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This new world is everything and yet nothing alike Marisa and Lyra’s world. Yes, people are still mostly the same; selfish, corrupted individuals who live under some sort of oppressive system that keeps them under control by instilling fear and false promises with rules they do not realize are more restrictive than helpful.
True, that there might not be a regime like the Magisterium, who controls its people by exploiting a certain sense of faith, and promising heaven and blessings to those who abide the rules of their holy leader; the Authority — people in this world, in this Oxford, do not believe in the Authority, nor do they follow the rules of a church, but that does not give them more freedom, not really.
This world has been built upon a completely different sort of religion, one that is not called that, but is certainly just as restrictive; consumerism. An overall sense of self indulgence to the point of being addicted to anything that promises the feeling of selfish ecstasy; drugs, alcohol, food, a thing they call “the internet”, and those little machines called “cell phones” they all seem to be so enraptured with; all of it to keep the people in line of a system just as corrupt as the one Marisa had worked for this past decade.
Well, with one rather noticeable exception; in this world, women seem to carry themselves in a more independent manner, not having to hide their success behind the name of a man, but having the freedom to express themselves authentically, even in academia.
Women in this world are free to choose whatever path they wished to pursue, should it be to become a wife and mother, or to take on a leading role in society; to have a choice, it is something Marisa had always dreamed of when she was young.
Well, perhaps she still dreams of that, even now. Longs for it, actually.
Though here, what is hardest to witness is not the fact that she couldn’t choose to lead her own research project under her own name, or raise her child without a husband — in this world, she wouldn’t have even had to choose one over the other.
She could have pursued a doctorate to become a famous scientist, and could have kept Lyra with her.
That is what is so unbearable to witness stepping foot into this world; she could have had it all here. She could have been more than she ever imagined. No matter the consumerism, Marisa finds this world to offer more than her own. And she cannot help but mourn what she could have done in a world such as this one.
It is all she can think of since meeting Dr. Malone earlier today. A woman, leading an entire research team on the exploration of dust — though they call it “dark matter” in this world.
Dr. Malone was what she always dreamed to become. A doctor, leading a department, with stacks upon stacks of papers she did not have to let a man take credit for.
Marisa could not help but feel a sense of jealousy towards Dr. Malone.
Though, her mind is currently occupied with more than just this selfish thought. There have been much more pressing matters to consider, including the fact that whilst visiting Dr. Malone, Marisa stumbled upon the very reason she came here in the first place.
Lyra .
Their reunion had been anything but sweet, like perhaps it should have been between a mother and her daughter, though Marisa had not expected Lyra to be very happy to see her. After all, the last time they saw each other had been at Bolvanger, where Lyra had almost been separated from Pantalaimon, and had ended with them screaming at each other through a steel door.
But Marisa had searched tirelessly for her daughter all these weeks, and was not about to lose her a third time. So, she had bargained the only thing she knew would keep Lyra from running away; to help her get back the Alethiometer.
Lyra had still been hesitant, long enough for Marisa to wonder whether not even that was a good enough reason for her daughter to endure her company, but in the end, much to Marisa’s relief, Lyra had accepted. Under the condition she was left to make decisions, she and this boy, Will, she was now traveling with.
Honestly, Marisa would have agreed with whatever conditions her daughter came up with. It was surprising even to herself, what she would do just to be with Lyra again.
Surprising, and perhaps even terrifying.
So now, Marisa finds herself in yet another world; the very one Carlo had guided her through in such a hurry, whispering to her about it being too dangerous to stay in.
Marisa had wondered then as much as she does now what exactly could be so terrifying. The city they were currently staying in, yet another Oxford as Lyra had told her, seems about as dangerous as any other she’d been to. Perhaps even less so, for Marisa did not meet a single person other than a few passing children.
Curious, she thought, but certainly not dangerous.
The only thing which managed to terrify her even slightly was the accommodation Lyra and Will have been staying in. Old, dirty and cold — the place had undoubtedly been abandoned weeks ago, and nothing had been cleaned or tended to for just as long if the mold spreading throughout the kitchen was any indication.
Of course, that hadn’t bothered the two children, unsurprisingly, for they had apparently housed there for multiple days now, without any regard whatsoever to the filthy state of the apartment.
Marisa itches to tidy up the place, the kitchen at the very least, less one of them would catch some sort of illness from all the filth, but had not dared to do so the very first evening of being with Lyra. She knew Lyra would not take kindly to her doing so, and seeing as Marisa was already on rather poor terms with her daughter, she would leave it be for now.
