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It is an unremarkable and overcast day in Tadfield. The Them sit in a circle. They have made some of the leaps of logic that only children and young teenagers can manage and are talking about rain.
“It always rains the twenty-fifth of July,” Adam declares from his scavenged throne. “It’s like Christmas, but half a year away. When it’s Christmas, it snows. Between every two Christmases, the same thing happens. But in July, it’s summer, so it can’t snow.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Pepper says. “Why would it rain just because it’s the day in between Christmases?”
“There’s not the same weather on the same dates,” Wensleydale says. “Statistically, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Brian adds, “for example, on my ninth birthday, it rained all morning. On my tenth birthday, it rained in the afternoon. On my eleventh birthday, it didn’t rain at all.”
“I don’t care if it’s the same weather on just any random date. It just has to rain tomorrow. The weather forecast woman has to be wrong.”
A moment of silence reigns the Pit as the Them search for a solution to Adam’s conundrum.
“What if tonight on TV they say that she was wrong, and that it is going to rain?” Brian suggests.
“Yeah, but then if she still says it’s going to be sunny all day, it’ll be too late to do anything about it,” Pepper says.
“Anathema has measurement devices for all sorts of things,” Adam says, “Maybe she can use those to find out what the weather is going to be.”
Dog yaps. It is a sort of Pavlovian reaction to the decisive tone in Adam’s voice. A leftover demonic instinct urging the former Hellhound to voice agreement to its master’s command. He keeps yapping to emphasize this point all the way from the Pit to Jasmine cottage.
Anathema listened to their story, nodding patiently at the appropriate times. She then proceeded to check two apps and three websites on her Ipad. She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, kids, the internet agrees on this one. No rain tomorrow. You’re out of luck.”
The Them stare at her in mute astonishment.
“But what about your book? With the predictions in it?” Adam asks.
Anathema smiles. “I doubt Agnes concerned herself with tomorrow’s weather.”
“We shouldn’t believe what we read on the internet. That’s what you said last time we were here,” Brian says.
During their last visit, Wensleydale had come across a Facebook group professing that yoga is a socially acceptable way of worshipping Satan. Anathema had asked why that would be a problem, if it were true. Adam had mentioned that Satan had planned to end the world and everything on it just a few minutes’ bike ride away. Anathema hadn't been able to come up with anything else
“I did say that, yes,” Anathema says.
“That means the forecast could be wrong. There must be something you can do to change it,” Pepper says. Her eyes glint with determination.
“Not really—” Anathema starts. Four faces confront her with growing dejection. “But if we work together, maybe you can.”
Four faces turn hopeful. “How do we help?” Adam offers.
“Erm.” Anathema tries to think of something vaguely believable. “Do a rain dance? I’m not sure about the specifics, but—” She tilts her head, “Four children, five candles, six broomsticks. Yes, that should do it, I think.”
“I can get the candles,” Pepper says immediately, “My mom has so many, she won’t miss five.”
“If we all take one broom with us, that should do it,” Adams says.
“No it doesn’t,” Wensley interjects, “We need six, and there’s only four of us and one of Anathema. That’s not enough.”
“Well, you’re a witch, right?” Adam asks Anathema.
She doesn’t deny it.
“Surely you don’t use the same broom for cleaning and flying, so you can bring two,” Adam says.
Anathema blinks. The idea of doing a rain dance only gets a little more ridiculous with four brooms, a Roomba and an airplane. She did just make it up.
“Right,” she says, “Yes. Meet me here tomorrow at eleven.”
As soon as the Them have cleared out, she grabs her phone. There is an urgent phone call she needs to make.
Crowley lounges on his throne, not thinking about Aziraphale. Absolutely not. He’s inventing new ways of sprinkling some frustration into as many human lives as possible. His ideas are impressive in both scale and intricacy; he has six-thousand years of practise. His wile-muscles can’t be allowed to atrophy. (Maybe it is a sunk-cost fallacy. One of his, of course.) He is currently figuring out how to subject his victims to the excruciating experience of being ignored in favour of an inanimate object.
Last time Crowley visited the bookshop, Aziraphale was preoccupied. The culprit was some book, large and brown and dusty and indistinguishable from all the others just like it. At some point during the 70’s, Aziraphale had arranged that part of the shelves according to size and colour, which left him searching for hay in a haystack. Yet Aziraphale insisted that this one was uniquely important. Crowley can see him in his mind’s eye, crouched down at the third-left shelf from the window. When Crowley brought up lunch, Aziraphale made vague noises about doing it sometime soon, perhaps. No restaurant suggestions forthcoming, Crowley counted it a loss.
