The whirling hulk of a Jupiterian man-o’-war collided with the dome of St Paul’s, tearing away a mighty section and opening the cathedral to the Hell that reigned above. Lath and plaster, stone and gilt-girt timber tumbled into the nave. None fell on the holy statue. None on Ada and George. Above the ragged hole, elemental forces roiled and twisted in a firmament of fire. Within the cathedral, before the statue of Sayito, there was a sacred calm.
George Fox opened the book.
The letters on the pages, lit by the flaming censers, danced as curious hieroglyphics, mystical and quaint. But as George stared they straightened, changed their form that he could read the verses of the Revelation of St John the Divine: And there was war in Heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought against his angels.
Magonian cloud-ships engaged the Jupiterian war craft. And the sails of the Magonian ships fluttered as dragons’ tails. Though those who stood upon the decks looked very much as angels.
And I stood upon the sand of the sea and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon the heads the name of Blasphemy.
And the Lemurian craft that had risen up from the island in the sea bore down upon the inner city of London. Tongues of flame licked out upon all. The End of Days had come.
Ada looked desperately to George as a great crack shot up above the fractured window and spread across what remained of the dome. The roaring of the battle was deafening. The End of Days had come.
George held the book in trembling hands and read once more aloud.
And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.
And George and Ada looked up towards the statue of Sayito. And the helmet of the Japanese Devil Fish Girl was no longer to be seen. Instead there was a great wonder. Upon her golden head she wore a crown of twelve stars. Beneath her feet the crescent of the moon.
The pages of The Book of Sayito moved of their own accord. Turned to display the words of other gospels. Gospels not of this Earth.
And she shall rise at the saying of the sacred word. At that word through which all might be achieved.
‘She will rise?’ said George. ‘What does that mean? What is the sacred word?’
The great cathedral shook, rumbled to its very foundations, preparing itself, as it were, to crumble into dust.
‘The sacred word,’ cried Ada Fox. ‘I know the sacred word. The sacred word is LOVE.’
And in the midst of Hell’s own mouth, the fury in the sky and all about, that silent moment came once more. That sacred silence born of the sacred word.
No more were to be heard the sounds of battle.
No more the crash of buildings, nor the fire of falling craft.
As George and Ada looked on, rapt in wonder, awestruck into silence of their own, the statue of Sayito moved.
The huge angelic wings spread wide, the feathers glistening rainbow colours, twinkling as with stardust.
The delicate hands of the Goddess closed one against the other, fingertips touching, palms together, held in an attitude of prayer. The lovely face smiled down on George and Ada. The emerald eyes fixed them with a look of utter love.
The statue – now a living Goddess – rose into the sky.
And there, amidst the heavens, Sayito spoke. Spoke in every language there had ever been, would ever be. The universal tongue, most understandable to all.
‘Shame,’ cried She, in every given language. ‘Shame unto all who violate peace. Who seek to possess what can never be possessed. I would slay you for your blasphemies, for your hatreds of one another, for all your petty grievances. I should wipe this very ring of planets clean as I have done before and I will do again. And truly so I would, if not for them.’
And Sayito gestured towards the war-torn cathedral below and all knew through Her sacred power that She spoke of George and Ada.
‘Two children of Love,’ said Sayito, ‘have spared you all from my wrath. Treat them kindly, if you would ever seek salvation. I go now to other worlds, but know that I have spoken and know that you have seen me, and mend your evil ways for evermore.’
The book shook in the hand of George, urging him to read once more from its pages.
And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away.
The night sky parted, golden light poured down in sweeping shafts. As George and Ada looked on, the entire cathedral shone with a heavenly radiance. And on high, Sayito, wings spread, golden fish-scaled tail so gently waving, ascended into the vastness of space and the glorious golden light. And there was a sound, as of angels singing, and then the light faded and Sayito was gone.
Sight and sound returned to normalcy. Flames and firestorms guttered, died away. Alien craft hung motionless above.
