The Prophecy

52

A private jet, chartered by Petr Ulster, and paid for with funds from one of his confidential Swiss bank accounts landed at the airbase. The name of a fictitious company had been used during the transaction, and a fake flight plan to Paris had been filed, thereby minimizing the possibility of detection. As long as the workers at NASJRB Willow Grove kept quiet, no one would know Payne, Jones, and Megan had boarded the transatlantic flight to Geneva without the proper paperwork.

Once they landed in Switzerland, things would get a bit more complicated. Due to its proximity to the French border, Geneva international airport was divided into two sections. The majority of the facility was in Switzerland — where Ulster had plenty of clout — but a small part was known as the French sector. This area allowed passengers on certain flights to enter or leave France without possessing a Swiss visa. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem because Ulster’s jet was supposed to land in Switzerland where he had several connections who could help sneak them into the country. Unfortunately, bad weather sometimes forced private planes to land on auxiliary runways monitored by French personnel, officers who weren’t influenced by Ulster. In that scenario, there was little he could do for them; they would be stuck in diplomatic limbo until the US embassy intervened.

Of course, Payne and Jones weren’t the least bit concerned. Sneaking across borders was a way of life for them. And because of their confidence, Megan was able to relax and focus on more important things — like her connection to Nostradamus.

‘I still don’t understand how he could’ve written a poem about me. He lived in the sixteenth century. That’s before Philadelphia was even a city!’

Reclining in a plush leather seat, Jones glanced up from a book he had been reading about the French prophet. It was one of several that an airman had bought for them at a bookstore near Willow Grove. The titles ranged from the academic (Nostradamus and His Prophecies) to the simplistic (Nostradamus for Dummies). They thought the more they knew about Michel de Nostredame, the better.

‘Honestly,’ Jones admitted, ‘I’ve been a casual fan of Nostradamus ever since I saw a movie about him back in the mid-eighties. It was called The Man Who Saw Tomorrow and was hosted by a fat Orson Welles, who smoked a cigar through half of his narration.’

Payne, who was sitting next to Megan, laughed at the memory. ‘I remember that film. The first time I saw it I was just a kid. When they started talking about our impending war with the third antichrist, I pulled the blanket over my head. It scared the crap out of me.’

Megan giggled at the image. She found it hard to believe that anything scared him, even as a child. ‘I’ve never seen the movie. Was it any good?’

‘Way back then, I thought it was awesome. Unfortunately, I saw it again a few years ago and couldn’t believe how cheesy it was. Everything was so over the top. Then again, that’s Nostradamus in a nutshell. Some of his prophecies were accurate; others were way off base.’

‘Or maybe they haven’t happened yet,’ Jones joked.

She pondered Payne’s comment. ‘I have to admit I don’t know much about him. Obviously I’m familiar with his name — I think everyone is — but I’m clueless about his predictions. For instance, you just mentioned the third antichrist. Who were one and two?’

Jones answered, ‘The first was Napoleon. The second was Hitler.’

‘He predicted them?’

‘Kind of,’ Payne admitted.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means his prophecies weren’t written in straightforward language that could be easily read. Like your letter, his quatrains were coded and ambiguous.’

‘Why do fortune-tellers always do that? If they really know what’s about to happen, why don’t they come right out and say it?’

Jones smiled at the question. ‘Why? Because most fortune-tellers are charlatans. They speak in generalities to preserve their ruse for as long as possible.’

‘Is that what Nostradamus did?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. He wasn’t reading tea leaves at the local carnival, trying to string along some sucker for an extra buck. Nostradamus was writing verses for the masses. By doing so, he opened himself up to a world of trouble. In fact, that’s the main reason he wrote in riddles. He did it to save his life.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Nostradamus wrote his prophecies in the sixteenth century during the same time as the Catholic Inquisition. Tribunals, established by the Vatican, prosecuted people throughout Europe who were accused of sorcery, witchcraft, and other offences. If he had written his thoughts in simple French, he would have been burned at the stake. Instead, he coded his messages, sprinkling in Greek, Latin, and other languages, in order to protect himself. That way he could claim they were puzzles or poetry, not prophecies.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I guess I can understand that. But if his writing is so vague, why is he famous?’

‘Because there’s a beauty in his ambiguity. Take Hitler, for example. In the passages that describe the second antichrist, Nostradamus claimed that the evil one would come from the Rhine and Hister. Well, guess what? The Rhine runs through Germany, and the Hister is the Latin name for the Danube. Later, he mentions Hister again in connection with armies and fighting. Most people go nuts over that one.’

Megan scrunched her face. ‘What’s your point?’

‘When Adolf was a young boy, he played along the shores of the lower Danube in Austria. Furthermore, Hister is only one letter different to Hitler. If Nostradamus had written the river’s name in French, Italian, or a dozen other languages, the two names wouldn’t have been similar. But for some reason, he chose the Latin name of the waterway. Some view this as coincidence. Others see it as prophetic.’

‘And what do you think?’

