The Secret Prophecy

by Herbie Brennan

  “What was the prophecy about?”

  “Didn’t say. May not have known himself; the documents could just have referred to the fact that one existed. Not that it matters; if the documents were sixteenth century, they were contemporary with Nostradamus. That has to be a bit of an academic coup.”

  “Where did he find them? The documents?”

  “I don’t know that either. He’d just come back from a trip to France when he told me about them, so I’d imagine it was somewhere in this country.” Tom hesitated. “He never mentioned any of it to you?”

  “Not a word.”

  “And there’s nothing in his manuscript about it? You must have seen a much more up-to-date version than I did.”

  Em’s starter had arrived, a curious concoction of leeks in a cream sauce. He poked at it listlessly. Dad would have been delighted if Em had read his manuscript; but the awful thing was, neither Em nor his mum was all that interested. Not really. It was cool to have a father who wrote books, of course, even academic books; but that didn’t mean you actually had to like them. It would have been different if he’d written something really interesting, like science fiction or vampire stories; but a biography of some creepy old prophet? Give me a break. Both Em and his mum had humored him, listened when he’d read them bits aloud, even encouraged him to read them more sometimes; but the bottom line was, Tom had probably seen more of the manuscript than Em and his mum put together. Em racked his brain trying to remember if there had been any mention of a secret prophecy in the bits Dad had read aloud and decided there hadn’t. “I don’t think so,” he said uncertainly to Tom. “But he never showed me the whole book.”

  Tom said, “He must have kept research notes somewhere. Maybe the documents he found are with them. Copies of them anyway.”

  Em tried the leeks, which tasted better than they looked. The silence suddenly impinged, and he realized Tom was looking at him questioningly. “Notes?” Em echoed. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “But you don’t know where they are?”

  “No,” Em admitted.

  “Of course you had that break-in,” Tom said. “The thieves may have taken them.”

  Em couldn’t think why. What thief would be interested in a bunch of academic notes? “We don’t think anything was taken,” Em said. “At least nothing obvious.” But he and his mum had been thinking about valuables, not papers. And besides, papers could be in his father’s desk at the university. A wave of black depression washed over him. None of this would be tackled until the reading of his father’s will. And that wouldn’t happen before Em got back home, because his mum and Uncle Harold—the two named executors—hadn’t yet sorted out the estate. There were, they said, a lot of bits and pieces. You could bet your bottom dollar any papers would be among them.

  Tom finished his mussels and sat back. “Know what? We could make a little project, Em—a sort of commemoration of your father. If you’re interested . . .”

  “Daddy, his father’s only just died!”

  “Let Em speak for himself, darling,” Tom said softly.

  “What sort of project?” Em asked.

  “Well, you know I want you both to come to my symposium tomorrow? I realize it’s going to bore the socks off you—”

  “Then why insist we come?” Charlotte put in quickly.

  “Because there’s no way I’m prepared to let two teenagers run loose in Paris without supervision,” Tom told her bluntly. “At least I can keep an eye on you at the symposium. But we’re driving south the day after; and to make up, I thought you might enjoy seeing Salon-de-Provence. Especially you, Em.”

  Em looked at him blankly. “Yes, sure. I mean, cool.”

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Sure. Well . . . actually . . . no, not really.” The name Salon rang a bell somewhere, but he couldn’t get a fix on it.

  “Salon was where Nostradamus lived and wrote his prophecies. The house is still there, Em. I thought you might like to visit it.”

  “Cool,” Em said again; and this time he meant it.

  He was in his room after supper, preparing for bed, when there was a soft knocking at his door. Em hastily pulled on the hotel dressing gown and opened the door. Charlotte was standing outside.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” she demanded after a moment’s silence.

  For some reason Em found himself blushing. “I was going to bed.”

  “I just thought it would be a good idea to talk about the Nostradamus thing,” Charlotte told him. “We mightn’t get a chance tomorrow.” She went across and sat on the edge of his bed, effectively stopping him from going near it. Em pulled the bedside chair a safe distance from her and sat down on it. He crossed his legs carefully, trying to look casual.

