They sat in the den. Roland took everything in. He'd never been in the townhouse before. Billy waited for 'Papa' to start talking again. The twenty eight thousand year old entity was like that. Time meant nothing to him. He remembered wooly mammoths and giant ground sloths like you remember some neighbor's yappy puppy or Lion-el and The Thunder Cats. He saw languages rise and fall. Dogs were domesticated. Saber toothed monsters killed children.... and not just children. Our modern world seemed dry and brittle to him. 'This too shall pass'--- that's how he saw it. But he was a vampire, or more precisely something beyond a vampire. Time did that. Oh, 'Papa' still had fangs and he could kill. Once in a while he did, though he could do other things too.
Suddenly Billy realized that the room was cool. No air-conditioning. It wasn't on. But the room was cool. Papa noticed. He said - I like to be comfortable. The atmosphere emanates from me. I 'think' therefore it 'is.'... Billy nodded and asked - Can you get them back? Jonathon, Sarah and the rest, I mean..... Papa shrugged - I suppose so, when it's right. You know, centuries ago, not millennium, just centuries, they called parallel universes 'fairie.' It's where Rip van Winkle was. In this land, 'America' I mean, the old New York Knickerbockers used to go back and forth all the time....... Can people in New York still do that? - asked Billy...... No - said the All Powerful One. Universes align and realign just like planets. There must be points of contact. They open up and they close. Do you know there are 'twin' universes? The portals stay open for, I don't know, maybe forever. You see, In an infinite omniverse all things are possible...... Then he glanced at the elferino, Roland, who was busy with a silver sided Rubik's Cube. They were all silver sided, every surface. What difference did it make? But the elfin creature acted like it did.... Papa said - Does he speak?.... Billy said - Yes, actually. Telepathically too, I think..... Oh, I know - said Papa. I was just making an observation. How childlike they are. How pure and true. You know, they're rare? They pop up every few thousand years. You're lucky to have them..... Billy nodded.... Roland beamed, as if he'd actually 'solved' the puzzle. Papa studied him for a few heartbeats and smiled. Then he said - I'll try to find the others. The 'born witch,' Pig Blood Annie, was just a fluke. Sometimes it happens that way... He picked up the large pickle jar and watched her struggle amongst the threatening waves.... My 'snow globe.' I'll keep her for a while and then put her back where she belongs. Believe me, she'll be 'schooled' and won't try these things again.... Billy asked - How can you be sure?..... Papa said - Considering all you know about me, do you really have any doubt?.... Billy quietly whispered - No....
Then they sat there in the cool comfortable ether emanating from the twenty eight thousand year old being that looks like a thirty two or thirty three year old Richard Gere. Each one dusted by the dim, orange glow hovering in the middle of the room....
And that's how they spent the night.....
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The next night, Billy went back to the townhouse. He wasn't alone. Roland, one of the elferinos went with him. God knows what he expected to find. In the night-folk world anything can happen and Billy wasn't even really night-folk. Sure he knew a few words in Old Vahmperigo (a Mediterranean vampire language) and was familiar with the 'talking' mummies stored deep in the basements of The Penn Museum, but that's not really so much. Witchy-woman, Edith taught him to throw a few protection spells. They sort of worked. Nobody sat next to him on the subway. Groups of rowdy street kids tortured other people. Birds never crapped on his head, although, sometimes that can be lucky. He threw one on the house before he left. Roland walked up to the door and sniffed. He has that elferino sense of smell... more than just smell... detects evil, ethereal presences, coins under seat cushions, lost, popped off Barbie heads, used Kleenexes. Billy whispered - Well, is it alright?..... Seems so - said the Walloon, paranormal 'youth.'... Then he sniffed the two windows on each side of the door as well.... Billy watched apprehensively. Roland said - Want me to pop over the roof and check the back?..... Do you think you should? - asked Billy..... No, not really - said the elferino. It's not a physical thing, but a spiritual sense I get of the whole place. It's clear. Do you want to go it?.... Billy nodded. They went up the marble steps. The little ghost boy peered out a basement window and watched them enter.
All the lights were out. A bit of streetlamp illumination filtered in here and there, but just a bit. The fine, old tall clock in the hall ticked quietly. Billy wondered who'd balanced the weights, though in a house like this anything could happen.
They walked toward the back of the house, where the kitchen and den were. He tried to flick a switch or two, but no luck. Still dark. Roland whispered - I feel something..... Billy whispered - What?..... Roland said - I don't know. It's... I don't know.....
