La Belle Sauvage

  "Well, all right. Have you done that cabbage?"

  "Yes, look."

  "Come along, then."

  She put her knife down and wiped her hands, and led him down the corridor to the room where they'd been before. The crib stood in the middle of the floor, and one gloomy lamp was all the illumination in the room, so the baby was in semi-darkness. She was making all kinds of baby noises to her daemon, who stood on his hind legs as a rat and stared at Sister Fenella and Malcolm before fleeing to the pillow and making chirruping noises into Lyra's ear.

  "She's teaching him to talk!" Malcolm said.

  With the greatest of care Sister Fenella lifted her up, and Lyra's rat daemon leapt onto her tiny shoulder and became a shrew.

  Malcolm took out his present. It was the lanyard he'd made, tied to a little ball of beechwood that he'd rounded and sanded carefully. He'd consulted his mother, who'd said, "As long as it's too big to swallow, it's probably safe."

  "I was going to paint it," he told Sister Fenella, "but I know babies chew things and there's all kinds of stuff in paint that might not be good for her. So I sanded it as smooth as I could. She won't get splinters or anything. And if she swallows the lanyard, you can use the ball to pull it out again. It's really safe."

  "Oh, it's lovely, Malcolm. Look, Lyra! It's a-- It's a block of-- What is it?"

  "Beech. See, you can tell by the grain. It's really smooth. And the way it's tied, it'll never come off."

  Lyra seized the lanyard at once and put it in her mouth.

  "She likes it!" said Malcolm.

  "She might--I don't know--if she tries to swallow the string, she might choke...."

  "I suppose that's a possibility," Malcolm granted reluctantly. "Maybe she ought to wait and have it later. Or else you could bring her crib in the kitchen, and if she started to make choking noises, you could save her right away. I bet her daemon'd make a racket if she started to choke. What's his name?"

  "Pantalaimon."

  "He could probably pull it out."

  "It's not safe," said Asta firmly. "Give it to her when she's older."

  "Oh, well," said Malcolm, and he tried to take the lanyard away gently. Lyra didn't care for that and started to object, but then Malcolm pretended to get hiccups and she laughed so much she forgot the lanyard and let go.

  "Can I hold her?" he said.

  "Better sit down first," said Sister Fenella.

  He sat on an upright chair and held out his arms, and Sister Fenella put Lyra very carefully on his lap. Her little daemon scampered up and down to avoid touching Malcolm, but Lyra herself was intrigued by this change of perspective and gazed calmly around, and then focused her eyes on Malcolm himself.

  "That's Malcolm," said Sister Fenella in a soft bright voice. "You like Malcolm, don't you?"

  Malcolm felt that, nice as the old nun was, she didn't know the best way of speaking to a baby. He looked down at the little face and said, "Now, see, Lyra, I made you that lanyard and the beechwood ball, but you're not old enough for it yet. That was my fault. I didn't think you'd probably choke on the lanyard. Well, you might not, but it's too dangerous at the moment. So I'll keep it till you're old enough to play with it without stuffing it in your mouth all the time. When you're old enough, I'll show you how to make one. It's quite easy when you know how. I made it with cotton cord, but you could use anything--twine, marline....I'll take you for a ride in La Belle Sauvage when you're a bit older, how's that? That's my boat. I s'pose you better learn to swim first. We'll do that in the summer, all right?"

  "I think she'll still be a little young...," said Sister Fenella, and then she stopped because they heard voices in the corridor. "Quick!" she whispered, and took the baby from Malcolm's arms just as the door opened.

  "Oh! What is this boy doing here?"

  The speaker was a woman with tightly rolled gray hair and a hard face. She was not a nun, but the dark blue suit she wore looked like a uniform of some kind, and in the lapel was a small enamel badge showing a gold lamp with a little red flame coming out of it.

  "Sister Fenella?" said Sister Benedicta, entering behind her.

  "Oh! Well--Malcolm-- This is Malcolm--"

  "I know who Malcolm is. What are you doing?"

