The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘We’ve come a long way in the last fifty years,’ Shiva replied, echoing Commissioner Williams.

  ‘But no one knows when the temperature will stop rising. There are nuclear power stations under the sea. Populations rising, still not enough soil.’ Rodriguez smiled sadly. ‘Forgive me, I am a Spaniard, we have a fatalist streak. But, yes, things have been getting better, and I pray that may continue.’ He looked at Shiva. ‘Do not worry, Shiva, I am not a follower of the Shining Light, merely a rather puzzled Catholic. And we have eschewed politics since Rome was abandoned.’

  Shiva spent Sunday working in the embassy, answering letters for the cultural secretary, part of his cover job. There was a tiny air travel quota for cultural exchanges, and he had to field competing requests for Shakespearean actors, academics and musicians to be sent out. The Tasmans still revelled in their British heritage, more than ever in this age obsessed with history. He left at six so he could get back to his house in daylight. He walked carefully, alert for anyone following, but there was no one.

  As he turned into a street near his, he heard voices from a long, low, earth-built building on the corner. A large sign, black letters on white, was fixed above the door: CHURCH OF THE SHINING LIGHT. A boy of around eighteen, neat in shirt and trousers, stood in the doorway. He smiled and nodded at Shiva. On an impulse, Shiva turned and went in.

  The interior was a sparsely decorated hall. There were posters around the walls: stylized pictures of Jesus, a halo around His head, performing miracles. One poster showed a dark, tattered-looking book. Underneath, in large letters, THE BLACK BOOK, THE LOST PROPHECIES.

  The hall was crowded, neatly dressed men and women of all ages sitting in rows of canvas chairs. Hairstyles were neat, unadorned. Nearly everyone wore crosses. They spoke in soft voices, glancing at a large empty platform where three chairs were set.

  The boy who had been at the door had followed Shiva in. He was tall and thin, his face speckled with acne. Shiva quickly looked around, wondering if Parvati might be there, but could not see her. He thought, This is reckless; I shouldn’t have come in here.

  ‘Is this your first time, sir?’ The boy’s Kiwi accent turned this into thus. ‘Why don’t you take that seat?’ He indicated two empty chairs at the end of a row. ‘I’m Michael, by the way.’

  ‘Peter.’ The false name came to him instantly. He hesitated, then took the last seat in the row. Michael sat next to him. He realized that these arrangements had been planned; the boy had been placed at the door to encourage newcomers. On the floor at Shiva’s feet was a Bible. He picked it up. After Revelation, at the end, the Black Book was printed:

  Five hundred thirty years, then God returns to save

  His chosen, once the sinful have been purged . . .

  All along the rows, the hubbub of conversation died. A door to the platform opened and three men stepped in. Shiva wondered if one might be the Leader, but there was nothing of the Old Testament prophet about any of the men, who took seats facing the audience. All were middle aged, well dressed in dark cotton suits, happy smiles above white clerical collars.

  One of them got up to speak. He said how happy he was to see so many worshippers tonight, here in God’s house. The sermon that followed, about the works of Jesus and His Passion, could have come from any evangelist church at any time. Occasionally, someone in the audience shouted out ‘Yes!’ or ‘Amen!’ Shiva found his mind wandering. He was aware of Michael looking at him occasionally, but he avoided meeting the boy’s eye. The pastor sat down and they sang some hymns, Shiva forcing himself to join in. After the singing had finished, Michael leaned towards Shiva and said: ‘Pastor Henry is going to preach now. He has great truth.’ There was a catch of excitement in the boy’s voice.

  A second pastor, a short, stocky man, got up to speak. His voice was loud and ringing.

  ‘St John of Patmos told us in Revelation that in the last days there would be great calamities. Earthquakes, plagues, great battles. And it did happen, just as the angels promised St John. The Great Catastrophe. The vials of God’s wrath have been poured out in full measure.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ someone called out.

