Chapter Ten
Of Loss and Prophecies
Prophecy 128:
As pressure turns rock into jewels, so hardship strengthens a man. Act well thy part, f'r thither hon'r lies.
Fell materialized in his bookshop, directly under the round skylight.
Newt had just walked in the front doors, humming, with key in hand and nearly had a heart attack when he looked up to see Fell standing in front of him. Newt gasped, stumbling into the nearest pile of books.
"When- when did you get back, Mr. Fell?"
Newt hastily stacked the books into an unsteady tower. It fell over again.
"Just now," Fell replied, removing his hat. He dropped it on a chair and bent to help Newt pick up the books.
Newt didn't ask how his employer was really doing. It was obvious he was still off.
"Did you get in touch with Mr. Caudery?" Newt asked warily.
"No." Fell shook his head, his eyes off in the distance. He was holding a book called Spirit Words.
Newt wanted to be helpful, if he could, but he wasn't sure if he was capable.
"Um, I was wondering…"
Fell looked at him.
"Is there anything else I can do? Besides the shop, I mean?"
Fell squared his shoulders and considered the young man before him.
For a moment, Fell seemed to embody what he truly was: a thousands year old spiritual being of fire and light, crowned by a halo and surrounded by six wings of majestic size, and not merely a middle aged bookseller from southern London. Then he recessed back to ordinary, and the extraordinary faded.
"Pray," he said.
There are some kinds of volcanoes which have no lava in them. Then there are others that may lie quietly inactive for many years with molten rock just below the surface, ready to erupt at any given time. Hastur was exactly like the later kind. There was always something ready to burn under his surface. At any moment, he could explode without warning. This was such a moment.
Hastur's contact in London had been keeping an eye on the Dowlings. Something wasn't quite right. The baby the Dowlings had was completely normal. It was growing at a normal rate, like a normal human baby should and seemed a perfectly healthy infant in every respect. It was not the Antichrist.
The demon who had delivered this news to Hastur had gotten charred and burned at the superior demon's hands. The messenger is always the one who suffers the most, even when he is in no way responsible.1 The discorporated lesser demon slunk away to get himself a new body, leaving Hastur to fume.
"Bugger this," Hastur growled.
Ligur heard him and left the tormenting job he was doing.
"What's eatin' you?"
Hastur growled again. "That snake," he said, "Crowley."
He was convinced Caudery had something to do with this. Hastur hadn't heard from Caudery since he had handed him the basket. Caudery should have reported back long since, but he clearly didn't know what was good for him. He never had.
Hastur dug his long fingernails into the top of his desk, dragging them and leaving deep tracks in the material. Ligur watched this action meditatively.
"You haven't heard from him, have you?"
Hastur confirmed this with a snarl.
There had been no word from Caudery for months. No one had seen him either. The date for his annual report had come and gone. Hastur had tried the usual methods of communication.2 He had also resorted to the human methods of the telephone and email. Caudery's mobile phone gave him the message of "inbox not activated." Hastur didn't know what that meant exactly, except that Caudery wasn't answering. On the landline Hastur encountered the device known as the answering machine. Just hearing Caudery's recorded voice over the phone made Hastur seethe with anger. He slammed the receiver down. Hastur flicked his tongue between his too-sharp teeth.
Ligur was playing with a scrap of chain. He intertwined his fingers in the links, then snapped the metal with a single pull.
Hastur picked up the telephone once more and dialed Caudery's number.
Forty-five seconds later the entire telephone was thrown across the room. It crashed into the brick wall and landed in a puddle of black slime.
Hastur was beyond seeing red now. Just wait until he caught up with Caudery. The results would be so grotesque the other demons would use it was a foundation for horror stories to be told in dark places.
Hastur clenched and unclenched his hands, orange sparks flying in the dismal atmosphere.
Ligur watched all this with emotionless, unblinking red eyes.
"We going after 'im?" he asked in a guttural voice.
Hastur blew off a little heat before he replied to his counterpart.
"We'll wait," he said.