  "I made a present for the baby," Malcolm said, "and I asked Sister Fenella if I could give it to her."

  "Let me see," said the stranger.

  She examined the wooden ball and the soggy string with some distaste.

  "Not at all suitable. Take it away. And you, young man, go home. This is none of your business."

  When Lyra heard the woman's harsh tone, her face crumpled, her daemon burrowed his face into her neck, and she began to cry quietly.

  "Bye, Lyra," Malcolm said, and squeezed her little hand. "Bye, Sister Fenella."

  "Thank you, Malcolm," the old nun managed to say, and Malcolm noticed how frightened she was.

  Sister Benedicta took Lyra away from Sister Fenella, and the last thing Malcolm heard as he left the priory was the baby wailing properly.

  That was something else to tell Dr. Relf, he thought.

  At lunchtime on Monday, Malcolm was squatting in a corner of the playground, one of his non-unscrewable screws in one hand and his Swiss Army knife in the other, trying to work out a way of undoing them. Around him the shouts and screams of children playing and running about echoed from the school's brick walls, and a cold wind carried the noise away over Port Meadow.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone sidling up to him, and he knew who it was without looking. It was Eric, whose father was the clerk of the court.

  "I'm busy," Malcolm said, knowing too that Eric would take no notice.

  "Hey, you know that man who was murdered? The one who was strangled and thrown in the canal?"

  "You're not supposed to talk about him."

  "Yeah, but you know what my dad heard?"

  "What?"

  "He was a spy."

  "How do they know?"

  "My dad couldn't tell me that, 'cause of the Official Secrets Act."

  "Then how could he tell you the man was a spy in the first place? En't that an official secret?"

  "No, 'cause if it was, he wouldn't be able to tell me, would he?"

  Malcolm thought Eric's father would find a way to tell him anything if he wanted to.

  "Who was he a spy for, then?" he said.

  "I dunno. Dad couldn't tell me that either."

  "Well, who d'you reckon?"

  "The Muscovites. They're the enemy, en't they?"

  "He might have been a spy for us, and it was the Muscovites who killed him," Malcolm pointed out.

  "Well, what was he spying on, then?"

  "I dunno. He was on holiday, prob'ly. Spies have got to have holidays, same as everyone. Who else you told?"

  "No one yet."

  "Well, you better be careful. I hope your dad's right about the Official Secrets Act. You know what the penalty for breaking it is?"

  "I'll ask him."

  "That's a good idea. But in the meantime, it'd be safer if you didn't tell anyone. There's spies everywhere."

  "Not in school!" Eric scoffed.

  "Teachers might be spies. What about Miss Davis?"

  Miss Davis was the music teacher, the shortest-tempered person Malcolm had ever known.

  Eric thought about it. "Maybe," he said. "But she stands out too much. A real spy'd be less conspicious. Blend in more."

  "That might be a clever disguise, though. You'd expect a spy to be all quiet and sort of camouflaged, so if you saw Miss Davis screaming and banging the piano lid, you'd think she couldn't possibly be a spy, only she was all the time."

  "Well, what would she spy on?"

  "She'd do it in her spare time. She could go anywhere and spy on anything. Anyone could be a spy--that's the point."

  "Well," said Eric, "maybe. But the man in the canal was definitely a spy."

  In the form of a mouse, Eric's daemon climbed up to his shoulder and said, jus
t loud enough for Malcolm to hear, "Dad never said exactly that the man was a spy. Not exactly."

  "Near enough," said Eric.

  "Yeah, but you exaggerate."

  "What did he say, then?" said Malcolm.

  "What he said was: I wouldn't be surprised if he was a spy. Same thing."

  "Not quite."

  "The point is, why did he say that?" said Asta, who'd been following all this closely as a robin, her head turning sharply from one to the other.

  "Exactly. Thank you," said Eric ponderously. "He knew something that made him think it was likely. So it prob'ly is."

  "Can you find out?" said Malcolm.

  "Dunno. I could ask him. But I got to be suitable about it. Can't just come out with a question."

  "What d'you mean, 'suitable'?"