  ‘Yet is it not true that those left after the Catastrophe, in these islands and far away in the northern lands, remain as sinful as ever men were, breaking the laws God set down in the Bible, to his just anger? It is true, but God has set out their punishment, their final End. He has given us the prophecies of Brân, the Black Book that in fact contains the Shining Light of truth. The book that has proved its truth by prophesying many events that came to pass in history, and at its end we find the promise of the final catastrophe, bringing the End of the World and the Last Judgment; when the last sinners go to hell and the righteous are raptured up to heaven, to worship Jesus for ever and ever. And we have the date: 2135, this year.’ The pastor’s voice had grown gradually softer, more intense; now it rose again as he approached the climax.

  ‘We are the righteous. Our duty in these last days is to bring to truth those who will listen, but above all it is to know that we are the Saved, alone in this wasteland of sinners.’ His voice was shaking with emotion now. Triumphant joy, but also, Shiva thought, a callous fury at the disobedient world around him. ‘Any time now the world will end in the blink of an eye – and then we shall be in heaven!’ He ended with a shout, followed by a chorus of hallelujahs and amens.

  Shiva had to resist the urge to get up and walk out, but that would have made him conspicuous. He sat through more hymns, a reading from the Black Book with explanations of how its previous forecasts had come to pass, of wars and plagues and rebellions. At the end Pastor Henry asked for people who wished to learn more about the Church to come forward. Two did, an old woman and a young man, and the pastor blessed them and said the Church would consider them for membership, for a place in heaven. Then there was a final hymn, and the service ended. Shiva walked quickly out of the hall. He caught a glimpse of Michael’s disappointed face.

  The following evening he went to meet Parvati. He wore his suit – a white linen jacket and trousers – and a high-collared black shirt. It was raining, a heavy tepid rain that drummed on the solar panels on the town’s roofs. The restaurant was in a side street near the Octagon, down a little alley. Darkness had fallen, and Shiva looked around carefully. Still he had seen no sign that he was followed.

  The restaurant was long and narrow, lit by candles, with a seagoing theme: nets hanging from the ceiling, fish in ancient glass cases. He was early; Parvati wasn’t there yet. The clientele was well dressed, mostly young, wearing shirts and kaftans with elaborate designs, hair piled up in loops or hanging down in plaited braids. No one here wore a cross. The manager, a coldly formal man in a dark suit, led him to a table for two. Shiva thought he looked at him dubiously and wondered if it was because of his colour. At the next table, two men with elaborately styled hair were eating, whispering softly to each other and laughing. One was short and dark, the other older, blond, his coiffed hair covering a bald patch that shone pinkly through.

  Parvati arrived shortly after, wearing a plain white dress, her dark hair hanging loose and her cross conspicuous at her breast. The younger of the men at the next table glanced at it, frowning at her slightly as she sat down.

  ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ she said to Shiva.

  ‘No. I was early.’

  ‘I haven’t been here before, but it’s supposed to be very good. I thought you might like it.’

  ‘Shall we order some wine? No, I’m sorry, you don’t drink. Shall we have water?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for remembering.’ She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at him. She seemed more confident tonight, more settled. ‘Tell me about Europe,’ she said.

  He told her about the big cities like Birmingham that had survived, how every speck of land was cultivated, the hard work and long hours people put in to grow food, the attempts to green the Norwegian mountains and the bare rocks of Iceland.

  �
�Are there many people from India?’

  ‘A few. There was a lot of violence against minorities during the wars of the last century, but things are better now. My parents followed Hindu ways, but it was just a matter of keeping the old culture alive, rather than from belief.’

  ‘Mine didn’t believe at all.’ Her face clouded. ‘I don’t see them now.’

  ‘Mine are dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We’d grown apart too.’ That was true – all he had said so far was true – but he went on to relate his cover story: how he had joined the civil service from school, worked in administrative posts for years, then joined the diplomatic service in the hope of travelling to the continent of Europe, and had been delighted to be sent to the Tasmans. ‘I was never technically minded,’ he added. ‘Sometimes I feel guilty that I can’t work on something useful, like energy efficiency or soil enhancement. I just haven’t got that sort of mind.’ It was true: when he was training he had had to learn about the types of bombs and explosives that robbers and terrorists used; he had found it almost impossible.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much technical skill you put into it,’ Parvati said, ‘or what systems you develop, northern North America will never be made fertile. Most of it is just peat bog, melted permafrost. People live on stupid dreams.’

