The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 39: Corn!

Chapter 39: Corn!

"So, you don't remember the dream?" Aziraphale handed the demon a steaming cup of coffee, which the demon regarded dully.

                "No tea?" The angel shrugged.

                "It's still morning here, dear boy." Part of their world tour, for that is what it had become, had taken them to Columbia, where the angel picked up the strongest beans he could find, and today they opened up the bookshop doors to a truck stop near White Hall, Indiana.  And though they sat at a table in the dining area, it was Aziraphale's brew that materialized in their mugs every time the waitress came by. But by the looks of the clientele, the coffee here was probably just as potent. It needed to be. "Anyway, the dream?"

                Crowley took a sip, and grimaced, then drank more. He looked around the room and said, "Not one bit of it. Slept like a ba—a log." The angel patted his hand.

                "Still thinking about Jinny, aren't you?"

                "I'm just learning to live with it, angel," Crowley smiled, taking a third sip. "Ya know, this stuff tastes like tar, but it grows on you."

                "They don't steep it properly here. And I'm trying to cut down a tad on the miracles."

                "Why?"

                "Just in case, Crowley. Don't want to throw out a beacon." He looked about him, and at all the tired truckers, then out at the semi-trucks parked nearby with their hauls. "I say, they do like their corn here."

                Crowley snarled. "They grow half a dozen versions of it, and harvest it all in different ways."

                "How do you know that?"

                The demon's eye brows raised. "Because farmers come in here too, and it's all they talk about."

                "Everyone has to make a living, Crowley."

                The demon swilled the last bit of brew and banged the cup on the table for more. "Doesn't mean I have to hear about their love affair with it."

                "Ouch."

                "I'm not being literal!"

The witch stomped her foot, and declared to the air," For the last time, No!"

                She hated raising her voice, especially when Adam remained calm in this standoff. "Why not?"

                "We've gone over this, it's going to be a private thing, a very grownup thing, it might even be dangerous. I don't want to have you kids around when we perform the...whatever."

                "Don't call it a grownup thing," Adam grumbled, his nose wrinkling up. "Give it a proper name or I can't take you seriously."

                Anathema's mouth opened to counterpoint, but stopped. She pulled her hair back behind her ears, and took a seat at the table. Folding her hands together, she said, "No, you're right. But Adam, sweety, I don't know what to call it."

                "Is it like an operation?"

                The witch blinked, and leaned back, considering. "Kind of. Yes, that's a good description."

                "But with magic and bubbling things, and books and powders, maybe a dead frog."

                "No dead frogs, but yes, let's call it a witch operation."

                "Well, that's alright then," Adam approved. "My dad had an operation on his appendix, and he said it was very uncomfortable. They made him wear a gown that was open in the back. He didn't like that at all—"

                "Adam! I get it." She drew her hands up, then quickly brought the conversation back on the rails. "Newt and Mr. Shadwell will be guarding the house from outside. So, technically they won't be here either."

                Anathema stopped abruptly as a whirlwind of red and green sped through the kitchen, giving Dog a target to chase after before he plopped down and scratched his ear. After racing past her, it came back to Adam, dark eyes full of mischief. "Check it out, Adam," Pepper exclaimed, "I'm a witchfinder now!" She rose her arms and displayed Newt's old coat. "E'mean, not really. But this is better than my rain poncho."

                Adam wrinkled his face. "It smells funny."

                "It's eldritch."

                "Trust me," Anathema promised," It's not eldritch. Have your mother wash that thing the minute you get home." Then she turned to Adam and said," There are ways you can help beforehand, help us with an extra ward or two for the house."

                "Anything that can help, and thanks." Pepper was grabbing his arm, causing Dog to jump all over the place, yapping.

                "Come on, Adam! I want to go and show Brian and Wensleydale. They'll be so jealous!"

                After the children left, the young witch remained in the kitchen, rapping her fingers on the table. Newt arrived soon after, laden down with packing tape and twine. Plopping his burden down on the table, he huffed," I'll be glad with this move is over." He straightened and looked at her, whining," I'm having to do all of this for free!"

                Then he saw the set of her brow, and he sat down next to her. "Is it time to call them in?"

                "I'm afraid so," the witch admitted. She sounded very reluctant.

                "You have reservations? Are you afraid it might not work?"

                She tossed her hair back and forth," Oh, it will work. It's just such a-----," she brought her hands out and he squeezed them. "They're putting their safety in my hands, Newt. They're going to be in a very exposed position."

                "It has to be done. When things have to be done, you usually just plow through. But is this like that day in the field when we burned the second prophecies?"

                "They're my friends. This is going to be so...obtrusive," she shook herself. "Well, never mind. Look, did you really give Pepper that jacket?"

                Newt gave an embarrassing shrug. "Not really. She sorta swiped it, and frankly, the girl scares me a little bit."

                "She'll make a proper witch one day, I'm thinking. But look, I notice you had Shadwell's sergeant's bars on there. How did they get there?"

                Newt straightened and gave her a funny look.

                "You know her mother loves the Beatles."

                "Is that a fact?"

                "You'll go all out for a bad pun, won't you?"

                "Well," he apologized, the look not coming off his face, "It does practically write itself."