  "You know. Not obvious."

  "Oh, right," said Malcolm. Subtle was the word Eric wanted, probably. And he'd probably meant conspicuous earlier.

  The bell rang at that point, and they had to line up in their classes and go in for the long, dreary afternoon. The usual way this happened was that the teacher on playground duty inspected the lines, told off anyone who was talking or fooling around, and dismissed the classes one at a time. Today, however, something different happened.

  The teacher waited till everyone was still and quiet, and then stood still himself and looked past them at the school building. That made several heads turn, Malcolm's among them, and they saw the headmaster coming out, his gown flapping in the wind. And there was someone with him.

  "This way," snapped the duty teacher, and they looked forward again before Malcolm could make out who the extra person was.

  A moment later she was walking out in front of the class lines with the headmaster, and he recognized her at once as the woman who'd come to the priory, and who'd frightened Lyra with her harsh voice. She wore the same dark blue suit, had the same tightly rolled hairstyle.

  "Listen carefully," said the headmaster. "When you go in, in a few moments, you will not go to your classes. You will go into the hall, just as you do for morning assembly. Go in as usual, sit down quietly, and wait. Anyone making a noise will find themselves in trouble. Class Five, lead off."

  Malcolm could hear whispers around him: "Who's she? What's going to happen? Who's in trouble?"

  He watched the woman closely without seeming to. She was scanning all the classes in front of her, her cold eyes raking through them as they stood and moved off in their lines. When her head turned his way, he made sure he was standing behind Eric, who was a little taller.

  The hall was where the lunch ladies set out the tables for school lunch, and the aroma hung around all afternoon. That day, boiled cabbage had featured prominently on the menu, and not even the jam roll that had come after it did anything to dispel the heavy atmosphere. The hall was also where they had gym classes, and underneath the food smell there was an aromatic reminder of several generations of sweaty children.

  As his class entered the hall, Malcolm looked at the line of teachers sitting along the back. Their faces were expressionless for the most part, as if this wasn't unusual at all but some quite normal part of a normal day, except that Mr. Savery, the math teacher, was scowling, with a look of deep disgust. And then in the instant before he sat, Malcolm saw the face of Miss Davis, the music teacher, because it caught the light, and it did that because her cheeks were wet with tears.

  Malcolm noted all these things and imagined himself writing them down, as he would later, to tell Dr. Relf.

  When all the children were sitting and still and silent, all the more quiet because of their sense that something unusual was happening, the headmaster came in and everyone stood up. The woman was with him.

  "All right, sit down," he said.

  When everything was quiet again, he said, "This lady is Miss Carmichael. I'll let her explain what she's doing."

  Then he sat, gathering his gown around him, his crow daemon in her usual position on his left shoulder. And Malcolm had something else to write later, because his face was as thunderous as Mr. Savery's. The woman couldn't see that, or else she ignored it; she waited for absolute silence, and then she began.

  "You know, children, how our Holy Church has many different parts within it. Together they make up what we call the Magisterium, and they all work together for the good of the Church, which is the same as the good of every one of us.

  "The part I represent is called the League of St. Alexander. I expect some of you have heard of St. Alexander, but perhaps your lessons haven't got that far yet, so I'll tell you his story.

  "He lived in North Africa with his family a long time ago. It was a time when the Holy Church was still struggling against the pagans, those who worshipped evil gods, or those who believed in no god at all. And the little boy Alexander's family was one of those who worshipped an evil god. They didn't believe in Jesus Christ, they had an altar in the cellar under their house where they made sacrifices to the evil god they worshipped, and they mocked those who were like us, who worship the true God.

  "Well, one day Alexander heard a man talking in the marketplace. He was a missionary. He had braved all the dangers of land and sea to take the story of Jesus Christ and the message of the true religion to the lands around the Mediterranean Sea, the lands where Alexander and his family lived.

  "And Alexander was so interested in what the man said that he stayed and listened. He heard the story of Jesus's life and death, and how he rose from the dead, and how those who believe in him will have eternal life, and he went up to the preacher and said, 'I would like to be a Christian.'

