“When will you be done?” asked Sibille.
“My dear, your manners need much improvement,” said the queen. “Still, I am an understanding sovereign. And I had planned—let’s see—hmm, yes, that’s come vacant—Beauvoir? It’s quite well enough situated—healthful air, a nice orchard as I recall. Fruit prolongs life—I have a wonderful recipe for jellied crabapples that is excellent for fevers—yes, I have been planning to make you, for past and future services to the crown, a baroness. Now, aren’t you grateful and happy?”
“Oh, yes, Majesty, eternally grateful,” said Sibille in a very cautious voice.
“I’m so glad we understand each other, dear. Goodness, your hands look just dreadful. I’ve a lovely little remedy for that—the purest olive oil, first pressing only, with distillation of marigold, and a pinch, just a pinch, mind you, of powdered mummy, which dear Doctor Fernel assures me is very powerfully renewing to the flesh—”
The woman’s gone crazy, though Sibille. Play along with her, and maybe you’ll get out. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I can hardly wait to try it.”
“So splendid—I’ll have some made up. But first, you’ll be needing a new dress. That one is not fit to be seen in, let alone received by me, in your new estate. I’m sure the mistress of the wardrobe has just the thing. With a few alterations—oh, yes, and those feet—they must be disguised at all costs. However did you get such large feet? I must not have noticed before—”
Absolutely crazy, thought Sibille as she followed the queen up the narrow stairs. Her knees were still wobbling with the terror of death nearly missed, and her chest was heavy with the terror of the queen’s unknown, mysterious purpose. Her mind’s unhinged, it’s all right, thought Sibille to herself, over and over. Surely, she’s just insane, and it will all come out all right. She hasn’t got anything worse in mind. No, she was just crazy for a while, and it’s over. It must be the strain of widowhood. That, and having to defer to that snobbish little Queen of Scots. She never could stand her. Now, just so she doesn’t change her mind about letting me go. The rest must be just lunatic ravings. Baroness, what talk. What is her real purpose? Why is she lulling me?
But by the time they had entered the queen’s own chamber, and found the maid making up the fire in the cold light just before dawn, Sibille began to wonder whether it was all true. And as the queen herself directed the maid to make the necessary repairs to her person, she began to cheer up, and the tremor that had made her knees so weak began to fade away. Craziness in the great can be borne, so long as it is favorable to oneself, she thought, her breath coming back to her, and her blood beginning to thump through her heart again. Hmm, that could be made into a clever little aphorism, if I rephrased it right. Then perhaps I could work it into the Dialogue. What mythological setting would I place it in? It must be heavily disguised. I wonder if she still has a mind to sponsor my little cultural offerings—or perhaps I should arrange for a private printing…
***
The windows of the astrologer’s chamber had been thrown open to allow the last of the smoke to dissipate, and now the rising sun stained the windowsill pink, and outside, newly awakened birds began to sing. Nostradamus and Nicolas sat side by side on the bed, and the old man watched the younger man wring his hands as he talked on and on in an anguished voice. The hours since the séance had dragged on like days, especially since the young man seemed bent on explaining the course of his entire life to the old doctor. Oof, I could never be a priest, thought Nostradamus. All those boring, ordinary confessions. They would make one yearn for scandal.
“—and then, after that, you see, my father at last gave his permission to marry, and I rode day and night from my cousin’s household in Genoa, killing three horses and crippling two—”
“Hmm. Very fast,” said Nostradamus, nodding.
“I’ve been learning the banking business, you see. I know you’ll think that’s lowly. I do myself, or, rather I did. I wanted distinction, and since I couldn’t have a title, I thought perhaps scholarship—I tried several branches of learning—but did you know, bankers mingle every day with princes, and many obtain distinction. Look at the Gondis, look at the Biragues—they have reached the highest levels—it isn’t impossible. And it requires a very shrewd mind—no great enterprise can be undertaken without money—it is the bankers, in the end, who decide whether there is war or peace, not rules—why, the last war—”
“My boy, let me impart to you the Secret of the Ages,” said Nostradamus, interrupting the flow of narrative. “When I, as a young man, sought knowledge, after an unpleasant interlude which I do not care to discuss, I decided to discover the Secret of Happiness, which is the most important of all the Secrets—”
“Ah, um?” said Nicolas. Old men, they rattle on, and you have to pretend to listen. Respect, you see, it’s important.