He didn't want to wait. Hastur's amount of patience was about equal to his sympathetic nature. In other words, he had none. He wasn't going to give Caudery more time for Caudery's sake. There was no act of kindness here. It was entirely selfish. The more time Hastur waited, the more time he had to think up the most horrific torments for Caudery that he could.
Hastur reached a grubby hand into his coat pocket. He pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes. He wasn't allowed to smoke in Hell, (for unknown reasons no demon have ever dared ask about), but he was going out later on a job and wanted to make sure he had a sufficient supply. He put the packet back in his pocket with a satisfied grunt.
"No, we'll wait," he said. "If Crowley stays silent for another twelve months, then we'll go after him. I don't know exactly what Mr. Slick has done now, but we'll find out soon enough. The bastard will wish he'd never been created."
Ligur took the links of chain and began to break them all in little pieces one by one. He grinned, perhaps envisioning how Caudery's skin would look as the interior of his coat. The tan shade would nicely match his brown coat.
"When it's time, I'll be ready," he said.
Hastur smiled back at him with his green teeth. "We'll both be ready.
Newt was a little worried by Fell's sudden change, but he didn't dwell too much on it. He had other distractions on his mind. One such distraction was Anathema. The other was Sergeant Shadwell. Newt was feeling a tad guilty about his lack of daily reporting. He hadn't had much to report besides Fell and Caudery having lunch and now that it was just Fell, he really didn't have anything to report at all. 3
Newt wasn't altogether sure if Mr. Fell should be left on his own. The man seemed incapable of doing anything other than making tea. Newt wasn't sure if Fell should be trusted with even that.
On a dark and overcast morning in early November, Newt felt the tug of duty rather strongly. He was working for Shadwell, who was paying him, even if it was only two pence a year. He really should go and see him.
There were no customers in sight, so Newt decided it would be fairly safe to leave the bookshop early. He told Mr. Fell, who barely acknowledged that he had heard him. Newt made sure the kettle was full and put out a mug for Fell. Then Newt flipped the sign to 'closed' and locked the bookshop doors after him.
Madame Tracy answered Newt's knock. She was bedazzled in an outfit of bright colors and flowing silks, with shimmering eye shadow and lips painted a glossy pink, looking very mystical. Her hair was a shade of deep purple and matched her large, bulbous earrings. 4
She must be working today, Newt thought. He was right.
"Ah, Newt, dear," Madame Tracy smiled widely with her very pink lips. "You caught me just as I was setting up. Are you here to see Anathema?"
"No, Sergeant Shadwell, actually, Madame Tracy."
"Oh! You haven't been in to see him for a while. I was just about to get Mr. S some tea. Can I get you a cup?"
"Please," Newt said, slipping into the hall from the cold outside.
Madame Tracy shut the door against the wind. "Getting a little stormy out," she said, shaking her robes. "Now, I'll get your tea. I have a seance later, so a lot of things to get ready. Candles to set out, beads to hang. In you go, dear."
Sergeant Shadwell's flat was exactly the same.5 Newt knew the stacks of newspapers were changed on a weekly basis, however the mess would have fooled almost anyone, except those who knew the sergeant well. The dust on the furniture was as thick as ever.
Newt shuddered.
Shadwell was hobbling about in the kitchen. He heard Newt come in.
"Eh, Private Pulsifer."
Newt stood straight and gave his best salute. "Sergeant Shadwell, sir."
A hint of a smile almost peeked out from behind Shadwell's mustache. "At ease, lad. Draw yer-self up a chair."
Newt took the one seat by the table which wasn't covered in newspapers. The table looked about ready to buckle under all the papers piled on it. Shadwell limped over to his armchair, dropping into it with a sigh.
"Is your ankle better?" Newt asked.
"Oh, aye, on the mend," Shadwell assured him. "Just a wee bit tight still. How goes yer army work, lad?"
"Well…"
Madame Tracy breezed in with some tea. Shadwell growled something at her.
"Nine sugars and condensed milk, just as you like it, Mr. S," Madame Tracy replied with fluttering eyelashes. "And just a little milk for you, dear."
