This is the Way the World Ends

by James Morrow

  ALSO BY JAMES MORROW

  Towing Jehovah

  City of Truth

  Nebula Awards 26, 27, and 28 (editor)

  Only Begotten Daughter

  The Continent of Lies

  The Wine of Violence

  Swatting at the Cosmos (collection)

  Copyright © 1986 by James Morrow

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to: Permissions Department,

  Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive,

  Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  Published by arrangement with Henry Holt and Company.

  “Fire and Ice” from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1923, © 1969 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Copyright © 1951 by Robert Frost. Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, Inc., publishers.

  Note: This is a work of fiction. No real persons are represented in the story. Any resemblances to real names or attributes of persons occur accidentally, without the knowledge or desire of the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Morrow, James.

  This is the way the world ends.

  I. Title.

  PS356.3.0876T5 1986 813'.54 85-24773

  ISBN 0-15-600208-6 (Harvest: pbk.)

  Designed by Kate Nichols

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Harvest edition 1995

  G F E D

  For my daughter Kathy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am particularly indebted to the following books and wish to express my gratitude to the authors: Weapons and Hope by Freeman Dyson; Eichmann in Jerusalem by Hannah Arendt; Justice at Nuremberg by Robert E. Conot; A Strategy for Peace Through Strength by the American Security Council Foundation; The Fate of the Earth by Jonathan Schell; Seeds of Promise by Randall Forsberg, Richard L. Garwin, Paul C. Warnke, and Robert W. Dean; The Cold and the Dark by Paul Ehrlich, Carl Sagan, Donald Kennedy, and Walter Orr Roberts; and Last Aid by Eric Chivian, Susanna Chivian, Robert Jay Lifton, and John E. Mack.

  Readers may recognize that the modest proposal presented in Chapter 13 is an adaptation from Jonathan Schell’s The Abolition. I trust that I have been true to his vision.

  Throughout the composing process Justin Fielding was a continual source of insight and inspiration. D. Alexander Smith brought his Renaissance mind to bear on the manuscript, making many helpful suggestions. Tom Teller, formerly of the United States Navy, told me about life aboard real strategic submarines, as opposed to the deviant depicted in these pages. I would like to thank my other readers for their valuable criticisms, namely Joe Adamson, Betty Bardige, Linda Barnes, Jon Burrowes, Sean Develin, Daniel Dubner, Joan Dunfey, James Frieden, Mel Gilden, Jean Morrow, Steven Popkes, D. M. Rowles, Jeffrey Rush, Charles Ryan, Karen Shapiro, David Stone, Bonnie Sunstein, and Drew Sunstein.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Salon-de-Provence, France, 1554

  BOOK ONE

  Those Who Favor Fire

  ENTR’ACTE

  Salon-de-Provence, France, 1554

  BOOK TWO

  For Destruction Ice Is Also Great

  EPILOGUE

  Salon-de-Provence, France, 1554

  Some say the world will end in fire,

  Some say in ice.

  From what I’ve tasted of desire

  I hold with those who favor fire.

  But if it had to perish twice,

  I think I know enough of hate

  To say that for destruction ice

  Is also great

  And would suffice.

  —Robert Frost

  PROLOGUE

  Salon-de-Provence,

  France, 1554

  Doctor Michel de Nostredame, who could see the future, sat in his secret study, looking at how the world would end.

  The end of the world was spread across the prophet’s writing desk—one hundred images of destruction, each painted on a piece of glass no larger than a Tarot card. With catlike caution he dealt out the brittle masterpieces, putting them in dramatic arrangements. Which should come first? he wondered. The iron whales? The ramparts of flame? The great self-propelled spears?

  By late afternoon the paintings were properly sequenced, and Nostradamus made ready to compose the hundred commentaries that would accompany them. He opened the window, siphoned sweet air through his nostrils.

