Erasmus Darwin was fourteen years old, and in the twentieth century he would have been offended to be addressed as “boy.” But in the eighteenth century it was quite normal. As a matter of fact, someone from the twentieth or twenty-first century would have taken Erasmus for a child of ten or eleven. He might also have been perplexed by the fact that Erasmus’s trousers and jerkin were in no way different from those of his adult companion, but that was also a part of that time. Children were not special creatures, requiring different treatment, food, and clothing. They were simply little human beings who might possibly be fortunate enough to become full-fledged adults. Even in the paintings of the finest artists of that time the bodies and faces of children were indistinguishable from the bodies and faces of adults—if the artist’s eye did detect the difference in proportions, his mind rejected the distinction. A boy was simply a little man. A girl was simply a little woman . . . indeed, girls changed their status and became women very quickly, and no one found that disconcerting. Leavened with the first yeast of civilization, the human dough was seething and expanding. Humankind had to grow. And for that, there had to be as many births as possible, because it was beyond human power to reduce the number of deaths.
“I’m not sleeping!” Erasmus protested indignantly.
“Then where is your spirit wandering?” asked Erasmus’s companion, giving the boy a furious look. The man looked about thirty years old—a substantial age. If he had been human, that is. But he was an Other and only he knew how old he really was.
“I was thinking . . . about this . . .” said Erasmus, spreading his arms out self-consciously.
“About this?” Erasmus’s companion looked at the blossoming meadow in disgust. “Tell me, boy, are you a bee that gathers nectar?”
“No . . .”
“Then perhaps a witch who brews potions?”
Erasmus shuddered slightly. He was afraid of witches, although as things had turned out he didn’t need to fear them anymore.
“No, teacher . . .”
“Or are you a peasant, who is going to pasture his cows here?”
Erasmus didn’t answer.
“You are an Other,” his companion said firmly. “You possess the great power of clairvoyance and prophecy. You have been granted a different fate from on high, and mundane matters should be of no concern to you.”
“But is it truly from on high?” Erasmus muttered to himself.
His companion heard but, contrary to his usual habit, did not fly into a rage. He shrugged and sat down on the ground, crushing the grass and the flowers. And he replied: “I have seen Others who shout that their power is from God: they observe the fasts, follow the Gospel, and go to church often. I don’t know what they say at confession—perhaps they have their own priests . . . I have seen Others who believe that it was Lucifer, the luminiferous Prince of Darkness, who granted them their mighty power. At night they burn black candles made from the fat of corpses—you should see how they smoke and stink! They kiss a severed goat’s head and commit obscenities too abominable for me to speak of. But one thing I can tell you for certain—I have not seen God, or his servants, and I have not met Satan, or his vassals. Perhaps they are simply not concerned with us. Perhaps our Power is simply a power, like a bird’s ability to soar through the sky or a fish’s ability to breathe water.”
“I don’t want to burn black candles or commit obscenities,” Erasmus said, just to be on the safe side.
“Then do not do either,” his companion replied indifferently.
“But I feel bored in church, teacher,” Erasmus confessed. “And . . . and I once stole a penny . . . and in the evenings, when Betty brings the warming-pan to my bed, I ask her to lie down beside me . . .”
“Maidservants are created to gladden their masters” hearts,” Erasmus’s companion replied magnanimously. “And you are more than just her master. You are an Other. Take your pleasure with Betty as you desire.”
The boy didn’t say anything. The man narrowed his eyes and peered at him. Erasmus moved his hand slowly above the crushed stalks of grass, and they straightened up, reaching for his fingers.
“You have an affinity for the kingdom of plants,” the man admitted reluctantly. “That is more fitting for a witch than a magician, but the Power always finds unexpected ways to manifest itself . . . Only do not forget that you are a Prophet. Who will be victorious in the battle on the hill?”
“The king,” Erasmus replied instantly. He blinked in bewilderment and looked up. “On what hill?”
