Prometheus Wakens - 12. Chapter 12: Stand-In for Svarog

Chapter 12: Stand-in for Svarog

Earth Analogue VII

Motion in the security monitor caught the clerk’s eye. He watched a boy stuff something inside his backpack. Little thief! he thought while he finished counting change for the customer at the counter and then reached for the telephone. He punched 9-1 but his finger stopped before he could complete the call. The kid stood in front of the counter, holding a six-ounce jar of peanut butter and a few crumpled dollar bills. But none of that was what caught the clerk’s attention.

The kid’s pinched face, sunken eyes and cheeks, and sallow complexion hadn’t shown up on the video monitor. The kid’s hands were swollen, although his wrists were abnormally thin.

He’s starving!

The clerk was a refugee from one of the war-torn countries of Eastern Europe. He had seen starvation, and knew its appearance—and the toll it took on the young. He put down the phone.

“Special on peanut butter, today,” he said. “Only a dollar. Why don’t you get some bread, too? Special on that. Dollar a loaf.” He didn’t say anything about what might be in the boy’s backpack.

The boy’s face reddened; tears pooled in the corners of his eyes; a sob burst from his throat. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head; he dropped the plastic jar of peanut butter, and fell to the floor. The clerk picked up the phone and made the call to 911, but he asked for an ambulance rather than a police officer.

Fruit juice, the clerk thought, and pulled a ten-ounce bottle of apple juice from the shelf. He knelt by the boy, lifted his head and, when the boy opened his eyes, gave him to drink.

The boy sputtered, but drank about a quarter of the bottle before pulling his head away. His eyes seemed brighter. “Thank you. What happened?”

“You came to buy some peanut butter. I told you it was on sale. Bread too. Then you started crying, and fainted. I’ve called an ambulance. Why were you crying?”

The boy sniffled, seemed to retreat into himself, and then gasped, “I was stealing from you . . . in my backpack . . . cough drops . . . Nyquil® . . . there’s no special on peanut butter . . . you were being nice to me, and I was stealing from you. I’m sorry, I’m so sor—”

“Who called for EMT?” It was a rough voice, one whose owner’s hands-on-hips posture suggested impatience, and whose spread-legged stance telegraphed belligerence.

“I did,” the clerk said. “The boy passed out, and fell.”

“He looks all right to me,” the medic said. “Who’s going to pay for this call?”

“Pay? There is no pay,” the clerk said.

“There’s a $100 per call fee,” the medic asserted. “Cash. And there’s a $1,000 fine for a false call. You want I should call the cops?”

The clerk pulled bills from the register drawer and thrust them toward the medic. “Here,” he said. “Now, get out!”

The medic grinned and strode out the door. Once in the EMT van, he pulled a $20 bill from his pocket and handed it to the driver. “Cheapskate. This is all I got from him. You owe me $10.”

“Kid, I saw you stuff something in your backpack. I also saw that you were hungry. I would have made up the difference in the price of the peanut butter and bread.” The clerk didn’t mention that he’d have to make up the $100 he’d taken from the cash drawer.

“My name’s Pav’l, by the way.”

“Benji,” the boy said. “You didn’t say why you were being nice to me.” There was a quiver in his voice.

Pav’l heard. “You’re afraid. I can tell. Please don’t be.” He handed the juice bottle to the boy.

“Benji, I’ve been where you are. In my country, I was hungry. I watched my family die. I was lucky. I was about your age when a United Nations soldier found me and took me to a hospital. That was ten years ago. I’ve been in this country since then. I have a job, I have a home, I go to school, and I have enough to eat. It’s like I’m trying to pay back that soldier for rescuing me.

“And who are the cough drops for? And the Nyquil? You don’t sound like you need them.”

“My little brother,” the boy said. “Jeffie’s sick.”

“Have your parents taken him to a doctor?” Pav’l asked.

Benji turned his head and looked at the ice-cream cooler. “Mommy’s dead. Daddy don’t care.”

“Oh.” Looks like I have a mission, Pav’l thought.

“Benji, I can’t leave here until six o’clock. How far away do you live? Is Jeffie well enough to come here? Can you bring him? At least so I can see how sick he is?”

Benji nodded. “We live next door. Apartment building. You want the Nyquil and cough drops back?”

“No, Benji, just bring Jeffie here,” Pav’l said. “But don’t give him more than a tablespoon of the Nyquil!”

As soon as the boy left, Pav’l pulled out his cell phone. This was going to be a long-distance call, and he didn’t want it to appear on the store’s phone records.

“Linda? Hi. I need a favor . . . Can I borrow $100? . . . No, I called an ambulance for a kid who passed out in the store. He was okay when the ambulance got here . . . the EMT threatened to call the cops for a false alarm . . . of course it was a scam, but you know how close my citizenship application is . . . yeah. Thanks . . . the kid? Gone to get his little brother . . . sick with something and no-count parents . . . no, I’m not getting in over my head . . . yes, if I do, I’ll call you. Thank you.” He hung up the phone and rang up a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of Nyquil, and a bag of cough drops, and pulled money from his pocket to pay for them. Benji had forgotten the bread.

