Chapter 3

A Chapter by Alex Vandool

"Who can forget now the seas of blood washing the earth red in those times of fury. That human passion. The earthquake dams could not hold it.

"Who remembers the warnings of that small group of clairvoyants - the noble ones - the hope. It was all so desperate then, they knew the battle was lost. What they put on paper was ridiculed as an outlandish calumny, a clumsy accusation, a clutch at straws...

"How prophetic it proved to be! How quickly all their seemingly wild tales became horrific reality. It didn't matter who wrote it - all that mattered was why it had to be passed from one to another, spreading out slowly, silently before reaching more and more seekers in waves.

"Too late! Enough could not be woken from their deep slumbers. Too late! The powers had their armour set. Too late! A revelation cannot be contravened. Some prophets can only say: Prepare!..."

He switched the Medusa soundwave system in the cabin to a European station which played old synstrumentals from the 50s. He was irritated by the propaganda drone of the edgy, anxiety-preserving spiel. They had fallen asleep about an hour into the journey. The Mezmerizer had worn off and exhaustion seized them before they could explain to him any more about the job he'd taken on.

He sighed deeply. He thought about other times, when he was younger, more idealistic, less resigned to fate. It made no difference...He couldn't go back...Those versions of his mirror-self were long gone. He couldn't feel as he felt then. It was as if it had all happened to someone else.

They murmured something in their sleep. Agitated by a dream, they seemed to be trying to call out to someone. He strained to hear their words but could only make out a confused mantra of sorts. Suddenly they sat bolt upright in the Jacobin and stared as if transfixed into the sky over the Cityscape of New Montevideo.

"Not far to go now", he reassured them.
"The journey flies in these nights".

"Yes", they replied. "Excuse my fading. It really has been a wearisome Thermidor".

"The curse of the just", he glanced at them, smiling weakly.

"Our all victorious mob!", they caught his eye mischievously, then turned to look out at the empty streets below.

"What I wanted to tell you earlier...I mean the comparative difficulty of the situation which presents itself to me...It relates to a spiritual conceit of one of my circle", they looked straight ahead at the highrise residential sector to which they glided at a meanspeed of around 300 kilometres per novahour.

They were much calmer and had regained the melancholic, reserved bearing which he had noticed on seeing them for the first time.

"The person...that is my acquaintance...they believe they know...".

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