tvrundown USA 2022.12.05

Monday, December 5th:

(exclusive): Midsomer Murders (AcornTV, "25 Years of Mayhem" special), Back in the Groove (hulu, reality dating series premiere, airs daily)

(streaming weekly): Behind Every Star (netflix), Whitstable Pearl (AcornTV), Doc Martin (AcornTV, on hiatus)

(also new): TMZ's "Merry Elfin' Christmas" (FOX, special), Deliciousness (MTV, season 3B opener, 90mins)

(hour 1): The Neighborhood (CBS, midseason finale) /   / Bob Hearts Abishola (CBS, midseason finale), The Voice (NBC, 2hrs), The Great Christmas Light Fight (ABC, 2hrs), Holiday Baking Championship (FOOD, 2hrs)

(hour 2): NCIS (CBS, fall finale), The Cleaning Lady (FOX), The Voice (NBC, contd), The Great Christmas Light Fight (ABC, contd), Holiday Baking Championship (FOOD, contd), His Dark Materials (HBO, final season 3 opener, ~2hrs)

(hour 3): NCIS: Hawai'i (CBS, fall finale), That's My Jam (NBC, holiday special), The Good Doctor (ABC), Gingerbread Showdown (FOOD), American Dad! (TBS), His Dark Materials (HBO, contd)

(hour 4 - latenight):   Barmageddon (USA, celebrity gameshow premiere), The Big Bake (FOOD), The Daily Show with Trevor Noah (COM, final week begins)

@decracked @cutehats-blog @kimpossibleknowledgepowerkpkpkp @i-love-y0u-always @aura-loveshine @hollowearthjourney @oliviagloom @bimmercraze-blog @jopomoblog @trovatten @memeticwarfare @cernsternce @amberspyglass @brndrll @cosplay-costumes @heckyerday @princessnijireiki @cantabilemusic @genderfluidgodofmischief @revitaliness 

thanks

Printing is complicated. Everything looks way darker when it isn’t backlit. The colors change from IMac, to PC to matte print, to gloss print. #print #prints #digitalart #alanatedmon #illustration #illustrationartists #colors #amberspyglass #hisdarkmaterials #philippullman #philippullman📘 https://www.instagram.com/p/CE_-dlrjlWa/?igshid=s9aczetug3db

#inktober2019 Day 14: Enlightened “Can is not the same as must." "But if you must and you can, then there is no excuse.” Lyra Belacqua (Silvertongue) His Dark Materials . . . . . . #LiteraryLadies #BookBabes #fictionalfemmes #fanart #philippullman #goldencompass #silverknife #amberspyglass #hisdarkmaterials #lyrasilvertongue #lyrabelacqua #pantalaimon #daemon #auroraborealis #arctic #ya #classicnovels https://www.instagram.com/p/B3m9rptny7n/?igshid=1w4i0ckun5tpo

Review of “His Dark Materials” and “The Amber Spyglass” by Phillip Pullman

Well... With long reads like this, if they are any good, you get taken on a pretty long ride as you make it through all three installments... So I have a review... Mostly of the last book... Spoiler alert if you plan on reading... But if you have already read them, please share your thoughts! =)

The series was absolutely terrific as a whole. The ideas, questions and imagery Pullman proposes are exciting, beautiful and at times frighteningly thought provoking. The trilogy focuses on two main characters: the near adolescent Lyra and Will, but their journey and challenge is one of universal (or multiversal) intrigue. Pullman is clearly science minded and mentions particle physics almost as much as theology while we discover a plan to overthrow the perils of organized religion, and even "God" himself for the apparent human rights violations they have imposed throughout the ages; namely denying people their most innate human desires (sex, curious thought and other sinful behavior). I am an adult and consider myself agnostic, but I was raised Methodist and Souther Baptist. Even now those thoughts are somewhat trepidatious and yet completely captivating.

And yet in the final installment, when all of these incredible ideas have been proposed, things fall a bit short.

