The
Seeds of Ammon
by
G B Hobson
The Seeds of Ammon came in the night from the deserts of
Egypt, borne on air currents to fall on the meadows of the Vale of Eden. Even
as the spores of a Lycoperdales-type plant — secretly grown in the Oracle
Temple of Ammon at Siwah — were breathed in, so the people of the Vale began to
prophesy.
Martha Langton, watched her neighbouring farmer, Jake Wood,
mount the few crumbling steps of the ancient monument set in the centre of
Eden’s Market Square. She noted an unnatural brightness to his pale blue
eyes, which went well with his long silver hair flowing from both scalp and
chin. He may be old and bent, his clothes old and shabby, but to her he would
always be a giant among men. She felt, as much as saw, Jake unbend his painful
arthritic joints to stand his full six feet of height. Trembling with an inner
urge to join him, Martha waited in awed silence as Jake began to speak.
“Listen, all you blessed with
hearing.”
A few people nearby glanced up
but the pull of the market with its offerings of fruit and vegetables, bread
and cakes, local cheeses, fresh fish, bags and trinkets, shoes and socks,
women’s clothes, scarves and hats, sweets and books, had too great a hold.
Stallholders continued to shout out their wares above a cacophony of voices.
Martha knew that money burned in pockets as beckoning aromas wafted under
noses, and paint-box colours caught the eye. Shoppers had come to shop and
gossip, and they had no time to listen to a croaking old man.
Something had to be done to
make them listen. Martha drew in her breath then let forth an unholy wail that
reverberated on nearby pots and pans. A shocked silence fell over the area as
though a banshee had suddenly arrived to presage doom on all present. Even Jake
straightened his back and became more alert.
“Listen, all you blessed with
hearing.” No croaking now. Jake’s voice demanded attention.
“Hear me and be warned. On the morning of Monday next, a
mighty storm will blow through Eden. Did you hear that? A storm like no other
witnessed in these parts. Crops ravaged… buildings shattered. A great swell
will sweep the river into the town… homes flooded… lives lost.”
Seemingly exhausted, Jake sat
down on the steps.
The Saturday shoppers now
appeared compelled to stand and wait for more. Then someone shouted, “He’s off
his bloody rocker.”
The ensuing laughter broke the
tension.
Fools! When will people learn
to listen to ancient wisdom? Martha said to herself. Science thinks it knows it
all. Compared to Wisdom springing from the Other, science is fragile and
incomplete. The Oracle of Ammon has spoken, and all things shall come to pass.
Her skinny body may be no more than a coat-hanger displaying a faded flowered
dress, but she was not prepared to listen to the raucous remarks and be silent.
Feeling a sudden surge of
strength, she pushed aside shoppers and made her way to the centre of the
deriding crowd surrounding the ancient Celtic monument.
Standing at the top of the
steps, the whole of her senses became acutely alive, overpowering her in an aura
of contrasting smells and incandescent colours. Suddenly, she felt overflowing
with an energy never before experienced. She could see and feel what lay ahead. Above all she
could smell fear and death. Surely nothing could stop her from speaking
what must be said.
That morning, when she left
her cottage to catch the hourly bus to town, she knew the Seeds of Ammon had penetrated her mind imbuing her with a
sixth sense. If they had not, how would she know about the seeds and from
whence they had come? Yes, knowing and her acceptance, gave her power beyond
earthly reasoning. She had no doubt whatsoever that the words about to leave
her mouth were those of the Oracle of Ammon. But first must be silence. She
repeated the mournful wail.
The laughter ceased. She was aware of how she looked to
others: a mere five feet tall bag of bones with hardly any hair to blow in the
soft breeze. Wrinkles, like a contour map, greeted her every morning in the
mirror. The curious eyes of bystanders may silently stare at her, but she could
see lips ready to crack into laughter at any moment.
“You are foolish — everyone of
you — not to heed Jake’s warning,” she began. “The believers at the far end of
our valley are at this moment moving their sheep and cattle to safety. They know and understand. That is why they
are not here today. I warn you all… those with houses by streams and rivers
return to your homes and prepare for the flood. You with animals in rotting
buildings, move them to stone barns or to the south side of hills. The wind
will come from the north but it will whirl and move in funnels… the sky will
open and streams will become torrents… rivers will break their banks. Protect
your children. Take what you can and drive many miles away. Hear me… nothing is
safe…. The Oracle of Ammon has spoken.” She closed her eyes as a deep sigh put
an end to her message.
Opening her eyes again she saw
the faces in front of her had turned rigid with fear. Then, breaking the
silence, a stallholder started to laugh. The shocked moment now shattered, men,
women and children howled with mirth.