  “Go on then,” he urged. “Talk.”

  “Aren’t you excited?” Charlotte asked.

  “Why? I mean, why particularly?”

  “Weren’t you listening to my dad over dinner? This is the reason you’re being followed. This explains the whole thing!”

  “Does it?”

  “Well, it might!” she snapped impatiently. “It’s like we were saying about somebody trying to get his book because it’s worth millions, only it’s not his manuscript that’s valuable; it’s this secret prophecy he discovered. Somebody found out about it—well, he talked to people, didn’t he?—and they wanted to steal it.” She gave him a sorrowful look. “Maybe somebody really did murder your father. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “It’s not the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Why not?”

  Em sighed again. “First of all, my dad didn’t find a secret prophecy by Nostradamus. He only found some documents that referred to one—that’s all he told your dad. And like your dad says, he probably didn’t even have the documents himself; he probably found them in some dusty old library and copied them: Xerox or something. And even if he did have the original documents, they wouldn’t be worth millions. They might cause a bit of a stir in academic circles, but academics don’t have that sort of money. They might be worth a few hundred at most, not worth killing somebody for.”

  But Charlotte wouldn’t let it go. “Yes, but suppose your dad found the actual prophecy. In Nostradamus’s own handwriting. That would be like finding a new play by Shakespeare. That’s bound to be worth millions.”

  It was an exaggeration, but she had a point. A new prophecy in Nostradamus’s own handwriting could be worth a lot of money. Had his dad found one? Whatever Charlotte said, Em couldn’t quite believe he’d been killed for it. That really didn’t make much sense.

  Charlotte was speaking again. “Here’s how I see it. Your father is researching his book on Nostradamus. He takes a trip to France and comes across a book that mentions a prophecy he doesn’t recognize. It’s an exciting find, but not all that exciting. He tells my dad about it and probably a few others. Why shouldn’t he? All he’s talking about is a reference in some old French library. But then he gets to thinking. Suppose he could find the actual prophecy, the original parchment? Now that would be something really cool. That would make him rich and famous. He could probably sell it to a museum, and it would make his book a bestseller. So he goes off looking for it. And he finds it! At least he finds out where it is. He doesn’t tell anybody—not my dad, not your mother. He wants to have the original parchment in his hands before he makes the big announcement. But there’s somebody else after the prophecy as well, and he kills your father to stop him from finding it first. What do you think?”

  “I think you’d make a good thriller writer,” Em said sourly. “What you’re really saying is, my dad’s a thief. If he found the original prophecy, he had to find it somewhere: in a library or somebody’s collection of papers. Either way, he’d have had to steal it if he wanted to sell it and get rich the way you said. But if he stole it, he couldn’t sell it because he’d need to establish provenance before any museum would touch it. It would be lik
e trying to sell the Mona Lisa: it’s just too well-known for anybody to want to buy it. Besides which, Dad wasn’t murdered. He got sick.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Oh, Charlotte—”

  Charlotte held up her hands. “All right, all right, maybe he just died. By coincidence. But I’ll tell you one thing. Somebody thinks he found the original of the Nostradamus prophecy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they broke into his study looking for it. I’m absolutely sure of it. Your dad wasn’t a thief—I know that. I shouldn’t have said that stuff about him selling it and getting rich: I didn’t think it through. But somebody else might not have been so ethical: maybe a collector or somebody who knows a collector who would buy it. So they broke in looking for it. They didn’t find it then, and now they think you might have it. Or at least know where it is. That’s why they’re following you. They probably think you’ll lead them straight to it.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Em said.

  Charlotte sniffed. “You’ll see. Day after tomorrow you’re heading for Nostradamus’s hometown. Think how that’s going to look to them.”

