You have not seen me here in months and I have been an infrequent visitor for at least two or three years before that. But I miss you and I need to come back. I am trying to share a piece of music that has, in a sense, become the vampires' creed. I hope it appears. There are those who do all they can to thwart my message. They hate truth and so they hate me. I am Jonathon ben Macabi, and I have been 'night folk' since my nineteenth year, more than one thousand years ago. This path winds back to the beginning. No one knows its source. Please know I speak of mortals. We know. Night-folk understand. Each of us was born mortal, but at some time, at some fortuitous point in the matrix we call Creation, we were no longer mortal, each changed into something miraculous and strange. Many heard a voice, a calm low, soft clear voice. Was it an angel? I suppose. We all think that. It's a question of faith. The angel said - Fear not. Thou hast not been forsaken, but chosen to fight in Michael's Army. The Arch Angel calls you to go out into the world. Thou shalt cull the wicked. Thou shalt extinguish blighted souls. ... And the world has no shortage of them.
We make three visits to the bedside of such offenders. Ebenezer Scrooge was not unique. We relate their sins and ask for repentance. If they sincerely do we leave. Each gets three chances, one month apart. The third is the last. Should they still relish their wickedness they are extinguished. It's not the blood that sustains us, but the mission. We are not The Shepherd, just the sheepdog.
Mortals revered us. Some called us Saints, local saints to be sure, but saints just the same. All was well till inquisitional times. Then it all changed. The world entered an age of distortion. Evil and excess were everywhere. To be sure there were inklings as early as four centuries before that time. The wars for Jerusalem and all. Those in authority termed us demons. Many perished. Some just gave up, sublimating high into the starlit sky till their essence was spread so thin it could never coalesce. Are their atoms still out there? I suppose, but atoms are but particles, mere desiccated crumbs of what once was.
I and those like me are among the steadfast. We remember 'the call.' Some of what you've read here over the years has been embellished. I don't know why. Night-folk just do that from time to time. We crave union with the world. Sainthood can grow tiresome. Still, I continue to do my job.... till that blessed dawn, the morning of True Light, when The Messiah finally appears.
Now permit me to go out into the city. I have to make my rounds... two first visits... one third...
You may have seen me, a comly trim 'eighteen year old with long dark wavy hair... black bootkins... black jeans... white shirt... fine tailored black leather coat. I could easily be one of those singers up above it that video. Sometimes my boots throw sparks.
Just before dawn I return to the townhouse. The things I've shared about that place and all who live in it are true, including our two mortal foundlings.
I love that piece... Nessun Dorma... 'no one sleeps.'... at least not among the night-folk....
THIS will take you to the whole tale if you click on it... THAT will take you to Billy's site on Twitter. He's the mortal who coordinates this for us.
Adios....Why 'adios?'... I am a loyal son of old Al Andalus... and Classical Arabic, Hebrew, Aramaic and Old Castilian come natural to me... as well as the ancient nigh-folk dialects too.