Hey guys, thanks so much for all the great feedback I've gotten. Hope you like the next chapter (I'm personally not sure how well it turned out, so please let me know, I promise I won't bite ;) )
St. Gregorios' Fields of Mercy
10:35 p.m., Saturday, March 18th.
Mulder stifled a yawn and wrenched the shift knob of the rental into park, killing the lights and engine as he did so. The heavy V6 engine on the Taurus grumbled for a moment before gurgling off, evidentially reluctant to call it a night quite yet. Within moments a heavy blanket of silence descended on the scene, quickly and yet calmly blinking into reality and ending the hustle and bustle that was the soundtrack of modern urban life once and for all. Mulder sat behind the wheel of his car, fingers loose on the cheap, rubbery plastic which seemed to be the lot of all rental vehicle interiors. His eyes slowly coasted over the scene, absorbing as much information as he could in as short a time as possible. Once he was satisfied that all was quiet, he slowly clicked open the metallic lever on his door and unbuckled his seatbelt with the same fluid motion which had come with practice at the academy. With that, he exited the car and quietly shut the door, not bothering to thumb the locks. It was late and there was no reason for him to do so.
Mulder felt a cold breeze pick up and catch on the end of his coat, its long tails flapping in the wind. Shivering in spite of himself, he buttoned the front of his loose garment and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets, taking comfort in the warmth within. Part of him, the unprofessional, lazy side of his brain, urged him to turn back and return to the warmth of the car and the comfort of the motel where he and Scully had checked in. What harm could there be in waiting? Besides, it was late and tomorrow was Sunday, the busiest day for the clergy. It seemed unlikely that the priest would still be up considering the hour, it seemed even less likely that he would be particularly forthcoming if summoned out of bed and prodded by the same FBI agent who had already interviewed him earlier that morning. God- had it really been earlier that same day that he and Scully had come on down to interview Father Kalashnikov? It seemed ages ago.
On the other hand, Mulder knew that he could not turn away. What was it that old friend of his had once said? Even sharks can drown if they stop swimming, or something of that nature. That had been an apt metaphor if Mulder had ever heard one. Especially appropriate considering his line of work and the somewhat…unstable, nature of his particular investigatory field. No, there could be no going back, especially considering that showdown with Preston earlier in the evening.
Flipping up his collar to brace himself against the night's cold air, Mulder reflected on the events of that evening. After having left the apartment of the latest freezing victim, he and Scully had caught a cap back to the police station where their car was parked. He had then dropped Scully off at the Holiday Inn at 42nd and Lewis Street where they had checked two adjacent rooms on the 7th floor. Scully had offered to come along on this latest foray into the land of the paranormal and while Mulder had been grateful for the offer, he had politely declined company and Scully had not insisted. He suspected that deep down Scully was probably irritated by the fact that he hadn't told her where he was going, but she had not forced the issue and he could see in her eyes that she was more than willing to let it slide in exchange for a shower and a decent bed. Not that he blamed her, he was dog tired himself. In any case, she knew his cell phone number and could contact him if she really needed to. Just the same, it was for the better really.
At times like these he could almost feel the investigation under his fingertips as it churned ahead, cutting deep tracks into an unknown ocean. He couldn't afford to let the investigation go cold, if even for a few hours, and that meant following up any lead which proved promising, no matter how bizarre. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, there were times when Scully could be more of a detriment to his investigation than a benefit, and he did not need her poking holes in his train of thought just as everything was beginning to come together. With that thought in mind, Mulder reached to his belt and switched off his cell phone.
