Homecoming for a Tortured Soul
Leeds wakes up in a regal, oversized bed, on top of silk sheets. Her head is deeply nestled in the folds of a soft, Egyptian cotton-cased pillow. In front of her is a glass wall, beyond which are thousands of stars in a beautiful night sky. The Moon is full – it thoroughly illuminates an exquisite beach and uniquely calm ocean waters. The Mediterranean.
“Am I in a five-star hotel?”
She’s wearing a simple, white Egyptian Abaya wrap – under which she’s naked – and on the floor are the same leather sandals that women have worn for thousands of years in the Middle East. Her skin feels fresh – crisp like she’s just had a bath. The grit and grime of travel have been scrubbed from her. Her skin is scented – just a wisp of Hyacinth aroma, probably from some exclusive brand of bath salts. She’s momentarily confused.
“Who gave me a bath?”
Leeds thaws out slowly…her brain fog creeps away. She remembers her journey – and then collapsing at the front door of a magnificent house in Cyprus. And then darkness.
Her mind is unsettled and she feels an odd sense of dread. Like a pall of catastrophe is looming over her. She slides her feet into the sandals and walks out of the room.
Leeds needs answers. Her mind is racing in five different directions.
She knows in her heart something has happened to Heinlen – something bad. He’s in existential danger. Maybe actual peril. Before she collapsed at the front door of this place, she got a crippling pain in her head that weakened her knees and then propelled her downward, into the hard slate foyer. But she knows that it wasn’t her pain – it was Heinlen’s pain. His deep, crushing anguish. Either he had suddenly suffered a calamitous injury to his body or mind…or he was crying out in desperation for help…
But she forces herself to concentrate on the here and now...
Leeds checks out the wondrous interior of the house as she makes her way through it – the pure white walls, burnished dark wood floors and hand-crafted rough furniture from centuries ago. Ancient and original paintings and tapestries are everywhere. Real art – standing Greek sculptures and abstract creations, and helmets that look like the heroic 300 Spartans wore them at the Battle of Thermopylae with King Leonidas in 450 BC. The decor is an esthetically challenging – and very male – eclectic mixture of new and old treasures that any museum in the United States would be proud to display. Classical Hellenic swords hang from display hooks – bronze creations thousands of years old, no doubt excavated from archeological sites within walking or sailing distance from the very spot she is admiring them from. The place has a cool – but intimidating – Iliad and Odyssey vibe to it.
She’s being drawn towards the magnificent smells wafting from what can only be the kitchen and instinctively realizes – there’s only one man who can cook food that smells that delicious.
Master Chef Lacas! He’s here!
But then she freezes in her tracks. She’s seized by another excruciating, stabbing pain in her head – which mercifully dissipates within seconds, leaving her woozy, but strangely aware. Now she understands. Completely. The agonizingly cruel answer has just blown into her brain like a 9MM bullet. Everything becomes obvious in an instant – and Leeds gasps it out loud.
“They’re abandoning him. They’re abandoning Heinlen.”
She’s certain that her intuition isn’t wrong. He’s in trouble – and he’s alone.
Now quickening her pace, Leeds rounds a far wall and enters one of the grandest kitchens she’s ever seen. And standing in the middle of it all, smiling from ear to ear – is Chef Lacas. His voice is overcome with emotion.
“Leeds, my Dearest! Welcome! Welcome! I’ve missed you! Sit! Sit down and join us!”
For the next hour it’s food, food and more food. Lacas has been hard at work on one of his signature dishes – Chicken Cacciatore, sans garlic. It’s just come out of the commercial grade Viking oven and is now gracing the center of a bounteously laden banquet table. Leeds quiets her emotions just enough to take nourishment – she can feel her weakness and fatigue hanging on her like dead weight. She needs food.
She digs right in, not realizing just how famished her body is. As usual, Chef Lacas’ food is substantial – a Kings menu intended to sustain and nutrify the spirit as much as the body. The table selection of Cyprus bread is better than what Simon Magus served in Jersey City and the local vegetables are fresh and flavorful. Greek butter and olives are divine. The authentic European mozzarella cheese is a meal unto itself. Everything tastes sinful. The meal is an Epicure’s delight, refined and sensuous as it is fulfilling.