The final battle we had been preparing for through the first two volumes was nearly absent. Pullman briefly explains the monumental war in a few pages, and Metatron and the Authority go down as quickly. All the build up of "immense forges" for new machinery and "intention crafts" barely get a chance to land on the pages before the story moves toward its ending. Furthermore, "the one thing the fallen angels didn't have in the old battle and why they lost the first time" was the knife "The God Killer". Yet, the knife was never used physically in the final battle at all. Why was it even called that? We could say because of its ability to cut into different worlds, it could indirectly be "The God Killer" but that is stretching what feels seamless at other times.

In "The Amber Spyglass" the excitement of the ideas Pullman first proposed never got to reach an end that was even close to the original thrill of the promise of possibilities. We were only shown brief glimpses of the wonder we were so hoping for and that Pullman had fed us so fully in the first installments. Witnessing the Authority in his final state was provocative and thrilling but nothing was offered to satisfy the appetite that remained after the initial description. We didn't learn very much else about the multiverse or the state of this story's reality as it felt we had been promised over and over. We got right up to the moment and then never really got the Authority's perspective (or Metatron's) other than the second hand information we previously had from members of Asriel's army. And finally, although incredibly adventurous and exhilarating as a whole series, nothing really changed in the world after these momentous events took place. When we were excited by Asriel saying he would make death die, he nor Lyra really put an end to death at all, they just made it final and real. Now Dust would stop flowing out of the worlds but we aren't really sure if the Dust leak or the oppression of the Authority was the real problem to begin with. Even if we say they were both the problem, the world is essentially returned back to the way it was with minimal changes to the old system that could have more simply come about by a real world social movement. The ride of this tale warranted more. The story does finish with some heartfelt, wonderfully emotional moments of being torn by personal desires and the reality of what has to be, and offers hope and positive possibilities in the days to come, but the incredible wonder, frightful thrill, and moments of fundamentally challenging the paradigm of human belief systems in the first two installments has been substituted somewhat for a focus on classic human emotion; done very well, but done very well many times before. It was the former coupled with the latter that really made Pullman's writing shine. Still, two big thumbs up for the trilogy =)

Who is excited for the #BBC tv series of #hisdarkmaterials coming later this year? My friends and I will be doing a series re-read in preperation for it, if you fancy joining in. 🌻 August- Northern Lights 🌻 September- Subtle Knife 🌻 October-Amber Spyglass I have only read the original books once so I'm excited to get back to Pullman's world of Dæmons, Dust and Aletheometers! #series #reread #phillippullman #hdm #goldencompass #hisdarkmaterials #amberspyglass #subtleknife https://www.instagram.com/p/Bzla_WvgXEr/?igshid=1qfxol5tz8m8w

