The Haunted Storm

by Philip Pullman

  “Since it’s all coming out, we’d better clear something else up. These murders, that’s what I mean. That’s what I came here for… Tell me the truth, Alan: are you – did you do them?”

  Alan said nothing.

  “Did you?”

  His brother turned away; the silence lengthened.

  Elizabeth said “Alan –”; her voice shook.

  “Hush,” said Matthew.

  He took Alan’s arm and they walked a little distance away. Alan came almost meekly.

  Matthew said in an undertone “Was that what you meant when you said that your path was twisted?”

  Alan looked at him. In the darkness his expression was hard to fathom. Still he said nothing.

  “Alan, is the closest we’ve come –” Matthew felt like weeping suddenly; he checked the violence of it and said awkwardly “was that the closest we’ve come, then, when I had my headaches? Was it you causing them?”

  “I was calling you,” said Alan.

  “As you were –”

  “As I felt it, yes.”

  “But why? Why me?”

  “Because I loved you,” said Alan.

  Matthew was dumbfounded. “I don’t understand – it’s – oh, Alan, it’s beyond me altogether. But what happens now? Is it finished? Will it happen again?”

  “No. That’s the end of it.”

  Matthew took a deep breath.

  “Ah well. God forgive us all…”

  He went back to the well; after a few seconds Alan followed. Matthew was conscious of the question burning on the lips of the other two; he felt unbearably oppressed. He looked at them both, and laughed harshly.

  “Well, it wasn’t Alan,” he said. “So that’s clear, anyway.”

  “But who, then? Who was it?” said Canon Cole.

  “Someone he knows. But it’s all finished.”

  He heard Alan catch his breath; it sounded like a sigh. He went on hastily to the Canon:

  “And what’s down there? Is it true, what Alan told me? It’s not what you said.”

  The Canon looked unhappily at them both, and said “It works, whatever it is. Look at us now.”

  Matthew nodded. It was heavy, this new knowledge of his; it hung round his neck like a stone. He turned to Elizabeth.

  “What’s the time, Liz?”

  “Half past twelve. There you are; you’ve had your eclipse.”

  He sighed.

  “That’s it, then… Okay, I’m going to try. If there’s anything at all worth seeing or finding out anywhere, there’s no point in waiting till morning for it…”

  “Oh, don’t, Matthew, please!” Elizabeth turned to him quickly; “please don’t. You’re just doing what they want – I don’t know why they do, but let them go if they want to – it’s not your problem!”

  “Of course it is. This is me, now, I’m beginning at last. Don`t get it confused. Now then, Canon, tell me what to look for. What’s down there?”

  “I don’t know at all. Not at all; but look, look inside: can you see these steps, here, cut in the rock?”

  Alan moved sideways to let them look. Matthew saw in the light of the torch, which Elizabeth handed resignedly to her father, a series of shallow indentations in the shaft, little more than holds for his hands and feet. The rock streamed with water; the steps were slippery and overgrown with algae, but he thought he could climb down. As he leant over, he heard the sound of water rushing swiftly somewhere down below. The bottom of the well was out of sight.

  “Why isn`t the water level as high as it is in the lake?” he asked.

  “Go and find out,” said Alan.

  “Why the hell don’t you go?” Elizabeth burst out.

  “That’s just what I mean. You’re passive, you’re weak all the way through. Go yourself, you coward!”

  “I’ve been,” he replied.

  They all stared at him, astonished.

  “What – when? What’s down there? What is it?” said the Canon.

  “You can go later on, if you want to. Matthew’s going now,” he said. “Have you got another torch? No? Take this one, then.” He produced a flat pocket torch and handed it to Matthew. “I’ll hold the big one here to light you down, and when you get to the ledge at the bottom you can use that. It’s waterproof. Test your balance as you go; the steps are very slippery.”

  Matthew put the torch in his shirt pocket. Nothing to do but go, now… He sat on the edge and turned half round, putting his weight on his hands on the crumbling stone coping, while his feet felt for the first step. It was wider than it had looked, and felt safe enough.

  He paused. He could think of nothing at all to say; Elizabeth was crying, her shoulders slumped in utter exhaustion, and she looked so pitiable that he almost gave up.

  No, he thought. Get on, get on… His mind cleared, and a powerful tense peace possessed him as he began to descend.

  He lowered himself carefully from one step to the next, holding on with his wounded arm and feeling downwards with the other for the one below. He held himself away from the side; his feet found the steps easily enough, and after he had gone a little way the ease of the descent began to exhilarate him. He was alone, at last, and doing something.

  After he’d counted twenty-four steps he lost count. His arm was aching severely; he could not hold himself steady with it for more than a couple of seconds. The light of the torch was dim, now, and most of the shaft in shadow. There was no odour of stagnation, but a curiously fresh, clean smell. The sound of the water was much louder; it was like an underground river, and he could not be very far above it now. So where was this ledge?