Newt took the cup from her with thanks.
"Now I must get ready," she said. "Seance in half an hour."
"Bah!" Shadwell said. "Yeh and yer ghost raising."
Madame Tracy sighed. "That's the thing, Mr. S. If I could raise a real ghost, then I'd be in business. One's imagination gets tired coming up with new personalities. I'm using a little Irish lass as my spirit guide at the moment."
She got no further communication from Shadwell. Newt nodded as he sipped his tea, but had nothing to say. Madame Tracy didn't seem to be bothered by the silence.
"Well, cheerio, my dears," she said and fluttered out again.
Shadwell muttered under his breath. Newt felt he should start up the conversation.
"How have you been, sir?"
"Eh, fair," the sergeant grunted. "Can't get around much right now."
Which is why you have me, Newt thought.
Shadwell put down his tea. "So, lad. Army business."
Newt held onto his tea, perhaps hoping the warm brew would impart some sort of strength. "It's good," Newt said. "It's going good. Er, well." 6
Shadwell looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Which means what, lad? Yeh got the whole of the English language before yeh. An the best you can come up with is 'good'? What else have yeh found out? Secrets, conflicting facts, illegal deals, laddy. Come on. What 're yeh keeping to ye'self?"
"Well…"
Newt was sure Shadwell wouldn't be interested in Caudery's sudden disappearance, but he told him anyway. He also mentioned how strange Mr. Fell had been acting for the past few months. He kept the information about the phonograph to himself. 7
"Might just be a coincidence," Shadwell replied.
"Or not," Newt said.
Shadwell looked at him curiously. "Eh? Why?"
Newt had one more tidbit to share, but he was hesitant to do so.
"It's not really the army's territory," Newt said, shaking his head.
"All the same, lad."
Newt pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "On one of last occasions I saw the parties in question together, (Mr. Fell and Mr. Caudery, that is), I overheard Caudery address Fell as… Angel."
"Oh, aye?" Shadwell was unmoved by this revelation. He took a drink of his tea. "Did yeh, now, lad?"
"I thought it might have some bearing on Caudery's disappearing," Newt said, a little disappointed at his commanding officer's lack of enthusiasm.
Shadwell slurped his tea and cleared his throat. "It might be his name, yeh know."
"Huh?"
"Mr. Fell, lad. Angel could be his first name. His initials are A and Z."
"Oh." Newt hadn't thought of that. It sounded okay, he did admit, yet, he wasn't happy with the theory. He liked his idea better. Still, he said, "I suppose that must be it."
Shadwell almost smiled, glad to be shown to be in the right. Newt was still just a private, young and with many years of experience ahead of him. Shadwell had been a witchfinder for over two decades after all.
Newt went back to his post at the bookshop feeling slightly more unsettled than he had been in the morning.
Shadwell meanwhile took up a book on witches, hags and other unpleasant creatures. He didn't really read it. The book sat on his lap. He was thinking of Fell and Caudery. What was their game?
Adam had only ever known the manor. Since he'd been able to walk, the only people he'd been with were nuns, nurses and doctors. He had gone to the local school, made some friends, but always there was the manor.
The manor was his home, his whole world. Full of twisting halls and long corridors, it was the perfect place for a growing boy to get lost in. The gardens were the remains of a more cultivated age; hedges ran the length of the stonewalls and ancient fruit trees dotted the lawn. Many of the trees were just the right height for a young boy to climb. Adam loved climbing the trees and filling his pockets with apples, even if it caused him to be hollered at by adults.
Over the years, Adam had seen all of the other children leave; the babies and toddlers be adopted, until soon he was the last one left. Adam resigned himself to his fate. He wasn't to be adopted. He would live at the manor, then when he was of age, he would go out into the world. He had everything he needed at the manor after all. Everything but a family.8
The Youngs had been a surprise. Adam still couldn't get over it two years later. He was no longer just Adam. He was now Adam Young with a mother and a father, a home and a room of his own with a window that looked out over the fields and back garden.
