The Prophecy - 2. Chapter 2

Saint-Denis, France, 1012.

Dawn was just breaking and the first light of the morning illuminated his cell. Simon rose from his bed. His bare feet touched the stone floor. It was cold in the room and Simon was shivering. He reached out and picked his worn robe from a stool. The wool was rough, but the garment served its purpose. Simon put on the robe and slipped into his sandals, and then he left his cell and hurried down the deserted corridor of the monastery. He was late again. He had not heard the bell that called the brethren to matins. Simon hurried towards the chapel, but stopped at the well and drank from the water. The water was cold, but it quenched his thirst and it revived his spirits.

Simon heard the other monks singing a gloomy chant in the chapel. Their voices were dark and sad. He listened for a while, looking at the chapel. It looked old and dreary in the dim morning light. Simon shivered, but not only from the cold. He felt as if somebody was watching him. An uneasy feeling took hold of him. Simon had a sense of foreboding.

Following an impulse, Simon turned away from the chapel, crossed the yard and entered the cookhouse. He found it empty. It was hard to make out anything in the half-dark room, but finally he spotted bread and cheese on a wooden sideboard. Simon took a loaf of bread and several pieces of cheese, aware that he was stealing from the monks, but he committed the sin without the slightest feeling of remorse. Simon left the building and entered the vegetable garden of the monastery. A gate at the end of the garden opened to a path that led to a small forest. Chewing on a piece of bread, Simon walked down the path through a field of heather. The path was overgrown with brier wood. Thorns scratched the skin of his feet, but Simon ignored it.

It was not his first time in the wood. He had already hidden in the forest several times. Simon climbed a high seat, sat down on the planks and rubbed his hands. It was the end of March and the mornings were bitter cold. His bare feet were numb, but Simon had meanwhile gotten accustomed to the cold and so he simply ignored it. He ate the food, and then he just sat in the dim morning light, gazing at the dark sky. Rain was falling in a drizzle and fog was rising from the ground. The weather fitted his mood perfectly.

Simon was eighteen years of age. His elder brother would take over and carry on the business after his father’s death. Simon had been sent to the monks at the age of thirteen. Nobody had asked him if he wanted to go. Five years had passed and he still did not accept his fate. He had learned a lot in the cloister, reading, writing – his handwriting was elaborate -, calculating and many more things, but Simon did not feel happy with it. He felt locked up in the cloister, forced to live a life he felt he was not destined to. He tried hard to fit in for extended periods of time, but then suddenly, from one day to the other, Simon felt like an outcast. He sank into depression and started to brood. His thoughts were gloomy, apocalyptic. Simon hid his thoughts from the other monks and avoided their company altogether. Whenever he could, he stole away from them. The brethren had scolded him in the beginning, but, for the sake of peace, they finally let him be. God would judge on the young man in the end.

Simon watched the rain for a considerable amount of time. The monotony of the falling rain calmed his mind and soothed his heart. When he finally felt better, Simon climbed down and slowly trudged back to the cloister. The rain had turned the path into mud and Simon was dirty and completely soaked when he finally reached the yard of the monastery. The place was deserted. The monks had retreated into the buildings that sheltered them from the heavy rain. Simon went to the well and poured a bucket full of water over his dirty feet. Then he trudged back to his cell.

He took off his soaked robe and undergarments, wrapped his naked body in a woollen blanket and then stretched on the bed. He shivered. His body was cold, but his head felt hot. Simon realized he had caught a cold. The illness added to his depressed mood and Simon closed his eyes to find shelter in an inward refuge. He did not move again until the evening bell stroke and Simon realized he was hungry. Despite being feverish, he rose to his feet, dressed, and then went to the chapel. He sat down in the rear. The other monks ignored him. Simon sat quietly and with his eyes lowered until the end of the mass. He followed the others to the refectory, sat down and quietly ate his broth. He sneezed and coughed. The other monks glanced at him out of the corner of an eye and Simon left instantly after they had finished supper. He had just entered the corridor, when he sensed a hand on his shoulder.