Dr. Marina Vorshilovka arrives half-way through the repast. She bursts into the kitchen clutching her phone, looking like somebody just shot her dog. Curious. But she fixes her face and soon conveys genuine joy to see Leeds attacking a full plate of Lacas’ hearty fare.
“Madame Leeds! You’re Eating! Just what the Doctor ordered! How was your rest? I took the liberty of examining you and prescribing a nap after you fainted! Looks like there’s nothing wrong with you – only, perhaps, exhaustion from your journey! Our on-site nurse, Mariska, bathed you. Your clothes are washed and, by now, waiting for you in your room.”
Between mouthfuls, Leeds signals “Dr. Vee” that they have to talk in private about an urgent matter. Dr. Vorshilovka is no fool and picks up on her drift immediately. Leeds intuits that the good doctor is equally desirous of talking to her. Something is up.
Dr. Vee’s suggestion is perfect.
“There’s so much we have to talk about – perhaps we can take an evening stroll together on the beach after dinner!”
Saint Panteleimon Monastery
Office of Metropolitan Annektion Urbos, Director
Metropolitan Urbos looks agitated – and disappointed. His voice is anything but solicitous. His words are temperate, but grave. He stands up from behind his desk to deliver his message.
“Mr. Heinlen, I learned this morning from His All-Holiness Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew, Head of the Greek Orthodox Church in Constantinople that your Diamonitirion – you’re license to stay at Saint Panteleimon Monastery – has been revoked.
And a few moments ago, I received written confirmation from Patriarch Kirill, The Orthodox Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus that your Diamontirion has, indeed, been withdrawn. I am handing you now a copy of his Encyclical letter memorializing the expungement of your Diamonitirion.
Mr, Heinlen, I’m afraid that you cannot continue your religious retreat and physical therapy at our Monastery. You can accompany Brother Amos today on his mule cart down the mountain to the medical clinic you frequent – but you cannot return with him. I trust the clinic facility has a phone, and you can use it to make arrangements from there to return to wherever you intend to go. Perhaps they’ll even let you stay the night.
I also regret to inform you that the Physical Therapy services of Brother Andrjy have also been terminated. He has already departed for Serbia. He asked me to convey his sincere regrets.
This concludes our business. Goodbye, Mr. Heinlein.”
Heinlen is astounded. His physical body reacts immediately. Pain cascades up and down his spine and his head starts throbbing – then pounding. His anger rises like a volcano, and makes his ears ring from high blood pressure. The injustice of it all is breathtaking. He mulls it all over in his mind as he stares at this bearded old fool handing him his walking papers. His thoughts are unchained, burning through his brain.
“Can this be really happening? Here – in this Holy Sanctuary?
An Archangel declares me Persona non Grata….and now the refuge of an Orthodox Church Monastery is off limits? I’m a blacklisted leper? I’m a broken, soiled untouchable – rejected by the very same Church that exalts the Son of a Carpenter who was born in a manger because there was no room at an Inn in Bethlehem? “
Heinlen reaches out and takes in his hand the Encyclical letter of Patriarch Kirill throwing him out of Saint Panteleimon Monastery. He brandishes in front of Metropolitan Urbos’ face and angrily tears it into pieces – and throws the scraps of paper on the floor.
He gets up to leave and bids Metropolitan Urbos a less-than-fond adieu.
“GO TO HELL, YOU HYPOCRITE!”
Heinlen limp-shuffles out of the room to search for Brother Amos. As usual, the Monk is in the Monastery’s Stables among his beloved gaggle of mules – all of which he has lovingly named. He calls them “My Flock”. At least Amos is still kind to him.
“Looking forward to heading down the hill, Mr. Heinlen? My beautiful Monika will take us on our journey today! She’ll get us there slowly – but surely! Won’t you, my lovely?”