  ‘You have to try.’

  Shiva saw that she wasn’t concentrating any more. She glanced frowningly at the two men at the next table. A young waiter, a good-looking blond boy, had brought their main course, and the two men smiled at him suggestively as he served their food. ‘We’ll call you back if we want anything,’ the younger called after him as he left. The boy blushed and walked away faster. The man laughed. His voice had a drunken slur.

  Parvati leaned forward and spoke in a low, angry voice. ‘It should be made illegal, what these people do. Yet here they are flouting it in public.’

  ‘Ignore them.’

  The two men had heard and turned their heads towards them. Parvati took a deep breath, returning to their conversation. ‘And in the Rockies, some of the mountain land is just too steep. Like in Fjordland here. They can never cultivate there.’

  ‘I hear you have problems with dogs in North America.’

  ‘Filthy things. I hate them. A pack of dogs killed a young cousin of mine. They had a farm out in the wilderness. Just took her one day when she was out playing, tore her to pieces. We try to kill them, but there are millions of the things.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Some people still keep dogs as pets. Pretend that animals can give them affection. But they’re just things; they don’t have souls.’

  Her anger was showing through now, Shiva thought. The blond young waiter came to take their order. They both asked for trout and sweet potatoes. As the waiter left, the younger man at the next table said in a loud, mock-hurt voice: ‘And I thought he was coming to see us again.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Parvati breathed. She gave the pair another nasty look but controlled herself. ‘There are animal problems here in South Island too,’ she said to Shiva. ‘Keas.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Native parrots. When the kiwi went extinct they were made the national bird. They were protected for a time and the population soared. They’re a real pest in the countryside now.’

  At the next table, one of the men made a little squawking noise, like a parrot. The other laughed and joined in. Parvati ignored them, and, leaning forward towards Shiva, said: ‘We try to kill them with traps,’ she said. ‘It’s starting to work. They’re intelligent, but they’re greedy too.’

  ‘What a bottom that waiter’s got,’ the younger man said loudly. The remark was meant to provoke; the two were looking at Parvati’s prominent cross.

  She turned around and, suddenly furious, said: ‘Be quiet! You filthy animals!’

  The men’s expressions changed at once to anger. ‘You watch your mouth, lady,’ one said.

  Shiva stood up. ‘Let’s cool things down,’ he said quietly.

  ‘They’re filth!’ Parvati seemed to have lost control completely.

  The older man stood up.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Shiva said.

  ‘We’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ Parvati said.

  ‘Fundamentalist bastards.’ The blond man stood, raised his arm and took a swing at Shiva. He dodged, grabbed the man’s arm and suddenly they were struggling. They both fell to the floor. Shiva could have dealt with him easily but dared not show it in front of Parvati; he was supposed to be a cultural attaché. The younger man stood up, egging his friend on. ‘Show him, Dave!’ Other diners stood up. A woman screamed. The manager appeared. ‘Stop this!’ he shouted. ‘Stop it!’ Shiva disentangled himself from the blond man and got to his feet, but the younger man grasped him around the waist, unbalancing him so they both fell backwards into Shiva’s table. Parvati took the jug of water and threw it over the younger man’s head.

  ‘Get out!’ the manager shouted. ‘All of you! Get out! This is a civilized restaurant!’

  Shiva found himself released. The two men glared at them, then threw some money on the table and stalked out together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Parvati said.

  Shiva was angry with her now. She had been provoked, but it was her outburst that had turned things to violence. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said coldly. He apologized to the manager and led the way outside.

  The two men were waiting for them, one on each side of the door. They grabbed Shiva from behind, pinning his arms behind his back, and dragged him around the side of the building into a dark alley. Shiva struggled but realized that he was dealing with professionals, not amateurs. The younger man held him fast and the older stood in front of him. His expression was cold and clear; there was no sign of drunkenness now. He reached up and took something from his shirt pocket.