Will, to her surprise, was at least somewhat concerned with the state of things, for he had scrapped himself a corner in the kitchen, which seemed pleasantly clean, to cook them some food. Scrambled eggs with day old bread, not very appealing, yet it was better than Marisa had expected from a thirteen year old boy.
Still, dinner had been a very tense affair, without much talking and even lesser eye contact between Lyra and herself.
She did not pry, knowing by now that to leave Lyra be was probably a better idea rather than try and manipulate, or force anything upon her; that is, after all, what she had done thus far, and it had always resulted in the same thing; Lyra, running away from her.
Leaving Lyra to deal with her feelings seems like the best possible action, furthermore because Marisa has no idea how to handle a twelve year old girl’s emotions. She hadn’t back when she was that age, and instead of learning, she had practiced to separate herself from her emotions to avoid them altogether, which leaves her entirely clueless on how to deal with a child who seems to weigh her every decision solely on her emotions.
The way Lyra is with Pan, Marisa isn’t sure she and her deamon were ever that close. Perhaps long ago, too long for her to really remember. It is unexpected, seeing as she dedicated so many years to separate children from their deamons, but she finds an odd sense of comfort in knowing Lyra and Pan have a bond so strong. She could not imagine the heartache Lyra would have suffered had she been separated from Pan.
She does not dare to imagine the heartache all the other children have suffered. She should, but as with all things too heavy to bear, she refuses. Knowing well enough of the unbearable pain it would cause her to let herself feel as freely as she once did, long ago.
They had retired for the night a few hours ago, though Marisa has not been able to sleep for even a minute thus far, partly because of the turmoil of thoughts currently brewing in her mind, but mostly because she cannot bring herself to look away from Lyra’s sleeping face.
Lyra is currently curled up on the bed she’s claimed when the two children first got here, in the smallest room up the narrow stairs, with Pan spread out atop her chest in the form of a little marten.
Marisa herself was offered the sofa in the rather spacious living room downstairs, though after hours of restlessness, she could not help herself any longer; quietly, she made her way up the stairs and into Lyra’s room. It must have been a while ago now, Marisa is sure, for she can deceiver the first faint glow of dawn filtering in through the window.
She watches how the light touches Lyra’s features, making her honey colored hair look like threads of gold; beautiful, Marisa thinks, and so much like Asriel’s. Though, over the years, Lyra must have come to resemble herself more and more, for other than her hair and slightly pointed ears, she now looks so much like her.
Marisa can easily see herself, at twelve years old, as she studies her daughter’s features. From the eyes, which are closed now but she knows would be big, deeply blue and filled with an insatiable curiosity, to the shape of her face, her lips, her nose…
There is no doubt Lyra is hers. But, there is no doubt she is Asriel’s either.
Marisa reaches a hand out to very gently brush her fingertips against Lyra’s pale cheek.
She had never before watched Lyra sleep, not when she had taken her in to stay with her in London, nor when she’d been a baby.
Marisa had never, not once, been there with Lyra throughout a single night in the girl’s whole life. Not when Lyra was little and potentially plagued with occasional nightmares, nor when she’d been sick and in need of somebody— her mother to stay and help her get better.
But she hadn’t helped. She hadn’t offered comfort or even just her company to Lyra. And worse still; she knows nobody else had either. Not Asriel, who rather pretended to be their daughter’s estranged “uncle”, nor any sort of substantial family member or even just a loving nanny.
Marisa herself has not had very loving parents, god knows her mother had been a horribly abusive woman, but at least she’s had the nannies, tutors and household staff to look after her. Yes, even her father, who like Asriel, often had better things to do than concern himself with his child, had at the very least ensured her to have all she wanted.
Lyra on the other hand, grew up on nothing but the company of old, tired man, teaching her old, tired things. No womanly presence to offer advice to a growing girl, and no lessons in etiquette whatsoever.
Marisa remembers the feeling of utter loneliness from her own childhood, despite the nannies who had cared for her; she can only imagine the way Lyra must have felt.
She can, in fact, not stop herself from wondering about Lyra’s childhood, about whether she’d felt cared for, or lonely, and whether she perhaps still feels lonely at times — it isn’t hard to imagine she would, seeing as their relationship is anything but comforting at present, Asriel is, as so often, gone from Lyra’s life altogether and the kitchen boy, Roger , has died in front of Lyra’s eyes, at the hands of her father, no less.
Marisa had almost forgotten what it feels like to care so deeply about another person’s feelings. Long ago, she’d been more like Lyra; empathetic and emotional, in fact, it is what her mother always teetered about, how she was such an emotional child.
It was, of course, never meant as a compliment.
She can sense that the golden monkey feels terribly restless whenever she lets herself think about Lyra and what she must be feeling, whether she was alright…but despite that, Marisa cannot help herself.
