THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  Ba­le hel­ped him­self to so­me so­up. For the lo­ve of Mi­ke, it was go­od! He hadn’t eaten anyt­hing at all in twel­ve ho­urs. He co­uld fe­el the rich­ness of the broth rep­le­nis­hing his po­wers - re­kind­ling his dep­le­ted energy.

  He drank so­me wi­ne, too and ate a lit­tle bre­ad. But the bre­ad pro­ved sta­le and he was for­ced to dunk it in the so­up to ma­ke it pa­la­tab­le. Well. You co­uldn’t ha­ve everyt­hing.

  ‘Are you get­ting ti­red, my de­ar?’ He glan­ced ac­ross at the girl.

  She was stan­ding on a three-leg­ged sto­ol in the cent­re of the ro­om, a bre­ad­sack over her he­ad and with her neck in­fi­bu­la­ted thro­ugh a no­ose which Ba­le had const­ruc­ted from a cow­hi­de la­ri­at. The sto­ol was just wi­de eno­ugh to gi­ve her a fa­ir ba­se on which to stand, but the blow to her he­ad had ob­vi­o­usly we­ake­ned her and from ti­me to ti­me she swa­yed awk­wardly aga­inst the ro­pe, which, wit­hin re­ason, ac­ted as a sup­port for her neck.

  ‘Why are you do­ing this? I ha­ve not­hing you want. I know not­hing you want to know.’

  Ear­li­er, Ba­le had thrown open the sa­lon shut­ters and the front do­or of the Ma­set to the night. He had al­so sur­ro­un­ded the sto­ol with cand­les and oil lamps, so that the girl sto­od as if flo­od­lit - vi­sib­le for fifty met­res in any di­rec­ti­on ex­cept to the north.

  Now he rec­li­ned as if on a di­van, the sa­uce­pan of so­up on his lap, the out­li­nes of his body lost in the dark­ness out­si­de the po­ol of cand­le­light, well out of any sight-li­nes af­for­ded by the ope­ned win­dows and front do­or. At his right si­de lay the Red­hawk, its butt con­ve­ni­ently ang­led to­wards his hand.

  He had cho­sen the three-leg­ged sto­ol be­ca­use one shot from the Red­hawk wo­uld be eno­ugh to top­ple the girl in­to the air. All he had to do was to shat­ter a sing­le leg of the sto­ol. True, she wo­uld kick and jerk for a mi­nu­te or two, as the fall wo­uld be now­he­re ne­ar long eno­ugh to bre­ak her neck - but she wo­uld even­tu­al­ly asphy­xi­ate, le­aving Ba­le amp­le ti­me to ma­ke his ge­ta­way by the re­ar win­dow whi­le Sa­bir and the gypsy we­re oc­cu­pi­ed with trying to sa­ve her li­fe.

  No­ne of this wo­uld be ne­ces­sary, of co­ur­se, if Sa­bir wo­uld simply co­me to terms. And Ba­le ho­ped that the sight of the girl wo­uld con­cent­ra­te his mind on just that ne­ces­sity. A simp­le trans­fer of the prop­he­ci­es wo­uld do the trick. Then Ba­le wo­uld le­ave. Sa­bir and the gypsy co­uld ha­ve the wretc­hed girl. They we­re wel­co­me to her. Ba­le ne­ver re­ne­ged on a de­al.

  In the un­li­kely even­tu­ality that they ca­me af­ter him, ho­we­ver, he wo­uld kill them - but he was as cer­ta­in as he was of anyt­hing that Sa­bir wo­uld ca­pi­tu­la­te. What did he ha­ve to lo­se? So­me cash and a lit­tle fle­eting fa­me. And to ga­in? Everyt­hing.

  51

  ‘Tell me aga­in what ti­me he left.’

  Yo­la gro­aned. She had be­en stan­ding on the sto­ol for over an ho­ur now and her blo­use was drenc­hed in swe­at.

  Her legs felt as if they we­re fil­led with craw­ling pa­ra­si­tes that pa­ra­ded up and down her thighs and cal­ves, nib­bling as they went. Her hands we­re ti­ed be­hind her and thus her only me­ans of cont­rol­ling her ever-wi­der swings was by me­ans of her chin. When she sen­sed that she was on the ver­ge of swa­ying, she wo­uld clamp the ro­pe tightly to her sho­ul­der with the un­der­si­de of her jaw, co­un­ting on the ten­si­on of the la­ri­at to ke­ep her up­right.

