St. Gregorios' Fields of Mercy,
10:36 a.m., March 18th, 1996
With a heavy metallic clink, Earl's dirt-encrusted spade bit deep into the moist earth, tearing into the sod with a faint (yet clearly audible) ripping sound as the grass gave way. Taking a heavy drag from his cigarette, the wiry little man spun on his heel and with a slight grunt tossed the solid chunk of black soil down into the deep hole he had dug the night before. Under his breath he was humming a merry little tune and went about his business in a way that Scully couldn't help but flash back to memories of high school English and the semester spent on Hamlet. Next to her Mulder carefully studied his notes, seemingly wrapped up in the details of the case.
Although it was midmorning traces of fog still draped the hollows and gently rolling terrain of the cemetery like the burial shrouds Scully could picture under the earth. The crowd had mostly dissipated by now and the few mourners who remained were being carefully herded back towards the main path of the cemetery towards the waiting cars by their loved ones and friends. Earl (or at least, the man with that name stitched onto the front of his shirt) paid them no attention as he diligently proceeded with his work. The dark cherry wood of the casket was now nearly totally obscured by the rapidly growing layers of loam being thrown down on it by the gravedigger as he toiled. In the distance, she could make out a broad figure in flowing gold and black robes shaking the last few hands of the departing mourners and slowly turning to make his way back up towards the grave.
"Hey Earl?" Mulder began, disrupting the silence which had settled on the scene, broken only by the rhythmic shlanks of the old man's shovel.
"Yeah?" The gray-haired laborer never broke stride. The right side of his grizzled face creased into a mass of leathery wrinkles as he struggled to speak and balance the cigarette between his lips at the same time.
"I don't mean to try to tell you how to do you job or anything, but wouldn't it be a lot easier to use a backhoe or something? I mean," Mulder looked up, "it'd be a lot faster, wouldn't it?"
The old man shook his head, causing a wisp of fine gray strands to float free from the top of his thin hair. "Naw, not really. They," his hand broke free from his shovel just long enough for him to gesture towards the departing mourners with a gnarled and callused thumb, "don't like it when I use a backhoe to bury their dead. Something about the noise and the smoke disrupting the peace of this place or something like that I suspect." Exhaling a thin trail of blue-gray smoke, Earl turned and deposited another load of dirt into the grave. "The saints and church fathers didn't say nothing about using a gas-belching machine to inter their dead, and the Orthodox ain't exactly the types to innovate much."
"Hence the term 'Orthodox.'" This time it was Scully's turn to speak. Earl shrugged.
"Hell, they get pissed if ya just take the guy out of the church the wrong way, head-first instead of feet-first. 'scuse me, but it's not like the guy's gonna notice now, is it?"
"They paying you overtime for this then?" Mulder caught the man's twinkling eye.
"You bet your ass sonny," he replied, the tip of his cigarette glowing angrily in the soft gray light of another overcast day.
As Mulder and Scully stood beside Earl digesting the small man's words, the figure in the black and gold robes closed the distance between the road and the grave and approached the trio, his stride slow yet confident. As he drew closer, Mulder stepped forward and once the man was in range, extended his hand.
"Morning father, thanks for agreeing to see us on such short notice."
"Oh, no trouble," replied the priest, his thick black beard and majestic clothing belying a strong and youthful American-accented voice. To Scully, accustomed as she was to the formality of a Catholic upbringing, the two seemed surprisingly incompatible with each other. "I'm just sorry that I couldn't agree to see you earlier, but as you can see I was pretty busy this morning."
Earl had stopped his shoveling and paused just long enough to light himself a fresh cigarette. Scully noted that he had been careful to replace the butt of his last smoke in his front shirt pocket.
"And this is?" the priest began, smiling as he turned towards Scully.
"Agent Dana Scully," she said before Mulder could make the introduction. "I'm Agent Mulder's partner."
"Charmed Ms. Scully. I'm Father Robert Kalashnikov, but my friends call me Bob or Bobby. It's a lot better than 'Kalash' or '47,' don't you think?" In spite of herself Scully smiled. The priest smiled back. "Well then, since we've all been introduced, why don't we all head back to the rectory? Mrs. Dushanka has made coffee and it'd be a lot more comfortable if we talked in there."
"Sounds great," Mulder interjected before Scully could respond.
"Excellent, excellent. Earl, would you be so kind as to swing by my office when you're done here, I have some things to give to you before you leave."
Earl nodded and with a good heave plunged his spade back into the dark soil and resumed his shoveling. And with that, the trio started down the hill towards the rectory, the only sounds besides the quiet thump of their footfalls in the moist sod being Earl's off-key humming and the steady schlink of his tool.
