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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 15

by Mario Reading


  ‘You lo­ok fan­tas­tic. Li­ke a gypsy. If you didn’t ha­ve that pa­yo mug of yo­urs, I’d want you for a brot­her.’

  ‘How do you ke­ep a stra­ight fa­ce when you say things li­ke that, Ale­xi?’

  ‘My jaw is bro­ken. That is how.’

  Des­pi­te all Yo­la’s pro­tes­ta­ti­ons to the cont­rary, Sa­bir still felt that he stuck out li­ke an al­bi­no. Ever­yo­ne was watc­hing him. Whe­re­ver he went, wha­te­ver he did, ga­zes slid off him and then back on aga­in as so­on as his at­ten­ti­on was di­ver­ted to­wards so­mew­he­re el­se. ‘Are you su­re they’re not go­ing to turn me in? I’m pro­bably still ap­pe­aring nightly on TV. The­re’s pro­bably a re­ward.’

  ‘Every­body he­re knows of the Kriss. They know you are Yo­la’s phral. That the Bu­li­bas­ha at Sa­mo­is is yo­ur kir­vo. If an­yo­ne de­no­un­ced you, they wo­uld ha­ve to ans­wer to him. They wo­uld be exi­led. Li­ke that ar­se­ho­le Gav­ril’s unc­le.’

  Gav­ril was watc­hing them from the pe­rip­hery of the camp. When he saw that Ale­xi had no­ti­ced him, he ra­ised one fin­ger and plun­ged it in­si­de a ring ma­de out of the thumb and in­dex fin­ger of his ot­her hand. Then he stuck it in his mo­uth and rol­led his eyes.

  ‘A fri­end of yo­urs?’

  ‘He’s af­ter Yo­la. He wants to kill me.’

  ‘The two things don’t ne­ces­sa­rily tally.’

  ‘What are you tal­king abo­ut?’

  ‘I me­an if he kills you, Yo­la won’t marry him.’

  ‘Oh yes. She pro­bably wo­uld. Wo­men for­get. Af­ter a whi­le he’d con­vin­ce her that he was in the right. She’d get hot in her sto­mach and let him kid­nap her. She’s al­re­ady old not to be mar­ri­ed. What’s hap­pe­ning to­night is bad. She will see this wed­ding and start thin­king even mo­re un­well of me. Then Gav­ril will lo­ok bet­ter to her.’

  ‘She’s old not to be mar­ri­ed be­ca­use she’s ke­eping her­self for you, Ale­xi. Or hadn’t you no­ti­ced that? Why the Hell don’t you just kid­nap her and ha­ve do­ne with it?’

  ‘Wo­uld you let me?’

  Sa­bir aimed a play­ful slap at Ale­xi’s he­ad. ‘Of co­ur­se I’d let you. She’s ob­vi­o­usly in lo­ve with you. Just as you are with her. That’s why you ar­gue all the ti­me.’

  ‘We ar­gue be­ca­use she wants to do­mi­na­te me. She wants to we­ar the tro­users. I don’t want a wo­man who nags me. Whe­ne­ver I go away, she’ll get angry. And then she’ll pu­nish me. Yo­la is he­xi. She’ll put spells on me. This way, I’m free. I don’t ha­ve to exp­la­in myself to an­yo­ne. I can fuck pa­yo wo­men, just li­ke she sa­id.’

  ‘But what if so­me­one el­se to­ok her? So­me­one li­ke Gav­ril?’

  ‘I’d kill him.’

  Sa­bir gro­aned and tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on back to the bri­dal party, which was fast ap­pro­ac­hing the cent­re of the camp. ‘You’d bet­ter tell me what’s hap­pe­ning.’

  ‘But it’s just li­ke any ot­her wed­ding.’

  ‘I don’t think so, so­me­how.’

  ‘Well. Okay then. You see tho­se two over the­re? That’s the fat­her of the bri­de and the fat­her of the gro­om. They will ha­ve to con­vin­ce the Bu­li­bas­ha that they ha­ve ag­re­ed on a bri­de-pri­ce. Then the gold must be han­ded over and co­un­ted. Then the Bu­li­bas­ha will of­fer the co­up­le bre­ad and salt. He’ll tell them, “When the bre­ad and salt no lon­ger tas­te go­od to you, then you will no lon­ger be hus­band and wi­fe.’’ ’

  ‘What’s the old wo­man do­ing, wa­ving the hand­kerc­hi­ef?’

