by Tony Moyle
There would have been no doubt about humanity’s survival had this crisis occurred a decade or more ago. The conspiracy theories would never have seen the light of day, dismissed as unwarranted paranoia. Back then the only outlets for current affairs were television, radio, and print. There were no alternatives. In order to sell more newspapers certainly some of the printed press had a tendency to offer a somewhat bizarre take on events, but everyone knew what they were getting when they bought one. Gone were the days when people truly believed that ‘The Sunday Sport’ had really discovered a London bus buried at the South Pole, or that a minor celebrity had consumed a child’s hamster. They’d always been viewed as tongue-in-cheek comics designed to make Sunday mornings that little bit more interesting.
But the discovery of the prophecy didn’t happen back then. It was happening now.
The internet age.
Evidently society hadn’t made the evolutional hop from ignoring ridiculous newspaper headlines to disbelieving the equally preposterous bilge that featured on the internet. And this morning there was a never-ending pipeline of the stuff. It didn’t bother the general public who wrote the exposés. The average Google surfer didn’t stop to visualise the semi-naked unemployed loser, still sporting yesterday’s ready meal stains on his tattered AC/DC T-shirt, sitting in some skanky flat in Arkansas bashing out any old crap to his audience of ninety-two blog followers. They didn’t care if it came from a twelve-year-old computer whiz kid whose only basis of social contact was via an online gaming community where he went by the username eatcandlewax06.
Only a small fraction of the world’s massive online population cared. Anonymity had replaced expertise. Fact-checking took longer than the seven seconds of attention available before boredom forced them to move unconsciously to the next tweet. When life flashes before your eyes faster than a talent show contestant’s career it was no surprise that people felt disorientated and willing to accept whatever they saw and read.
Thanks in large part to the hugely popular online group the Oblivion Doctrine, news of the apocalypse had spread in hours like the free movement of liquid from a spilt mug of tea. And just like a tea spillage the volume on the table always far exceeded the apparent capacity of the mug. The rumours infected computer servers and hard drives from Japan to Hawaii. The bloggers, tweeters and online forum junkies had made sure of it. What began with a simple translation of a five hundred-year-old prognosis had gained a life of its own, morphing into a thousand different conspiracy theories and interpretations.
The end was nigh, but no one agreed how.
If you lived in Australia the end of humanity would be delivered courtesy of your smart speaker. Apparently, according to the theory initiated by famous Instagrammer @wetfishlover, smart speakers had been secretly programmed to learn your voice pattern with the express intention of hypnotising you into impaling yourself on your sharpest bread knife.
“Alexa, play my U2 compilation.”
“Playing U2 compilation. It’s lunchtime, Dave, why don’t you go and make yourself a nice sandwich? Hahahaha.”
“Alexa, did you just laugh like a Bond villain?”
“Uh…no.”
Smart speaker sales had dropped like a stone ever since the rumours passed a thousand likes. Piles of the things were thrown into skips and rubbish dumps. Very early in the morning, if you happened to be walking the suburbs of Brisbane, robotic choruses could be heard mimicking bird calls and attempting to convince dog walkers that they were late for their meeting with Brian to discuss the pricing strategy.
In India the end would come from a meteorite impact. Unlike the example that took out the dinosaurs, this wasn’t going to be one massive meteor. This time it would involve thousands of smaller lumps of rock hitting Earth at precisely the same time. Game theory experts had modelled the likely outcome as being something akin to extinction by pebbledashing. The variety of different-sized rocks would target communities, towns and even single individuals, as if God was dropping half-bricks from an existential highway.
There was much talk in Argentina of a zombie-based apocalypse brought about by the consumption of infected avocados. According to blogger, Zombiecookbook, genetically modified avocados were being secretly grown by a CIA-funded rogue element in Bolivia that would, over a period of time, turn everyone who ate them into the walking dead. It seemed of no interest to the brainwashed reader to point out that ninety percent of the world’s population hated avocados, thereby reducing the chance of global destruction down to almost zero.
In Morocco the government was carefully considering the proposed ban on plastic straws after several reports insisted they contained alien technology designed to deliver throat cancer. It wasn’t clear which aliens were involved, what they wanted or why they felt the need to ruin every kids’ party for the rest of time.
In Bulgaria several YouTubers independently concluded and recommended the purchase of titanium underpants to protect against a higher than normal level of radioactivity, likely to cause the total impotence of the male population. No one offered any explanation as to where this radiation might actually come from other than one detractor who suggested it might be as a result of the amount of technology being used to promote it. Sadly no one took notice of this hypothesis because it was scrawled in chalk on a pavement in Sofia.
It didn’t seem to matter that none of these theories had the slightest relationship to the contents of the newly discovered prophecy. People knew about Nostradamus’s legend, but absolutely nothing whatsoever of the reality. So what if his prophecies had predicted the end of the world in the past, only for it to be called a false alarm or a misread? Eventually he was going to get it right. After all, he correctly predicted the rise of Hitler, the Cold War, the death of Diana, Princess of Wales and 9/11. Hadn’t he?