  Tulip gardens. Sun-buttered fields of clover. Crisp, white cottages. A finch chirped amid the nectar-gorged blossoms of a cherry tree. Now, thought the prophet, if only a cat would come along and devour the finch alive, I could rise to the task at hand.

  He consulted the finch’s future. No cats. The bird would die of old age.

  He pulled a drape across the window, lit seven candles, dipped his crow quill in a skull filled with ink, and began to write. The gloom, morbid and relentless, inspired him. Like blood from a cut vein, words flowed from Nostradamus’s pen; the nib scrabbled across the parchment. Shortly before midnight he completed the final commentary. The painting in question showed a bearded man standing alone on a boundless plain of ice. And so our hero, wrote the prophet, last of the mortals, makes ready to fly into the bosom of our Lord. Such are the true facts of history yet to come.

  The dark oak of the writing desk had turned the painting into a looking glass. Etched in the ice field were the prophet’s raven eyes, craggy nose, and black tumble of beard—a face his wife nevertheless loved. Anne is going to enter my study soon, he realized. She will tell me something most troublesome. A pregnant woman waits downstairs for me. The woman is in labor. The woman wants…

  “The woman wants my help,” said Nostradamus to his wife after she had appeared in the study as predicted.

  Anne Pons Gemmelle gave a meandering smile. “Sarah Mirabeau has come all the way from Tarascon.”

  “And her husband—?”

  “She has no husband.”

  “Reveal to Sarah Mirabeau that I foresee an easy birth, a robust little bastard, and happy destinies for all concerned. Reveal to her also that, if she troubles me further, I foresee myself losing my temper”—the prophet brandished his Malacca cane—“and tossing her into the street.”

  “What do you really foresee?”

  “It is all rather murky.”

  “Sarah Mirabeau did not come to have her fortune told. She came—”

  “Because I am a physician? Inform her that a midwife would be more to the point.”

  By closing her eyes and biting her tongue, Anne retained her good humor. “The Tarascon midwives will not attend a Jew,” she said slowly.

  “Whereas I shall?”

  “I advised the woman that you have not been Jewish in years.”

  “Good! Did you show her my record of baptism? No, wait, I foresee you saying that you have—”

  “Already done so, and she was—”

  “Not convinced. Then you must tell this fornicator that I have never delivered a baby in my life. Tell her that the medicine I practice of late consists in removing creases from the faces of aging gentry.”

  “She is not a fornicator. One hundred days ago her husband was—”

  “Killed by the plague,” anticipated the prophet.

  “The widow believes you could have cured him. ‘Only the divine Doctor Nostradamus can keep me alive today,’ she said. ‘Only the hero of Aix and Lyons can bring me a healthy child.’ Yes
, she has heard of your victories over the Black Death.”

  “But not of my defeats? This Nostradamus she worships is not much of a Catholic, not much of a Jew, and not much of a miracle-maker—tell her that.”

  “We must show her Christian charity.”

  “We must show her my charity, nothing better. Your widow may, for tonight only, take to Madeleine’s bed. Madame Hozier, I am given to understand, is a competent midwife, I shall pay her five écus. If she objects either to the fee or to your widow’s heathenism, tell her that I shall forthwith cast her horoscope, and it will be the grimmest horoscope imaginable, full of poverty and ill health.”

  Anne Pons Gemmelle scurried off, but the prophet’s privacy did not endure. He foresaw as much: a boy would wander into his secret study.

  A boy wandered into his secret study.

  “You were about to give your name,” said the prophet.

  “I was?” The boy was fourteen, diminutive, olive-skinned, his curly black hair frothing from beneath a cloth cap.

  “Yes. Who are you?” said the prophet.

  “They call me—”

  “Jacob Mirabeau, Your mother is in my daughter’s bedroom, giving birth. Tell me, lad, was the invitation that brings you to my private chambers printed on gold-leaf vellum or on ordinary paper?”

  “What?”