“It matters not. You foretell the future, even though with little skill as yet. But tell me: in three or four hundred years, who will rule on the Capitol Hill?”
“A black man will ascend the throne and all will glorify him as a peacemaker. But he will send iron birds across the ocean to seize the treasures of the Libyans and the Persians, and by that shall be caused a great war and convulsions in the world . . .” the boy intoned slowly, as if he was sleepy.
“Hmm,” said Erasmus’s companion, scratching the tip of his nose. “No, you are still far from your main prophecy. Too many errors. The Italians are always fighting the Arabs, but how can a black man rule in Rome? Persia—well and good . . . but there are no treasures in Libya, it is all desert that engenders nothing but a useless black oil. And even if there are iron birds in the world at that time—what ocean is this? Italy is separated from Libya by only a sea. No, too many errors—you are not yet ready. There is still time.”
“Time for what?”
“To prepare for the coming of the Executioner.”
I poured myself another finger of whiskey and asked: “So you called him the Executioner, Erasmus?”
“Yes, it was Blake who called him the Tiger—you know what poets are like . . .” Erasmus gazed pensively at the crimson coals glowing in the smoke-black opening of the hearth. “At that time my teacher called him the Executioner . . . or the Silent Executioner . . . or the Executioner of Prophets. The last title is probably the most correct one. He only comes to Prophets. To those who are preparing to make their main prophecy.”
“What for? What is so important about the main prophecy?”
“It’s global, that’s all,” Erasmus chuckled. “A forecast of a war in Libya or a flight to the moon concerns only a particular incident. Despite the significance of the events involved. The first prophecy must concern the whole of humankind.”
I pondered that for a moment or two, trying to decide exactly what it was in Erasmus’s words that had bothered me most. Then I realized.
“Humankind?”
“Yes, of course. The first prophecy is too global to be concerned only with us Others. The prophecy always speaks of human beings. Of humankind.”
“What kind of event could it be that affects the whole of humankind?” I wondered out loud. “A world war?”
“For example,” Erasmus said, nodding. “Of course, not even World Wars One and Two affected the whole of humankind directly. But, generally speaking, their impact was global.”
“Were the World Wars foretold?” I asked.
“Of course. Not merely foretold, but prophesied. World Wars One and Two. The Socialist Revolution in Russia . . .”
“The communists can be proud of themselves,” I remarked. “ ‘An event of world-historical significance’—that’s what the revolution was called in the USSR.”
Erasmus laughed.
“And what else have Prophets prophesied?
“Drawing on my own informal sources of information,” Erasmus said modestly, “other events honored to be the subject of a first prophecy were the creation of nuclear weapons, the discovery of penicillin, the appearance of rock music . . .”
I looked at Erasmus incredulously, but he nodded confidently.
“Yes, yes, the appearance of rock music. And also the publication of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem ‘The Bells,’ the fashion for miniskirts, the release of the film The Greek Fig Tree, the birth of Alistair Maxwell . . .”
> “Who is Alistair Maxwell?” I asked, bemused.
“He died in Australia in the 1960s,” said Erasmus. “As an infant. He lived for less than a month.”
“What of it?”
“I don’t know. But then, did the film The Greek Fig Tree really have a powerful effect on people? Or miniskirts?”
“Miniskirts certainly did!” I said firmly.
“Let’s assume so. Then Alistair probably had an influence too.”
“How?”
Erasmus shrugged and spread his hands.
“Sometimes prophecies are not clear straight away. The effect of Maxwell’s birth on humankind evidently has yet to be clarified.”
“Half a century after his death in infancy?”
“ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . .’ There have been a few other strange prophecies, but it was never possible to prove that they were prophecies and not just predictions. Well, and naturally, there are some things we’ve never heard. Because of the Tiger, or for other reasons.”
“Including your prophecy,” I said.
Erasmus was embarrassed. “Including mine . . . But, you know, I really wanted to live.”
