\nto some word or phrase, called the antecedent, on account of its going\nbefore: they are, _who_, _which_, and _that_: as, \"The man who does not\ndrink enough when he can get it, is a fool: but he that drinks too much\nis a beast.\"\n\n_What_ is usually equivalent to _that which_, and is, therefore, a kind\nof compound relative, containing both the antecedent and the relative;\nas, \"You want what you'll very soon have!\" that is to say, the thing\nwhich you will very soon have.\n\n_Who_ is applied to persons, _which_ to animals and things without life;\nas, \"He is a gentleman who keeps a horse and lives respectably.\" To the\ndog which pinned the old woman, they cried, '_Cosar!_'\"\n\nThat, as a relative, is used to prevent the too frequent repetition of\n_who and which_, and is applied both to persons and things; as, He that\nstops the bottle is a Cork man.\"\n\n\"This is the _house that_ Jack built.\"\n\nWho is of both numbers; and so is an Editor; for, according to what we\nobserved just now, he is both singular and plural. Who, we repeat, is of\nboth numbers, and is thus declined:--\n\n====> See Page Image\n\n\nSINGULAR AND PLURAL.\n\nTo despair shall I doom? Which, {047}that and what are indeclinable;\nexcept that whose is sometimes used as the possessive case of which;\n\n\"The roe, poor dear, laments amain,\n\nWhose sweet hart was by hunter slain.\"\n\nWho, which, and what, when they are used in asking questions, are called\nInterrogatives; as, \"Who is Mr. Walker?\". \"Which is the left side of a\nround plum-pudding?\"\n\n\"What is the damage?\"\n\nThose who, have made popular phraseology their study, will have\nfound that which is sometimes used for whereas, and words of like\nsignification; as in Dean Swift's \"Mary the Cookmaid's Letter to Dr.\nSheridan:\"\n\n     \"And now I know whereby you would fain make an excuse,\n     Because my master one day in anger call'd you a goose;\n     _Which_, and I am sure I have been his servant since October,\n     And he never called me worse than sweetheart, drunk or sober.\"\n\nWhat, or, to speak more improperly, wot, is generally substituted by\ncabmen and hack-drivers for who; as, \"The donkey wot wouldn't go.\"\n\n\"The girl wot sweeps the crossing.\"\n\nThat, likewise, is very frequently rejected by the vulgar, {048}who use\nas in its place; as, \"Them as asks shan't have any; and them as don't\nask don't want any.\"\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III. OF THE ADJECTIVE PRONOUNS.\n\nAdjective pronouns partake of the nature of both pronouns and\nadjectives. They may be subdivided into four sorts: the possessive, the\ndistributive, the demonstrative, and the indefinite.\n\nThe possessive pronouns are those which imply possession or property. Of\nthese there are seven; namely, my, thy, his, her, our, your, their.\n\nThe word self is added to possessives; as, myself, yourself, \"Says I\nto myself, says I.\" Self is also sometimes {049}used with personal\npronouns; as, himself, itself, themselves. His self is a common, but not\na proper expression.\n\n[Illustration: 057]\n\nThe distributive are three; each, every, either; they denote the\nindividual persons or things' separately, which, when taken together,\nmake up a number. Each is used when two or more persons or things are\nmentioned singly; as, \"each of the Catos;\" \"each or the Browns.\"\n\nEvery relates to one out of several; as,\n\n\"Every mare is a horse, but every horse is not a mare.\"\n\nEither refers to one out of two; as,\n\n     \"When I between two jockeys ride,\n     I have a knave on either side.\"\n\nNeither signifies \"not either;\" as, \"Neither of the Bacons was related\nto Hogg.\"\n\nThe demonstrative pronouns precisely point out the subjects to which\nthey relate; such are this and that, with their plurals these and those;\nas, \"This is a Hoosier lad; that is a Yankee school-master.\"\n\nThis refers to the nearest person or thing, and to the latter or\nlast mentioned; that to the most distant, and to the former or first\nmentioned; as, \"This is a man; that is a nondescript.\"\n\n\"At the period of the Reformation in Scotland, a curious contrast\nbetween the ancient and modern ecclesiastical systems was observed; for\nwhile that had been always maintained by a Bull, this was now supported\nby a Knox\"\n\nThe indefinite are those which express their subjects in an indefinite\nor general manner; as, some, other, any, one, all, such, &c.\n\nWhen the definite article the comes before the word other, {050}those\nwho do not know better, are accustomed to strike out the he in the, and\nto say, t'other.\n\nThe same persons also use other in the comparative degree; for\nsometimes, instead of saying quite the reverse, or perhaps reverse, they\navail themselves of the expression more t'other.\n\nSo much for the pronouns.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. OF VERBS.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I. OF THE NATURE OF VERBS IN GENERAL.\n\nThe nature of Verbs in general, and that in all languages, is, that they\nare the most difficult things in the Grammar.\n\nVerbs are divided into Active, Passive, and Neuter; and also into\nRegular, Irregular, and Defective. To these divisions we beg to add\nanother; Verbs Comic.\n\nA Verb Active implies an agent, and an object acted upon; as, to love;\n\"I love Wilhelmina Stubbs.\" Here, I am the agent; that is, the lover;\nand Wilhelmina Stubbs is the object acted upon, or the beloved object.\n\nA Verb Passive expresses the suffering, feeling, or undergoing of\nsomething; and therefore implies an object acted upon, and an agent by\nwhich it is acted upon; as, to be loved; \"Wilhelmina Stubbs is loved by\nme.\"\n\nA {051}Verb Neuter expresses neither action nor passion, but a state of\nbeing; as, I bounce, I lie.\n\n\"Gracious, Major!\"\n\n[Illustration: 060]\n\n\nOf Verbs Regular, Irregular, and Defective, we shall have somewhat to\nsay hereafter.\n\nVerbs Comic are, for the most part, verbs which cannot be found in\nthe dictionary, and are used to express ordinary actions in a jocular\nmanner; as, to \"bolt,\" to \"mizzle,\" which signify to go or to depart; to\n\"bone,\" to \"prig,\" that is to say, to steal; to \"collar,\" which means to\nseize, an expression probably derived {052}from the mode of prehension,\nor rather apprehension characteristic of the New Police, as it is one\nvery much in the mouths of those who most frequently come in contact\nwith that body: to \"liquor,\"'or drink; to \"grub,\" or eat; to \"sell,\" or\ndeceive, &c.\n\nUnder the head of Verbs Comic, the Yankeeisms, I \"calculate,\" I\n\"reckon,\" I \"realise,\" I \"guess,\" and the like, may also be properly\nenumerated.\n\nAuxiliary, or helping Verbs (by the way we marvel that the New\nEnglanders do not call their servants auxiliaries instead of helps)\nare those, by the help of which we are chiefly enabled to conjugate our\nverbs in English. They are, do, be, have, shall, will, may, can, with\ntheir variations; and let and must, which have no variation.\n\nLet, however, when it is _anything but a helping_ verb, as, for\ninstance, when it signifies to _hinder_, makes let-test and letteth.\nThe phrase, \"This House to Let,\" generally used instead of \"to be let,\"\nmeaning in fact, the reverse of what is intended to convey, is really a\npiece of comic English.\n\nTo verbs belong Number, Person, Mood, and Tense. These may be called\nthe properties of a verb; and like those of opium, they are soporiferous\nproperties. There are two very important objects which the writer of\nevery book has, or ought to have in view, to get a reader who is wide\nawake, and to keep him so:--the latter of which, when Number, Person,\nMood, and Tense are to be treated of, is no such easy matter; seeing\nthat the said writer is then in some danger of going to sleep himself.\nNever mind. If we nod, let the reader wink. What can't be cured must be\nendured.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II. OF NUMBER AND PERSON.\n\nVerbs {053}have two numbers, the Singular and the Plural: as, \"I fiddle,\nwe fiddle,\" &c.\n\nIn each number there are three persons; as,\n\n                SINGULAR.       PLURAL.\n\n  First Person  I love         We love.\n\n  Second Person Thou lovest    Ye or you love.\n\n  Third Person  He loves       They love.\n\nWhat a deal there is in every Grammar about love! Here the following\nLines, by a Young Lady, (now no more,) addressed to Lindley Murray,\ndeserves to be recorded:--\n\n     \"Oh, Murray! fatal name to me,\n     Thy burning page with tears is wet;\n     Since first 'to love' I learned of thee,\n     Teach me, ah! teach me to forget!'\"\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III. OF MOODS AND PARTICIPLES.\n\nMood or Mode is a particular form of the verb, or a certain variation\nwhich it undergoes, showing the manner in which the being, action, or\npassion, is represented.\n\nThe moods of verbs are five, the Indicative, the Imperative, the\nPotential, the Subjunctive, and the Infinitive.\n\nThe Indicative Mood simply points out or declares a thing: as, \"He\nteaches, he is taught or it asks a question: as, \"Does he teach? Is he\ntaught?\"\n\nQ. Why {054}is old age the best teacher?\n\nA. Because he gives you the most wrinkles.\n\nQ. Why does a rope support a rope-dancer?\n\nA. Because it is taught.\n\nThe Imperative Mood commands, exhorts, entreats, or permits: as, \"Vanish\nthou; trot ye; let us hop; be off!\"\n\nThe Potential Mood implies possibility or liberty, power, will, or\nobligation: as, \"A waiter may be honest. Yuu may stand upon truth or\nlie. I can filch. He would cozen. They should learn.\"\n\nThe Subjunctive Mood is used to represent a thing as done conditionally;\nand is preceded by a conjunction, expressed or understood, and\naccompanied by another verb: as, \"_If_ the skies should fall, larks\nwould be caught,\"\n\n\"Were I to punch your head, I should serve you right:\" that is, \"_if_ I\nwere to punch your head.\"\n\n\nThe Infinitive Mood expresses a thing generally, without limitation, and\nwithout any distinction of number or person: as, \"to quarrel, to fight,\nto be licked.\"\n\nThe Participle is a peculiar form of the verb, and is so called, because\nit participates in the properties both of a verb and of an adjective:\nas, \"May I have the pleasure of _dancing_ with you?\"\n\n\"_Mounted_ on a tub he addressed the bystanders.\"\n\n\"_Having_ uplifted a stave, they departed.\"\n\nThe Participles are three; the Present or Active, the Perfect or\nPassive, and the Compound Perfect: as, \"I felt nervous at the thought\nof _popping_ the question, but that once _popped_, I was not sorry for\n_having popped_ it.\"\n\nThe {055}worst of _popping_ the question is, that the _report_ is always\nsure to get abroad.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV. OF THE TENSES.\n\nTense is the distinction of time, and consists of six divisions, namely,\nthe Present, the Imperfect, the Perfect, the Pluperfect, and the First\nand Second Future Tenses.\n\nTime is also distinguished by a fore-lock, scythe, and hour-glass; but\nthe youthful reader must bear in mind, that these things are not to be\nconfounded with tenses.\n\n[Illustration: 064]\n\nThe {056}Present Tense, as its name implies, represents an action or\nevent occurring at the present time: as \"I lament; rogues prosper; the\nmob rules.\"\n\nThe Imperfect Tense represents a past action or event, but which, like a\nmutton chop, may be either thoroughly done, or not thoroughly done; were\nit _meet_, we should say, _under-done_: as,\n\n\"When I was a little boy some fifteen years ago,\n\nMy mammy doted on me--Lork! she made me quite a show.\"\n\n\"When our reporter left, the Honorable Gentleman was still on his legs.\"\n\nThe legs of most \"Honorable Gentlemen\" must be tolerably stout ones;\nfor the \"majority\" do not stand on trifles. However, we are not going\nto commit ourselves, like some folks, nor to get committed, like other\nfolks; so we will leave \"Honorable Gentlemen\" to manage matters their\nown way.\n\nThe Perfect Tense declares a thing to have been done at some time,\nthough an indefinite one, antecedent to the present time. That, however,\nwhich the Perfect Tense represents as done, is completely, or, as we\nsay of a green one, when he is humbugged by the thimble-rig people,\nregularly done; as, \"I have been out on the river.\"\n\n\"I have caught a crab.\" Catching a crab is a thing regularly (in another\nsense than completely) done, when civic swains pull young ladies up\nto Richmond. We beg to inform persons unacquainted with aquatic\nphraseology, that \"pulling up\" young ladies, or others, is a very\ndifferent thing from \"pulling up\" an omnibus conductor or a cabman.\nWhat an equivocal language is ours! How much less agreeable {057}to be\n\"pulled up\" at the Police office than to be \"pulled up\" in a row-boat!\nhow wide the discrepancy between \"pulling up\" radishes and \"pulling up\"\nhorses!\n\nThe Pluperfect Tense represents a thing as doubly past; that is, as past\npreviously to some other point of time also past; as, \"I fell in love\nbefore I _had arrived_ at years of discretion.\"\n\n[Illustration: 066]\n\nThe First Future Tense represents the action as yet to come, either at\na certain or an uncertain time; as, \"The tailor _will send_ my coat home\nto-morrow; and when I find it perfectly convenient, I _shall pay_ him.\"\nThe Second Future intimates that the action will be completed {058}at\nor before the time of another future action or event; as, \"I wonder how\nmany conquests I _shall have made_ by to-morrow morning.\"\n\nN. B. One ball is often the means of killing a great many people.\n\nThe consideration of the tenses suggests various moral reflections to\nthe thinking mind. A couple of examples will perhaps suffice;--\n\n1. _Present_, though moderate fruition, is preferable to splendid, but\ncontingent futurity; i. e. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.\n\n2. _Imperfect_ nutrition is less to be deprecated than privation of\naliment;--a new way of putting an old proverb, which we need not again\ninsert, respecting half a loaf.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V. THE CONJUGATION OF THE AUXILIARY VERBS TO HAVE AND TO BE.