by Kevin C Noel
After what seemed like hours perambulating the deserted moonlit Kaunas streets, Garrick felt a stifling sensation of disappointment. What was he going to do?
“Stop!”
Garrick stiffened at the sound of the stentorian voice and slowly looked over his shoulder. Three uniformed and fully armed men were running toward him. For a moment, he considered running away from them but the prospects of getting shot dissuaded him. The men had reached him and were glaring down at him as though he were a well-known notorious criminal.
“Who are you?” asked the tallest of the three. Garrick was silent. His eyes were fixed on the other two whose fingers were caressing the triggers of their rifles. “What are you doing here?” Garrick took a few steps back. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Hey! I asked you a question!”
“I’m an American!” Garrick finally said. “I’m lost.”
The tall soldier looked back at the other two and back at him. “American, eh?” Garrick nodded. “A spy!”
Garrick shook his head urgently. “I’m not a spy!”
“Where did you learn to speak Russian?”
“What do you mean Ru…,” Garrick had begun to pay attention to everything he was saying. He was pretty sure he was still speaking English. Russian? How would he know Russian?
The Soldiers were getting impatient and had begun to send signals to themselves with their eyes—at least that was what it looked like to Garrick—they were planning something malevolent, he could tell.
For Garrick, it had become a choice between getting shot in the chest or in the back—either way he was sure these men were not going to let him live. The looks on their faces with such pure hatred in their eyes was enough to suggest this. What did he ever do to them? He thought. Then he remembered: he never had to do anything to anyone to be hated—that was the story of his life. Before long, he heard an oddly familiar sound: one of them had cocked a gun!
He preferred getting shot in the back as he dashed into a side street; his legs almost seemed foreign to him as they carried him through streets and alleys to lose his would-be executioners. The three of them, although weighed down by their equipment, tried to keep up with the teenager who sprinted as fast as a pronghorn.
Soon enough he was standing on the portico of a church. He looked around, visibly panicked, and entered. As he closed the wooden door behind him, he walked along the nave of the brightly lit and empty building. He sat down and took a moment to catch his breath. Fucking Soviets! he thought. He had always regarded what he heard about the communists as nothing more than cooked up hyperbolic propaganda. He was sorely mistaken, he reckoned.
He rested his head on the bench, almost passing out from exhaustion. This was too much for him to handle. What had he gotten himself into? Those could have very well been the last days of his life. Cornered with nowhere to go, Garrick felt alone.
“Hello?”
Startled, Garrick sat up and noticed an elderly Priest in a black cassock who had emerged from behind the altar. He stumbled to stand on his feet as his legs had gone numb from all the running. “I came to… I came to pray,” he lied.
The old Priest beamed at him. “My dear boy. Young men run into here more often than you’d imagine. Did you commit any crime?” Garrick shook his head. “Then I suppose you’re welcome to stay till morning.”
The old Priest had turned to leave when Garrick called him back. “Excuse me, Father.”
“Yes?”
“What language are you speaking?”
Manifestly puzzled, the Priest walked up to Garrick. “Young man, have you perhaps been drinking?” Garrick shook his head. “Why ask what language I’m speaking when you’re speaking it as well?”
Garrick felt silly, but he could not help asking after what had happened earlier. Was he speaking Russian with this Priest as well? “Father, are we speaking Russian?”
“What? Of course not,” he replied. “We’re speaking Lithuanian.”
Garrick’s eyes widened in disbelief. Lithuanian? He had never heard anyone speak the Language his entire life. How could he possibly have known how to speak it? “Lithuanian,” he repeated softly.
“Well, yes. You have an interesting accent.”
“I’m an American,” Garrick said resignedly as he sat back.
“American?” the old Priest raised an eye brow. “I say, that’s quite impressive. You don’t sound American at all. It’s not quite your accent but your dialect that’s peculiar. Yours is the Samogitian dialect which I haven’t heard in years.” The old priest sat down on the chair in front of Garrick and looked at him with sheer enthusiasm. “An American who speaks with a perfect Samogitian accent! What are the odds?”
“I don’t even know what Samogitian is,” said Garrick, barely recollecting something Octavius said about the Kesgailos being the Elders of Samogitia. He rubbed his eyes as though he were trying to snap out of a trance or wake up from an extremely vivid dream.
The old Priest noted this. “What troubles you, my son?”
“Have you ever seen him, Father?” Garrick pointed at the crucifix that hung above the altar.
The old Priest smiled and said: “Every day.”
“I doubted he existed. Not until a couple hours ago.”
The Priest was excited by this. “What boosted your faith?”
Garrick had slumped back, his eyes still fixed on the crucifix. “I saw a demon, Father.”
The Priest had edged closer as he performed the sign of the cross. “What do you mean, my son?”
