January 20, 2013. Salon-de-Provence, France. 7 a.m. Paris time
“Est-ce que vous faites du tourisme?” <Are you sight-seeing?> asked the cab driver on the ride from the hotel to Salon-de-Provence.
“Oui,” said Morse. His two children, Zach and Zoey, did not speak French and looked at him quizzically.
“Qu’est-ce que vous allez voir?” <What are you going to see?>
“Nous espérons voir la maison de Nostradamus.” <We hope to see the home of Nostradamus>
“Ah, le Grand Prophète. J'espère que vous vous amuserez, mais il n'y a pas beaucoup à voir. Vous pourriez peut-être emmener les petits à Euro Disney faire les montagnes russes.” <I hope you have fun but there is not much to see. Perhaps you could take the little ones to EuroDisney and ride the roller coaster.>
Zoey’s ears picked up. “Did he say EuroDisney?” Zoey grabbed her father’s arm in the backseat. “I think he said EuroDisney. Are we going to EuroDisney?”
“He says we should go to EuroDisney and ride the roller coaster.”
“Can we? Can we, Dad? That would be so much more fun than looking at a dumb old French house.”
“I told you, Zoey,” said Morse. “We are here on business. I am only taking you two along because I have no place else to put you while I am gone. I am not making any promises on roller coasters. That is not why we’re here.”
Zoey pushed her father’s arm away in a huff, swinging her long brown hair towards her brother. “Uuuuuuuh! You’re mean. I am so bored!” Zoey had brought along her acoustic guitar, which was in her lap. She brought her acoustic guitar everywhere. She was just learning to play and was not by any means an expert yet, but she hoped one day to be in a rock band. She had an electric guitar back at her house, and a huge 60-watt amp that would shake the chandeliers when she played.
Her brother Zach, age 15, looked out the window, taking in the bright green hills of the French countryside, his eyes barely able to peak out through his blonde-streaked, Zac-Efron-like hair which he always wore halfway across his face. He wore a dark blue American Eagle hoodie and a skater cap on sideways, and was clutching his “long-board” (an extra-long wooden skateboard with lime green wheels) to his chest. Between the long-board, the guitar, and the three passengers, the back of this French taxi was very crowded.
“Z, chillax. Don’t be buggin’ on Pops.”
Zach spoke some form of strange hip-hop-rap-speak which his father did not understand. The taxi rambled on through the town of Salon-de-Provence. As the taxi rolled over the cobblestones, Zach began loudly beat-boxing and singing a Jay-Z rap song. Morse could make out something about bee stings and shoestrings, but the rest sounded like gibberish.
“Stop doing that!” chided Morse. “Not only does the song make no sense, if you sing it, people will take you for an imbecile. Is that what you want?” Zach was annoyed.
“Right, Dad,” he said sarcastically. “I am a real imbecile. I have straight A’s, you know, unlike dimwit here, who be bo-janglin’ like 24-7.” Zach elbowed his sister.
“Shut up, Zach! You’re a jerk!” Zach paused for about three seconds, and then started mumbling the same rap song again quietly toward the glass of the window.
Salon-de-Provence sits on a large rock plain called the Crau, between the confluence of the Rhone and Durance Rivers. In the center of the town is the Château de l‘Empéri, a 9th century cream-colored castle, with two large towers, one wide and one narrow, with medieval battlements. Morse pointed out the window of the taxi to the castle.
“Look at that, guys,” said Morse. “That’s the Château de l’Empéri. At one time, that was the home of the Archbishops for the Holy Roman Emperors. That’s where it gets its name from. In 1660, this is where Nostradamus would have come to meet Catherine de Médicis, who was the Queen Consort of Henri II of France. If you want later, we can take a look at the castle. It might be fun.”
“Thrilling,” said Zoey sarcastically, rolling her eyes and resting her head against her guitar, wishing she were anywhere else but here.