Then they saw the light... not a lamp... not a fixture... just a light... a small, round, cloud of subdued, orange radiating out from the middle of the den, halfway between the ceiling and the floor. They stared transfixed. After a few heartbeats a face 'appeared' washed in the strange, shadowy glow from the ghostly illumination. 'Papa' was back. He sat in one of the big club chairs, posed like the statue of the legendary president in the Lincoln Memorial. Billy blinked. He was shocked. Roland barely knew who Papa was. No one said a word. Billy wished one of the night-folk were present, not an elferino, but a 'classic' vampire, someone to represent the household. He didn't want to address the unbelievably ancient, entity, but (sigh) he had to.... so he steeled himself, stepped forward and said - Papa, you're back.... The twenty eight thousand year old being who looked like a thirty two, or thirty three year old Richard Gere (and dressed like one as well) continued to stare at the light. Then he held up a large pickle jar. It caught the orange glow. He wanted Billy to come closer. The mortal, blog coordinator did... Papa said one word - Look... Billy saw what was in the jar. A tiny Pig Blood Annie (their 'born witch' nemesis) thrashed about in what to her were huge, crashing waves.... Billy said - But, Papa, why didn't you come back when Jonathon (our hero and his vampiric progeny) called?.... Papa carefully placed the jar on the cocktail table, looked up, smiled wryly and said - The important thing is I'm here now.
Then he picked up the jar and shook it. They could hear the born-witch scream inside. That made him laugh. He shook it again....
You see, to the evil witch entrapped within, there was no jar, but an endless ocean, far, far away, on a world not quite her own.
Roland moved in for a look.... Papa smiled, but the ever careful elferino was too amazed to smile back...
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They prepared themselves carefully. The caretaker and his wife let them bathe in their cottage. Night-folk don't get dirty like you and I. Their skin is different, their humors less pungent and volatile, but bathing is an act of purification and the four elferinos and elferinas (pubescent vampires) respect that. Each dressed in fresh attire, clean interior clothing and never before worn exterior garments. The look of the outfit doesn't change much. They usually wear black jeans and white, or black shirts. This night the shirts will be black, since they're flying and need to blend in with the sky, plus it hides the blood. Please know that real night-folk are not fiends. There's no lurid, blood orgy, but a neat, fast inhalation of fluid... at least on most nights. It's also been determined that vampires occasionally take in a bit of glandular secretions too. Small groups of highly secretive scientists, like Doctor Franklin and his Anti-Enchantment Bureau associates seek scientific explanations and the ingestion of bodily fluids other than blood lends credence to their biological viewpoint. The body takes what it needs. And one more thing... it is true, vampires can endure long periods of dormancy, but so do other life forms, such as 'water bears' and toads. To them, the scientific/biological group, vampirism will ultimately prove to be a disease, or adaptation. Others of a spiritual bent feel the blood and anything else drawn out from the victim is immaterial. It is the taking of the life that matters. Vampires are created to do that and they are preserved to do that. It's basically the old God is, or God isn't argument. Our 'out of town' vampire leader ( a true vampire, not an elferino), Jonathon is very spiritual (as regulars know). He believes night-folk were Divinely created... an earthly adjunct to the angels.... not 'The Shepherd,' but 'the sheepdog' brought into being so that wicked people might perish and worthy people might live. I'd say the elferinos and elferinas agree. Tonight they cull the wicked. I flew with them and even though I am just 'Billy,' the recorder of these events, they can share their magic with me via ruby red, almost microscopic crystals of their blood. A light dusting does it. That's all it takes. Right now, we're in a large, loft apartment in Old City, where all the new and somewhat more affordable galleries are. It's an expansive space, broken by a scattering of nineteenth century, cast iron columns. The wide, almost floor to ceiling windows are unadorned. The place is empty, quiet and dark, save for whatever light comes in from the predawn street below. A man whimpers. He's tied to one of the columns. There's a gag in his mouth. His clothes are gone. He looks so hopelessly sad. The elferinos and elferinas sit on the old, wooden floor jabbering away in Flemish and Walloon (a northern French dialect). I don't know what he's done, as I speak only English and Spanish with maybe a smattering of German and this particular band of night-folk is very secretive. Perhaps because they're eternally twelve, thirteen and fourteen years old? You know how young teens can be. Soon they get up, straighten their clothes and begin to dance, a low countries 'la ronde.' They hop and skip and step about the condemned to the rhythm of an old song shared only in their heads. I watch from the shadows. They ignore me. I know they're never unaware of my presence. The fact that I am mortal and they are not precludes that. It's just how it is. A heartbeat later one runs up and instantaneously sinks his fangs (I think it was Albion) into the man's belly before rejoining the dance. Then another goes for a shoulder... a butt cheek... the groin... The man writhes and groans. After a bit it all speeds up. The column positively vibrates. Blood pours from his scalp, the tops of his feet, his spine, his nipples and almost everywhere else. Then, just before he gives up the ghost, his tormentors (by now, nothing so much as a spinning tornado) lap it all up, leaving a glistening, shriveled husk, just like the statues of skinned saints you see in museums, gazing up toward Heaven through dead and ruined eyes. Soon after the body ignites into a 'cold' blue flame and disappears, save for a sticky, fatty residue on the floor 'round the column. The elferinos and elferinas lapse back to their usual mild selves and we fly home to our Spartan digs in the never used mausoleum. One less malefactor in the world. Funny how a vast, leafy cemetery, like Laurel Hill, can come to be home. But 'home' it is, just the same..... We curl up on assorted quilts, cushions and blankets thrown about the place after sealing the heavy, bronze door and locking out the light. The sky brightens, but we never see... Then, the elferina known as Marianne hums an old song... We sleep.... <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click MAUSOLEUM ... to see all episodes we have up... click THE NEXT WORLD ... to join me on Twitter... please comment. thank you.