“I saw a demon. His presence was chilling yet inviting. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he was not of this world—not human. So now, I’ve concluded: if demons exist, God must exist as well, right?” he said as he pointed toward the crucifix again. “Yet, discovering he exists doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve suffered my entire life. Why would he put me through all of it? What have I ever done to him or anyone? I’ve always minded my own business. I’ve always tried to do good even when it was never appreciated. Still, I have been the subject of ridicule. I have been tortured for the most fatuous reasons. Three men I’ve never met just tried to kill me for no reason! I, Father, had every right to believe there was no God! So, to find out that he does exist makes me question him. It makes me feel like he doesn’t care—and that he never will.”
The priest said nothing for a moment. Then, he placed his hand on Garrick’s trembling hand and smiled again. “I don’t pretend to know God’s ways; they are beyond me and beyond my comprehension. But we are to have faith that everything happens for a reason tending toward a greater good. Your trials are a means by which the Lord will make you stronger; to make you able to traverse this tumultuous world and never let it faze you. You have seen the darkness and you have seen the demons of this world, but you cannot let it destroy your faith in him—in his plan.”
Garrick chuckled softly. “No, father. I mean I literally saw a demon. He’s probably looking for me now. And he wants to make me a demon as well. He says I’ve always been one.”
“Fight that temptation. God loves you. No demonic power can control you once you believe in he who created you.”
“Created me? Turns out I was created by a nameless Incardian originator.” Garrick seemed to be going out of his mind as he giggled uncontrollably. “Maybe if I gave in, everything would be better. After all, I’ve gotten nothing from him,” he said, yet again pointing at the crucifix.
“I shall tell you the story of Job, my son.”
“Don’t bother, I know it. The story of Job left me with a lot of questions. Questions I wouldn’t want to get into with a man of the cloth.”
The Priest stood up. “Listen, young man. I cannot idly watch you give up on your life. I cannot let you give yourself to the Devil. From this day, you shall be…”
Something struck the Priest’s head so quickly Garrick did not see it, and he fell on the floor. Garrick sto
od and looked at the still lifeless body of the Priest, blood oozing out of a punctured temple. Punctured by a small dagger.
He dreaded the idea of looking back to see where the dagger had come from. Had the Soviets found him? Were they so desperate to kill him they would kill a Priest to cover their tracks? He had no choice. He would turn to look at the one who would kill him. He was going to die with a second of bravery left in him.
Garrick turned around.
Five people stood by the entrance, all clad in black jackets and pants. The biggest of the quintet was a blonde man with a squared jaw and haunting dark grey eyes. The rest looked insignificant compared to this mammoth of a man who was the only one walking toward him. Each step made the ground beneath their feet quiver. His hands were large and strong-looking. He fathomed one of them could grip his face and squeeze him to death. The prospects of such an end made Garrick’s stomach churn. What scared him the most, however, were the faces of the seemingly insignificant minions that stood in anticipation behind the big man. Their faces were like Octavius’ demonic face.
Without a doubt, they were Incardians sent by Octavius to either retrieve or kill him.
Death by soviet bullets seemed a better option all of a sudden.
“So,” began the big man with a distinctive cockney accent. He was close enough for Garrick to know he reeked of whisky. “This here’s the so-called Ambler, then? Look how he shakes at the sight of us, lads. I am not impressed.”
A fatigued Garrick could not understand what the brute meant by Ambler. He was completely petrified at the sight of the dead Priest. His sprawled-out blood-drenched body was an all too apparent memento mori he could not bear to accept. It had rendered him as lifeless as the corpse.
The giant bent down to look at Garrick’s frozen face. “Is the Ambler scared?” His minions roared with laughter. “I came here aching for a fight, and I am to contend with this?” he looked at Garrick as one who stared down at rotting meat. “What do you say we do to him, lads?”
“I say we gut him!” said one of the minions.
“Oi! Shut the fuck up! That was a rhetorical question! Like I give a fuck what you think!” retorted the big man. He turned and faced Garrick again. “Apologies. Fools, the lot of em. They lack…what’s it called? Panache! Please, have a seat.”
That was the second time that night someone helped Garrick sit down. “We’ve got ourselves a bit of a problem. Seems you haven’t been Questioned yet and I was gearing up for a decent fight. So, what do I do?”
For a split second, Garrick had contemplated employing his outstanding intellect to find a way out of this mess. But for someone who couldn’t remember his own name for fear, there was no chance of that.
Garrick was truly praying.
“I suggest you let that boy go, Vincent.”
From behind the four minions, a woman had emerged. She wore a fitted green sweater, a black pencil skirt and high heels. Her brown and purple hair hung in curls on her neck and her eyes were violet. Garrick, who had momentarily forgotten his impending demise, was lost in her radiance. This woman shared a close resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor, he thought. He was enamored with Elizabeth Taylor for years—so much even Arianne couldn’t hide her jealousy when he praised her. Her unmatched beauty was soothing.
The big man, Vincent, stood up as he noted her. “Ingrid, you old slag!”
“Vincent, you limey troll,” she retorted. “I’m not one to kill on holy ground, but I can be persuaded.”
“Where do you get off telling me what to do? I’m here on orders from Lord Kalder himself!” Vincent had begun to walk up to Ingrid. “Are you willing to break the law by interfering with an Atruman Lord’s business?”