Ama And The Bats

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 she took some flat bread sweetened with honey; walked the three-hour journey along the trail to Cho-Lung Se, where there was a monastery. By wheedling and patience and by bribing the porter with some of the honey bread, managed to gain an audience with the great healer Pagdzin tulku, who had cured an outbreak of the white fever only the year before, and who was immensely wise. Ama entered the great man's cell, bowing very low and offering her remaining honey bread with all the humility she could muster. The monk's bat daemon swooped and darted around her, frightening her own daemon, Kulang, who crept into her hair to hide, but Ama tried to remain still and silent until Pagdzin tulku spoke. "Yes, child? Be quick, be quick," he said, his long gray beard wagging with every word. In the dimness the beard and his brilliant eyes were most of what she could see of him. His daemon settled on the beam above him, hanging still at last, so she said, "Please, Pagdzin tulku, I want to gain wisdom. I would like to know how to make spells and enchantments. Can you teach me?" "No," he said. She was expecting that. "Well, could you tell me just one remedy?" she asked humbly. "Maybe. But I won't tell you what it is. I can give you the medicine, not tell you the secret." "All right, thank you, that is a great blessing," she said, bowing several times. "What is the disease, and who has it?" the old man said. "It's a sleeping sickness," Ama explained. "It's come upon the son of my father's cousin." She was being extra clever, she knew, changing the sex of the sufferer, just in case the healer had heard of the woman in the cave. "And how old is this boy?" "Three years older than me, Pagdzin tulku," she guessed, "so he is twelve years old. He sleeps and sleeps and can't wake up." "Why haven't his parents come to me? Why did they send you?" "Because they live far on the other side of my village and they are very poor, Pagdzin tulku. I only heard of my kinsman's illness yesterday and I came at once to seek your advice." "I should see the patient and examine him thoroughly, and inquire into the positions of the planets at the hour when he fell asleep. These things can't be done in a hurry." "Is there no medicine you can give me to take back?" The bat daemon fell off her beam and fluttered blackly aside before she hit the floor, darting silently across the room again and again, too quickly for Ama to follow; but the bright eyes of the healer saw exactly where she went, and when she had hung once more upside down on her beam and folded her dark wings around herself, the old man got up and moved around from shelf to shelf and jar to jar and box to box, here tapping out a spoonful of powder, there adding a pinch of herbs, in the order in which the daemon had visited them. He tipped all the ingredients into a mortar and ground them up together, muttering a spell as he did so. Then he tapped the pestle on the ringing edge of the mortar, dislodging the final grains, and took a brush and ink and wrote some characters on a sheet of paper. When the ink had dried, he tipped all the powder onto the inscription and folded the paper swiftly into a little square package. "Let them brush this powder into the nostrils of the sleeping child a little at a time as he breathes in," he told her, "and he will wake up. It has to be done with great caution. Too much at once and he will choke. Use the softest of brushes." "Thank you, Pagdzin tulku," said Ama, taking the package and placing it in the pocket of her innermost shirt. "I wish I had another honey bread to give you." "One is enough," said the healer. "Now go, and next time you come, tell me the whole truth, not part of it." The girl was abashed, and bowed very low to hide her confusion. She hoped she hadn't given too much away. Next evening she hurried to the valley as soon as she could, carrying some sweet rice wrapped in a heart-fruit leaf. She was bursting to tell the woman what she had done, and to give her the medicine and receive her praise and thanks, and eager most of all for the enchanted sleeper to wake and talk to her. They