\n\nWe have observed that boys, in conjugating verbs, give no indications of\ndelight, except that which an ingenious disposition always feels in\nthe acquisition of knowledge. Now, having arrived at that part of the\nGrammar in which it becomes necessary that these same verbs should be\nconsidered, we feel ourselves in an awkward dilemma. The omission of the\nconjugations is a _serious_ omission--which, of course, is objectionable\nin a _comic_ work--and the insertion of them would be equally serious,\nand therefore quite as improper. What _shall_ we do? We will adopt a\nmiddle course; referring the reader to Murray and other talented authors\nfor full information on these matters; and requesting him to be content\nwith our confining ourselves {059}to what is more especially suitable to\nthese pages--a glance at the _Comicalities_ of verbs.\n\n     If being a youngster I had not been smitten,\n     Of having been jilted I should not complain,\n     Take warning from me all ye lads who are bitten,\n     When this part of Grammar occurs to your brain.\n\nAs there is a certain _intensity_ of feeling abroad, which renders\npeople indisposed to trouble themselves with verbal matters, we shall\ntake the liberty of making very short work of the Regular Verbs. Even\nMurray can only afford to conjugate one example,--To Love. The learner\nmust amplify this part of the Grammar for himself: and we recommend him\nto substitute for \"to love,\" some word less harrowing to a sensitive\nmind: as, \"to fleece, to tax,\" verbs which excite disagreeable emotions\nonly in a sordid one; and which also, by association of ideas, conduct\nus to useful reflections on Political Economy. We advise all whom it\nmay concern, however, to pay the greatest attention to this part of the\nGrammar, and before they come to the Verbs Regular, to make a particular\nstudy of the Auxiliary Verbs: not only for the excellent reasons set\nforth, in \"Tristram Shandy,\" but also to avoid those awkward mistakes\nin which the Comicalities of the Verbs, or Verbal Comicalities, chiefly\nconsist.\n\n\"Did it rain to-morrow?\" asked Monsieur Grenouille.\n\n\"Yes it was!\" replied Monsieur Crapaud.\n\nWe propose the following as an _auxiliary mode_ of conjugating\nverbs:--\"I love to roam on the crested foam, Thou lovest to roam on the\ncrested foam, He loves to roam on the crested foam, We love to roam on\nthe {060}crested foam, Ye or you love to roam on the crested foam, They\nlove to roam on the crested foam,\" &c.\n\nThe Auxiliary Verbs, too, are very useful when a peculiar emphasis is\nrequired: as, \"I shall give you a drubbing!\"\n\n\"Will you?\"\n\n\"I know a trick worth two of that.\"\n\n\"Do you, though?\"\n\n\"It might\" as the Quaker said to the Yankee, who wanted to know what his\nname might be; \"it might be Beelzebub, but it is not.\"\n\n[Illustration: 069]\n\nNow we may as well say what we have to say about the conjugation of\nregular verbs active.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI. THE CONJUGATION OF REGULAR VERBS ACTIVE.\n\nRegular Verbs Active are known by their forming their imperfect tense of\nthe indicative mood, and their perfect participle, by adding to the verb\ned, or d only when the verb ends in e: as,\n\n     PRESENT.      IMPERFECT.   PERF. PARTICPL.\n\n     I reckon      I reckoned.    Reckoned.\n\n     I realise.    I realised.    Realised.\n\nHere {061}should follow the conjugation of the regular active verb,\nTo Love; but we have already assigned a good reason for omitting it;\nbesides which we have to say, that we think it a verb highly unfit for\nconjugation by youth, as it tends to put ideas into their heads which\nthey would otherwise never have thought of; and it is moreover our\nopinion, that several of our most gifted poets may, with reason, have\nattributed the so unfortunate attachments which, though formed in early\nyouth, served to embitter their whole lives, to the poison which they\nthus sucked in with the milk, so to speak, of their Mother Tongue, the\nGrammar.\n\n[Illustration: 070]\n\nWe shall therefore dismiss Cupid, and he must look for other lodgings.\n\n\nPASSIVE.\n\nVerbs {062}Passive are said to be regular, when their perfect participle\nis formed by the addition of d, or ed to the verb: as, from the verb \"To\nbless,\" is formed the passive, \"I am blessed, I was blessed, I shall be\nblessed,\" &c.\n\nThe conjugation of a passive verb is nothing more than the repetition of\nthat of the auxiliary To Be, the perfect participle being added.\n\nAnd now, having cut the regular verbs (as Alexander did the Gordian\nknot) instead of conjugating them, let us proceed to consider the\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII. IRREGULAR VERBS\n\nIrregular Verbs are those of which the imperfect tense and the perfect\nparticiple are _not_ formed by adding _d or ed_ to the verb: as,\n\n\n     PRESENT. IMPERFECT. PERFECT PART\n\n     I blow.   I blew.     blown.\n\nTo say I am blown, is, under certain circumstances, such as windy and\ntempestuous weather, proper enough; but I am blowed, it will at once be\nperceived, is not only an ungrammatical, but also a vulgar expression.\n\nGreat liberties are taken with the Irregular Verbs, insomuch that in the\nmouths of some persons, divers of them become doubly irregular in\nthe formation of their participles. Among such Irregular Verbs we may\nenumerate the following:--\n\nPRESENT. IMPERFECT. PERF. OR PASS. PART.\n\nAm wur bin.\n\nBurst bust busted. {063}\n\nPRESENT. IMPERFECT. PERF. OR PASS. PART.\n\n==> See Page Scan\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VIII. OF DEFECTIVE VERBS.\n\nMost men have five senses,\n\nMost verbs have six tenses;\n\nBut as there are some folks Who are blind, deaf, or dumb folks,\n\nJust so there are some verbs Defective, or rum verbs, which are used\nonly in some of their moods and tenses.\n\n===> See Page Scan\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. OF ADVERBS.\n\nHaving {064}as great a dislike as the youngest of our readers can have\nto repetitions, we shall not say what an adverb is over again. It is,\nnevertheless, right to observe, that some adverbs are compared: as, far,\nfarther, farthest; near, nearer, nearest. In comparing those which end\nin ly, we use more and most: as, slowly, more slowly, most slowly.\n\nThere are a great many adverbs in the English Language: their number is\nprobably even greater than that of abusive epithets. They are divisible\ninto certain classes; the chief of which are Number, Order, Place,\nTime, Quantity, Manner or Quality, Doubt, Affirmation, Negation,\nInterrogation, and Comparison.\n\nA nice little list, truly! and perhaps some of our readers may suppose\nthat we are going to exemplify it at length: if so, all we can say with\nregard to their expectation is, that we wish they may get it gratified.\nIn the meantime, we will not turn our Grammar into a dictionary, to\nplease anybody. However, we have no objection to a brief illustration\nof the uses and properties of adverbs, as contained in the following\npassage:--\n\n\"Formerly, when first I began to preach and to teach, whithersoever\nI went, the little boys followed me, and now and then pelted me with\nbrick-bats, as heretofore they pelted Ebenezer Grimes. And whensoever I\nopened my mouth, straightways the ungodly began to crow. Oftentimes\nwas I hit in the mouth with an orange: yea, and once, moreover, with\na rotten egg: whereat {065}there was much laughter, which,\nnotwithstanding, I took in good part, and wiped my face and looked\npleasantly. For peradventure I said, they will listen to my sermon; yea,\nand after that we may have a collection. So I was nowise discomfited;\nwherefore I advise thee, Brother Habakkuk, to take no heed of thy\npersecutors, seeing that I, whereas I was once little better off than\nthyself, have now a chapel of mine own. And herein let thy mind be\ncomforted, that, preach as much as thou wilt against the Bishop,\nthou wilt not, therefore, in these days, be in danger of the pillory.\nHowbeit,\" &c.\n\nVide Life of the late pious and Rev. Samuel Simcox (letter to Habakkuk\nBrown.)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. OF PREPOSITIONS.\n\nPrepositions are, for the most part, put before nouns and pronouns: as,\n\"out of the frying-pan into the fire.\"\n\nThe preposition of is sometimes used as a part of speech of peculiar\nsignification, and one to which no name has as yet been applied: as,\n\"What you been doing of?\"\n\nAt and up are not rarely used as verbs, but we should scarcely have been\njustified in so classing them by the authority of any polite writer;\nsuch use of them being confined to the vulgar: as, \"Now then, Bill, at\nhim again.\"\n\n\"So she upped with her fists, and fetched him a whop.\"\n\nAfter is improperly pronounced arter, and against, agin: {066}as,\n\"Hallo! Jim, vot are you arter? don't you know that ere's agin the Law?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. OF CONJUNCTIONS..\n\nA Conjunction means literally, a union or meeting together.\n\n[Illustration: 075]\n\nAn ill-assorted marriage is A COMICAL CONJUNCTION.\n\nBut {067}our conjunctions are used to connect words and sentences, and\nhave nothing to do with the joining of hands. They are chiefly of two\nsorts, the Copulative and Disjunctive.\n\nThe Copulative Conjunction is employed for the connection or\ncontinuation of a sentence: as, \"Jack and Gill went up the Hill,\"\n\n\"I will sing a song if Gubbins will.\"\n\n\"A thirsty man is like a Giant because he is a Grog for drink.\"\n\nThe Conjunction Disjunctive is used not only for purposes of connection,\nbut also to express opposition of meaning in different degrees: as, \"We\npay less for our letters, but shall have to pay more for our coats: they\nhave lightened our postage, but they will increase our taxes.\n\nConjunctions are the hooks and eyes of Language, in which, as well as in\ndress, it is very possible to make an awkward use of them: as, \"For if\nthe year consist of 365 days 6 hours, and January have 31 days, then the\nrelation between the corpuscular theory of light and the new views of\nMr. Owen is at once subverted: for 'When Ignorance is bliss, 'tis\nfolly to be wise because 1760 yards make a mile; and it is universally\nacknowledged that 'war is the madness of many for the gain of a few\ntherefore Sir Isaac Newton was right in supposing the diamond to be\ncombustible.\" The Siamese twins, it must be admitted, form a singular\nconjunction.\n\nA tin pot fastened to a dog's tail is a disagreeable conjunction to the\nunfortunate animal.\n\nA happy pair may be regarded as an uncommon conjunction.\n\nThe {068}word as, so often used in this and other Grammars, is a\nconjunction: as, \"Mrs. A. is as well as can be expected.\"\n\n[Illustration: 077]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. OF DERIVATION.\n\nThose who know Latin, Greek, Saxon, and the other languages from which\nour own is formed, do not require to {069}be instructed in philological\nderivation; and on those who do not understand the said tongues, such\ninstruction would be thrown away. In what manner English words are\nderived, one from another, the generality of persons know very well:\nthere are, however, a few words and phrases, which it is expedient to\ntrace to their respective sources; not only because such an exercise is\nof itself delightful to the inquiring mind; but because we shall thereby\nbe furnished (as we hope to show) with a test by means of which, on\nhearing an expression for the first time, we shall be able, in most\ninstances, to decide at once respecting its nature and quality.\n\nThese words, of which many have but recently come into vogue, which,\nthough by no means improper or immoral, are absolutely unutterable in\nany polite assembly. It is not, at first, very easy to see what can be\nthe objection to their use; but derivation explains it for us in the\nmost satisfactory manner. The truth is, that the expressions in question\ntake their origin from various trades and occupations, in which they\nhave for the most part, a literal meaning; and we now perceive what\nhorrible suspicions respecting one's birth, habits, and education, their\nfigurative employment would be likely to excite. To make the matter\nindisputably clear, we will explain our position by a few examples.\n\n{070}\n\nWORDS AND PHRASES. WHAT DERIVED FROM.\n\n     To be done,             Cooks.\n     To be done brown,       Ditto.\n     A sell, (a cheat,)      Jews.\n     To lather (to beat,)    Barbers.\n     To strap (ditto,)       Cobblers.\n     To hide (ditto,)        Curriers.\n     Spicy (showy,)          Grocers.\n     To hang out (to dwell,) Publicans.\n     Swamped (ruined,)       Watermen.\n     To put one's oar in (to\n     interfere,)             Ditto.\n     Mahogany (for table,)   Upholsterers.\n     Dodge (trick,)          Pickpockets.\n     To bung up an eye,      Brewers.\n     To chalk down,          Publicans.\n     A close shaver (a miser,) Barbers.\n     To be off your feed,    Ostlers.\n     Hold hard (stop,)       Omnibus-men.\n\nNumerous examples, similar to the foregoing, will, no doubt, present\nthemselves, in addition, to the mind of the enlightened student. We have\nnot, however, quite done yet with our remarks on this division of our\nsubject. The intrinsic vulgarity of all modes of speech which may\nbe traced to mean or disreputable persons, will, of course, not be\nquestioned. But--and as we have got hold of a nice bone, we may as well\nget all the marrow we can out of it--the principle which is now under\nconsideration has a much wider range than is apparent at first sight.\n\nNow we will suppose a red-hot lover addressing the goddess of his\nidolatry--by the way, how strange it is, that these goddesses should be\nalways having their temples {071}on fire, that a Queen of Hearts should\never be seated on a burning throne!--but to return to the lover: he\nwas to say something. Well, then, let A. B. be the lover. He expresses\nhimself thus:\n\n\"Mary, my earthly hopes are centred in you. You need not doubt me; my\nheart is true as the dial to the sun. Words cannot express how much I\nlove you. Nor is my affection an ordinary feeling: it is a more exalted\nand a more enduring sentiment than that which bears it name. I have\ndone. I am not eloquent: I can say no more, than that I deeply and\nsincerely love you.