“It’s hard to blame you for that,” I agreed.
The teacher woke Erasmus as morning was approaching. He acknowledged no difference between the night and the day and, naturally, people could not hinder his movements in any way.
“Get up!” said the teacher, pressing his hand over the boy’s mouth. “Be quiet and do not make a sound!”
Erasmus crawled off the bed. The teacher threw him his clothes—stockings, trousers, shirt, jerkin . . .
“He is close,” said the teacher, pale-faced and with his lips trembling faintly. “I managed to get away . . . he was distracted by the village . . .”
“By the village?” Erasmus asked uncomprehendingly as he dressed hastily.
“Yes, I made the people attack him . . . that will win us nothing except time—the Executioner is always thorough, he will finish with the people first.”
Someone stirred sleepily in Erasmus’s bed, someone buried under the eiderdown. The teacher looked at Erasmus’s crimson face and said: “Don’t wake Betty! She’ll give us another minute or two . . .”
Erasmus only hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded and clambered out through the window after his teacher.
The garden was fragrant with the cool freshness of the imminent dawn. Erasmus trudged after his teacher, who muttered quietly as he walked:
“How could I . . . what a mistake . . . you’ve been ready to make the prophecy for a long time . . . I missed the harbingers . . .”
“If I speak the prophecy, will the Executioner go away?” asked Erasmus.
“Yes, but only if no one hears the prophecy. Or if humans hear it.”
“And if you hear it . . .”
“The prophecy is for people!” his teacher snapped. “It will come true if humans hear it! It will not come true if no one hears it. You will not remember what you have said—he won’t touch you after that—but if I hear it . . . he will kill me! So that I don’t tell the people!”
“Then . . .” Erasmus grabbed his teacher by the flap of his jerkin. “Then leave me. I remember what you taught me, I’ll do everything—and I’ll speak out the prophecy!”
“You won’t manage it,” replied the teacher. “You’re not fully prepared yet. You need a listener. You’re too inexperienced to prophesy into empty space . . . I didn’t prepare you in time . . .”
He groaned suddenly and grabbed hold of his head.
“What’s happened?” Erasmus exclaimed.
“I’m a fool, boy. I should have defended the house . . . and you could have spoken the prophecy to your stupid girl . . . The Executioner would have left.”
“And the prophecy would have come true?”
“Yes. That is bad, all prophecies are bad . . . but you would have remained alive.”
The teacher suddenly laughed bitterly. “It seems that I have become attached to you, boy . . .”
“And Betty . . . Will he kill her?”
“The Executioner does not kill people. He will drink her soul,” the teacher replied. “She will become indifferent to everything, like a straw doll.”
“She’s not so very passionate as it is . . .” the boy muttered.
They had run almost a mile away from the manor house when they were overtaken by the sound of a woman’s piercing scream that broke off almost immediately.
“We didn’t know that the prophecy had to be heard by a human, not an Other,” I said. “Gesar tried to persuade Kesha to prophesy in his presence . . .”
“Kesha?” Erasmus asked, baffled.
“Yes, a boy-Prophet—he was discovered in Moscow just recently. Actually, that’s what prompted us to disturb you . . .”
Erasmus shook his head. “Your Great One is taking a great risk. If only he hears the prophecy, then the Tiger will switch from the boy to him . . . and the Tiger is more powerful than any of us. What is the situation now? Is the Tiger on the trail?”
“No, we’ve already dealt with the situation.”
“And what was the prophecy?”
“We don’t know. Nobody heard it. The boy was alone in a room in our offices. We managed to delay the Tiger, and the boy spoke his prophecy.”
“When he was entirely alone in a room?” said Erasmus, shaking his head incredulously. “That’s strange. Very strange. It is very rare indeed for a Prophet to be so well prepared that he can prophesy into empty space. It’s difficult—usually the Tiger gets there first, or the prophecy reaches human ears . . .”
“But you managed it!”
