Riffing Pullman: Installment One

Philip Pullman is what happens when you mix C.S Lewis's evil twin, Dan Brown and Christopher Hitchens all together. It's scary. You have been warned. My comments in red.


Lyra and her dæmon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. They're cooking little girls and demons tonight. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. "We'll sit Beelzebub here, and Moloch there, and Xipe Totec there..." Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. "Master Robin! You've changed!" Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions. "All this, and more, can be yours for 149.99 at TJ Maxx!"

Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.

"You're not taking this seriously," whispered her dæmon. "Behave yourself." "You'll never be a warlock if you don't behave yourself!"

Her dæmon's name was Tlaloc! Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the hall. Because we couldn't possibly have moths in a house.

"They're making too much noise to hear from the kitchen," Lyra whispered back. "And the Steward doesn't come in till the first bell. Stop fussing."

But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.

"There's no one there," he whispered. "But we must be quick." "Mother doesn't like it when you play with strange demons!"

Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the College, sounds like a bad dream...saith the girl who lives in a college town but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and their guests were allowed in here, and never females. "Honey, I told you, this is the man-cave!" Even the maid-servants didn't clean in here. That was the Butler's job alone.

Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder. Can a moth settle?

"Happy now? Can we go?" he whispered.

"Don't be silly! I want to look around!" "The voices in my head tell me to!"

It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking stand with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little chafing dish and a basket of poppy heads. "MWUAHAHAHA! Poppies....poppies..."

"They do themselves well, don't they, Pan?" she said under her breath. I had no idea she kept a greek god with her!

She sat in one of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found herself nearly lying down, Welcome to the world of short people, Liar--I mean, Lyra. but she sat up again and tucked her legs under her to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholars, probably; robed, bearded, and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval. "Hey, the Stewards of Gond--oops."

"What d'you think they talk about?" Lyra said, or began to say, because before she'd finished the question she heard voices outside the door. "Eating small children, dearie!"

"Behind the chair - quick!" whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn't the best one for hiding behind: she'd chosen one in the very center of the room, and unless she kept very quiet... they'd EAT her!

The door opened, and the light changed in the room; one of the incomers was carrying a lamp, which he put down on the sideboard. Lyra could see his legs, in their dark green trousers and shiny black shoes. It was a servant.

Then a deep voice said, "Has Lord Asriel arrived yet?" Wasn't Asriel the name of a demon in Jewish mythos?

It was the Master. With a red lightsaber? As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant's dæmon (a dog, like all servants' dæmons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet, and then the Master's feet became visible too, hooves and all! in the shabby black shoes he always wore.

"No, Master," said the Butler. "No word from the aerodock, either." Aerowhat?

"I expect he'll be hungry when he arrives. Show him straight into Hall, will you?" "We have to strip to the waist and lop peoples' heads off for fun as soon as possible."

"Very good, Master."

"And you've decanted some of the special Tokay for him?" "The one with the aphr--never mind."

"Yes, Master. The 1898, as you ordered. His Lordship is very partial to that, I remember."

"Good. Now leave me, please." "I need to play World of Warcraft, and can't have you looking in on me."

"Do you need the lamp, Master?"

"Yes, leave that too. Look in during dinner to trim it, will you?" "I do not dare look away...Desperate Housewives is on in 20 minutes!"

The Butler bowed slightly and turned to leave, his dæmon trotting obediently after him. Man's best friend=hellhounds. From her not-much-of-a-hiding place Lyra watched as the Master went to a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, took his gown from a hanger, and pulled it laboriously on. Pink silk, and ruffles, and frills, and a corset to accent a feminine figure! The Master had been a powerful man, but he was well over seventy now, and his movements were stiff and slow. Does this guy have a name? The Master's dæmon had the form of a raven, and as soon as his robe was on, she jumped down from the wardrobe and settled in her accustomed place on his right shoulder. "Nevermore! Nevermore! Nevermore! NEVERMORENEVERMORENEVEMORE!"

Lyra could feel Pantalaimon bristling with anxiety, though he made no sound. How does a moth bristle? For herself, she was pleasantly excited. There was a thrill up her leg... The visitor mentioned by the Master, Lord Asriel, was her uncle, a man whom she admired and feared greatly. He was said to be involved in high politics, in secret exploration, in distant warfare, and she never knew when he was going to appear. I meet your Asriel and raise you Gandalf. He was fierce: if he caught her in here she'd be severely punished, but she could put up with that. The Dark Side of Liar--er, Lyra: masochism.