That had been two days ago. Maybe Aziraphale had long since found, read, and discarded the tome. Or he is reading it right now, forgotten winged cup of tea or cocoa at his elbow. Could be he’s still searching, lost in his labyrinthine bookcase walls.
Crowley considers the sin-virtue balance of envy for a dusty book. He should have stayed, made himself a nuisance. He’d glare at Aziraphale’s drink until it agreed to never grow cold. And later, when the turning of the pages and the angel’s voiceless, thoughtless muttering outpace Crowley’s patience, he would pull out the wine and they would enjoy it together.
Surely Crowley would be welcomed back in if he made a convincing enough case. He tries to recall the grammatical delicacies of the language of flowers. Aziraphale owns a book on it, must have, a Victorian-age illustrated first edition. Crowley has plans to gift his angel a bouquet of mutually contradictory messages, to see which of his smiles it would draw out.
Crowley paints all the options on the inside of his mind. There are more than any mortal can count, but the same is said of stars. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Crowley is interrupted before the end. But the beginning notes of bohemian rhapsody drag him abruptly back into the real world. (He’d left his phone in the Bentley once and never again. Yet, the damage has been done.)
Fumbling, the phone slips through his fingers and lands on the floor. Cursing large phones, small pockets, and trousers in general, Crowley picks it up and accepts the call.
“Angel,” he says, “Did you find your journal on the development of the third branch of whatsits?”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Anathema’s voice says, remarkably different from Aziraphale’s.
Crowley is, as predicted, disappointed. “Book girl! What’s up, did your distant grandma predicts the end of the world, but for real this time?”
“No, the world is fine. That’s why I’m calling,” Anathema says.
“Well, explain it to me.”
“Did you now that all the weather forecasts agree about tomorrow? The sun’s going to be out all day. Every app, every website, even the newspapers match.”
Had Crowley been a different sort of person, or maybe a different sort of demon, he would have blinked. “That’s a bit strange, yeah. What’s it to me?”
“Well,” Anathema says mischievously, “Imagine the chaos if every single one of them was wrong.”
Crowley needs a moment to process this. “You want me and my supernatural abilities. To bend reality for a little rain.”
“It seems like a thing that would be right up your alley,” Anathema defends.
There is no good response Crowley can give. “What’s in it for you?” he asks instead.
“Meet me in Tadfield tomorrow at ten thirty, and you might just find out.”
Crowley finds himself snarling his questions into the void of an ended call. Whose idea was that beeping noise, anyway? If he ever finds them, they will pay.
Crowley resents that he remembers how to drive to Tadfield. He resents the sunlight seeping into and through the Bentley’s black paint. He especially resents how long it takes to get past the M25. At least it’s not on fire.
The experience couldn’t be more different from when he drove the same route the previous summer. Birds fill the skies instead of fish. A few frustrated vehicles emit angry honking rather than the entire traffic jam. Now that he is not a driving inferno, Crowley can enjoy the view. Tadfield is very nice. The only constant is the empty seat to his left.
When he arrives, the horse-shoe smokes a little. Crowley has no more evil in him than the average human, but it needs to keep up appearances.
Inside, Crowley is made to sit, drink tea, and stay quiet while Anathema explains to him exactly why he’s here. She appears to be holding a broom in her lap. Crowley believes it safer not to ask. He sits, more or less, and the amount of tea in his cup decreases. Not being allowed to interrupt is where Crowley draws the line.
“You’re really telling me that I’m here because an eleven-year-old wants rain today?” he says.
“Well, yes,” Anathema says, “But this is not just some random child. It’s Adam. I’m sure you can make some guesses on what could happen if reality doesn’t agree with him.”
Crowley wonders how much she remembers from that day at the airstrip. Other questions emerge to press more heavily on his mind. “But why does he need rain? There’s plenty of it to go around.”
“I was just about to tell you that. If you would let me explain?” Anathema raises an eyebrow.
“Fine, go on then,” Crowley says.
She does. Crowley, reluctantly, shuts up. It does not make the story any more reasonable.
“This is ridiculous,” he says, “utterly ridiculous.”
“Will you do it?” Anathema asks.
Crowley glares at her. “Fine,” he says, “but never call me all mysteriously about something this stupid ever again.”
Anathema smiles. “I don’t believe that even Adam could come up with a second thing like this.”
