“I really had been expecting you,” said Erasmus. “The point being that one of my prophecies referred to myself. It was nothing really special—just a few words: ‘And at the end there shall come to me Antoine, who shall learn the meaning of the first and be witness to the last.’ ”

I frowned.

“What is that about?”

“It’s about me,” Erasmus explained. “Quite possibly your visit means that I shall die soon. And you will learn the meaning of my first prophecy and witness my last one.”

“What is your first prophecy about?” I asked.

“Is that the second question?” Erasmus asked, to make sure.

“Yes!”

“I don’t know,” the old prophet said, smiling. “I told you, I shouted the prophecy into the hollow of an old oak.”

I had to think for about half a minute before I asked the third question. There was no point in arguing about the second one that had been wasted so lamely.

“Can you explain to me, clearly and distinctly, in what way can I hear your first prophecy?”

Before replying, Erasmus poured himself some more whisky. Then he asked: “Are sure you want that? Two hundred and fifty years have gone by, but what if that prophecy has not yet been fulfilled? If so, the moment you hear it, you will trigger the mystical mechanism of prophecy . . . First, it can come about, if you tell a human being about it. And second, as long you alone know the prophecy, the Tiger will hunt you.”

“Yes, I want it,” I replied. And I thought about the toy phone lying in my pocket, with the boy Kesha’s prophecy (possibly) recorded on it.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Erasmus. “Knowledge is a great temptation that is hard to resist . . .”

He stood up and walked over to the sideboard, opened it, and took something dark and dusty out of the deepest corner. He held it in his hands for a second, examining it, then walked back to me.

“Take it, Anton.”

I took the small, dark bowl—or, rather, chalice: it had a wide top, but there was also a small base, covered with simple, unpretentious carving. The chalice proved to be surprisingly light.

“Wood,” I decided.

“Oak,” Erasmus stated.

“Is this . . .”

“Well, it’s not the Holy Grail, of course,” Erasmus chuckled. “I carved it myself out of that oak tree.”

I looked questioningly at the old Prophet.

“I don’t know,” said Erasmus. “I don’t know exactly how to hear the prophecy. But plants have a memory too. And it’s there somewhere . . . my first prophecy.”

After a moment’s thought, I raised the chalice to my ear and listened intently to the sound of my own blood. Alas, no voices . . .

“Perhaps I should fill it with wine and drink it?” I asked.

“In that case, whisky,” Erasmus chuckled. “If you drink enough of it, there’s nothing in the world you won’t hear.”