“Come, Brother Simon,” a deep voice said. “I’ll prepare a remedy for your cold.”

Simon turned his head and saw Brother Nicholas, the cloister’s healer. The stout man gave him a brief yet sympathetic nod. Simon nodded back and followed Brother Nicholas down the hallway.

Despite Brother Nicholas’s remedies, Simon was feverish for a week. The illness made him feel humble and weak and when he had recovered from it, he undertook another effort to fit in the cloister. He attended the masses regularly and worked in the scriptorium all day long. He copied a rare and old book that the monastery kept in a secret chamber. An old monk had entrusted him with the work and Simon worked carefully. He filled the parchments with his elaborate handwriting.

Six weeks passed by and finally spring had come. The bright sun of spring raised Simon’s spirits.

He entered the scriptorium one morning and found the door to the secret chamber open. Simon peered into the small room, and then, his heart pounding faster at the forbidden act, he entered the chamber with a candle in his hand. Shelves were filled with old, leather-bound books that looked like the one that Simon was copying. He took a quick glance at some of the books. They all contained religious texts written in ancient Latin. Simon wondered why the monks locked away the books. Probably because they were rare and precious. He was about to leave the room when he spotted a box made of ebony wood that was placed in one of the shelves. He couldn’t resist and, snatched the box and opened the lid. The box contained a parchment. Simon unfolded it and started to read the text. The handwriting was hard to decipher.

Simon’s hand was trembling when he placed the parchment back into the box. He had read a prophecy, dark, disastrous and demonic. If the text was true, then the end of the world was to come about soon, brought about by the demiurge himself. Simon left the chamber and made a few steps, but then he stopped and, following an impulse, he re-entered the room, opened the box again and took the parchment. He pushed it into the sleeve of his robe, and then, his heart pounding wildly at his act of betrayal, he hurried out of the scriptorium, crossed the yard and entered the cloister’s vegetable garden, and then he hastened to his hiding place in the wood.

Simon climbed the high seat and sat down on the planks. He waited until his ragged breathing had calmed before he unfolded the text. The text spoke of the end of the world. The prophecy gave the exact date. The text was written in Latin, but the figures were Arabic. There was a little ink stain just were the first figure of the year was written. Simon held the parchment in front of his eyes. The first figure could well be read as a 2, but that was probably because of the stain. Simon had another close look, and then he was certain. The world would end on the 17th of May 1012, Anno Domini.

Simon calculated the time that was left until the anticipated day. It was the beginning of May. Only two more weeks until the day of doom. Simon raised his eyes and looked into the distance. Why had the monks hidden the parchment? Why had they locked away the prophecy? It had been written three hundred years ago. Had the brethren forgotten about the text? But what if the prophecy was coming true? Shouldn’t he speak to the abbot? Simon was about to jump up from the planks, but he stopped within the movement.

The text stated one thing clearly. Only one man was able to stop the demiurge. The chosen man’s name was Jason. Only little more was said about the man. He resided in London, England, and worked with a horse trade company that sold the fastest horses the world had ever seen. Simon pondered. Surely only the king kept the fastest horses. Was Jason a courtier? No, Simon thought, the text stated that he worked with the company that sold the horses to the king.

The young monk gazed into the distance for a while, then pushed the parchment into his sleeve and hurried back to the scriptorium. He would copy the text and place the original parchment back into the box. If at all, Simon realized, he had to act on his own. It was useless to speak to the abbot. The man would not do anything. He would shrug off the prophecy as mindless drivel written by an unknown man. Simon saw the severe face of the abbot. The man would not believe in the prophecy. He would ask if Jason really believed that the man Jason was the saviour of the world. He would ask him if he had forgotten the true saviour’s name. The true saviour’s name was Jesus. Simon shuddered. He had to be cautious. He had to hide the text, if he did not want to burn at the stake.

He hurried to the secret chamber and found that the door was locked. Simon stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. Who had locked the door to the chamber? The old monk? Had he already found that the parchment was missing? Simon’s heart beat faster.