Jordan again

On an evening of October, crackling with the first frosts of autumn under a sky full of stars, Lyra found herself knocking nervously at the gloomy old door in the Yaxley Quad. With her was Dame Rosemary Braddock, the Head of St Sophia's. At their feet Pantalaimon was running round in agitated circles, trying his best to provoke Dame Rosemary's daemon Medoro, a large and placid badger with gentle and knowing eyes

Lyra was quite at home in the Master's Lodging at Jordan College, though it had been some years now since she had dined there. She had on several occasions been an honoured guest in the evenings, though Sir Thomas's successor had been much colder towards her and her visits had been rare since she moved to St Sophia's. Still, she felt a deep queasiness coming here now. For the third time in her life, dinner at the Master's Lodging would mark an important change in the course of her life. Of the course of the world, even.

'Well, Lyra,' said the Master after the steward had cleared away the last of the dishes, 'this is an important day for Jordan College. Are you sure you won't take a drink before we go over to the Hall? I believe the steward has found a crock or two of jenniver'.

Lyra seldom drank alcohol. She had a long memory for her childish adventures in the cellars, and besides it reminded her uncomfortably of Roger the kitchen boy. Still, through her friendship with the gyptians she had acquired a taste for the bittersweet tang of jenniver.

'Just a small one, Master, in honour of the occasion'. In reality, she thought, she needed it to steady her nerves. Though she did her best to keep a cool head, she was sure that Pantalaimon was betraying her, rushing this way and that around the room, leaping into her lap to glare at Philoclea on the Master's shoulder, then leaping down again to taunt Medoro.

'I won't pretend I don't have grave misgivings', said the Master, 'But the world must move on and our old ideas are giving way to new ones. And that's how it should be. If it has to be anybody, Lyra, I'm glad that it's you'.

There had been few moments in her life, she knew, when she had been lost for words. This was one of them.

'It's an important day for St Sophia's as well Lyra', added Dame Rosemary. 'And a very sad one too. You have been a great credit to my College and we are all very proud of you. You've certainly put St Sophia's on the scholarship map. There will always be a welcome for you there'

The three scholars raised their glasses and clinked them together. Lyra was fighting back tears. It was all she could do to murmur 'thank you'.

'I do believe', said the master, 'that the Scholars think you are going to introduce chintz sofas and lacy drapes to the Retiring Room. I hope you aren't going to change things too hastily?'

That broke the tension. Lyra felt a gentle laugh well up inside her. 'I don't think so Master. You know I have too much love and respect for Jordan College for that'.

'Well, Lyra,' said the Master, 'It's time. Shall we go?'

'And if I may', said Dame Rosemary, 'I'll come across the Quad with you'.

Lyra took the opportunity to check her appearance in the gilt-framed mirror in the lobby. She was anxious not to appear red-eyed. She wore no make-up - the thought of make-up made her feel physically sick - but she had no need of it. She had chosen her outfit carefully; trousers as a statement of rebellion, in linen of the deep green of the northern pine-forests, with a matching coat and a silk shirt of palest primrose. It suited her colouring perfectly and set her tawny hair ablaze. She had faced terrors before and survived; now she was ready for the Scholars of Jordan.

'I'd be honoured if you would take my arm', said the Master at the door. Lyra slipped her hand diffidently into the crook of his left elbow, and with Dame Rosemary on her left side a strange procession set off across the Yaxley Quad. Pantalaimon rose to the solemnity of the occasion and trotted ahead beside Medoro as a guard of honour, with Philoclea flying over their heads.

Will was occupying her consciousness. She thought how proud he would be of her at this moment, and her free hand went to the coin on its chain. She fingered it deliberately and sensuously and wondered where he was and what he was doing and how he was living in that strange other world, and she wished more than ever that he could be here with her. She felt the hot tears running down the sharp coldness of her cheeks and had no desire to wipe them away. She looked up at the stars and knew that that angels were looking after her.

Dame Rosemary embraced her at the Hall door and said goodbye, and then the Master led her through the dim Hall to the Retiring Room. Lyra had seldom known fear in her life but she felt frozen now, as frozen as she had felt in the World of the Dead. The door to the Retiring Room opened and she seemed to drift through it under an external force, into the warm naphtha light. She swallowed hard and glanced around trying to taken it all in. It was the wardrobe she looked for first, and there was the old rosewood table, and the green armchairs, just like it was…

And the faces all turned towards her. She felt her face burning and looked down at her feet. Pantalaimon leapt into her arms and from there climbed up to her shoulders. She dug her hands into his rich, soft fur for reassurance.

The Master was speaking in his formal occasion tone. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'This is a moment of historic importance for Jordan College. It is with great pride that I want to introduce to you our Cassington Scholar, Doctor Lyra Belacqua. Doctor Belacqua is the first woman ever, in the whole long history of Jordan College, to set foot in our Retiring Room'.

A spasm of guilt shuddered through Lyra's body and she gripped Pantalaimon so hard that he let out a snarl of pain. It subsided in a second though - after all what the Master had just said was no less than the truth. Whether what he said next was, would remain to be seen.

'I'm sure you'll all give a very warm welcome to her. I'm quite convinced that she will lead Jordan College to newer and greater heights of learning and scholarship'.