\"\n\nThis, perhaps, will be regarded by connoisseurs as tolerably pathetic,\nand for the kind of thing not very ridiculous. Now, let A. S. S. be the\nlover: and let us have his version of the same story:--\n\n\"Mary, my capital in life is invested in you. You need not stick at\ngiving me credit; my heart is as safe as the bank. The sum total of my\nlove for you defies calculation. Nor is my attachment anything in the\ncommon way. It is a superior and more durable article than that in\ngeneral wear. My stock of words is exhausted. I am no wholesale dealer\nin that line. All I can say is, that I have a vast fund of unadulterated\naffection for you.\"\n\nIn this effusion the Stock Exchange, the multiplication table, and the\ndry goods and grocer's shops have been drawn upon for a clothing to the\nsuitor's ideas; and by an unhappy choice of words, the most delightful\nand amiable feelings of our nature, without which life would be a desert\nand man a bear, are invested with a ridiculous disguise.\n\nWe would willingly enlarge upon the topic which we have {072}thus\nslightly handled, but that we feel that we should by so doing,\nintrench too far on the boundaries of Rhetoric, to which science, more\nparticularly than to Grammar, the consideration of Metaphor belongs;\nbesides which, it is high time to have done with Etymology.\n\n\n\n\nPART III. SYNTAX.\n\n\"Now then, reader, if you are quite ready, we are.--All right! * * * *\"\n\nThe asterisks are intended to stand for a word used in speaking to\nhorses. Don't blush, young ladies; there's not a shadow of harm in it:\nbut as to spelling it, we are as unable to do so as the ostler's boy\nwas, who was thrashed for his ignorance by his father.\n\n\"Where are we now, coachman?\"\n\n\"The third part of Grammar, Sir, wot treats of the agreement and\nconstruction of words in a sentence.\"\n\n\"Does a coachman say _wot_ for _which_ because he has a licence?\"\n\n\"Can't say, Ma'am?\"\n\n\"Drive on, coachman.\"\n\nAnd we must drive on, or boil on, or whatever it is the fashion to call\ngetting on in these times.\n\nA {073}sentence is an aggregate of words forming a complete sense.\n\nSentences are of two kinds, simple and compound. A simple sentence has\nin it but one subject and one finite verb; that is, a verb to which\nnumber and person belong: as, \"A joke is a joke.\"\n\nA compound sentence consists of two or more simple sentences connected\ntogether: as, \"A joke is a joke, but a ducking is no joke. Corpulence is\nthe attribute of swine, mayors, and oxen.\"\n\nSimple sentences may be divided (if we choose to take the trouble)\ninto the Explicative or explaining; the Interrogative, or asking; the\nimperative, or commanding.\n\nAn explicative sentence is, in other words, a direct assertion: as,\n\"Sir, you are impertinent.\"--_Johnson_.\n\nAn interrogative sentence \"merely asks a question:\" as, \"Are you a\npoliceman? How's your Inspector?\" An imperative sentence is expressive\nof command, exhortation, or entreaty; as, \"Shoulder arms!\"\n\n\"Turn out your toes!\"\n\n\"Charge bayonets!\"\n\nA phrase is two or more words properly put together, making either a\nsentence or part of a sentence: as, \"Good morning!\"\n\n\"Your most obedient!\"\n\nSome phrases consist of two or more words improperly put together: these\nare improper phrases: as, \"Now then, old stupid!\"\n\n\"Stand out of the sunshine!\" Other phrases consist of words put together\nby ladies: as, \"A duck of a man,\"\n\"A love of a shawl,\"\n\"so nice,\"\n\"quite refreshing,\"\n\"sweetly pretty.\"\n\"Did you ever?\"\n\"No I never!\"\n\n[Illustration: 083]\n\nOther phrases again consist of French and English words put together\nby people of quality, because their knowledge {074}of both languages is\npretty nearly equal: as, \"I am au desespoir,\"\n\n\"mis hors de combat,\"\n\n\"quite ennuye,\" or rather in nine cases out of ten, \"ennuyee,\"--\"I have\na great envie\" to do so and so. These constitute an important variety of\ncomic English.\n\nIf you want to know what subjects and objects are, you should go to the\nMorgue at Paris. But in Grammar--\n\nThe subject is the thing chiefly spoken of; the attribute is that which\nis affirmed or denied of it; and the object is the thing affected by\nsuch action.\n\nThe {075}nominative denotes the subject, and usually goes before the\nverb or attribute; and the word or phrase, denoting the object, follows\nthe verb; as, \"The flirt torments her lover.\" Here, a flirt is the\nsubject; torments, the attribute or thing affirmed; and her lover, the\nobject.\n\n[Illustration: 084]\n\nIt strikes us, though, that we are somewhat digressing from our subject,\nnamely Syntax, which,\n\nPrincipally {076}consists of two parts (which the flirt does not, for\nshe is all body and no soul) Concord and Government.\n\nConcord is the agreement which one word has with another, in gender,\nnumber, case or person.\n\nNote.--That a want of agreement between words does not invalidate\n_deeds_. We apprehend that such an engagement as the following, properly\nauthenticated, would hold good in law.\n\n     I ose Jon stubs too hunder dollar for valley reseved an\n     promis to pay Him Nex Sattaday\n\n     Signed Willum Gibs is x Mark\n\n     March 18, 1844.\n\nAlso that a friend of ours, to whom the following bill was sent, could\nnot have refused to discharge it on the score of its incorrect grammar.\n\n==> See Page Scan\n\n\nGovernment {077}is that power which one part of speech has over another,\nin directing its mood, tense, or case.\n\nGovernment is also that power, of which, if the Agrarians have their\nway, we shall soon see very little in this country.\n\nHurrah!\n\nNo taxes!\n\nNo army!\n\nNo navy!\n\nNo parsons!\n\nNo lawyers!\n\nNo Congress!\n\nNo Legislature!\n\nNo anything!\n\nNo nothing!\n\nTo produce the agreement and right disposition of words in a sentence,\nthe following rules (and observations?) should be carefully studied.\n\n\nRULE I.\n\nA verb must agree with its nominative case in number and person: as \"I\nperceive.\"\n\n\"Thou hast been to Boston.\"\n\n\"Apes chatter.\"\n\n\"Frenchmen gabble.\"\n\nCertain liberties are sometimes taken with this rule: as, \"I own I likes\ngood beer.\"\n\n\"You'm a fine fellow, aint yer?\" Such modes of speaking are adopted by\nthose who neither know nor care anything about grammatical correctness:\nbut there are other persons who care a great deal about it, but\nunfortunately do not know what it consists in. Such folks are very fond\nof saying, \"How it rain!\"\n\n\"It fit you very well.\"\n\n\"He say he think it very unbecoming.\"\n\n\"I were gone before you {078}was come,\" and so forth, in which forms of\nspeech they perceive a peculiar elegance.\n\nThe infinitive mood, or part of a sentence, is sometimes used as the\nnominative case to the verb: as, \"to be good is to be happy which is\nas grammatical an assertion as \"Toby Good is Toby Happy;\" and rather\nsurpasses it in respect of sense. \"That two pippins are a pair, is a\nproposition which no man in his senses will deny.\"\n\n     \"To be a connoisseur in boots,\n     To hate all rational pursuits,\n     To make your money fly, as though\n     Gold would as fast as mushrooms grow;\n     To haunt the Opera, save whene'er\n     There's anything worth hearing there;\n     To smirk, to smile, to bow, to dance,\n     To talk of what they eat in France,\n     To languish, simper, sue, and sigh,\n     And stuff her bead with flattery;\n     Are means to gain that worthless part,\n     A fashionable lady's heart.\"\n\nHere are examples enough, in all conscience, of infinitive moods serving\nas nominative oases.\n\nAll verbs, save only in the infinitive mood or participle, require a\nnominative case either expressed or understood: as, \"Row with me down\nthe river,\" that is \"Row thou, or do thou row.\"\n\n     \"Come where the aspens quiver,\"\n     \"come thou, or do thou come.\"\n     \"Fly not yet;\"\n     \"fly not thou, or do not thou fly.\"\n     \"Pass the ruby;\"\n     \"Pass thou, or do thou pass the ruby\" (not the Rubicon.\n\nA {079}well known popular song affords an example of the violation of\nthis rule.\n\n\"Ven as the Captain comed for to hear on't, Wery much applauded vot\nshe'd done.\"\n\n[Illustration: 088]\n\nThe verb applauded has here no nominative case, whereas it ought to have\nbeen governed by the pronoun he. \"He very much applauded,\" &c.\n\nEvery nominative case, except when made absolute, or used, like the\nLatin Vocative, in addressing a person, should belong to some verb,\nimplied if not expressed. A beautiful example of this grammatical maxim,\n{080}and one, too, that explains itself, is impressed upon the mind very\nsoon after its first introduction to letters: as,\n\n     \"Who kill'd Cock Robin?\n     I said the sparrow,\n     With my bow and arrow;\n     I kill'd Cock Robin.\"\n\nOf the neglect of this rule also, the ballad lately mentioned presents\nan instance: as,\n\n     \"Four-and-twenty brisk young fellows\n     Clad in jackets, blue array,--\n     And they took poor Billy Taylor\n     From his true love all avay.\"\n\nThe only verb in these four lines is the verb took, which is governed\nby the pronoun they. The four-and-twenty brisk young fellows, therefore,\nthough undeniably in the nominative, have no verb to belong to: while,\nat the same time, whatever may be thought of their behavior to Mr.\nWilliam Taylor, they are certainly not absolute in point of case.\n\nWhen a verb comes between two nouns, either of which may be taken as\nthe subject of the affirmation, it may agree with either of them: as,\n\"Two-and-six-pence is half-a-crown.\" Due regard, however, should be paid\nto that noun which is most naturally the subject of the verb: it would\nbe clearly wrong to say, \"Ducks and green peas is a delicacy.\"\n\n\"Fleas is a nuisance.\"\n\nA nominative case, standing without a personal tense of a verb, and\nbeing put before a participle, independently of the rest of the\nsentence, is called a case absolute: as, \"My brethren, to-morrow being\nSunday, I shall {081}preach a sermon in John street; after which we\nshall join in a hymn, and that having been sungy Brother Biggs will\naddress you.\"\n\nThe objective case is sometimes incorrectly made absolute by showmen and\nothers: as, \"Here, gentlemen and ladies, you will see that great warrior\nNapoleon Bonaparte, standing agin a tree with his hands in his breeches\npockets, him taking good care to keep out of harm's vay. And there, on\nthe extreme right, you will observe the Duky Vellingtdn a valking about\namidst the red-hot cannon balls, him not caring von straw.\"\n\n[Illustration: 090]\n\n\nRULE II.\n\nTwo or more singular nouns, joined together by a copulative conjunction,\nexpressed, or understood are equivalent {082}to a plural noun, and\ntherefore require verbs, nouns, and pronouns, agreeing with them in the\nplural number: as, \"Veal, wine, and vinegar are very good victuals I\nvow.\"\n\n\"Burke and Hare were nice men.\"\n\n\"A hat without a crown, a tattered coat, threadbare and out at elbows,\na pair of breeches which looked like a piece of dirty patchwork\ndiversified by various holes, and of boots which a Jew would hardly have\nraked from a kennel, at once proclaimed him a man who had seen better\ndays.\"\n\nThis rule is not always adhered to in discourse quite so closely as a\nfastidious ear would require it to be: as, \"And so, you know, Mary, and\nI, and Jane was a dusting the chairs, and in comes Missus.\"\n\n\nRULE III.\n\nWhen the conjunction disjunctive comes between two nouns, the verb,\nnoun, or pronoun, is of the singular number, because it refers to each\nof such nouns taken separately: as, \"A cold in the head, or a sore eye\nis a great disadvantage to a lover.\"\n\nIf singular pronouns, or a noun and pronoun of different persons, be\ndisjunctively connected, the verb must agree with the person which\nstands nearest to it; as, \"I or thou art.\"\n\n\"Thou or I am\"\n\n\"I, thou, or he is\" &c. But as this way of writing or speaking is very\ninelegant, and as saying, \"Either I am, or thou art,\" and so on, will\nalways render having recourse to it unnecessary, the rule just laid down\nis almost useless, except inasmuch as it suggests a moral maxim, namely,\n\"Always be on good terms with your next door neighbor.\"\n\nIt also forcibly reminds us of some beautiful lines by\n\nMoore, {083}in which the heart, like a tendril, is said to twine round\nthe \"nearest and loveliest thing.\" Now the person which is placed\nnearest the verb is the object of choice; ergo, the most agreeable\nperson--ergo, the loveliest person or thing.\n\nShould a conjunction disjunctive occur between a singular noun or\npronoun, and a plural one, the verb agrees with the plural noun or\npronoun: as, \"Neither a king nor his courtiers are averse to butter:\"\n(particularly when thickly spread.) \"Darius or the Persians were hostile\nto Greece.\"\n\n\nRULE IV.\n\nA noun or multitude, that is, one which signifies many, can have a verb\nor Pronoun to agree with it either in the singular or plural number;\naccording to the import of such noun, as conveying unity or plurality of\nidea: as, \"The nations humbugged.\"\n\n\"The multitude have to pay many taxes.\"\n\n\"The city Council are at a loss to know what to do.\"\n\n\"The people is a many headed monster.\"\n\n\nRULE V.\n\nPronouns agree with their antecedents, and with the nouns to which they\nbelong, in gender and number: as, \"This is the blow which killed Ned.\"\n\n\"England was once governed by a celebrated King, who was called Rufus\nthe Red, but whose name was by no means so illustrious as that of\nAlfred.\"\n\n\"General M. and the Lieutenant had put on their boots.\"\n\n\"The lady appeared, and she smiled, but the smile belied her feelings.\"\n\nThe relative being of the same person with the antecedent, {084}the verb\nalways agrees with it: as,\n\n\"Thou who learnest Syntax\"\n\n\"I who enlighten thy mind.\"\n\nThe objective case of the personal pronouns is by some, for want of\nbetter information, employed in the place of these and those: as,\n\n\"Let them things alone.\"\n\n\"Now then, Jemes, make haste with them chops.\" The adverb there, is\nsometimes, with additional impropriety, joined to the pronoun them: as,\n\n\"Look after them there sheep.