could be friends! But as she turned the corner of the path and looked upward, she saw no golden monkey, no patient woman seated at the cave mouth. The place was empty. She ran the last few yards, afraid they had gone forever - but there was the chair the woman sat in, and the cooking equipment, and everything else. Ama looked into the darkness farther back in the cave, her heart beating fast. Surely the sleeper hadn't woken already: in the dimness Ama could make out the shape of the sleeping bag, the lighter patch that was the girl's hair, and the curve of her sleeping daemon. She crept a little closer. There was no doubt about it - they had gone out and left the enchanted girl alone. A thought struck Ama like a musical note: suppose she woke her before the woman returned... But she had hardly time to feel the thrill of that idea before she heard sounds on the path outside, and in a shiver of guilt she and her daemon darted behind a ridge of rock at the side of the cave. She shouldn't be here. She was spying. It was wrong. And now that golden monkey was squatting in the entrance, sniffing and turning his head this way and that. Ama saw him bare his sharp teeth, and felt her own daemon burrow into her clothes, mouse-formed and trembling. "What is it?" said the woman's voice, speaking to the monkey, and then the cave darkened as her form came into the entrance. "Has the girl been? Yes - there's the food she left. She shouldn't come in, though. We must arrange a spot on the path for her to leave the food at." Without a glance at the sleeper, the woman stooped to bring the fire to life, and set a pan of water to heat while her daemon crouched nearby watching over the path. From time to time he got up and looked around the cave, and Ama, getting cramped and uncomfortable in her narrow hiding place, wished ardently that she'd waited outside and not gone in. How long was she going to be trapped? The woman was mixing some herbs and powders into the heating water. Ama could smell the astringent flavors as they drifted out with the steam. Then came a sound from the back of the cave: the girl was murmuring and stirring. Ama turned her head: she could see the enchanted sleeper moving, tossing from side to side, throwing an arm across her eyes. She was waking! And the woman took no notice! She heard all right, because she looked up briefly, but she soon turned back to her herbs and the boiling water. She poured the decoction into a beaker and let it stand, and only then turned her full attention to the waking girl. Ama could understand none of these words, but she heard them with increasing wonder and suspicion: "Hush, dear," the woman said. "Don't worry yourself. You're safe." "Roger," the girl murmured, half-awake. "Serafina! Where's Roger gone... Where is he?" "No one here but us," her mother said, in a singsong voice, half-crooning. "Lift yourself and let Mama wash you... Up you come, my love..." Ama watched as the girl, moaning, struggling into wakefulness, tried to push her mother away; and the woman dipped a sponge into the bowl of water and mopped at her daughter's face and body before patting her dry. By this time the girl was nearly awake, and the woman had to move more quickly. "Where's Serafina? And Will? Help me, help me! I don't want to sleep - No, no! I won't! No!" The woman was holding the beaker in one steely-firm hand while her other was trying to lift Lyra's head. "Be still, dear - be calm - hush now - drink your tea - " But the girl lashed out and nearly spilled the drink, and cried louder: "Leave me alone! I want to go! Let me go! Will, Will, help me - oh, help me - " The woman was gripping her hair tightly, forcing her head back, cramming the beaker against her mouth. "I won't! You dare touch me, and Iorek will tear your head off! Oh, Iorek, where are you? Iorek Byrnison! Help me, Iorek! I won't - I won't - " Then, at a word from the woman, the golden monkey sprang on Lyra's daemon, gripping him with hard black fingers. The daemon flicked from shape to shape more quickly than Ama had ever seen a daemon change before: cat-snake-rat-fox-bird-wolf-cheetah-lizard-polecat- But the monkey's grip never