  "He wasn't the only one. A lot of people were baptized that day, including the governor of the province, who was a wise man called Regulus. Regulus ordered that all his officials should become Christians, and they all did.

  "But there were a lot of people who didn't. A lot of people liked the religion they knew and didn't want to change. Even when Regulus made laws forbidding the pagan religion and compelling people to be Christian for their own good, they kept to the old wicked ways.

  "And Alexander saw that he could do something to serve God and the Church. He knew some people who pretended to be Christian but really still worshipped the old gods, the evil gods. His own family, for instance. They had given shelter to a number of pagan people down in their cellar, people who were wanted by the authorities, people who had wickedly refused to hear the holy word of the Scriptures, the sacred word of God.

  "So Alexander knew what he must do. Very bravely he went to the authorities and told them about his family and the pagans they were sheltering, and the soldiers went to the family's house in the middle of the night. They knew which house it was because Alexander took a lamp up onto the flat roof and signaled to them. The family was arrested, the pagans in the cellar were taken captive, and the next day they were all put to death in the marketplace. Alexander was given a reward, and he went on to become a great hunter of atheists and pagans. And after his death many years later, he was made a saint.

  "The League of St. Alexander was set up in memory of that brave little boy, and its emblem is a picture of the lamp he carried up onto the roof to signal where to come.

  "Now, you might think that those days are long ago. We don't have pagan altars in our cellars anymore. We all believe in the true God. We all cherish and love the Church. This is a Christian country in a Christian civilization.

  "But there are still enemies of the Church, new ones as well as old ones. There are people who say openly that there is no God. They become famous, some of them; they make speeches and write books, or even teach. But they don't matter very much. We know who they are. More important are the people we don't know about. Your neighbors, your friends' parents, your own parents, the grown-ups you see every day. Have any of them ever denied the truth about God? Have you heard anyone mocking the Church or criticizing it? Have you heard anyone telling lies about it?

  "The spirit of little St. Alexander lives on today in every bo
y or girl who is brave enough to do what he did and tell the Church authorities about anyone who is working against the true faith. It's vital work. It's the most important thing you could ever do. And it's something that every child ought to think about.

  "You can join the League of St. Alexander today. You'll get a badge, like the one I'm wearing, to wear yourself and show what you think is important. It doesn't cost anything. You can be the eyes and the ears of the Holy Church in the corrupt world we live in. Who would like to join?"

  Hands went up, many hands, and Malcolm could see the excitement on the faces all around him; but the teachers, apart from one or two, looked down at the floor or gazed expressionlessly out the windows.

  Eric's hand went up at once, and so did Robbie's, but they both looked at Malcolm to see what he was going to do. The fact was that Malcolm would have liked one of those badges very much. They looked very handsome, but all the same, he'd rather not join this league. So he kept his hand down, and seeing that, the other two dithered. Eric's hand came down and then went up again less certainly. Robbie's came down and stayed down.

  "I'm so pleased," said Miss Carmichael, looking around the hall. "God will be very happy to know that so many boys and girls are eager to do the right thing. To be the eyes and ears of the Authority! In the streets and the fields, in the houses and the playgrounds and the classrooms of the world, a league of little Alexanders watching and listening for a holy purpose."

  She stopped there, turned to the table next to her, and picked up a badge and a sheet of paper.

  "When you go back to your classes in a minute, your teachers will have these forms. They will tell you how to fill them in. When you've done that, they'll give you a badge. And you'll be a member of the League of St. Alexander! Oh, and there's one other thing you'll be given. This little booklet"--she held one up--"is very important. It tells the story of St. Alexander, has a list of the rules of the league, and has an address to write to if you see anything wrong, anything sinful, anything suspicious, anything you think the Holy Church would like to know.

  "Now put your hands together and close your eyes....Dear Lord, let the spirit of your blessed St. Alexander enter our hearts, that we may have the clear sight to perceive wickedness, the courage to denounce it, and the strength to bear witness, even when it seems most painful and difficult. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen."