The Paradise War by Stephen R. Lawhead Read Free Book Online

when they came,” the farmer said, crouching down beside him and waving the stick over the nonexistent body. “There, you can see how it fell. Ah reckon it rolled onto its side. The heid was there.” He tapped the ground with the stick. “They took pictures and all. Said there’d be some other chappies along to set it down in writing.”
    “That’s right,” Simon confirmed, implying we were the very chappies. “We got here as soon as we could.”
    “You don’t have a manure heap around here, do you?” I asked.
    “Dung?” the farmer asked quizzically. “Is it ma dung heap you’re after seeing now?”
    Simon rolled his eyes at me. To the farmer he said, “Where did the university chaps take the carcass?”
    “To the lab,” the farmer said. “That’s where they take them—to the lab. Tests and all. The things they do.” He shook his head. Clearly, it was all beyond him. “Is it breakfast you’ll be wanting?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “No,” said Simon; he shot me a threatening look. “That’s far too much trouble. If you don’t mind, we’d just like to ask a few more questions and we’ll be on our way. Now then, when did you first notice the beast was in your field?”
    The farmer glanced at the sky. The sun had risen above the hills, burning off the mist. “Och, it would be no trouble,” he said.
    “Thanks just the same,” Simon said, with one of his warm and winning smiles. “Still, it’s awfully kind of you to offer.”
    “Will you no have a wee cup of coffee, then?” The farmer shoved his hands into his pockets.
    Simon rose slowly. “Only if it’s no trouble. We wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time,” he said. “I know what an intrusion all this can be.”
    The farmer smiled. “My Morag will have the coffee already in the cups. Just you come wi’ me.” He thrust out his hand. “Ma name’s Grant—Robert Grant.”
    “I am Simon Rawnson,” Simon said, shaking hands with the farmer. “And this is my colleague, Lewis Gillies.”
    I shook hands with the farmer and, having observed the ritual greeting, we fell into step behind our host. As we started toward the house, Simon grabbed me by the arm. “You can’t come on to these people like that,” he whispered tersely.
    “Like what? He offered. I’m hungry.”
    Simon frowned. “Of course he offered—what’d you expect? But you have to let them coax you.”
    “Whatever you say, Kemo Sabe. This is your show.”
    “Don’t screw up again,” Simon hissed. “I’m warning you.”
    “Awright already! Geesh!”
    We followed the farmer into the house and waited while he shed his coat. His wife, Morag, met us in the kitchen, where, as the farmer had predicted, she was pouring out the coffee as we trooped in. “These laddies are up from Oxford,” the farmer told her. Something about the way he said it made it sound like we’d hopped all the way on one foot.
    “Oxford, is it?” his wife said, visibly impressed. “Then you’d best sit down. The porridge is hot. How do you like your eggs?”
    My lips formed the word “fried,” but Simon beat me to it. “Please,” he said sweetly, “coffee is enough for us. Thanks just the same.”
    The farmer pulled two more chairs to the table. “Sit ye down,” he said. We sat.
    “But ye canna keep body and soul taegither wi’ just coffee,” the farmer’s wife said. “I’ll no have it said you went from my table hungry.” She placed her hands firmly on her hips. “I hope ye dinna mind eating in the kitchen.”
    “You’re very kind,” Simon told her. “The kitchen is splendid.” He blessed her with his best beatific smile. I’d seen him use the same simpering smirk to remarkable effect on librarians and waitresses. Some people found it irresistible.
    In moments we were all tucking in to steaming bowls of thick, gooey porridge. Eggs, toast with homemade gooseberry jam, thick-cut country bacon, farmhouse cheese, and oatcakes came next. Morag presided over the