\"\n\nThe objective case of a pronoun in the first person is put after the\ninterjections Oh! and Ah! as,\n\n\"Oh! dear me,\" &c.\n\nThe second person, however, requires a nominative case: as,\n\n\"Oh! you good-for-nothing man!\"\n\n\"Ah! thou gay Lothario!\"\n\n[Illustration: 093]\n\n\nRULE VI.\n\nWhen {085}there is no nominative case between the relative and the verb,\nthe relative itself is the nominative to the verb: as, \"The master who\nflogged us.\"\n\n\"The rods which were used.\"\n\nBut when the nominative comes between the relative and the verb, the\nrelative exchanges, as it were, the character of sire for that of son,\nand becomes the governed instead of the governor; depending for its case\n| on some word in its own member of the sentence: as, \"He who is now at\nthe head of affairs, whom the people delight to honor, and to whom is\nintrusted the helm of state--is a Polk.\"\n\n\nRULE VII.\n\nThe relative and the verb, when the former is preceded by two\nnominatives of different persons, may agree in person with either,\naccording to the sense: as,\n\n\"I am the young gentleman who do the lovers at the Chatham;\" or, \"who\ndoes.\"\n\n[Illustration: 095]\n\nLet this maxim be borne constantly in mind. \"A murderer of good\ncharacters should always be made an example of.\"\n\n\nRULE VIII.\n\nEvery adjective, and every adjective pronoun, relates to a substantive,\nexpressed or implied: as, \"Dando was an unprincipled, as well as a\nvoracious man.\"\n\n\"Few quarrel with their bread and butter;\" that is, \"few persons.\"\n\n\"This is the wonderful eagle of the sun.\" That is, \"This eagle\" &c.\n\nAdjective pronouns agree in number with their substantives: \"This\nmuff, these muffs; that booby, these boobies; another numscull, other\nnumsculls.\"\n\nSome {086}people say, \"Those kind of things,\" or, \"This four-and-twenty\nyear,\" neither of which expressions they have any business to use.\n\nAdjectives are sometimes improperly used as adverbs: as, \"He behaved\nvery bad.\"\n\n\"He insulted me most gross.\"\n\n\"He eat and drank uncommon.\"\n\n\"He wur beat very severe.\"\n\n\"It hailed tremendous\" or, more commonly, \"tremenjus.\"\n\n\nRULE IX.\n\nThe article a or an agrees with nouns in the singular number only: as,\n\"A fool, an ass, a simpleton, a ninny, {087}a lout--I would not give a\nfarthing for a thousand such.\"\n\nThe definite article the may agree with nouns in the singular and plural\nnumber: as, \"The toast, the ladies, the ducks.\"\n\nThe articles are often properly omitted; when used, they serve to\ndetermine or limit the thing spoken of: as, \"Variety is charming.\"\n\n\"Familiarity doth breed contempt.\"\n\n\"A stitch in time saves nine.\"\n\n\"The heart that has truly loved never forgets.\"\n\n\nRULE X.\n\nOne substantive, in the possessive or genitive case, is governed by\nanother, of a different meaning: as, \"A fiddle-stick's end.\"\n\n\"Monkey's allowance.\"\n\n\"Virtue's reward.\"\n\n[Illustration: 096]\n\n\nRULE XI.\n\nActive verbs govern the objective case: as, \"I kissed her.\"\n\n\"She scratched me\"\n\n\"Virtue rewards her followers.\"\n\nFor {088}which reason she is like a cook.\n\nVerbs neuter do not govern an objective case. Observe, therefore, that\nsuch phrases: as,\n\n\"She cried a good one,\"\n\n\"He came the old soldier over me,\"\n\nand so forth, are highly improper in a grammatical point of view, to say\nnothing of other objections to them.\n\nThese verbs, however, are capable of governing words of a meaning\nsimilar to their own: as, in the affecting ballad of Giles Scroggins--\n\n\"I wont, she cried, and screamed a scream\"\n\nThe verb To Be has the same case after it as that which goes before it:\nas, \"It was I\" not \"It was me\"\n\n\"The Grubbs were they who eat so much tripe at our last party not \"The\nGrubbses were them.\"\n\n\nRULE XII.\n\nOne verb governs another that depends upon it, in the infinitive mood:\nas, \"Cease to smoke pipes.\"\n\n\"Begin to wear collars.\"\n\n\"I advise you to shave\"\n\n\"I recommend you to go to church.\"\n\n\"I resolved to visit the Carolinas.\"\n\n\"And there I learned to wheel about And jump Jim Crow.\"\n\nIn general the preposition to is used before the latter of two verbs;\nbut sometimes it is more properly omitted: as, \"I saw you take it, young\nfellow; come along with me.\"\n\n\"Let me get hold of you, that's all!\"\n\n\"Did I hear you speak?\"\n\n\"I'll let you know!\"\n\n\"You dare not hit me.\"\n\n\"Bid me discourse\"\n\n\"You need not sing\"\n\nThe proposition for is sometimes unnecessarily intruded into a sentence,\nin addition to the preposition to, before an infinitive mood: as, How\ncame you for to think, {089}for to go, for to do such a thing?\" Do you\nwant me for to punch your head?\"\n\nAdjectives, substantives, and participles, often govern the infinitive\nmood: as, \"Miss Hopkins, I shall be happy to dance the next set with\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh! Sir, it is impossible to refuse you.\"\n\n\"Have you an inclination to waltz?\"\n\n\"I shall be delighted in endeavoring to do so.\"\n\nThe infinitive mood is frequently made absolute, that is, independent of\nthe rest of the sentence: as, \"To say the truth, I was rather the worse\nfor liquor.\"\n\n\"Not to mince matters, Miss, I love you.\"\n\n[Illustration: 098]\n\nRULE XIII.\n\nThe {090}relation which words and phrases bear to each other in point\nof time, should always be duly marked: instead of saying, \"Last night I\nintended to have made strong love to her,\" we should say, \"Last night I\nintended to make strong love to her;\" because, although the intention of\nmaking strong love may have been abandoned (on reflection) this morning,\nand is now, therefore, a thing which is past, yet it is undoubtedly,\nwhen last night and the thoughts connected with it are brought back,\nagain present to the mind.\n\n\nRULE XIV.\n\nParticiples have the same power of government with that of the verbs\nfrom which they are derived: as,\n\n\"Oh, what an exquisite singer Rubini is! I am so fond of hearing him.\"\n\n\"Look at that horrid man; I declare he is quizzing us!\"\n\n\"No, he is only taking snuff.\"\n\n\"See, how that thing opposite keeps making mouths.\"\n\n\"How fond they all are of wearing mustaches! Don't you like it?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! there is no resisting them.\"\n\n\"Heigho! I am dying to have an ice--\"\n\n     Young man for a husband, Miss?\n     For shame, Sir! don't be rude!\n\nParticiples are sometimes used as substantives: as, \"The French mouth is\nadapted to the making of grimaces.\"\n\n\"The cobbler is like the parson; he lives by the mending of soles.\"\n\n\"The tailor reaps a good harvest from the sewing of cloth.\"\n\n\"Did you ever see a shoot-ing of the moon?\"\n\nIs this what the witches mean when they sing, in the acting play of\nMacbeth,\n\n\"We fly by night?\"\n\nIf {091}they \"shoot the moon,\" they are shooting stars. There is a mode\nof using the indefinite article a before a participle, for which\nthere is no occasion, as it does not convert the participle into a\nsubstantive, and makes no alteration in the sense of what is said; in\nthis case the article, therefore, is like a wart, a wen, or a knob at\nthe end of the nose, neither useful nor ornamental: as, \"Going out a\nshooting.\"\n\n\"Are you a coming to-morrow?\"\n\n\"I was a thinking about what Jem said.\"\n\n\"Here you are, a going of it, as usual!\" A liberty not unfrequently\ntaken with the English Language, is the substitution of the perfect\nparticiple for the imperfect tense, and of the imperfect tense for the\nperfect participle: as, \"He run like mad, with the great dog after him.\"\n\n\"Maria come and told us all about it.\"\n\n\"When I had wrote the Valentine, I sealed it with my thimble.\"\n\n\"He has rose to (be) a common* councilman.\"\n\n\"I was chose Lord Mayor.\"\n\n\"I've eat (or a eat) lots of vension in my time.\"\n\n\"I should have spoke if you hadn't put in your oar.\"\n\n\"You were mistook.\"\n\n\"He sent her an affecting copy of verses, which was wrote with a\nPerryian pen.\"\n\n\nRULE XV.\n\nAdverbs are generally placed in a sentence before adjectives, after\nverbs active or neuter, and frequently between the auxiliary and the\nverb: as, \"He came, Sir, and he was most exceedingly drunk; he could\nhardly stand upon his legs; he made a very lame discourse; he spoke\nincoherently and ridiculously; and was impatiently heard by the whole\nassembly.\"\n\n\"He is fashionably dressed.\"\n\n\"She is conspicuously ugly.\"\n\n\"The eye of {092}jealousy is proverbially sharp, and yet it is\nindisputiably green\"\n\n\"The French Marquis was a very charming man; he danced exquisitely and\nnimbly, and was greatly admired by all the ladies.\"\n\n[Illustration: 101]\n\nSeveral adverbs have been coined of late; and some of them are\nvery remarkable for a \"particular\" elegance: as, \"I reckon you're\ncatawampously chawed up.\" In the example just given there is to be\nfound, besides the new adverb, a word which, if not also new to the\n{093}English student, is rendered so both by its orthography and\npronunciation; namely, _chawed_. This term is no other than \"chewed,\"\nmodified. \"Chawed up\" is a very strong expression, and is employed to\nsignify the most complete state of discomfiture and defeat, when a man\nis as much crushed, mashed, and comminuted, morally speaking, as if\nhe had literally and corporeally undergone the process of mastication.\n\"Catawampously\" is a concentration of \"hopelessly,\" \"tremendously,\"\n\"thoroughly,\" and \"irrevocably;\" so that \"catawampously chawed up,\"\nmeans, brought as nearly to a state of utter annihilation as anything\nconsistently with the laws of nature can possibly be. For the\nmetaphorical use of the word \"chawed,\" three several reasons have been\ngiven: 1. Familiarity with the manner in which the alligator disposes\nof his vie-tims. 2. The cannibalism of the Aborigines. 3. The delicate\npractice of chewing tobacco. Each of these is supported by numerous\narguments, on the consideration of which it would be quite out of the\nquestion to enter in this place.\n\n\nRULE XVI.\n\nTwo English negatives (like French lovers) destroy one another,--and\nbecome equivalent to an affirmative: as, \"The question before the House\nwas not an unimportant one;\" that is, \"it was an important one.\"\n\n\"Mr. Brown was free to confess that he did not undertake to say that\nhe would not on some future occasion give a satisfactory answer to the\nhonorable gentleman.\"\n\nThus, at one and the same time, we teach our readers Syntax and\nsecretiveness.\n\nIt is probable that small boys are often unacquainted with {094}this\nrule; for many of them, while undergoing personal chastisement, exclaim,\nfor the purpose, as it would appear, of causing its duration to be\nshortened--\"Oh pray, Sir, oh pray, Sir, oh pray, Sir! I won't do so no\nmore!\"\n\n\nRULE XVII.\n\nPrepositions govern the objective case: as, \"What did the butcher say of\nher?\"\n\n\"He said that she would never do for him; that she was too thin for a\nwife, and he was not fond of a spare rib.\"\n\nThe delicate ear is much offended by any deviation from this rule:\nas, in a shocking and vulgar song which it was once our misfortune to\nhear:--\n\n     \"There I found the faithless she\n     Frying sausages for he.\"\n\nWe had occasion, in the Etymology, to remark on a certain misuse of the\npreposition, of. This, perhaps, is best explained by stating that of in\nthe instances cited, is made to usurp the government of cases which are\nalready under a rightful jurisdiction: as, \"What are you got a eating\nof?\"\n\n\"He had been a beating of his wife.\"\n\n\nRULE XVIII.\n\nConjunctions connect similar moods and tenses of verbs, and cases of\nnouns and pronouns: as, \"A coat of arms suspended on a wall is like an\nexecuted traitor; it is hanged, drawn, and quartered.\"\n\n\"If you continue thus to drink brandy and water and to smoke cigars, you\nwill be like Boreas the North wind, who takes 'cold without' wherever he\ngoes, and always 'blows a cloud' when it comes in his way.\"\n\n\"Do you think there is any {095}thing between him and her?\"\n\n\"Yes; he, and she are engaged ones.\"\n\n[Illustration: 104]\n\nNote.--To ask whether there is any thing between two persons of opposite\nsexes, is one way of inquiring whether they are in love with each other.\nIt is not, however, in our opinion, a very happy phrase, inasmuch\nas whatever intervenes between a couple of fond hearts, must tend to\nprevent them from coming together.\n\n\nRULE XIX.\n\nSome conjunctions govern the indicative; some the subjunctive mood. In\ngeneral, it is right to use the subjunctive, {096}when contingency or\ndoubt is implied: as, \"If I were to say that the moon is made of green\ncheese.\"\n\n\"If I were a wiseacre.\"\n\n\"If I were a Wilt-shire-man.\"\n\n\"A lady, unless, she be toasted, is never drunk.\"\n\nAnd when she is toasted, those who are drunk are generally the\ngentlemen.\n\n[Illustration: 105]\n\nThose conjunctions which have a positive and absolute signification,\nrequire the indicative mood: as, \"He who fasts may be compared to a\nhorse: for as the animal eats not a bit, so neither does the man partake\nof a morsel.\"\n\n\"The rustic is deluded by false hopes, for his daily food is gammon.\"\n\nEvery philosopher has his weak points, and in the Sylva Sylvarum may be\nfound some gammon of Bacon.\n\n\nRULE XX.\n\nWhen a comparison is made between two or more things, the latter noun or\npronoun is not governed by the {097}conjunction than or as, but agrees\nwith the verb, or is governed by the verb or preposition, expressed\nor understood: as, \"The French are a lighter people than we,\" (that is\n\"than we are,\") \"and yet we are not so dark as they,\" that is, \"as they\nare.\"\n\n\"I should think that they admire me more than them,\" that is, \"than they\nadmire them.\"\n\n\"It is a shame, Martha! you were thinking more of that young officer\nthan me,\" that is, \"of me.\"\n\n[Illustration: 106]\n\nSufficient attention is not always paid, in discourse, to this rule.\nThus, a schoolboy may be often heard to exclaim,\n\n\"What did you hit me for, you great fool?\"\n\n\"You're bigger than me. Hit some one of your own size!\"\n\n\"Not fling farther than him? just can't I, that's all!