What she saw next, however, changed things completely. A mullet? The Master has a mullet?

The Master took from his pocket a folded paper and laid it on the table beside the wine. "This is how you build a crane..." He took the stopper out of the mouth of a decanter containing a rich golden wine, unfolded the paper, and poured a thin stream of white powder into the decanter before crumpling the paper and throwing it into the fire. "Don't do drugs!" Then he took a pencil from his pocket, stirred the wine until the powder had dissolved, and replaced the stopper. Eww, lead poisoning!

His dæmon gave a soft brief squawk. "NEVERMORE!" The Master replied in an undertone, and looked around with his hooded, clouded eyes before leaving through the door he'd come in by. "Gee, I sure hope that he doesn't switch our drinks..."

Lyra whispered, "Did you see that, Pan?"

"Of course I did! I have eyes too, you know, just like every other human be--oh, wait a minute... Now hurry out, before the Steward comes!"

But as he spoke, there came the sound of a bell ringing once from the far end of the hall. "Three o'clock and all's well!"

"That's the Steward's bell!" said Lyra. "I thought we had more time than that."

Pantalaimon fluttered swiftly to the hall door, and swiftly back. "A nudist colony! For the love of humanity, hide your eyes, Li--Lyra!"

"The Steward's there already," he said. "And you can't get out of the other door..." "The way is shut."

The other door, the one the Master had entered and left by, opened onto the busy corridor between the library and the Scholars' common room. At this time of day it was thronged with men pulling on their gowns for dinner, "Cindy, should I wear velvet or taffeta?" or hurrying to leave papers or briefcases in the common room before moving into the hall. Lyra had planned to leave the way she'd come, banking on another few minutes before the Steward's bell rang. Why plan?

And if she hadn't seen the Master tipping that powder into the wine, she might have risked the Steward's anger, or hoped to avoid being noticed in the busy corridor. But she was confused, and that made her hesitate.

Then she heard heavy footsteps on the dais. The Steward was coming to make sure the Retiring Room was ready for the Scholars' poppy and wine after dinner. Sure hope they don't have to take any drug tests...nothing like a poppy-seed bagel to ruin a job interview! Lyra darted to the oak wardrobe, opened it, and hid inside, pulling the door shut just as the Steward entered. "Gee, I wonder if there's a land in the back of the--wait, sorry, wrong story." She had no fear for Pantalaimon: the room was somber colored, and he could always creep under a chair. Because he's a stinking moth....

She heard the Steward's heavy wheezing, "Liar, I am your father!" and through the crack where the door hadn't quite shut she saw him adjust the pipes in the rack by the smoking stand and cast a glance over the decanters and glasses. Then he smoothed the hair over his ears with both palms and said something to his dæmon. Fetch, boy! Fetch! He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. Wait, so she was a real--never mind. In fact, she had the form of a red setter. The dæmon seemed suspicious, and cast around as if she'd sensed an intruder, but didn't make for the wardrobe, to Lyra's intense relief. Lyra was afraid of the Steward, who had twice beaten her. Nothing like child abuse to liven up a children's story, eh?

Lyra heard a tiny whisper; obviously Pantalaimon had squeezed in beside her. Because obviously a moth would need to squeeze to fit into a wardrobe..."

"We're going to have to stay here now. Why don't you listen to me?" "Because you're a stupid moth. You just don't understand!"

She didn't reply until the Steward had left. It was his job to supervise the waiting at the high table; she could hear the Scholars coming into the hall, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet.

"It's a good thing I didn't," she whispered back. "We wouldn't have seen the Master put poison in the wine otherwise. Pan, that was the Tokay he asked the Butler about! They're going to kill Lord Asriel!" Duuuuuuuuuh.

"You don't know it's poison." "You know, it could be...cocaine! Or...or...sugar! yeah, that's it..."

"Oh, of course it is. Don't you remember, he made the Butler leave the room before he did it? If it was innocent, it wouldn't have mattered the Butler seeing. And I know there's something going on--something political. They've been fighting over who gets voted out of the Retiring Room. The servants have been talking about it for days. Pan, we could prevent a murder!"