Even for a graveyard, the stillness of the scene was uncanny. Another icy gust of wind sent a crinkled leaf rustling across the parking lot, flipping and dancing in the wind. Mulder felt the crunch of the gravel under his feet as he moved towards the chapel and rectory behind a grove of trees. Their twisted and gnarled branches rose up towards the dark night sky like arthritic hands searching for something to entwine in their wooden grasp. The cloud cover was heavy but sporadic, and every now and again the inky clouds would tear and shred under the wind currents in the atmosphere, parting to reveal a sliver of rotten yellow moon low on the horizon. In the distance up on the hill stood the graveyard, silent and uninviting. Rows of headstones and grave markers stood silhouetted against the horizon, dark lumps rising up from the black graveyard earth. Steadying himself, Mulder braced himself against a fresh burst of wind and quickened his pace, covering the distance of the white gravel parking lot in a few minutes. As he reached the grove of trees, the moon ducked back behind the clouds again and the world darkened, camouflaging the graveyard under the cover of night.
The rectory was dark, but Mulder knew better than to assume that no one was watching. A quick visual survey of the building exterior told him that while no lights were on, the smoke coming from the chimney indicated that at least a fire was burning inside. For a moment he considered ringing the doorbell, but he quickly ruled that out. He had no desire to awaken the rest of the house; he just wanted to speak with the priest. Instead, he removed his right hand from the warmth of his coat pocket and gave the door a sharp wrap with two of his knuckles.
Mulder stood still and listened, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound that might be carried on the breeze or through the heavy oaken surface in front of him. Nothing. For a moment he felt the urge to simply turn around and go back the way he had come, but he quickly shoved that thought aside and refocused on the task at hand. He had already made a decision, it was now time to act. He thought about knocking on the door again, but thought the better of it. If anyone was inside they had surely heard the knock and were just not responding. Instead, he took the cold wrought iron door handle in a firm grip and tried the latch. It gave a satisfied-sounding click and (much to Mulder's surprise), the door gave way.
The moon had once again slithered free from its cloudy skin and cast a pale light over the scene. Mulder eased the smooth wooden door open and ever so slowly put his hand on the butt of his pistol. He couldn't precisely say why he did it, but it was instinct more than anything else. The rustic door was evidently well-maintained for despite its obvious age, the hinges were well-oiled and made not a sound as the opening grew ever-wider. Checking back over his shoulder to ensure that no one had come up behind him while he had been preoccupied with the door, Mulder stepped over the threshold and into the warmth of the rectory.
As he closed the door behind him, it was immediately apparent to him that he had correctly assessed that there was a fire burning somewhere inside the building. The smell of wood smoke hung loosely in the air, and the open doorway to the right of the foyer revealed a comfortably furnished living room, illuminated in a soft, flickering orange light.
With growing wariness, Mulder edged towards the doorway to the right of the foyer and cast his eyes about as much of the room as he could see. Judging by the sofa in the corner and the thick carpet on the floor it was obviously the den or living room of the priest. Steadying himself from the sudden dizziness he felt from emerging from the bitter cold into warmth of the rectory, Mulder stepped around the protective side of the doorway and into the living room, his hand still on the butt of his pistol, ready for anything. As if reading his mind, a familiar voice suddenly rose out of the orange-accented darkness.
"You don't need the gun, agent Mulder. You're in a safe place." The words glided through the scented air and were marked by the finality of a man who was used to speaking with authority. "In any case, if he came for you, it wouldn't do you any good."
Mulder allowed his hand to drop from the butt of his gun and hang loosely by his side. A touch of embarrassment mixed with equal parts curiosity and apprehension in Mulder's already tense brain. His eyes adjusted to the new surroundings, he made out the other half of the room which had not been visible from the foyer. In the murky back left corner of the den was what could only be a large armchair with the silhouette of a certain Father Kalashnikov seated comfortably within.
"Please, have a seat agent Mulder," spoke the priest, beckoning towards a love seat which sat diagonally from the armchair and perpendicular to the fire.
"I'd rather stand, thanks." The figure of the priest seemed to shrug but it was difficult to tell.
"Suit yourself, agent. I won't force you." With that the man fell silent and turned his head back towards the fireplace, staring into the rapidly dwindling flames.