  For so­me ti­me now she had be­en won­de­ring whet­her it wo­uld be worth tes­ting the eye-man - let­ting her­self fall on pur­po­se. He was ob­vi­o­usly wa­iting for Sa­bir and Ale­xi. So if they we­ren’t the­re to see her strang­le, wo­uld the eye-man sco­op her up and sa­ve her? Un­tie her, whi­le she re­co­ve­red, be­fo­re using her aga­in? Re­lax his at­ten­ti­on for a mo­ment? It wo­uld be her only chan­ce of es­ca­pe. But it wo­uld be an aw­ful risk to ta­ke.

  May­be he wo­uld just amu­se him­self by watc­hing her die? Then he might tie her back-up - string her from the no­ose - and no­body, at a dis­tan­ce, wo­uld re­ali­se that she was al­re­ady de­ad.

  ‘I as­ked you a qu­es­ti­on. At what ti­me did Sa­bir le­ave?’

  ‘I don’t use a watch. I don’t know the ti­me.’

  ‘How far off from dusk was it?’

  Yo­la didn’t want to an­ta­go­ni­se him. He had al­re­ady struck her on­ce, af­ter pul­ling her from the win­dow. She was sca­red of him. Sca­red of what he was ca­pab­le of do­ing. Sca­red that he might re­mem­ber what he had thre­ate­ned to do to her the first ti­me they had met and re­pe­at the thre­at to amu­se him­self. She was cer­ta­in that the in­for­ma­ti­on she was gi­ving me­rely con­fir­med what he al­re­ady knew. That the­re was not­hing new abo­ut it - not­hing that co­uld in any way pre­j­udi­ce Ale­xi and Da­mo’s chan­ces of sur­vi­val. ‘Abo­ut an ho­ur. I sent him off to catch anot­her hor­se. He wo­uld ha­ve rid­den off lo­oking for Ale­xi.’

  ‘And Ale­xi wo­uld co­me back he­re?’

  ‘Yes. Wit­ho­ut a do­ubt.’

  ‘And Ale­xi knows his way abo­ut the mars­hes? Knows eno­ugh to find his way back he­re in the dark?’

  ‘Yes. He knows the mars­hes well.’

  Ba­le nod­ded. That much had be­en ob­vi­o­us. That had ma­de all the dif­fe­ren­ce. If Ale­xi had be­en tra­vel­ling blind, Ba­le wo­uld ha­ve ca­ught him. If only he hadn’t known abo­ut the Bac - then this en­ti­re cha­ra­de wo­uld ha­ve be­en un­ne­ces­sary. Ba­le co­uld ha­ve ta­ken the prop­he­ci­es back to Ma­da­me, his mot­her and be­en ac­cla­imed as a he­ro. The Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus wo­uld ha­ve ho­no­ured him. He, per­so­nal­ly, might ha­ve be­en pla­ced in char­ge of pro­tec­ting the next An­tich­rist. Or of era­di­ca­ting the blo­od­li­ne of the New Mes­si­ah be­fo­re the event. Ba­le was go­od at such things. His mind func­ti­oned in a met­ho­di­cal way. Gi­ve him a go­al and he wo­uld ste­adily and pa­ins­ta­kingly work to­wards it - just as he had do­ne with the prop­he­ci­es, over the past few we­eks.

  ‘Are you go­ing to kill them?’

  Ba­le glan­ced up. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘I sa­id are you go­ing to kill them?’

  Ba­le smi­led. ‘May­be. May­be not. It all de­pends on how they res­pond to the pic­tu­re I ha­ve cre­ated of you dang­ling from the end of a ro­pe. You’d bet­ter ho­pe they un­ders­tand exactly what I am trying to com­mu­ni­ca­te to them with my lit­tle pi­ece of the­at­re. That they co­me in of the­ir own free will. That they don’t for­ce me to sho­ut-out one of tho­se sto­ol legs.’

  ‘Why do you do all this?’

  ‘Do all what?’

  ‘You know what I me­an. Tor­ment pe­op­le. Pur­sue them. Kill them.’