\"\n\n\"You and I have got more marbles than them,\"\n\n\nRULE XXI.\n\nAn {098}ellipsis, or omission of certain words, is frequently allowed,\nfor the sake of avoiding disagreeable repetitions, and of expressing our\nideas in a few words. Instead of saying, \"She was a little woman, she\nwas a round woman, and she was an old woman,\" we say, making use of the\nfigure Ellipsis, \"She was a little, round, and old woman.\"\n\nWhen, however, the omission of words is productive of obscurity, weakens\nthe sentence, or involves a violation of some grammatical principle,\nthe ellipsis must not be used. It is improper to say, \"Puddings fill who\nfill them;\" we should supply the word those. \"A beautiful leg of mutton\nand turnips\" is not good language: those who would deserve what they\nare talking about ought to say, \"A beautiful leg of mutton and fine\nturnips.\"\n\nIn common discourse, in which the meaning can be eked out by gestures,\nsigns, and inarticulate sounds variously modified, the ellipsis is\nmuch more liberally and more extensively employed than in written\ncomposition. \"May I have the pleasure of--hum? ha?\" may constitute an\ninvitation to take wine. \"I shall be quite--a--a--\" may serve as an\nanswer in the affirmative. \"So then you see he was--eh!--you see--,\" is\nperhaps an intimation that a man has been hanged. \"Well, of all the--I\nnever!\" is often tantamount to three times as many words expressive of\nsurprise, approbation, or disapprobation, according to the tone in\nwhich it is uttered. \"Will you?--ah!--will you?--ah!--ah!--ah!\" will do\neither for \"Will you be so impertinent, you scoundrel? will you dare\nto do so another {099}time?\" or, \"Will you, dearest, loveliest, most\nadorable of your sex, will you consent to make me happy; will you be\nmine? speak! answer, I entreat you! One word from those sweet lips will\nmake me the most fortunate man in existence!\"\n\nThere is, however, a kind of ellipsis which those who indulge in that\nstyle of epistolary writing, wherein sentiments of a tender nature are\nconveyed, will do well to avoid with the greatest care. The ellipsis\nalluded to, is that of the first person singular of the personal\npronoun, as instanced in the following model of a billet-doux:--\n\n\n     Camberwell,\n\n     April 1, 1844.\n\n     MY DEAREST FANNY,\n\n     Have not enjoyed the balm of sleep all the livelong night.\n     Encountered, last night, at the ball, the beau ideal of my\n     heart. Never knew what love was till then. Derided the\n     sentiment often; jested at scars, because had never felt a\n     wound. Feel at last the power of beauty--Write with a\n     tremulous hand; waver between hope and fear. Hope to be\n     thought not altogether unworthy of regard: fear to be\n     rejected as having no pretensions to the affections of such\n     unparalleled loveliness. Know not in what terms to declare\n     my feelings. Adore you, worship you, dote on you, am wrapt\n     up in you! think but on you, live but for you, would\n     willingly die for you!--in short, love you! and imploring\n     you to have some compassion on one who is distracted for\n     your sake\n\n     Remain\n\n     Devotedly yours\n\n     T. Tout.\n\n\nRULE XXII.\n\nA {100}Regular and dependent construction should be carefully preserved\nthroughout the whole of a sentence, and all its parts should correspond\nto each other. There is, therefore, an inaccuracy in the following\nsentence; \"Greenacre was more admired, but not so much lamented, as\nBurke.\" It should be, \"Greenacre was more admired than Burke, but not so\nmuch lamented.\"\n\nOf these two worthies there will be a notice of the following kind in\na biographical dictionary, to be published a thousand years hence in\nAmerica.\n\nGreenacre.--A celebrated critic who so cut up a blue-stocking lady of\nthe name of Brown, that he did not leave her a leg to stand upon.\n\nBurke.--A famous orator, whose power of stopping people's mouths was\nsaid to be prodigious. It is farther reported of him that he was only\nonce hung up, and that on the occasion of the last speech he ever made.\n\nPerhaps it may be said that the rule last stated comprehends all\npreceding rules and requires exemplification accordingly. We therefore\ncall the attention of the reader to the following paragraph, requesting\nhim to consider what, and how many, violations of the maxims of Syntax\nit contains.\n\n\"We teaches, that is, my son and me teaches, the boys English Grammar.\nTom or Dick have learned something every day but Harry what is idler,\nwhom I am sure will never come to no good, for he is always a miching\nand doing those kind of things (he was catch but yesterday in a skittle\ngrounds) he only makes his book all dog's ears. I beat he, too, pretty\nsmartish, as I ought, you will say, for to have did. I was going to have\n{101}sent him away last week but he somehow got over me as he do always.\nI have had so much trouble with he, that between you and I, if I was not\npaid for il, I wouldn't have no more to do with such a boy. There never\nwasn't a monkey more mischievious than him; and a donkey isn't more\nstupider and not half so obstinate as that youngster.\"\n\nThe Syntax of the Interjection has been sufficiently stated under Rule\nV. Interjections afford more matter for consideration in a Treatise\non Elocution than they do in a work on Grammar; but there is one\nobservation which we are desirous of making respecting them, and which\nwill not, it is hoped, be thought altogether foreign to our present\nsubject. Almost every interjection has a great variety of meanings,\nadapted to particular occasions and circumstances, and indicated chiefly\nby the tone of the voice. Of this proposition we shall now give a few\nillustrations, which we would endeavor to render still clearer by the\naddition of musical notes, but that these would hardly express, with\nadequate exactness, the modulations of sound to which we allude; and\nbesides, we hope to be sufficiently understood without such help. This\npart of the Grammar should be read aloud by the student; or, which is\nbetter still, the interjection, where it is possible, should be repeated\nwith the proper intonation by a class; the sentence which gives occasion\nto it being read by the preceptor. We will select the interjection Oh!\nas the source from which our examples are to be drawn.\n\n\"I'll give it to you, you idle dog: I will!\"\n\n\"Oh, pray, Sir! Oh, pray, Sir! Oh! Oh! Oh!\"\n\n\"I shall ever have the highest esteem for you, Sir; but as to love, that\nis out of the question.\"\n\n\"Oh, {102}Matilda!\"\n\n\"I say, Jim, look at that chaffinch: there's a shy!\"\n\n\"Oh, Crikey!\"\n\n\"Miss Timms, do you admire Lord Byron?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\"\n\n\"What do you think of Rubini's singing?\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"So then, you see, we popped round the corner, and caught them just in\nthe nick of time.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"Sir, your behavior has done you great credit.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"Oats are looking up.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\n\"Honorable Members might say what they pleased; but he was convinced,\nfor his part, that the New Poor Law had given great general\nsatisfaction.\"\n\n\"Oh! oh!\"\n\nThere being now no reason (or rule) to detain us in the Syntax, we shall\nforthwith advance into Prosody, where we shall have something to say,\nnot only about rules, but also of measures.\n\n\n\n\nPART IV. PROSODY.\n\nProsody {103}consists of two parts; wherefore, although it may be a\ntopic, a head, or subject for discussion, it can never be a point; for a\npoint is that which hath no parts. Besides, there are a great many\nlines to be considered in the second part of Prosody, which treats of\nVersification. The first division teaches the true Pro-nunciation of\nWords, including Accent, Quantity, Emphasis, Pause, and Tone.\n\nLord Chesterfield's book about manners, which is intended to teach\nus the proper tone to be adopted in Society, may be termed an Ethical\nProsody.\n\nLord Chesterfield may have been a polished gentleman, but Dr. Johnson\nwas of the two the more shining character.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. OF PRONUNCIATION\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I. OF ACCENT.\n\nThough penetrated ourselves by the desire of imparting instruction,\nwe are far from wishing to bore our readers; and therefore we shall:\nendeavor to repeat nothing here that we have said before.\n\nAccent {104}is the marking with a peculiar stress of the voice a\nparticular letter or syllable in a word, in such a manner as to render\nit more distinct or audible than the rest. Thus, in the word theatre,\nthe stress of the voice should be on the letter e and first syllable\nthe; and in contrary, on the first syllable con. How shocking it is to\nhear people say con-trary, the-atre! The friends of education will be\nreminded with regret, that an error in the pronunciation of the first of\nthese words is very early impressed on the human mind.\n\n     \"Mary, Mary,\n     Quite contrary,\n     How does your garden grow?\"\n\nHow many evils, alas! arise from juvenile associations!\n\nWords of two syllables never have more than one of them accented, except\nfor the sake of peculiar emphasis. Gentlemen, however, whose profession\nit is to drive certain public vehicles called cabs, are much accustomed\nto disregard this rule, and to say, \"po-lite\" (or \"pur-lite\"),\n\"gen-teel,\" \"con-cern,\" \"po-lice,\" and so on: nay, they go so far as to\nconvert a word of one syllable into two, for the sake of indulging in\nthis style of pronunciation; and thus the word \"queer\" is pronounced by\nthem as \"ke-veer.\"\n\nThe word \"a-men,\" when standing alone, should be pronounced with two\naccents.\n\nThe accents in which it usually is pronounced are very inelegant.\nClerks, now-a-days, alas! are no scholars.\n\nDissyllables, formed by adding a termination, usually have the former\nsyllable accented: as, \"Foolish, block-head,\" &c.\n\n===>See Page Scan\n\nThe {105}accent in dissyllables, formed by prefixing a syllable to the\nradical word, is commonly on the latter syllable: as, \"I protest, I\ndeclare, I entreat, I adore, I expire.\"\n\nProtestations, declarations, entreaties, and adorations, proclaim a\nswain to be simply tender; but expiration (for love) proves him to be\ndecidedly soft.\n\n[Illustration: 114]\n\nA man who turns lover becomes a protest-ant; and his conduct at the same\ntime generally undergoes a reformation, especially if he has previously\nbeen a rake.\n\nThe zeal, however, of a reformed rake, like that of Jack in Dean Swift's\n\"Tale of a Tub,\" is sometimes apt to outrun his discretion.\n\nWhen the same word, being a dissyllable, is both a noun {106}and a verb,\nthe verb has mostly the accent on the latter, and the noun on the former\nSyllable: as,\n\n     \"Molly, let Hymen's gentle hand\n     Cement our hearts together,\n     With such a cement as shall stand\n     In spite of wind and weather.\n\n     \"I do presage--and oft a fact\n     A presage doth foretoken--\n     Our mutual love shall ne'er contract,\n     Our contract ne'er be broken.\"\n\nThere are many exceptions to the rule just enunciated (so that,\ncorrectly as well as familiarly speaking, it is perhaps _no_ rule;) for\nthough verbs seldom have an accent on the former, yet nouns frequently\nhave it on the latter syllable: as,\n\n     \"Mary Anne is my delight\n     Both by day and eke by night;\n     For by day her soft control\n     Soothes my heart and calms my soul;\n     And her image while I doze\n     Comes to sweeten my repose;\n     Fortune favoring my design,\n     Please the pigs she shall be mine!\"\n\nThe former syllable of most dissyllables ending in y, our, ow, le, ish,\nck, ter, age, en, et, is accented: as \"Granny, noodle,\" &c.\n\nExcept allow, avow, endow, bestow, below.\n\n     \"Sir I cannot allow\n     You your flame to avow;\n     Endow yourself first with the rhino:\n     My hand to bestow On a fellow below\n     Me!--I'd rather be--never mind---\n     _I_ know.\"\n\n\"Music,\" {107}in the language of the Gods, is sometimes pronounced\n\"mu-sic!\"\n\nNouns of two syllables ending in er, have the accent on the former\nsyllable: as, \"Butcher, baker.\"\n\nIt is, perhaps, a singular thing, that persons who pursue the callings\ndenoted by the two words selected as examples, should always indicate\ntheir presence at an area by crying out, in direct defiance of Prosody,\n\"But-cher, ba-ker;\" the latter syllable being of the two the more\nstrongly accented.\n\nDissyllabic verbs ending in a consonant and e final, as \"Disclose,\"\n\"repine,\" or having a dipthong in the last syllable, as, \"Believe,\"\n\"deceive,\" or ending in two consonants, as \"Intend,\" are accented on the\nlatter syllable.\n\n     \"Matilda's eyes a light disclose,\n     Which with the star of Eve might vie;\n     Oh! that such lovely orbs as those\n     Should sparkle at an apple-pie!\n     \"Thy love I thought was wholly mine,\n     Thy heart I fondly hoped to rule;\n     Its throne I cannot but repine\n     At sharing with a goosb'ry fool!\n     \"Thou swear'st no flatterer can deceive\n     Thy mind,--thy breast no coxcomb rifle;\n     Thou art no trifler, I believe,\n     But why so plaguy fond of trifle?\n     \"Why, when we're wed--I don't intend\n     To joke, Matilda, or be funny;\n     I really fear that you will spend\n     The Honey Moon in eating honey!\"\n\nMost {108}dissyllabic nouns, having a dipthong in the latter syllable,\nhave the aecent also on that syllable: as,\n\n     \"A Hamlet that draws\n     Is sure of applause.\"\n\nA Hamlet that draws? There are not many who can give even an outline of\nthe character.\n\nIn a few words ending in _ain_ the accent is placed on the former\nsyllable: as, \"Villain,\" which is pronounced as the natives of\nWhitechapel pronounce \"willing.\" Those dissyllables, the vowels of which\nare separated in pronunciation, always have the accent on the first\nsyllable: as, lion, scion, &c.\n\n     When is a young and tender shoot\n     Like a fond swain? When 'tis a scion.\n\n     What's the most gentlemanly brute\n     Like, of all flow'rs? A _dandy_lion.'