It was a funny feeling, this sense of belonging. It was as if Deirdre and Arthur Young had always been his parents and he had always been their son. It felt right and good. Adam ran, laughed and played, got into trouble and did all the things a typical boy should do.
Adam was completely unaware he wasn't typical. His body and mind were his, but he wasn't the only one occupying them. Even when he was alone, he was never alone with his thoughts. Another being had taken up residence. It was inactive at first, and slowly began to awaken as the end of the world began to approach.
Adam began to notice. He didn't know what it was, but he felt that something was changing. Blank spots in his memory surfaced, periods of time he couldn't account for, things he couldn't remember.
Arthur and Deirdre also noticed the change.
For almost two entire years their adopted son was just as they had hoped he would be. Sweet and kind, loving to play with his dog and quietly full of great fondness for his new infant sister when she was born.
Then Adam suddenly changed.
It was subtle at first.
Deirdre was busy caring for little Aubrey and can be easily forgiven if she didn't notice the morning when Adam didn't call her "Mum." She did notice when Adam started to wander. He would leave the garden and disappear for hours, sometimes even for the whole day from breakfast to supper. His explanations were short in length.
"Adam, where were you?"
The boy shook his head. "Dunno," he said, his eyes distant and unfocused.
Deirdre knew teenage boys should be allowed to be boys. But she was worried.
"He'll be fine," Arthur said.
Deirdre wished to believe her husband, but something about Adam seemed wrong, and whatever it was, it was starting to frighten her.
Fell was worried. Very worried.
It had been months and he hadn't heard anything of Caudery. The reports were empty. Caudery's Bentley was still parked in Mayfair, and Caudery's whereabouts were completely unknown. Fell hadn't expected to hear from Caudery, not after the exorcising business. That was absurd. He was an angel, Caudery was a demon.
Nevertheless, Fell did hope. Perhaps it was this hope that caused Fell's phonograph to change the music it played. It began playing songs Fell had heard in the Bentley and ones he had never heard before at all. It almost seemed to sense what he was feeling, as evidenced by the song choices.9 Fell listened with a half interest, all the time really thinking about Caudery.
Sorrow is a lonely feeling
Unsettled is a painful place
I've lived with both
For far too long now
Since we've parted ways…
He had considered Caudery a friend until that night. The night when Caudery had revealed the truth about himself.
So I'm sorry for
The words I've spoken
For I've betrayed a friend…
Fell wrestled with emotions an angel shouldn't have. He felt anger and betrayal and also a certain amount of sadness. His days were suddenly empty. The book and Caudery had occupied much of his time; whether it was writing, talking about writing or enjoying lunch.
I've been wrestling
With my conscience
And I found myself to blame…
Fell realized with certain surprise that he missed Caudery's company. Fell told himself this was silly. Caudery was a demon. He was an angel. Angels do not associate with demons. Angels should not. But he had and was no worse off.
Just between you and me
I've got something to say
Wanna get it straight
Before the sun goes down…
During the long stretches of time between dusk and dawn, Fell had plenty of opportunity to think back over the Arrangement. It was really nothing harmful. What had they done again? Human things. Completely plain, innocent activities. Not a thing Fell could recall had spiritual significance. He couldn't see how heaven would object. Just Caudery's… condition.
Fell wasn't sure exactly how he could have missed the clues about Caudery. Well, no, perhaps he wasn't being truthful with himself. Fell was able to sniff out demons anywhere on Earth, and he hadn't known Caudery was one.
Caudery didn't act like a demon. He didn't conserve like a demon. Not once had Fell heard him denounce God or curse anyone. Caudery hadn't actually lied about himself, either. Caudery, in fact, had always been polite and considerate. Demons didn't have the ability to be kind, Fell reasoned. Caudery might have been slowly working to corrupt him, gradually and patiently the way water slowly erodes away at stone. That was the old fashioned way.
If there's to be any resolution
I've got to peel this pride away…
The problem Fell had with this theory was Caudery was not old fashioned. He was very much a creature of the modern age. Things like technology, computers and such were of no problem to him. He wouldn't wait centuries to make one angel Fall from Grace.