"I've never heard such nonsense," he said shortly. "How do you think you're going to keep still for four hours in this poky wardrobe? Let me go and look in the corridor. I'll tell you when it's clear."

He fluttered from her shoulder, and she saw his little shadow appear in the crack of light. "little shadow". Of a moth. Gee, you don't say?

"It's no good, Pan, I'm staying," she said. "There's another robe or something here. I'll put that on the floor and make myself comfortable. I've just got to see what they do." Read this last sentence aloud in a dry, Ben Stein kind of voice. Beuller?

She had been crouching. She carefully stood up, feeling around for the clothes hangers in order not to make a noise, and found that the wardrobe was bigger than she'd thought. There were several academic robes and hoods, some with fur around them, most faced with silk. Gee, well, isn't this original....a young girl hiding in a closet with fur-trimmed robes. Never heard of that before.

"I wonder if these are all the Master's?" she whispered. "When he gets honorary degrees from other places, Notre Dame? perhaps they give him fancy robes and he keeps them here for dressing-up....Pan, do you really think it's not poison in that wine?"

"No," he said. "I think it is, like you do. And I think it's none of our business. And I think it would be the silliest thing you've ever done in a lifetime of silly things to interfere. It's nothing to do with us." "Who cares that your uncle is going to die a slow, probably gruesome, miserable death as the poison either stops his heart or slows his breathing to the point of agony? It's nothing to do with us!"

"Don't be stupid," Lyra said. "I can't sit in here and watch them give him poison!" "Yes, you can, dangit, and you'll LIKE it!"

"Come somewhere else, then."

"You're a coward, Pan." Darn those cowardly moths!

"Certainly I am. May I ask what you intend to do? Are you going to leap out and snatch the glass from his trembling fingers? What did you have in mind?"

"I didn't have anything in mind, and well you know it," she snapped quietly. "But now I've seen what the Master did, I haven't got any choice. You're supposed to know about conscience, aren't you? How can I just go and sit in the library or somewhere and twiddle my thumbs, knowing what's going to happen? I don't intend to do that, I promise you." Drink it yourself...it'll make for a shorter, less painful book.

"This is what you wanted all the time," he said after a moment. "You wanted to hide in here and watch. Why didn't I realize that before?"

"All right, I do," she said. "Everyone knows they get up to something secret. They have a ritual or something. And I just wanted to know what it was." They strip to the waist, worship an evil emanation and lop peoples heads off for fun. Duh!

"It's none of your business! If they want to enjoy their little secrets you should just feel superior and let them get on with it. Hiding and spying is for silly children." Uh...dude. She is a silly child.

"Exactly what I knew you'd say. Now stop nagging."

The two of them sat in silence for a while, Lyra uncomfortable on the hard floor of the wardrobe and Pantalaimon self-righteously twitching his temporary antennae on one of the robes. Lyra felt a mixture of thoughts contending in her head, and she would have liked nothing better than to share them with her dæmon, but she was proud too. Perhaps she should try to clear them up without his help. "But the voices in my head tell me to tell him! But--he is the voice in my--oh, dangit!"

Her main thought was anxiety, and it wasn't for herself. Wait, her thought WAS anxiety? She'd been in trouble often enough to be used to it. This time she was anxious about Lord Asriel, and about what this all meant. It wasn't often that he visited the college, and the fact that this was a time of high political tension meant that he hadn't come simply to eat and drink and smoke with a few old friends. She knew that both Lord Asriel and the Master were members of the Cabinet Council, the Prime Minister's special advisory body, so it might have been something to do with that; but meetings of the Cabinet Council were held in the palace, not in the Retiring Room of Jordan College.

Then there was the rumor that had been keeping the College servants whispering for days. It was said that the Master reads Cosmo! the Tartars had invaded Muscovy, and were surging north to St. Petersburg, from where they would be able to dominate the Baltic Sea and eventually overcome the entire west of Europe. And Lord Asriel had been in the far North: when she'd seen him last, he was preparing an expedition to Lapland.... in order to visit his long-lost aunt, who'd left him a fortune and three beans.

"Pan," she whispered. "Dish!" "Oven!"

