14Now, let's switch to a different country for a while. It's still the sixteenth century, but now we're in France, where a young man named Michel de Nostradamus is living. That's right. Nostradamus. That weird guy who predicts the future. However, at this point, he's not quite so weird. He's just another med student trying to carve out a place for himself as a physician after he graduates. Michel was an apt pupil, good at his studies, and quick to learn. But, after a while, the stress of higher education can be too much for even the best of us. There were parties. Many parties, as there always are. But one party in particular stands out from the rest. Michel was standing over a pig's cadaver when it all started. He took a pair of tweezers was attempting to remove its gallstones when his friend Jean leaned over and whispered to him, "Hey, Michel! Antoine's having a party over at his quarters tonight right after sundown. Think you can come?" "Well, I dunno, Jean. We have that exam Monday," "You have three days to study for that exam, Michel. Don't be such a party pooper." "Well," "Annette's going to be there." "Really? Annette?" Annette was a barmaid at the local tavern, and arguably the prettiest girl in town. "Yep. So can I take that as a yes?" "Of course. I'll be there." "Wonderful. You won't regret this, honestly." "If you say so." Michel removed the pig's gallstones and placed them into a glass beaker sitting next to him.
Later that night, Michel looked himself over in the mirror. He looked okay, he supposed. Good enough for going out to a party. He headed out the door and made his way over to Antoine's, where everyone was shouting, laughing, and generally having a good time. "Michel! You made it!" Jean shouted happily. A bunch of other people Michel had seen before but wasn't entirely familiar with waved in greeting. A pretty girl with red-brown ringlets and a low-cut dress came up to Michel. "Hello Annete," Michel said nervously. "Hello, Michel." "How're you?" Michel's voice quavered. Annette was about to reply, but Antoine interrupted them by getting up on top of a table, and lifted up a long glass pipe, nearly the length of Michel's arm. "Everyone! Look! Behold, this magic pipe!" Antoine announced. "This stuff will make you the happiest and the most clear-headed you've ever been in your life! Just take a pinch of this (he indicated a box filled with a gray, sticky substance), put it into the pipe, and smoke it. When you're done, just pass it around. Everyone must try it!" So saying, Antoine jumped off the table and handed to box to someone, who took a pinch and passed. "Antoine!" shouted the person who'd just smoked the mysterious substance, "What's this stuff called? It's wonderful!" "I think they call it 'Opium'. Comes from China. It's made from poppy juice," Antoine shouted back, though shouting was not needed. Finally, the box came to Jean, who took a pinch, smoked the pipe, and slowly started giggling. He smiled and offered the box to Michel, his laughter becoming giddier by the second. "Antoine's right, my friend! I feel so light, it's almost like I'm walking on clouds! Take some!" with trembling hands, Michel took the box from Jean and grabbed a small handful of the stuff that you were supposed to smoke, unaware of potency. It didn't seem to be any worse than alcohol after all, so what was the danger? "Michel," Annette said cautiously, "Isn't that a bit much?" "I don't think so," Michel said, passing her the box and puffing the pipe. At first he felt nothing. "This is so silly. I don't understand why everyone thinks this stuff is so grea-" he started to say, but he started to feel the effects of this strange powder. His nasal cavaties felt more and more as though they were on fire. He sneezed several times, uncontrollably, then broke out into crazed, hyena-like laughter. He felt light-headed, dizzy, and, above all, very sleepy. He decided he had better sleep on the floor, and collapsed. The others at the party were staring at him, pointing and laughing, except for Annette, who was wide-eyed and fearful. Michel didn't remember much of anything after that moment. He passed out.