“The first secret is to find an excellent life partner. The second, is to take up a profession of interest, and the third is to do good wherever you find the opportunity presents itself.”
“Maestro—ah, um, that’s three secrets,” observed Nicolas.
“In a larger sense, you’ll find it’s only one Secret, if you think about it, young man. Just one. That one is love.”
“Love?” said Nicolas, perking up.
“Yes, love. For others, for the world, for wisdom, for what you do with your life—just love, but, as you see, rather broadly interpreted—”
“That, well, that’s definitely a secret,” said Nicolas, trying to be agreeable. The old doctor’s gone a bit dotty, he thought. Too many late nights.
“Secret indeed, though you may shout it from the housetops,” went on Nostradamus. “Though I shouldn’t complain. A far greater prophet than I am tried to tell the world the same thing, and nobody listened to Him, either—”
But at this moment, the door to the astrologer’s chamber was thrown open by a valet, who announced the Queen of France, and Nostradamus looked up to see a most pleasing sight, that validated all his trickery and made him feel very clever and smug, indeed. “Why, Nicolas, here is your ladylove come to find you, and looking very handsome, if I do say so myself,” he said.
But Nicolas had already leaped up, his face transfigured with joy. With a cry, he and Sibille ran toward each other, and embraced, weeping, exclaiming over each other, and looking as if they could never see enough of each other’s faces.
At the sight, the queen’s face fell into a doughy mass, and an envious, evil glitter started up in her eye. Nostradamus, who missed nothing, bowed deeply to her.
“Great Queen,” he said, “you will stand mighty in the annals of France, but even mightier in the secret annals of the occult, for with your fierce power, you have vanquished the unvanquishable.” Inwardly, he sighed with relief as he saw the evil glitter vanish, and heard the queen’s response.
“Mighty? Feared? A vanquisher?” she whispered, her doughy face distorted in sudden grief. “All that I craved in my life was for my husband, the king, to love me, and that creature in the box stole away all hope forever.”
“Hope is not gone, Majesty,” said Nostradamus, although he knew that for her, it was. “While you live and labor, there is hope. God’s eye sees all.”
“God? Where was God when the visor slipped?” she said, and as Nostradamus watched her, he had the most curious feeling, as if he were hearing some transformation within her barren, ruined heart. Black guilt and bitterest envy, fired by vengeance and rage, were working an alchemy in the secret chambers of her soul; there a vile substance was brewing and bubbling and changing, rising like poisonous smoke. And as he watched her aura, he saw a horrible sight, but being a philosopher of the highest order, his face never lost its calm and objective demeanor. What he saw was this: a writhing, rubbery bundle, like a larva struggling to metamorphose, like a venomous serpent’s egg throbbing with internal life yet to be born, and then he saw it tear open, and something huge, pulsating, scaly, and swaying rise and surround the dumpy little figure in
black.
Menander’s last gift, thought the prophet, and his blood turned to ice within him, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. He has created this monster and laid her in the heart of history, and the evil deeds she will do will spread through time and space like the ripples in a pond, lapping on alien shores that never even knew that she drew breath on the earth. He saw the streets of Paris heaped with the bodies of men, women, and children; gory-faced madmen with knives and swords, loosed at her command, running wildly among the corpses, and the Seine itself flowing red with blood.