Mulder was at a loss. Common courtesy and social norms dictated that if a man barged into another man's house uninvited and unannounced and the interloper should provide an immediate explanation and apology or risk being thrown out. Instead the man who's house he had just invaded in search of some answers had seemed to be expecting him all along. While not an altogether new situation for Mulder, it caught him off-guard. Unsure of what to do with himself, he crossed the living room with a deliberate stride and cautiously lowered himself into the soft, comfortable seat.
For a long time no one spoke. Mulder leaned back in the chair and eyed the priest with a suspicion tinged with curiosity. Although his eyes were adjusting to the low light, it was difficult to make out much of the priest's figure. He was dressed in the somber colors of the off-duty clergyman and his arms lay relaxed on the armrests of the chair. On the floor was a short, stocky crystal glass, empty save for two melting ice cubes. Mulder felt a thousand questions tingling down the nape of his neck. Questions and a growing sense of frustration as he struggled to find a way to ask them. After all, he had not expected to find the priest awake and alerted to his presence, drink in hand and fire crackling in the fireplace. Fortunately Kalashnikov solved the problem for him.
"You came to me this morning, asking for information" he asserted, his voice slow and melodious as he spoke, "and I have to admit you caught me off guard. I was rude and dismissive. And for that I ask for your forgiveness. It's just that I haven't heard that name in a long time and didn't expect to hear it ever again, especially from an FBI agent." Deep in the fireplace a log popped and sizzled, sending a slight shower of sparks cascading down to join the embers. Thankful at having the conversation opened for him, Mulder sat forward in his seat.
"Father, I need some information. It may be critical to the case I'm investigating and I need to find out what's going on before anyone else gets hurt."
Father Kalashnikov's arm left its perch on the armrest of the chair and crept towards the glass on the floor. His eyes remained fixed on the fire, the flames dancing in his pupils. Tinkling the ice cubes in the bottom of his glass, he finally looked away from the flames and for the first time transfixed Mulder with a piercing stare.
"Do you want my advice, Agent Mulder?" The question was posed with such gravity that for a moment Mulder felt himself blink. Before he could answer, the priest resumed. "Stay away from this one Agent Mulder. Don't get involved. What's happening is happening for a reason, and no matter what we try to do, it's out of our hands now."
"You have no idea how many times I hear that in my line of work," spoke Mulder with what he hoped was carefree nonchalance. Just the same, the priest was unnerving him. "Who is Cassian the Unmerciful?" The priest shook his head and turned back towards the fire. Sighing, as if in concession to the indomitable will of the very foolish or very young, he answered.
"Not who, Agent Mulder. What." From the fireplace came another popping sound and the room was briefly illuminated in a flare of light as a log split in half and burst into flame for a moment before settling back down to a slow burn. "The Eastern Orthodox church has a long history of preoccupation with evil. And not just the garden variety evil of which we are all capable: theft, robbery, genocide. These of course we deal with, but as manifestations of the capacity for us as imperfect beings to do harm to one another. No, Agent Mulder, there is another kind of evil, the kind which has its roots in the demonic and the unseen." Slowly, deliberately, the priest took a strong grasp of the armrests of his chair and lifted himself out of it, groaning as he did so. He walked towards the fireplace and, reaching for the poker, gave the embers and burning logs a few sharp stabs before returning to his seat, his long black robes casting a long shadow in the living room.
"Cassian the Unmerciful is a manifestation of just such forces Agent Mulder, a relic of ancient practices and pre-Christian beliefs: pagan worship, idolatry, human sacrifice. He has been called a saint for lack of a better word, but don't be deceived by terminology. No, Cassian the Unmerciful is no saint. He is a demon of ancient Russia. A being so terrible that he survived the medieval purges and pogroms of the church fathers and lives on in our most holy theology, masked as a servant of God."
As if listening in on the priest's narration, an ember flew out of the fireplace and landed on the flagstones of the hearth, smoldering for a moment before extinguishing itself far from the safety of its home. Mulder turned back towards the priest, his hazel eyes bright and sparkling in the shadowy recesses of his face.
"A demonic personage?" he asked, his voice clearly conveying his cautious optimism. "I thought that the modern church tried to steer clear of that sort of myth." The priest shook his head.