“Oracle of Ammon? Who’s ’e
when ’e’s at ’ome?” yelled a customer at the fish stall, holding up a piece of
haddock. “Sounds a bit fishy to me.”
More bellowing laughter.
“Aye, a right load of
codswallop,” said the red-cheeked fishmonger, as he wrapped up his customer’s
purchase.
Soon shouts and whoops
accompanied puns and laughter.
Angrily, Martha grabbed the
arm of a small, thin girl and dragged her up the few steps.
“If will not listen to either
me or Jake, then hear the words of an innocent child,” Martha yelled, her
lightning shriek now rolling with thunder.
Silence fell over the whole
area. To Martha’s satisfaction, more people approached the Celtic cross as
though drawn by a compelling force.
Dressed in a plain pink dress,
the slim girl — a little over four feet in height, huge vacant violet eyes,
long straight blonde hair surrounding a thin pale face with small nose — stood
with statue stillness. When she opened her small mouth, out came a flutelike
voice:
“Look to the sky. What do you
see?”
She pointed a slim finger
upwards and the eyes of all those present followed her gaze.
“Clouds, soft and puffy in a
perfect blue sky. But a mighty wind will come… darkness will cover this land.
The sky will be ripped open… a child of death will be born. Rain will fall in
mighty sheets… streams become rivers. Rivers burst their banks… the land will
be as the sea.”
Her expressionless face turned
as her eyes swept the crowd.
“The Oracle of Ammon has
spoken.”
The girl collapsed. Martha
caught her in her arms.
“Be warned. Go home and
prepare,” Martha called to the crowd.
Sitting on the steps she
cradled the child’s head and shoulders, whispering, “Blessed of Ammon, rest and
be strong.”
Martha watched as people
gradually recovered from their mesmerised state. Some were moving towards the
car park, others towards the bus stop. A few stood looking at the stalls as
though wondering what to do next.
“Go home,” she yelled at them,
waving an arm, but they still walked around like zombies.
Most of the stallholders were
packing up. Others, who had travelled some distance from their stores in major
towns, were shaking their heads in disbelief.
Monday morning dawned as previous days, but no bird sang. By
eight o’clock a chill wind had sprung up from the north and dark clouds loomed
overhead. Within an hour, darkness had fallen over the Vale of Eden. The wind
grew stronger and soon tornados were moving down the valleys carrying upwards
anything that lay in their paths. Lightning flashed in crooked forks of
brilliance against the blackening sky. Suddenly a jagged knife split apart the
darkened heavens and released rain such as never before experienced in that
part of the country.
Martha stood at the top of a hill, half-sheltered by a cave.
Jake, the child, and the child’s family were with her. Rain joined the tears
streaming down her face. “We warned them, but the truth lay at their doors
begging to enter. They heard the message but they preferred the false security
of weather forecasts. We are not to blame. We played our part. Those who
received the Seeds of Ammon are safe, the others… ah… if only… if only….
Hardly able to see through the rain, she could only imagine
what was happening in Eden. It would be as the Oracle warned. Uprooting and
flooding, death and destruction. Over the years it had happened in other
places, now it had come to Eden.
Anger followed the death of Eden. Who was to
blame for the terrible destruction? Forty-five dead, over two hundred injured,
few houses left intact, Farm outbuildings shattered and blown away, with only
stone barns left standing and even those damaged. Animals killed, crops
destroyed, fields and homes under water. Never before had Eden been so ravaged
by nature. But the blocking of the spillway of the old Eden Mill’s earth dam
had made the situation even worse. The subsequent bursting of the overfilled
dam caused an even greater surge of water — thick with mud — through the
streets of Eden. Only Upper Eden had been spared the carnage experienced by the
lower regions and the town.
Martha heard the mutterings and saw the looks that came her
way. Many years ago, a scapegoat would be found to resolve anger over failed
crops, plagues and other community disasters. The pain and anger felt by Eden’s
inhabitants could not be denied. She had warned them. They had not heeded.
Unable to accept responsibility for their lack of action, Martha knew who would
be accused. As for the blockage, it was surely obvious what had caused that.
But the people wanted someone to blame for their own lack of foresight in
dealing with potential disasters. The dam would not have stopped the massive
surge of water racing down the hills to the valleys and on to the town, but it
would have prevented the tons of water stored there from increasing the swell.
Who had benefited? Clearly, no one, But fingers were being pointed and the
hatred became only too tangible.
All those gifted with the Seeds of Ammon sensed danger
ahead. But their powers appeared to be fading. They were far from the oasis at
Siwah, far from where the Oracle’s temple kept alive the cult and nurtured the
soothsayers. Fear made them vulnerable. Martha knew it but was powerless to do
anything about it. Only the child appeared to be fully under the Oracle’s
influence. Her eyes still staring, her body still.
