Dispatch UK-028: A Report on the Case of Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov by Jamal

• FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE HOLY CUSTODIAN
• SECOND CYCLE
• ON THE FEAST OF THE PROCESSION OF THE PRECIOUS WOOD OF THE LIFE-GIVING CROSS (AUGUST 1st)
• IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1999

Further to our reports concerning the disappearances of Russian nationals in Glasgow, Scotland, we present here a supporting narrative based on our own supervisory oversight, specifically regarding the case of Ivanov. We ask that any prideful exercise of poetic license be met with the esteemed Custodian’s gracious understanding.

We shall interpolate the relevant excerpts from the transcript of conversations between the two Observers assigned to the case, Hieromonk Theophanes and Novice Makarios. This is not only for context but also to shine a light on the operation’s failures, and more generally on the privation of monastic commitment and decorum in the earthly Brotherhoods of Holy Orthodoxy.

§

BROTHER OBSERVER MAKARIOS: Where is Father Yuri? I thought he was meeting Ivanov and taking him to the church?

FATHER OBSERVER THEOPHANES: Please be quiet, Brother. I’m seeing a disturbance, and our Ivanov is heading straight for it.

MAKARIOS: I can’t see anything.

THEOPHANES: What a surprise.

MAKARIOS: I just think I’d be able to do a better job if I knew what was going on. Did you send that bulletin yesterday?

THEOPHANES: Your dedication is an inspiration to us all, Brother.

MAKARIOS: Respectfully Father, what I am wanting is a straight answer.

THEOPHANES: Oh, you are wanting all right. Wanting in patience, for one thing.

MAKARIOS: You don’t have to put up with me, Father. I’m happy to ask for reassignment. I want very much to get on with the job.

THEOPHANES: Again, you want. Want want want want want.

MAKARIOS: Respectfully Father, I wonder if you are quite secure in your understanding of the concept of mentorship. From whom can I learn but you?

THEOPHANES: Permit me to suggest a mutually beneficial arrangement. I shall impart to you with good grace the secrets of the Brotherhood, and in return you shall: one, endeavour to conceal your overactive talent for irksomeness; and two, adorn your endless Respectfully Fathers with some actual respect.

MAKARIOS: You are a paragon of fairness, Father.

THEOPHANES: Now, kindly keep your eyes to your Sightglass and allow me to do likewise.

§

And here he is: Ivanov, wandering in quiet business district streets. It is getting close to the close of the twentieth century. It is mostly empty buildings and empty corner cafés, all closed, because it is Sunday in the business district. It has been hot and dry for many days, and the as-yet unswept and unhosed working week’s dust rises and falls with the tabloid pages and bus tickets in the street-funnelled breezes, golden where caught in chinks of sunlight admitted by gaps up high.

But look: an anomalous shop, anomalously open for business, its door wide open to the street. A skateshop, selling skateboards, parts, accessories and apparel—a natural configuration. A shop, then, which is anomalous in context but is in itself coherent, thus resting within the order appointed by Christ Himself.

And listen: they are playing aggressive rock music, which echoes off the street’s high walls of glass and polished cladding, the sound waves unscattered by traffic and unsoftened by pedestrians. Ivanov, buffeted by them, his memory in turn nudged awake by this buffeting, now remembers the scrap of paper in his shorts pocket, and is no longer wandering. With singular purpose, he enters.

Meet the two men within: Crawford and Murdoch. To the rhythm of the music, young Crawford is sawing through a short plank of timber clamped to the counter. Murdoch, a moderately older man on the staff side of the counter, is watching Crawford and smiling.

Now look closer: What neither Ivanov nor our Observers have seen is that there is also a young woman in the shop. Dressed unseasonably in a camel coat several sizes too big for her slight frame, she stares out from behind a display, as alert and furtive as a weasel.

Interrupted by the appearance of a stranger, Murdoch turns off the music and Crawford stops sawing. They watch Ivanov as he walks up to the counter.

“Lost?” says Murdoch.

“Good day. You are very perceptive.”

“Well, my foreign friend, you’re no skater, that’s for sure.”

