Bad Grace Chapter 6: 1:05 Words To the Wise, a good omens fanfic

see Prologue for warnings, rating, and summary

In which Agnes' second book reaches its destination, and a woman named Ginger begins an arduous task.

1:05 - WORDS TO THE WISE

HARVEY WINKLE'S HANDS HAD BEEN SHAKING for three weeks now, ever since he'd stolen the Book from his former employers Robey, Robey, Redfearn & Bychance.

He hadn't really wanted to steal it. But when you have another Boss, the sight of whom tended to make your brain melt out of your eye sockets, after which you dropped to your knees and possibly wet yourself in abject terror… you tended to promise them anything, and to forget about something as simple as a regular paycheck.

His hands had shaken badly the entire time he'd worked the bit of larceny. Even when he'd done as his Boss requested and opened a certain box… even when he'd read the three-hundred year old letter personally addressed to him, which detailed a rather illicit action he'd committed five years ago, and promised that he would live just long enough to regret betraying his company…

Even then, Harvey was more fearful of the one who stood just behind him as he lifted out the manuscript, carefully cut away the bulk of pages from the binding, glued them into a brand new cover, and glued a sheaf of completely blank pages back into the original cover º, then replaced that to the box and locked it up again.

Though he did crumple up that personal missive and shove it in his pocket first. No sense in inviting further trouble by leaving behind the evidence of his betrayal.

Harvey Winkle had then fled the firm, which was scheduled to deliver the package to a certain descendant in Lower Tadfield that very same day. He carried the stolen manuscript with him, his conscience sizzling like sulfurous fire in his brain. The letter had been very worrisome indeed, but he didn't credit its threatening tone. Much. Not as much as he credited the threat of his Boss.

Now three weeks later, he was finally delivering the Book to another person in a small town in Wales, and he would be immensely grateful to be shut of it. He even held out a fragment of hope that his Boss would let him go his own way afterward.

It was a rather silly thing to hope.

He had been told to wait this long to make the delivery, partly because of needing to hide out and let the trail go cold, in the event that anyone had bothered to try following him, but largely because the intended recipient was in Europe until today.

Now, as Harvey Winkle stumbled up the walk and into St. Collumae Hospital, he prayed that it was soon be over and he'd have no more worries.

Another rather silly thing to hope. But at least this time he'd be getting his wish.

VIRGINIA GLORIA TYLLUAN, FONDLY CALLED GINGER, was a sixty-year-old retired schoolteacher. She had just retired, in fact, and spent the last two weeks touring the Holy Land and visiting the Vatican. For some reason, it had seemed vitally important to be there. Ginger was very slightly psychic, as many people are, and though she didn't remember there being an Apocalypse, the deepest parts of her mind still registered something unusual having happened.

Now she had returned to England and home, and a new part-time volunteering job at the St. Collumae Hospital gift shop. Retirement didn't mean idleness to Ginger.

She was a tiny woman, silver-haired, dressed in tweeds, and always cheerful and ready to help. She was the perfect image of anyone's doting grandmother and likely one who has spent most of her adult life helping at church bake sales, voting Conservative, and cooking for her extended family every Easter and Christmas. For the most part, this was a frighteningly accurate stereotype.

She considered herself to be three important things: First, a good Granny to her adored grandchildren, Abner, Hannah and Ezekial, and brand new great-grandchild Zipporah. Second, a good researcher, specialising in language, etymology and translating difficult old texts (some of these skills had served her well during her thirty years of teaching small children to read and write). Third, and above all, a good Christian, devoted to living a proper life and preparing her soul for the return of Christ and Judgment Day. She was also happy to aid in whatever way she could to this last and greatest cause.

Running the till at the gift shop promised to be easy work, leaving her plenty of free time between sales of flowers, stuffed animals and other items to attend to her greatest passion: reading. Her dear late husband Matthias always said that if you could find Ginger without a book firmly in one hand, a pencil in the other with a notebook nearby, and word-induced bliss in her eye, then obviously the world had already ended.

This was virtually a prophecy in itself.

The really interesting thing was that Ginger could have given Aziraphale a run for his money. She might not have owned as many rare and valuable books, and she might not have been quite as adept at ancient languages, but she could dissect a book of prophecy nearly as well as he could. And she had found this unique skill to be useful.

Her latent psychic talent gave her the ability to read between the gibberish, and had shown her how to successfully place her money in the stock market. In her mind, this wasn't gambling by any means. The writings she'd borrowed tidbits from had been dead-on accurate so far, and betting on a sure thing wasn't betting at all. One might as well say it was gambling on God to be in Heaven and listening to all her prayers. That was just simple Truth.

Though Ginger did spend a lot of her gains on charity and other good deeds, most of the funds went to her family. Of course the true joys of life were immaterial, but she would be damned if she'd be called a bad grandmother. The upshot of her ability to translate prophetic rantings was that she was rich enough never to have needed to work a day in her life. But idle hands made the Devil's work and, again, she would be damned if she'd work for anyone but Christ.