Just between you and me
Confession needs to be made…
So many factors just didn't make sense. And then there was something about an Antichrist. What was it Caudery had said? Hell had copied their book and he had delivered the baby? Fell realized he hadn't listened properly.
Fell's mind wasn't clear anymore than the sky outside his shop was. What he did know, was something Big was up. The Heavens were stirring with unrest and planet Earth was not peaceful.
They were at work. They were always at work.
The Four Horsemen would continue to work until the Second Coming.
As pointed out by the angel Gabriel, the End Times had begun over two thousand years ago when Christ had ascended into the Heavens. The horsemen of Famine, War, Pestilence,10 and Death as described in Fell and Caudery's book were known under the (somewhat) human names of Dr. Raven Sable, (who had never held a medical dedree), Scarlett, (or Carmine Zuigiber, or just Red), White, (or Chalky, Blanc, Snowy or any other names of a similar meaning), and the last one who was the least human of all and known simply by the name of his occupation.
The real horsemen were not human anymore than Fell and Caudery. They were angels, but angels of a very specific rank. They were angels of destruction.11In spite of being celestial, the four horsemen, or the four bikers, in Good Omens, (the book written by the angel and demon, remember), had been written exactly as they really appeared in human form, from hair and coloring to the fact of War being female. It was almost as if one or both of the authors had met these angels before, though a principality doesn't often associate with angels of destruction.
The black horse had been given a pair of scales and permission to go throughout the earth. He sought the subjection of mankind. Famine was not a doctor of dietetics, though he did use food. He used anything to influence people. Even the television was at his disposal.
The red horse held a large sword in her grasp and she stole peace from the earth. She embodied war to the highest meaning of the word. The concept of war was a human creation for the most part, but she used it to her advantage, though she was neither a journalist or an arms transporter.
The white horse went through the earth like oil in the water, spreading slowly and devastatingly. On his head he wore a crown, tarnished with the blood of those who had died at his hands. He was in medicine, he was in weedkiller, in paint, in the coffee the office worker drank, in bottles of nail polish. He was in everything. Pestilence was his job and with the help of evil, it was rapidly becoming easier with every passing century.
The pale horse was Death and with him came Hell. Death had been operating since the time of the Fall. He was everywhere and everything. The job of the angel of death had always been the same. He wasn't actually a personification of death, more of an agent. Death was not a living being. It was a curse invoked. People called death perfectly normal, a natural cycle of life. It was anything but normal. The angel of death was constantly at work, every day and every hour. He never had any rest or hour of leisure, except when the Almighty told him to stay his hand.
The four Horsemen did not know when the End would arrive, but as an Antichrist spirit approaches maturity, the horsemen began to feel tribulation wouldn't be far off.
As the months had gone on, Newt had begun to really worry for Mr. Fell's health.
Newt had figured out where the kettle was early on and made many cups of tea and hot chocolate. Fell drank whatever Newt put in front of him. It made no difference. The man remained withdrawn, like a turtle hiding inside its shell.
As he worked through the bookshelves, Newt kept a close eye on Fell, who didn't do much more than sit in his chair, listen to the phonograph and stare at nothing. Every once in a while, he would emerge, take over an order from Newt or walk around the shop, rearranging as he went. He didn't set foot outside that Newt saw.
All this was done without the slightest trace of enthusiasm. Fell had lost something and Newt suspected he knew what it was.
When he wasn't keeping a watch on his employer, Newt was watching for signs of Caudery. Any time a tall figure with dark hair or sunglasses passed by, Newt was at the windows. He looked for a black suit and big black vintage car, all without success.
Caudery was nowhere to be seen.
Newt drove to Mayfair during his day off. The Bentley was parked outside the tenement building, looking very unnatural in between the painted lines of the parking space.
It was still there five months later, unmoved and unchanged.