Ronald Pickman had lost everything but his wife,
family, car and caravan, in the flood. His shop had been utterly destroyed, and
with it his business. His insurance had run out and, instead of renewing it
straight away, he’d taken his wife and family to the Costa del Sol. He knew all
about the Oracle business and saw it as some sort of hocus pocus to hide what
was really going on.
“That damn woman’s been against my store ever since it
opened. She petitioned against late hours to sell alcohol. And supported the
Olde Tearoom against us taking over their premises. This is a personal
vendetta.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this too personally?” said
his wife Hilda. “We’re not the only ones suffering.” She looked around the caravan
they had just returned from Spain. “We’re lucky to still have this, and our lives.”
“Yes, and just the clothes we stand up in! Okay, she may not
be responsible for the rain, but she lives near enough to the dam to see it was
blocked. Maybe she and her buddies
blocked it. Oracle of Ammon? Huh, anything to get in the papers. She’ll be on
TV next… warning everyone of the end of the world. She’s a menace to society.
She wants stopping.”
“I’m going out,” said Hilda. “Our store may be a write-off
but Lily’s tearoom can be salvaged. I’ll give her a hand.”
“What? Over my dead body!”
“If necessary,” Hilda said, and, slipping on muddy
wellingtons and a plastic cape, she walked out.
In the stone barn of her smallholding, Martha
gathered together those who had been blessed with the Seeds of Ammon. She
sensed something terrible was about to happen.
“In the town there is much agitation, we must be on our
guard.”
“Why don’t we go to the police?” asked Jake, looking even
frailer.
“And say what? That people in the town are planning to harm
us? Actually, the vibes come from one man in particular. Watch out for Ronald
Pickman. His hatred flows in an aura so strong it is visible to my eyes.”
“And mine,” said a small piping voice.
Martha looked at the thin child who’d stood with her at the
Celtic cross. “Anna, you must keep out of that man’s sight. He is dangerous.”
“Yes, I know. He’s a bad man. But he doesn’t frighten me.”
“Nor me,” said Jake. “What can he do to an old man who is
ready for death? But Anna must be protected. People are afraid of her.”
“I don’t need protecting,” Anna said vehemently. “Ammon will
shield me.”
“Faith is a fine thing, but we must be cautious.” Martha did
not want to subdue a child’s faith, nor an old man’s certainty, but neither did
she want to see harm come to those who had spoken at the cross. The Oracle had
faded within her but maybe in the child, Ammon was still strong. “I have said
enough. You have all been warned.”
Rain had ceased, when darkness fell over the
drowned town of Eden, Ronald Pickman slipped on his black Burberry coat that
always travelled with him, and crept out of his caravan. He rummaged inside the
boot of his car, grinning at his thoughts. At least he’d driven his Jaguar away
before the flood arrived. What’s more it looked like he would be getting a new
one to replace it.
Anger overpowering all sense of moral restraint, Pickman
carefully made his way to Martha’s place. He unscrewed the cap of a can and
poured petrol through the letterbox and over both front and back doors. He then
smashed a window by the front door and threw the half-empty can inside, the
contents spilling over furniture and carpet. He stood well back and took out
his lighter.
The voice of Hilda sounded just behind him.
“What on earth are you doing, Ron?”
Shocked, he turned around, dropping the lighter. A line of
flame ran to the house and licked its way through the window. The can blew up.
Ron staggered backwards. Hilda screamed — burning debris had set her hair
alight.
From nowhere, the child appeared before them. She pointed to
Hilda. Mesmerised, Pickman stood back as the flames on his wife’s hair
vanished. The child then pointed to a sandbag by the front door. The bag split
open, Sand poured out and followed the line of the child’s pointing finger to
inside the cottage.
As flames disappeared, Martha and Jake arrived with buckets.
Neither showed signs of surprise. Pickman grabbed his wife’s hand and they
disappeared into the night.
Martha wrote down the bizarre happenings that had taken
place in the Vale of Eden. The evening of the fire, she had been consulting
with Jake when they each received a premonition of events at her cottage.
Pickman had been arrested and lost his wife as well as his freedom. Hilda had
been more than willing to testify. The part Anna played was kept out of it. Who
would believe it anyway?
Few newspapers mentioned the prophetic warnings. They had
enough of horrors and dramatic rescues to report than to dabble in speculative
events. The two pensioners could well be senile, even if they did assist in
putting out the fire. They did not seem able to predict the time of the next
bus, never mind a storm. As for the child, sure she looked odd with those big
eyes, thin body and pale skin, but, saying nothing, she seemed as dim as she
looked.