  ‘She is trying to con­vin­ce the fat­her of the gro­om that the bri­de is still a vir­gin.’

  ‘You’re kid­ding?’

  ‘Wo­uld I kid you, Adam? Vir­gi­nity is very im­por­tant he­re. Why do you think Yo­la is al­ways go­ing on abo­ut be­ing a vir­gin? That ma­kes her mo­re va­lu­ab­le. You co­uld sell her for a lot of gold if you co­uld find a man wil­ling to ta­ke her on.’

  ‘Li­ke Gav­ril?’

  ‘His cel­lar is empty.’

  Sa­bir re­ali­sed that he wo­uld get no furt­her along that ro­ute. ‘So why the hand­kerc­hi­ef?’

  ‘It’s cal­led a mo­ca­dor. A pa­ñu­elo, so­me­ti­mes. That old wo­man you see hol­ding it - well, she’s chec­ked with her fin­ger that the bri­de is re­al­ly a vir­gin. Then she sta­ins the mo­ca­dor in three pla­ces with blo­od from the girl. Af­ter that has be­en do­ne, the Bu­li­bas­ha po­urs ra­kia on the hand­kerc­hi­ef. This will mo­ve the blo­od in­to the sha­pe of a flo­wer. Only vir­gin’s blo­od will do this thing - pig’s blo­od wo­uldn’t be­ha­ve in that way. Now lo­ok. She’s tying the hand­kerc­hi­ef on a stick. This me­ans that the fat­her of the gro­om has ac­cep­ted that the girl is a vir­gin. Now the old wo­man will carry the stick aro­und the camp so that ever­yo­ne el­se can see that Lem­ma has not had her eyes clo­sed by anot­her man.’

  ‘What’s the bri­deg­ro­om cal­led?’

  ‘Ra­du. He’s my co­usin.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  ***

  Sa­bir ca­ught sight of Yo­la on the ot­her si­de of the squ­are. He wa­ved a hand at her, but she lo­we­red her he­ad and ig­no­red him. He idly won­de­red what new fa­ux pas he’d just com­mit­ted.

  Over by the wed­ding party, the Bu­li­bas­ha ra­ised a va­se and bro­ught it down with all his for­ce on the bri­deg­ro­om’s he­ad. The va­se splin­te­red in­to a tho­usand pi­eces. The­re was a com­mu­nal gasp from the as­semb­led crowd.

  ‘What the Hell was all that abo­ut?’

  ‘The mo­re pi­eces the va­se bre­aks in­to, the hap­pi­er the co­up­le will be. This co­up­le will be very happy.’

  ‘Are they mar­ri­ed now?’

  ‘Not yet. First the bri­de has to eat so­met­hing ma­de with herbs ta­ken from abo­ve a gra­ve. Then she must ha­ve her hands pa­in­ted with hen­na - the lon­ger the hen­na stays on, the lon­ger her hus­band will lo­ve her. Then she must carry a child over the thres­hold of her ca­ra­van, for if she do­esn’t pro­du­ce a child wit­hin a ye­ar, Ra­du can throw her out.’

  ‘Oh, that’s gre­at. That’s very en­ligh­te­ned.’

  ‘It do­esn’t of­ten hap­pen, Adam. Only when the co­up­le fight. Then it is a go­od ex­cu­se for both par­ti­es to end an un­hap­py sta­te.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘No. In a few mi­nu­tes, we will carry the bri­de and gro­om aro­und the camp on our sho­ul­ders. The wo­men will sing the tra­di­ti­onal ye­li ye­li wed­ding song. Then the bri­de will go and chan­ge in­to her ot­her cos­tu­me. Then we will all dan­ce.’

  ‘You can dan­ce with Yo­la, then.’

  ‘Oh no. Men dan­ce with men and wo­men with wo­men. The­re’s no mi­xing.’

  ‘You don’t say. You know so­met­hing, Ale­xi? Not­hing abo­ut you pe­op­le surp­ri­ses me any­mo­re. I just fi­gu­re out what I ex­pect to hap­pen, turn it aro­und on its he­ad and then I know I’ve got it right.’

  58

  It had ta­ken Ac­hor Ba­le three ho­urs to fo­ot-slog his way over the hills be­hind the Mont­ser­rat Sanc­tu­ary and he was star­ting to won­der whet­her he wasn’t ta­king ca­uti­on to ri­di­cu­lo­us ext­re­mes.