It was said as an instruction, not with conviction. A buzz of welcome rolled round the room. Lyra raised her eyes and looked around at the faces. Most were smiling. The Dean was scowling furiously, and the Sub-Rector was hiding behind a pall of leaf-smoke. She noticed for the first time, on the rosewood table amongst the glasses and decanters, an animal she had never seen before; a wide baby face with a sharply-pointed snout, a black mask over its eyes and a big fluffy ringed tail. It was sitting right at the focus of the room blithely nibbling on an oatcake which it held daintily in its forepaws . She guessed it belonged to the Scholar in the crumpled cream suit, stretched out almost horizontally in an armchair with his hands clasped behind his head and his right ankle crossed over the opposite knee. This Scholar was grinning broadly at her.

'Welcome Doctor Belacqua!', he said in a voice that reminded her faintly of Lee Scoresby. 'I'm the Palmerian Professor and I guess you've noticed my helpmeet Dorabella. She's a raccoon! Oh, won't you sit down and make yourself at home?'

'Glad to meet you', said Lyra, unable to match his enthusiasm. She sank into an empty armchair and looked around. The other daemons, she noticed, all seemed strangely subdued. There was a faint air of embarrassment in the atmosphere and she felt wound-up and unable to settle. Pantalaimon jumped into her lap and curled up. She sank her fingers into his fur, scratching him gently. Her eye caught the portrait of her old familiar Master. Sir Thomas Billington was the name on the frame. Funny that, she'd never known his name before. He was always just The Master.

The Scholars seemed to have forgotten her already and were beginning to talk amongst themselves. The conversation was about politics, and the King's Council, and the international situation. Subjects which held little interest for Lyra. She felt awkward, and drowsy from the jenniver - even a small glass could do that for her - and the fug of smoke leaf. She thought of Will again, and stroked her coin with one hand while petting the sleeping Pantalaimon with the other…

She must have dozed off. But the voice of the Palmerian Professor came booming through her consciousness. 'I wonder what Doctor Belacqua thinks'.

'Mmm. What I think of what?' she murmured sleepily.

'We were just saying that the days of scholarship for its own sake were gone'. The voice seemed to bounce off all the walls at once.

'You mean you were saying it', said the Librarian.

'He has a point, you know', said the Enquirer. 'Part of our function is to make the world a better place'

'Exactly my point!', the Palmerian Professor shot back. 'We shouldn't just shut ourselves away behind our gates and contemplate the meaning of life. We should be out there creating wealth!'

Lyra thought she heard the words 'Somebody strangle the little runt' muttered from a cloud of leaf-smoke, but she might have been imagining it.

'Do you mean we should be taking on commercially-sponsored research?' the Dean asked.

'Why yes, that's where the future is! Go for growth! Go for power! Go for the money! And carry the message to the Tartars and the Skraelings!'

Lyra found herself thinking of the Philosophers of Cittagazze and their greed. She thought of the perverted scholarship of the Magisterium and the crazed megalomania of Lord Asriel. Her stomach heaved a little at her recollection of and the stench of naphtha fumes that permeated Will's world where sumptuous carts like Sir Charles Latrom's passed by the beggars on the streets. She remembered too the gentle contentment of the mulefa and the mission that had been laid upon her by Xaphania the angel. She had made a great sacrifice and it must not be in vain. She sat up rigidly in the chair, so suddenly that Pantalaimon woke and jumped to the floor, and gripped the arms tightly.

'NO!'

The hush that fell over the room was deafening.

'No', she continued. 'That's not the way! I've seen what happens'. She had to stop to catch her breath. 'Believe me. You must believe me. All the wisdom was leaving the world, don't you see? And we stopped it. But if we go your way we'll lose it again. We'll all DIE!'. The last word was a shriek. She was on her feet now. Her eyes were blazing and her tawny hair seemed on fire. Across the room Pantalaimon was nose-to-nose with Dorabella the raccoon, snarling and hissing. 'We have a responsibility to use our scholarship, our learning, to help people to learn about and understand the world, not to manipulate them! Help them know how things work and how to think freely and, and…'. Tears were stinging her cheeks now and she had to pause to choke back her anger. 'And that's what Jordan College has always been about and if Jordan College is going to go the way you want it to go then I don't bloody want to be bloody part of it and you can stuff your bloody Cassington Scholarship up your…'

Lyra was blinded by tears now and convulsed in sobs so that the words wouldn't come any more. She breathed deeply several times and by the time her composure returned she was aware of a new atmosphere in the room, a pregnant silence looming over everything. The Palmerian Professor seemed to have shrunk back into his chair, the raccoon clinging to his neck. The other Scholars stared at her open-mouthed. Even the Sub-Rector, whose cloud of leaf-smoke had dispersed.

She blinked back the last of the tears and turned sheepishly. 'I'm sorry, Master', she said, quietly and steadily.

The face at first severe broke into a smile and then a grin, and then deep warm laughter gushed up from his belly. The laughter caught on and rippled around the other scholars, nervously at first and then heartily. Somebody, she couldn't tell who, started to clap.

'Welcome to Jordan College', said the Master. "Lyra Belacqua, you've come home!'