  Chapter 12

  Tom had somehow managed to retune the radio in their rental car to the BBC, where a newsreader was relaying British government assurances that the country was well placed to meet the threat of Nigerian Death Flu thanks to the impending purchase of a newly developed vaccine that would be used in a mass vaccination program to be introduced over the next few weeks.

  “Must make sure you have your shot when we get home,” Tom murmured, glancing at Charlotte, who was in the passenger seat beside him. “You should have one too,” he said over his shoulder to Em. “Get your mum to arrange it.”

  Em grunted. Personally, he thought the Nigerian Death Flu business was a load of fuss about nothing, since it didn’t seem to be any more serious than the seasonal flu that hit Britain every winter. But the name frightened people, he supposed, and his mum might well insist he get a shot. He wasn’t about to remind her though. Em hated needles. To change the subject, he asked, “Where are we now?”

  “Just south of Avignon,” Tom said. “I considered taking you in to see the famous pont, although there’s not much of it left; but I thought if we were going to detour at all, you might prefer to see Saint-Rémy, to judge from our conversation the other evening.”

  “Why Saint-Rémy?” Em asked, wondering what conversation Tom was referring to. The previous night, after a mind-numbingly boring day at Tom’s rotten symposium, they’d talked mostly about soccer.

  “It’s the town where Nostradamus was born; don’t you remember? The actual house is still there.”

  Saint-Rémy-de-Provence proved to be a village rather than a town—and a picturesque one at that. They passed beyond the remnants of an ancient wall before reaching the interior, which somehow managed to look more Italian than French and might just possibly have been Roman. Tom found parking, then led them to a narrow back street overlooked by crumbling, dirty, slumlike houses. “What do you think?” he asked as they stopped beside a green gate.

  “What do we think about what, Daddy?”

  Tom nodded toward a square building with plaster so cracked that it revealed the brickwork beneath. “The house where Nostradamus was born.”

  How did Tom know where to find it? Em said, “Not exactly a palace, is it?”

  “Don’t knock it,” Tom told him. “That must have been a reasonable middle-class residence in 1503.They may not have had all our mod cons, but they probably lived well by the standards of their day.” He stared at the house a moment longer, then shrugged his shoulders. “Nostradamus’s own home in Salon is a bit more impressive. As you’ll see.”

  Salon-de-Provence proved to be larger than Saint-Rémy, a medieval town surrounded by an outgrowth of comparatively modern buildings. They abandoned the car in favor of feet and walked through an archway in the original city wall to enter the Old Town. In less than half an hour, they were standing outside a tall terraced house with an imposing entrance door.

  “This is it,” Tom said. “This is where he lived and wrote his prophecies.”

  “It looks new,” Em said, a little disappointed.

  Charlotte peered at the plaque beside the door:

  DANS CETTE MAISON

  VECVT ET MOVRVT

  MICHEL NOSTRADAMUS

  ASTROPHILE

  MÉDECIN ORDINAIRE DV ROI

  AVTEVR DES “ALMANACHS” ET

  DES IMMORTELLES “CENTURIES”

  MD III MDLXVI

  “In this house lived and died Michel Nostradamus,” Charlotte read aloud, translating the wording. “Astrologer, physician ordinary to the King, author of the ‘almanacs’ and the immortal ‘centuries.’ 1503 to . . .” She hesitated, then turned to Em. “What’s LXVI?”

  “Sixty something,” Em said. “Sixty-six, I think.”

  “1503 to 1566,” Charlotte said triumphantly. She frowned suddenly. “I think they’ve turned it into a museum!”

  Nostradamus proved not to be much of a tourist attraction, for apart from themselves, the museum was almost empty of customers. A bored girl behind a small reception desk issued them with tickets that Tom paid for in euros, then surprised them by breaking into excellent English. “You may go anywhere within the house that you wish. These brochures in your native language”—she handed them out with a flourish—“contain a plan and explain a little about each room.”

  “Merci,” Tom said, looking dazed.

