eXcathedral: The First Book in the Chronicles of Zemlya

By Theodore Andrew Obrastoff

Early retired pastor, Alexander Bastion, sits in a Seattle mental care facility, staring out the cafeteria window at a world nobody else can see. He sees a peculiar and stormy world, where the darkened glass is shattered and the thin veil, which shields people from the sight of wars in heavenly realms is torn asunder. For some reason God has shown him that all people are about to sleep for a millennium and only some will wake. All who wake will join a final thousand-year war against evil, ushering in the ultimate and inexorable return of the King of kings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644717974

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eXcathedral

The First Book in the Chronicles of Zemlya

Theodore Andrew Obrastoff

ISBN 978-1-64471-796-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64471-797-4 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Theodore Andrew Obrastoff

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Contents

Part 1

Alexander Bastion 7

Aleitheia Doulos 11

Fr. Tyurrey Nstala 16

Saint Nicholae 18

Belladonna Doulos 21

Part 2

Evenfall 27

Buckey 30

Panic 34

Nephthalim 37

Immolation 47

Part 3

Warped 61

Χαρησ 80

Dunaµas 91

Counsel of Buckley 110

Glossary 119

About the Author 120

Part 1

1

Alexander Bastion

It was the end of the world. At least, that’s what the news agencies were stating. They filled endless news cycles, reporting that scientists expected the sun to suck in on itself and then explode back out—creating something along the order of a scaled-down big bang, a never-ending parade of so-called expert-guests—hack professors and talking heads from public universities—each of them embracing their last chance of celebrity. Were some truly so vain as that? Wishing themselves fame just before the annihilation of all things? The vacuous absence of logic could only be attributed to their aforementioned profession.

As for the media officiating the release of this information to the world, it was rather a risky wager at best. What did they expect the public to do with such knowledge? The end of the world was not something for which people generally prepared their hearts and minds—neither would they especially wish too. The expectation of panic and shock and suprahysteria from the greater populace could easily justify silence from both the science community and political leadership. It would be understandable if the authorities chose to keep the world in darkness.

Nonetheless, the news was made public, and people, for the most part, remained unexpectedly calm and civil. Realistically, what were they to do? Many went into their houses, never to emerge again. Many sought out their house of faith. Some aimlessly wandered the streets—perhaps absorbing beauty they had taken for granted all along—breathing it in as a benediction of life.

Service professionals, such as police and first responders, were too well-trained and locked into the rhythm of their disciplines, to run apostate amidst a crisis. Crisis is specifically what they were trained to endure. Overwhelmingly, they continued to serve as if it were just any other normal day.

Hospitals too stood as monolithic regularities. Patients still required treatment, so medical professionals mostly stayed attuned to the devotion of their work. Beyond training and devotion, staying focused was also a good way for professionals to think about something other than impending doom. They too were only human.

The mention of medical facilities includes institutions where care was provided for those with mental disorders or illnesses. Such was the Seattle facility, wherein the inmate, Alexander Bastion, was lodged. The fifty-year-old man sat at the dining hall window, his still youthful blue eyes taking in the azure sky outside. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the bees were buzzing busily about. Albeit, Alexander saw only cloudy gray, with a steady downpour of rain, beating against his window and streaming down the glass, making the outside-world view nothing but a dismal blur. This was all he had seen through that window for the last year.

Son, his Christian reformed mother had told him years ago, Catholics have priests, we Protestants go to the shrink!

The distant memory of his mother’s observation bobbed about the inside his head and scampered off somewhere into the darkness. The world was officially ending, and what did such pondering serve? Thirty years of pastoral ministry had brought him to this—thirty years of getting into trouble with parishioners for telling them life is short and that sheep are shortsighted. Now the sun was going to explode, and he was imprisoned in an asylum because protestants go to shrinks. And sometimes, shrinks place protestant patients (pastors and parishioners alike) in mental health facilities.

Crap! he murmured, watching the rain that only he could see. Should’a been a Catholic!

The attending physician quietly walked up and stood beside Alexander. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? Alexander had a handful of terrifically poisonous responses, but they also bore truth to his condition and would profit no one in the telling. So he held his tongue. The doctor continued, I don’t understand why you don’t let us take you for a nice stroll about the grounds, Mr. Bastion. I know your twisted ankle won’t allow you to walk, but we are more than willing to push your chair.

The haunted man exhaled his sadness with a heavy sigh and said, In this rain?