It was just safer to assume and prepare for the worst and if necessary look foolish after the event if the theory was found to be wrong. But if you did get it right, think how smug you’d look in front of all those bemused corpses with their ‘Oh bugger, I wish I’d not been so sceptical’ expressions all over their cold, dead faces.
The prophecy itself wasn’t important. Everyone was going to die and humans loved nothing more than a good drama. Which in turn gave them plenty of opportunities to have a good old moan and point fingers at everyone from Bill Gates to the Bogeyman. And where was the best place to voice this anger? The website of the Oblivion Doctrine, the very place they’d read about the problems in the first place.
Only those responsible for the Oblivion Doctrine knew who ran it. It was a shadowy online entity with no fixed abode or sense of moral obligation. They didn’t screen views or ban users. Nothing was off-limits. In the true sense of the word they were disruptors to the mainstream media. Their intentions were clear. Publish content that fuelled people’s fears and add just a sense of reality to the theories people had already accepted. Why they did all this, though, was less clear.
All of the world’s theories, from the frankly ridiculous to the scientifically plausible, could be found on the site. No one could shut them down, silence them or dispute what they printed. Anyone who tried to deny what was published only served to increase their publicity. If people believed that old-school politicians were corrupt then it was unlikely anyone would believe those very politicians when they denied it. It was a catch twenty-two.
Whether you believed that the decimation of human life was going to be delivered thanks to a mega volcano or alien invasion, there was one group of people who were ready for it.
But they didn’t need a prophecy, they were always ready.
The preppers, as they liked to be called, had been preparing for a variety of extinction scenarios for decades. Some were focused on surviving biblical rapture, some expected a biochemical war, and others protected themselves against the possibility of any number of catastrophic natural disasters. Popularised in the United States, this strange, nomadic lifestyle was popping up all over the globe, even more so
now that the threat felt real.
On the outskirts of Limonest, a small village to the north of Lyon, Gabriel Janvier was jumping on the bandwagon. She’d picked out a small forest glade for her soon-to-be impregnable fortress. The reality today was that included a hastily constructed tree house made from highly absorbent chipboard which soaked up the rain and disintegrated before morning, a two-foot-deep hole that would eventually become a series of interconnecting tunnels, a work in progress because of the immovable tree roots that got in the way, and a beige nineteen-seventy-one Renault 16 attached to a caravan with one wheel.
She was one of many first-time preppers inspired by the crisis whose only qualifications included watching a television documentary on the National Geographic channel, demonstrating an enjoyment for al fresco dining and receiving a one-off whittling course as a present for Christmas three years ago. The rest she felt she could work out as she went along. Which is what all twenty-somethings thought about everything. After all, she only had until November and proper training would take much too long.
There weren’t a lot of reasons for her not to do it. Her long-term boyfriend had run off with the little slut from the bakery, leaving her to pay for the flat that they shared and she couldn’t afford. Work had been a long highway of disappointing let-downs. After years of studying computer science to become a programmer she still couldn’t get a role that involved anything more mind-numbing than pointless research, coffee-making, and the daily disappointment of warding off the sexual advances of lecherous old men who should know better. It already felt like the end of the world. Her world. And now the rest of it was in trouble, too. It was time to act.
She’d packed what little she felt she needed and left the flat without giving her landlord a forwarding address. She’d reluctantly sold her phone, believing some of the reports on the Oblivion Doctrine that the telephone waves were melting brain cells. Her laptop would be enough if she needed to learn more about the ways of the prepper. Now if only she could work out how to get the internet in a forest a mile from the nearest WI-FI hotspot she could research how to do it.
*****
Ally spent two further days at the museum hoping her assessment of the book would give up more clues to its history. Were there more new prophecies within than the curators had originally realised. The answer was a clear no. In all other ways this version of the ‘Les Prophéties’ was not uniquely different in content to either of the other two versions, even if there was the odd change of word, spelling or layout. Only the front page of this version stood out as incongruous.
Sometimes it bothered her that she cared so much. The invitation to Lyon was purely based on authenticating the age of the prophecy, and she’d done that almost immediately. By rights she should have downed tools and caught the first flight back home. There was plenty to do back at the university where her very livelihood relied on the grants provided by wealthy benefactors or government initiatives. They had the Shakespearean exhibition to complete by the end of January, a symbolic event given the proximity of the University to Stratford only a few miles away, the town of the Bard’s life and times.
So what was keeping her here.
The truth.
Authenticating the text to establish that it was written at the same time as the book missed the point. No one would accept a detective turning up at the scene of a murder, proclaiming the victim’s death and then totally ignoring their duty to identify a culprit. People expected answers even from cold cases, and this was as chilly as they got. It was always more difficult to close old cases because they lacked fresh or substantive evidence. In this instance more than four hundred and fifty years separated her from the events she was trying to unlock. But that didn’t put her off. She’d done it before and she would do it again.