  Shiva glanced around. He saw that Parvati was standing at the entrance to the alley, looking out on the street. She turned and stared at him with a blank face, then nodded to the man. Shiva looked fearfully at his hand, expecting to see a knife, but it was a cloth he held. He pushed it into Shiva’s face. When he breathed in it was as though a horse had kicked him. He was conscious of falling, then everything went dark.

  V

  Shiva awoke to find himself lying on a wooden floor, his hands bound behind his back. His left shoulder hurt badly. He became aware that his body was rocking gently to and fro. An electronic hum vibrated through the floor. He was on a train.

  Painfully, he tried to sit up. A booted foot on his chest pushed him back.

  ‘Let him up.’ It was Parvati’s voice.

  Strong hands lifted him into a seat. He almost cried out at the pain in his shoulder. He shook his head to try to clear it. He was in a small railway carriage, empty apart from him, the two men from the restaurant and, sitting opposite, Parvati. He glanced out of the window. Spectacular mountainous countryside, ploughed fields and olive groves outside the train. Some way off, in the foothills, he could see people working, clearing squares of land, laying new soil, creating fields.

  The two men were wearing crosses now, and their elaborate hairstyles had been combed out, leaving scarecrow-like shocks of hair. He looked at their faces properly for the first time. There was a similarity in the cast of their features and their sharp blue eyes that Shiva had missed; he realized they were probably brothers. He turned to Parvati. She wore a confident expression now, her eyes fierce. It was as though a different person had taken over her body. She was a very good actor.

  ‘You were easy to capture,’ she said. Her voice was different, the enunciation slow and cold and clear.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Shiva’s voice came out as a croak, and he realized he had a raging thirst. His shoulder throbbed. They must have twisted something, hauling him about when he was unconscious.

  ‘The bottom end of South Island,’ Parvati said. ‘To meet the Leader.’

  ‘Your friend’s in for a surprise, isn’t he?’ t
he younger man said, and both laughed. Parvati shot them an annoyed look. ‘This is serious,’ she said. ‘We have to find out what he knows.’

  Shiva glanced up and down the train. From the speed at which it was moving up a very steep slope, he guessed there was only one carriage. ‘You have your own train?’ he asked.

  ‘We do,’ Parvati replied. ‘A private company run by our nominees controls all the railways in the southwest. And we built this one for ourselves, out to the far west where nobody goes. Our Leader is a great strategic thinker,’ she added in her new, didactic voice.

  ‘This is the train we bring the scientists on.’ The dark-haired young man had the air of someone enjoying telling a secret.

  ‘The scientists you got to emigrate here? Where do you take them?’

  ‘Same place you’re going. You’ll see.’

  ‘What happens when we get to this mysterious place?’ Nobody replied. Shiva swallowed. ‘Can I have some water?’

  ‘We’ll be there in an hour,’ Parvati said. ‘You can have some then.’

  The train rattled on, the engine humming. It slowed as they climbed higher into the steep mountains. In the far distance Shiva saw men labouring like ants on what looked like a new hydroelectric project. Then there were no more people, only bare, impossibly steep mountainsides rearing high above into the blue sky.

  Shiva must have been still groggy from the drug they had given him, because he slept. He was jerked awake by the train coming to a halt, clanking and jolting. His thirst was terrible now. He was hauled to his feet and cried aloud at the pain in his shoulder. The two brothers walked him down the carriage and out of the door. He saw what was outside and his jaw dropped. The two men let him stand and look. Parvati stood next to them, arms folded, a sardonic smile on her face.

  They were standing on scrubby grass, near the edge of an enormous cliff falling perhaps a thousand feet to a sheet of still blue water. They were at the head of a long fjord, huge mountains rising sheer out of the water on both sides, some far higher than the cliff where they stood. The peaks were reflected in the water. The fjord was perhaps two miles across, running in a straight line to the distant blue line of the ocean. The almost sheer sides were nearly bare, brown scrub clinging to ledges here and there.