  No­body knew his car. No­body was fol­lo­wing him. No­body was wa­iting for him. The chan­ces of a French po­li­ce­man ma­king a con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en the Ro­ca­ma­do­ur mur­der and the de­ath of the gypsy in Pa­ris we­re thin in the ext­re­me. And then to ext­ra­po­la­te from the­re to Mont­ser­rat? Still, so­met­hing was nig­gling at him.

  He had tur­ned on the trac­ker twenty mi­les from Man­re­sa, but he had known that the chan­ces of pic­king up Sa­bir we­re pretty slim. Frankly, he didn’t much ca­re if he ne­ver en­co­un­te­red the
man aga­in. Ba­le was not one to har­bo­ur grud­ges. If he ma­de an er­ror, he rec­ti­fi­ed it - it was as simp­le as that. Back at Ro­ca­ma­do­ur he had ma­de an er­ror in not gi­ving the Sanc­tu­ary the on­ce over. He had un­de­res­ti­ma­ted Sa­bir and the gypsy and he had pa­id the pri­ce - or rat­her the new watch­man had pa­id the pri­ce.

  This ti­me he wo­uld not be so ca­va­li­er. Bar­ring the tra­in, which was too li­mi­ting, the­re was only one ef­fec­ti­ve way in­to Mont­ser­rat, which was by ro­ad. Ha­ving left his car su­itably con­ce­aled on the far si­de of the rid­ge, the­re­fo­re, he wo­uld co­me in over the mo­un­ta­ins, on the un­ders­tan­ding that if the po­li­ce had, by so­me mi­rac­le, be­en fo­re­war­ned of his ar­ri­val, they wo­uld be mo­ni­to­ring the two ob­vi­o­us in­co­ming ro­utes and not tho­se pe­op­le exi­ting in the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on by tra­in, or hi­j­ac­ked ve­hic­le, early in the mor­ning.

  One as­pect of the fi­as­co at Ro­ca­ma­do­ur still ir­ri­ta­ted him, ho­we­ver. Ba­le had ne­ver lost a gun be­fo­re - ne­it­her du­ring his ye­ars on ac­ti­ve ser­vi­ce with the Le­gi­on, nor as a re­sult of the many ac­ti­vi­ti­es he had en­ga­ged in for the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus af­ter that pe­ri­od. And par­ti­cu­larly not a gun that he had be­en gi­ven, in per­son, by the la­te Mon­si­e­ur, his adop­ti­ve fat­her.

  He had be­en inor­di­na­tely fond of the lit­tle.380 ca­lib­re Re­ming­ton 51 self-lo­ader. All of eighty ye­ars old and one of the very last units off the fac­tory pro­duc­ti­on li­ne, it had be­en small and easy to con­ce­al. Hand-mil­led to re­du­ce gla­re, it had a par­ti­cu­larly ef­fec­ti­ve de­la­yed blow-back, which saw the sli­de and the bre­ech-block tra­vel­ling in tan­dem for a short dis­tan­ce af­ter each shot, po­we­ring the sli­de back over the re­co­il spring, du­ring which ti­me the bre­ech-block was fle­etingly bra­ced in its tracks be­fo­re con­ti­nu­ing on to re­j­o­in it. In this man­ner the spent cart­rid­ge was ej­ec­ted and the ac­ti­on re-coc­ked in one and the sa­me pro­cess, with a fresh ro­und be­ing cham­be­red on the re­turn stro­ke. Bril­li­ant. Ba­le li­ked mec­ha­ni­cal things that wor­ked as they we­re me­ant to.

  Reg­ret, tho­ugh, was for lo­sers. The re­turn of the pis­tol co­uld wa­it. Now that he had se­cu­red his very own copy of the Ro­ca­ma­do­ur ver­se he co­uld put all tho­ughts of fa­ilu­re asi­de and get on with the job in hand. The most im­por­tant new fac­tor was that he didn’t ne­ed to fol­low pe­op­le aro­und any­mo­re, or bru­ta­li­se them for the­ir sec­rets. This su­ited Ba­le ad­mi­rably. For he wasn’t by na­tu­re a vin­dic­ti­ve or a bru­tal man. To his way of thin­king he was simply do­ing his duty in terms of the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus. For if he and his ilk didn’t act when they ne­eded to, Sa­tan, the Gre­at Pimp and his he­ta­era, the Gre­at Who­re, wo­uld ta­ke do­mi­ni­on over the earth and the re­ign of God wo­uld be en­ded. ‘He that le­adeth in­to cap­ti­vity shall go in­to cap­ti­vity: he that kil­leth with the sword must be kil­led with the sword. He­re is the pa­ti­en­ce and the fa­ith of the sa­ints.’