I think I need to go home, Nostradamus said to himself. My little house looks better than ever to me now. He drew a deep breath as he inspected the room. Sibille and Nicolas, the valets and attendants, all seemed oblivious to what he had seen. And then the queen said, “You will all be seated at places of honor at my table this very day,” and everyone beamed at this joyful outcome, and only he heard the serpents hiss behind her words. He looked at Sibille and Nicolas, who were still holding, hands, and thought: they are clever enough to look after themselves—especially since I have convinced the serpent-mother that her life depends on Sibille’s continued well-being. It is enough. I need to go home.
That night, after Sibille and Nicolas had departed, laden with gifts, mounted on the queen’s own horses, and escorted by two armed guards charged with seeing that not a hair on their heads was harmed on the road to Paris, Nostradamus sat up late in the astrologer’s chamber. The fire in the athanor had gone out, and the room seemed chilly and empty. A single candle leaped and bobbed before him, as he sat at the desk, turning over the pages of an ancient text that he didn’t really have the heart to read.
“Michel?” said a voice.
“Oh, Anael, you’re back. I’m cold, I’m sad, my gouty foot hurts, and I miss my family. It’s a long way home, and I don’t see any good coming to the country. The civil war of religion—I’ve failed. It’s coming. The only question is when. God help us all.”
“Actually, Michel, depending on how you count them, there will be six civil wars of religion.”
“You didn’t need to say that.”
“I only came back after today’s little séance to let you know that I have made a decision,” said Anael, looking pleased with himself. His midnight blue frame filled the entire height of the tall room, and the twinkling lights were whirling and bouncing inside him with some hidden pleasure.
“You’re going to keep the serpent-queen from taking power,” said Nostradamus.
“Oh, heavens, no—I can’t do that. It’s already right there in the history cupboard. When that froggy son of hers dies, she’ll pack the Scottish Queen back off to Scotland and move into her other little boy’s room. She’ll run him like a puppet for years, until he dies in an agony of remorse for all the evil he’s done at her command.”
“Anael, you’re just plain nasty. I’m not in a mood to hear these things.”
“I am not nasty,” said Anael, drawing himself up and ruffling his shining raven’s wings. “I’ll have you know I’m very thoughtful and considerate. Not only do I put up with you, but I’ve made my great decision: I’m going to help that poor bony girl get into the history business. It will be a kindness all around. Her poetry—with one notable exception—makes my back crawl. And she won’t give it up until she’s sure of something better.”
“Ugh, that floral tribute to the ladies of the court. Did you know she sent me a copy? All tied up in a pink ribbon. That slimy Madame Gondi as a white lilac, and Madam d’Elbène as a lily-of-the-valley—oof, the abominations. Too many to count—” Nostradamus shuddered.
“But the ladies just ate it up, you must admit. It looks well on its way to setting off a storm of even more revolting imitation. So you see—by assisting her to write history, and give up those horrid little poetic offerings that are so copied, I’ll be saving the literature of France from decades, maybe centuries, of similar horrors. Now isn’t that a fine thing? What’s improving civil and political history compared to improving the history of a great literature? I’d much rather dabble in worthy, higher, spiritual sorts of histories.” Anael preened himself and beamed down on the weary old doctor.
“Anael, you make me crazy,” said Nostradamus. “I suppose that’s part of the curse.”
“Oh, no,” said Anael, all happy and inflated with his new idea, “it’s just your temperament. You poor mortals grow old and sour so quickly, where I—I am in the very dawn of my existence.” He stretched out his wings until they were fully extended, then his bare, blue arms and smoky hands. His long, blue torso rippled and little whirling lights inside danced and spun anew. Anael was indeed very beautiful, and quite conscious of it.
“So history is kept by a creature who is not only a bad housekeeper, but an irresponsible infant—”
“Michel, I refuse to speak to you in this mood,” said the angel. “Go home and have your wife cook you a proper meal, or I simply will not be able to abide your company, curse or no curse.”
“They don’t use enough garlic here,” Nostradamus grumbled. But Anael had vanished.
