The Haunted Storm by Philip Pullman Page B

left the pulpit and went to the altar for the last prayers he seemed much more in command of himself than he had been at the beginning of the service, when Matthew had felt a kind of pity for his apparent nervousness. Now he looked oddly just like a woman who was sexually aroused: his eyes were bright, startlingly light and clear, and his cheeks a little flushed. His movements were brisk, cold, and offhand. He gave the collection-plate to the sidesman and followed him down the aisle to the vestry, ignoring Matthew’s gaze but seeming to acknowledge it by the secretive, self-centred, narcissistic smile that constantly showed itself and vanished at the corners of his mouth.
    “I’ll go and speak to him,” Matthew thought, “I’ll go and ask him – it’ll be something done – Christ, yes, it’ll be a movement, I’ll be doing something for once.”
    The priest did not go into the porch to say good-morning to the congregation, but stayed in the vestry for so long that Matthew wondered if he had gone out of the church by another door. Eventually, however, when everyone but the sidesman and Matthew had gone, he came out, still wearing his cassock, and still with the peculiar expression half of desire and half of satisfaction on his face.
    Matthew stood up and stepped out of the pew, and the priest stopped in surprise.
    “Good-morning!” he said. “We haven’t seen you here before, have we?”
    Matthew was uncertain what to say, but the man’s tone was friendly enough. At close quarters, he looked even more like an actor, for some reason – there was a kind of over emphasis about his features, which was hard to pin down – but his eyes, which Matthew now saw were a very light shade of greyish-blue and slightly protruberant, did not seem to carry as much theatricality as his nose, mouth, and chin; they were withdrawn, dreamy, even mystical. Something in his face, close to, prompted a dim memory in Matthew, perhaps of a dream, but something far-off and strange – at any rate, he’d spoken, and was waiting for an answer.
    “No, not here – well, not for a long time, that is,” Matthew said. “I used to come here when I was a boy. I’m staying with my great-uncle at the moment. Have you been vicar here for long?”
    “Two years or so, I think – two years at Whitsun, it’ll be. My name is Cole, Canon Cole: do I know your great-uncle, I wonder?”
    “Mr. Locke, of Locke and Son, the elder Mr. Locke. But I don’t think he’s one of your parishioners; I mean, I don’t think he comes to church, because he preaches at chapels.”
    “Ah yes! He’s quite famous, you know. I have met him, but as you say, he doesn’t come –”
    “Forgive me for saying so,” burst in Matthew impatiently, “but I felt I had to speak to you after hearing your sermon – I was fascinated – what you said about the gap between God and the world, it struck me as being so extraordinary that I couldn’t help waiting behind to ask you to tell me more about it. I know it’ll probably strike you as a waste of time; but I don’t want an immediate course of free lectures, or anything; you must be very busy and as I don’t even live here I’ve got no claim on your time at all. But if you could spare me a few minutes one day this week, perhaps, or anytime you can, I’d be very grateful… You see, I’ve got a sort of God-mania, or religion-mania, that troubles me, and I’ve a feeling I’ll get more help from priests than from doctors… would you mind very much?”
    He spoke in a low voice, hoping that the old sidesman, who was gathering prayer-books from the pews and straightening the hassocks, would not hear him; he felt harassed, too, by the figure he could see seated in the porch: the church door was slightly ajar. The Canon. Frowning, stared at the ground, his forefinger pressed thoughtfully along his cheek. After a second he said:
    “Mmm… what is your name?”
    “Matthew Cortez.”
    “Cortez – is it Spanish? Yes;