Friday, September 9, 2011

DEATH COMES TO ZEBULON, A NARRATOR OF OUR TALE. CRUSH A SKULL, CREATE A MARTYR

I have told you many things, stories about others, vampire secrets, lies about myself. Some nights I am an adult, other nights I feign indifference. I am young. I am old. I am dead. In truth, I am all of those things. In mortal years I only reached thirteen. But a soul feels many things and life is not only for the 'living.' Think not that just because I lacked two eyes I could not see. I saw. And I knew. Maturity came after death in my case, a little late, but welcome just the same.

Now there  were many ways to kill the wrong-doer. Some nations used a sword, others an ax. Beheadings were accomplished in a multitude of ways. I knew of a tribe, deep down in the southern deserts. They buried the 'criminal' up to his neck. Then they soaked the sand in ass' urine, lots of ass urine, until it had the consistency of dough or wet concrete. You might say that the confiscation of the head was anti-climactic. The poor soul was doomed anyway. It's not as if he could just get up and leave. They could have gone back to their hovels and forgotten all about him. In a few days thirst would finish him off. The crows , quite partial to glassy eyeballs, might make off with a souvenir or two. The ants could have had a party. But the people liked a good show and lacking circuses, they made do with this. A strong man would come forth, usually a favored warrior or some coarse dolt like that. A king's fool. You know the type. He'd strut and flex, rage at the terrified, little head poking up above the ground. Pretend to kick it. Sometimes he'd pee on it But then, when it was time to get down to business, he'd grasp the offending appendage in his thick, rough hands. Oh, how the crowd would roar. Then he'd playfully slap the cheeks like a mother chastising her child. Oh, how they'd laugh. Sometimes the condemned would cry and the onlookers would grow silent, as the remorseless court-killer proceeded to screw the head around and around, cracking the neck bones, tearing the blood vessels and breaking the wind pipe, till the guilty noggin popped off in his hands like a cabbage torn loose from the ground. No muss. No fuss. The stump of a neck wound  up tight like the end of a sausage.

It was customary to present this 'cabbage' to the mother, or whoever came close to being the mother. The body was left in the ground. And some said that whatever grass grew in these parts grew sweeter at that spot, providing a headstone of sorts for the poor departed. But my people were different. We were civilized, so they did not do that to me.

My father accepted his 'loss.' God's will would be done. I had consorted with the Children of Lilith, danced with witches, drank unclean blood. My mother cried. She was unconsolable. But they drugged her with oil pressed from the seeds of the poppy and locked her away. Other members of the household kept silent, lest they too be accused, for wagging tongues were everywhere. You know 'the drill' as they say. Sometimes a city of God is anything but. Look to the scandals in other Holy Bastions. You know... you know.....

They bound my arms to my sides and wound me in clean, white cloth. Cotton, I think it was. Then four soldiers carried me to a place just beyond the city walls. Did you ever see Joshua in The Ten Commandments? Well, that's how they looked, short Israelite kilts, jauntily wrapped head scarves, while I , on the other hand, seemed to be an oversized 'papoose.'

Oh, my mind was gone by then. I'm sure my father paid the officials to dose me with some narcotic. And I 'dreamed' of summers spent in the north, along the shores of the Sea of Harps (where the bards came from). You mmay know it as the Galilee. Please excuse my spelling, but I've known so many inscription systems. It's hard to keep them straight.

I was laid upon a rock, a thick, flat, bed-like rock. It felt cool. I remember that. Up above, on the civic ramparts, a group of men prepared the stone, a large, raw, sharp edged boulder. They wrestled it up to the beginnings of a well, worn grove, an indentation approximately one and a half cubits wide. Prayers were said. Oh, not for me. For them. For the city. For the rest of the nation. And I don't know who else...For all the ships at sea. Then they let loose the stone and sent it rolling down over the walls and onto my skull forty feet below. My final memory was of the gulls. Jerusalem is not that far from the sea and those voracious thieves grew fat on our leavings. I saw them silently glide into possition high above, against the hard, blue sky, until a swift, dark shadow passed over my face and it was finished......

Please. I am so sorry, but after twenty eight hundred years it is still hard for me to relive this. Please, you must understand......Come back tomorrow night.......I'll try to tell you more......

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Go to @wilkravitz the profile page...look down the tweets till you see a link. click on it and you will dance among the stars.....SCHMOOZINGWITHALIENS.....contemplations on the cosmos.....

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