"Yes?"

"Do you think there'll be a war?" "No, we're all going to live in peace and joy and harmony for the rest of our long, pitiful lives--what do you think, dolt?"

"Not yet. Lord Asriel wouldn't be dining here if it was going to break out in the next week or so." "Dang, a large outbreak on my nose..."

"That's what I thought. But later?"

"Shh! Someone's coming."

She sat up and put her eye to the crack of the door. It was the Butler, coming to trim the lamp as the Master had ordered him to. The common room and the library were lit by anbaric power, but the Scholars preferred the older, softer naphtha lamps in the Retiring Room. They wouldn't change that in the Master's lifetime. Fortunately, he had a heart attack and died, so they finally upgraded it.

The Butler trimmed the wick, and put another log on the fire as well, and then listened carefully at the hall door before helping himself to a handful of leaf from the smoking stand. These were special, grown-up leaves that were grown under fluorescent lighting...

He had hardly replaced the lid when the handle of the other door turned, making him jump nervously. Lyra tried not to laugh. The Butler hastily stuffed the leaf into his pocket and turned to face the incomer. "It isn't mine! I was holding it for a friend!"

"Lord Asriel!" he said, and a shiver of cold surprise ran down Lyra's back. As opposed to warm, cuddly surprise. She couldn't see him from where she was, and she tried to smother the urge to move and look.

"Good evening, Wren," said Lord Asriel. I keep expecting to read something about his voice being chocolate for the ears...gag. Lyra always heard that harsh voice with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. Oh, harsh...thank God! "I arrived too late to dine. I'll wait in here."

The Butler looked uncomfortable. "Crap, I KNEW I should've used the can earlier when I had the chance!" Guests entered the Retiring Room at the Master's invitation only, and Lord Asriel knew that; but the Butler also saw Lord Asriel looking pointedly at the bulge in his pocket, and decided not to protest.

"Shall I let the Master know you've arrived, my lord?"

"No harm in that. You might bring me some coffee." "Folgers will do, preferably with carmel, chocolate, half and half and seven teaspoons of sugar."

"Very good, my lord."

The Butler bowed and hastened out, his dæmon trotting submissively at his heels. Lyra's uncle moved across to the fire and stretched his arms high above his head, yawning like a lion. With rows and rows of sharp teeth? He was wearing traveling clothes. D'oh. Lyra was reminded, as she always was when she saw him again, of how much he frightened her. Gaah, he's said that ten times already. Can Liar--er, Lyra please feel something other than fear or pleasure? Please?
There was no question now of creeping out unnoticed: she'd have to sit tight and hope.
Lord Asriel's dæmon, a snow leopard, stood behind him.

"Are you going to show the projections in here?" she said quietly. Astral projections?

"Yes. It'll create less fuss than moving to the lecture theater. They'll want to see the specimens too; I'll send for the Porter in a minute. This is a bad time, Stelmaria." Stelmaria? Like... stella maria? As in, meaning "star-star of the sea"?

"You should rest."

He stretched out in one of the armchairs, so that Lyra could no longer see his face.

"Yes, yes. I should also change my clothes. There's probably some ancient etiquette that allows them to fine me a dozen bottles for coming in here dressed improperly. Are they alcoholic scholars, then? I should sleep for three days. The fact remains that - " "--I'm getting cut off dramatically for random purposes."

There was a knock, and the Butler came in with a silver tray bearing a coffeepot and a cup.

"Thank you, Wren," said Lord Asriel. "Is that the Tokay I can see on the table?"

"The Master ordered it decanted especially for you, my lord," said the Butler. "There are only three dozen bottles left of the '98." "Very good year. Almost as old as I am!"

"All good things pass away. Leave the tray here beside me. Oh, ask the Porter to send up the two cases I left in the Lodge, would you?" Do bad things not pass away? Does that mean that this book is going to--oh, never mind.

"Here, my lord?" "Dang, he's on to us!"

"Yes, here, man. And I shall need a screen and a projecting lantern, also here, also now."

The Butler could hardly prevent himself from opening his mouth in surprise, but managed to suppress the question, or the protest. After all, the Butler remembered being taken out to the woodshed as a child, much like the other characters we've been introduced to thus far.