Oddly enough, she was just about to start working for someone positioned squarely between the two. And that was close enough.

Her first day running the till in the gift shop was nearly done, and she was cheerfully waving at a departing customer when another came in the doorway. He seemed rather haggard, his clothes worn for days and his face unshaved. Ginger imagined he must have rushed to hospital for some medical emergency in the family, that the hunted look in his eyes was due to having been worried for someone's health and safety.

This was largely true, though it was his own life he feared for at the moment.

He angled toward her and slapped down a book on the counter. She looked at the slightly battered cover, which was Biggles Learns to Fly, and then looked back up at him with a puzzled smile. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't think this came from our store—"

"It's for you," he hissed, "brought it all this way, just for you. Please, please take it, so he'll quit following me!"

The hunted look in his eyes was now giving way to what more properly could be called madness. Ginger continued to smile politely, while reaching a casual hand under the counter and preparing to hit a special button to summon help, when the man collapsed to the floor.

And two minutes after that, his conscience caught up with him in the form of a massive embolism.

As he fell to the ground, vision fading, he heard a deep voice hovering over him. It was a voice so deep that it gave normal human minds the bends.

HARVEY WINKLE, Azrael said, THAT WAS YOUR LIFE. The Angel of Death paused, then said, SORRY, IT'S NOT A GREAT LINE, BUT WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?

And Harvey died knowing that he had topped the previous illicit act, in spades.

AN HOUR LATER, AFTER GINGER alerted doctors and the man had been removed (already dead, but at least not in the gift shop), she looked back at the book. How very odd. She'd read most of the Biggles series, and her grandchildren had inherited the first editions she'd collected for them. Perhaps she could at least donate this one to charity.

Relaxed now, a book in hand giving her a feeling of joy and control, she opened the cover. And got three of the bigger shocks of her life.

Firstly, the book was clearly not about Biggles or any other children's favourite.Secondly, it seemed, in fact, to be a very old and fragile manuscript called Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. Thirdly, the first few lines in the book seemed to be directed at Ginger herself, which shouldn't have been possible.

The first passage of the book read thusly:

1: And know ye that thys booke sharle not be delivered unto thee handf of myne own blood but sharle be stolen strait away and sent to thee Dove's Hous of healeing.

2: Therein sharle be a Maidenly Whyte Owle who hath skillf aplenty to see signf & portents on parchment, & whom sharl read these wordes though they be hidden inside the shell of onne whom flyeth the desert shyppe and hath not yet met the one of her owne same name.

Ginger hesitated over these words, because any other person in the world would never have seen the significance. Her mind instantly translated the first sentence, knowing that the 'Dove's Hous of healeing' was St. Collumae Hospital. Collumae was from the Latin 'columb' and meant 'dove'.

The second sentence was the most incredulous. The meaning of her own name – Virginia Tylluan – meant 'maidenly' and 'owl' respectively. And alarmingly, her name previous to marriage had been White. More frightening still was the reference to the book cover that didn't fit the contents. The particular book had been the episode in which Biggles had flown a Sopwith Camel plane, and was a few volumes before he met his pal Ginger. Her own nickname.

She checked the book carefully, and was convinced that it was either a very good forgery or was indeed several hundred years old. Her instincts favoured the latter.

In which case… this was the most important thing that had ever come into her hands. She sat down, turning the book back to its first page, retrieved the notepad that always traveled in her large handbag and a freshly sharpened pencil… and, shivering with anticipation, read the next line.

3: The Owle Maid will read these wordes and sharl know that her olde life is over and a new onne begins, as she lookes up from these pagef to see Him that groweth wearie of waiting for thee Dove to Return; togeth'r they sharl fynd the Lamb and shepherd yt back into thee Tenth Circleing Fold.

This passage seemed to indicate more than just the return of the Christ, which left Ginger in absolute awe. It seemed to be saying, in no uncertain terms, 'Look up.'

She did.

What she saw made her brain threaten to melt out of her eye sockets with fear.

After a short, and surprisingly civil, conversation with the apparition she managed not to fall to her knees or embarrass herself in other ways. She also became convinced of the singular opportunity – nay, sacred duty – she had been given. If she translated the text brought before her, she would be very instrumental in helping to locate the returning Christ and bring the world to true peace.

How could Ginger possibly refuse?

º The rationale for this was deceptively simple: knowing Agnes' nature of being obtuse and under-handed, Anathema – upon opening the false volume and seeing nothing but blank pages – would assume the old biddy was pulling a grand joke, meant to be a statement of 'Gette on wyth your lyfe and stope relying upon ME to tell ye what to doe'. The funny thing is, if Anathema had actually gotten the book open, she very likely would have thought exactly that.