Lyra consumes her thoughts, and her heart, crippled as it must be by now, aches to have her close, and know she is safe.
Marisa isn’t sure whether it is love; does she love Lyra? Is she even still capable of such an overpowering feeling? And; does she want to let herself love? — does she even have a choice anymore?
She brushes a few stray hairs from Lyra’s face, wondering how she could have let herself fall like this. And why she would not hesitate to fall again, for Lyra.
She bends down closer, until her lips brush Lyra’s forehead, whispering with a softness she did not know she could muster; “I promise you; I will not let you be taken from me another time, Lyra.”
She presses a light kiss to Lyra’s forehead, just long enough to remember the warmth of it, before pulling back and looking out the window; the sun has only barely started rising.
It would surely be a few more hours before either of the children would waken, she reckons. Plenty of time to get rid of the moldy food and hopefully find somethings to prepare a slightly more nutritious meal.
Marisa gets to work in the kitchen, a rarity as she usually occupies kitchen staff, by throwing every rotten looking piece of food into a bowl to throw it away outside; she’d seen the abandoned garden just behind the house, where at the very least, the rott would serve as fertilizer, or give the insects something to devour.
The sun is quite beautiful this morning, so very different somehow than whenever she sits out on her balcony back in London. She wonders whether a different world might mean a different solar system as well? There is so much to learn about this strange place, and the possibility of many other worlds after this one.
What a strange feeling it is to know there are potentially dozens, or hundreds of worlds to cross over, and yet despite her curiosity, all Marisa really wants is to be in the same world where Lyra is, whatever world that might be.
She walks past the rusty fence and into the overgrown garden, only to stop dead in her tracks as she spots another person standing in the middle of the dried out tomato garden.
The man’s back is still turned towards her, implying he has not yet noticed her. Marisa contemplates whether she should try and sneak away, grab Lyra and leave, but only for a second before noticing how this man had not moved as much as an inch. In fact, he looks almost…statue like.
Carefully, Marisa steps closer, into the tomato field, to approach the man. “Pardon me—“ she starts, but her words blend into a gasp as she walks around the man to see his face; ashen skin and empty eyes greet her, without any response from the man. If he wasn’t standing there she would have been certain he was dead.
“It’s the specters.”
Marisa looks away from the stranger at the sound of Lyra’s voice, to find the girl standing by the fence.
She nods, before her eyes, like magnets, draw back to the man curiously. “Specters?” she asks.
“They’re creatures that exist here,” she hears Lyra explain. “Like…dark ghosts, sort of.”
Marisa’s interest is certainly caught. “What did they do to him?” she wants to know, noticing the very faint sound of the man’s breaths. “He is…not dead, but neither does he seem alive.”
She can hear the stones crunching beneath Lyra’s shoes as she walks into the garden. “They eat their souls.” she replies right as she comes to stand but a few steps away from Marisa.
She can clearly hear the hardness in Lyra’s voice, and is not surprised to find her glaring at her. There is no doubt what Lyra is implying.
“They sever them.” Marisa replies.
“Like you do.” Lyra accuses. “Only that they do it to grown-ups, not children.”
Marisa raises her brows in wonder, looking back at the man with no soul. Her skin crawls as she imagines what it must feel like, having your soul be eaten by one of those creatures. It must be horrible. Even worse considering that people here do not have deamons, as their souls are within themselves.
“The specters do not affect children?” she asks, looking back at Lyra.
Lyra shakes her head.
Dust. Marisa is sure of it. Whatever exactly these specters are, they are made from dust, they have to be.
“Do you think…” Lyra starts, her voice softer than before. It catches Marisa’s attention instantly. “That he’ll ever get it back, his soul?”
Marisa’s stomach twists in that particular way whenever she knows she will have to disappoint her daughter. “I am not familiar with these creatures, Lyra.” she says diplomatically.
But of course, Lyra isn’t so easily put to rest. “Did any of the children at Bolvanger ever reconnect with their deamon?” she asks, and it is painfully obvious what she wants Marisa to say. “Lyra—“
“Did you ever try?” Lyra presses. “Surely, there’s got to be a way to—“
“We never tried.” Marisa admits.
Lyra’s eyes narrow at her, before she looks back at the soulless man next to them with such hopeful eyes, Marisa wishes to erase all of the girl’s painful memories at once, so she may never need to be disappointed again.
“Then there could well be some kind of cure, maybe—“
Marisa’s stomach flips with guilt. “Lyra,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there is any sort of cure…this is not an illness, darling, it’s—“
“How could you do this ?” Lyra interrupts her angrily, pointing at the man. “To all those children. Take their deamons away — why did you do that?” she demands, her voice growing louder.