A large part of what we know about the history of sixteenth-century France was as a consequence of Michel Nostradamus’s work. Few others documented so much of the times they lived in and not just in prophecies. Nostradamus wrote cookbooks, vast numbers of almanacs, personal letters and star charts, as well as the book he was most famous for. Unquestionably more of his work was out their somewhere, hidden in lofts or archives. He’d had few contemporaries, and none attained the level of fame or notoriety that he did. Or maybe Michel stopped them doing so. Extinguished their work from memory by rewriting history in order to shine light in his direction, while others were trapped in the shadows.
People or concepts that garner mass appeal are often remembered far beyond those with genuine talent but poorer public relations campaigns. Popularity itself creates a gravitational field all of its own that vacuums up alternative and minority interests. The greater the popularity the more people fanaticised about it, or were shamed into agreeing by a sense of alienation from the rest of society. There are plenty of examples. Coldplay, for starters. The Oblivion Doctrine was another. There were billions of websites online, but, like Nostradamus, they eclipsed all others into obscurity.
Ally was no fan of Nostradamus the human being. From what she’d pieced together, through letters written over the years to friends and clients, he had a character defect that made him prone to bouts of flattery, sycophancy, deception and conceit. But there was one characteristic that she and Michel shared. Neither of them liked to collaborate. Other people’s lack of intelligence bothered her. It forever delayed progress as their limited speed of thought fizzled out catching up with hers. She suspected he didn’t like it because it meant sharing fame and fortune.
If that was the case, how did someone else’s prophecy end up in one of his books? If it wasn’t something he and another had worked on together, why was it there? Ally was working on two plausible theories. The first was that someone else had placed it there without Nostradamus’s knowledge. Maybe a budding apprentice or fanboy was desperate to get a leg up in their own pursuit of recognition. The second theory was that Nostradamus purposely included this passage in this version of the book without the real author’s knowledge. But if this was true, why did he feel the need to steal it?
It was clear to Ally that Michel wanted fame above all else. He’d proven it throughout his career through acts as brazen as writing prophecies about the royal family with the prime intention of being called to their court. An invitation that would validate his talents and boost his popularity to others. But given the reputation he’d already forged during his lifetime, why would he be threatened by a newcomer? Unless of course the newcomer had something he needed. Something that Nostradamus didn’t have.
The archive room in the museum was getting as cold as the trail. Nothing more would be learnt here. There was only one lead that might open up further evidence. It was time to meet Monsieur Palomer, the man whose house had kept the book hidden for hundreds of years.
- Chapter 5 -
Prison
The cold, clammy stone pressed up against his sore cheek which slowly slid down the wall, dragging the rest of his head with it. The slimy green residue that covered most of the walls and ceiling dripped down onto his scalp and small puffs of steam billowed from his mouth, before evaporating almost as quickly as they formed. The frosty air forged an allegiance with the darkness to muddle his senses, all of which desperately fought for dominance over the meagre brainpower still available in order to function at the expense of the others.
In the recent past he’d been beaten, thrown, covered in dirty rags, beaten a little more, kicked, spat at, slapped, poked in soft regions of his body, dragged over rocks, pushed violently and offered some aggressive instructions that threatened his immediate existence. The clunk of a metal gate was followed by the eerie silence of the room and his inevitable descent into unconsciousness. How long he’d remained out cold was unclear. It was still night-time still, but not necessarily the same one he’d arrived under.
A window to the outside world, no more than a foot wide and tall, was the only feature of note adorning the walls, although it was difficult to pick out anything smaller or potentially more
significant through eyes puffed up by the regular punches that had been administered against them. Long, thin strands of straw kept his body a few millimetres above the flagstones and was shared by an eclectic colony of squirming, dark-shelled invertebrates. As his eyesight became more accustomed to the gloom it was clear the insects were not the only residents of his cell.
Sitting cross-legged on a stool designed for a much smaller occupant was an elderly man in fine silks and clean shoes. There was an absence of mud on his pale skin, quite unusual for a place that seemed designed for its cultivation. His beard had recently been trimmed and the only noticeable blemishes on his face had been placed there by the passing of time rather than an overaggressive jailor.
‘Perhaps he wasn’t in jail at all,’ he thought. This gentleman looked more accustomed to sitting in a library or church than a prison. Whoever he was, he showed no interest in Phil’s recent arrival, his thoughts and senses preoccupied by much more important matters.
There was no way the man would know Phil was watching him because he sat perfectly still with both eyes firmly shut. Both hands were raised to shoulder level with the index finger of each hand aimed skyward while the rest of his fingers formed a purposeful circle with his thumbs. Both lips were twitching uncontrollably and just occasionally they’d collide to produce a rather irritating clapping noise. This pattern continued relentlessly with no sign of an end. To the man’s side an ornate, oak coffer held several books, quills, small bottles of black ink and scattered pieces of torn parchment across its smooth lid.