“Yes, I am hoping you can help me. I would like to know where is this address. It is a church of the Orthodox faith. I know it is near the Russian Consulate, but I do not know where that is.”

He shows the scrap of paper to Murdoch, who reads it and shakes his head and then passes it to Crawford, who reads it and nods.

“It’s hard to get to.”

“Perhaps you can write the directions for me.”

“Nah, I’d have to show you. I’m going that way in a minute, but I’ll be on my board, otherwise you could tag along.”

“I can run.”

“In flip-flops? I don’t think so.”

Murdoch says hold on, goes to another room, and returns with an old skateboard.

“You can borrow this. The deck’s seen better days, but the rest is solid.”

“Oh, are you sure?”

“Skater or not, I know an honest man when I see one.” He turns the board over. “Look, it’s got low trucks so it’s nice and stable.”

“That is ideal, as I am a novice.”

“You want a helmet? Pads?”

“No, I will take the risks.”

“Have it back by five thirty,” Murdoch says, and then adds, “Shred it bro!” He laughs and looks to Crawford for approval.

Crawford laughs too, then gathers up the plank of wood, the saw, and the clamp, puts them in his backpack, and grabs his board.

Out on the street, they mount the boards and head West.

§

MAKARIOS: How do I—

THEOPHANES: He’s moving faster now, so you have to continuously refocus. That’s it. Contrary to expectations, you are making progress.

MAKARIOS: Entirely owing to your solicitous guidance, Father.

THEOPHANES: Now watch. The zone of disturbance hasn’t followed them, which means this skateboard fellow is likely harmless.

MAKARIOS: Must have been the guy in the shop. Better send a bulletin.

THEOPHANES: Not so fast, my tender-footed colt. Consider, first, that spiritual disturbances emanate from places and things as much as from people, also that there might have been people in the back rooms of the shop, and that there are dozens of floors above the shop, containing who knows how many people.

MAKARIOS: It’s just empty offices.

THEOPHANES: It is worse than merely impertinent for a servant of the Lord to lay claim to omniscience. It is just empty offices as far as you know, which is not very far. The Sightglass is limited, and certainty is always elusive. Ivanov is by no means out of the woods yet.

§

The surface is smooth, but Ivanov has never been on a skateboard and struggles to keep up and stay on. He is going as fast as he can, but Crawford is now far ahead.

The business district comes to an end at the edge of a wide urbanized ravine. The ground drops away and the road curves down on stilts into the sprawling highway interchange that occupies the depths below, but Ivanov follows his guide in the direction of Heaven—for Crawford has just reached the high crest of a parabolic footbridge, which traverses the great gap on slender piers. Crawford stops for a moment to look back at Ivanov, then carries on, disappearing over the bridge’s horizon.

Ivanov in this period of his soul’s jeopardy often suffers from both vertigo and sensory overload. On the bridge, a sublimely terrifying view begins to open up around and below. It is as if he is flying, pushing up through the air, further and further from the security of the ground. To take his mind off the vast openness he fixes his eyes on the rising bridge deck ahead, and keeps on pushing.

When he gets to the top he dismounts to rest. The breeze up here is refreshing, and the view is magnificent. The entire Western half of the city is spread out before him: the lush greens of the park and the botanic gardens, the university and its salubrious environs, and the sandstone villas receding into haze. But it is too much for Ivanov. Even with the support of the handrail, which he grips desperately, he is now even more unstable on his feet than he was on the board. To steady himself he focuses on the end of the bridge, and sees Crawford waiting on the sidewalk only half a block beyond, waving to him. He remounts and begins the descent.

Worse than the feeling of flying, the feeling now is more like falling, a growing loss of control as he picks up speed. But, as if his body is acting autonomously to overcome his mental weaknesses, he suddenly snaps into a flow state and coasts down the gentle slope in an effortless sinusoidal sweep. It feels good. He wonders if he has just now become an expert skateboarder—and if, despite the shaky start, he has always been a natural, just waiting to be discovered. But as the concrete bollards at the end of the bridge loom, he regains a sense of how fast he is going, and in his resurgent fear he cuts his losses and jumps off the board to avoid crashing.