"There are many beliefs which could be characterized as myths and legends, Agent Mulder. This does not make them untrue. If you need proof, look no further than the one about the god who is nailed to a cross and then comes back from the grave to save mankind." At this Mulder cocked his head ever so slightly. The priest resumed his tale.
"A long time ago, when I was still a young seminarian, I spent a semester abroad in a monastery on the slopes of mount Navil in what was then the Soviet Union. I was a young man then, and still full of all sorts of bright ideas and scientific notions. The monks were kind on me, and in retrospect tolerated my condescending smugness far better than they ought to have." At this the priest's voice warbled slightly, but it quickly recovered. "I was a young westerner who thought he was on the cutting edge. What did I know? In any case, one of the monks there was a brother by the name of Sachko. No one knew how old he was, but he must have been ancient. His knuckles were twisted and bent, his beard was long and as white as a lamb's. His eyes- oh, I don't think I will ever forget his eyes. So clear and lucid, you'd have thought that he was a madman; some lunatic given over to the monastery because his family couldn't keep him and didn't want to hand him over to the state asylum.
"In any case, the monks seemed to have an unspoken bond with Brother Sachko. As if he was the keeper of some dark and terrible wisdom that no one dared speak about. It's cliché, I know and at first I dismissed him as some old crank who had been taken in by the convent. No one really talked about him much and he kept to himself, tending his vegetable patch and going on long, wandering journeys in what was then pretty sparse countryside. People always seemed uncomfortable around him and to tell the truth, I really didn't blame them. However, it was around March of that year when I found out why.
"The local district commissioner had been giving the monastery a hard time for many years. It was standard practice in those days to make life for the monks as difficult as possible, considering the Party's official stance on organized religion, what with it being the 'opiate of the masses and all.' It was an more or less open secret amongst those in the know in the old Soviet Union that one way to further one's political career was by making a big show of how much disdain you held for religion. But this particular commissioner- he truly hated the church which a passion which frightened us all, even those who had lived their entire lives under communism and knew of nothing else. That, coupled with a burning desire for a promotion, made life very difficult indeed for the brothers at the monastery.
"One day this commissioner arrived at the monastery, half a brigade of military engineers in tow. He walked through the monastery gates with much pomp and circumstance and demanded to see the abbot who quickly obliged. As it happened, the ancient monastery just coincidentally happened to be built on a site which was slated to be leveled and razed to make room for a new provincial road. The commissioner shook his head, claimed that it was out of his hands, there was nothing more he could do, but we all knew him for what he was the moment he arrived at the head of his column of bulldozers. The gleam in his eyes and the tone of his voice as he conveyed the sorry news that we had 48 hours to vacate the premises before the demolition project began told us all we needed to know where his true emotions were centered- Moscow and the Politburo.
"The abbot was furious, the brothers doubly so, yet it was a fury tempered with resignation. The monks had all lived their entire lives in Russia and all knew of the persecutions and daily harassment to which they were subject as clergymen. There was nothing they could do. And yet, as the monks went their separate ways, returning to the kitchen or the garden or the dormitories, I couldn't help but noticing Brother Sachko. He alone amongst the brothers had said nothing and did not seem about to start. Instead of hanging his head and wringing his head in protest or assent, he merely stood in the courtyard, his black robes hanging loose on his gaunt frame, the gentle breeze tugging at his white beard. He stood there and looked out towards the main gate, his wet and vacant eyes locked on the figure of the commissioner as he and his men walked back out the main gate towards where the engineers were setting up their camp. He stood there for perhaps an hour or more. After that, he simply spun on his heel and left, heading back towards his briar patch or garden or who knows where. Sachko came and went as he pleased, no one seem much inclined to bother with telling him how to behave or what to do. I questioned the brothers about this and asked them Sachko had been doing. They refused to answer and quickly made their excuses, changing the subject or leaving the conversation entirely. That night was an uneasy one for me and the rest of the brothers, for we all knew that in two days we would have to pack our belongings and leave. For me it was not an issue: I would just go back to the States or find another monastery, but I felt sorry for the brothers. They had been there most of their lives and had nowhere else to go.