The Cyprus Cove Compound
The bright moonlight over the Mediterranean is beguiling. If her heart wasn’t so ripped apart by what she was certain was happening to Heinlen, Leeds would allow herself to dream about walking with him hand-in-hand over this majestic beach. Dr. Vorshilovka leads her down the surf a good distance before she starts speaking.
“I don’t know how far the listening devices on this property can reach – so let’s walk a bit further, shall we?”
Once she’s sure they’re out of eavesdropping distance, Dr. Vee gets down to business.
“I’ve heard through my contacts in the BratvaRus that Heinlen’s Diamonitirion has been revoked… that is his Orthodox ticket to stay at the Saint Panteleimon Monastery. They’ve retracted it! It’s gone! They’re throwing him out! Join me on the helicopter tomorrow to rendezvous with him at a medical clinic at the base of Mt. Athos and take him home.
But – I beg of you – control your facial reactions when you first see him…Heinlen is not the man he once was. I fear that he is not making progress healing. He shuffles with a limp, drags his left foot, slurs his speech – and has other lingering disabilities from the Parietal Hematoma surgery he underwent that will be readily apparent to you. He has the classic post-surgical symptoms of a stroke victim.
Please – don’t reveal your heartbreak to him. He cannot endure any more disappointment with himself. Be his rescuer. His champion. Let your love heal him in ways that medical science cannot.
Tonight I’m speaking to Peter Xiang – Li, Heinlen’s lawyer. Why?
My contacts in the BratvaRus also tell me that Heinlein’s title of Hetman is no longer recognized. He’s been de-consecrated! They’ve erased his rank! Now the BratvaVarang and BratvaRus refuse to provide Heinlen with any more security guards, technological support or protection. He’s going to have to get it all somewhere else.
Peter Xiang-Li has got to lock us into a security network and worldwide organizational support infrastructure that’s at least as good as what we had. Heinlen is bare-ass naked now! I don’t even trust the sentries posted at this compound any longer. They’ll probably be withdrawn any minute – even the helicopter we’re using tomorrow only has one final round-trip authorized for us. I trust the pilot – but will feel better when we have somebody in our own employ.
All Heinlen’s bells and whistles – all of his goodies – are being cut away from him. He’s now a sitting duck for an enemy that has a grudge against the memory of Simon Magus or wants to complete the black-bag termination order against Heinlen they screwed up in Switzerland.
I believe we’re safe here at the Cyprus “Cove” compound for the time being – but keep your ears and eyes open. I’ll be watching the main house tonight with Chef Lacas and his two sons. We’ll have AK47s – I was a Major in the Russian Army Medical Corps. in the Caucasus, in Chechnya. I can handle an AK like I can use a scalpel. Lacas and his sons were in the Greek Army – they have training. More importantly, they’re loyal to Heinlen. Their devotion to the spirit of Simon Magus guarantees it.
This is no joke, Leeds. Understand? Now I’m heading back to the main house to call Peter Xiang – Li. I’ll leave an AK47 in your room with some extra magazines of 7.62 X 39 ammunition. You know how to use it. Don’t hesitate. And don’t wander too far tonight.”
Dr. Vee hurries away – leaving Leeds staring out at the water, trying to parse through everything she’s just been told. But one thing doesn’t make sense…it’s like a three-ton elephant in the room: the mystery is WHY?
Why is everybody turning their back on Heinlen? Who did he piss off? Who had the power to do this to him?
Leeds knows what she has to do.
She stands in the moonlight, facing the ocean. She raises her arms up to the night sky, palms outward and closes her eyes. The words she speaks are not for human ears. Soon, a glowing orb takes shape about twenty feet away from her, gently swirling and pulsating above the waves. An evanescent, bluish-green rippling window of circular light now hovers before her – a portal cut into Leeds’ Earthly reality. It’s her passageway. The time to fight for her man – and her future – has come.
By the time Dr. Vorshilovka gets back to the main house and turns to look back at Leeds, she sees nothing but a strange glowing circle fading into nothingness.
“Must be a jellyfish…” she mutters to herself.
*NO PART OF THIS WORK PRODUCT IS AI
Copyright, 2026 – Jon & Jedediah Croft
www.bogironfoundry.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