Two o’clock came, and the Electronic Funds Transfer from Linda reached the Western Union® terminal. Pav’l credited it to the store so that his cash drawer would balance. Three o’clock, and Pav’l began to worry, especially when he saw snowflakes, whipped by the Chicago wind, blow past the windows. Four o’clock, and customers snapped up cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and toilet paper—the usual reaction to snow. Five o’clock, and the day laborers started drifting in with their pay, ready for cans of malt liquor, pizza slices, and burritos. Six o’clock, and the radio was talking blizzard. There was no more milk, bread, or toilet paper on the shelves.

Six thirty, and Pav’l hung up the phone. His relief had called; he wouldn’t be in. The weather was too bad. The bell over the door sounded. Benji stood just inside, holding up a boy half his size. Neither boy was dressed for the storm.

Pav’l rushed around the counter. He locked the door, switched off the Open sign, and grabbed the smaller boy in a single motion. “Benji! You should have stayed home! I didn’t mean for you—” Something in Benji’s face brought Pav’l up short.

“Daddy chased us out,” Benji said. “He beat Jeffie and was going to beat me. We had to get out.”

An hour later, the boys were settled on the couch in the manager’s office. They had cups of soup warmed in the microwave, fruit juice, and a couple of chocolate chip cookies. “If you’ve got to wait out a storm, there’s no better place than a convenience store,” Pav’l said. He’d looked at Jeffie, and felt his forehead. The boy was feverish, sniffling, coughing. Pav’l hoped it was only a cold.

By ten o’clock, Jeffie was quivering and moaning; his fever was over 105, and Pav’l knew the boy was dying. He knelt by the couch where the boy lay. I’m over my head, he thought, but Linda can’t help, not from California.

An image of his grandmother, praying to Svarog, the ancient god of fire, light, and the forge came to him. He closed his eyes and thought, Svarog, I need help. So does a little boy who doesn’t deserve to die.

Pav’l opened his eyes, took ice from a cup, wrapped it in a disposable diaper, and put it on Jeffie’s forehead. He rocked back on his heels.

“Is he going to die?” Benji whispered.

“I don’t know—” Pav’l began, but choked back his words when a figure appeared. A boy, a young teen, stood at the end of the couch. He touched Jeffie’s forehead.

“Not any time soon,” the boy said. Jeffie stopped thrashing about.

“Svarog?” Pav’l whispered. Benji furrowed his brow. Puzzlement had overcome his initial fear.

“Svarog is not here; I have Attributes and Authorities similar to his. I guess that’s why I heard you. I’m Lucas, by the way.”

“Lucas? Why are you wearing a . . . whatever it is you’re wearing? It’s really cold outside.” Benji asked.

“It’s a tunic,” Lucas said. “And it’s what we wear where I come from.”

“Lucas?” Pav’l was even more puzzled than Benji. “Where are you from?”

“Originally? I’m from Chicago, but I’m living on an island off the coast of Greece, now. It’s a lot warmer there.”

The boys were both asleep. Jeffie’s fever had broken, and his congestion had cleared. “It will take a day or two for him to shake off all the symptoms,” Lucas had told Pav’l. “It works best if the body is part of its own healing.”

“You’re a god, like Svarog?” Pav’l countered.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Lucas said.

“Pretty much?” Pav’l said. “Pretty much!”

“Keep your voice down,” Lucas whispered. “The boys need their sleep.”

“Pretty much?” Pav’l whispered.

“What do you know about Greek mythology?” Lucas asked.

Pav’l shook his head. “Not a damn thing,” he said.

“Then this may not make a lot of sense,” Lucas said.

“I gave up on things making sense about two seconds after you appeared out of nowhere,” Pav’l said.

Lucas stifled a laugh, but Pav’l saw it in his eyes. Pav’l felt a lot better than he had since he’d first seen Benji in the closed-circuit monitor.

“About 12,000 years ago, maybe more, the ancestors of the Greeks invented and gave power to a bunch of beings called titans,” Lucas said. “Some of the titans gave birth to the later gods. Over time, the titans and some of the gods got tired of this world, and went somewhere else. One of the titans, a guy named Prometheus, came back and gave me his powers—his Authorities and Attributes. Prometheus was the guy who gave fire to humankind—at least, in the Mediterranean region. Kind of like Svarog in Eastern Europe and Russia, like I said. When you prayed to Svarog, I heard you.”

“So you’re a god?” Pav’l asked. It was pretty obvious that he hadn’t quite given up on things making sense.