- - - - -
Fifteen minutes later the coffee was served. Father Kalashnikov had long since exchanged his beautiful robes and hat for the more mundane black suit and white collar of the priesthood. Mrs. Dushanka, a wizened old grandmother who spoke little English had silently deposited the tray with the coffee pot, cups, and condiments on a small table off to the side of the office and left the room, closing the door behind her.
It was a pretty office and reminded Scully of all the times she had given confession in Father McMurron's cozy little nook at Saint Mary's as a child. The walls were covered with rows and rows of bookshelves and hand-painted icons depicting the various saints, prophets, and church fathers.
"So, what can I do for you agents?" began Father Kalashnikov as he sat back in his chair, slowly stirring his coffee. The soft white and blue china looked out of place in his gigantic paw of a hand. "You weren't too specific over the phone with the details of your case."
"Actually, I was wondering if you would be able to give us some information regarding the Russian community here in Cleveland." Mulder reached forward for the sugar as he spoke, carefully steering around the saucer of milk in the center of the tray. "Granted, I know that you're a priest and as such governed by strict rules of secrecy and privacy regarding the specifics of your flock's private lives, but as you can tell, we're not exactly native to the area."
Father Kalashnikov slowly sipped the coffee and placed the cup back on its plate on the desk, tugging at his beard thoughtfully as he did so. "Well, I really don't know what to tell you, at least insofar as what it is you're looking for. The people here in Cleveland are a mixture of recent immigrants from eastern and central Europe and people who have been here for several generations. Some are more Americanized than others."
"What about their economic condition and social status?" The priest's eyebrows arched at Scully's first question. "Surely you can tell us something about that."
A long pause followed during which Kalashnikov seemed to be gathering his words. At length he spoke. "I really don't like to make generalizations about the Russian community as a group here, Agent Scully. I'm sure you understand. But, it's no secret that many of them are fairly poor. They live in some pretty tough neighborhoods in the inner city down by the flats. They have few employment opportunities and a lot of them, especially the new arrivals, don't trust the authorities much. Given what they've been through in the Soviet Union and then Russia, I really don't blame them."
"Would you say that many of them fall victim to crime?" Mulder already knew the answer to that question; the Cleveland PD had been more than willing to share its information on dozens of ongoing investigations in the Pushkin street neighborhood. Just the same it seemed worthwhile to get a second opinion. The priest sighed and folded his hands across his lap.
"Again, I don't like to make generalizations," he began, prefacing his response with the well-practiced evasiveness of the clergy. "These people are honest and just want to get a fresh start here in America. They don't want to cause any trouble."
"But..." It was Scully's turn to press home on the matter.
"But...unfortunately, people who are hurt, desperate, and have few options more often than not fall victim to the machinations of unscrupulous and violent people. Such is the way of the world Agent Scully. As a law enforcement agent, I'm sure you realize that." Father Kalashnikov's voice had become heavy, seemingly burdened by the weight of his ministries. "I do what I can to help them, but more often than not by the time I get involved it's too late. All I can do is bury them. Like the Dashkov boy the week before last."
Mulder replaced his cup on the table and sat back in his chair, comfortable but attentive. "What was the situation with him?"
"Sad story really. Poor Andrei went out for drinks one night and never came home. The police found him in a dumpster the next morning. He'd been beaten and then shot to death. The police haven't made any progress but they suspect its linked to organized crime."
"Did you perform the funeral services for him?" Scully probed. The priest began to shake his head and then, catching himself, slowly nodded.
"You seem a bit thoughtful there, father." Mulder locked eyes with the priest who refused to meet his gaze. "Was he not one of your parishioners?"
"Well...it's complicated, " replied Kalashnikov, clearly uneager to give away too many details. "His mother and he are of a different sect, a group called 'the Old Believers.' Its a complicated affair and involves a lot of old church history and episcopal rivalry. Suffice to say the Old Believers are to the Orthodox church what the ultra traditionalist Marians and the 'Empty Throne' groups are to the Catholic church. They're Orthodox, in many respects, but in many ways they're not."
"How so?" This time it was Scully's turn to speak. She was of course familiar with the Catholic sects Kalashnikov was referring to. She herself could remember as a child coming across a few of them time and again, denouncing the mass said in English and the uppity reforms of Vatican II. However, this conversation was entering uncharted territory. Looking across at Mulder, she saw him leaning forward, eagerly soaking up the priest's words. Instead of a great exposition, Kalashnikov merely shrugged again.