slackened; and then Pantalaimon became a porcupine. The monkey screeched and let go. Three long quills were stuck shivering in his paw. Mrs. Coulter snarled and with her free hand slapped Lyra hard across the face, a vicious backhand crack that threw her flat; and before Lyra could gather her wits, the beaker was at her mouth and she had to swallow or choke. Ama wished she could shut her ears: the gulping, crying, coughing, sobbing, pleading, retching was almost too much to hear. But little by little it died away, and only a shaky sob or two came from the girl, who was now sinking once more into sleep - enchanted sleep? Poisoned sleep! Drugged, deceitful sleep! Ama saw a streak of white materialize at the girl's throat as her daemon effortfully changed into a long, sinuous, snowy-furred creature with brilliant black eyes and black-tipped tail, and laid himself alongside her neck. And the woman was singing softly, crooning baby songs, smoothing the hair off the girl's brow, patting her hot face dry, humming songs to which even Ama could tell she didn't know the words, because all she could sing was a string of nonsense syllables, la-la-la, ba-ba-boo-boo, her sweet voice mouthing gibberish. Eventually that stopped, and then the woman did a curious thing: she took a pair of scissors and trimmed the girl's hair, holding her sleeping head this way and that to see the best effect. She took one dark blond curl and put it in a little gold locket she had around her own neck. Ama could tell why: she was going to work some further magic with it. But the woman held it to her lips first... Oh, this was strange. The golden monkey drew out the last of the porcupine quills and said something to the woman, who reached up to snatch a roosting bat from the cave ceiling. The little black thing flapped and squealed in a needle-thin voice that pierced Ama from one ear to the other, and then she saw the woman hand the bat to her daemon, and she saw the daemon pull one of the black wings out and out and out till it snapped and broke and hung from a white string of sinew, while the dying bat screamed and its fellows flapped around in anguished puzzlement. Crack - crack - snap  - as the golden monkey pulled the little thing apart limb by limb, and the woman lay moodily on her sleeping bag by the fire and slowly ate a bar of chocolate. Time passed. Light faded and the moon rose, and the woman and her daemon fell asleep. Ama, stiff and painful, crept up from her hiding place and tiptoed out past the sleepers, and didn't make a sound till she was halfway down the path. With fear giving her speed, she ran along the narrow trail, her daemon as an owl on silent wings beside her. The clean cold air, the constant motion of the treetops, the brilliance of the moon-painted clouds in the dark sky, and the millions of stars all calmed her a little. She stopped in sight of the little huddle of stone houses and her daemon perched on her fist. "She lied!" Ama said. "She lied to us! What can we do, Kulang? Can we tell Dada? What can we do?" "Don't tell," said her daemon. "More trouble. We've got the medicine. We can wake her. We can go there when the woman's away again, and wake the girl up, and take her away." The thought filled them both with fear. But it had been said, and the little paper package was safe in Ama's pocket, and they knew how to use it. wake up, I can't see her - I think she's close by - she's hurt me - " "Oh, Lyra, don't be frightened! If you're frightened, too, I'll go mad - " They tried to hold each other tight, but their arms passed through the empty air. Lyra tried to say what she meant, whispering close to his little pale face in the darkness: "I'm just trying to wake up - I'm so afraid of sleeping all my life and then dying - I want to wake up first! I wouldn't care if it was just for an hour, as long as I was properly alive and awake. I don't know if this is real or not, even - but I will help you, Roger! I swear I will!" "But if you're dreaming, Lyra, you might not believe it when you wake up. That's what I'd do, I'd just think it was only a dream." "No!" she said fiercely, and stamped her foot so hard it even hurt in her dream.