  And then he fell.

  His feet and hands lost their grip all at once, as suddenly as if he’d been pushed. It happened so swiftly that he had hardly realised it before he hit the water.

  The shock of it nearly drove the air out of his lungs. He plunged under the surface and was immediately conscious of swift violent movement, to the right, he thought, away from the lake.

  The next seconds were a chaos of whirling tumbling pressures and blows and a freezing maddening cold and above all the shouting raging screaming intolerable need to breathe.

  His head broke surface; he gulped and gasped and bit at the air, swallowing it, ramming it into himself. Then the struggle for buoyancy and the urge to halt, stop, be still if he possibly could: several times he was swept into projecting rocks and then away before he could grab them. And the darkness was absolute and he had no way of telling whether a sudden dip in the roof might stun him and force him under again and drown him… He felt panic sweep up his chest, into his throat, and he forced himself to go with the current, trusting it, giving himself to it.

  After what felt like hours but was only a minute his feet struck a rock in the river-bed, and then another and another and he was stumbling like a drunkard over them, still moving with the current and holding his hands out like a sleep walker to fend off low-hanging rocks.

  The river had broadened suddenly; he could hear the noise of it sounding in a much larger space, echoing and resounding where before it had only rushed and splashed. It was shallower, and the current less strong in any one spot, so he could brace himself against it on the rocks of the bed.

  He did so, and managed to halt at last, and stood for a moment balancing against the stream; it came up to his waist, that was all, but not all the rocks were as high as the one he was on. He listened carefully to get his bearings.

  He guessed he was nearer the right-hand side than the left, and swung away, pushing towards the right. His legs crashed against the rocks, but he struggled upright again, and it was only a few feet away and he found it and hauled himself out, and on to a dry rock, triumphant.

  Now what?

  The torch; little hope that it would still work. He fumbled in his dripping clothes to get it out, and switched it on; miraculously, it lit up immediately.

  The light was uneven, varying uncertainly from dimness to brightness, but it was as good as sunl
ight. He felt a part of his mind glow and expand in gratitude. He looked around, and caught his breath with astonishment.

  He was in Canon Cole’s temple.

  It was a wide, regular chamber. The floor was quite even. The river ran through the middle of it, and out at the far side over a wide shelf of rock. It looked like a waterfall; spray drifted upwards in the darkness beyond it, and a distant muffled booming seemed to indicate that it fell a long way.

  But the chamber was decorated… It was rectangular, and bore the ancient marks of picks and chisels on its walls. Running all around it there was a frieze in ochre and red depicting men or angels worshipping and lighting. It was faded, and parts of it had peeled off while other parts were streaked and covered in dripping moisture, but there was clearly visible in it a gay, throbbing rhythm. It looked like a frozen dance, a ring-dance all around him. The flickering dim light of the torch gave it the illusion of movement; it would be even more apparent to the men who built it and to the worshippers, who had only naked flames to see by.

  The dance was interrupted at one point. Directly in front of him as he stood with his back to the river was a panel on the wall, in mosaic, showing a huge round sun, ornamented at its edge with decorative rays in blue and red. The body of the sun was a light yellow, but parts of the mosaic had fallen away, leaving irregular black patches on it.

  He stepped closer to look at it. He saw as he came near it that the black marks were not accidental, after all; black stones were set into the background, as carefully as the yellow, to form them.

  What could they mean? Sunspots, he supposed. He shrugged involuntarily.

  He looked around. The chamber was utterly still and cold. And there was no way out. The only gaps in the walls were the entrance and exit of the river… no, surely not! There must be another way out!

  He examined the walls on his side of the river, looking for a gap, a concealed corner, a hidden stairway, anything. There was nothing at all; the walls were solid and bare. He tapped the mosaic panel, hammered his fists against it, to see if it contained any hidden machinery or secret panels that would swing open to show him the way out; and, naturally, there was nothing there either. Behind the mosaic was solid rock.

  Across the river, in the other part of the chamber, there might be something… there must be something. He knelt on the rock that projected into the stream, and leant forward and shone the torch carefully on to every inch of it, into the corners where the walls met the roof, over the roof itself… Nothing.

  The river, then, the river, quickly – what about that?

  He scrambled off the rock, and went up close to the gap in the wall where it entered. It was a wide, regular archway, about eighteen feet across, and about four feet above the water at its highest point. He leant outwards, and shone the torch up inside it. He could see nothing but the broken, whirling surface of the water, and not much of it, at that; but it filled the tunnel from side to side, and there was no ledge or pathway. The roof of the tunnel came down in places to within a foot of the water.

  He ran to the other end, where it left the chamber. The river fell into complete emptiness. The shaft or cavern, whatever it was, was so huge that the torch made no impression on the darkness of it. The spray rose thinly upwards, catching the feeble light. Matthew felt dizzy, and turned away. There was no way out.

