The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

The hall was crowded, neatly dressed men and women of all ages sitting in rows of canvas chairs. Hairstyles were neat, unadorned. Nearly everyone wore crosses. They spoke in soft voices, glancing at a large empty platform where three chairs were set.

The boy who had been at the door had followed Shiva in. He was tall and thin, his face speckled with acne. Shiva quickly looked around, wondering if Parvati might be there, but could not see her. He thought, This is reckless; I shouldn’t have come in here.

‘Is this your first time, sir?’ The boy’s Kiwi accent turned this into thus . ‘Why don’t you take that seat?’ He indicated two empty chairs at the end of a row. ‘I’m Michael, by the way.’

‘Peter.’ The false name came to him instantly. He hesitated, then took the last seat in the row. Michael sat next to him. He realized that these arrangements had been planned; the boy had been placed at the door to encourage newcomers. On the floor at Shiva’s feet was a Bible. He picked it up. After Revelation, at the end, the Black Book was printed:

Five hundred thirty years, then God returns to save

His chosen, once the sinful have been purged .. .

All along the rows, the hubbub of conversation died. A door to the platform opened and three men stepped in. Shiva wondered if one might be the Leader, but there was nothing of the Old Testament prophet about any of the men, who took seats facing the audience. All were middle aged, well dressed in dark cotton suits, happy smiles above white clerical collars.

One of them got up to speak. He said how happy he was to see so many worshippers tonight, here in God’s house. The sermon that followed, about the works of Jesus and His Passion, could have come from any evangelist church at any time. Occasionally, someone in the audience shouted out ‘Yes!’ or ‘Amen!’ Shiva found his mind wandering. He was aware of Michael looking at him occasionally, but he avoided meeting the boy’s eye. The pastor sat down and they sang some hymns, Shiva forcing himself to join in. After the singing had finished, Michael leaned towards Shiva and said: ‘Pastor Henry is going to preach now. He has great truth.’ There was a catch of excitement in the boy’s voice.

A second pastor, a short, stocky man, got up to speak. His voice was loud and ringing.

‘St John of Patmos told us in Revelation that in the last days there would be great calamities. Earthquakes, plagues, great battles. And it did happen, just as the angels promised St John. The Great Catastrophe. The vials of God’s wrath have been poured out in full measure.’

‘Hallelujah!’ someone called out.

‘Yet is it not true that those left after the Catastrophe, in these islands and far away in the northern lands, remain as sinful as ever men were, breaking the laws God set down in the Bible, to his just anger? It is true, but God has set out their punishment, their final End. He has given us the prophecies of Brân, the Black Book that in fact contains the Shining Light of truth. The book that has proved its truth by prophesying many events that came to pass in history, and at its end we find the promise of the final catastrophe, bringing the End of the World and the Last Judgment; when the last sinners go to hell and the righteous are raptured up to heaven, to worship Jesus for ever and ever. And we have the date: 2135, this year.’ The pastor’s voice had grown gradually softer, more intense; now it rose again as he approached the climax.

‘We are the righteous. Our duty in these last days is to bring to truth those who will listen, but above all it is to know that we are the Saved, alone in this wasteland of sinners.’ His voice was shaking with emotion now. Triumphant joy, but also, Shiva thought, a callous fury at the disobedient world around him. ‘Any time now the world will end in the blink of an eye – and then we shall be in heaven!’ He ended with a shout, followed by a chorus of hallelujahs and amens.

Shiva had to resist the urge to get up and walk out, but that would have made him conspicuous. He sat through more hymns, a reading from the Black Book with explanations of how its previous forecasts had come to pass, of wars and plagues and rebellions. At the end Pastor Henry asked for people who wished to learn more about the Church to come forward. Two did, an old woman and a young man, and the pastor blessed them and said the Church would consider them for membership, for a place in heaven. Then there was a final hymn, and the service ended. Shiva walked quickly out of the hall. He caught a glimpse of Michael’s disappointed face.

The following evening he went to meet Parvati. He wore his suit – a white linen jacket and trousers – and a high-collared black shirt. It was raining, a heavy tepid rain that drummed on the solar panels on the town’s roofs. The restaurant was in a side street near the Octagon, down a little alley. Darkness had fallen, and Shiva looked around carefully. Still he had seen no sign that he was followed.

The restaurant was long and narrow, lit by candles, with a seagoing theme: nets hanging from the ceiling, fish in ancient glass cases. He was early; Parvati wasn’t there yet. The clientele was well dressed, mostly young, wearing shirts and kaftans with elaborate designs, hair piled up in loops or hanging down in plaited braids. No one here wore a cross. The manager, a coldly formal man in a dark suit, led him to a table for two. Shiva thought he looked at him dubiously and wondered if it was because of his colour. At the next table, two men with elaborately styled hair were eating, whispering softly to each other and laughing. One was short and dark, the other older, blond, his coiffed hair covering a bald patch that shone pinkly through.

Parvati arrived shortly after, wearing a plain white dress, her dark hair hanging loose and her cross conspicuous at her breast. The younger of the men at the next table glanced at it, frowning at her slightly as she sat down.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ she said to Shiva.

‘No. I was early.’

‘I haven’t been here before, but it’s supposed to be very good. I thought you might like it.’

‘Shall we order some wine? No, I’m sorry, you don’t drink. Shall we have water?’

‘Yes. Thank you for remembering.’ She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at him. She seemed more confident tonight, more settled. ‘Tell me about Europe,’ she said.

He told her about the big cities like Birmingham that had survived, how every speck of land was cultivated, the hard work and long hours people put in to grow food, the attempts to green the Norwegian mountains and the bare rocks of Iceland.

‘Are there many people from India?’

‘A few. There was a lot of violence against minorities during the wars of the last century, but things are better now. My parents followed Hindu ways, but it was just a matter of keeping the old culture alive, rather than from belief.’

‘Mine didn’t believe at all.’ Her face clouded. ‘I don’t see them now.’

‘Mine are dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We’d grown apart too.’ That was true – all he had said so far was true – but he went on to relate his cover story: how he had joined the civil service from school, worked in administrative posts for years, then joined the diplomatic service in the hope of travelling to the continent of Europe, and had been delighted to be sent to the Tasmans. ‘I was never technically minded,’ he added. ‘Sometimes I feel guilty that I can’t work on something useful, like energy efficiency or soil enhancement. I just haven’t got that sort of mind.’ It was true: when he was training he had had to learn about the types of bombs and explosives that robbers and terrorists used; he had found it almost impossible.