  Ba­le let out an amu­sed snort. ‘Be­ca­use it is my sworn duty to do so. It can be of no pos­sib­le in­te­rest to you - or con­cern - but back in the thir­te­enth cen­tury, my fa­mily and the lar­ger brot­her­ho­od to which it be­longs, was gi­ven a task by King Lo­u­is IX of Fran­ce.’ Ba­le ma­de a re­ver­se cross, which be­gan at his crotch and en­ded be­hind his he­ad. ‘I am tal­king of Sa­int Lo­u­is, Rex Fran­co­rum et Rex Chris­ti­anis­si­mus, Li­e­ute­nant of God on Earth.’ He mir­ro­red the sign of the re­ver­se cross with the sign of the six-si­ded Pen­tac­le, aga­in go­ing from the bot­tom to the top of his body. ‘The task he ga­ve us was to be ours in per­pe­tu­ity and con­sis­ted, qu­ite simply, of pro­tec­ting the French pe­op­le from the mac­hi­na­ti­ons of the De­vil - or Sa­tan, Aza­zel, Typhon, Ah­ri­man, Ang­ra Ma­in­yu, As­mo­dai, Lu­ci­fer, Be­la­il, Be­el­ze­bub, Ib­lis, Sha­itan, Alic­hi­no, Bar­ba­ric­cia, Cal­cob­ri­na, Cay­naz­zo, Ci­ri­ato San
­nu­to, Drag­nig­naz­zo, Far­fa­rel­lo, Graf­fi ca­ne, Li­bi­coc­co, Ru­bi­can­te, Scar­mig­li­one, or wha­te­ver el­se stu­pid pe­op­le cho­ose to call him. We ha­ve ful­fi lled this bond for over ni­ne cen­tu­ri­es - of­ten at the cost of our li­ves. And we shall ful­fil it un­til Rag­na­rök - un­til the End of Days and the co­ming of Vi­dar of Va­li.’

  ‘Why do we ne­ed you to pro­tect us?’

  ‘I re­fu­se to ans­wer that qu­es­ti­on.’

  ‘Why did you kill my brot­her, then?’

  ‘Wha­te­ver ga­ve you the idea that I kil­led yo­ur brot­her?’

  ‘They fo­und him han­ging from a bed fra­me. You had stab­bed him thro­ugh the che­ek with a kni­fe. You had bro­ken his neck.’

  ‘The bit with the kni­fe. The punc­tu­re wo­und. That was me. I ad­mit it. Sa­ma­na wo­uldn’t un­ders­tand that I me­ant what I sa­id. I ne­eded to show him that I was se­ri­o­us. But yo­ur brot­her kil­led him­self.’

  ‘How? That is im­pos­sib­le.’

  ‘I tho­ught so too. But I as­ked him so­met­hing - so­met­hing that wo­uld ha­ve led di­rectly to you. I think he re­ali­sed, in his he­art of he­arts, that he wo­uld even­tu­al­ly talk. Every­body do­es. The hu­man mind can­not con­ce­ive how much pu­nish­ment the hu­man body can ac­tu­al­ly ta­ke. The mind in­ter­ve­nes con­si­de­rably be­fo­re it ne­eds to - it trawls thro­ugh what it knows and it jumps to conc­lu­si­ons. It is una­wa­re that - un­less a vi­tal or­gan is da­ma­ged - ne­arly all physi­cal func­ti­ons may even­tu­al­ly be re­ga­ined. But the tho­ught of all the da­ma­ge be­ing inf­lic­ted acts as a tem­po­rary ca­talyst. The mind aban­dons ho­pe - and at that par­ti­cu­lar po­int and at that po­int only, de­ath be­co­mes pre­fe­rab­le to li­fe. That is the cru­ci­al mo­ment for the tor­men­tor - when the fulc­rum po­int has be­en re­ac­hed.’

  Ba­le hunc­hed for­ward in his ent­hu­si­asm. ‘I ha­ve ma­de so­met­hing of a study of this, you know. The gre­atest tor­tu­rers - tho­se from the In­qu­isi­ti­on, say, li­ke the Hang­man of Dre­is­si­gac­ker, or He­in­rich Ins­ti­to­ris and Jacob Spren­ger - even Chi­ne­se Mas­ters li­ke Zhou Xing and Suo Yu­an­li, who tran­sac­ted the­ir bu­si­ness du­ring the re­ign of Wu Ze­ti­an - bro­ught pe­op­le back from the brink many ti­mes over. He­re. I can see by yo­ur pos­tu­re that you don’t be­li­eve me. Let me re­ad so­met­hing to you. To pass the ti­me, as it we­re - for it must be very un­com­for­tab­le for you, ba­lan­cing on that sto­ol. It’s from a cut­ting I al­ways carry abo­ut my per­son. I ha­ve re­ad it to many of my…’ Ba­le he­si­ta­ted, as if he be­en abo­ut to ut­ter so­me in­fe­li­city. ‘Shall we call them my cli­ents? It con­cerns the first man I men­ti­oned to you in my list of tor­tu­rers - he was cal­led the Hang­man of Dre­is­si­gac­ker. A true adept of the art of pa­in. You will be imp­res­sed, I pro­mi­se.’