  It took a moment or two to sink in. And as soon as it had done, he had to fight against the urge to lie down and give in; but then slowly, as if »a mist was clearing in his head, he saw the edge of something tantalising, and knew he was nearly there… what was it? He was on the edge of realizing something: come on, come on, he said to himself excitedly, let me see what it is, let me see… It was something huge and paradoxical. He couldn’t get it in focus. It was something about the nature of the world.

  At the very heart of it was the consciousness of his position now, trapped in a cave far below the surface of the earth, with the only entrance blocked – how could the first worshippers get in and out, then? How had Alan managed? His heart leapt for joy, and then he thought: obviously it was drier then. It’s been raining for weeks – this must be an overflow channel from the lake – and the source of that current! – until it stops, I’m stuck here –

  Again came the flutter of panic in his breast, but it sub sided: something else was clearer as a result, another part of the realisation… It was like waking up and remembering a dream. A fierce cold joy possessed him, and he sat down on the stone floor and turned off the torch, in order to see it more clearly.

  It was a compound of knowledge, joy, consciousness, and will, and it was burning on its own, now, burning steadily inside him. A feeling of claustrophobia, of the pressure of the earth above him, swept through his mind for a moment, but he dismissed it: it was irrelevant. There was something more important here. He urged himself forward at it – the feeling was almost sexual, the leading-up to orgasm. It was burning and simultaneously pulling him for ward, to a greater blaze, but not fast enough for him; he strained with it, sweating, his hands to his head.

  He realised that now, trapped in a cave and probably doomed to die, he was more exultant than he had ever been in his life. He could have danced and sung for joy: but there was still a little further to go. And was that absurd? No, not at all; it was part of the meaning.

  In a way, he saw, it was evil. Evil, ignorance, stupidity. Darkness. Death; with exultation at its heart. The nature of it all was paradoxical; the nature of everything was double edged.

  Darkness had this blaze of exultation at the centre of it. The blazing sun had sunspots –

  That was clearer, that was closer to it. Sunspots: he remembered that though they looked dark against the sun, in fact they were brighter, far brighter than anything on earth. It was only a difference in temperature that made them appear dark.

  Morality was a description of the difference, a law for defining and not for commanding; like a scientific law, the law of gravity, the laws of thermodynamics.

  He got up and paced the floor in his excitement.

  That was absolute. Everything was converging. And there was nothing of human life in this chamber: this was as free as the space beyond the stars. He was at home here, with the cold silent dance in the darkness and the invisible sun, and the image of it and the joy of it were imprinted on his mind and on the cells of his body just as the image of its nesting-place was imprinted on the soul of a bird.

  Yes! Of course birds had souls. Everything was conscious: consciousness was more fundamental than matter, and consciousness was will, and will was joy, and joy was knowledge…

  Everything he had said or done in the past had tended towards this. He had been right, instinctively right, all along. He’d said it and done it without wholly knowing why: but now he knew, he saw it all at once, and he felt his heart melting with gratitude that he’d been so lucky. Luck was branded on him, like Alan’s objective values. Was it luck, though, that led him here to this cell in the rock? Of course it was, and he was lucky still.

  He wasn’t the murderer. Alan was; and that was over. But his false guilt had shown him in the only way possible that he was a part of the world.

  He wasn’t a gnostic. Canon Cole’s philosophy had made such a profound impression on him because the priest himself believed it so passionately: but Harry’s view of the world had always been there as a counter-balance, and, poised between them, he could not see the truth in anything. Both views could not be true simultaneously, he had thought; there was no way they could possibly coalesce. And yet there was, in this sunlike paradox, this clear inscrutable fact at the heart of things, and in the starry joy he felt. The joy was the paradox, and the paradox, no less, was the joy. Things existed; that was it, that was all that could be said: things existed.

  He lay back calmly, and thought of his dream of Alan and the little girl. He was laughing with happiness, like a baby. Then he thought:

  I am at the source of things now, and whatever I do will be imprinted on me for
ever – the first thing I do now will be my deepest instinct and my firmest habit from now until I die. And I and the world are one and the same thing, so I can set up the same patterns in the world as I do in myself. I can create my own fate, I can generate my own luck, because the world is with me and not against me and because if I help myself, the world cannot help but do the same. I am the future; I am beginning now…

  He was suddenly conscious of Alan. Telepathy: it was as clear as a bell, the impression of his brother’s presence. Alan had known what would happen. He had the sudden, unarguable knowledge that it was only yesterday that Alan had been down here. So: there was a way of leaving, something he’d overlooked and he’d only been looking at the cave, after all: not at himself! It was some faculty of his, then, that held the key!

  It was solid: he knew it for certain. He’d find it. He saw Alan’s face for a second, clearly. His brother was smiling at him.

  He stood up slowly, and began to think.

  Table of Contents

  The Haunted Storm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11