Moments of Pride

K. Ryan, 2008

For my Ali, who sometimes makes me feel like Will, in every good sense.

Note for anyone who's sharp eyed: Yes, he's quoting Northern Lights by Phillip Pullman. No, I did not write anything remotely connected to, or as good as, the HDM trilogy, and I make no claim to it. It's a very long story.

There’s always room for another storyteller in her life, Will.

Will Obeysekere doesn’t like to call himself a storyteller. That has an element of seriousness to it that he doesn’t think his compulsive, hurried, mostly-illegible and, he worries, mostly not-very-good writing contains. He knows, still, that his story telling is a serious matter to his small audience, so he doesn’t protest too hard. He breathes.

“But Pantalaimon had twisted free from those hateful hands – he was a lion, an eagle; he tore at them with vicious talons, great wings beat loudly, and then he was a wolf, a bear, a polecat...” a gasp, a hiss, “oh!” a “sssh! Lyra, I’m listening.” Will fills in words for the two girls curled by him on his Aunt’s sofa, a dizzying list of animals and adjectives, and they lean into him and try to read the hieroglyphs that contain all of Pantelaimon’s fate, which has become, briefly, their own.

“...but they had daemons too, of course. It wasn’t two against three, it was two against six.” Little Lyra St. James grips his arm and he catches sight of his sister trying to roll her eyes at him, trying to say, “I don’t know why she’s so scared. I know you. You wouldn’t do anything bad to them—really?” He smiles at them both, and then continues:

“A badger, an owl and a baboon were all just as intent to pin Pantelaimon down, and...and Ruby was crying to them—”

“—No, Will!” His sister is indignant, now, glaring at him. “Don’t use my name, silly. I don’t like it. I don’t like badgers.”

Will grins, an ordinary boy now. “Have you ever seen a badger, Solemn?”

“No, but I don’t want to.”

“Well, fair enough. I’ve never seen a baboon, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to either. “Lyra, then, was crying to them, ‘Why? Why are you doing this? Help us! You shouldn’t be helping them!”

The real Lyra nods emphatically, sparkly hair clip falling down the side of her face with the movement. Irritated, she blows uselessly at her hair to keep it out of her eyes, and Ruby sighs with impatience.

Will sighs, too, and sets his book down, placing a finger against both sets of lips. Lyra is wide-eyed outrage; Ruby bites. “Oi, little tiger-monster. Enough, both you, or you won’t find out what happens. He picks up the book again:

“and she kicked and bit,” a look at the darker, curlier haired child, “more passionately than ever, until the man holding the cage gasped and let go for a moment – and she was free, and Pantalaimon sprang towards her like a spark of lightening, and she clutched him to her fierce breast, and he dug his wildcat claws into her flesh, and every stab of pain was dear to her. ‘Never, never, never!’ she cried, and backed against the wall to defend him to their death.”

All is silent, but then the worst of all evils sweeps into the room. She is slight, hurried, dark-haired but greying, now. Brigid bends down and picks up her child, dropping a kiss on Ruby’s head before she rises. Lyra, though she normally considers “just past four” to be not quite too old to be held, squawks her protest. “Not fair, mama. I was just going to find out what happened next to me!”

Ruby glowers an agreement, and even Will has to nod. “This isn’t really a close-the-book moment...”

“Yes it is. Call it suspense, though I’m worried you’ll give them nightmares.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear girl. They love it.”

Will looks up as a familiar drawl is added to a cacophony of voices. Patience steers both wife and child back, to sit by her on the other sofa. Ruby, taking advantage of the sudden space, elbows her way into Will’s lap, heedless of any obstructions—including, for a moment, his rib cage. Gasping a little, Will manages an eyebrow raise at his great aunt, who matches it.

“Go on, boy. I want to find out what happens next.”

At moments like these, Will Obeysekere really does feel, for whole minutes at time, like a storyteller.