And five months after that, the Bentley was still there with no change. Its owner was still missing in action. It was as though the man had vanished from the earth altogether.12
Newt wondered if his suspicions had any ground. Anathema had mentioned her ideas about Fell back when things were "normal." If Fell's sexual preferences did run towards those of the same gender, towards other men, it would explain a few things. Fell's extreme reaction at Caudery's disappearance for a start. If Caudery and Fell really were what is termed an item, well then…
Newt shook his head.
It fit the facts, but not the situation. True, they had spent a lot of time together. They had lunch or gone out for a drink. Caudery had begun to call Fell "Angel." But was any of that enough to pass judgment on? They could merely be good friends, Newt concluded. Angel could be Mr. Fell's given name. It could be.
So Newt made another pot of tea and went back to dealing with the books. That he could do without worrying too much.
Newt was in the nonfiction section one morning when the bookshop bell dinged softly. Newt scurried to end of the bookcase.
"Oh, Anathema, hello!" Newt broke into a big smile.
Anathema didn't return the smile. Her face was tight, her mouth a small line. Her eyes were shining behind her glasses, but it wasn't from happiness. Anathema didn't answer right away and Newt knew something was wrong.
Newt put down the books he was holding. "Anathema, what is it?"
Her hair, which was always neat, was sliding off to the side. Anathema was holding a small wooden box in her hands. She sniffed, her eyes darting to Newt's shoes.
"Newt," she said, "I'm moving."
Newt wasn't prepared for this. "Moving? As in with your family? What will happen to the record shop?"
Anathema shook her head. "The shop isn't going anywhere. Neither are my parents. They're staying, it's just me. I'm moving."
"Why?"
"I have to, Newt. I don't have a choice."
Newt felt worry rising in his throat. "But- why, what's wrong with where you live now?"
Anathema opened and closed her mouth, her hands tightening on the box she was holding. "I'm leaving London," she said. "Tomorrow."
"Leaving London?" Newt hoped he wasn't hearing correctly.
"Agnes said so," Anathema replied.
Not her again, Newt thought, shaking his head.
"Do you have to go? Are you absolutely sure?" Newt tried not to plead and was doing a poor job of it.
Anathema managed to give him a smile of sympathy. "Yes, I do. I'm so sorry."
"But, why?"
Anathema sighed. She had already explained. The choice wasn't up to her. It was prewritten.
"It's in the prophesies, Newt, the ones Agnes Nutter wrote. I can't simply ignore it or walk away. It's in my blood."
"Why you? Why not someone else, like your mother or sister, or, or-"
"I don't have a sister. And even if I did, it wouldn't make any difference. The prophecy mentions me by name. Here-" she opened the wooden box she was holding and extracted a card. "Read it for yourself."
Newt took the card. It was printed in Anathema's handwriting on a new white index card. The original cards were thin and brown. Newt adjusted his glasses and read.
"Prophecy 1328: In the days ere The End, to Tadfield thee shalt wend, Anathema, f'r thither the Beast resides and thither the ways shall part and liveth intertwine."
Newt didn't quite understand what the prophecy meant, except that Anathema really was leaving.
"Where is Tadfield?"
"Somewhere in the countryside. Not much of a town, one of the old English villages left over from the past. I've actually never been there before."
Newt worked on being calm. Anathema was moving away to some village out in the sticks he'd never heard of and he had a sinking feeling this might be the last time he would see her.
"Can I- would I be able to visit you sometime?" he asked hopefully.
Anathema shook her head, a few curly wisps of hair escaping her bun, making her look even prettier than ever in Newt's eyes.
"I don't think it would be advisable," she said, breaking Newt's hopes.
Newt held out the card.
"Keep the card," Anathema said. "I made that copy for you, oh, and these ones, too." She riffled through the box and took out a neat little bundle, tied with a blue ribbon.
Newt accepted the cards with a melancholy heart. He was a bit upset with Agnes Nutter and her bloody predictions, but he would treasure the cards because of the girl who had made them just for him. The girl he had been planning to ask if she would marry him. Newt looked at the ribbon, poking it with his finger.
"Can you at least tell me when you'll be back in town?" he asked Anathema.
"I don't think I will. The book doesn't mention, well, Agnes doesn't say. It only goes up to Saturday. Next Saturday."