"Wren, you're forgetting your place," said Lord Asriel. "Don't question me; just do as I tell you." Pitiful servants...

"Very good, my lord," said the Butler. "If I may suggest it, I should perhaps let Mr. Cawson know what you're planning, my lord, or else he'll be somewhat taken aback, if you see what I mean."

"Yes. Tell him, then." "And send Rowsdower in."

Mr. Cawson was the Steward. There was an old and well-established rivalry between him and the Butler. The Steward was the superior, but the Butler had more opportunities to ingratiate himself with the Scholars, and made full use of them. He would be delighted to have this chance of showing the Steward that he knew more about what was going on in the Retiring Room.

He bowed and left. Lyra watched as her uncle poured a cup of coffee, drained it at once, and poured another before sipping more slowly. She was agog: cases of specimens? A projecting lantern? What did he have to show the Scholars that was so urgent and important? The infamous rhetorical question. It does not work well when the author asks it--at the least, it should be asked by a character, in quotation marks or italics to explain such...

Then Lord Asriel stood up and turned away from the fire. She saw him fully, and marveled at the contrast he made with the plump Butler, the stooped and languid Scholars. Lord Asriel was a tall man with powerful shoulders, a fierce dark face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with savage laughter. Having flashbacks to Dan Brown's descriptions of Langdon here, hold on while I writhe in pain from the memories. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight: never a face to patronize or pity. Oh, he's an android... All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he appeared in a room like this, he seemed a wild animal held in a cage too small for it. "Nelly, I am Heathc--wait, wrong book."

At the moment his expression was distant and preoccupied. His dæmon came close and leaned her head on his waist, and he looked down at her unfathomably ("I do not think that means what you think it means!") before turning away and walking to the table. Lyra suddenly felt her stomach lurch, for Lord Asriel had taken the stopper from the decanter of Tokay, and was pouring a glass. Drink it, drink it, for the love of humanity drink it, and this will be a better story...

"No!" ...darn.

The quiet cry came before she could hold it back. Lord Asriel heard and turned at once.

"Who's there?" "But I've always been here, remember?"*

She couldn't help herself. She tumbled out of the wardrobe and scrambled up to snatch the glass from his hand. The wine flew out, splashing on the edge of the table and the carpet, and then the glass fell and smashed. He seized her wrist and twisted hard. Nice. No wonder this girl is screwed up.

"Lyra! What the hell are you doing?" "Uh...lying?"

"Let go of me and I'll tell you!" A shot to the groin would make him let go of her. She must not be too bright.

"I'll break your arm first. How dare you come in here?" Well, this is a real treasure of a character, isn't he?

"I've just saved your life!" Of course you have...

They were still for a moment, the girl twisted in pain but grimacing to prevent herself from crying out louder, the man bent over her frowning like thunder. Frowning...like...a sound?

"What did you say?" he said more quietly.

"That wine is poisoned," she muttered between clenched teeth. "I saw the Master put some powder in it."

He let go. She sank to the floor, and Pantalaimon fluttered anxiously to her shoulder. Her uncle looked down with a restrained fury, and she didn't dare meet his eyes. "Your abuser and you: how to enable an abusive personality, pt 1."

"I came in just to see what the room was like," she said. "I know I shouldn't have. But I was going to go out before anyone came in, except that I heard the Master coming and got trapped. The wardrobe was the only place to hide. And I saw him put the powder in the wine. If I hadn't - " "You'd be DEAD!" and that would be a bad thing...why?

There was a knock on the door.

"That'll be the Porter," said Lord Asriel. "Back in the wardrobe. If I hear the slightest noise, I'll make you wish you were dead." Please be dead. Please?

She darted back there at once, and no sooner had she pulled the door shut than Lord Asriel called, "Come in."

As he'd said, it was the Porter.

"In here, my lord?"

Lyra saw the old man standing doubtfully in the doorway, and behind him, the corner of a large wooden box.

"That's right, Shuter," said Lord Asriel. "Bring them both in and put them down by the table."

Lyra relaxed a little, and allowed herself to feel the pain in her shoulder and wrist. There is no pain...no pain... It might have been enough to make her cry, if she was the sort of girl who cried. "No emotions now, we've discussed this!" Instead she gritted her teeth and moved the arm gently until it felt looser. Yeah, she's a regular grunt...(/sarcasm)

Then came a crash of glass and the glug of spilled liquid.

