The Pavlov Brothers - Chapter One - Part Two
The Pavlov Brothers - Chapter One - Part Two - Edit
Edit: 6/29/25 6:17 PM Updated file. See the changes below.
Edit: 6/29/25 7:21 PM Updated file. See the changes below.
I’m back for my Sunday deep dive. I had a wonderful time at church and have a few book updates.
The Underground Church
Paul, Dutch, and Lev stood before a magnificent, elaborate construction. Intricate swirling patterns embedded in polished black stone called to Paul, like some mysterious force. It would seem the spirit of the church had a voice of its own. A voice that strummed his heartstrings. Yet, the nagging feeling of another presence went against everything he’d ever learned. In his eyes, no place between heaven and hell existed. Good or bad, innocent or guilty, black or white, nothing in between. There were no ghosts of the past or present. There were no witches, seers, or mystics. There was only one God and His people. All the saints were Satan’s creation. As distracting as the television or the unruly child.
Where they waited with their arms folded across their broad chests, Cyrillic script stretched out as far as the eye could see. The script was old; ancient, if the scholar in Lev had to guess. Then and there, an unnatural feeling plagued Paul, stalactites glittering above their heads. God or angel, who knew? Nothing ordinary compared to the simplistic beauty of the church. He fawned over a copper bowl built in a recess built into the wall. Cold metal brushed touched his fingertips. Wet stone reeked of mold and well water.
“A cistern,” he said, unsure. Though he hadn’t been aware he’d said it aloud. To his left, Dutch stood, slack-jawed and in filthy scraps of cloth. To his right, Lev patiently thought. Coal-stained hands scratched at the brown scruff on his chin.
“It was a cistern,” he said, this time less unsure of himself. Excitement nearly burst out of him. “Everyone’s always turning old things into something new. Aztec and Toltec. Europe and Africa. Catholics and Pagans.” He removed his hands from the bowl and looked around with wondrous eyes enchanted by the surreal reality he’d been thrown into. “Whatever was here, they came after. They came in, saw something they liked and…they changed it.”
“I think—” Dutch pointed at the bowl. “That we need to do something…here.”
“But, what?” Lev replied in perfect Russian. His voice did not waver.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking. Right?”
Dead silence. Then a cough here and there. Dutch scoffed and snapped his fingers a few times. “Hello? Earth to Paul? Anyone there?”
When Paul shushed one brother, the other soon quieted. They stood in silence for what seemed like centuries. Minutes passed before he removed a small pocketknife from the pocket of his cargo pants. With an index finger carefully placed on the hilt of the blade, he sliced the palm of his hand, to the shock of all. The cut was precise. It was only done by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who had training, experience, the knowledge of drawing blood without unnecessary injury.
“Whoa, man! Blood sacrifices were not on the menu, today.”
While the other two finished up, Lev stepped forward and examined the lettering on the wall. Fascinated, enchanted, and obsessed all at once. A thought came to him. How high did he have to have to go. Only the angels could reach the heights where the script ended. Letters uniformly etched into stone were a marvel to this historian’s eyes. Only after a final revelation did the pieces come together.
“Ah! Perfect. Truly perfect.” He stepped down from the ledge and looked his brothers in the eye. They stared at him with their arms folded across their chests.
“Well…” Anders smugly said. “Want to share with the class?”
“It is Cyrillic but not Russian.” Lev waited for a light bulb to turn on that didn’t. Disappointed, he sighed and inched closer to wall, using his index finger to show them. “Old English, I would say. The letters were translated into Cyrillic script by an…ugh…imbecile.” The disgust was evident in the way his face folded much like a pancake. “It says, ‘Essence of three, open thee.’ I do not understand.”
Dutch shook his head. “Speak plainly. We’re not all geniuses. Especially not this one.” He pointed stuck his thumb out at Paul and playfully stuck out his tongue.
Lev bit his lip to stifle a gleeful smile, and then continued. “They do not know one way to say something, so they improvise. They use the Cyrillic way instead of American.”
Paul butted in. “I think what he means to say is that certain words do not translate well between one language and one other.
“Yes, yes. That is true. And one more thing. Different dialect attach different meanings to the same word. I say your wife is beautiful in Spain. In Argentina, I get punched if I say something similar. The word is the same. Different region, different meaning, yah?” He looked for recognition, expecting his lisp and penchant for messing up plural nouns to baffle them. Instead, he got a nod, a smile, and a clap from Dutch.
“I keep telling you guys. This one’s going places.”
“Are you kidding?” Paul wrapped his arms around their shoulders, pulling his them in for a huddle. He waited for them to say something. When they didn’t, he took that as a sign. “We are going places.”
They pulled aside. They breathed out. The other two gave the blood. Blood in the bowl and bowl in the recess, they stepped back and put their hands at their side.
“Essence of three. What heck does essence?”
Paulie sighed. “Goodness, Dutch. Are you really that dense?” He removed the knife from the pocket of his cargo pants. “I just did.”
Dutch put his hands out like he was Moses parting the Red Sea. He even said abracadabra a few times. Nothing worked. It was only when they stood still, side by side, and had the same thought, like some psychic connection, that their world changed.
A soft hum echoed from within the stone walls. The hum grew louder. And louder. The ground beneath their feet violently shook. As they grasped ledges and hopped on outcroppings, their world changed. Their hearts beat to the drums of war. Boulders the size of elephants tumbled from the ceiling, crashing into the deep, dark abyss six feet from their shaking bodies.
Blood against stone. Open mind and resilient bones. One way opened up. No way out.
There, the quest of the ages began.
—
Chapter One and Two will be combined into one chapter. Derr Mann’s introduction is further fleshed out.
The Pine City Church houses the Lost Millworker’s son, Dimitri Ibrahimovic. A sinkhole cast the father and son duo into the earth. They tried to find a way out. Andrew was crushed by a boulder. Dimitri hid in the empty coffin and fell into a dream state.
—
Hopefully, these changes reflect my voice and style. I’m always looking for direct feedback, so please offer your suggestions.
Sending hope, kindness, and good luck your way. :)
- M.