“For all that counts? Yes,” Lucas answered. “For all that matters? Yes. I have the powers of one of the predecessors of the gods. It seems, however, that with power comes responsibility. And, it seems that you, Benji, and Jeffie fall in that responsibility.”

“Because I called on Svarog?” Pav’l asked.

“Because you asked for help, and because you were right: Jeffie doesn’t deserve to die. It isn’t his time.”

Before Pav’l could ask what that meant, the sound of shattering glass came from the store. It was loud enough, even in the manager’s office, to wake Benji and Jeffie. Pav’l stood, and turned toward the door that led into the store. Lucas grabbed Pav’l’s arm, and held him back.

“That’s not the storm . . . it’s a couple of opportunists,” Lucas said. “Wait here.”

“You’re unarmed.” Pav’l reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pistol. “I have this.”

Lucas’s mouth started to smile, but halfway into it, he showed his teeth. It was still a smile, but it was a predatory smile. “I can take care of myself,” he said. He stepped into the store and pulled the door to the manager’s office shut behind himself.

There were four of them. Two were arguing over the contents of the cash register while another was filling his pockets with lottery scratch-off tickets. The fourth was stuffing cigarettes into a backpack. They all turned toward the sound of the door closing.

“Help you gents?” Lucas said.

The man who was stealing lottery tickets pulled a gun from under his hoodie, and pointed it at Lucas. “Reckon I should cap this . . . what the fuck are you wearing?”

“Never mind what he’s wearing! Cap him and let’s get out of here,” the man with the cigarettes said.

“Wrong answer,” Lucas said. He felt the trigger being pulled, and saw the powder explode. With a thought, the bullet was halted before it left the barrel. The gas pressure drove the slide off the back of the pistol and into the gunman’s wrist. The man screamed, dropped the rest of the gun, and fell to the floor.

“Get him!” the man with the cigarettes called, and turned toward the front door. The two men at the cash register stepped toward Lucas. Another thought from Lucas, and the men’s feet were swept from under them. They fell, hard. The man with the cigarettes reached the door from which they’d broken the glass. Another thought, and he slammed into the frame, and fell.

“Put everything back,” Lucas said to the men. A thought, and their minds filled with fear. They scrambled to empty their pockets and the backpack, of money, lottery tickets, and cigarettes.

“Now get out.”

Pav’l and Lucas wedged a plastic shower curtain into the edges of the door. It would keep out the snow and most of the wind.

“Shower curtain? Why do you sell shower curtains?” Lucas asked.

“Because people buy them?” Pav’l said. “Lots of apartments around here. People take the shower curtains when they move, I guess.” He shrugged.

At that moment, the lights went off—the power was out. “We’ve got bigger problems. It’s going to get really cold.” Pav’l said.

“Pav’l, I think it’s time we leave,” Lucas said.

“I can’t!” Pav’l said. “I’m responsible . . . .”

“No, you’re not. Your shift is over. Do you think the owner will pay you overtime?”

Pav’l shook his head. “No way. If I work any more hours this week, I’ll be eligible for medical coverage, and he would never do that.”

“Maybe he would pay you cash, under the table?” Lucas asked.

Pav’l looked at Lucas as if he were crazy. Lucas laughed. Then he picked up the phone in the manager’s office. “The phone is still working. Call the owner. Tell him you’re leaving because the power is out and you’ve got to find a warm shelter. Tell him that the door was broken in, but that you’ve covered it with a shower curtain. You will have more than fulfilled your obligation to him.”

“But I won’t have a job!”

“Pav’l, this storm isn’t going to be over for several days. If power isn’t restored in the next few hours—and it won’t be, you and the boys would freeze to death. Then, it wouldn’t matter whether you had a job or not.”

Pav’l nodded. After he made the call, he pulled a jacket from a peg. “We can wrap Jeffie in this. But you . . . you’re half naked!”

“Oh, we’re not going out the door,” Lucas said. “Pick up Benji, would you? I will carry Jeffie.”

Pav’l did as Lucas requested, and found himself on the patio of a house, surrounded by trees. The sunlight was bright, but dappled as the leaves moved in a gentle, warm breeze.

Benji and Jeffie’s eyes were wide. Benji struggled, and Pav’l released him. The boy immediately ran to the edge of the patio and pointed to the west. “That’s the ocean! I can see the ocean!”

“Lucas?” Pav’l’s single word was inflected to make it into a question.

“My home, on an island in the Aegean Sea. As I said.” Lucas responded.

“I guess I have to believe you,” Pav’l said. “Um . . . I have friends who will be worried about me . . . and a cat who will—” He froze.

“My cat is in my apartment. It probably doesn’t have power, either!”

Lucas put Jeffie in a chair, and turned toward Pav’l. Lucas seemed to flicker, and then his hands held a tabby kitten.