Ah, but, Mr. Bastion! You and I both know—

Just shut up, Bastion calmly but effectively interrupted. We’ve both been through this too many times. You see a bright, sunshiny day, and I see drizzle and a gray haze hanging over everything.

And why do you think this is so? the doctor queried.

Personally? Or professionally? Alex quipped back.

Either. Both, the doctor rejoined as earnestly and as congenially as anyone might hope for in a physician.

Well… Bastion drawled. "I think science will take my side on this one. Given that we live in Seattle, chances are that between the two of us, you’re the one with the fractured gray matter. My image is more in keeping with the truth about the local climate. In fact, let me ask you something! On days when you see rain and mist outside this window, what do you make of my condition then? Am I sane on such days or are you crazy?"

Mr. Bastion, the shrink kindly but decisively responded, we have been round and round with such philosophical intrigues. I have never once begrudged you your present perspective on the weather—I’ve only asked you to work with me in the discovering of why such a persistent perception consumes you. The doctor paused and sighed, seeing that Alexander had returned to staring intently out of the window, as if staring down a very real and present enemy.

This incessant tension…that will not…stop… he murmured, will not stop this desolation.

Come, the doctor congenially urged. Come take a walk with us, Nurse Dominique and me. We will stroll with you.

Suddenly, and in a manner which half frightened the benign psychiatrist, Bastion swung about in his chair, leveled a piercing glare upon the doctor, and asked him a simple question, which, despite its simplicity, unnerved the doctor to no end. "And just what do you think will happen if I let you wheel me out into your little park, eh meine fine doktor?"

The doctor smiled. We will stroll, enjoy the park, perhaps enjoy some good conversation, and come back in for dinner, and I understand the kitchen is serving one of your favorites this evening. The doctor was truly a nice man and wonderfully engaged in the welfare of his patients.

"That’s what you think, eh? Bastion smirked. With an unhealthy sense of conquest, the benched cleric motioned toward the door leading to the park. Then outward we go! Let’s have ourselves a nice little stroll!"

2

Aleitheia Doulos

In a very different Washington, a world away, a somewhat youngish woman of forty was managing bar. There had been a time when she enjoyed the night club scene—the drinks, the excitement, the dancing. During that season, she had actually enjoyed dancing. She and her rowdy friends would crowd the stage and dance as a group, independent of any pressure or sinking hopes as no one asked for a dance. But now, it was different. In this bar, there was dancing. Politicians doing the DC hustle. Insiders shopping companions. The oozing corruption was bad enough. What caused the bar manager to be viscerally ill was the insolence. These Washington insiders wore brazenness about themselves, as if it were that week’s designer fragrance— parfume le vomi !

Aleitheia laughed inwardly at her truly insider joke, but outwardly only managed a grimace. She watched the working girls undulate and writhe, all the while escorting les idiots and their jukebox money all the way to the bank. She suddenly stopped herself, self-realization blaring in her brain like an annoyingly faulty car alarm. I’m a grump! she thought. I’ve become a miserable and grumpy something or other! she scolded herself.

Then, even more frantically, she asked herself, What the devil am I doing here? She marveled not only at this particular den of iniquity—this one which she was guilty of managing, she wondered at the city-state of DC. Hells bells, she ratcheted up inwardly! What am I doing on this coast at all? She considered the distance she had put between her early life and her…now! What was this empty achievement she called her life?

She offered herself a shot and gratefully accepted the kindness. Sloppily, she poured Bushmills at the innocent shot glass. Her mind whirled chaotically with her actions as she slammed the brown liquor and quickly followed up with a second. She was no lush—not this lady—and she never ever drank at work while off the clock, let alone on the job. Why am I suddenly so upset? she spoke to the empty shot glass, which starred at her from the bar. Seriously, she again contemplated out loud, where is this even coming from?

She peered just beyond the glass and realized she was cultivating quite a little audience of barstool clientele. All important questions, one them offered, demonstrating unsolicited support, if not inchoate passion.

She blew off the front row gallery, ordering them all, Drink your drinks, as if that weren’t the very thing they were eager to do. From the television above the bar, she heard the news anchor remind everybody that there will be nothing left, followed by the President affirming this and encouraging everyone to carry on in the true spirit of democracy.

She moved away from the bar, partly to avoid an impulse to continue pouring shots for herself. She was also losing her attachment to her surroundings. She had a frightening and rapidly increasing sense of not being alone in her own thoughts. It was a disturbing awareness—this stream of thought, this unveiling of her deep-seated and long-suffered unhappiness. Add to it the increasing sense these thoughts were now stirred up by someone else, somewhere else. The genesis of these