Usual disclaimers apply. Some of the characters as well as Jordan and St Sophia's Colleges and their institutions are not my property but belong to Philip Pullman. Other characters are my own.

THE CASSINGTON SCHOLAR

NOTE: The word 'geo' which appears herein is a Shetland Islands term for a gully in a cliff. It is pronounced with a hard 'g'. Some geos really do exhibit the phenomenon described, including the one at Esha Ness which I had in mind when I wrote the story i

Jordan

The world was in convulsions. Change was rushing in great swirling currents, roaring through every crack and cranny in society and sweeping before it anything that was loose or insecure. Only when the currents of change met the great mass of Jordan College did they part respectfully leaving its towers and spires, for the most part, in stately isolation.

In the Retiring Room the Master dropped a knob of butter into the silver chafing-dish on the sideboard and lit the spirit lamp beneath it. A secret smile played across his lips as he reflected, not without a little smugness, that he was doing what generations of Masters had done before him and would do for generations to come. From the wall above his head he sensed the benevolent gaze of Sir Thomas Billington, portrayed in his ever-present severe black suit and with his raven-daemon Lenore perched knowingly on his shoulder. Sir Thomas had been Master when he had first been introduced to the Retiring Room as the newly-appointed Palmerian Professor, and despite advancing years had steered Jordan College astutely through the Troubles of twenty years earlier.

Taking his pocket knife he slit a handful of poppy-heads, tossing them into the sizzling butter before turning to face the assembled Scholars. He was, he mused to himself as he looked around the faces, the only survivor of the Troubles.

'We have to move with the times', the recently-appointed Palmerian Professor was asserting from the depths of his battered green-leather armchair. He was all but lying down in it, thought the Master with disgust. The man was wearing a suit of artfully-crumpled cream linen. His thinning ginger hair was cropped short, accentuating his bat-ears, and his speech betrayed the attenuated vowels of New Denmark. His daemon Dorabella, raccoon-formed, scampered restlessly back and forth across the chair back. 'We can't stand still. Ten years ago Experimental Theology meant Jordan. Now everybody's rushing past us. Just look at what's coming from Gawthwaite's team at Harrogate'.

Harrogate was one of the new universities that were springing up in the north of England, funded by the explosion of commercial activity up there, helping to fill the void left by a deflated Church. The Master fought back a grimace of distaste and glanced at Philoclea, his magpie-daemon, who was disdainfully preening her feathers on the sideboard. The Sub-Rector drew heavily on his pipe and hid his face behind a great cloud of smoke. The remaining four pairs of eyes swivelled to glare at the Palmerian Professor.

'Harrogate!', said the Enquirer, breaking the awkward silence. 'You want to work in a concrete office block, financed by a bunch of shopkeepers, that's fine by me!'

'No!', said the Librarian. 'It pains me greatly but there's truth in what the Palmerian Professor is saying. We haven't produced any original scholarship in the field for quite a while'.

'Still licking our wounds after Lord Asriel's little adventure', said the Dean.

'They have plenty of research funding', observed the Chaplain. 'The north is where the money is these days'.

'You'd better believe it', drawled the Palmerian Professor. Dorabella leapt onto the sideboard and stole an oatcake from a plate, dipping it in the water jug before settling down to nibble it. 'The north is where your roast swan is coming from!'.

It was undeniably true. While the Troubles had sapped Jordan's capital, the investments in commercial property in Manchester and elsewhere had yielded returns beyond the dreams of the Concilium.

'What we need,' said the Dean, 'is a shot of new blood. A new impetus to our Experimental Theology research'.

'Ha!', said the Enquirer. 'We could poach somebody from Harrogate!'

'How are we going to fund this new scholar?' asked the eminently practical Sub-Rector. The investment income from Manchester is well and good but we need that desperately for our own hypostructure'.

The Master had been watching the exchanges with quiet amusement, but broke his silence now. 'There is the Cassington Scholarship', he offered.

The eyes of the Scholars turned expectantly towards the Master.

'The Cassington Scholarship was always awarded to a free-thinker', he continued. 'Free-thinking didn't go down terribly well with the Magisterium. The last Cassington Scholar thought a little too freely for their taste. Terrible business. He was arrested, tried and executed for heresy during the Troubles'. He paused in the stunned silence. 'But, we may decide that, if you will excuse the phrase, the Dust has settled by now?' He chuckled gently. 'The trust is still in place. Gathered a lot of interest in twenty years, I should think'.

There was a glint in the Palmerian Professor's eye. 'I know just the person,' he said, 'not in Harrogate but right here in Oxford. Published a brilliant paper on the interactions of Rusakov particles a couple of years ago'.

Around the room, six pairs of eyes lit up like anbaric lamps.

'But you aren't going to like it', continued the Palmerian Professor. 'For one thing it would mean appointing the youngest Scholar Jordan has ever known…'

'Oh, I think we could handle that', said the Librarian. 'A bit of youthful exuberance sounds just what Jordan has always needed'.

'Which college?' asked the Dean, full of suspicion.

The Palmerian Professor drew a deep breath and grinned. 'Saint Sophia's', he declaimed, relishing every syllable.

The groans from around the room were palpable. Daemons squawked and chattered like frightened animals in a forest stalked by a great predator, while Dorabella strutted on the floor between the chairs.

'That would be the end of Jordan College as we know it', the Sub-Rector muttered.

'I believe the Palmerian Professor is referring to Doctor Belacqua', said the Master. 'Well, if nothing else she is Oxford through and through'.

'Has anybody any better suggestions?', asked the Palmerian Professor, sitting up and leaning forward with challenge in his eyes.

The ensuing silence was broken by the Librarian. 'The Palmerian Professor is quite right. It may be that we have to adapt to the times or die'.

The Master looked from Scholar to Scholar and noticed that their daemons all seemed now to be asleep or pretending to be, with the exception of Dorabella who had now returned to the back of her chair and sat alert and bright-eyed, swishing her beautiful ringed tail. He sighed. 'Shall we put it to the vote then? That we are minded - minded, mark you - to offer the Cassington Scholarship to Doctor Belacqua of St Sophia's College?'

Six heads nodded, some with more enthusiasm than others.

'I vote yes!' said the Palmerian Professor with an air of triumph.

'No!', thundered the Sub-Rector from behind a wall of smoke-leaf fumes.

'Aye!', said the Librarian.

'Over my dead body!', the Dean muttered under his breath.

'Do I take that as a No, Dean?', enquired the Master. The Dean nodded slowly and deliberately.

'Aye!', chirped the Chaplain.

All eyes turned to the Enquirer whose vole-daemon clung to his shoulder, quivering. 'Aye', he said in a quavering whisper after a pause pregnant with passionate intensity.

'And my vote is No,' said the Master, 'but it doesn't matter because we have voted, in principle at least, to offer the Cassington Scholarship to a woman. This is without precedent in the long and noble history of Jordan College and every sinew in my body says it is wrong. But I do know that Doctor Belacqua is no ordinary woman. Most of you will not be aware of this but Doctor Belacqua has been well-known to, indeed been much loved by, this College, though not as a Scholar. And I do believe that Destiny plays a part in our actions sometimes and we should have the faith to follow it. Very well. I suggest that the Dean and I, and perhaps the Palmerian Professor, should meet to discuss the practicalities before we commit ourselves to any decision'.

Instinctively he looked upwards as if for support. And to his dying day he would swear that Sir Thomas Billington winked at him from his portrait.