It was probably a good decision, but he has landed painfully on his knees on the bare concrete. Eager to reach solid ground, he gets up quickly, collects the skateboard, and continues on foot.

Crawford is grinning when Ivanov reaches him.

“Looks like you had a rough ride!”

“It is nothing. Is the church near this place?”

“Down the alley there, through the tunnel to the courtyard, then there’s a wee passageway on the right, leading to another courtyard. That’s where the church is. Last summer I had a job selling stuff door-to-door, used to come around here sometimes. Only good thing about it was finding all the hidden places.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“I know that girl, by the way.”

“Which girl?”

“The one in the shop.”

“I did not see anyone.”

“She was staring at you the whole time. She gives me the creeps. Sounds weird but I think she’s living across the road there, in the library.”

“Well, I must visit the church now.”

“Say hi to Jesus for me.”

“Thank you again.”

Crawford mounts his board and continues West. As he skates away he laughs, and shouts, “Shred it bro!”

Ivanov walks down the alley. Lying on the cobbles at the entrance to the tunnel is a broken wooden box with small Orthodox icons spilling out of it. One of them catches his eye, a cheap reproduction of Our Lady of Kazan, depicting the Mother of God with the infant Christ as a tiny man. He bends down to pick it up.

“Don’t touch that! It’s dirty.”

A woman’s voice from the street behind him. He stands up straight and looks around. She is small, with black hair, a face devoid of colour save for full red lips, and an ill-fitting coat.

“Please come back to the street,” she says.

“I do not understand.”

“I saw you in the shop and have something to say to you. There is nothing down there. You can have no business there.”

“But there is a church here, no?”

“No, there is nothing. Come out of the alley and back to the street.”

“I am sorry, but I must try to find this place.”

“Then just let me talk to you for a minute. Please.”

As he returns to the street she stands there biting her fingernails, her eyes fixed on him.

§

THEOPHANES: It’s her.

MAKARIOS: Are you sure?

THEOPHANES: She’s at the centre of a large disturbance.

MAKARIOS: She does look weird, I have to admit. Well, since Father Yuri hasn’t turned up, couldn’t we get a message to the priest at the church?

THEOPHANES: Father Alexei is not an Intercessor, Brother. You know the rules. Anyway, he’s busy tending his flock, small though it is. We must trust in Father Yuri’s plan, whatever it is.

MAKARIOS: We don’t even know if he has one. Can’t you request a direct intervention?

THEOPHANES: And by direct you mean...

MAKARIOS: Yes.

THEOPHANES: Your naivety is almost endearing. These days, we and the Intercessors together constitute the standard manifestation of angelic intervention. Only once in a hundred years do they take things into their own hands.

MAKARIOS: I have a bad feeling about this, Father.

§

“Your knee is bleeding,” the woman says.

“Oh. Yes, I fell from the skateboard.”

“It has to be cleaned. Come over to the library with me and I will do it for you.”

“I am not certain it is a good idea.”

“You will have an infection. Come. It won’t take long.”

She takes hold of his arm and leads him across the road, then past the steps that sweep down from the library’s colonnaded portico, stained by black algae and a hundred years of soot. She drags him down a flight of smaller, meaner steps descending to basement level, and then along a mossy sunken passage to the corner of the edifice. Hidden under the foliage and loaded branches of a crab apple tree is a neglected door, where she releases him and rummages for the key in the pocket of her coat.

Inside, it is as cold as a cave, and the air is rancid. Something scuttles to a nook. He follows her along the corridor and into a small room, where light from a frosted window in the adjoining toilet room dimly illuminates a folding bed in a mouldy corner, and piles of clothes and books on the floor.

“You live here? Why?”

“Other parts of the library have cameras now, and nobody comes down here.”

“But why do you live in a library?”

“Why not? I’m a librarian.” She nods in the direction of an orange plastic stackable chair. “Sit down there and I will get something for your knee.”

He does as he is told.

As she heads for the door, Ivanov says, “You sound Russian. Vy russkiy? Ukrainets?”