“Pops, why is that castle so freakin’ high?” asked Zach.
“The castle is perched on top of a great rock called the Rock of Puech.”
“The Rock of Puke!” exclaimed Zoey, laughing. “That’s hilarious. Do you puke if you go on it?”
“No,” said Zach, “Unless you look at your face! Hooooooooo! You is busted, shorty!”
“Funny,” said Zoey, punching her brother.
“Not ‘puke,’ ‘Puech’,” said Morse. “However, if you go to the top of the tower in the castle and look down, you might get queasy. And what does ‘busted’ mean?”
“It means she’s ugly,” said Zach, grinning at his sister.
“Zach, don’t call your sister names. And stop using such horrendous grammar. I know you know how to speak correctly. Why do you insist on pretending that you have a second grade education?”
Zach began improvising his own rap lyrics, which he often liked to do. He beat-boxed a rhythm: “Umm, sucka, umm, sucka, umm.” Then:
I am the man and my sista is a loo-zuh.
If I had the choice, I would never want to choose huh.
I am so fly, and we trippin’ by this castle,
But my sista with her git-ar is just givin’ me a hassle.
Pops, he’s a stressin’ and he’s poppin’ out a vein.
He wishes that his kiddies were real smart and not a pain.
He holds out his hands and he gently tries to calm us,
But Zach’s in the Hizzle, with his Homeboy Nostradamus!
Umm, sucka, umm, suckaa, ummm….
Morse laughed. “That was actually not half bad.” This talent of spontaneous rhyming has to be worth something in later life, he thought.
The taxi went down the Boulevard Jean-Jaurès, turned right on the Cours Carnot, and followed the line of what once was the northern wall of the city, to the Place Crousillat. Morse pointed out to the children La Fontaine Moussue, an exquisite moss-covered fountain that looked more like a tree than a fountain. The taxi then let them out on the Porte de l’Horloge, the French word ‘horloge’ meaning “clock”, so named because of the magnificent seventeenth century clock tower which crowned the former northern gate of the city.
Morse thanked the driver, paid the fare, and took his duffel bag of equipment out of the back of the cab. They then walked down the narrow street passing toward and under the Porte de l’Horloge. The old buildings lining the narrow street were refurbished with bright yellow, tan and mustard-colored paint, with pale green and dark green shutters on the top and small shops on the bottom. The Porte de l’Horloge looked like a cream-colored, boxy triple-layer cake, topped with a metal cage and crucifix and a large ornate clock face just below it.
A man on a motorbike zipped by them as they walked along the stone street, past a hat shop and a camera shop. Zach took out his long-board and jumped on. He skateboarded on the flat sidewalk ahead of his father and sister and rolled through the archway at the base of the tower. Morse yelled after his son to be careful on the rough street. Once through the archway, the group made a turn at the town’s former fish-market and proceeded down “La Rue Nostradamus,” or Nostradamus Street. The small non-descript tan-stoned building which was the former home of the most famous prophet in the world was on the right. It had been rebuilt by the City of Salon and looked hardly anything as it did in Nostradamus’ day. A large rectangular doorway greeted them, with three arched windows above it. Waiting outside the doorway was a solidly built, tall Catholic priest, with brown hair, large sideburns, bad teeth, and a tanned, friendly face. He was wearing a gray winter coat and scarf over his black priest shirt, collar and trousers.
“Welcome, Monsieur Morse,” said the priest, extending his hand. “I recognize you from your picture.”
“My picture?” asked Morse.
“Yes, on the back of your books. I assure you that your books on Nostradamus are most popular here. Although it is a shame that you do not have faith in the predictions of our city’s most famous prophet,” he said, smiling.
“Are you Father Jacques du Bois?”
“Yes. It is nice to meet you.”
The priest eyed the two youngsters standing next to Morse. “This is somewhat delicate, Monsieur Morse. You have little ones here. May I speak to you privately for a moment?” Morse moved over to the side to speak privately with the priest.