  It was for this re­ason that God had gran­ted ad­he­rents of the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus free re­in to un­lo­ose, anarchy when and whe­re they wis­hed, on to an im­mi­nently thre­ate­ned world. Only by di­lu­ting to­tal evil and tur­ning it in­to its par­ti­al, cont­rol­lab­le va­ri­ant, co­uld Sa­tan be stop­ped. This was the ul­ti­ma­te pur­po­se of the three An­tich­rists fo­re­told in the bo­ok of Re­ve­la­ti­on, just as Ma­da­me, his adop­ti­ve mot­her, had desc­ri­bed to him in her ori­gi­nal ex­po­si­ti­on of his mis­si­on. Na­po­le­on and Adolf Hit­ler, the two pre­vi­o­us An­tich­rists - to­get­her with the Gre­at One still to co­me - we­re be­ings spe­ci­fi­cal­ly de­sig­ned by God in or­der to pre­vent the world from tur­ning to the De­vil. They ac­ted as the De­vil’s obj­ec­ti­ve cor­re­la­ti­ve - pla­ca­ting him, as it we­re and en­su­ring that he was kept in a sta­te of be­mu­sed sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  This was why Ba­le and the rest of the adepts of the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus had be­en gi­ven the task of pro­tec­ting the An­tich­rists and, if at all pos­sib­le, sa­bo­ta­ging the so-cal­led Se­cond Co­ming - which might mo­re cor­rectly be ter­med the Se­cond Gre­at Pla­ce­bo. It was this Se­cond Co­ming that wo­uld gal­va­ni­se the De­vil from his in­ter­reg­num, trig­ge­ring the Fi­nal Conf­lict. For this pur­po­se adepts we­re ne­eded who we­re, in them­sel­ves, clo­se to per­fec­ti­on. ‘The­se are they which we­re not de­fi­led with wo­men; for they are vir­gins. The­se are they which fol­low the Lamb whit­her­so­ever he go­eth…And in the­ir mo­uth was fo­und no gu­ile: for they are wit­ho­ut fa­ult be­fo­re the thro­ne of God.’

  It was a simp­le char­ge and one which Ac­hor Ba­le had emb­ra­ced thro­ug­ho­ut his li­fe with evan­ge­li­cal ze­al. ‘And I saw as it we­re a sea of glass ming­led with fi­re: and them that had got­ten the vic­tory over the be­ast and over his ima­ge and over his mark and over the num­ber of his na­me, stand on the sea of glass, ha­ving the harps of God.’

  Ba­le was pro­ud of the ini­ti­ati­ve he had used in fol­lo­wing up Sa­bir. Pro­ud that he had spent the bet­ter part of his li­fe ful­fil­ling a so­lemn duty of ca­re.

  ‘We are not an­ti-anything, we are an­ti-everyt­hing.’ Wasn’t that how Ma­da­me, had exp­la­ined it to him? ‘It’s im­pos­sib­le to pub­li­ci­se us be­ca­use no one wo­uld be­li­eve you. Not­hing is writ­ten down. Not­hing transc­ri­bed. They bu­ild - we dest­roy. It is as simp­le as that. For or­der can only emer­ge from flux.’

  59

  ‘Did you know that No­va­lis be­li­eved that af­ter the Fall of Man, Pa­ra­di­se was bro­ken up and scat­te­red in frag­ments all over the earth?’ Cal­que eased him­self in­to a mo­re com­for­tab­le po­si­ti­on. ‘And that this is why pi­eces of it are now so hard to find?’

  Mac­ron rol­led his eyes, co­un­ting on the ra­pidly enc­ro­ac­hing dusk to mask his ir­ri­ta­ti­on. He was be­co­ming used to Cal­que’s Laby­rint­hi­ne tho­ught pat­terns, but he still fo­und the who­le pro­cess cu­ri­o­usly un­set­tling. Did Cal­que do it on pur­po­se to ma­ke him fe­el in­fe­ri­or? And if so, why? ‘Who was No­va­lis?’