She turns and stares at him. Her white face, with crimson lips and bloodshot eyes, seems to float in the air, unnaturally bright in the murk.

“Just wait there.”

She goes out and closes the door. Now that Ivanov has been left alone with his thoughts, we shall take a moment to examine his soul. That is what this is all about, after all.

He looks down at his bare arm, where she held him. He does not know if he can really still feel the physical traces (a burning cold and a persistent deformation of the flesh) or if the mental impression left by her touch is so strong that he merely imagines he can—or if there is any difference. He thinks about the last time he felt a woman’s touch. He was back home, sitting on a beach on the Samara Bend after a swim, when Katya came up behind him, put a hand on his wet shoulder, and gave him an enormous wedge of watermelon.

And the sand between his toes. And in the evening, Katya’s look of concentration as she balmed his sunburnt ears with beeswax.

§

MAKARIOS: Father, I’m having trouble seeing inside.

THEOPHANES: On this occasion, it is not just you. She has performed an enchantment on the building to hide it from the eyes of God, which in this case means us.

MAKARIOS: Magic spells? That stuff is real?

THEOPHANES: Of course. Any tradition surviving for millennia contains some genuine wisdom.

MAKARIOS: Then I fear we have lost him. Lord grant rest to his soul.

THEOPHANES: Again, you judge too quickly.

MAKARIOS: He is in her lair. It’s hopeless.

THEOPHANES: I also fear the worst, Brother, but still, I’d like to see with my own eyes, wouldn’t you?

MAKARIOS: See what, his body? Don’t they eat it?

THEOPHANES: Usually just the blood, and sometimes the heart if they’re hungry. But no, I mean we need confirmation from his absence where we’d expect his presence were he alive.

MAKARIOS: What?

THEOPHANES: If he fails to reappear outside the building in the next hour or two, we can conclude with some justification that he has lost his life, and that we may have lost another soul. But let us pray for him, Brother.

MAKARIOS: Pray for what, though? Not only his life, but his soul’s protection, yes? And since you already said that direct intervention is out, it’s up to us!

THEOPHANES: Brother, please remember your title. We are the Observers. We have observed, and we have set down our observations and transmitted them in our bulletins, thus discharging our duty. It is up to the Intercessors now. This, Brother, is the division of labour ordained by the Lord.

MAKARIOS: Right now, I find I am questioning whether we have correctly interpreted His plan.

THEOPHANES: Right now, I find I am needing a drink. There’s nothing to see at the moment. Care for one?

MAKARIOS: Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm.

§

Ivanov hears her approaching. The door opens a fraction, and then there is silence. She is watching him from the corridor, holding her breath. It might be a matter of only a few seconds, but time has become distended, an abyssal dream of temporality.

She enters. But it is not her, not exactly. Her eyes have become milky globes, saccading in pus. In place of her red-lipped mouth there is a gaping orifice, where the tongue writhes in a sheath of slime behind pointed teeth. Her bitten-down nails are now bony hooks. Ludicrously, she is still wearing the coat, now spotted with fresh suppurations.

I love you.

It is her voice in his head, a relict utterance from an age before language.

She—it—charges.

As if he is a spectator, Ivanov finds he is using the skateboard as a shield against the claws. He deflects the first swipe, springs to his feet and pushes the creature back with full force. It falls into a mound of clothes and squirms to right itself, knocking over a pile of books. While it is vulnerable, he swings the skateboard up and back, but before he can bring it down on its head it pounces with an unhinged swiftness. It is going for his exposed chest, its fangs and claws poised to penetrate him, tear him open, and rip out his heart.

But then its body begins to jerk incomprehensibly. It is being beaten. Ivanov thinks he might be doing it himself without being aware of it.

“Gimme some help!”

The voice of a fellow human being, it snaps him out of his detachment. And there is Crawford, smashing the thing with his skateboard. His strikes are wild, not all of them effective, and the creature is fighting back, flailing and lunging. Ivanov joins Crawford in the assault, swinging down the edge of his skateboard’s wooden deck, hacking at the grasping talons.

