Excerpt: Apocalypse Wow! by James Finn Garner Excerpt "A.D. 999: Peasant and Monks Shout, 'Give Up da' Funk!'" As the year 2000 bears down upon us, we naturally look for precedents in human history for clues as to how we might conduct ourselves. As we cross this momentous threshold, will we rise to the occasion with honest reflection on our past and renewed enthusiasm for the future, or will all hell break loose? For purposes of argument (as well as book sales), we must certainly predict the latter. While political revolutions, labor riots, and NBA championships may hint at the kinds of upheaval in store for us, they are all incomplete comparisons. These events lack the element of transformation, the feeling of anxiety, the cosmic weight, the divine imprimatur. Only once before has mankind experienced such a tumultuous transition period and lived to tell the tale (sorry, all you baby boomers, I'm not talking about the Summer of Love). In the year 999 A.D., a catastrophic transformation of the earth was awaited by everyone, or at least by those who counted their years since the birth of Jesus, and those who weren't cut off by geography, language, or quarantine from the main centers of culture (which in Europe were few and far between, anyway). With the expected Second Coming of Christ, God's grand experiment on earth was about to fold its tents permanently. So said every priest, theologian, soothsayer, mathematician, and prognosticator worth his salt. The projected finale differed depending on location. In northern lands, the Cermanic tribes believed the world would end in fire, and that God would have the sense and common courtesy to destroy their countries first. Around the Mediterranean basin, the faithful believed the end would erupt from a mighty blast of Gabriel's trumpet, and would happen soon enough to spare them another winter season of pushy German tourists. Soon, history's ultimate TGIF party commenced. Farmers didn't bother to plant crops for next year, since next year would never come. Barons and landlords gave away their estates, wishing to be unburdened by material goods when Jesus returned to claim his worldly kingdom. Peasants and serfs eagerly accepted the donation of these properties, presuming that the Son of God would be generous enough to cut some slack for the little guy. Infidelities were forgiven, debts absolved, grievances settled, feuds resolved. Everyday life in the tenth century was usually dangerous, chaotic, and unjust, but now even these certainties were swept away. Merchants closed up shop or simply gave their wares away (although there's no evidence of any special "End of the World" sales, such as we are likely to endure in our time). Farmers freed their animals, perhaps fearing that Christ had planted spies in the barnyard. These critters freely roamed the countryside, adding to the end-times confusion in a lighthearted, wacky manner. Pilgrims marched off to the Holy Land for a choice seat for the end of the world; presumably, as in church, God would notice those seated in the front rows first. Both noble and peasant made this grand journey, abandoning their old stations in life for a greater camaraderie in the face of impending annihilation. While the question of who got to ride to Jerusalem and who had to walk has been lost in time, we can assume that Christian generosity prevailed unless one pilgrim was much larger than another. Because one's time was short and sins so many, whips and scourges were a part of everyone's travel kit. The first thought to come to the 20th-century mind might be, "What a great idea commemorative souvenir scourges! Make 'em big enough and you can even sell advertising on 'em!" Unfortunately, such promotional ideas were alien to medieval thinking. The picture shown above, in fact, has proven to be nothing more than an artful forgery. Of course, like every big bender, this millennial celebration had its dark side as well. Churches were desecrated with orgies and destroyed by riots. Penitents flogging themselves left trails of blood through the streets, and some sinners decided not to wait for God's judgment and ended their own lives instead. Buildings were left to crumble and crops left to rot in the fields, as serf and merchant alike reorganized their priorities in anticipation of the end. Rivers swelled with floods greater than anyone had ever seen. Earthquakes split the ground and swallowed up whole cities. Epidemics swept through the countryside that put the plagues of Egypt to shame. The sun appeared twice in the sky. Fire and rock rained from heaven. Poodles walked on their hind legs and taught themselves to play the banjo.' These terrors continued throughout the last days, and as people gathered in churches and town squares on the night of December 31, 999, they turned their faces heavenward, expecting a show to end all shows. Slowly, ominously, the clocks in the towers chimed twelve. Then, silence. Somebody coughed. As if possessed of one mind, the first thought of the faithful assembled was, "Y'know, I never did trust that clock." The arrival of the new year saw no horns, no confetti, no furtive kisses with sexy neighbors -- just the knowledge that the Almighty had somehow granted the world a reprieve. The