“I did not know you were bringing little ones. We will be going into a dark underground room. I just want to make sure they will not be too scared.”
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” said Morse. “They will be fine.”
The priest eyed the children with concern. “Very well, then. Shall we proceed?”
“By all means,” said Morse, following the priest. The group walked a few hundred yards down Rue de Nostradamus to the ancient thirteenth-century Église de St-Michel, a tan and cream stone edifice with a three-story pointed belfry and thick walnut doors. Father Jacques led Morse and his two children through the ornate, arched entrance inside the church. The walls contained arches of white granite, sloping from each wall and meeting in the middle in a criss-cross pattern. On the ceiling, hanging from red velvet cords, were glass chandeliers. Behind the altar was a giant wall of gold with two gold pillars on each side, framing a picture of Jesus and several angels. Father du Bois took them in front of the altar and around it, then through the sacristy, and finally to a rickety wooden stairwell which led into the basement of the church.
The basement was a rectangular, musty room with stone walls and a stone floor. On the northern wall was a large red tapestry. At the foot of the tapestry on the floor were two piles of stone bricks, one on the left corner and one on the right corner.
“This room was an old basement beneath the church. In the Vernègues earthquake of 1909, much of the room collapsed. At the time, the Church did not have the money to repair the basement, so the pastor at that time just boarded up the door and walled over it. However, the priests responsible for St-Michel remembered that the room existed. December 14, 2003 was the 500th anniversary of Nostradamus’ birth, so, as part of the bicentennial celebration, the City of Salon raised funds to restore certain historic sights in Salon. One of these sites was St-Michel. The funds were finally released for the restoration of St-Michel in 2004, and after several delays in obtaining bids from contractors, the restoration work began in earnest in 2005. The restoration of the exterior of the church and the worship areas of the church were obviously the most important projects, and so those were completed first. Finally, however, the city hired a contractor to restore the basement. By the end of 2006, the debris was cleared and the basement was capable of being used for storage. We put a rug down here and used the room mainly for storage.
“However, this month, when I came down here, I noticed a mold smell. I walked on the rug, and noticed that it was wet. I traced the water to this northern wall, and I saw that water was coming out of the bottom of the wall pretty steadily. I thought we had a water pipe leak behind the wall possibly, so I hired a local contractor to break through the stone wall to see if we could find the leak. This is what we discovered.”
Father du Bois lifted back the tapestry on the wall, and there was a smashed-out hole in the wall big enough for a person to walk through. Father du Bois gave Morse and the children flashlights.
“This way. Be careful with the children. It is very dark down here.”
The priest ushered Morse and his children through the hole in the wall. When the foursome walked through the wall, they were at the top of another wooden staircase. The priest led them downward again, and Morse could see there was a large room down here with a tall, vaulted ceiling. It looked like an old wine cellar. There were over a dozen huge oak wine casks along the wall.
The priest pointed his flashlight to the ceiling. “You can see we have a small crack up near the roof of this room, and I believe water from the outside of the church during rains was entering the small crack and pouring down the wall toward the wall we just went through. Mystery solved.”
Father du Bois walked in front of the oak casks, and led the group to the cask which was third from the end.
“Priests have long enjoyed their wine, especially priests in the south of France. It would not have been unusual at all for the priests of this Church in centuries gone by to run a vineyard in Salon and keep the wine stored here in this wine cellar. Of course, when I checked the casks, there was no wine left, but I believe there must have been wine in these casks at one time. You should know, Professor Morse, that the only ones who know about this underground room are the contractor, you and your children, and me. I thought it better to let you investigate first before calling in any authorities, who will only delay us with construction permits and regulations. Whatever Nostradamus wanted to tell the world, I think it is important that we know immediately. Do you agree?”
Morse nodded. Father du Bois moved to the end of the row of casks.