"Oh." Newt didn't have anything left to say. "I guess it's goodbye then."
"Yes."
Was Anathema holding back tears? She was blinking her eyes rather quickly.
"Goodbye, Newt." She hugged him and gave him a sudden kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad I met you."
Then she turned and dashed out of the bookshop.
Newt stared after her, sniffling once or twice. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and tucked the cards safely in his pocket. Determination was rising in him.
He would find a way to see her again, even if it meant breaking a few rules.
Anathema didn't want to leave London. Ever since she was a small tot just learning how to read, she had read the book. Along side the Bible, Agnes Nutter's book had been the only other volume her parents had taught her to trust. She had grown up on the book; memorized it, lived it, and breathed it. Studied it and taken the prophecies to heart. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies was almost an extension of herself. Always Anathema had patterned her life after the book. Each entry that had mentioned her by name, she had studied in depth. Always she had done exactly what the book said, whether it was taking a course in christology at school or working in the record shop.13 She had never felt the need to question why Agnes had predicted these things or if they were worth doing. She just did them.
Now she was unsure. Her heart was no longer just devoted to Agnes' prophecies. There was someone else there as well. Newt and Anathema had become close, very close. Anathema had become to think of him as her boyfriend, and she had felt, that as time went on, he might have become something more.
Then Agnes had to go and and spoil it. Anathema had never felt anything like resentment towards her ancestor before, but now she did. And perhaps it was a bit more than resentment. Agnes was telling her to leave the city, to go off into the countryside somewhere and rent a cottage. In the middle of nowhere. Out of the blue. Agnes said the end of the world was about to happen. Anathema used the internet, she consulted the Bible, trying to find something to discredit Agnes' theories. She found nothing. Anathema was miffed with Agnes.
Why did the world have to end right now? Couldn't it wait? She had to admit her reasons were selfish. She liked the world the way it was. She wanted to spend more time with Newt, get to know more about his likes and dislikes, figure out how his mind worked. Find out why his socks never matched, and why his funny little car was named after an eighteenth century highwayman. All this she could have done if it wasn't for the bloody Nice and Accurate Prophecies.
Anathema would have liked to sit down with Agnes and have a lengthy discussion about how her book was interfering with Anathema's personal life, how it was preventing her from doing some things she wanted to do on her own. Anathema thought out exactly what she would say and how she would say it. However, she kept picturing Agnes sitting back in her chair with a bemused smile on her face. Anathema suspected that even the most carefully and well thought out argument would fall apart against a woman who had predicted her own death and the introduction of the electric light. Trying to put anything over her would probably be like trying to catch the wind in a jar. She'd probably just laugh and say something along the lines of "Ah, a gentle effort, lief wench, but fruitless."
Anathema threw clothes into her suitcase. She was too upset to bother folding them. If she did have to do this, she wasn't going to be happy with it. Agnes couldn't make her. She was dead after all. Anathema stuffed the box of note cards into a bag.
Those damn predictions!
She dropped a few books on the box of note cards and shook the bag vigorously for good measure.
"How do you like that, Agnes?" Anathema said out loud. "And how about this?"
She grabbed a pair of boots and added them to the bag.
"Anathema, who are you talking to?"
Anathema looked up. Her mother stood in the doorway. Anathema dropped the bag on her bed.
"No one, really."
"You were shouting, honey."
"Okay, I'm ranting at Agnes," Anathema admitted.
"At Agnes?" Mrs. Device came into the bedroom.
"At her prophecies." Anathema shook her head. All her hair had come loose from her bun. She grabbed a handful of bobby-pins off the side table and went over to a small mirror on the wall.
"And?" Mrs. Device asked.
Watching her in the mirror, Anathema saw her sit down on the edge of the bed. Anathema gathered up her hair and started stabbing pins into it.
"I don't want to do it," Anathema said, twisting curls into a tight bun. "I don't want to leave."
"You don't have to," Mrs. Device said.