The boys, Pav’l, and Lucas had been fed, served by other boys in tunics like Lucas’. Afterwards, Lucas and Pav’l put the little ones to bed. “I had guest rooms added not too long ago,” Lucas said. “Didn’t know why, except that I knew I would need them soon.”

Lucas and Pav’l sat on the patio. The sun was below the western mountains, but the sky was still bright. The breeze had died and although the air had cooled a little, they were still comfortable. Lucas poured wine for them both.

“Lucas? Thank you for rescuing me and the boys, and Tabby,” Pav’l said. “But, won’t many people in Chicago die in this storm? Why did you save us, and why just us?”

“I wish there were an easy answer,” Lucas said. “I could say, because it wasn’t your time, or Benji’s or Jeffie’s—or Tabby’s—and that it is the time for those other people. But that’s not a real answer. It’s like trying to explain all the murder and evil in the Bible by saying that ‘God works in mysterious ways.’

“I could say that sometimes bad things have to happen so that good things can happen, and I could give you concrete examples of that; but, that’s just an aphorism. Because it’s sometimes right, doesn’t mean it’s always right, or that this is what is happening, right now.

“Furthermore, the notion that “bad things happen so good things can happen” suggests a cause-and-effect that isn’t real. Sometimes, bad things happen and then good things happen; sometimes, bad things happen to good people, and sometimes good things happen to bad people. The universes—at least the ones we know—operate on cause and effect. Everything that happens has a cause—not a reason and not a purpose—but always a cause. The difference is important.

“I could say that humankind used free will to give control over life and death to three old women, the Fates, and that they are at this moment busily cutting the threads of people’s lives. That would be true, but it still doesn’t answer the underlying why me question. I’m sorry, Pav’l, I don’t know.”

“Couldn’t you just go back to Chicago and bring more people here?”

This question was a lot harder to answer. “Physically, I could. However, I know—just as surely as I knew that you, Benji, Jeffie, and Tabby were not meant to be dead—I know that I should not do that.”

Lucas chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless chuckle. “I don’t understand free will, and I don’t always understand cause and effect. And since I don’t understand them, I’m somewhat reluctant to mess with them.”

“What about the boys?” Pav’l asked. “They have a family—”

Lucas’s laugh was dry and hollow, and seemed to come from under the flagstones of the patio. Pav’l shivered when he heard it.

“Their family consists of a father who didn’t pay any attention to them except to beat them when he had nothing better to do. You heard Benji say they were chased into the storm. Well, if there were still a god of irony, he would be laughing his ass off, right now. You see, the boys’ father is dead; frozen in an alley near their apartment building. He decided to brave the storm and find a liquor store. He will be found in a week or so, and buried in a Potter’s Field.”

“Then, what shall become of Benji and Jeffie?” Pav’l asked.

“Tomorrow,” Lucas said. “Tomorrow, we will visit some of our neighbors.”

Lucas

I never had thought of goats as attractive animals, much less as cute animals. Nevertheless, one of the nanny goats had just given birth, and Jeffie and Benji fell in love with the kid. Their eyes brightened when Galen asked if they’d like to pet it.

“Galen,” I said. “I have a problem that you might help me solve.”

“My Lord! Anything!”

“Galen, please, this is a neighbors problem. Let’s save the my lords for serious problems, if that’s all right with you.”

He nodded. “How can I help, Lucas?”

I explained that Benji and Jeffie were orphans. I didn’t say that they were from a different reality, but did—in honesty—tell him that their childhood was vastly and strangely different from that of a child on this island.

“They need a home. I am incapable of providing that. They are real boys, who need to grow up in a real home, with real parents, and not in the House of Hebe, where trees come to life, and gods and goddesses pop in, unannounced. Would you adopt them, and raise them as your own?”

I felt the joy in Galen’s heart. Ariane must have felt it, too, for she looked up from her task, and smiled. I saw her assent, and Galen’s.

“I think you should make the offer to the boys,” I said. “Without either Pav’l or me present.” I explained a bit more about how the boys had been found, as well as the fate of their father.

When I finished the story, Ariane nodded. “Yes, and I know just what to say.”

“Benji? Jeffie?” Ariane said. “This little goat needs a friend. He’s the youngest, and none of the others will play with him. He has to live here, because he has to nurse from his mother. Would you like to live here, with Galen and me, and be his friend?”

“Could we? Please? We don’t want to go back to—”

Galen and Ariane knew what Jeffie could not say: the boys did not want to go back to their father. They don’t know he’s dead, Ariane thought.

“You don’t want to go back to the cold and snow, do you?” she supplied.

Both boys shook their heads. Then, Benji said, “Or to our father. He beat us.”

I listened, and relayed the decision to Pav’l. Sometimes, it’s really good to be a god.

End Note: Benji and Jeffie’s story is also told at http://www.gayauthors.org/story/david-mcleod/nemesis/7