“Do you recognize anything strange about this particular cask?” asked Father du Bois. Morse and his children studied the cask. Nothing looked particularly strange about it. Upon a second glance, however, Morse noticed that the fleur-de-lis affixed on the wall behind the cask seemed to shine a little more than the others.
“The fleur-de-lis on the wall looks a little different.”
“Ahh, very good Professor Morse, and so it does. I thought it looked strange, too. So, I got a ladder and went up for myself to investigate.”
Father du Bois pulled over an eight-foot green aluminum ladder, which had been resting against one of the casks. “Shall we?”
“Dad, can I go up there?” asked Zach. “That looks tight.”
“No. You stay here with your sister and shine the light, and don’t go anywhere. It is really dark down here and I do not want to lose you.”
Zach went back to beat-boxing.
For climbin’ up on ladders, the Zachster is so tight,
But Pops is a scaredy, and says, ‘Zach, hold the light.’
Pops is a downer and he’s takin’ all the fun,
But maybe he will let me climb the ladder when he’s done.
Ummm, sucka, umm, sucka, umm.
Morse looked down at Zach witheringly from the fourth step of the ladder. “Please, Zach, not now, okay? You will get your turn.”
While the priest held the aluminum ladder, Morse climbed up on top of the cask and, sitting on his knees on the roof of the cask, examined the fleur-de-lis. It was clear there had been dust on it which had been disturbed, as if someone had recently touched it. This fleur-de-lis looked slightly golden in color, unlike the drab wooden fleur-de-lis markers behind the other casks. Morse shone his flashlight on it, using his hand to clear away the remaining dust. “Merlot” was inscribed on it. Nothing strange there. Morse felt the edges of the fleur-de-lis with his hand. As he applied a little force to it, it appeared to slide and move slightly. He applied more force and the fleur-de-lis turned in a clockwise direction, clicking into place. In a second, a hinged wooden trapdoor in the top of the cask opened, and Morse crashed downward into the belly of the cask. Startled, with his back a little bruised, Morse found himself in total darkness inside the old wine cask. He shined his flashlight around it. To his astonishment, the wooden back of the cask was missing, and beyond appeared to be some kind of stone passageway. Morse felt his pulse quicken. Just then, the trap door in the roof of the cask opened, and a light shined downward towards him.
“Isn’t it incredible?” asked Father du Bois, grinning above him. “I am sorry I did not warn you, but I thought you would be more excited if you found the passageway the same way I did. Did you get hurt in the fall?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Morse sheepishly. “I just wasn’t expecting that!”
The priest turned toward the two children staring in excitement near the bottom of the ladder. “Come on, kids, climb up the ladder. It is safe.”
Zach left his long-board on the ground and scampered up the ladder, but Zoey refused to part with her guitar. The priest tried to convince her to leave it below, but Zoey insisted. She was not leaving her guitar anywhere. Father du Bois helped Zach and Zoey up to the top of the cask, and then lowered them down to their father. Then, the priest jumped with surprising athleticism to the bottom of the cask.
“It is like Indiana Jones, yes?” asked the priest excitedly.
Zach was impressed. “Pops, this is sick! We are kickin’ it down here.”
Zoey was scared. She vice-gripped her father’s arm. “Are there rats down here? This is like really scary. I want to get out of here.”
“If there are any rats, I will save you,” Morse assured his daughter.
“Z, stop bein’ a punk. This is so fly down here. Ooonce, oonce, oonce,” said Zach, making an indecipherable beat-boxing sound. As he shined his flashlight around, he invented another rap:
We’re through a secret door, like a bunch of Hardy Boyz.
Pops is really clumsy and he fell and made some noise.
But Zachster has the answer to this riddle in the bones.
For Zach’s off the hook just like Indiana Jones.
Ooonce, momma, oonce, momma, oonce….
The priest turned to Morse, grinning. “Does he always do that?”
“Yes,” said Morse. “All day long.”