Ingrid scoffed indignantly. “Lord Kalder has no authority over a human imprinted by a Questioner. Go back to your master and have him send you after he’s been Questioned and Consented. I will not ask again.”
What followed was an uncomfortable silence. Ingrid’s eyes were fixed on Vincent, a smirk on her face. Vincent returned her stare with a grimace. Clearly, a lot was going through his mind. Garrick could tell that this big man was hesitant to attack her. She must have been deadly as well as beautiful.
Without warning, one of the minions had launched toward Ingrid with a dagger like the one that had killed the Priest. Ingrid effortlessly restrained him and thrust the knife into his throat. Dark red blood spewed from his neck as he chocked. She twisted the knife in his neck before letting him go. The man fell flat on the church floor, his mordant blood fizzing and vaporizing in an instant.
Vincent scratched his head and sighed. “That one has always been an idiot,” he said. “Ingrid,” Vincent had taken a step forward and was in front of her in a nanosecond—movement too fast for Garrick’s eyes to comprehend, but Ingrid did not flinch; her eyes only turned to regard Garrick. “I’ll be seeing you,” said Vincent and he walked out of the church. The other three minions picked up their partner and followed without a word.
Garrick was left alone with this fearsome pulchritudinous goddess. She took slow steady steps toward him, examining every bit of him. The resemblance was uncanny, she thought. “I never thought I’d see you again, Vol,” she said. As she got closer, she pouted her rouged lips and kissed him softly. Garrick was lost in this sudden gesture for a moment, then he backed away hurriedly. He almost tripped on the body of the Priest as he did so.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked as he struggled to regain his balance.
Ingrid’s smile faded and she smacked Garrick on the cheek. The force sent him stumbling back again, but this time he landed hard on his backside.
Perplexed and in pain, Garrick looked at the woman through watery eyes. “What the hell was that for?” he asked, rage creeping into his head.
She began to shake her finger and head. “No!” she yelled. “Not even reincarnation will get you off the hook, Vol. I am the one person you do not forget!”
“Stop calling me Vol, I am not Volant. My name is Garrick!”
Ingrid scoffed and sat down. She removed a strand of hair which hung over her eye and smiled beguilingly. “Interesting name. Very forceful. Very you.”
“Let me guess, Octavius sent you.”
“Of course.”
“Does everyone associated with him enjoy being cryptic?”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
Garrick stood up and looked at the dead body once more. Poor old man; despite knowing him for such a short time, he wanted to help Garrick. And there he lay, dead… because of him.
Ingrid observed him with much interest. The sad look on his face seemed unusual to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like that,” she said.
“Like what?” Garrick did his best to wipe a tear from his eye stealthily.
“Sad. Full of concern.”
Garrick glared at Ingrid. “Then you don’t know me, lady,” he said and headed for the Church door.
“Step out of here and they’ll kill you,” she called out.
Garrick stopped and looked back at her. “You mean the limey troll?”
“Oh, no. They’re long gone. I mean everyone else. But if you insist, go on. I’ll be sure to see you at the Ceremony of Consent regardless.” She appeared in front of Garrick in a flash. “Maybe you’ll remember me then,” and then she causally walked away. He pondered what she meant. This was not a world he could get used to.
He ran out of the church as he anticipated another attack. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was hoping to accomplish, but his first thought was to survive. Just as he thought it was safe to walk again, something long and hard struck the back of his head. Garrick lay face-down and spread-eagled on the tiled floor and could feel his own warm blood sliding down his neck and cheek. He didn’t need to look up to know who or what had struck him. He recognized the voices
The Soviet who had struck Garrick with the butt of his rifle grinned as his two compatriots caught up with him. Garrick swore succinctly once he
realized he could not move. The blow had paralyzed him.
“We’ve finally found him,” said one.
“Search his pockets,” said another. They rummaged through all his pockets and came up with the five dollars. Clearly dissatisfied, they kicked his side and he felt a rib snap from the impact.
“Not a problem,” he thought. “Jared’s done worse.”
But that was not the end of it. The men continued kicking and punching him as if he had caused every bad thing that ever happened to them. At that moment, Garrick was not a human being but a personification of everything wrong with their lives—he had become something they wanted to dispose of.
“I should decapitate them,” said Ingrid through gritted teeth as she watched the three soviets beat up the defenseless Garrick. “More than anything I want to go there and kill them.”
“Control yourself,” said a stern Octavius. “Although I admit this is a troubling occurrence, it is also a necessary one.”
“Why?”
“Garrick holds onto the idea that not all humans are savages. He hasn’t met many nice people in his life, but he is spurred by a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of hope brightened by his high school sweetheart. Even after I had Rumsfeld remove all memory of her, it would seem she still lingers in his subconscious. I feel terrible, but he must accept who he is. And to achieve this, Garrick must lose faith in human-kind. He must embrace the hatred he has tried so hard to suppress. Only then can Gusoyn’s prophecy be fulfilled.” Ingrid said nothing. “You must leave. After this is done, I will need to prepare him. We cannot be distracted.”