  ‘You ma­ke me sick. Sick to my he­art. I wish that you wo­uld kill me now.’

  ‘No. No. Lis­ten to this. It re­al­ly is qu­ite ext­ra­or­di­nary.’

  The­re was the so­und of a pi­ece of pa­per be­ing stra­igh­te­ned. Yo­la tri­ed to shut her ears to the so­und of the eye-man’s vo­ice, but all that she suc­ce­eded in do­ing was to re­in­for­ce the thrum­ming of blo­od thro­ugh her he­ad, so that the eye-man’s vo­ice in­ten­si­fi­ed in­si­de her li­ke the clap­ping of a tho­usand hands.

  ‘You must try to ima­gi­ne yo­ur way back to the ye­ar 1631. To the ti­me of the Cat­ho­lic In­qu­isi­ti­on. Such a le­ap of the ima­gi­na­ti­on is pro­bably an easy thing for you to do in­si­de that sack, is it not? A preg­nant wo­man has just be­en ac­cu­sed of witchc­raft by the es­tab­lis­hed Church aut­ho­ri­ti­es - a body of men with the we­ight of both re­li­gi­o­us and se­cu­lar law on the­ir si­de. She is to be qu­es­ti­oned - a per­fectly re­aso­nab­le co­ur­se of ac­ti­on to ta­ke in the cir­cums­tan­ces, you might ag­ree? It is the very first day of her tri­al. What I am abo­ut to re­ad to you now is how the gre­at hu­ma­nist, B. Emil Kö­nig, desc­ri­bes the for­mal in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve pro­ces­ses of the In­qu­isi­ti­on in his catc­hily tit­led Aus­ge­bur­ten des Mensc­hen­wahns im Spi­egel der He­xenp­ro­zes­se und der Aoto da Fés His­to­risc­he Hand­sa­ülen des Aberg­la­ubens, Eine Gesc­hich­te des Af­ter-Und Aberg­la­ubens bis auf die Ge­gen­wart:

  ‘In the first pla­ce, the Hang­man bo­und the wo­man, who was preg­nant and pla­ced her on the rack. Then he rac­ked her till her he­art wo­uld fa­in bre­ak, but had no com­pas­si­on. When she did not con­fess, the tor­tu­re was re­pe­ated. Then the Hang­man ti­ed her hands, cut off her ha­ir, po­ured brandy over her he­ad and bur­ned it. He al­so pla­ced sulp­hur in her arm­pits and bur­ned it. Then her hands we­re ti­ed be­hind her and she was ha­uled up to the ce­iling and sud­denly drop­ped down. This ha­uling up and drop­ping down was re­pe­ated for so­me ho­urs, un­til the Hang­man and his hel­pers went to din­ner. When they re­tur­ned, the Mas­ter-Hang­man ti­ed her fe­et and hands upon her back; brandy was po­ured on her back and bur­ned. Then he­avy we­ights we­re pla­ced on her back and she was pul­led up. Af­ter this she was aga­in stretc­hed on the rack. A spi­ked bo­ard is pla­ced on her back and she is aga­in ha­uled up to the ce­iling. The Mas­ter aga­in ti­es her fe­et and hangs on them a block of fifty po­unds, which ma­kes her think that her he­art will burst. This pro­ved in­suf­fi­ci­ent; the­re­fo­re the Mas­ter un­ti­es her fe­et and fi­xes her legs in a vi­ce, tigh­te­ning the jaws un­til the blo­od oozes out at the to­es. Nor was this suf­fi­ci­ent; the­re­fo­re she was stretc­hed and pinc­hed aga­in in va­ri­o­us ways. Now the Hang­man of Dre­is­si­gac­ker be­gan the third gra­de of tor­tu­re. When he pla­ced her on the bench and put the I shirt on her, he sa­id: ‘I do not ta­ke you for one, two, three, not for eight days, nor for a few we­eks, but for half a ye­ar or a ye­ar, for yo­ur who­le li­fe, un­til you con­fess: and if you will not con­fess, I shall tor­tu­re you to de­ath and you shall be bur­ned af­ter all.’ The Hang­man’s son-in-law then ha­uled her up to the ce­iling by her hands. The Hang­man of Dre­is­si­gac­ker whip­ped her with a hor­sew­hip. She was pla­ced in a vi­ce whe­re she re­ma­ined for six ho­urs. Af­ter that she was aga­in mer­ci­les­sly hor­sew­hip­ped. This was all that was do­ne on the first day.’