The priest and his three guests walked down a cold damp stony corridor about twenty feet to a door which appeared to be wedged into the stone walls of the corridor. In front of the door was a large stone, cemented into the floor, which contained an inscription in Latin:
“Hic iacet bona Nostradami, vatis docti, servata a pueris, Madeleina Cesareque, in memoria patris. Haec cella aperietur triginta diebus post diem Magnae Transitus Magni Dubitantis, I.M.”
Morse studied the inscription, running his hands over the letters “I.M.” Zach looked at the strange words.
“Pops, what does it say?” asked Zach.
Morse replied, “It is Latin. It says:
Here lie the personal effects of Nostradamus, learned prophet, preserved by his children Madeleine and César in their father’s memory. This vault shall be opened thirty days after the date of Great Transition by the Great Doubter, I.M.’”
Zach looked at his father. “What is ‘the date of great transition’?”
Morse looked at his son, clearly troubled. “The date of ‘great transition’ was an important date in the Mayan Indian calendar. Its Long Count calendar began in 3,114 B.C., marking time in 394-year periods called Baktuns. Thirteen was a sacred number for the Mayans, and the 13th Baktun ended on Dec. 21, 2012. In addition, the Mayans knew that once every 25,800 years, the Earth’s axis wobbles slightly. That anniversary occurred on December 21, 2012, the date when the sun lined up with the center of the Milky Way. Some crazy people on the Internet claimed this was the Mayan equivalent of Armageddon—the end of the World.”
“Oh yeah,” said Zoey, “I saw that movie with John Cusack called 2012, when like the whole world blew up.”
“Right. Same thing. Obviously, though, it was not the end of the world because we are still all here. For the Mayans, though, December 21, 2012 was not doomsday. What it really meant was that the great cycle of life is restarting, as if we are starting over into a new age. In addition, according to Mayan scholars, the New Age is supposed begin at the very moment of the winter solstice, which is precisely 11:11 a.m. Universal Time, or, 12:11 p.m. Paris time. So, if I had to guess, I would suggest that the best interpretation of ‘The Date of Great Transition,’ is December 21, 2012.”
Zach pulled out his iPhone and looked at the date. “Dad, it says this vault is going to be opened up thirty days after the date of the Great Transition. Thirty days from December 21, 2012 is January 20, 2013.”
“So?” said Zoey, obviously not understanding the significance.
“So? January 20, 2013 is today!”
Morse looked at his son somberly and then looked at the priest. “I know.”
“And I.M., the Great Doubter,” said Father du Bois, “can only mean one person, Professor—you.”
“Father du Bois, my Dad’s name begins with ‘J,’ not ‘I,’” said Zach.
The priest looked at Zach. “In Latin, Zach, the letter J is spelled with an ‘I.’ The Great Doubter ‘I.M.’ can only mean ‘Iohannus Morse.’”
January 20, 2013. 6:11 a.m. Washington, D.C.
According to the United States Constitution, the Electoral College meets to elect the President of the United States on the Monday after the second Wednesday in December. In 2012, that date was Monday, December 17, 2012. According to tradition, after the ballots are completed, the signed Certificates of Vote are sent certified mail to the then-sitting Vice President of the United States—in this case, Joseph Biden. A staff member from the Vice President’s office then places the Certificates of Vote in two special mahogany boxes. The votes from Alabama to Missouri, plus Washington, D.C., are contained in one box, and the votes from Montana to Wyoming in the other box. On Wednesday, December 19, 2012, Vice President Joseph Biden received the Certificates of Vote for the 2012 Presidential Election by certified mail. On Friday, December 21, 2012, Skip Thompson, a senior member on Joe Biden’s staff, organized the Certificates of Vote and, at 6:11 a.m., placed them in the mahogany boxes.
Thirty days later, at 6:11 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, President-Elect Tim Woodson straightened his tie in the mirror, running over in his head what he would say during his Inauguration Speech. He could not wait to be President.