Most of its body is protected by the overcoat, which functions as cushioning armour, so in an effort to do some serious damage, they begin to batter its head and face. It screams and retreats, and they advance and attack harder, forcing it against the wall. The rhythm of their alternating blows builds to a frenzy. Even while they continue to break and mutilate, the two men look at each other and grin, intoxicated with the camaraderie of violence.

It sinks to the floor.

I love you, the primeval voice sounds in his head. He drops the skateboard and picks up the plastic chair, then drives one of the metal legs down into its skull. We shall not make the mistake of saying that it dies in this moment, but whatever power was animating the lifeless clay has gone, leaving a motionless rotting carcass.

A long time goes by before they have recovered enough to speak.

“What the fuck is it?” Crawford says.

“The girl. I think she is an Upyr.”

“Oo-peer.”

“Like a vampire, but they drink only Slavic blood. At least, the legend says so. My grandmother told me the stories.”

“So what now?”

“We must cut off the head.”

“Jesus.”

“If we do not, it can awaken again. Or the spirit could leave this body and enter another.”

The cadaver has begun to move, contracting into a foetal position in a series of spasms—an accelerated rigor mortis. An incidental fact, which the men will at no point become aware of, is that there is a more subtle kind of movement too: a certain agitation, softly undulating the coat where it covers the torso.

Crawford opens his backpack and takes out the saw.

“Here, use this.”

Ivanov finds the beheading more physically demanding than he expects. Crawford, more skilled with the saw, has to take over before Ivanov has even reached the vertebrae. But Crawford himself struggles with the task, the saw being ill-suited for cutting through cartilage, bone, and rapidly stiffening muscle.

When it is done, they go to the sink to wash off the blood, gristle, and splinters of bone that stick to their hands. Then Ivanov covers the corpse, the head, and the saw (which Crawford has decided not to keep) with the blanket from the folding bed.

“I must go to the church now,” Ivanov says. “Perhaps the priest will know what to do.”

“I’ll come with you.”



As they walk down the alley to the tunnel, Ivanov asks, “Why did you return?”

“I looked around and saw you with her. Something didn’t seem right, I dunno. Then I remembered those missing Russians and came back to check you were okay.”

Later, having parted with Father Alexei and Crawford, Ivanov mounts his battered, bloody skateboard—which, being of good quality, is still running smoothly—and heads back to the skateshop, riding now with confidence and grace. There is plenty of time to get to the shop before five thirty, so when he reaches the top of the bridge he stops for a while to enjoy the view.

§

THEOPHANES: One of us should be watching.

MAKARIOS: Don’t worry old man, have another drink!

THEOPHANES: Brother, you forget yourself. You are drunk.

MAKARIOS: No more than you are, Father. The whole thing’s over anyway. The vampire bitch made a banquet of his body, gobbled down his heart and had his balls for dessert!

THEOPHANES: Enough of that. Even if you are essentially right, as seems likely, Ivanov’s passing is not an occasion for gleeful vulgarity. And keep your voice down. I’m the one who will get in trouble with the Igumen. By the way, don’t call it a vampire. An Upyr isn’t quite the same thing.

MAKARIOS: Oh here we go. Theo ... Theopopadopoulos the Sage, regale us with your pagan lore!

THEOPHANES: You should already know the lore yourself. Tell me, my ardent pupil: what are the differences between the Central European vampire and the Eastern Upyr?

MAKARIOS: Is this an exam?

THEOPHANES: No no, entirely informal. Now let’s hear it.

MAKARIOS:

THEOPHANES: Brother?

MAKARIOS: I don’t feel well, Father. I shall go to my repose, with God’s blessing.

THEOPHANES: Well and good. Oh and don’t bother with Vespers or Midnight Office. I’ll tell them you’re ill. Go with God, Brother—but pass me that bottle first.