And then, with no words spoken – for what indeed could be said? – the commanders and captains of the sky-borne warships turned their faces to the heavens, raised their craft above the clouds and set courses for their home worlds.
George and Ada stood for a moment, then they knelt to pray. The Book of Sayito in George’s hand melted into nothing and was gone.
The Second War of Worlds was at an end.
There would not be another.
There would only now be peace.
46
Lord and Lady Fox took the carriage out for a Sunday spin.
Lord George would dearly have liked to do the actual driving, but their weekend house guest General Darwin OBE (in reward for services rendered to the Crown for valiant deeds involving flag-sticking in the face of overwhelming odds) had taken the reins, and made known by the baring of teeth that he would do the driving.
It was a pleasant Sunday in May, though, ten months since the terrible war between worlds. Lady Fox cradled upon her knee their one-month-old son, named Connor.
It was as if the war had never occurred. That war which had been prompted by the stealing of a Goddess and concluded by a suitably deus ex machina ending. A great project of restoration had been put into force. All had worked together.
Those terrible slums about St Paul’s were gone. New and decent housing for the poor were built. And all over London the damage was repaired, gardens were tended, windows shone, there was a brightness to all. There was a love for this London, this new London. All played a part in her revival. All would feel the benefit.
The horses trotted gently and Lord George settled back beside his wife and child. These days treated him well. He was a man of social status now. Knighted by Her Majesty the Queen for his role in saving the Empire. Author of a best-selling autobiography. Husband to a beautiful wife. Father to a wonderful son.
George looked proudly to his beautiful wife. It was she who had spoken the sacred word. She, who looked so like Sayito, had spoken the word that was love.
Other adventures might well lie ahead for George and Ada.
Ada now worked for Mr Babbage, designing logic patterns for his new Difference Engine. But her adventurous nature still bubbled up and having a child would scarcely still this bubbling.
George was toying with the idea of perhaps purchasing a spaceship, that they might adventure abroad across the galaxy. He had put this possibility to General Darwin and General Darwin seemed keen to sign aboard.
The carriage moved to the high street of Hounslow. The yearly fair was on. George Fox thought back to his not too distant past. To the stinking pickled Martian in its tank. That all felt now so very long ago. He had come so very far since then.
Darwin drew the carriage to a halt and gestured with a hairy hand towards the milling crowd. George looked on and there he spied a ragged shuffling figure. This figure had the aspect of a beggar, though the clothes that he wore, though ragged now, were of expensive stuffs. He limped along, his head bowed low, but there could be no doubt.
‘Professor Coffin,’ George Fox whisp
ered. Ada raised her head.
The professor limped to a grubby showman’s booth, entered same and vanished from their sight.
Lord George read the sign that hung above the tent-flap entrance.
PROFESSOR COFFIN’S
CELEBRATED
FLEA CIRCUS
‘And so are the mighty fallen,’ said George. ‘Drive on, Darwin, if you please.’
The monkey took the reins in hairy hands. But then, it seemed, he sought to fight against some inner demon. Strained against some primal urge that would not be resisted. Darwin gave up the unequal struggle, produced dung, and prepared to throw it.
George Fox raised a hand and said, ‘No, do not.’ He dug into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a golden guinea. ‘Throw this instead.’
Darwin grunted, but George remained firm. Darwin flung the golden coin.
‘Now please give your hands a wipe and drive us back,’ said George.
And Darwin did so. At speed.
THE ORDER OF THE GOLDEN SPROUT
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1 History records that Charles Babbage died in 1871 – but history, as Henry Ford so aptly observed, ‘is bunk’.
2 History does record that Joseph Carey Merrick died in 1890. History must therefore have got it wrong once again.
3 And history also records that Barnum died in 1891. Ludicrous!
4 Who clearly did not die in 1892, as history so inaccurately records.
5 And once more proof that history is simply not to be trusted.
Robert Rankin, The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions
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