Marisa stares at Lyra with desperate determination. “I thought I was doing good. I thought I would bring an end to sin, Lyra, I truly thought what I was doing would be helping us all — helping you .”
“You never cared to help me,” Lyra replies with a steely resolution. “You only acted selfishly. Don’t lie. I know you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
Marisa cannot deny she did most of what she did out of selfishness, perhaps even the project had been, at least party, a selfish act to make herself known as something other than the woman who got pregnant from the scandalous affair with Lord Asriel, and was left by him with a dead husband and a child out of wedlock.
Yes, perhaps she wanted to be known for more than her mistakes. She wanted to be known for her ideas, her intellect, and gain the freedom she so desperately sought, which was denied to her from even when she had been a child.
She became selfish, because she understood it was the only way to ever get ahead.
But, looking back now, with Lyra acting as her unyielding conscience, Marisa is horrified by some of the things she’s done, willingly, to feed her own ambitions. She became not very unlike the man standing in this garden; a soulless person, left to fester in darkness until there was nothing else left at all.
“You’re right,” she concedes unexpectedly. Tears have gathered in her eyes now as she regards Lyra’s young face. “I am selfish. I did not care for those children. I did not care for you for years either, because I thought that the only way to gain freedom was through power, so I became what I thought I needed to, to succeed.” she wipes at her cheeks in order to clean them from her tears, only for more to follow. “I am sorry.” she confesses. “I was the worst mother to you, I know. I ignored you for years, thinking only of the embarrassment I felt, but Lyra…”
“Enough.” Lyra breathes, her own eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “You’re not going to manipulate me again.”
Marisa bites her lip and takes a step towards Lyra. “I do care for you.” she admits, reaching out for Lyra’s hands. “And I regret what I did, all of it, I do—“
Lyra steps back before Marisa can touch her. “Don’t touch me.” she interrupts.
Marisa stops her approach only with difficulty. “I am your mother.” she whispers into the space between them. “I don’t intend to harm you, Lyra.”
The air between them is tense with too many unspoken words, and Marisa wonders whether they would ever find it within themselves to voice all that they aren’t willing to say aloud right now; she wonders most of all, what Lyra does not say.
Had she kept her, perhaps Lyra would feel safe sharing her thoughts with her. Perhaps they would not stand here, mere steps from each other, without knowing how to act or what to say.
If she had not been so selfish, perhaps Lyra would not hate her now.
“Will’s making breakfast,” Lyra detours, looking away from Marisa towards the house. “We gotta plan how to get back the alethiometer.”
“Lyra—“
“You promised to help,” her daughter interrupts courtly. “Or was that just another lie?”
The blow landed right where Lyra had shot, but Marisa was not about to give in so easily. “We will get it back,” she assures. “Carlo is many things, but he is not a very talented bargainer.”
Sadly, Marisa had not had the chance to put together any sort of nutritious meal, and they’d ended up having another plate of scrambled eggs, each with a slice of now two day old bread.
She has never missed her London apartment more, she thinks, forcing down the stale bread and bland eggs. Oh, how much she would like to turn back time, to when Lyra still adored her; when they had sat on the terrace every morning to have breakfast together.
She looks at Lyra chatting with Will about this knife he’d acquired just mere hours before they’d crossed paths in front of the university. That weapon, Marisa ponders, must be more than just any regular knife, or else Will would not have lost two fingers to acquire it; and Carlo would definitely not want it so desperately. It must be special in some way, but would Lyra and Will tell her the truth if she asked?
She glances down at the golden monkey sitting at her feet, and he, ever so subtly, nudges her leg.
Right, she thinks, perhaps she should simply ask, in a nonchalant manner; she is simply curious after all. “What exactly does the knife do for Carlo to think so highly of it?” she asks calmly, interrupting the children’s discussion.
“It can cut—“
“Don’t.” Lyra cuts Will off sharply. “We can’t trust her.” she whispers to him, though so poorly, Marisa is sure Lyra intended to be heard.
She sighs tiredly. “Well, then at least tell me this; if you don’t intend to hand over the knife, how do you plan on getting back the alethiometer?” she leans back in her chair to observe the two children. “Carlo will not simply hand it over, trust me. He is very much attached to his toys .”
Will looks to Lyra unsurely, letting Marisa know he isn’t sure in what to do either.
“We’ll have to steal it back.” Lyra answers with complete conviction. “Which is why…we’ll need your help.” she locks eyes with Marisa then, a rarity these days, as if trying to see through her. “Will you help?”
“Of course I will.” Marisa replies without hesitation.