  “That was sarcasm. The coming thing. Mirabile dictu, what a reversal Bonaparte will suffer once he reaches Moscow!”

  The boy yanked off his cap. “I know you! You are the one who sees what will happen. My mother collects your almanacs.”

  “Does she buy them, or does she merely find them lying around?”

  “She buys them.”

  “Would you care for a fig?” Nostradamus asked cheerfully.

  “Merci. My mother places great store in your predictions. She thinks you are God-touched.”

  “Opinion about me is divided. The Salon rabble think I am a Satanist or, worse, a Huguenot, or, worse still, a Jew.”

  “You are a Jew.”

  “We are quite a pair, lad. I can see your future, you can see my past.”

  “I am a Jew as well.” The boy gobbled his fig.

  “Do not trumpet it. Being Jewish is not exactly the wave of the future, believe me. The Inquisition has not yet run its course, the Pope would have us in ghettos. Get yourself baptized, that is my counsel to you. Forget this whole enterprise of being a Jew.”

  “Can you see some piece of the future right now, Monsieur le Docteur, or must you stare at the constellations first?”

  “The stars are unconnected to my powers, little Jew.”

  “But you have an astrolabe.”

  “Also a brass bowl, a tripod, and a laurel branch. My readers expect a full complement of nonsense.”

  “What do you foresee at the moment?” asked the boy, rolling a fig seed between his tongue and teeth.

  “You are up too late. Do you realize it is almost midnight?”

  “What else do you foresee?”

  “Myself. Writing a large book.” Nostradamus wove his crow quill through the air. “One hundred prophecies, in ill-phrased and leaden verse. Gibberish, every last line, but the mob will love them. From now until the end of the world, booksellers will make fortunes out of vapid and dishonest commentaries on these stanzas. I shall mention the River Hister, and my interpreters will claim that I was referring to Hitler.”

  “Who is Hitler?”

  “You don’t want to know. More bad news for Jews.”

  “If your book will be gibberish, why write it?”

  “Fun and profit.”

  “It would seem that—”

  Fear silenced the boy. A nasty black wasp had fumbled past the drapes and looped into the study. It buzzed fatly. The boy sought refuge behind an enormous globe.

  “Easy, little Jew. It will not sting you.”

  “With all respect, Monsieur”—raising his cap, Jacob stalked forward—“I have my doubts.”

  He swatted the wasp to the floor and stomped it past recognition.

  “Why were you certain it would not have stung me?” the boy asked.

  “I foresaw you smashing it first.”

  Jacob replaced his cap, secured it by stuffing his curls beneath the sweatband. “Will this baby kill my mother?”

  “Your mother will live to see seventy. Furthermore, Truman will defeat Dewey, forecasts to the contrary.”

  “You are truly blessed, Monsieur.”

  The prophet thought: a likely lad. He appreciates my talent, he does not hide his religion, he is quick with his cap. If my show can astonish a fellow so sharp, it is certain to set the rabble on their oversized ears.

  “Tell me, Master Jacob,” said Nostradamus, opening a walnut coffer and removing a contraption of metal and glass, “would you like to see the future?”

  “Very much so.”

  Nostradamus carried the machine to his writing desk. The boy’s lips quivered. His eyes expanded.

  “You are right to be awestruck, for the man who contrived this device is the most wonderful person of our age. Quick, who is the most wonderful person of our age?”

  “You, my lord.”

  The prophet alternately grinned and scowled. “The most wonderful person of our age is Leonardo of Vinci, who alone knew what expression each saint wore when dining with Christ.”

  “I have heard of Leonardo of Milan.”

  “Of Milan, yes. Of Florence, of Rome, of Vinci. But he ended his days in France—Amboise, the manor of Clos-Lucé. I was at his deathbed. With his final breath he bequeathed to me this picture-cannon, as he called it. Monsieur Leonardo loved cannons. He loved all weapons. Happily, this cannon fires no ball.”