“I’m a special case. For me there has never been any great difference between a man, a dog, and . . . an oak, for instance,” Erasmus said, with a smile.
The Executioner overtook them at the edge of the forest. He seemed to be walking at an unhurried pace, but the distance between his dark silhouette and the Others who were running as fast as their legs could carry them narrowed with every second.
“Run, boy!” said the teacher, halting in the dust of the country road that ran along the edge of the forest. “Run . . . try to find someone and say what you have to say . . . Run!”
There was no hope in his voice. He was simply doing what he believed had to be done. Not out of high moral principles—he was a Dark One. Perhaps he would have found it abhorrent to live in a world where he had allowed the Executioner to take his pupil. Or perhaps he was simply not used to losing.
The motivations of Dark Ones could be very hard to understand sometimes.
“Hey, Twilight Creature!” he called out. “I am a Higher Magician of the Darkness! You shall not pass me! Go back!”
The Executioner didn’t even slow his stride. Erasmus saw rustling vines of blue fire sprout from his teacher’s hands and settle on the ground. The vines shuddered, as if preparing to pounce at the enemy.
The Executioner still didn’t slow his stride.
Erasmus realized that there was nothing his teacher could do. That he would struggle for a minute or two, or three, that the vines of dark fire would tear at the ground and the air, lash impotently at the Executioner’s body. And then the moment would come when the Executioner would grab his teacher, crush him, toss him aside—and carry on walking. To reach the Prophet.
He didn’t just understand this. He saw it, almost as if it was real.
Erasmus already knew what this was. It was not simply a prediction that might not happen. It was a harbinger of the prophecy . . . he was seeing the fate of an Other, which meant that was how it would be . . . for certain . . . almost for certain—if he did not utter a prophecy, his genuine First Prophecy, which would change the world and alter fate . . .
He swallowed hard to force down the lump in his throat and looked round. There was an old hollow oak growing only three paces away from him. Erasmus dashed to the tree, stood on tiptoe, and pulled himself up—the hole in the trunk was
a bit too high for him. He thrust his head into the shadowy opening that smelled of moldy leaves and rotten wood. Something inside it rustled—a wood mouse that was settling down inside the hollow oak went darting into a dark crevice in a panic.
That didn’t bother Erasmus at all. He really didn’t believe that people, animals, and plants were different from each other in any way.
He closed his eyes. He would have stopped his ears, but he had to cling to the edge of the hole. And so he simply tried not to hear anything—not his teacher’s voice, nor the whistling of the fiery lashes, nor the menacing sound made by the Executioner, which sounded like a tiger growling. (Erasmus had never seen any tigers, but he assumed that they must growl exactly like that.)
Get away from everything.
From the past.
From the present.
From the future.
The past is not important. The present is inconsequential. The future is indeterminate.
He was not just some common clairvoyant, he was a Prophet. He was the voice of fate. What he uttered would become the truth.
Only someone had to hear him. They absolutely had to.
Then why not this old oak?
The boy imagined his shadow, lying on the bottom of the hollow. And he lowered his head towards it.
Erasmus opened his eyes. His teacher was sitting beside him, cradling his limp left arm. The arm looked crumpled, almost chewed.
“The Executioner . . .” Erasmus whispered.
“You managed it, boy,” the teacher said with bewilderment in his voice. “I can’t imagine how, but you spoke your prophecy into empty space. And the Executioner has gone. In another moment he would have killed me.”
“I didn’t speak into empty space,” Erasmus replied. “I . . . I told the oak tree.”
A faint smile appeared on his teacher’s face.
“Ah, so that’s it . . . Well then, there is probably some purpose to your love of trees. Probably it is a part of your gift. A prevision of the fact that you would only escape if you loved oaks and aspen trees.”
He started chuckling and laughed for a long time, until he cried. Then he got up and shook the dust and mud off his clothes. Dark patches remained on them, but that did not worry the teacher.