Thursday, July 17, 2008
Eventually we reached the outskirts of London, though no news had come from that dread city in months. In less than a year – had it been so short a time? – many of the roads had become impassable as God’s green helpers challenged the demon’s superiority. We had come upon a section of the M4 near Cardiff that was a carpet of yellow dandelions, untouched by wheels since last September.
At Laverstone we spied a house still standing – a rallying point for the demonkin, no doubt, and we watched them going about their daily business. They seemed to be farming a hundred acres or so, using imps and gremlins for labour and had constructed a water wheel against the nearby river and a windmill, of the traditional kind, in the pasture to the west. Only one of the occupants seemed to be a demon so if we had to fight we had an even chance.
We waited at the gates for a while, debating the merits of begging for help or slinking away. Gabriel wanted to fight, but I didn’t want to hurl ourselves into one course of action so early. I rang the bell and presently a demonkin arrived. He was more human then not, but still held the stench of the pit about him.
“What ho, chaps,” he said through the iron bars. “we don’t get many angels knocking. Are you seeking sanctuary?”