"Damn you, Shuter, you careless old fool! Look what you've done!" Sure, blame the old guy...

Lyra could see, just. Her uncle had managed to knock the decanter of Tokay off the table, and made it look as if the Porter had done it. The old man put the box down carefully and began to apologize. "Does this mean I lose my privileges to watch TV?"

"I'm truly sorry, my lord - I must have been closer than I thought - "

"Get something to clear this mess up. Go on, before it soaks into the carpet!" "For those pesky Tokay-n-Poison stains, I depend on my Hoover carpet-cleaner."

The Porter hurried out. Lord Asriel moved closer to the wardrobe and spoke in an undertone.

"Since you're in there, you can make yourself useful. Watch the Master closely when he comes in. If you tell me something interesting about him, I'll keep you from getting further into the trouble you're already in. Understand?"

"Yes, Uncle." said in a pathetic, sad little voice.

"Make a noise in there and I won't help you. You're on your own."

He moved away and stood with his back to the fire again as the Porter came back with a brush and dustpan for the glass and a bowl and cloth.

"I can only say once again, my lord, I do most earnestly beg your pardon; I don't know what - "

"Just clear up the mess."

As the Porter began to mop the wine from the carpet, the Butler knocked and came in with Lord Asriel's manservant, a man called Thorold. They were carrying between them a heavy case of polished wood with brass handles. "Oh, good, they've brought the body...bring it in, Igor!" They saw what the Porter was doing and stopped dead.

"Yes, it was the Tokay," said Lord Asriel. "Too bad. Is that the lantern? Set it up by the wardrobe, Thorold, if you would. I'll have the screen up at the other end." Shadowrama?

Lyra realized that she would be able to see the screen and whatever was on it through the crack in the door, and wondered whether her uncle had arranged it like that for the purpose. Under the noise the manservant made unrolling the stiff linen and setting it up on its frame, she whispered:

"See? It was worth coming, wasn't it?" Sure. You've gotten yourself abused, a carpet stained and stuck inside a wooden box. Great.

"It might be," Pantalaimon said austerely, in his tiny moth voice. "And it might not."

Lord Asriel stood by the fire sipping the last of the coffee and watching darkly as Thorold opened the case of the projecting lantern and uncapped the lens before checking the oil tank. *snores*

"There's plenty of oil, my lord," he said. "Shall I send for a technician to operate it?"

"No. I'll do it myself. Thank you, Thorold. Have they finished dinner yet, Wren?"

"Very nearly, I think, my lord," replied the Butler. "If I understand Mr. Cawson aright, the Master and his guests won't be disposed to linger once they know you're here. Shall I take the coffee tray?" *yawn* what's that? Story? What story....

"Take it and go."

"Very good, my lord."

With a slight bow, the Butler took the tray and left, and Thorold went with him. As soon as the door closed, Lord Asriel looked across the room directly at the wardrobe, and Lyra felt the force of his glance almost as if it had physical form, as if it were an arrow or a spear. Then he looked away and spoke softly to his dæmon. "Go eat that girl, there in the closet..."

She came to sit calmly at his side, alert and elegant and dangerous, her tawny eyes surveying the room before turning, like his black ones, to the door from the hall as the handle turned. Lyra couldn't see the door, but she heard an intake of breath as the first man came in.

"Master," said Lord Asriel. "Yes, I'm back. Do bring in your guests; I've got something very interesting to show you." It's...ALIIIIIIIVE!

Pullman's book is a very curious thing. It wants to be many, many different books at once. On one hand, it wants to be the Chronicles of Narnia; but that's too stodgy and has a God. It also wants to be Wuthering Heights, but shares absolutely nothing with it. It wants to be a classic. Its heroine, for some unfathomable reason, greatly admires a man who has threatened her physically at least twice and injured her once...within the first chapter. Charming, isn't it?
On one hand, it's not terribly written, though not to my taste at all. At the same time, there's a certain artificial texture to it--like it came out of Book-In-A-Box, Your Guide to Writing a Best-Seller. It's almost as if he is trying, very desperately, to copy someone else, and does copy, but copies poorly.

*Brownie points to anyone who recognizes the numerous references in here.