Day 2 of book cover appreciation month!!! - 31 different covers! Covers you love! No explination, no review, no information.. just pure cover love!! - - #bookstagram #booksfordays #bookdragon #bookdreams #booksaremylife #booksfordays #booklove #bookphoto #bookphotography #bookbox #authorsofinstagram #totalbooknerd #totalbookworm #librarymusthave #readerlife #booklife #inspire #challange #coverchallange #31days #bookofdust #bookofdustvolumeone #Philippullman #goldencompass #subtleknife #amberspyglass #dust #lights #fairylights

Golden compass inspired cause I will never get over the #amberspyglass #willandlyra #hisdarkmaterials #cameranerds #lyraandwill

Mounted on his display log! #art #dragonfly #dragon #hisdarkmaterials #amberspyglass #uni #student #modelmaking #model #making

Ooof, sorry for the repost! The quality on the first attempt was too low. This is an illustration from the Amber Spyglass. Lyra and Will cut a window to release all the souls in the underworld. #illustration #thamberspyglass #amberspyglass #hisdarkmaterials #fanart #philippullman #philippullman📘 #lyra https://www.instagram.com/p/CENhumejL1j/?igshid=ap27eqz1ix3p

The Enchanted Sleeper

The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations; The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up; The bones of death, the cov'ring clay, the sinews shrunk dry'd Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing, awakening, Spring like redeemed captives when their bonds bars are burst. Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field, Let him look up into the heavens laugh in the bright air; Let the inchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing, Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years, Rise and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open; And let his wife and children return from the oppressor's scourge. They look behind at every step believe it is a dream, Singing: "The Sun has left his blackness has found a fresher morning, And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear cloudless night; For Empire is no more, and now the Lion Wolf shall cease." from "America: A Prophecy" by William Blake O stars, isn't it from you that the lover's desire for the face of his beloved arises? Doesn't his secret insight into her pure features come from the pure constellations? from "The Third Elegy" by Rainer Maria Rilke Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living. The night is cold and delicate and full of angels Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up, The chime goes unheard. We are together at last, though far apart. from "The Ecclesiast" by John Ashbery Chapter 1. The Enchanted Sleeper In a valley shaded with rhododendrons, close to the snow line, where a stream milky with meltwater splashed and where doves and linnets flew among the immense pines, lay a cave, half-hidden by the crag above and the stiff heavy leaves that clustered below. The woods were full of sound: the stream between the rocks, the wind among the needles of the pine branches, the chitter of insects and the cries of small arboreal mammals, as well as the birdsong; and from time to time a stronger gust of wind would make one of the branches of a cedar or a fir move against another and groan like a cello. It was a place of brilliant sunlight, never undappled. Shafts of lemon-gold brilliance lanced down to the forest floor between bars and pools of brown-green shade; and the light was never still, never constant, because drifting mist would often float among the treetops, filtering all the sunlight to a pearly sheen and brushing every pine cone with moisture that glistened when the mist lifted. Sometimes the wetness in the clouds condensed into tiny drops half mist and half rain, which floated downward rather than fell, making a soft rustling patter among the millions of needles. There was a narrow path beside the stream, which led from a village - little more than a cluster of herdsmen's dwellings - at the foot of the valley to a half-ruined shrine near the glacier at its head, a place where faded silken flags streamed out in the perpetual winds from the high mountains, and offerings of barley cakes and dried tea were placed by pious villagers. An odd effect of the light, the ice, and the vapor enveloped the head of the valley in perpetual rainbows. The cave lay some way above the path. Many years before, a holy man had lived there, meditating and fasting and praying, and the place was venerated for the sake of his memory. It was thirty feet or so deep, with a dry floor: an ideal den for a bear or a wolf, but the only creatures living in it for years had been birds and bats. But the form that was crouching inside the entrance, his black eyes watching this way and that, his sharp ears pricked, was neither bird nor bat. The sunlight lay heavy and rich on his lustrous golden fur, and his monkey hands turned a pine cone this way and that, snapping off the scales with sharp fingers and scratching out the sweet nuts. Behind him, just beyond the point where the sunlight reached, Mrs. Coulter was heating some water in a small pan over a naphtha stove. Her daemon uttered a warning murmur and Mrs. Coulter looked up. Coming along the forest path was a young village girl. Mrs. Coulter knew who she was: Ama had been bringing her food for some days now. Mrs. Coulter had let it be known when she first arrived that she was a holy woman engaged in meditation and prayer, and under a vow never to speak to a man. Ama was