Epilogue
It was a summer night so hot even the crickets couldn’t go to sleep and the stars vibrated with the heat. The stones of the streets of Salon breathed heat back up into the dark, southern sky. In Nostradamus’s garden, the fountain splashed beneath the dark shadows of trees. The shutters of the bedrooms were open to let in whatever feeble night breeze decided to make its appearance. But high, high, in the top of the house, the shutters were latched closed, and the flickering glow of a candle could be seen between the cracks. Once again, the great prophet was summoning the ghosts of the future.
Beneath his white linen diviner’s robe, the old magician wore only his undershirt, and even in that, he was sweating mightily. But he had not neglected his doctor’s hat, nor his ring with the seven mystical symbols, nor the medal on a ribbon that he had received from the Queen of France for his extraordinary services, for even spirits require a certain level of formality at least in outward appearance. Dampening his laurel wand, he set the waters in motion, repeating the sacred words until he felt the familiar shadow rise behind him.
“So, Nostradamus, you can’t resist. I would think you would weary of knowing the future,” said the voice of Anael, whose invisible presence now vibrated in the closed, muggy room.
“O Spirit, show me a vision of the wonders of the distant future,” intoned the old prophet, as he stirred the waters in his brass divining bowl with his wand. As the waters stilled, he peered down to see a magical city, with sparkling towers and low, paneled houses with turned up roofs, stretching down to a blue-watered harbor full of immense, sail-less boats. The streets were filled with curiously dressed people, and covered coaches that moved about without horses. He couldn’t read the street signs, which were in no alphabet he had ever seen.
“This isn’t France,” he said, enchanted with what he saw.
“Be glad,” said the spirit, and Nostradamus saw a man pause and look up. High above the city, a sort of silver goose, drifting alone almost beyond view, glinted in the blue sky. What could that be? thought the prophet.
At that moment a huge and instantaneous fire swallowed the entire city so that the horrified seer saw nothing but a flash and then red, red, until he thought he had been blinded. Blinking his eyes, he saw an immense, billowing cloud rise above the city, as the goose—a winged carriage?—flew off. As the cloud cleared, he saw nothing but blackness, ruin, and scattered fires where the city had been.
“Anael, what was that?” Nostradamus could feel his voice stick in his throat.
“There are two,” said Anael. “They also poison the wind.”
“Two,” whispered Nostradamus, and his hand shook as he scratched across the page with his quill pen:
Near the harbor and in two cities
Will be two scourges never before witnessed…
A huge weight crushed the old prophet’s chest, his bones hurt, and he could
hardly breathe as he pulled his gaze from the still-shifting waters.
“What’s it all about,’” he cried in despair. “What’s it all for?”
“How should I know?” said Anael. “I only look after it, I don’t make it. I’m considerably older and cleverer than you, and I still haven’t figured it out.” The spirit had begun to form up in the room, although he was still quite translucent, and the little twinkling things inside him were all drooping and still, with some unmentionable sorrow.
“I thought, perhaps, He might have told you.”
“He doesn’t think like we do, Michel. You’ll have to leave it at that.”
“Then show me something cheerful, Anael, my heart is breaking.”
“Oh, stir up your dish, Michel, I have just the thing. I’ve been saving it right on top for you.” Anael’s upper half vanished, and there was a rattling and a rummaging sound in the large, invisible armoire. Then silence, and Anael reappeared, looking smug. As the ripples stilled in the bowl, a rich hall appeared, all hung with garlands, and filled with strangers in fine dress. Who was that great, gaudy woman at the head table, beaming with pleasure, sharing a big silver cup with the curled-up little man in the gown and hat of an abbé? Yes, it just had to be—
“Why, it’s a wedding,” said Nostradamus, peering into the water. “It must be a very close vision in time—I can hear the music. And a branle—quite a lively one—a new tune I don’t recognize. I can feel my toes just tapping. Did you know how well I could dance when I was young?”
“I’m rather fond of dancing myself.”
“Spirits dance?”
“Yes, but not often. We have to be careful. It shakes the universe, you know.”
Judith Merkle Riley Page 44