Now elferinos and elferinas often wear black. They do this not for any morbid, vampire reason, but rather because it affords them a kind of invisibility. Think about it. How many times have you been driving around town only to have someone in a black hoodie suddenly materialize out of the shadows. You jam down on the breaks and they just keep going. They don't speed up. They don't slow down. They just glide on, ultimately disappearing into a new set of shadows. ...
Shadows are magic. Darkness is magic. Black attire is magic. Elfin folk know this. They can rise up from the street and fly about the city unseen, floating along just above the trees. They like streets with trees. Night-folk know the dryads (forest spirits) and the dryads know them.... both essentially refugees in our modern world. And tonight the elferinos and elferinas let me fly with them , as their guest. It felt so mysterious. Magic flight is not like bird flight. Birds 'swim' through the air, as fish do in the sea. They are upheld by it, their wings, as sails.
Magic flight is different. We streak along because we will it so... thought made manifest. And when I speak of 'we.' I mean 'them,' the elferinos and elferinas. I am merely the mortal who records this all for them. You see me on Twitter and other places too. You think I just write this. You think it's all 'fiction. Well, OK. If that suits you. But scroll back to our very first episode. I believe it appeared on the Ides of August, 2010. Look to the first line. You'll see.
So now I fly with the night-folk.... and share their 'kit'. We wear black jeans, long sleeved, black t-shirts and all the rest of it. They flit down to take sharp, little drinks from pedestrians out for a late evening stroll. Cities aren't formal places anymore, especially quiet, residential districts frequented by twenty and thirty-somethings.... Bare legs in shorts... bare arms.. necks... shoulders. How fast they are, the elfin-folk, I mean. The salty tang of skin after a run, sauce for the blood under the surface. People slapped at mosquitoes and other tiny vampires, never suspecting the true culprits. I'm told the blood donors seem to freeze for a few heartbeats, not moving till the deed is done. That's why elferinos and elferinos always feed in twosomes, threesomes, or foursomes. No use one person freezing, while others look on. I stay up by the treetops, watching from above.
Unlike 'true' vampires, they rarely kill their victims, preferring to take some from all, rather than all from some.
But they can kill....
Next time I'll show you how....
(with that they all gather, up above the trees and swarm off to dance on Fairmount Park meadows, 'neath a smiling, almost midsummer's moon.)
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We just sat there on the slate floor of the mausoleum. The elferinos and elferinas seemed to have some sort of telepathy. They were talking about me. I know that. Then one of the males (I saw two males and two females) got up and stood before the massive, verdigris door. He said something, very quietly, but I heard it. He said something in Dutch, or Flemish and the heavy, copper door opened. How fresh the air felt, how cool and alive. The trees whispered, soft and low in the dark, silvery night. There were no crickets... too early in the season for that. Newborn, tiny nymphs can't sing.
The male elferino, I think it was Roland, led us out and down a narrow path toward a place without graves... a small clearing under a creamy moon. The four elfin folk sat on the grass and I joined them. How young they looked... like street waifs... like vaguely 'Gallic' characters from a nineteenth century novel, although they were one or two centuries older than that.
Marianne whispered. She said - Billy, are you alright?... I said that I was. She asked if I needed 'fortification.'.... In vampire parlance, fortification refers to little drinks of night-folk blood given to mortals. Not enough to bring them over, but enough to fend of illness, or age, or stress, or the infinite abrasions life can bring. I shook my head. She didn't say anything else.
