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Epigraph

Dies irae, dies illa,

solvet saeculum in favilla,

teste David cum Sibylla…

Day of wrath and doom impending,

David’s word with Sibyl’s blending!

Heaven and Earth in ashes ending!

O, what fear man’s bosom rendeth,

When from Heaven the Judge descendeth,

On whose sentence all dependeth!

Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth,

Through Earth’s sepulchres it ringeth,

All before the throne it bringeth…

“Dies Irae,” either Thomas of Celano (1200–1265) or Latino Malabranca Orsini (d. 1294), translated to English as “The Day of Wrath” by William Josiah Irons, 1849

Prologue

Tararara, tararara, tararara dum, dum, dum…

Lacrimosa dies illa

qua resurget ex favilla

iudicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce Deus.

Oh my, oh my, the day of wrath is nigh, m’lords and gentle listeners, nigh is the day of wrath, an ill-fated day, a day of tears. The Day of Judgement and of punishment is nigh. As it is written in John’s epistle: Antichristus venit… unde scimus quoniam novissima hora est. The Antichrist is coming, the last hour is coming. The end of the world and of all existence is nigh… In other words: things are bloody lousy.

The Antichrist, m’lords and dear listeners, will come from the tribe of Dan.

He shall be born in Babylon. He shall come at the end of the world and shall reign for three and a half years.

He shall erect a temple in Jerusalem, reign over the kings and lay waste the Church of God. He will ride atop a fiery furnace, performing wonders wherever he goes. Displaying his wounds, he shall delude good Christians. He shall come with fire and sword, and blasphemy shall be his weapon, and treachery his arm, and destruction his right hand, and darkness his left. His face is as of a wild beast, with a high forehead and eyebrows grown together…

His right eye is like a star shining at dawn, his left unmoving, green as a cat’s, with two pupils instead of one. His nose is like a chasm, his maw measures an ell, his teeth a span. His fingers are like iron scythes.

Hey, hey! And why raise a clamour at an old man, m’lords? Why so quick to browbeat him? For what, for what ills? That I frighten you? That I blaspheme? That I am a storm crow?

I make no prophecies, m’lords! I speak the truth, the pure, honest truth, as stated by the great Church Fathers. Why, and laid down in the Gospels! They are apocryphal, you say? And what of it? This whole world is apocryphal.

What do you bring, gentle maid? What foams so in those vats? Could it be ale?

Oh, first class… Świdnica ale, without doubt…