§

Ivanov has chosen a window seat on the right side of the plane so he can see the Zhiguli mountains during the descent to Samara. But they are no more than hills to him now. Maybe Timur was right. Timur used to annoy everyone in geography class, including the teacher, by insisting that they were not mountains at all, that if they wanted to see mountains they ought to go to the Altai and the Tian Shan. Timur had not been to those places but his father had. Ivanov has now been to those places—and to the Caucasus, the Alps, the Andes and the Rockies—and sees that Timur had a point.

At the airport he calls Katya to say he has landed and will see her in an hour. He tells her to open a window and hang some garlic around the door. She laughs and says he is crazy, but he insists.


FOLLOW-UP ON KEY INDIVIDUALS

We received a bulletin from Father Theophanes late on the day in question, claiming that Ivanov had been killed by the Upyr. Obviously, this was a supposition made without observational support. It hardly needs to be said that this, among many other things, represents a serious dereliction of duty. Father Theophanes has now retired from Observational obediences and Brother Makarios is presently undergoing re-training.

Father Intercessor Yuri, who we later discovered was making an unauthorized pilgrimage to Cyprus during the events discussed, is no longer working as a field operative.

Donald Crawford, though not a member of the community of the faithful, nor even of Slavic heritage, is presently lending his assistance in the role of lay guardian.

As for Ivanov himself, we give praise that his soul was safeguarded on this occasion, and although we shall not take liberties with our role by attempting a full prophecy, all indications are that the couple will go on to be happy and fruitful in a log cabin surrounded on three sides by birch and pine, with Our Lady of Kazan placed over the cradle of their child and a view across the river to the Zhiguli mountains, if they are indeed mountains.


CONCLUSION

We regret that we cannot end on that happy note. This is not a time for complacency. Owing to our swift action on receiving the news from Father Alexei, proper disposal of the Upyr was effected promptly—however, the operation is ongoing. A clean-up team combining Intercessors, Sanctifiers, and lay guardians is taking the work to completion in accordance with the latest supplement to the Manuals of Ritual (see appendix). It is expected that new evidence will conclusively establish that the missing Russian nationals were victims of the Upyr; recovering their remains is the current priority. The possibility that these victims have themselves become Upyrs cannot be ruled out.

Taking a wider view, it is clear that there is much work ahead. The defeat of Soviet atheism has been a mixed blessing. Foreign travel from the countries formerly under its yoke has grown and will continue to do so, with the result that East Slavs will increasingly be exposed, without the syncretic protections operative in their homeland, to those of the enemy’s Slavic minions who remain in exile. And even in the Slavic lands themselves, there are signs of a growth in demonic activity.

Of course, we continue to be confident in the vitality of the faithful and the locally excellent track record of folkloric protection against malefic influence (and critics say we are intolerant of paganism!) But this cannot be a blind confidence. In general and as always, we must remain vigilant lest the children of Holy Rus go the way of their heterodox—or, let us speak plainly, ungodly and profane—Western cousins.

There are matters demanding more immediate action. The shocking series of failures and improprieties apparent in our earthly institutions must be addressed. We recommend a root cause analysis following discussion at the forthcoming Assembly.

By the grace of Heaven, may this report serve in the ongoing protection of the faithful, entrusted to Your vigilance.

In Service and Humility,
Ithuriel, Senior Overseer, Observation and Intervention (UK)


APPENDIX: Proper Destruction and Disposal of an Upyr

Folklore being what it is, there are various myths surrounding this topic. We have established the correct procedure, and we include it here for convenience; it can also be found in the Manuals of Ritual.

Once the creature has been incapacitated by the ordinary methods, the following points must be observed. Note that proper disposal is mandatory, since destruction by itself is not permanent.

Options for destruction:

1. Decapitation.
2. Wooden stake through the heart. Contrary to the legends, the type of wood is unimportant: any sturdy pointed wooden shaft will do.
3. Drowning.*

*WARNING: USE DROWNING ONLY IF THE CORPSE CAN BE RETRIEVED FOR DISPOSAL

Options for disposal, to be performed without delay:

1. Bury the corpse securely nailed down in a coffin, applying holy water inside and out. For instances of decapitation, first place the head between the legs, facing down.
2. Burn the corpse (including the head) and bury the ashes in an unmarked pit.