Celeste, the other female, began to sing an old Low Country song. Ordinary mortals, unatoned to vampire habits and ways, wouldn't have heard her, but my time with the night-folk refined my senses and I could just about pick it out.... a rhythmic peasant chant. The others joined in too. The second male, Albion, took out a little ocarina, like a fat, varnished, wood, whistle, flute thing and played along. I smiled and nodded. A small, short eared rabbit nibbled clover nearby. Such was night in this hidden part of the city.
When the song was over they walked off through a warren of tombstones and small statues toward a distant, tall, wrought iron gate fixed in a grey stone arch from the eighteen-thirties. Soon we were out. Roland led us along a runners' path by the banks of the Schuylkill River, Philadelphia's other waterway. We passed the venerable boat houses belonging to old rowing clubs on 'Boathouse Row,' and saw a black, ghostly coach pulled by four spirit horses, as it silently made its way into Center City.
Before taking up with night-folk, I couldn't see ghosts, but now I can. The little polio victim who lives in the townhouse cellar is a special friend. But regular readers already know that.
Soon we passed the great fountains on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. A few furtive homeless types washed in the bubbling water.
I asked Marianne where we were going. In her ever so slightly French-Walloon accent she said - To taste the city.....
And that's what we did, or rather they did...
I was just a witness, meant to pass the tale along.....
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This is Billy. I'm not alone in the townhouse anymore. The elferinos came for me. They're still here. Philadelphia is not devoid of vampires. It's true, Baylah spends most nights with her rich financier boyfriend at the shore, but she's always been like that. Blackie's still here. Our group is cordial to him, but he mostly stays to West Philadelphia, Roxborough, places like that, whereas we're primarily Center City. I say 'we,' even though I am not a vampire, though I've blogged for them so long... well, you know how it is.
Before they came, I was afraid to stay in the townhouse at night, lest Pig Blood Annie show up again. I have no idea where Jonathon and the rest of them are. I tried to get into Franklin's compound under the Navy Yard, but they don't know me. They won't let me in. Luna, his vampire, physician assistant must know who I am, but she plays dumb. Always was a two face.
So I'd walk around the city. When it got real late, I'd go into a museum... any museum. Jonathon and Sarah love museums. They'll wander the galleries all night. Watchmen know them. There's a knock, a certain knock. If you go to the right door (usually around in the back) and know the cadence, someone will let you in. I know the knock. There's not a lot of us in there, maybe three or four a night. Most are impoverished art students. Some are Goths. I see two quiet, nicely dressed old women from time to time. They're deaf and converse in sign language. They alternate between The Philadelphia Museum of Art (The Rocky Museum) and The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts ( where Eakins taught). Nobody turns the lights up for us either. We silently move through exceedingly dim passageways, salons and display areas. Sometimes we nod. Occasionally the mummies in The Penn Museum groan and shriek, but no one pays them any mind. Who knows Coptic? They only know Coptic, or an ancient form of it called Kemeti and I think they mostly tell us to go to hell and drop dead. That's what it sounds like. I don't go near them.
Some nights I don't walk around the city. I stay home, but sit in the cozy, little library because it's right off the entrance hall and I can run out the front door if I have to, provided no one else is running in. So I sit there in the small, shelf lined, octagon room, in a pool of light from the porcelain table lamp, watching reruns of The Meredith Viera Show with breaks to thumb through old bound copies of National Geographic. Sometimes the little ghost boy who mostly stays in the basement sits with me. We keep the sound turned down low. No use attracting attention from the street. But I don't know who could hear us through the heavy, green, velvet draperies. Once in a while I fall asleep and wake up in that room.
One night, the draperies suddenly billowed into the room as a figure morphed through the mullioned window and came down to rest on the thick 'Turkey' carpet. I was half asleep. I didn't know what it was. I almost had a heart attack. The little ghost boy jumped in front of me. The porcelain table lamp fell over. And the intruder said - Billy... Billy... It's alright. Don't be afraid. It's me. It's Marianne.... I said - What's wrong?! What happened?!..... She said - Nothing happened. We never see anybody. Where is everybody? My God. It's been nights...... I told her about Pig Blood Annie, how she came back, what she did, how the others got out and went somewhere..... She looked around, sniffed the air in the room. Elferinos and elferinas are very scent oriented. I'm sure she smelled something of the born-witch, for she made a face and said - Quick, come with me.... Then she turned toward the little ghost boy and asked - Rodney (how'd she know his name?), will you be alright?.... He nodded and said - I'll be alright. I'm not alone. I can see 'ghosts' you can't see..... I never knew. I don't think the others did either.... That satisfied her. And quick as a wink, she bit into her wrist, drew in some blood, swished it around and blew it out (in the form of tiny, red, glistening, sugar-like crystals) all over me. Then Marianne grabbed my hand and said - Fly.... I did. We sailed through the draperies, the mullioned window too and rose up over the rooftops, till we were a pair of small 'somethings' moving in the night..... Elferina magic is strong and sure. Was I scared? Of course... but deep down, I knew I'd be safe and the view was quite distracting, as we skimmed along just above the highest spires of the tallest buildings more than eleven or twelve hundred feet above the ground.
