The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman Read Free Book Online Page A

even his balloon could not fly over them, and they were crowned with snow and ice all year round. Exploring those mountains was his next task.
    But for now, something simpler possessed his heart, something bright and hard and unshakable: vengeance. Lee Scoresby, who had rescued Iorek from danger in his balloon and fought beside him in the Arctic of his own world, had died. Iorek would avenge him. The good man’s flesh and bone would both nourish him and keep him restless until blood was spilled enough to still his heart.
    The sun was setting as Iorek finished his meal, and the air was cooling down. After gathering the remaining fragments of Lee’s body into a single heap, the bear lifted the flower in his mouth and dropped it in the center of them, as humans liked to do. The witch’s spell was broken now; the rest of the body was free to all who came. Soon it would be nourishing a dozen different kinds of life.
    Then Iorek set off down the slope toward the sea again, toward the south.
    Cliff-ghasts were fond of fox, when they could get it. The little creatures were cunning and hard to catch, but their meat was tender and rank.
    Before he killed this one, the cliff-ghast let it talk, and laughed at its silly babble.
    “Bear must go south! Swear! Witch is troubled! True! Swear! Promise!”
    “Bears don’t go south, lying filth!”
    “True! King bear must go south! Show you walrus—fine fat good—”
    “King bear go south?”
    “And flying things got treasure! Flying things—angels—crystal treasure!”
    “Flying things—like cliff-ghasts? Treasure?”
    “Like light, not like cliff-ghast. Rich! Crystal! And witch troubled—witch sorry—Scoresby dead—”
    “Dead? Balloon man dead?” The cliff-ghast’s laugh echoed around the dry cliffs.
    “Witch kill him—Scoresby dead, king bear go south—”
    “Scoresby dead! Ha, ha, Scoresby dead!”
    The cliff-ghast wrenched off the fox’s head, and fought his brothers for the entrails.
     
    they will come, they will!”
    “But where are you, Lyra?”
    And that she couldn’t answer. “I think I’m dreaming, Roger,” was all she could find to say.
    Behind the little boy she could see more ghosts, dozens, hundreds, their heads crowded together, peering close and listening to every word.
    “And that woman?” said Roger. “I hope she en’t dead. I hope she stays alive as long as ever she can. Because if she comes down here, then there’ll be nowhere to hide, she’ll have us forever then. That’s the only good thing I can see about being dead, that she
en’t
. Except I know she will be one day . . .”
    Lyra was alarmed.
    “I think I’m dreaming, and I don’t know where she is!” she said. “She’s somewhere near, and I can’t

FOUR
    AMA AND THE BATS
    She lay as if at play—
Her life had leaped away—
Intending to return—
But not so soon—
    • EMILY DICKINSON •
    Ama, the herdsman’s daughter, carried the image of the sleeping girl in her memory: she could not stop thinking about her. She didn’t question for a moment the truth of what Mrs. Coulter had told her. Sorcerers existed, beyond a doubt, and it was only too likely that they would cast sleeping spells, and that a mother would care for her daughter in that fierce and tender way. Ama conceived an admiration amounting almost to worship for the beautiful woman in the cave and her enchanted daughter.
    She went as often as she could to the little valley, to run errands for the woman or simply to chatter and listen, for the woman had wonderful tales to tell. Again and again she hoped for a glimpse of the sleeper, but it had only happened once, and she accepted that it would probably never be allowed again.
    And during the time she spent milking the sheep, or carding and spinning their wool, or grinding barley to make bread, she thought incessantly about the spell that must have been cast, and about why it had happened. Mrs. Coulter had never told her, so Ama was free to imagine.
    One day