\n\nTrisyllables, formed by adding a termination or prefixing a syllable,\nretain the accent of the radical word: as, \"Loveliness, sheepishness,\nknavery, assurance.\" The first syllable of trisyllables ending in\nons, al, ion, is accented in the generality of cases: as in the words\n\"serious, capital,\" &c.\n\n     \"Dr. Johnson declared, with a serious face,\n     That he reckoned a punster a villain:\n     What would he have thought of the horrible case\n     Of a man who makes jokes that are killing?\"\n\n     In his diction to speak 'tis not easy for one Who must\n     furnish both reason and rhyme:\n     \"Sir, the rogue who has utter'd a capital pun,\n     Has committed a capital crime.'\n\nTrisyllables {109}ending in ce, ent, ate, y, re, le, and ude, commonly\naccent the first syllable. Many of those, however, which are derived\nfrom words having the accent on the last syllable and of those of which\nthe middle syllable has a vowel between two consonants, are excepted.\n\n     They who would elegantly speak\n     Should not say \"impudence,\" but \"cheek;\"\n     Should all things eatable call \"prog;\"\n     Eyes \"ogles,\" countenance \"phisog.\"\n     A coach should nominate a \"drag,\"\n     And specify as \"moke,\" a nag:\n     For excellent, use \"prime\" or \"bang up,\"\n     Or \"out and out;\" and \"scrag,\" for hang up.\n     The theatre was wont to teach\n     The public rectitude of speech,\n     But we who live in modern age\n     Consult the gallery, not the stage.\n\nTrisyllables ending in ator have the accent placed on the middle\nsyllable; as, \"Spectator, narrator,\" &c. except orator, senator, and a\nfew other words.\n\nTake care that you never pronounce the common name of the vegetable\nsometimes called Irish fruit, \"purtator.\"\n\nA dipthong in the middle syllable of a trisyllable is accented: as\nalso, in general, is a vowel before two consonants: as, \"Domestic,\"\n\"endeavor.\"\n\nAn endeavor to appear domesticated, or in common phraseology, to \"do\"\nthe domestic, is sometimes made by young gentlemen, and generally with\nbut an ill grace. {110}Avoid such attempts, reader, on all occasions:\nand in particular never adventure either to nurse babies, or (when you\nshall have \"gone up to the ladies\") to pour water into the tea-pot from\nthe kettle. A legal or medical student sometimes thinks proper, from a\ndesire of appearing at once gallant and facetious, to usurp the office\nof pouring out the tea itself, on which occasions he is very apt to\nbetray his uncivilised habits by an unconscious but very unequivocal\nmanipulation used in giving malt liquor what is technically termed a\n\"head.\"\n\nMany polysyllables are regulated as to accent by the words from which\nthey are derived: as, \"Inex-pressibles, Substituted, Unobjectionably,\nDesignated, Transatlantic, Delicacy, Decidedly, Unquestionable.\"\n\nWords ending in ator are commonly accented on the last syllable but one,\nlet them be as long as they may: as, respirator, regulator, renovator,\nindicator, and all the other alors that we see in the newspapers.\n\nMany words ending in ion, ous, ty, ia, io, and cal, have their accent\non the last syllable but two: as, \"Con-si-de-ra-ti-on, pro-di-gi-ous,\nim-pe-ne-tra-bil-i-ty, en-cy-clo-pae'-di-a, brag-ga-do-ci-o,\nan-ti-mo-narch-i-cal,\" all of which words we have divided into\nsyllables, by way of a hint that they are to be pronounced (comically\nspeaking) after the manner of Dominie Sampson.\n\nWords that end in le usually have the accent on the first syllable:\nas, \"Amicable, despicable,\" &c.: although we have heard people say\n\"despicable.\"\n\n\"I never see such a despicable fellow, not in all my born days.\"\n\nWords of this class, however, the second syllable of which has a vowel\nbefore two consonants, are often differently {111}accented: as in\n\"Respectable, contemptible.\n\n[Illustration: 120]\n\nHaving, in compliance with grammatical usage, laid down certain rules\nwith regard to accent, we have to inform the reader that there are so\nmany exceptions to almost all of them, that perhaps there is scarcely\none which it is worth while to attend to. We hope we have some measure\namused him; but as to instruction, fear that, in this part of our\nsubject, we have given him {112}very little of that. Those who would\nacquire a correct accent had better attend particularly to the mode\nof speaking adopted in good society; avoid debating clubs; and go to\nchurch. For farther satisfaction and information we refer them, and we\nbeg to say that we are not joking--to _Walker_.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II. OF QUANTITY.\n\nThe quantity of a syllable means the time taken up in pronouncing it.\nAs there is in Arithmetic a long division and a short division, so in\nProsody is Quantity considered as long or short.\n\nA syllable is said to be long, when the accent is on the vowel, causing\nit to be slowly joined in pronunciation to the next letter: as, \"Flea,\nsmall, creature.\"\n\nA syllable is called short, when the accent lies on the consonant, so\nthat the vowel is quickly joined to the succeeding letter: as \"Crack,\nlittle, devil.\"\n\nThe pronunciation of a long syllable commonly occupies double the time\nof a short one: thus, \"Pate,\" and \"Broke,\" must be pronounced as slowly\nagain as \"Pat,\" and \"Knock.\"\n\nWe have remarked a curious tendency in the more youthful students of\nGrammar to regard the quantity of words (in their lessons) more as being\n\"small\" or \"great\" than as coming under the head of \"long\" or \"short.\"\nTheir predilection for small quantities of words is very striking and\npeculiar; food for the mind they seem to look upon as physic; and all\nphysic, in their estimation, is most agreeably taken in infinitesimal\ndoses. The Homoeopathic system of acquiring knowledge {113}is more to\ntheir taste than even the Hamiltonian.\n\nIt is quite impossible to give any rules as to quantity worth reading.\nThe Romans may have submitted to them, but that is no reason why we\nshould. We will pronounce our words as we please: and if foreigners\nwant to know why, we will tell them that, when there is no law to the\ncontrary, we always does as we likes with our own.\n\n[Illustration: 122]\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III. ON EMPHASIS.\n\nEmphasis {114}is the distinguishing of some word or words in a sentence,\non which we wish to lay particular stress, by a stronger and fuller\nsound, and sometimes by a particular tone of the voice.\n\nA few illustrations of the importance of emphasis will be, perhaps, both\nagreeable and useful.\n\nWhen a young lady says to a young gentlemen, \"You are a _nice_ fellow;\nyou _are!_\"--she means one thing.\n\nWhen a young gentleman, addressing one of his own sex, remarks,\n\"_You're_ a nice fellow; _you_ are;\"--he means another thing.\n\n\"Your friend is a gentlemen,\" pronounced without any particular\nemphasis, is the simple assertion of a fact.\n\n\"Your friend is a gentleman,\" with the emphasis on the words \"friend\"\nand \"gentleman,\" conveys an insinuation besides.\n\nSo simple a question as \"Do you like pine-apple rum?\" is susceptible of\nas many meanings as there are words in it; according to the position of\nthe emphasis.\n\n\"_Do_ you like pine-apple rum?\" is as much as to say, \"Do you, though,\nreally like pine-apple rum?\"\n\n\"Do _you_ like pine-apple rum?\" is tantamount to,\n\n\"Can it be that a young gentleman (or lady) like you, can like\npine-apple rum?\"\n\n\"Do you _like_ pine-apple rum?\" means, \"Is it possible that instead of\ndisliking, you are fond of pine-apple rum?\"\n\n\"Do {115}you like _pine-apple_ rum?\" is an enquiry as to whether you\nlike that kind of rum in particular.\n\nAnd lastly, \"Do you like pine-apple _rum?_\" is equivalent to asking if\nyou think that the flavor of the pineapple improves that especial form\nof alcohol.\n\nA well-known instance of an emphasis improperly placed was furnished\nby a certain Parson, who read a passage in the Old Testament in the\nfollowing unlucky manner: \"And he said unto his sons, Saddle me the ass;\nand they saddled _him._\"\n\nYoung ladies are usually very emphatic in ordinary discourse. \"What a\nlittle _dear!_ Oh! how _sweetly_ pretty! Well! I never _did_, I\ndeclare! _So_ nice, and _so_ innocent, and _so_ good-tempered, and _so_\naffectionate, and _such_ a color! And _oh! such lovely eyes!_ and such\nhair! He _was_ a little duck! he was, he was, he was. Tzig a tzig, tzig,\ntzig, tzig, tzig!\" &c. &c. &c.\n\nThis emphatic way of speaking is indicative of two very amiable\nfeelings implanted by nature in the female occiput, and called by the\nPhrenologists Adhesiveness and Philoprogenitivenes. Those who attempt\nto imitate it will be conscious, while forcing out their words, of\na peculiar mental motion, which we cannot explain otherwise than by\nsaying, that it is analogous to that which attends the act of pressing\nor squeezing; as when, with the thumb of the right hand, we knead one\nlump of putty to another, in the palm of the left. Perhaps we might also\ninstance, sucking an orange. In all these cases, the organ of Weight,\naccording to Phrenology, is also active; and this, perhaps, is one\nof the faculties which induce young ladies to lay a stress upon their\nwords. Nevertheless, we fear that a damsel {116}would hardly be pleased\nby being told that her weight was considerable, though it would, at the\nsame time, grievously offend her to accuse her of lightness. Here we\nneed scarcely observe, that we refer to lightness, not of complexion,\nbut of sentiment, which is always regarded as a dark shade in the\ncharacter. This defect, we think, we may safely assert, will never be\nobserved in emphatic fair ones.\n\nBut we have not quite yet exhausted the subject of emphasis, considered\nin relation to young ladies. Their letters are as emphatic as their\nlanguage is, almost every third word being underlined. Such epistles,\ninasmuch as they are addressed to the heart, ought not to be submitted\nto the ear; nevertheless we must say that we have occasionally been\nwicked and waggish enough to read them aloud--to ourselves alone, of\ncourse. The reader may, if he choose, follow our example. We subjoin\na specimen of female correspondence, endeared to us by many tender\nrecollections, and admirably adapted to our present purpose.\n\n===>See Page Scan.\n\nI was terribly afraid that Matilda and I would have caught our Death of\ncold; but thank Goodness no such untoward event took place. It was very\nuncomfortable and I so wished you had been there.. When we got home who\ndo you think was there? Mr. Sims; and he said he thought that I was so\nmuch grown. Only think. And so then you know we took some refreshment,\nfor I assure you, what with the journey and altogether we were very\nnearly famished; and we were all invited {117}to go to the Chubbs' that\nEvening to a small Tea Party, for which I must own I thought Mr. Chubb a\nism* man. After tea we had a carpet waltz, and although I was very tired\nI enjoyed it much. There were some very pretty girls there, and one or\ntwo agreeable young men; but oh! &c.\n\nThe remainder of this letter being of a nature personally interesting\nto ourselves only, and likely, in the opinion of some readers, to render\nits insertion attributable to motives of vanity, we shall not be found\nfault with for objecting to transcribe any more of it.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV. OF PAUSES.\n\nA Pause, otherwise called a rest, is an absolute cessation of the\nvoice, in speaking or reading, during a perceptible interval, longer or\nshorter, of time.\n\nComic Pauses often occur in Oratory. \"Unaccustomed as I am to public\nspeaking,\" is usually followed by a pause of this sort. A young\ngentleman, his health having been drunk at a party, afforded, in\nendeavoring to return thanks, a signal illustration of the Pause Comic.\n\"Gentlemen,\" he began, \"the Ancient Romans,\"--(A pause,)--\"gentlemen,\nthe Ancient Romans,\"--(Hear!)--\"The Ancient Romans, Gentlemen,\"--(Bravo!\nhear! hear!)--\"Gentlemen--that is--the Ancient Romans\"--\"were very fine\nfellows, Jack, I dare say,\" added a friend, pulling the speaker down by\nthe coat-tail.\n\nThat notable Ancient Roman, Brutus, is represented by Shakspeare as\nmaking a glorious pause: as \"Who's here {118}so vile that would not\nlove his country? If any, speak, for him have I offended. I pause for a\nreply.\"\n\n[Illustration: 127]\n\nHere of course, Brutus pauses, folds his arms, and looks magnanimous. We\nhave heard, though, of an idle and impudent schoolboy, who, at a\npublic recitation, when he had uttered the words \"I pause for a reply,\"\n{119}gravely took out his penknife and began paring his nails.\n\nThis was minding his paws with a vengeance.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V. OF TONES.\n\nTones consist of the modulations of the voice, or the notes or\nvariations of sound which we use in speak-ing: thus differing materially\nboth from emphasis, and pauses.\n\nAn interesting diversity of tones is exhibited by the popular voice at\nan election.\n\nAlso by charcoal-men, milk-men, and chimneysweeps; and by fruit-sellers,\nand news-boys.\n\nWe cannot exactly write tones (though it is easy enough to write notes,)\nbut we shall nevertheless endeavor to give some idea of their utility.\n\nObserve, that two doves billing resemble two magistrates\nbowing;--because they are beak to beak.\n\n[Illustration: 128]\n\nA {120}lover and a police-magistrate (unless the two characters should\nchance to be combined, which sometimes happens, that is, when the latter\nis a lover of justice) would say, \"Answer me,\" in very different tones.\n\nA lover again would utter the words \"For ever and ever,\" in a very\ndifferent tone from that in which a minister would repeat them.\n\nA young lady, on her first introduction to you, says, \"Sir,\" in a tone\nvery unlike that in which she sometime afterwards delivers herself of\nthe same monosyllable when she is addressing you under the influence of\njealousy.\n\nAs to the word \"Sir,\" the number of constructions which, according\nto the tone in which it is spoken, it may be made to bear, are\nincalculable. We may adduce a few instances.\n\n\"Please, Sir, let me off.