Good Omens

took over and he said, "Message for you, sir."
    FOR ME?
    "Yes, sir." He wished he still had a throat. He could have swallowed, if he still had a throat. "No package, I'm afraid, Mister ... uh, sir. It's a message."
    DELIVER IT, THEN.
    "It's this, sir. Ahem. Come and See."
    FINALLY. There was a grin on its face, but then, given the face, there couldn't have been anything else.
    THANK YOU, it continued. I MUST COMMEND YOUR DEVOTION TO DUTY.
    "Sir?" The late delivery man was falling through a gray mist, and all he could see were two spots of blue, that might have been eyes, and might been distant stars.
    DON'T THINK OF IT AS DYING, said Death, JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH.
    The delivery man had a brief moment to wonder whether his new companion was making a joke, and to decide that he wasn't; and then there was nothing.
    * * *

        Red sky in the morning. It was going to rain.
    Yes.
    * * *

        Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell stood back with his head on one side. "Right, then," he said. "Ye're all ready. Hae ye' got it all?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Pendulum o' discovery?"
    "Pendulum of discovery, yes." "Thumbscrew?"
    Newt swallowed, and patted a pocket. "Thumbscrew," he said.
    "Firelighters?"
    "I really think, Sergeant, that.. "
    "Firelighters?"
    "Firelighters," said Newt sadly. "And matches."
    [Note for Americans and other city.. dwelling life.. forms: the rural British, having eschewed central heating as being far too complicated and in any case weakening moral fiber, prefer a system of piling small pieces of wood and lumps of coal, topped by large, wet logs, possibly made of asbestos, into small, smoldering heaps, known as "There's nothing like a roaring open fire is there?" Since none of these ingredients are naturally inclined to burn, underneath all this they apply a small, rectangular, waxy white lump, which burns cheerfully until the weight of the fire puts it out. These little white blocks are called firelighters. No one knows why.]
    "Bell, book, and candle?"
    Newt patted another pocket. It contained a paper bag inside which was a small bell, of the sort that maddens budgerigars, a pink candle of the birthday cake persuasion, and a tiny book called Prayers for Little Hands. Shadwell had impressed upon him that, although witches were the primary target, a good Witchfinder should never pass up the chance to do a quick exorcism, and should have his field kit with him at all times.
    "Bell, book, and candle," said Newt.
    "Pin?"
    "Pin."
    "Good lad. Never forget yer pin. It's the bayonet in yer artillery o' light."
    Shadwell stood back. Newt noticed with amazement that the old man's eyes had misted over.
    "I wish I was goin' with ye," he said. "O' course, this won't be anything, but it'd be good to get out and about again. It's a tryin' life, ye ken, all this lyin' in the wet bracken spying on their devilish dancin'. It gets into yer bones somethin' cruel."
    He straightened up, and saluted.
    "Off ye go, then, Private Pulsifer. May the armies o' glorification march wi' ye."
    After Newt had driven off Shadwell thought of something, something that he'd never had the chance to do before. What he needed now was a pin. Not a military issue pin, witches, for the use of. Just an ordinary pin, such as you might stick in a map.
    The map was on the wall. It was old. It didn't show Milton Keynes. It didn't show Harlow. It barely showed Manchester and Birmingham. It had been the army's HQ map for three hundred years. There were a few pins in it still, mainly in Yorkshire and Lancashire and a few in Essex, but they were almost rusted through. Elsewhere, mere brown stubs indicated the distant mission of along.. ago witchfinder.
    Shadwell finally found a pin among the debris in an ashtray. He breathed on it, polished it to a shine, squinted at the map until he located Tadfield, and triumphantly rammed the pin home.
    It gleamed.
    Shadwell took a step backward, and saluted again. There were tears in his eyes.
    Then he did a smart about turn and saluted the display cabinet. It was old and battered and the glass was broken but in a way it was the WA. It contained the Regimental silver (the Interbattalion Golf Trophy, not competed for, alas, in seventy years); it contained the patent muzzle.. loading Thundergun of Witchfinder.. Colonel Ye..