Seven Veils of Wisdom – Bloc One – by P J Searle
Chapter Seventeen

Smithson stood aghast in the hotel bathroom, staring at Mitzi’s dreadful expression. He held out a hand to her, the other hand still holding the bloody towel to his head. It was the first time in all the years he’d known her, that he’d seen her openly weeping. ‘Hold on, old girl,’ he said, ‘We’re not goners yet.’

Mitzi studied him through her tears. ‘You okay?’ she said with surprise, ‘The blood? The implant?’

‘Oh, that bloody thing!’ he said, as if obvious. ‘I took the bugger out like you told me to. Did it with tweezers. The handbook says it’s supposed to be easy – bit cack-handed, made a pig’s dinner of it I’m afraid.’ He noticed Mitzi’s amazement. ‘Well, you see, it occurred to me, we didn’t want bloody Eskimos watching us on the job, did w–’ A sudden crack! cut him off mid-sentence. A blinding, electric flash had smashed the hand-basin into pieces, sending a shard flying across the bathroom. Smithson’s head jerked towards the explosion then back to Mitzi. ‘What the devil was that?’

‘The firstborn,’ she gasped, ‘Marjoram was the warning!’ He looked at her, bemused. ‘Don’t you see? The crazy buggers had gone to far, heterodoxy; they tried to change the species.’

‘Dear God, you mean…’

Mitzi put her hands to his face, forcing him to understand. “By midnight, the Lord had struck down every firstborn in Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh on his throne to the firstborn of the captive in the dungeon” – whatever did that is doing this!’

Smithson took her hands down from his face, and together they walked to the main window overlooking the city. High in the night sky flashing clouds of electricity danced and wove an aurora of death. It seemed the planet was cleansing itself of the offending new heretic brood, medics of all nationalities attending the dead and dying.

For an hour they stood watching as the thermo-electric tempest slowly cleared. They looked down at the city below and imagined the death toll.

‘All those dead, Smitty… all their dreams, all their hopes, where have they gone to?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘I guess not… I don’t know.’ Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

‘I’d thought you would have an idea – a short pause of grief, an interval of woe… purgatory… atonement, then the old Pearly Gates! That’s the sort of thing you Catholics believe in, isn’t it old girl?’

‘We were all so bloody clever… all the sciences, the neuro-innovations and all the theologies, and we still haven’t a clue – “Dust-to-dust with the flesh, and the spirit back to the God that gave it.” But where do they go to, Smitty… all those souls, all those dreams and thoughts that just moments ago were alive in the ether? If you are right, heaven’s going to be busy tonight.’

‘Yes, I guess. But we won’t know that for sure, not yet a while, aye? Ignorance is bliss, so they say. Don’t knock it.’

‘No, I guess not. It would spoil the chase to know for certain?’

Ten miles from the USA Navy Base, Newfoundland, Falstaff stood over Walden, and many other shipmates, sewn into shrouds and draped solemnly in US flags. Falstaff, in full dress uniform, stood in erect salute. Rees was also on parade, dressed in his navy finery. He too saluted as the bodies were slipped ceremoniously into the sea. Falstaff turned to him; their eyes met in a look of mutual understanding, purpose and belonging in a surviving world that had come so close to disaster.

In the two months bringing the New Year of 2026, order was re-established. The media headlines made what they could of the heart-rending statements voiced by surviving world-leaders and leading dignitaries:

– ‘THE WORLD HERALDS A NEW DAWN’ – ‘ARMAGEDDON AVOIDED’ – ‘THE WORLD UNANIMOUS IN GRIEF’ – ‘THE POPE BLESSES A NEW DAWN OF MAN’ – ‘WORLD CHURCHES UNITE IN GIVING THANKS TO GOD’ – ‘AYATOLLAHS PRAISE ALLAH FOR DELIVERANCE’ – ‘WORLD PEACE SUMMIT PLANNED’ – ‘RON BATES TO SUE’.

As for Greater Britain, or more to the point, England, was dealt a body blow from that which had made her Great in the first place, international insurance. Through downright egotism the British had underwritten the whole of Europe; now it was payback time––now France ruled the roost.

On the portico of the delightful wooden church, Birkenhead, suburb of Auckland, New Zealand, Smithson shook his head in wonderment. Mitzi, dressed in cleric’s grey, studied him as he took in the pleasant vista.

‘How long have you got?’ She said it and smiled, then took hold of his arm and pulled him to her.

Smithson considered a moment. ‘Just as long as it takes… The UN has graciously afforded me my long overdue sabbatical. More if needs be.’

‘So… what do you think?’ She indicated to the typical New Zealand colonial church with its flower gardens and white-painted surrounding picket fence.

He looked down at her. ‘What do I think?’ I think you are now a true believer, hallelujah! Do I call you, ‘father’ or ‘sister?’

’Call me what you normally call me, ‘Oi you!’ And I told you before, to totally believe in God is as stupid as totally not believing in God’ – it’s to do with faith. Without faith we are lost.’ She looked again to the church. ‘I meant, what do you think of my church… pretty, aye?’

‘Yes, very nice. Auckland… it could almost be a village church in Surrey. Are you sure it’s all yours, Holy Mother?’ He smiled, slightly mocking.

‘Yep, bought and paid for; religion is a gold mine nowadays. So, how you going to take to being a vicar’s wife… sorry, husband?’ She smiled, slightly mocking.

‘I’ll take to it very well… extremely well.’

‘Come on, we got to hear our banns read; I want this done properly.’ She smiled again, took his arm and hurried him along.

‘You’re not going to read them, then?’

‘N,o!’ she said huffishly, raising the last part of the single syllable censuring the stupid remark, ‘You don’t read your own goddam banns, that would be like giving eulogy at your own funeral. Come on.’ She smiled and they walked off into the church.

Softened beyond belief, Mitzi was now saccharine passive, dressed in full white wedding regalia. She and Smitty were finally tying the knot – he was his normal debonair self, in tux and topper.

‘And before you pop your clogs, Smitty, old boy,’ she hissed with contrived sweetness from the corner of her mouth, ‘I want a whole bunch of kids out of you, right? Right!?’

Smithson smiled. ’Right! Just think… two months ago we didn’t have a hope in hell, but now… ‘kids!’ I can’t wait… the future’s looking rosy, Misses Smithson.’ He said it sporting an ear-to-ear grin.

‘Don’t be too certain… husband. The only certainty about predicting the future is that you’re going to get it wrong! Just let the future take care of itself – That doomsday comet you’re always bleating on about, they say it’s changed orbit again.’

Smithson shrugged, hardly interested.

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