"In any case, the road was never built. The next day they found the commissioner dead in his tent. The official report was that he had died of a stroke brought on by the cold March temperatures and he was quickly interred in a state graveyard. The engineers broke camp the following morning and returned to their barracks. No more was ever heard from the government offices about building a road or razing the monastery, and little by little, things returned to normal. The brothers never spoke of what happened and despite the dozens of questions I asked, I never got any answers regarding what had occurred that night. And although from time to time I would catch sight of a lean, gaunt figure in long black robes from a distance while performing my duties or going for a walk, I never again came face to face with Sachko. However, two days before my semester ended and I was scheduled to return to America, I paid a visit to the local coroner's office. The coroner, a fat, balding man with steel spectacles and a dirty lab coat at first refused to talk to me, citing his professionalism and distrust of religious superstition and all that rot. It was a stroke, plain and simple, and beyond that he apologetically stated that he was unable to say anything else about the case. The cold weather had obviously very badly affected the commissioner and the poor man's health had given out. A few drinks later however, I questioned him again. He remained as tight-lipped as before, and just as I had almost given up on the task and settled on letting the matter drop permanently, he leaned in towards me and, casting furtive and frightened glances around the bar lest someone hear him, he let slip two words. It was not much, but enough. 'Kas'ian Nemilostivyi-' Cassian the Unmerciful."
The priest once again reached for the glass on the floor and, now that the ice cubes had more or less melted, took a swig of the shallow water in the bottom of his cup. Without realizing it, Mulder unconsciously began rubbing his hands against his thighs, trying to rub off the sweat which had accumulated on them. The heat of the room was oppressive, despite the fact that the fire had long since died out and that all that remained in the fireplace where a small pile of white flakes and a few glowing embers. The room was now almost completely dark, the fire having been the sole source of illumination in the room.
"Years later," the priest resumed, "I returned to the monastery and saw the brothers. They all greeted me with joy and celebrated my return as if I had been one of their own monks returning home to roost. However, when I asked about Brother Sachko, the monks always seemed reluctant to talk and some flat out denied that there had ever been someone with that name at the monastery. But I know what I saw, agent Mulder, and I remember it. And though it was years and years ago, the experience has had a profound impact on me."
"And with that," began the priest again, this time with an air of finality, "I'm afraid I need to bid you farewell. It's very late and I have a Sunday service to perform tomorrow, bright and early. I'm sorry I can't be of any more help." Father Kalashnikov let out a deep sigh and sat upright in his chair and then, with what appeared to be a supreme effort on his part, heaved himself out of his chair and slowly drifted towards the foyer and the staircase, heading up to what Mulder could only assume was the bedroom.
Questions spun through Mulder's mind as fast as the sparks which had earlier leapt out of the fireplace so eagerly. Cassian the Unmerciful, a figure from the pagan Russian underworld. Sure, it sounded crazy and yet, although he could guess what Scully's immediate reaction would be, it made sense to him. A vengeful spirit with a taste for sudden unexplainable death. It still left a lot of questions unanswered, such as why the particular victims where chosen or how exactly this demon had caused their deaths (although the logical answer to that question of course was the sudden application of demonic powers, resulting in a thoroughly frozen victim). After all, demons didn't generally appear and strike down people unexpectedly; there was always a reason for their arrival, such as a summoning or magical ceremony involved. However, at least it was a start. With any luck, Scully would be able to provide some more background on why anyone would want these particular victims dead. Standing up, Mulder headed towards the front door of the rectory, checking his watch as he did so. The indiglo display on the watch lens read 11:18. Great. With any luck he would be able to get some decent shut-eye and maybe catch a late night movie before bedtime. And casting a sidelong glance at the now completely dark living room, he shut the rectory door and headed back across the moonlit parking lot, questions spinning through his mind all the way back to the car.