The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  “Mistake?”

  “Yes, the letter to Henry was wrong. When I dictated the letter the scribe misspelt one word which dramatically changed the assessment that Henry showed such confidence in.”

  “Which word?”

  “Invincible,” said Michel.

  “Why was that a mistake?” asked Phil.

  “He put an ‘in’ at the front of the word by accident.”

  “I’m not sure I follow. Are you saying you meant it to read ‘vincible?’”

  “Exactly.”

  “But…that’s not even a word.”

  “’Course it is. Invisible and visible; incoherent and coherent, they all follow the same rule.”

  “No, they don’t! It’s not even a rule. Someone who doesn’t have intelligence is not telligent! People that lack inventiveness are not ventive, are they?”

  “Oh yeah,” proffered Michel sarcastically. “You’d know, wouldn’t you? What with you being a genius and all that. Where did you study, then? Hmm, tell me that. Which grand institution had the honour of your attendance?”

  “I didn’t go to any. I learnt everything I could from everyone I met. Not all of us had the benefit of being born into prosperity, you know.”

  “Prosperity. Ha! That’s a laugh. You haven’t got a clue. I had to fight, beg and bleed my knuckles to the bone to gain acceptance to the Montpelier Medical Faculty. My father’s meagre inheritance didn’t come close to paying for it. And even when I did fight my way into the realm of academia no one accepted me as an equal. Even then I was different. I had to teach myself much of what I came to learn on herbs and plants and was forced to take every job I could find from Marseille to Aix. I did anything I could to pay my way.”

  “Did you say Aix?”

  “Yes, I’ve worked all over the place to get where I am today.”

  “But you were specifically there?” said Philibert, finally finding common ground between them.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “The first time was in the spring of fifteen-forty-six.”

  “But that was when the town had the plague!”

  “I know. Why do you think I was there?” said Nostradamus.

  - Chapter 7 -

  N1G13

  Ally Oldfield sat on the terrace of a grubby bistro in the shadow of ‘La Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière’, nursing an empty coffee cup. Perched on a hill in the centre of the city, the massive, ancient cathedral dominated the Lyon skyline and granted visitors a spectacular vantage point across most of the city. Every four of five minutes the funicular brought another horde of chattering tourists up the hillside to view the scene without the need to exert themselves. The continual clanking of the train ascending and descending did little to break her concentration.

  On the small metal table in front of her a newspaper lay open as passing gusts attempted to move the pages and force her into reading another article. If the headline of this, and every other mainstream paper in France and around the world, were to be believed, ‘The End’ had begun. Engorged, bold text projected out of the front page like the scene in a pop-up book and this time there was nothing theoretical or conspiratorial about it.

  The death toll was indisputable.

  The number of officially recorded deaths as a result of the newly identified flu strain, N1G13, were increasing by the day. Inevitably the virus had been nicknamed the Nostradamus Flu, because N1G13 was a lot less catchy. After all the mad local theories and internet conclusions that had done the rounds, now people had a real one to rally behind. This was proof. The end was N1G13.

  Ally wasn’t convinced. She knew only too well that a flu epidemic didn’t mean the end of the world. There had been plenty of pandemics throughout history which had been both frequent and heavy killers, but they were not extinction-level events. Scientists expected new and fresh strains of flu to appear every fifty years or so, and in purely statistical terms their arrival affected only a tiny proportion of the global population. Certainly the world was long overdue a really good pandemic. It had been almost a hundred years since the Spanish flu had wiped out hundreds of thousands across the continent of Europe.

  Less scientifically trained doom-mongers, though, had been predicting a truly global and devastating outbreak for decades. One that could not be held back by modern medicine or containment tactics. Over the last century the vast increase in air travel, ever-closer contact between humans, birds and beasts in areas like Asia, and the capacity of viruses to resist medicinal therapies were all nuggets of evidence that pinpointed such a prediction. Now something else was being used to justify it. Written in an era when air travel, medicines and most of Asia weren’t recognised terms, a prophecy was suggesting just such an event. But making the leap between the two just didn’t add up in Ally’s mind. Coincidences are more common than you’d think.

  Of course it didn’t help that her own translation of the prophecy drew striking similarities to current circumstances. There would be a blood moon in just a few months’ time, but no one wanted to acknowledge that this wasn’t a unique occurrence. The next one after that was due in about six months and more than a dozen had happened since the start of the century. The prophecy had also mentioned cold winds, which some interpreters had deciphered as referring to the common cold. Although the new and deadly form of flu currently sweeping across parts of China was chemically similar to a cold, so were a host of other human ailments. She couldn’t help thinking that the facts were being distorted to fit the narrative that so many people wanted to believe.

  It was also true that the new virus was being carried by birds, pigs and cattle, just as the prophecy had suggested, but worryingly it was spreading unusually quickly between humans. Unlike historical flu outbreaks the implications of catching N1G13 were almost always fatal, and to date no institution or laboratory had come even close to developing a remedy. Stressed scientists and worried government officials scampered in panic to solve the problem as hundreds of victims died every day.