  Mastering his astonishment, Jacob approached the writing desk. The machine was a tin box with a chimney on top. From one side jutted a tube holding a brass ring in which sat a sparkling crystal disk.

  “I was no older than you when the great man summoned me to Amboise. That was in…1518, during my first schooling. Leonardo had heard of my gift. At Avignon they called me the Little Astrologer. I was frightened. Here was he, the illustrious Leonardo—Premier Peintre, Architecte et Méchanicien du Roi. And here was I—a boy of fifteen, burdened with peculiar powers. As it turned out, he fell in love with me, but that is another story.

  “He showed me some drawings—our world in its final days, shattered by storms and floods. ‘Is this how God will contrive for His Creation to end?’ he asked me. Brother Francesco translated. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I did not think so,’ he confessed.

  “I told him how our world would end. ‘It will not be an act of God or Nature,’ I explained, ‘but a conflagration of human design.’ He painted what I described—fireballs hurled from great spears that had in turn been catapulted from the backs of iron whales. The renderings were perfect, as if plucked directly from my brain. He did them on glass.

  “Odd—but of the hundred awful scenes I recounted, only four seemed to vex Leonardo. They all involved vultures. ‘Are you certain that vultures will be part of this war?’ he asked again and again. ‘Quite certain,’ I always answered. ‘I was once visited by a vulture,’ he would say. I could not imagine what he meant.

  “The old man had in mind a great public spectacle. He wanted first to exhibit his holocaust paintings in Rome. Then we were to tour the countryside, finally the whole continent—taking the capitals by storm, dazzling rabble and rich men alike, warning them of the terrible future, filling our pockets with their coins.”

  The portrait under which Nostradamus stood shimmered with the grace of its subject. Within the gilded frame, a woman smiled subtly.

  “The old man never got out of France,” Nostradamus continued wistfully. “But I shall. Pope Julius himself will marvel at these masterworks—this I vow.” The prophet clapped his hands. “We need a white wall, boy. Take down this picture here—another gift from Leonardo. In a few centuries it will be worth an unimaginable amount of money. Little good that does me.”


  Why a white wall? Jacob wondered. If this wizard means to perform some magic, would not a black wall be more suitable?

  The boy removed the smiling woman. Even in the feeble candlelight, the exposed wall was as shockingly white as the winding sheet in which his father had been buried. Perhaps white was good for wizardry after all.

  Nostradamus lifted a door in the side of the picture-cannon, revealing a small oil lamp, which he lit. Smoke wandered out of the chimney. “Believe me, Master Jacob, there is no sorcery in this machine, but only the divine reason with which God filled Leonardo to overflowing. You have heard of the camera obscura? Leonardo managed to turn one inside out. This part here—the aperture. Here—the plano-convex lens, ground from purest beryl.” The prophet inserted the first painting. “This business also requires darkness.”

  Jacob snuffed the candles, one by one, and night fell upon the study like a succession of blows. The boy looked at the wall. What he saw made him dizzy and afraid.

  “Dear God—it’s what Christians call the devil’s work!” A vast vision had appeared, many times the size of the smiling woman. Where does it come from? he wondered. Instinctively he turned toward the picture-cannon. “But the painting you put in there was so small!”

  Jacob fixed on the vision. No less stunning than its size was its substance, a swollen, smoking, demon-spawned, self-propelled spear. “Will it really destroy the world?” he asked.

  “Not by itself. There will be thousands like it, in many varieties.” Nostradamus glanced at his parchment script. “This Satanic lance is a Soviet SS-60 missile,” he read. “Land-based. Intercontinental. Multiple warheads. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  The candle in the picture-cannon flickered. Shadows trembled along the shaft of the missile.

  Nostradamus projected painting number two. “This iron fish is a fleet ballistic missile submarine,” he read. “The dorsal scales will flip back, and the spears will fly to their targets using inertial guidance.”

  “How can a fish have spears inside it and not die?” asked the boy.