Succubus

Chapter 14: Daumantas

Chapter 14: Daumantas

Peter paced back and forth outside his mother's bedroom. The only sounds were the clock ticking on the wall and the doctor examining his mother. He'd woken up to find her weaker than usual, so weak that she could barely speak.

The bedroom door opened and Dr. Popov shuffled into the hallway. She was a hunched over woman anywhere between fifty and one hundred. Peter had called a neighbor, and the neighbor had called the church. Father Zaitsev had sent Dr. Popov as soon as he heard Victoria wasn't doing well.

"She was always a frail woman, correct?" Dr. Popov said, direct as an arrow

"Yes, it's rare that she's out of bed for more than a few hours."

"Has she run any marathon's recently?"

Peter waited to see if Dr. Popov was joking, but Dr. Popov did not joke.

"Of course not. She seemed normal last night."

"Your mother is exhausted. Professional athletes experience a similar level of fatigue, but I've never seen such a case in an average person outside of warzones. My recommendation is bed rest, more than she's been getting. Do you have anyone who can take care of her?"

Peter's father was still many states away. "I'll take off from school and do it," Peter said.

Dr. Popov poked Peter's shoulder with a needle-like finger. "Would she want that? Go speak with Father Zaitsev. He'll inform the community and get people to volunteer." Dr. Popov headed for the front door and grabbed her coat off the hook. "You're not alone in this Peter," she said. "We come to this country, and we look out for each other."

Peter paced around the hallway. A dozen things he wanted to do flitted through his mind. Some of them were smashing things or calling his father. Peter settled on Dr. Popov's advice and went to visit the church.

Peter pedaled through the streets of Bridgeton. It was a crisp and cloudless fall morning, so plenty of other people were out walking dogs or just milling around. His breath came out in soft clouds as he rode closer to the great onion steeple.

Father Zaitsev was possibly the only Orthodox priest without a beard. He'd tried to grow one many times, but it always came out scraggly and uneven. In the end he remained clean shaven. It made him look decades younger than any of the other priests in his seminary class.

When Peter arrived Father Zaitsev was waiting by the door. The priest waited patiently while Peter explained his situation.

"I'll send a mass email out to the congregation and find a few volunteers willing to help your mother," Father Zaitsev said in his bassy voice which did not match his youthful face.

Peter thanked the father and moved to head back home. Father Zaitsev called for him to stop.

"Have you eaten this morning? I think I have an extra bowl, I'll get you some cereal." Father Zaitsev was notoriously bad at cooking to the point that he didn't even try anymore.

Peter was left alone in the nave. He walked over to one of the stained glass windows. It depicted a tall bearded man with a halo holding a sword while he gazed off into the distance. Peter was somewhat behind on his bible studies. Was that man Jesus? No, Jesus never carried a sword.

A wooden cathedra was placed next to the window. It was one of the few chairs in the entire building, sitting being frowned upon during orthodox services. The chair was reserved for the spirit of Christ, who had earned the right to sit after everything he'd gone through in life.

Peter looked at the back leg of the cathedra and thought he saw a strange shape. What looked like a cross from far away now looked like the hilt and scabbard of a sword pressed into the wood. Peter glanced toward the sanctuary, but Father Zaitsev was nowhere in sight. The boy grabbed the hilt of the blade and to his surprise it slid free. It moved so easily; it was as though the sword had been placed there minutes earlier.

Footsteps snapped Peter out of his confusion. He slid the sword back into place and pretended to be admiring the stained glass.

"Did you find the cereal, Father Zaitsev?" Peter asked. He had realized how hungry he was.

"What is cereal?" a much deeper voice than Zaitsev's asked.

Peter turned around, expecting to see an older member of the congregation. He was facing a tall broad shouldered man with a beard down to his chest. The man was dressed old fashioned with a padded tunic covered by a cloak. His boots looked as though they had more miles than the average car.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else," Peter said.

"You can see me. You have been chosen."

Peter looked past the man and hoped that Father Zaitsev would reappear soon.

"Someone close to you is ill," the man rumbled.

Peter looked up at the man. Grim eyes full of understanding stared back.

Peter cleared his throat. "You got the Father's email. That was fast. Are you one of the people who's going to take care of mom?"

"I will help you save her."

"She just needs bed rest," Peter said evenly. He figured this was the kind of person that should not be argued with.

"Rest will not help her," the man snapped. "Your mother was lucky, but this will not stop with her."

The man spoke with so much conviction. Peter was convinced that the man was truthful or mad.

"Peter, I hope you like fruit squares." Father Zaitsev returned with a large bowl and a spoon.

Peter took a bite, grateful that the other man had stopped speaking.

"Father, who is this?" Peter asked with a nod toward the bearded man.

Father Zaitsev looked over at the man, or more specifically, up past him. The man was standing in front of the stained glass window.

"That is Saint Daumantas of Pskov. He protected his principality from Lithuanian pagans during the 13th century."

When placed next to each other the man and the window had an uncanny resemblance. The living Daumantas looked up at his likeness then smiled at Peter.

Peter chewed slowly as he realized Father Zaitsev could not see the bearded man. Once he finished eating Peter thanked the Father again and hurried home.

Daumantas was waiting for him in the yard. Peter tried to move past him, but the saint blocked his way.

Peter took a step back and a deep breath. "I have had a stressful day. All you are is an extension of that. As soon as my mom starts to get better I'll relax and you'll disappear." Even as he spoke Peter knew that stress alone couldn't cause such a vivid hallucination.

"Your town is under siege, but it is difficult for divine beings to take physical forms. If you do not believe me then go examine your mother."

Peter wanted to argue, but he realized that he did want to check on his mother. He left Daumantas standing in the yard.

It was dark inside his mother's room. The window shades were framed with sunlight, but only enough to see the bed's outline. Peter's mother was buried under blankets as usual.

"I'm going to turn the light on mom," Peter whispered.

The desk lamp flicked on and Peter recoiled in horror. His mother's face stared back at him, but it was covered in markings. Bite impressions, lipstick, love bites, all over her.

Peter blinked and the marks disappeared. Victoria tried to roll over away from the light. Peter turned the lamp off and left the room.

The sword was waiting on Peter's bed. He picked it and examined it. The blade was old and seemed well made, but it was chipped and battered.

"What do I do?" Peter asked.

There was a knock on the window. Peter opened the shutters and saw Daumantas standing on the roof. The wind caught his cloak and made it billow out behind him. The saint stood tall, looking over the houses of Bridgeton.

"Evil is hiding in this town. It will continue to feed if it is not stopped. I will guide you toward its destruction."

"Why do you need me?"

The wind howled with the uncanny likeness of a woman. "I am nothing but an extension of God's arm, but I have no physical form here. You must be his fist."