  For Em, the house was frankly disappointing. It consisted of narrow staircases and sparsely furnished rooms with wooden floors, small doorways, and low ceilings. When they eventually reached the attic, one of the smallest rooms of all, Em started violently at the unexpected appearance of a fierce, black-bearded and black-robed man wielding a quill pen behind a smallish desk. Then he realized that it was a mannequin, presumably meant to represent Nostradamus himself. Tom said soberly, “This is where he made his prophecies. This is where he called up spirits.”

  Em blinked. “This is where he called up what?”

  Tom looked momentarily discomfited. “Apparently that’s how he made his prophecies. He’d come in here with a brass tripod, a small lamp or candle that would have been his only light, a laurel wand, and a bowl of water. He probably had an incense burner as well and maybe some narcotic herbs—he studied herbs, after all. Then he used an ancient Greek ritual to call up a spirit that helped him prophesy.”

  “You mean he was . . . like . . . some sort of magician?” Em asked hesitantly.

  “I suppose you could call him that. He certainly tried to practice magic to call spirits into his water bowl. It could all have been hallucinations, of course, especially if he was using narcotic herbs.”

  Em stared into the empty room imagining the bearded, dark-eyed figure of the prophet as he crouched over his great brass bowl. He could almost hear the mutterings of the approaching spirits as they swirled stealthily from the depths of the water. He could almost see a luminous figure that towered above Nostradamus, then bend nearly double to whisper in his ear.

  It was a vision that remained with him, on and off, throughout the remainder of his trip to southern France. He was even thinking about it vaguely as he opened the door of his home, having waved good-bye to Tom and Charlotte on the doorstep.

  “Mum!” he called. “I’m back!!” He hefted his suitcase to the foot of the stairs but decided to take it up a little later. He was tired and excited from the trip, still undecided about whether to tell his mother about the man who’d followed him. “Mum,” he called again, “Tom’s coming over later with Charlotte—is that all right? We had a great time. We saw the house where Nostradamus lived and Tom got big applause at his symposium and Charlotte bought a top that cost over sixty quid. Tom paid—she has him wrapped around her little finger. Any chance of a cup of tea? I’m parched. I have a little present for you in my case. All the way from Paris. Mum?”

  But it w
asn’t his mother who came out of the kitchen. It was his mother’s brother, and he looked serious.

  Chapter 13

  “Hello, Uncle Harold,” Em said. “Where’s Mum?” He glanced around vaguely, as if she might be hiding under the stairs.

  Harold said, “Come into the kitchen, Em. I’ve something to tell you.”

  “What’s happened?” Em asked at once. But Harold only turned and walked back into the kitchen. After a moment, Em followed him.

  Harold Beasley looked nothing like Em’s mother. He was fat and colorless and wore round, rimless granny glasses to correct his short sight. But that was only on the outside. Inside his head, Uncle Harold looked heroic. He’d once been a fairly useless policeman, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing to his sister: “Last week we had seven robberies, two murders, and eighteen assaults in the precinct AND SOMEHOW WE HAVE TO STOP THIS!” Now he sold life insurance but retained the urge toward self-dramatization. “Sit down, Em,” he said in something close to a sepulchral tone. “I have something very serious to tell you.”

  “What?” Em demanded. “What’s happened?” A feeling of pure dread was crawling up his spine, made all the more unpleasant for having nothing to focus on. Something had happened to his mum—it had to be that. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she’d fallen, broken a bone of something. “Is it Mum?” Em added.

  But Uncle Harold insisted on his little games. He gave Em a sorrowful, pitying look. “I think it best you sit down,” he said again.

  You could sometimes stop Uncle Harold’s nonsense if you tried hard enough, but it was far quicker just to give in. Em sat down on a kitchen chair, suppressed the urge to ask questions, and looked at him expectantly.

  “Your mother is in the hospital,” Uncle Harold said.

  She’d fallen down. Em was certain of it. She’d had one drink too many and fallen down.

  “They took her into Saint Brendan’s while you were in France,” Harold said.