Jones pointed to himself. ‘Me? I think most of his verses have been pushed and pulled and contorted so much that his believers could make his words fit any historical event. I also think his critics have plenty of ammunition to poke holes in every quatrain he’s ever written.’

Payne smirked. ‘That wasn’t an answer.’

Jones laughed. ‘I know it wasn’t. But like Nostradamus, I’d like to remain mysterious.’

Megan glanced at Payne. ‘And what about you?’

He shrugged. ‘Like DJ, I think some of his verses have been distorted to fit certain world events. That being said, I’ve heard enough stories about him to think maybe he had a gift that can’t be explained in simple scientific terms.’

‘Such as?’

‘Did you hear the one about Nostradamus and the Pope?’

‘Is this a joke?’ she asked.

Payne shook his head. ‘No, it’s not a joke — although my setup made it seem that way. This is a story I’ve read many times over the years. Obviously I don’t know if it’s true or not, but if it is, you’ll have to admit it’s pretty freaky.’

She smiled. ‘Cool. I love freaky stories.’

‘While travelling through Europe, he came across a group of lowly Franciscan monks in Italy. Despite his advancing years, Nostradamus immediately threw himself on his knees and kissed the feet of one of the monks, a man named Felice Peretti. When asked why he was doing this, Nostradamus said one must kneel before His Holiness the Pope. Peretti, who was much younger than the prophet, was deeply embarrassed by this and helped the old man to his feet. Amazingly, more than thirty years later, Peretti was named Pope Sixtus V.’

‘Are you serious?’ she shrieked.

Payne shrugged. ‘Like I said, I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I’ve heard it from many different sources.’

‘I’ve heard it, too,’ Jones admitted. ‘But that story pales in comparison to the one about his burial. If you want freaky, that shit is freaky!’

‘Wait! Is this the one about the French soldiers?’

Jones started laughing. ‘Yeah! Ain’t that some crazy shit?’

‘I forgot about that one! You’re right. That blows the Pope out of the water!’

‘Tell me,’ Megan said excitedly.

Jones launched into his story. ‘When Nostradamus died in 1566, he was buried in a cemetery near his home town. Back then, he was fairly well known, but not the celebrity he is today — mostly because the bulk of his prophecies were just starting to come true. Anyway, somehow a rumour got started that said anyone who drank from Nostradamus’s skull would be able to see the future, but would die shortly thereafter.’

She grimaced. ‘They had to drink from his skull?’

He nodded. ‘More than two hundred years later, during the French Revolution, three drunk soldiers stumbled upon the grave of Nostradamus. Wanting to know how the revolution would turn out, they decided to dig up his body to see if the stories were true. Under the cover of darkness, they grabbed some shovels, and started digging. Several minutes later, they finally got down to the wooden coffin and pried that sucker open. Once they did, guess what they saw?’

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘Hanging around the skeleton’s neck was a simple sign that said ‘May 1791’ — the exact month and year of their excavation.’

‘No way! Are you serious?’

‘I’m serious, but I’m not done. Obviously, this sign freaked them out, but they’d been drinking so much they decided this was actually a good omen. They decided Nostradamus was expecting them, so the rumours must’ve been true. With a simple drink, they’d be able to see the future. Anyway, the bravest of the bunch stepped forward and poured a bottle of wine into the prophet’s skull. Getting swept up in the moment, he mumbled a drunken toast in the dead man’s honour then took a big gulp from the hollowed-out head. Just then a bright light flashed in the distance! His friends assumed it was the spirit of the prophet returning from the great beyond, but it wasn’t Nostradamus. Instead, it was rifle fire from a nearby skirmish. Unfortunately, one of the stray bullets sailed through the night and pierced the drunken soldier right between the eyes. The poor sucker dropped dead on the spot before he had a chance to reveal the future.’

‘Come on! The guy died?’

Jones shrugged. ‘According to legend, the guy actually fell into the grave. Of course, that’s the beauty with most stories about Nostradamus. Who knows what to believe?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘that one seems pretty far-fetched.’

Payne smiled. ‘Actually, I think it’s a lot easier to accept than Nostradamus writing a poem about you, but what the hell do I know? I’m not a historian. Or French.’

She laughed. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m still doubting that one myself. I guess we’ll know a lot more once Petr tests the ink and parchment.’

Payne nodded. ‘Tests like that would normally bore the hell out of me, but in this case, I can’t wait to hear the results. Personally, my gut’s undecided, but not my heart.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I think it would be pretty cool to know what’s going to happen in the future. Especially if we’re given a chance to change it.’

‘You think we can change the future?’ she asked.

Payne shrugged. ‘Who knows for sure? But let’s be honest, it’s a philosophical debate that is bound to rage on for centuries. However, some of the greatest thinkers of our time believe that we control our own destiny. Not God. Not the stars. And certainly not Nostradamus. It’s our decisions — and nothing else — that influence our lives and future. I’m normally not the kind of guy to quote literature, but Shakespeare wrote something that’s always stuck with me. He said, “Men are masters of their fate.” That’s something I do believe.’