***** Michel was surrounded by a haze of nothingness. He wondered what on earth was going on. Then, a voice came out of the haze. "Michel, Michel! Listen to me!" "Who are you?" Michel cried out in confusion. All of a sudden, a small piece of parchment appeared out of thin air, and hung, suspended there. "I am your teacher's answer sheet," it said. "What?" "I am the answer sheet for that exam you're so worked up about. Remember what I tell you, Michel, for it will be the answers to the test. Michel stared, wide eyed at the piece of parchement. It spoke again, saying: "Number one is A. Number two is B. Numbers three and four are D. Five is true, Six is false. Seven is an essay question, and the answer is: The epiglottal cancer experiments of 1437 were conducted by William Black, and it was discovered that goats are the only four-legged creature that cannot contract epiglottal cancer from repeated parchment went on and on, telling Michel the answers to all of the test questions.
Michel awoke in a different place than where he'd been an hour and a half ago. He was lying down in his own bed, his friends and a middle-aged man carrying a leather valise stood over him.
"How'd I get here?" he asked nervously.
"I carried you back," Jean told him.
"We were all so worried, Michel," Annete gushed, "you looked so sick when you smoked that pipe!"
"We were lucky that Doctor Laurent was still available to see you," Antoine said.
"Just be careful when you're partying, young man," Doctor Laurent replied. He left a glass bottle of tonic at Michel's bedside. "Take a teaspoon full of that tonic every three hours until your head clears up," Laurent replied, and left, pressing a yellow slip of paper into Michel's hand as he did so.
"Honestly, Michel, why did you take so much of that Opium?" Antoine asked. "I told you, just take a pinch, not a whole handful!"
"I didn't see the harm in experimenting, I suppose," Michel said plainly, then added, "I had strange dreams."
"I'll bet you did!" Jean laughed.
"No! I had very strange dreams. I saw the teacher's answersheet!" everyone gasped.
"Surely not!" Annette said.
"I tell you the truth, I did! It told me all the answers to Monday's exam!"
"What stories you tell, Michel!" Antoine dismissed it.
"I saw what I saw," replied Michel, "I even remember what it told me."
"Alright, if you're so sure, why don't you use the answers the teacher's answersheet supposedly gave you on the exam? The rest of us will all study. If you get the test completely right, with NO mistakes, I'll believe you, and I'll give you three francs," Antoine dared him.
"Done," Michel replied, and the experiment had begun.
Monday. The day of the exam. Michel had not studied once. The one thing he had done was write down all the answers he'd heard so that he did not forget them. Then, he memorized what he had written down. He felt completely confident as Professor Madelene passed out their papers. He looked down, and started writing feverishly. He was done in a record amount of time. He was about to raise his hand to have his test collected, but realized that he might be thought to be cheating, so he simply read and reread the questions until he thought he would simply keel over and die from boredom. Twenty minutes later, as the rest of the class finished, Michel handed in his paper, and waited.
Tuesday. The results of the exam were posted outside of Professor Madelene's room. Students crowded around the list to get a look. Michel glanced at his name. He had not missed a single question. Excitement filled him! He was right! He had to get some more of that opium stuff from Antoine. "ANTOINE!" he shouted above the din, "ANTOINE! I did it! I got every question correct!" "Let me see!" Antoine, ever doubtful, pushed forward through the crowd, and saw Michel's results. He begrudgingly forked over three francs. "Antoine, do you know where I can get more of that opium we had at the party? It's awesome!" "You can just buy from me, Michel, and you can get however much you want."
And so, Nostradamus' illustrious career as a "prophet" began. He started with small things. The mystical answer parchment became a frequent visitor in his opium-induced hallucinations, creating a business opportunity for Michel. He secretly sold the answers to all the exams all the way through med school, and was never caught once. After graduation, however, Nostradamus' visions turned to political affairs, both present and future. He published a book of his prophecies that some people look to even today. Of course, dear reader, I am not trying to promote the use of opium, or any drug for that matter, to get ahead in school. Nostradamus was just a lucky fellow with a taste for the poppy. Besides, some of his visions have yet to be proven anyway. Silly opium addict.
A/N: R&R to tell me what you think! I'm afraid this chapter might not be so great as the past two, but hang in there. I'm working on a real whopper as we speak.