the only person whose visits she accepted. This time, though, the girl wasn't alone. Her father was with her, and while Ama climbed up to the cave, he waited a little way off. Ama came to the cave entrance and bowed. "My father sends me with prayers for your goodwill," she said. "Greetings, child," said Mrs. Coulter. The girl was carrying a bundle wrapped in faded cotton, which she laid at Mrs. Coulter's feet. Then she held out a little hunch of flowers, a dozen or so anemones bound with a cotton thread, and began to speak in a rapid, nervous voice. Mrs. Coulter understood some of the language of these mountain people, but it would never do to let them know how much. So she smiled and motioned to the girl to close her lips and to watch their two daemons. The golden monkey was holding out his little black hand, and Ama's butterfly daemon was fluttering closer and closer until he settled on a horny forefinger. The monkey brought him slowly to his ear, and Mrs. Coulter felt a tiny stream of understanding flow into her mind, clarifying the girl's words. The villagers were happy for a holy woman, such as herself, to take refuge in the cave, but it was rumored that she had a companion with her who was in some way dangerous and powerful. It was that which made the villagers afraid. Was this other being Mrs. Coulter's master, or her servant? Did she mean harm? Why was she there in the first place? Were they going to stay long? Ama conveyed these questions with a thousand misgivings. A novel answer occurred to Mrs. Coulter as the daemon's understanding filtered into hers. She could tell the truth. Not all of it, naturally, but some. She felt a little quiver of laughter at the idea, but kept it out of her voice as she explained: "Yes, there is someone else with me. But there is nothing to be afraid of. She is my daughter, and she is under a spell that made her fall asleep. We have come here to hide from the enchanter who put the spell on her, while I try to cure her and keep her from harm. Come and see her, if you like." Ama was half-soothed by Mrs. Coulter's soft voice, and half-afraid still; and the talk of enchanters and spells added to the awe she felt. But the golden monkey was holding her daemon so gently, and she was curious, besides, so she followed Mrs. Coulter into the cave. Her father, on the path below, took a step forward, and his crow daemon raised her wings once or twice, but he stayed where he was. Mrs. Coulter lit a candle, because the light was fading rapidly, and led Ama to the back of the cave. Ama's eyes glittered widely in the gloom, and her hands were moving together in a repetitive gesture of finger on thumb, finger on thumb, to ward off danger by confusing the evil spirits. "You see?" said Mrs. Coulter. "She can do no harm. There's nothing to be afraid of." Ama looked at the figure in the sleeping bag. It was a girl older than she was, by three or four years, perhaps; and she had hair of a color Ama had never seen before - a tawny fairness like a lion's. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and she was deeply asleep, there was no doubt about that, for her daemon lay coiled and unconscious at her throat. He had the form of some creature like a mongoose, but red-gold in color and smaller. The golden monkey was tenderly smoothing the fur between the sleeping daemon's ears, and as Ama looked, the mongoose creature stirred uneasily and uttered a hoarse little mew. Ama's daemon, mouse-formed, pressed himself close to Ama's neck and peered fearfully through her hair. "So you can tell your father what you've seen," Mrs. Coulter went on. "No evil spirit. Just my daughter, asleep under a spell, and in my care. But, please, Ama, tell your father that this must be a secret. No one but you two must know Lyra is here. If the enchanter knew where she was, he would seek her out and destroy her, and me, and everything nearby. So hush! Tell your father, and no one else." She knelt beside Lyra and smoothed the damp hair back from the sleeping face before bending low to kiss her daughter's cheek. Then she looked up with sad and loving eyes, and smiled at Ama with such brave, wise compassion that the little girl felt tears fill her gaze. Mrs. Coulter took Ama's hand as they went back to the cave entrance, and saw the girl's father watching anxiously from below. The woman put her hands together and bowed to him, and he responded with relief as his daughter, having bowed both to Mrs. Coulter and to the enchanted sleeper, turned and scampered down the slope in the twilight. Father and daughter bowed once more to the cave and then set off, to vanish among the gloom of the heavy rhododendrons. Mrs. Coulter turned back to the water on her stove, which was nearly at the boil. Crouching down, she crumbled some dried leaves into it, two pinches from this bag, one from that, and added three drops of a pale yellow oil. She stirred it briskly, counting in her head till five minutes had gone by. Then she took the pan off the stove and sat down to wait for the liquid to cool. Around her there lay some of the equipment from the camp by the blue lake where Sir Charles Latrom had died: a sleeping bag, a rucksack with changes of clothes and washing equipment, and so on. There was also a case of canvas with a tough wooden frame, lined with kapok, containing various instruments; and there was a pistol in a holster. The decoction cooled rapidly in the thin air, and as soon as it was at blood heat, she poured it carefully into a metal beaker and