  Cal­que sig­hed. ‘No­va­lis was the pen na­me of Ge­org Phi­lipp Fri­ed­rich Fre­iherr von Har­den­berg. In pre-Re­pub­li­can Ger­many, a Fre­iherr was the ro­ugh equ­iva­lent of a Ba­ron. No­va­lis was a fri­end of Schil­ler and a con­tem­po­rary of Go­et­he. A po­et. A mystic. What ha­ve you. He al­so mi­ned salt. No­va­lis be­li­eved in a Li­ebes­re­li­gi­on - a Re­li­gi­on of Lo­ve. Li­fe and de­ath as in­tert­wi­ned con­cepts, with an in­ter­me­di­ary ne­ces­sary bet­we­en God and Man. But this in­ter­me­di­ary do­es not ha­ve to be Jesus. It can be an­yo­ne. The Vir­gin Mary. The Sa­ints. The de­ad be­lo­ved. Even a child.’

  ‘Why are you tel­ling me this, Sir?’ Mac­ron co­uld fe­el the words clog­ging up his thro­at li­ke bis­cu­it dust. ‘You know I’m no in­tel­lec­tu­al. Not li­ke you.’

  ‘To pass the ti­me, Mac­ron. To pass the ti­me. And to try and ma­ke sen­se out of the ap­pa­rent non­sen­se we fo­und on La Mo­re­ni­ta’s fo­ot.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Cal­que grun­ted, as tho­ugh so­me­one had unex­pec­tedly prod­ded him be­ne­ath the ribs. ‘It was that Ca­ta­lan po­li­ce cap­ta­in. Vil­la­da. An ext­re­mely well-edu­ca­ted man, li­ke all Spa­ni­ards. He got me thin­king abo­ut all this with so­met­hing he sa­id abo­ut li­te­ra­lity and pa­ra­dox.’

  Mac­ron clo­sed his eyes. He wan­ted to sle­ep. In a bed. With a go­ose-down du­vet and his fi­anc­ée cur­led up next to him with her bot­tom tightly spo­oned aga­inst his gro­in. He didn’t want to be he­re in Spa­in on the ba­sis of
a fi­ve -hund­red-ye­ar-old mes­sa­ge from a de­ad lu­na­tic, sta­king out a va­lu­eless wo­oden sta­tue with two erect phal­lu­ses spro­uting along­si­de it, in the com­pany of an em­bit­te­red po­li­ce cap­ta­in who wo­uld cle­arly rat­her be spen­ding his work­days in a uni­ver­sity re­se­arch lib­rary. This was the se­cond night in a row they had spent out in the open. The Ca­ta­lan po­li­ce we­re al­re­ady be­gin­ning to lo­ok at them as­kan­ce.

  The­re was a buz­zing in his poc­ket. Mac­ron star­ted and then ca­ught him­self. Had Cal­que re­ali­sed that he had be­en do­zing? Or was he so bo­und up with his cal­cu­la­ti­ons and his myths and his phi­lo­sop­hi­sing that he wo­uldn’t even no­ti­ce if the eye-man ca­me up be­hind him and slit his giz­zard?

  He glan­ced down at the il­lu­mi­na­ted scre­en of his cel­lpho­ne. So­met­hing mo­ved in­si­de him as he re­ad the mes­sa­ge - so­me fa­ta­lis­tic dj­inn that lur­ked in his gut and emer­ged in ti­mes of dan­ger and un­cer­ta­inty to be­ra­te him for his lack of ima­gi­na­ti­on and his end­less, ru­ino­us do­ubts. ‘It’s La­mast­re. They pic­ked up the eye-man’s trac­ker fo­ur ho­urs ago. Twenty ki­lo­met­res from he­re. Up ne­ar Man­re­sa. He must ha­ve be­en chec­king for Sa­bir.’

  ‘Fo­ur ho­urs ago? You can’t be se­ri­o­us?’

  ‘So­me­one cle­arly went off duty wit­ho­ut re­por­ting for­ward.’

  ‘So­me­one will cle­arly find him­self back on the be­at next pay­day. I want you to get me his na­me, Mac­ron. Then I’m go­ing to run his guts thro­ugh a sa­usa­ge mac­hi­ne and fe­ed him to him­self for bre­ak­fast.’

  ‘The­re’s so­met­hing el­se, Cap­ta­in.’

  ‘What? What el­se can the­re be?’

 

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