  The ro­om was si­lent. Out­si­de, the wind so­ug­hed thro­ugh the tre­es. An owl cal­led in the far dis­tan­ce and its call was ans­we­red from one of the barns, ne­arer to the ho­use.

  Ba­le cle­ared his thro­at. The­re was the so­und of pa­per be­ing put away. ‘I mis­re­ad yo­ur brot­her. I hadn’t re­ali­sed how de­vo­ted he was to you. How fe­ar­ful he was of lo­sing fa­ce in front of his com­mu­nity. Few pe­op­le, you see, enj­oy the be­ne­fits of com­mu­nity any mo­re. They only ha­ve them­sel­ves to think of - or the­ir im­me­di­ate fa­mily.

  Ra­ti­ona­li­sa­ti­ons are pos­sib­le. Short­cuts a temp­ta­ti­on. But when wi­der com­mu­ni­on is at sta­ke, ot­her fac­tors be­co­me ap­pa­rent. Martyr­dom is one op­ti­on. Pe­op­le are on­ce mo­re wil­ling to die for an ide­al. Yo­ur brot­her, in his way, was such an ide­alist. He used the po­si­ti­on I had ti­ed him in - the down­ward we­ight of gra­vity I had en­gi­ne­ered - to bre­ak his own neck. I’ve ne­ver se­en anyt­hing li­ke it. It was most imp­res­si­ve. By the end of her first day of qu­es­ti­oning, this self-evi­dently in­no­cent wo­man who­se or­de­al I ha­ve just be­en desc­ri­bing to you wo­uld no do­ubt ha­ve wil­lingly sold her so­ul to the De­vil for the simp­le sec­ret of its con­sum­ma­ti­on.’ Ba­le glan­ced ac­ross at Yo­la’s stan­ding fi­gu­re. ‘One man in a mil­li­on wo­uld ha­ve be­en ca­pab­le of pul­ling off such a mag­ni­fi­cent physi­cal fe­at as the gi­ving of de­ath to
one­self whilst in sus­pen­sory bon­da­ge. And yo­ur brot­her was such a man. I shall ne­ver for­get him. Do­es that ans­wer yo­ur qu­es­ti­on?’

  Yo­la sto­od si­lently on the sto­ol. The ang­les of her fa­ce we­re dis­tor­ted by the sack. It was im­pos­sib­le to tell what she was thin­king.

  52

  ‘I’m not le­aving you. If you stand up and le­an aga­inst me, I will try to shunt you on to the hor­se. When we get to the Ma­set you can rest. Yo­la has ma­de so­up.’ ‘Da­mo. You’re not lis­te­ning to me.’

  ‘I am lis­te­ning, Ale­xi. But I don’t think the eye-man is so­me sort of su­per-be­ing. The chan­ces are that Gav­ril fell off his hor­se una­ided - that he struck his he­ad on the rock by ac­ci­dent.’

  ‘He had li­ga­tu­re marks on his hands and fe­et.’

  ‘He had what?’

  ‘The eye-man had ti­ed him up be­fo­re smas­hing in his he­ad. He had hurt him. At le­ast it se­emed that way to me. The po­li­ce will re­ali­se what has hap­pe­ned, even if you don’t.’

  ‘Sin­ce when ha­ve you be­co­me such a fan of the po­li­ce, Ale­xi?’

  ‘The po­li­ce de­al in facts. So­me­ti­mes facts are go­od. Even I am not so ig­no­rant that I re­ali­se that.’ With Sa­bir’s help, Ale­xi pul­led him­self back ac­ross the sad­dle. He res­ted we­arily for­ward on the hor­se’s poll. ‘I don’t know what has co­me over you re­cently, Da­mo. The prop­he­ci­es se­em to ha­ve hypno­ti­sed you. I wish now that I had not fo­und them. Then you wo­uld re­mem­ber yo­ur brot­her and sis­ter aga­in.’

  Sa­bir led the gel­ding in the di­rec­ti­on of the ho­use. Its ho­of ma­de pel­ting no­ises in the dew-sod­den sand. Apart from that and the scurr of the mos­qu­ito­es, the two men we­re sur­ro­un­ded, li­ke a clo­ak, by the si­len­ce of the mars­hes.