\"\n\n\"No, Sir!\"\n\n\"Waiter! you, Sir.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sir! yes, Sir!\"\n\n\"Sir, I am greatly obliged to you.\"\n\n\"Sir, you are quite welcome.\"\n\n\"Your servant, Sir\" (by a man who brings you a challenge.)\n\n\"Servant, Sir\" (by a tailor bowing you to the door.) \"Sir, you are a\ngentleman!\"\n\n\"Sir, you are a scoundrel!\"\n\nWe need not go on with examples ad infinitum. If after what we have said\nanybody does not understand the nature of Tone, all we shall say of him\nis, that he is a _Tony_ Lumpkin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. OF VERSIFICATION.\n\nIt {121}is with peculiar pleasure that we approach this part of Prosody.\nWe belong to a class of persons to whom a celebrated phrenological\nmanipulator ascribes \"some poetical feeling, if studied or called\nforth;\" and, to borrow another expression from the same quarter, we\nsometimes \"versify a little;\" that is to say, we versify our literary\noccupations by an occasional flirtation with the muses.\n\nWe have a great respect for the memory of our old schoolmaster;\nnotwithstanding which, we think we can beat him (which, we shall be told\nby the wags, would be tit for tat) at poet-making, though, indeed, he\nwas a magician in his way. \"I'll make thee a poet, my boy,\" he used to\nsay, \"or the rod shall.\"\n\nLet us try what we can do.\n\nA verse consists of a certain number and variety of syllables, put\ntogether and arranged according to certain laws.\n\nVerses being also called dulcet strains, harmonious numbers, tuneful\nlays, and so forth, it is clear that such combination and arrangement\nmust be so made as to please the ear.\n\nVersification is the making of verses. This seems such a truism as to be\nnot worth stating; but it is necessary to define what Versification is,\nbecause many people suppose it to be the same thing with poetry. We will\nprove that it is not.\n\n     \"Much business in the Funds has lately been\n     Transacted various monied men between;\n     Though speculation early in the week\n     Went slowly; nought was done whereof to speak.\n     The largest operations, it was found,\n     Were twenty-five and fifty thousand _pound_.\"\n\nWe {122}might proceed in the same strain, but we have already done half\na dozen lines without a particle of poetry in them; and we do not wish\nto overwhelm people with proofs of what a great many will take upon\ntrust.\n\nEvery fool knows what Rhyme is; so we need not say anything about that.\n\n\nON POETICAL FEET\n\nPoetical feet! Why, Fanny Elsler's feet and Taglioni's feet are\npoetical feet--are they not? or else what is meant by calling dancing\nthe poetry of Motion? And cannot each of those _artistes_ boast of a toe\nwhich is the very essence of all poetry--a TO' KAAO'N?\n\nNo. You may make verses _on_ Taglioni's feet, (though if she be a\npoetess, she can do that better than you, standing, too, on one leg,\nlike the man that Horace speaks of;) but you cannot make them _of_ her\nfeet. Feet of which verses are composed are made of syllables, not of\nbones, muscles, and ligaments. Feet and pauses are the constituent parts\nof a verse.\n\nWe have heard one boy ask of another, who was singing, \"How much is that\na yard?\" still the yard is not a poetical measure.\n\nThe feet which are used in poetry consist either of two or three\nsyllables. There are four kinds of feet of two, and an equal number\nof three syllables. Four and four are eight: therefore Pegasus is an\noctoped; and if our readers do not understand this logic, we are sorry\nfor it. But as touching the feet--we have\n\n1. The {123}Trochee, which has the first syllable accent, ed, and the\nlast unaccented: as, \"Yankee doodle.\"\n\n2. The Iambus, which has the first syllable unaccented, and the last\naccented: as, \"The maid herself with rouge, alas! bedauebs.\"\n\n3. The Spondee, which has both the words or syllables accented: as, \"all\nhail, great king, Tom Thumb, all hail!\"\n\n4. The Pyrrhic, which has both the words or syllables unaccented: as,\n\"on the tree'top.\"\n\n5. The Dactyl, which has the first syllable accented and the two latter\nunaccented: as, \"Jonathin, Jeffer-son.\"\n\n6. The Amphibrach has the first and last syllables unaccented and\nthe middle one accented: as, \"Oe'r-whelming, transported, ecstatic,\ndelightful, accepted, addresses.\"\n\n7. The Anapaest (or as we used to say, _Nasty-beast_) has the two first\nsyllables unaccented and the last accented: as, \"overgrown grenadier.\"\n\n8. The Tribrach has all its syllables unaccented: as, \"Matrimony,\nexquisite ness.\"\n\nThese feet are divided into principal feet, out of which pieces of\npoetry may be wholly or chiefly formed; and secondary feet, the use of\nwhich is to diversify the number and improve the verse.\n\nWe shall now proceed to explain the nature of the principal feet.\n\nIambic verses are of several kinds, each kind consisting of a certain\nnumber of feet or syllables.\n\n1. The shortest form of the English Iambic consists of an Iambus, with\nan additional short syllable thus coinciding with the Amphibrach: as,\n{124}\n\n     \"What Susan,\n     My beauty!\n     Refuse one\n     So true t' ye?\n\n     This ditty\n     Of sadness\n     Begs pity\n     For madness.\"\n\n2. The second form of the English Iambic consists of two Iambuses, and\nsometimes takes an additional short syllable: as,\n\n     \"My eye, what fuen.\n     With dog and gun,\n     And song and shout,\n     To roam about!\n     And shoot our snipes!\n     And smoke our pipes!\n     Or eat at ease,\n     Beneath the trees,\n     Our bread and cheese!\n     To rouse the hare\n     From gloomy lair;\n     To scale the mountain\n     And ford the fountain,\n     While rustics wonder\n     To hear our thunder.\"\n\n3. The third form consists of three Iambuses: as in the following\n_morceau_, the author of which is, we regret to say, unknown to us;\nthough we did once hear somebody say that it was Mr. Anon.\n\n     \"Jack Spratt eat all the fat,\n     His wife eat all the lean,\n     And so between them both,\n     They lick'd the platter clean.\"\n\nIn {125}this verse an additional short syllable is also admitted: as,\n\n     \"Alexis youethful plouegh-boy,\n     A Shepherdess adored,\n     Who loved fat Hodge, the cow-boy,\n     So t'other chap was floored.\"\n\n4. The fourth form is made up of four Iambuses: as,\n\n     \"Adieue my boots, companions old,\n     New footed twice, and four times soled;\n     My footsteps ye have guarded long,\n     Life's brambles, thorns, and flints among;\n     And now you're past the cobbler's art,\n     And fate declares that we must part.\n     Ah me! what cordial can restore\n     The gaping patch repatch'd before?\n     What healing art renew the weal\n     Of subject so infirm of heel?\n     What potion, pill, or draught control\n     So deep an ulcer of the sole?\n\n5. The fifth species of English Iambic consists of five Iambuses: as,\n\n     You Come, Tragic Muese, in tatter'd vest array'd,\n     And while through blood, and mud, and crimes I wade,\n     Support my steps, and this, my strain, inspire\n     With Horror's blackest thoughts and bluest fire!\"\n\n\nThe Epic of which the above example is the opening, will perhaps appear\nhereafter. This kind of Iambic constitutes what is called the heroic\nmeasure:--of which we shall have more to say by and by; but shall only\n{126}remark at present that it, in common with most of the ordinary\nEnglish measures, is susceptible of many varieties, by the admission of\nother feet, as Trochees, Dactyls, Anapaests, &c.\n\n6. Our Iambic in its sixth form, is commonly called the Alexandrine\nmeasure. It consists of six Iambuses: as,\n\n     \"His worship gave the word, and Snooks was borne away.\"\n\nThe Alexandrine is sometimes introduced into heroic rhyme, and when\nused, as the late Mr. John Reeve was wont to say, \"with a little\nmoderation,\" occasions an agreeable variety. Thus the example quoted is\npreceded by the following lines:--\n\n     \"What! found at midnight with a darkey, lit,\n     A bull-dog, jemmy, screw, and centre-bit\n     And tongueless of his aim? It cannot be\n     But he was bent, at least, on felony;\n     He stands remanded. 'Ho! Policeman A!'\n     His worship gave the word, and Snooks was borne away.\"\n\n7. The seventh and last form of our Iambic measure is made up of seven\nIambuses. This species of verse has been immortalised by the adoption of\nthose eminent hands, Messrs. Sternhold and Hopkins. It runs {127}thus:--\n\n\n     Good people all, I pray draw near, for you I needs muest tell,\n     That William Brown is dead and gone; the man you knew full well.\n     A broad-brimm'd hat, black breeches, and an old Welch wig he wore:\n     And now and then a long brown coat all button'd up before.\"\n     The present measure is as admirably adapted for the\n     Platform as for the Conventicle.\n\n     \"My name it is Bill Scroggins, and my fate it is to die,\n     For I was at the Sessions tried and cast for felony.\n     My friends, to these my dying words I pray attention lend,\n     The public-house has brought me unto this untimely end.\"\n\nVerses of this kind are now usually broken into two lines, with four\nfeet in the first line, and three in the second: as,\n\n     \"I wish I were a little pig\n     To wallow in the mire,\n     To eat, and drink, and sleep at ease\n     Is all that I desire.\"\n\nTrochaic verse is of several kinds.\n\n1. The shortest Trochaic verse in the English language consists of one\nTrochee and a long syllable: as,\n\n    \"Billy Black\n     Got the sack.\"\n\nLindley Murray asserts that this measure is defective in dignity, and\ncan seldom be used on serious occasions. Yet it is Pope who thus sings:\n\n     \"Dreadful screams,\n     Dismal gleams.\n     Fires that glow,\n     Shrieks of woe,\" &c.\n\nAnd for our own poor part, let us see what we can make out of a storm.\n{128}\n\n===> See Page Scan\n\n\n2. The second English form of the Trochaic consists of two feet: as,\n\n     \"Vermicelli,\n     Cuerrant jelly.\"\n\nIt sometimes contains two feet, or trochees, with an additional long\nsyllable: as,\n\n     \"Youth inclined to wed,\n     Go and shave thy head.\"\n\n3. The third species consists of three trochees: as,\n\n     \"Sing a song of sixpence.\n\nOr of three trochees, with an additional long syllable: as, {129}\n\n     \"Thrice my coat, have o'er thee roll'd,\n     Summer hot and winter cold,\n     Since the Snip's creative art\n     Into being bade thee start;\n     Now like works the most sublime,\n     Thou displaty'st the power of time.\n     Broad grey patches plainly trace,\n     Right and left each blade-bone's place;\n     When thy shining collar's scann'd,\n     Punsters think on classic land:\n     Thread-bare sleeves thine age proclaim,\n     Elbows worn announce the same;\n     Elbows mouldy-black of hue,\n     Save where white a crack shines through;\n     While thy parting seams declare\n     Thou'rt unfit for farther wear--\n     Then, farewell! \"What! Moses! ho!\"\n     \"Clo', Sir? clo', Sir? clo', Sir? clo'?\"\n\n4. The fourth Trochaic species consists of four trochees, as:\n\n     \"Ugh! you little luemp of bluebber,\n     Sleep, oh! sleep in quiet, do!\n     Cease awhile your bib to slobber--\n     Cease your bottle mouth to screw.\n\n     \"How I wish your eyelids never\n     Would unclose again at all;\n     For I know as soon as ever\n     You're awake, you're sure to squall.\n\n     \"Dad and Mammy's darling honey,\n     Tomb-stone cherub, stuff'd with slops,\n     Let each noodle, dolt, and spooney\n     Smack, who will, your pudding chops. {130}\n\n     \"As for me, as soon I'd smother,\n     As I'd drown a sucking cat,\n     You, you cub, or any other,\n     Nasty little squalling brat.\"\n\n\"Would you, you disagreeable old Bachelor?\"\n\n[Illustration: 139]\n\nThis form may take an additional long syllable, but this measure is very\nuncommon. Example:\n\n     \"Chrononhotonthologos the Great,\n     Godlike in a barrow kept his state.\"\n\n5. The fifth Trochaic species is likewise uncommon; and, as a Bowbellian\nwould say, \"uncommon\" ugly, It contains five trochees: as,\n\n     \"Here lies Mary, wife of Thomas Carter,\n     Who to typhus fever proved a martyr.\"\n\nThese are a specimen of the \"uncouth rhymes\" so touchingly alluded to by\nGray.\n\n6. The sixth form of the English Trochaic is a line of six trochees: as,\n\n     \"Most bewitching damsel, charming Arabella,\n     Prithee, cast an eye of pity on a fellow.\"\n\nThe Dactylic measure is extremely uncommon. The following {131}may be\nconsidered an example of one species of it:\n\n     \"Celia the crueel, resolv'd not to marry soon,\n     Boasts of a heart like a fortified garrison,\n     Bulwarks and battlements keeping the _beaux_ all off,\n     Shot from within knocking lovers like foes all off.\"\n\n\nAnapaestic verses are of various kinds.\n\n1. The shortest anapaestic verse is a single anapaest:\n\n     \"In the glass\n     There's an ass.\"\n\nThis measure, after all, is ambiguous; for if the stress of the voice\nbe laid on the first and third syllables, it becomes trochaic. Perhaps,\ntherefore, it is best to consider the first form of our Anapaestic verse,\nas made up of two anapaests: as,\n\n     \"Set a schoolboy at work\n     With a knife and a fork.\"\n\nAnd here if you like, you may have another short syllable: as,\n\n     \"And how soon the youeng gluetton\n     Will astonish your mutton!\"\n\n2. The second species consists of three anapaests: as,\n\n     \"Amaryllis was slender and tail,\n     Colin Clodpole was dumpy and fat;\n     And tho' she did'n't like him at all,\n     Yet he doted on her for all that.\"\n\nThis metre is sometimes denominated sing-song.\n\n3. The third kind of English Anapaestics may be very well exemplified by\nan Irish song:\n\n     \"Have you e'er had the lueck to see Donnybrook Fair?\"\n\nIt {132}consists, as will have been observed, of four ana-paests.\nSometimes it admits of a short syllable at the end of the verse: as,\n\n     In the dead of the night, when with dire caterwauling\n     Of grimalkins in chorus the house-tops resound:\n     All insensibly drunk, and unconsciously sprawling\n     In the kennel, how pleasant it is to be found!