  And it was going to get worse.

  It wouldn’t be long until the virus spread across borders. Victims of the virus could carry it for several days before presenting any symptoms, so stopping any would-be carrier boarding an aircraft was almost impossible. And then Asia’s problem would be the world’s.

  Ally wasn’t that bothered by the fatalities. People she didn’t know died all the time without her noticing. Even people she did know personally were known to snuff it without her offering more than a delayed condolence card. What mattered more than life and death to her was being right. The world was being fooled into thinking that this flu was hastening mankind towards extinction, and she was determined to prove them wrong. Nostradamus didn’t write the prediction and if she could discover who did, and why, then the world would have to pay attention.

  The flu would continue to claim lives, but at least it would be in context to every other outbreak from the last century. Pharmaceutical companies would produce remedies, people would take preventive steps to reduce the chance of infection, and the flu would, as they always did, disappear from the public conscience. If mankind’s paranoia, fear and protectionism didn’t destroy everything first, that was.

  Discovering the truth of a five hundred-year-old lie wouldn’t be easy. Few written records existed from the time and those that did weren’t completely trustworthy, like Nostradamus’s own writings themselves. It was perfectly feasible that the prophecy contained in Nostradamus’s preface came from someone connected to him. After all, he did have some contemporaries. Jean de Cavigny, Nostradamus’s secretary towards the end of his life, was known to have taken certain liberties towards his boss’s last produced works, even as far as rewriting them after Michel’s death to protect his legacy. But there was no record of him creating brand new quatrains out of thin air.

  Two years ago, Ally had written an article, published in The Times, that suggested Nostradamus wrote to a very distinct set of rules. Three of them in fact. And
her detailed assessment of his life’s work proved that he never broke them. Yet this prophecy broke all three in only four lines. There must have been a significant enough reason for him to include it amongst his own. The seer was a vain man who would frame his own family for crimes they didn’t commit if it saved face or elevated his standing amongst the rich and powerful. He would not risk a reputation built up over decades unless he was certain it was genuine. Unless of course he didn’t know it had been placed there at all. All of these theories would remain hypotheticals until Ally found even one name that might indicate responsibility.

  “Madame Oldfield?” said an old man in an immaculate cream suit and matching boater.

  “Yes,” she replied, making no attempt to look up at the enquirer. She already knew who it was and cared more for information than any assessment of appearance. She pointed to the chair next to her as she continued to read the stories in the newspaper.

  The man struggled to accomplish the simple act of sitting down, impeded by the uncomfortable metal frame of the chair on the other side of the table. It took several minutes before the one-man pantomime act was complete. If Ally had been the least bit interested she would have noticed that the man was well into his seventies and had a face that belied it by several more decades.

  “Monsieur Palomer, I have some questions for you.”

  “I was not aware that I was under arrest,” he replied coyly.

  Irrespective of his physical age and decrepit appearance, Palomer’s mind was as sharp as that of someone in their thirties. He also upheld an old-school sense of decorum, which included a certain standard of etiquette when two strangers met for the first time.

  “Arrest?” replied Ally, finally removing her gaze from tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers.

  “Madam, I’m not accustomed to being questioned by strangers, unless they’re wearing an official uniform and wielding a shiny badge.”

  “I don’t have time for games, Monsieur Palomer, only questions.”

  “Then I wish you all the best with the answers, good day to you, Madam,” replied Palomer as he struggled to remove himself from a chair he’d only recently battled to tame.

  “This is ridiculous, sit down.”

  “I don’t think you understand. I will not be bullied by anyone, male or female, friend or stranger, ally or foe. If you wish to learn something from me, you will need to act accordingly.”

  Ally was not used to being lectured. That was her job. It was one of the reasons why she avoided working in teams. People had a habit of expecting courtesy which, in Ally’s mind at least, only kept them from the reason they were collaborating in the first place: to do a job. As the boss this was easy to overcome, but that wasn’t true today. Palomer was under no compulsion to meet her and if she needed answers she’d have to do that thing that other people found incredibly easy: small talk.

  “Ok, we’ll do it your way,” said Ally reluctantly.

  “Oh, I’ll think you’ll find I’m far from unique,” he said, ceasing his attempt to vacate the chair. He watched as his opponent visually struggled to manoeuvre her personality from soulless academic to empathetic human being. She was going to need some help. “I think your next move might be an introduction.”

  “I’m…Doctor Ally Oldfield,” she said through slightly gritted teeth. “…How are you?”

  “Thirsty,” he answered honestly and raised his hand to gain the attention of a waiter who arrived moments later. “A large glass of your best wine, half a saucisson and some small cubes of cheese to accompany it. And for you, Madam Oldfield?”

  “Just coffee.”

  The waiter nodded.

  “You know too much coffee isn’t good for your health,” said Palomer, noticing the two emptied cups already cluttering up the table. The dark red lipstick on the rims matched the one that Ally had sprawled on her lips in haste that morning.

  “Some say the same about wine.”

