Nostradamus Writes His Own Biography

My Father, Who Art in Heaven
March 27, 2012
The Poet Laborer
March 30, 2012

It stands to reason why, through the inflated egos of history, there would be a man whose profound gift was foresight. If scripture had not prepared us for Messiah, we’d have put him to death without thinking twice.

It stands to equal reason that the very man whom history chose to be the prophet of his century would be a sufferer of sorts, whose life was nevertheless normal and studied, incurring a wife and children of standard achievement. It was a regular success, much lauded by society and revered by peers, yet not altogether too successful. Messiah, it is worth admitting, was neither a man of power or position.

When it came to pass that Plague was abundant and stunted the growth of Europe—humanity, dare I say—there came the brilliant hands of Serre and Nostredame. It so happens Plague listens seldom to dexterous hands, and so, despite their devotions, quite nearly a third of the known world met with the grave. If he had enjoyed his way more fully, our dear Michel de Nostredame would have delighted in fields of children and not skins of pox. But the Lord has will and human hands cannot disobey it.

Which must mean Messiah was hard at work, whatever was His will. This was precisely the thing which Michel recognized, giving over all his fruitful blessings to discernment of divinity. That is to say, what should happen on this Tuesday and that, being of merit to what persons in which time, and so forth. He fashioned an almanac and quatrains to this very purpose, self-dubbed The Prophecies. They were rich with merits, and in French.

Now it happens a delightful Queen benamed Catherine came to his aid when the rest of the world knelt in superstition and charged the great man with blasphemy and evils. A beautiful woman of heart and face, she is remember often as the one who cured us of Huguenot sympathies—whatever the implement of death, I can’t remember. And while it was great good she did concerning Nostredame, it is said she died of puffed-up lungs, billowed with hot air.

Much as he had lived, he died. Nostredame, the man of many tongues, knelt on the floor in 1566 and did not rise up again to be of any good. Truth be told, he presaged his own demise the midnight before, saying to his maidservant: “I am not again to rise from this floor.” The seer did as it was told, and died beside the basin.

Nowadays, the prophecies are treated with skepticism. “Who should know of what’s to come?” they ask. But I tell you, sure as the day: “Nostredame was one who knew. He was Daniel, was Saul, was David, was Moses.” And the future will not be the same because of him.

He was buried in a chapel and, therefore, the end.

 

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