Crowley grumbles incoherently. The clattering of bikes sounds from outside. Anathema opens the door to reveal four excitable children, clustered together.
“We brought the brooms and the candles, what do we do with them?” Brian asks. He holds up the broom he is holding to prove that it is, indeed, a broom.
“We need to find a forest clearing. I’m sure you have some ideas.” Anathema says.
The kids immediately start shouting different things at the same time. After a few moments of this, they seem to have somehow agreed on where to go.
“I thought you would bring two brooms,” Wensley says.
Anathema looks at the one broom she’s holding. “He brought the sixth,” she says, pointing at Crowley.
Crowley, to his surprise, notices that there is a broom leaned against the couch next to him. He raises an eyebrow high enough to be visible above the rim of his glasses. “I did,” he says.
“You didn’t say there was going to be more people,” Pepper accuses. “Is the man with the sword here too?”
“No,” Crowley says, “Just me. I hear you’re going to start dancing and keep going until it rains. That, I’ve got to see.” He heads over to the rest. “Lead the way.”
They snake through the woods, each of them holding a broom, Pepper carrying a box as well. They stop at a place that, to Crowley, looks identical to about every other spot in the woods they walked past. They end up standing in a stupid circle around a pile of brooms.
“Do the candles need to be round or white or anything? I didn’t know so I brought a bunch,” Pepper says.
“Yeah, we have so many different ones. Square candles, round, and some of those ball-shaped ones. There’s also a pink one shaped like a heart. Apart from that one there are white candles, green, yellow, and five different types of brown,” Brian lists.
“Yes, perfect, any will do,” Anathema says. “Put them down in a circle with the brooms pointing out. The last one goes in the middle.”
“I do wonder, what are the candles for? It makes no sense, using fire to create rain,” Wensley asks, troubled.
“Why candles?” Crowley gives him an astonished look. “To know when the ritual is working, of course.”
“How does that work?”
“If you do it right, the candles will snuff themselves out.”
“Yes, obviously.” Pepper rolls her eyes. “If rain falls on candles, of course they’ll go out.”
Crowley grins widely. “Exactly.”
The kids quickly assemble the circle. The sixth broom ends up in a hastily dug hole, handle pointing up. Crowley glances up. The skies are cloudlessly blue, the sunny still shining away. It’s going to take one hell of a miracle to change that. These kids better make it worth his while.
“What dance do we do?” Adam asks. The Them then proceed to give increasingly outrageous suggestions.
“Any dance!” Anathema interrupts. “Just make sure to walk in circles, that’s the important part.”
How many children can dance in a circle in a forest clearing? At least four, if you don’t mind them bumping into each other all the time. What is the maximum frequency of bumps allowed before a dance is no longer a dance? How many times can it devolve into a fight? In Crowley’s opinion, a bit of brawling only improves the entertainment. He snaps his fingers.
The water vapour in the air finds itself more numerous than expected. Previously non-existent winds stir the air into white, fluffy clouds centred on the air above Tadfield. Another gust of wind, this one unnaturally chilly, creates droplets from the humid air. Gravity reasserts itself. Rain falls. Crowley makes sure to aim five of the fattest drops at the candles.
The kids cheer in that way you cheer when you are exhausted but happy with your results. Anathema puts up the umbrella she had the foresight to bring. “Thanks,” she tells Crowley.
“Ngk,” he says. He walks away, hoping to exit the local rain before it ruins his hair. He fails. The Bentley underscores the drive back by playing the few rain-related Queen songs on repeat. When Crowley finally gets out of his car in London, he is glad to find it dry
Late that afternoon, Crowley’s phone rings again. He checks the caller ID; It’s Aziraphale.
“Hello?” Crowley grins.
“It’s me,” Aziraphale says primly. “How do you do?”
“Great. You? Still looking for that book?”
“I did manage to find it, I was just leafing through. The author was a great philosopher, but the same can’t be said about his writing ability. It’s awfully tedious to read,” Aziraphale complains.
Crowley decides to consider it an invitation. “Well, angel, have you considered taking a break?”
“A break?”
“Yeah. You can refresh your mind, get your eyes of the page. It’s just about time for dinner, I’ll pick you up,” Crowley says, using his most tempting voice.
“Will you?” Aziraphale makes a little humming sound. “I could do with some sushi.”
“Yes, ‘course. Be there in ten.”
“See you soon, dear.”
“Hmm, yeah. Bye, angel.”
“Goodbye.”
Crowley hangs up first. No talking to beeping noises this time.