  “Nonsense. I’m told a single glass a day can be most beneficial in extending one’s life. I must admit that I have not been inclined to verify that claim, as it rather suits my own point of view! So far I cannot argue with the results. Let me introduce myself formerly, my name is Antoine Chambard Palomer. And what is it that you do, Madame Oldfield?”

  “I’m a Professor of Medieval Languages.”

  “Fascinating,” said Antoine quite genuinely.

  “You’re aware of the history of your name, I presume?” said Oldfield.

  “Why don’t you use your immense knowledge to enlighten me? It appears your skill at translating languages varies significantly from others I have employed.”

  “Palomer is a word used mainly in Provence and comes from the seventeenth century. It has two meanings: mild in manner, or keeper of pigeons.”

  “Oh dear, I’m not overly keen on pigeons. I think I’ll go with the first meaning.”

  “Antoine, of course, is a very old name which has its roots in the early Roman language,” continued Ally, completely ignoring Palomer’s reaction as if he weren’t really there. “Chambard, though, is much harder to place. I’ve not seen it used as a forename before. The word is French of course and more often found as a surname. I believe its literal translation is disorder or more eloquently put in the English language, rumpus.”

  “Excellent,” smiled the old man with a twinkle of respect for her in his eyes. “They would be delighted.”

  “Who would?”

  “My ancestors. Chambard is an old family name that’s been handed down through the generations to every first-born son for as long as anyone can trace. Well done. I must applaud your obvious talents.”

  “I’m a professor, they don’t just hand those out for free.”

  “So I see.”

  “And you, Monsieur Palomer, what is your area of expertise?” asked Ally, starting to get into the swing of this thing people called ‘chit-chat’.

  “Antoine please,” he replied, taking a large gulp from the glass of wine that had just been delivered to the table. “Oh, I have many. I have long since retired from formal employment, but my trade back in the day was pharmacy. Now I keep a keen interest in several hobbies.”

  “And what would those be?”

  “Mainly philanthropy. You see, I’m very fortunate that my family has always been, how can I put this, financially secure. As a result we have for generations been in the business of helping those less fortunate than ourselves. We have many foundations that sponsor the gifted, poor and less fortunate.”

  “How noble of you,” replied Ally, unable to understand why anyone would care for the welfare of those who had done nothing for the contributor and even less for the wider world they lived in.

  “Interesting choice of words,” said Palomer analysing every subtle reaction, both physical and verbal, of Ally’s reaction. “Are you married, Dr. Oldfield?”

  “That’s a little too personal.”

  “It’s not an abnormal question.”

  “Well, it is for me. Chit-chat is one thing but my private life remains just that,” she said firmly.

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” said Antoine genuinely. “I understand from Monsieur Depuis that you are interested in the circumstances surrounding our discovery?”

  Finally Ally could dispense with the pointless formalities of ‘getting to know you’ and focus on her real purpose for being there.

  “Yes. There are many things that I have yet to learn about it. How long has the house been in your family?”

  “Centuries. Although in order to modernise it the house itself has had many alterations over the years. It’s in the old town a little way down the hill from here, although sadly age has forced me to use the ridiculous funicular these days.”

  “What date was the house built?”

  “Early sixteenth century. Most of the properties in the Saint-Paul region were. Most were owned by Italian bankers, although I understand that was not my ancestors’ profession.”

  “Do you have any
idea how they came to live there?”

  “Pardon me, Dr. Oldfield, but you seem more interested in my property than the book.”

  “I seek to find a connection, that’s all. If the book is old, as I suspect it is, the building may shed some light on the identity of the prophecy’s author.”

  “You don’t believe it was written by Nostradamus?”

  “No. I certainly don’t,” she replied with a scowl. “So your family, how did they come to own the house?”

  “Hard to say. There are only myths passed on as family whispers down the ages, I’m afraid.”

  “But you had no knowledge of the book until it was found inside the commode behind the partition wall?”

  “None whatsoever, but it was quite an exciting day when they discovered it. But it wasn’t found in a commode. Where did you get that from?”

  “Salvador Depuis.”

  “Quite wrong, I’m afraid, it was found in a coffer.”

  “Not being an antiques expert I don’t know the difference.”

  “A coffer is a low cabinet usually with doors or drawers at the front.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “It was black and made of oak.”

  “Is that it? Not much to go on: you must have a better description than that.”

  “I find your questions surprising,” he said, diverting from the answer. “I thought you’d be more interested in asking me about the new Nostradamus quatrain.”

  “I’ll repeat myself. It’s not by him.”

  “So you say, but how can you be certain?”

  “Because I’m an expert on the subject. I know how he wrote, what he wrote about and more importantly why he wrote about them. It does not fit his style on any of those counts. If I’m to discover the truth I need a wider field of vision.”

  Antoine drained the remainder of his wine, which had taken only three gulps to complete. In the distance the sun had passed behind the Basilique’s spire and its visitors’ stomachs were forcing their owners to depart to find one of Lyon’s other great qualities, gastronomy.