This Is the Way the World Ends

EPILOGUE Salon-de-Provence, France, 1554

‘Is that all?’ Jacob asked.

‘What do you mean, “Is that all”?’ said Nostradamus. ‘How could there be more?’

The prophet opened the picture-cannon and blew on the oil lamp. As the tall flame leaned away from the lens, the projected crevasse became blurry and pale. The flame flew into the ether, and with it went the Ross Ice Shelf.

‘I thought there might be more,’ said the boy.

He marched across the room, pulled back the drapes.

‘You don’t live here,’ said Nostradamus.

‘Sorry, Monsieur.’

Sunshine pulsed through the window. The boy closed his eyes and felt the rays hitting his lids, turning the world orange-red.

The prophet slammed his palm against the sash, opened the window. They stood together, man and boy, devouring the air, surprisingly hot for so early in the morning. Strings of sweat sparkled on their faces. Finches hopped amid the cherry trees.

‘Why did George drive into the crevasse?’ asked Jacob.

‘Why do you think?’

‘I suppose he was getting too cold. Is this truly the way the world will end?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘Then I’m glad I shall be dead first.’

A scream came through the floor. Jacob flinched.

‘Her pain will pass,’ said Nostradamus, squeezing the boy’s arm.

‘I know,’ Jacob gasped.

‘Concentrate on something else. The show – did you like it?’

‘Oh, yes, Monsieur.’

‘You truly liked it?’

‘Very much so.’

‘All of it?’

‘I might wish for fewer sad scenes, but—’

‘Listen to me,’ said the prophet quickly. ‘You must go downstairs.’ With his Malacca cane he pointed toward the door. ‘Find your mother. Hold her hand. Kiss her. Say, “I love you, Mother.” Say, “You will bring forth a child soon, and Dr Nostradamus has foreseen that it will be strong, and it will never get plague.” Say to your mother, “Somehow, with God’s help, we shall manage.” Tell her, “Spring is upon the earth, a fine time and place for a baby to disembark.”’ Nostradamus winked. ‘When you have done this, return to me, and we shall talk. Are your shoulders strong?’

‘I think so.’

‘Strong enough to carry our picture-cannon from city to city, sometimes on an empty stomach, and in the rain?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And your wits – are they strong too? Strong enough to focus the cannon for me each evening and to project the paintings in the right order?’

‘Most certainly!’

‘Don’t ever get the order wrong.’

‘Not ever!’

‘God help you if you drop one. Your wage will be ten écus per week. I can envision nothing better at the moment. Naturally you will send them home.’

The boy ran to the picture-cannon, patted the chimney with his fingertips. Hot, but not enough to burn. He lifted the miracle machine off the writing desk, rested it on his shoulder.

‘It’s not heavy at all, Monsieur.’

A smile broke through the prophet’s beard. ‘You’ll think differently come winter. Remember – the order must always be right.’

The boy set down the machine and ran for the door, his mind aglow with visions of Paris and Toulon. Or, for that matter, he thought, why not Rome, Valencia, Augsburg, London, Athens, Alexandria, Kiev, St Petersburg? Why not any of the glorious, unburned cities of the earth? Why not the City of New York, wherever that was?

‘Oh – and one more thing, Jacob,’ said Nostradamus.

‘Yes, Monsieur?’

The prophet raised his Malacca cane and traced a Southern Cross in the air.

‘Tell your mother that it’s going to be a girl.’