\"\n\nThe various specimens of versification of which examples have been\ngiven, may be improved and varied by the admission of secondary feet\ninto their composition; but as we are not writing an Art of Poetry, we\ncannot afford to show how: particularly as the only way, after all,\nof acquiring a real knowledge of the structure of English verse, is\nby extensive reading. Besides, there yet remain a few Directions for\nPoetical Beginners, which we feel ourselves called upon to give, and for\nwhich, if we do not take care, we shall not have room.\n\nThe commencement of a poet's career is usually the writing of _nonsense_\nverses. The nonsense of these compositions is very often unintentional;\nbut sometimes words are put together avowedly without regard to sense,\nand with no other view than that of acquiring a familiarity with\nmetrical arrangement: as,\n\n     \"Approach, disdain, involuntary, tell.\"\n\nBut this is dry work. It may be necessary to compose in this way just\nat first, but in our opinion, there is a good and a bad taste to be\ndisplayed even in writing nonsense verses; that is, verses which really\ndeserve that name. We recommend the young poet to make it his aim to\nrender his nonsense as perfect as----\n\n\nIt {133}were manifestly culpable to make no mention, in a work of this\nsort, of certain measures which are especially and essentially, of\na comic nature. Some of these have been already adverted to, but two\nprincipal varieties yet remain to be considered.\n\n1. Measures taken from the Latin, in which the structure of the ancient\nverse, as far as the number and arrangement of the feet are concerned,\nis preserved, but the quantity of which is regulated in accordance with\nthe spirit of our own language. The character of such verses will be\nbest displayed by employing them on sentimental or serious subjects.\nTake, for example, Long and Short, or Hexameter and Pentameter verses.\n\n   \"Juelia, girl of my heart, is than jessamine sweeter, or fresh meads\n   Hay-cover'd; what rose tints those on her cheeks, that flourish,\n   Approach? those bright eyes, what stars, what glittering dew-drops?\n   And oh! what Parian marble, or snow, that bosom?\n   If she my love return, what bliss will be greater than mine; but\n   What more deep sadness if she reprove my passion?\n   Either a bridegroom proud yon ivy-clad church shall receive me\n   Soon; or the cold church-yard me with its turf shall cover.\"\n\nOr the Sapphic metre of which the late Mr. Canning's \"Knife-Grinder\" is\nso brilliant an example. Sappho, fair reader, was a poetess, who made\nlove-verses which could be actually scanned. History relates {134}that,\nfor the sake of some unprincipled or unfeeling fellow, she committed\n_felo de se_.\n\n     \"I can enduere this crueel pain no longer;\n     Fare ye well, blue skies, rivers, fields, and song-birds!'\n     Thus the youth spoke; and adding,\n     'Oh, Jemima!' Plunged in the billow!\"\n\n[Illustration: 143]\n\n2. Measures reducible to no rule, or Doggrel. Sternhold and Hopkins were\nillustrious as Doggrel writers.\n\nDoggrel {135}is commonly used by anonymous poets for the purpose of\nembodying the moral reflections which a homicide or an execution excites\nin the sensitive mind. May we hope that our remarks on Prosody will in\nsome little degree tend to facilitate, perhaps to improve, the future\ntreatment of those two deeply interesting subjects--Love and Murder?\n\n[Illustration: 144]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. PUNCTUATION.\n\n\"Mind {136}your stops.\" This is one of the earliest maxims inculcated\nby the instructors of youth. Hence it is clear that the subject of\nPunctuation is an important one: but inasmuch as the reader, who has\narrived at the present page, has either not understood a word that he\nhas been reading, or else knows as much about the matter as we can tell\nhim, we fear that a long dissertation concerning periods, commas, and so\non, would only serve to embarrass his progress in learning with\nuseless stops. We shall, therefore, confine ourselves to that notice of\nPunctuation, and that only, which the peculiar nature of our work may\nrequire.\n\nFirst, it may be remarked, that the notes of admiration which we so\noften hear in theatres, may be called notes of hand. Secondly, that\nnotes of interrogation are not at all like bank notes; although they are\nlargely uttered in Banco Regino. Let us now proceed with our subject.\n\nPunctuation is the soul of Grammar, as Punctuality is that of business.\n\nPerhaps somebody or other may take advantage of what we have said, to\nprove both Punctuation and Punctuality immaterial. No matter.\n\nIt {137}is both absurd and inconvenient to stand upon points.\n\n[Illustration: 146]\n\nOf how much consequence, however, Punctuation is, the student may form\nsome idea, by considering the different effects which a piece of poetry,\nfor instance, which he has been accustomed to regard as sublime or\nbeautiful, will have, when liberties are taken with it in that respect.\n\nImagine an actor commencing Hamlet's famous soliloquy, thus:\n\n\"To be; or not to be that is. The question,\" &c.\n\nOr {138}saying, in the person of Duncan, in Macbeth:\n\n\"This castle hath a pleasant seat, the air.\"\n\nOr as the usurper himself, exclaiming,\n\n\"The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!\n\nWhere got'st thou that goose? Look!\"\n\n[Illustration: 147]\n\nCrying, as Romeo,\n\n\"It is my lady O! It is my love!\"\n\nOr in the character of Norval, in the tragedy of Douglas, giving this\naccount of himself and his origin: \"My name is Norval. On the Grampian\nhills My father feeds.\"\n\nWe {139}have now said as much as we think it necessary to say on the\nhead of English Grammar. We shall conclude our labors with an \"Address\nto Young Students and as to the question, what that has to do with\nour subject, we shall leave it to be settled by Lindley Murray, whose\nexample, in this respect, we follow. All we shall observe is, that in\nour opinion, advice concerning manners stand in the same relation to a\nComic English Grammar, as instruction in morals does to a Serious one.\nFor the remarks which it will now be our business to make, we bespeak\nthe indulgence of our elder readers, and the attention of such as are of\ntender age.\n\n\n\n\nADDRESS TO YOUNG STUDENTS.\n\nYoung Gentlemen,\n\nHaving attentively perused the foregoing pages, you will be desirous, it\nis to be presumed, of carrying still farther those comical pursuits in\nwhich, with both pleasure and profit to yourselves, you have been lately\nengaged. Should such be your laudable intention, you will learn, with\nfeelings of lively satisfaction, that it is one, in the accomplishment\nof which, thanks to Modern Taste, you will find encouragement at every\nstep. The literature of the day is professedly comic, and of the few\nworks which are not made ludicrous by the design of their authors, the\nmajority are rendered so in spite {140}of it. In the course of your\nreading, however, you will be frequently brought into contact with\nhack-ney-coachmen, cabmen, lackeys, turnkeys, thieves, lawyers' clerks,\nmedical students, and other people of that description, who are all very\namusing when properly viewed, as the monkeys and such like animals at\nthe Zoological Gardens are, when you look at them through the bars of\ntheir cage. But too great familiarity with persons of this class is sure\nto breed contempt, not for them and their manners, but for the usages\nand modes of expression adopted in parlors and drawingrooms, that is to\nsay, in good society. Nay, it is very likely to cause those who indulge\nin it to learn various tricks and eccentricities, both of behavior\nand speech, for \"It is certain, that either wise bearing or ignorant\ncarriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another.\" Shakspere.\n\nBeset thus, as you will necessarily be, by perils and dangers in\nyour wanderings amid the fields of Comicality, you will derive great\nadvantage from knowing be-fore-hand what you are likely to meet with,\nand what it will be incumbent on you to avoid. It is to furnish you with\nthis information that the following hints and instructions are intended.\n\nBe careful, when you hear yourself called by name, to reply \"Here I am,\"\nand not \"Here you are,\" an error into which you are very likely to be\nled by the perusal of existing authors.\n\nWhen you partake, if it be your habit to do so, of the beverage called\nporter, drink it as you would water, or any other liquid. Do not wink\nyour eye, or nod sideways to your companion; such actions, especially\nwhen preceded by blowing away the foam which col lects {141}on the top\nof the vessel, being exceedingly inelegant: in order that you may not\nbe incommoded by this foam or froth, always pour the fluid gently into a\ntumbler, instead of drinking it out of the metallic tankard in which it\nis usually brought to you.\n\nIn asking for malt liquor generally, never request the waiter to \"draw\nit mild and do not, on any occasion, be guilty of using the same phrase\nin a metaphorical sense, that is to say, as a substitute for \"Do it\nquietly,\"\n\n\"Be gentle,\" and the like.\n\nNever exhort young ladies, during a quadrille, to \"fake away,\" or to\n\"flare up,\" for they, being unacquainted with the meaning of such terms,\nwill naturally conclude that it is an improper one.\n\nAvoid inquiries after the health of another person's mother, using that\nword synonymously with Mamma, to denote a female parent. Though you may\nbe really innocent of any intention to be rude, your motives may very\npossibly be misconstrued. Remember also on no account to put questions,\neither to friends or strangers, respecting the quantity of soap in their\npossession.\n\nShould it be necessary for you to speak of some one smoking tobacco,\ndo not call that substance a weed, or the act of using it \"blowing a\ncloud.\"\n\nWhen an acquaintance pays you a visit, take care, in rising to receive\nhim, not to appear to be washing your hands, and, should you be engaged\nin writing at the time, place your pen on the table, or in the inkstand,\nand not behind your ear.\n\nObserve, when your tailor comes to measure you, the way in which he\nwears his hair, and should your own {142}style in this particular\nunfortunate resemble his, be sure to alter it immediately.\n\nNever dance _a la cuisiniere_, that is to say, do not cut capers.\n\nEschew large shirt pins.\n\nNever say \"Ma'am\" or \"Miss,\" in addressing a young lady, if you cannot\ncontrive to speak to her without doing so, say nothing.\n\nNever, under any circumstances, let the abbreviation \"gent.\" for\ngentleman, escape the enclosure of your teeth. Above all things, for the\nsake of whatever you hold most dear, never say \"me and another gent.\"\n\nWhen you receive a coin of any kind, deposit it at once in your pocket,\nwithout the needless preliminary of furling it in the air.\n\nNever ask a gentleman how much he has a-year.\n\nIn speaking of a person of your own age, or of an elderly gentleman, do\nnot say, Old So-and-so, but So-and-so, or Mr. So-and-so, as the case\nmay be: and have no nicknames for each other. We were much horrified\nnot long since, by hearing a great coarse fellow, in a leathern hat and\nfustian jacket, exclaim, turning round to his companion, \"Now, then,\ncome along, old Blokey!\"\n\nWhen you have got a cold in the head and weak eyes, do not go and call\non young ladies.\n\nDo not eat gravy with a knife, for fear those about you should suppose\nyou to be going to commit suicide.\n\nIn offering to help a person at dinner, do not say, \"Allow me to\n_assist_ you.\" When you ask people what wine they will take, never say,\n\"What'll you have?\" or, \"What'll you _do it in?_\"\n\nIf {143}you are talking to a clergyman about another member of the\nclerical profession, adopt some other method of describing his avocation\nthan that of saying, \"I believe he is in your line.\"\n\nDo not recommend an omelet to a lady, as a good _article_.\n\nBe cautious not to use the initial letter of a person's surname, in\nmentioning or in addressing him. For instance, never think of saying,\n\"Mrs. Hobbs, pray, how is Mr. H.?\"\n\nCall all articles of dress by their proper names. What delight can\nbe found by a thinking mind in designating a hat as a tile, trousers,\nkickseys, a neckerchief, a fogle, or a choker; or a great coat, an upper\nBenjamin? And never speak of clothes, collectively, as toggs or toggery.\n\nWe here approach the conclusion of our labors. Young gentlemen, once\nmore it is earnestly requested that you will give your careful attention\nto the rules and admonitions which have been above laid down for your\nguidance. We might have given a great many more; but we hope that the\nspirit of our instructions will enable the diligent youth to supply,\nby observation and reflection, that which, for obvious reasons, we have\nnecessarily left unsaid. And now we bid you farewell. That you may never\nhave the misfortune of entering, with splashed boots, a drawing-room\nfull of ladies; that you may never, having been engaged in a brawl\non the previous evening, meet, with a black eye, the object of your\naffections the next morning; that you may never, in a moment of\nagitation, omit the aspirate, or use it when you ought not; that your\nlaundress may always {144}do justice to your linen; and your tailor make\nyour clothes well, and send them home in due time; that your braces may\nnever give way during a waltz; that you may never, sitting in a strong\nlight at a large dinner-party, suddenly remember that you have not\nshaved for two days; that your hands and face may ever be free from tan,\nchaps, freckles, pimples, brandy-blossoms, and all other disfigurements;\nthat you may never be either inelegantly fat, or ridiculously lean; and\nfinally, that you may always have plenty to eat, plenty to drink, and\nplenty to laugh at, we earnestly and sincerely wish. And should your lot\nin life be other than fortunate, we can only say, that we advise you to\nbear it with patience; to cultivate Comic Philosophy; and to look upon\nyour troubles as a joke.\n\n[Illustration: 153]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Comic English Grammar, by Percival Leigh\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}