carried it to the rear of the cave. The monkey daemon dropped his pine cone and came with her. Mrs. Coulter placed the beaker carefully on a low rock and knelt beside the sleeping Lyra. The golden monkey crouched on her other side, ready to seize Pantalaimon if he woke up. Lyra's hair was damp, and her eyes moved behind their closed lids. She was beginning to stir: Mrs. Coulter had felt her eyelashes flutter when she'd kissed her, and knew she didn't have long before Lyra woke up altogether. She slipped a hand under the girl's head, and with the other lifted the damp strands of hair off her forehead. Lyra's lips parted and she moaned softly; Pantalaimon moved a little closer to her breast. The golden monkey's eyes never left Lyra's daemon, and his little black fingers twitched at the edge of the sleeping bag. A look from Mrs. Coulter, and he let go and moved back a hand's breadth. The woman gently lifted her daughter so that her shoulders were off the ground and her head lolled, and then Lyra caught her breath and her eyes half-opened, fluttering, heavy. "Roger," she murmured. "Roger... where are you... I can't see..." "Shh," her mother whispered, "shh, my darling, drink this." Holding the beaker in Lyra's mouth, she tilted it to let a drop moisten the girl's lips. Lyra's tongue sensed it and moved to lick them, and then Mrs. Coulter let a little more of the liquid trickle into Lyra's mouth, very carefully, letting her swallow each sip before allowing her more. It took several minutes, but eventually the beaker was empty, and Mrs. Coulter laid her daughter down again. As soon as Lyra's head lay on the ground, Pantalaimon moved back around her throat. His red-gold fur was as damp as her hair. They were deeply asleep again. The golden monkey picked his way lightly to the mouth of the cave and sat once more watching the path. Mrs. Coulter dipped a flannel in a basin of cold water and mopped Lyra's face, and then unfastened the sleeping bag and washed Lyra's arms and neck and shoulders, for Lyra was hot. Then her mother took a comb and gently teased out the tangles in Lyra's hair, smoothing it back from her forehead, parting it neatly. She left the sleeping hag open so the girl could cool down, and unfolded the bundle that Ama had brought: some flat loaves of bread, a cake of compressed tea, some sticky rice wrapped in a large leaf. It was time to build the fire. The chill of the mountains was fierce at night. Working methodically, she shaved some dry tinder, set the fire, and struck a match. That was something else to think of: the matches were running out, and so was the naphtha for the stove; she must keep the fire alight day and night from now on. Her daemon was discontented. He didn't like what she was doing here in the cave, and when he tried to express his concern, she brushed him away. He turned his back, contempt in every line of his body as he flicked the scales from his pine cone out into the dark. She took no notice, but worked steadily and skillfully to build up the fire and set the pan to heat some water for tea. Nevertheless, his skepticism affected her, and as she crumbled the dark gray tea brick into the water, she wondered what in the world she thought she was doing, and whether she had gone mad, and, over and over again, what would happen when the Church found out. The golden monkey was right. She wasn't only hiding Lyra: she was hiding her own eyes. Out of the dark the little boy came, hopeful and frightened, whispering over and over: "Lyra, Lyra, Lyra..." Behind him there were other figures, even more shadowy than he was, even more silent. They seemed to be of the same company and of the same kind, but they had no faces that were visible and no voices that spoke; and his voice never rose above a whisper, and his face was shaded and blurred like something half-forgotten. "Lyra... Lyra..." Where were they? On a great plain, where no light shone from the iron-dark sky, and where a mist obscured the horizon on every side. The ground was bare earth, beaten flat by the pressure of millions of feet, even though those feet had less weight than feathers; so it must have been time that pressed it flat, even though time had been stilled in this place; so it must have been the way things were. This was the end of all places and the last of all worlds. "Lyra..." Why were they there? They were imprisoned. Someone had committed a crime, though no one knew what it was, or who had done it, or what authority sat in judgment. Why did the little boy keep calling Lyra's name? Hope. Who were they? Ghosts. And Lyra couldn't touch them, no matter how she tried. Her baffled hands moved through and through, and still the little boy stood there pleading. "Roger," she said, but her voice came out in a whisper. "Oh, Roger, where are you? What is this place?" He said, "It's the world of the dead, Lyra, I dunno what to do, I dunno if I'm here forever, and I dunno if I done bad things or what, because I tried to be good, but I hate it, I'm scared of it all, I hate it..." And Lyra said, "I'll get us out of here, Roger, I promise. And Will's coming, I'm sure he is!" He didn't understand. He spread his pale hands and shook his head. "I dunno who that is, and he won't come here," he said, "and if he does, he won't know me." "He's coming to me," she said "and me and Will, oh, I don't know how Roger but I swear we'll help. And don't forget there's others on our side. There's Serafina and there's Iorek, and they will come, the will!" "But where are you Lyra?"