Anathema jabbed a few more pins into her hair before turning around. "But if I don't, I'll always wonder. I will always be questioning what might have happened. What if stopping the end of the world depends on me? What if the key to everything is in the note cards? What if it's fate, Mum? I don't want to live the rest of my life knowing I could have done something great and I forfeited my chance."
Her mother nodded. "It's a tough decision, my dear."
Anathema sat down on a pile of socks and blouses next to her. "What should I do? I feel so indecisive and I've never felt this way before."
"I'm afraid it's all up yo you, Anathema. You should be the one who decides. Not me, not Dad or Agnes. She may have predicted this, yet it's your choice if you decide to go through with it or not. She can't make you. No one can. Only you can choose to act or stay."
She rubbed her daughter's shoulder in a circular motion. This used to comfort Anathema when she was little and stressed over an exam. Today it didn't help.
"Why did I ever meet him?" Anathema cried. "Why did Mr. Fell ever hire him? I wish I had never met Newt!"
She dropped her face into her hands. Half of her hair came undone and the pins fell to the floor.
"So that's it," Mrs. Device said softly.
"Yes," Anathema moaned.
"You love him, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, Mum."
Mrs. Device put her arms around her and drew her close. "Maybe you will see him again," she said.
"But Agnes doesn't say so!"
"No, but Agnes doesn't know everything. She was just a prophetess, honey, not God. No one can really know the future in entirety. Not even the angels know exactly when the end of the world is. Only God. So we can prepare and we can do what we can, but we still have to wait and see."
"That's lousy," Anathema said, wiping off her glasses.
"I know, Anathema."
Notes:
-All scripture comes from the NKJV and the NIV translations.
-Credit for Between You and Me belongs to DC Talk, Rodney Jerkins, Fred Jerkins Iii, and Lashawn Ameen Daniels.
watch?v=HIHWB7PsI4c
1 Which is usually the case.
2 Telepathy was the first. Caudery's mind wasn't even 'in the system.' Hastur couldn't find him anywhere on earth, or Above or Below. He appeared to have vanished.
3 And since he didn't know where Caudery was, Newt couldn't really report, as Shadwell was the one who delivered the reports, and he couldn't deliver the report if he couldn't find the recipient, Newt reasoned. He was more than happy to not be writing reports, even though it technically was his job.
4 All of this dress and makeup looked a little odd on a lady who was, truth be told, not thirty-five anymore.
5 Why Newt would have thought it would change is unknown. Shadwell was always the same and didn't see why his flat should be any different. The same dust that had been there in August was still there in November.
6 It should be mentioned that Newt was terrible at lying. Even Shadwell saw right through this one.
7 Since Caudery's departure, whenever Fell or anyone else had put a record on the phonograph, it wouldn't play what the record said it was. The music that came out wasn't anything Fell would normally listen to. The Mozart wasn't Mozart any longer, neither was the Brahms. Newt wasn't sure what all of the new songs were, but once he was positive he heard something by Queen.
8 And even though he loved the manor, Adam did long for parents. He prayed each night for them, even if they never came. He did still hope, as only an optimistic boy could. His prayer was heard.
9 Or perhaps it was a connection to Caudery, influenced by the demon's connection with the Bentley. The Bentley had frequently played music based on what its owner was feeling. Or perhaps it was all in Fell's head and he was losing his marbles.
10 Also known as Pollution since, according to Fell, Pestilence had retired to take up beekeeping in the country. "It was the invention of penicillin that really got the poor chap," Fell told a scoffing Caudery.
11 Who were given power over a fourth of earth and permission from the Almighty to ride until the End came.
12 Newt even took out a measuring tape and measured the distance from the front tyres to the line and the same with the back tyres. The measurements were the same each time. Dirt had also splashed up from the rains, something the Bentley had never had on it. The car had never been dirty before. Caudery hadn't driven it in over twenty months.
13 Prophecies 13 and 102: "To learneth mor of God is whither wisdom starts."
"The sounds of music can healith the soul and soothith the heart. A shop by the Devices shall provide much to the populous of London town, bringing joy with Beatles, Houses of Light, those who is't Seek and singers of Queen."