party held after this realization has yet to be surpassed in joy, fervor, or alcohol consumption. Or something like that. Or not. Historians are now debating whether any of this upheaval actually happened, since none of the era's official records mention anything out of the ordinary, aside from a French peasant who claimed to be possessed by a swarm of bees. There is even evidence that Gibbon and other historians invented these tales of chaos to highlight the ignorance of the Dark Agers. (Talk about some insecure intellectuals.) Other practical questions arise concerning these accounts. Could, for example, the faithful watch the clock in the church steeple tick off to midnight if the first mechanical clocks weren't invented until the late 13th century? And which New Year's Eve would people be celebrating, anyway? In Rome, the New Year began on December 25, but in Florence it started on March 25, the Feast of the Annunciation. Venice, just to be different, chose March 1, while France celebrated on Easter, and England could choose among Christmas, the Feast of the Circumcision (January 1), and Lady Day (March 25, some 900 years before Billie Holiday's birth). In the Byzantine world, September I or 24 served as the beginning of the New Year, while Armenia celebrated the New Year on July 9. This wide variety of choices would seem to make it easier to hit all the New Year's parties; if Christ had already returned before a certain date, however, would one need to send regrets to the host? It is not my intention to split hairs on whether or not hordes of Roman Catholics traveled thousands of miles to Jerusalem or liberated their chickens or decided to commit mass suicide in the year 999. If none of these events are recorded in the annals of that time, I'm sure there is some logical explanation, like a universal church conspiracy. The point in discussing this first millennial passing, as with so much else in this book, is not whether it is true. The point is to answer the question "How can I use this information to get ready for the real end of the world, which is certainly breathing down our necks right now?" First off, the pilgrimage to the Holy Land, while anticlimactic in outcome, did give the European nobles travel experience for the Crusades, which were launched a century later after the indiscretions of the "Mad Caliph," alHakim, which included (ironically) banning Christian pilgrimages to the Holy Land. Those decades saw horrendous bloodshed and swapping insults of "infidel," as it looked like God couldn't make up his mind which side was his favorite. While the Middle East has been claimed by three of the world's major religions as holy and their own, after centuries of contention no clear winner has emerged. According to some modern commentators, we are about to witness Armageddon -- the final battle between good and evil -- near the Israeli town of Megiddo. Why would a holy land be so plagued by violence and pain? My guess is God may have consecrated this region just because he likes a good fight and the sight lines are generally unobstructed. One lesson we can take from this is that any preparation for the millennium, no matter how costly or ludicrous, may bring unforeseen benefits later. If, for example, you work ceaselessly to connect like-minded people around the world electronically so that the critical mass of their positive mental energies can inaugurate a new era of enlightened consciousness, at the very least you'll improve your computer skills. A second lesson to consider: It seems very unlikely, at this stage of human evolution, that wealthy landowners will be giving away large amounts of property. No real benefits exist under current tax laws, and possible liability issues remain murky. If indeed it does happen, it will likely be to high profile charities so donors can reap the maximum publicity possible. Those of you who keep sending Sylvester Stallone apocalyptic pamphlets and hanging around Planet Hollywood hoping he'll mend his ways and toss you the keys to his condo in Aspen are wasting your time. The final lesson we can take from the tribulations of our medieval brothers and sisters is that you have to make your own apocalypse. As with gardening and volunteer work, the more you put into your millennial vision, the more you'll get out of it. You might think that your personal contribution won't bring about the end of the world, but don't sell yourself short. You'd be surprised what you can accomplish with a little hard work, a positive attitude, and homemade packets of nerve gas. Moreover, looking back a thousand years ago, we can see another constant for our race: There's nothing like a catastrophe to give people a feeling of connectedness and common purpose. Witness the success of movies like Independence Day. In a medieval vein, imagine Bill Pullman as a young bishop exhorting the rabble that the end is near, Jeff Goldblum as the soothsayer who has determined the exact date and hour, and Will Smith as the spunky peasant who makes good in the topsy-turvy world of 999 A.D. How's that for the feel-good event of the first millennium? Copyright 1997 by James Finn Garner duplicated without any shame and in the anticipation of immense profit - by Ron.