"It doesn't really matter. It's all ancient history as they say. Basically there was a big conflict in the 17th century over whether or not the Orthodox church in Russia should stay Greek-oriented or should adopt more Russian elements. The Old Believers were much more pro-Russian. They lost and were forced to flee deep into the wilderness and forests of Siberia to escape the wrath of the Tsar. But..." he sighed, reaching for the sugar tongs as he did so, "that's all water under the bridge. Officially, we're all more or less back together."
"But unofficially?" The priest's cold gray eyes slowly slid across the desk and locked on Mulder. Instead of flinching, Mulder stood his ground. Scully was about to say something, anything, to break the tension when Kalashnikov spoke again.
"Unofficially, Agent Mulder, people have long memories. Especially the Old Believers."
A heavy silence hung over the room for several moments. Then, as if to punctuate the priest's statements, the distant peal of chimes began to ring out. Father Kalashnikov hurriedly pushed back his sleeve and examined his watch. "Good heavens, look at the time," he exclaimed and he stood up and reached for the napkins on the tray. "I'd forgotten that I had a baptism today. If you will excuse me, I need to change."
On queue both agents stood up, closing their notebooks and adjusting their clothes as needed. Mulder stepped forward and extended his hand. "Thank you so much Father Kalashnikov, you've been very helpful."
Kalashnikov reached forward and gave Mulder's hand a firm squeeze. "Oh, I do my best. Please understand that I'm sincerely sorry I couldn't have been more helpful, but I have to balance the needs of my parish with those of the authorities."
"Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's," began Scully as she extended her hand.
"And unto God what is God's," replied Kalashnikov, smiling broadly as he did so. "Good luck agents, and please don't hesitate to call with any more questions."
Evidentially hearing the bells and anticipating what was to come (if indeed she'd ever forgotten), the wizened old Mrs. Dushanka entered the office with her little wheeled cart. Slightly hunched over, scarf over her head and prayer rope dangling from her wrist, the old woman shuffled across the room, stopping only to acknowledge Mulder and Scully with a brief nod and a "Zdravstvuite." Carefully steering around the agents she made a beeline for the desk and immediately set to tidying up the cups, napkins and other accoutrements of the mid-day coffee break. In the meantime Father Kalashnikov, seemingly satisfied that his guests were taken care of and mentally preparing himself for the service that was to come, headed towards the door which lead to the vestry and his dressing room.
So many memories came flooding back to Scully as she and Mulder walked towards the exit. The smell of the incense, the church bells, the red carpet. Even the way in which Mrs. Dushanka carefully and dutifully tidied up after her parish priest was familiar to her. And yet she was troubled. Despite the priest's friendly demeanor, Scully couldn't help but feel as if he had been a little evasive. Somehow, not everything felt quite, well, right. She was reaching for the doorknob and was in the process of turning the handle which lead to the foyer when her thoughts were sharply interrupted by her partner's voice.
"Oh, just one more thing Father Kalashnikov," began Mulder, his voice friendly but curious. "Can you tell me what 'Kas'ian Nemilostivyi' means? I know I'm probably butchering the pronunciation but... "
The effect on the room was startling. Kalashnikov paused in mid-stride and slowly turned to face the two agents. His expression was terse. "Where did you hear that?" he asked, his voice hard and serious.
"Oh, it just came up during our interviews," replied Mulder, trying to sound non-committal. "I've been trying to translate it but I'm not having any luck. It's not showing up in any dictionary and besides, my knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet is kind of minimal." He attempted a smile but it elicited no response from the priest.
A heavy silence filled the room. Scully was startled but said nothing. Mulder had evidentially declined to share this little tidbit of information with her earlier in the investigation. She made a mental note to chastise him for it later. Whatever it was, Mulder had certainly stumbled across something big. When the priest spoke again, his voice was curt and his expression stony.
"It means 'Cassian the Unmerciful.' I'd ask exactly in what capacity you came across that name, Agent Mulder, but I'm afraid I really must go." And with that the priest left the room, his pace brisk and his manner determined. Scully looked up at Mulder, her eyebrows arched and her expression one of confusion.
"Mulder, what was-"she began, but the look on Mulder's face cut her off in mid-sentence.
"I'll tell you in the car," he replied quietly as he stepped towards the door and out into the foyer. In the background, unnoticed by all people concerned, Mrs. Dushanka had begun to fumble for her prayer rope and, finding it, began the slow, methodical process to running the knots through her skeletal fingers, each knot eliciting a quiet but fearful prayer.