The Haunted Storm by Philip Pullman Page A

the dull deep green of elms, the tender lightness of the silver birch and the rich wine-coloured darkness of the copper beech, the straight serried sombreness of pine-trees and the grace of cherry-blossom, of apple blossom; and there are the forms rock takes, the massive grey monolithic granite and the red sandstone, there is chalk with its dazzling whiteness, and near chalk often you find flint, opaque but nearly translucent, like smoky chipped glass, falling in flakes; slate, too, splitting in dark slabs away from the mountain-side; limestone, lava, silt, mud, sand, shingle; rock, piled in confusion, caves, cliffs, scree, wilderness, avalanche, hurled far out pinnacle upon pinnacle surmounted by trails and curtains of snow; the water falls dashing down the cliffs and gullies, leading down again deep into secluded corners, dark unsurveyed pockets and folds, hidden, descending inwards to huge caverns with the drip of water laden with minerals, the stalactites and stalagmites gleaming, their slow growth like teeth into the darkness, and further, ledges, dizzy chimneys and passages, needle-thin, tortuous, intent on their depth, opening out to unseen vast chambers, cathedrals, underground lakes innocent of fish, oh, innocent of life but for the blind gropings and yearnings of soft-bellied creatures without names and the sway of primitive slime at the water’s edge...”
    The flow ceased for a second; his face was creased as if in pain, his fists were clenched, and Matthew saw sweat starting on his forehead. The silence in the church was profound. The priest’s voice had never faded or faltered once, but plunged majestically onwards like the course of a river in flood, powerful and a little terrifying. For no reason at all Matthew wondered suddenly if he had heard about the murder, and if he had, what he thought about it… The priest continued.
    “And man in the midst of nature, intent on his lusts and their trivial satisfactions – man loves the world, and we call it natural that he should; man hates God, and we would call it unnatural if he did not. This is where we have come to, following our instincts downwards, like water; into the depths. And we are exhorted to take comfort in each other! We are encouraged to call ourselves immortal! This is Satanic irony; for man, man, is no more remarkable, truly, than the lowliest worm in the muddiest pond – no more godly – no more noble; he is only an object of love, of craving; and a form of darkness.”
    Abruptly he stopped. He had been speaking for nearly fifteen minutes. His voice had risen in the latter part of his sermon to a kind of hysterical sing-song, and as he enumerated his lists of the forms of darkness he beat unconsciously on the pulpit rail, emphasising the rhythm of the words with a sound like muffled hammer blows on a coffin, or like the heart of the world itself beating faster under the onslaught of his condemnation. The men and women in the church were obviously a little taken aback by the sermon – either that, or angry, or irritated, for Matthew saw people turn to one another and whisper as the flood of words came to an end. Matthew himself was both wondering how far the priest’s disgust with the world really went and trying to fathom the depths of the expression on his face. For as he said the last words, “and a form of darkness,” his lips came together sensually and his eyes opened halfway, and he looked suddenly obscene – as if he were lapped in a drugged sexual ecstasy – while all the time there hovered around his eyes and mouth the shadows of a distant, satisfied cynicism.
    He said a few more words, indifferently, with such sudden lack of interest that Matthew could not even make sense of them, and then turned almost theatrically – “flounced,” – Matthew thought – to face the altar, and muttered swiftly “And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost…” and swung round again to announce the last hymn.
    As he