Yonder sprawled the dark and leafy necropolis of Laurel Hill, where the Elferinos and elferinas made their home. Marianne began to descend. I was only along for the ride. Where she went, I went. A few heartbeats later we skipped down on a winding path amidst an old collection of picturesque, ever so slightly moldering mausoleums.
She led me toward a small, classic 'temple.' The heavy copper door soundlessly opened. We went inside. It closed. And there were the others, lounging on cushions in a coffin-less space, illuminated by a few, fat, yellow sputtering candles... elfin creatures with somewhat pointy ears, long fingers and large, reflective eyes. Elferinos and elferinas are pubescent vampires. The hormones are strong at that age and even after what they term 'death' certain body parts continue to grow... thus the pointy ears and such.
And I was a guest among them.....
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I am locked in this place, this world, this creation of Doctor Franklin, far away from all I know. Who knows how far?
Behold the glorious menagerie of 'Baby Philadelphia,' where all are controlled, ostensibly for our own good... even vampires.
I sit in my room (Franklin's official house is a very commodious place) and think. If this moon is the real moon, it shines through my window and puddles on the gleaming, hardwood floor.
Franklin knows I like music and has provided me with some ancient recordings. One, NESSUN DORMA, is very special to me and since the 1920's to night folk in general. An old, wind-up, 'Victrola' plays in the dark corner. I listen, as Enrico Caruso sings.
I believe the version available to you is by another master, but it has English subtitles and they will explain a lot. Please listen.
Nessun Dorma means 'no one sleeps,' or 'none are sleeping.' From our vampiric viewpoint it tells the story of a love sick vampirino desperate to bring his mortal enamoratta over into darkness.... You may not know, but vampires usually 'marry' just before the dawn, affording the mortal partner a last glimpse of the gray sky before sunrise. And even though the fiery orb 'kills' the night, the vampire wins, for he takes his love.... There were other arias before this one, but since it was written almost one hundred years ago, this one is special. Choirs sing it at formal night-folk nuptials. I witnessed one such affair in Montreal almost seventy years ago, a beautiful candlelit ceremony in an old, stone chapel. Faith never dies. We take it with us. Old friends of our tale know that.
When Sarah and I united, circumstances were much less structured.
Some sing the song at vampire passings too. It plays a role in PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK, the screenplay written prior to this blog and in many ways the inspiration for it... In that telling my name is 'Thomas' and I am Scots, another old and venerable people..... One night we'll post scenes here. I know we've said that before, but one night we will.....
I hope I'm there with you to see it....
* * * * * * * * * *
The music stops. Jonathon just sits there in a chair by the bed, as we hear the empty hiss of the old, felt turn-table spinning and spinning and spinning.....
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And then he was alone. Franklin left. Jonathon got up and proceeded to walk around the city. He asked Sarah if she wanted to go, but she didn't want to. They were all like that. Each preferred their own company. Vampires hate feeling helpless. They retreat and fall into depression. Edith, although mortal, felt the same way, maybe not to the same degree, but she knew.
Jonathon walked around town, observing all the people who were essentially flesh robots. Ones born here and 'chipped' at birth were lucky. They didn't know any better. All were free to go about their lives, so long as those lives were lived 'According To Franklin.' This place was his world, not theirs. Violence was not tolerated. There was no punishment. There was no pain. The violence simply stopped. Should a miscreant continue down that road, should they insist on going their own way, they dropped down dead and died. Oh, one more thing, anti-Franklin talk counted as violence too. You did your job. You played your part. You lived your life and that was it.
Some people seemed to love it. Ladies strolled around in white bonnets smiling to their neighbors. Husbands came home after a day's labor with small sacks of sweets for the children. Few ever changed jobs. That would create problems. No one wants problems. Children were tended. Gardens were tended. Everything was as it should be. Keep your place and don't make waves. Smooth sailing for those in loftier positions, but brickyards needed workers too, so did sewers.... Jonathon saw it all..... and he wanted to go home.
Jonathon tried to sublimate. He tried to pass his hand through a neat, wooden fence behind a vegetable patch, but no go. All he got were bruised finger tips.
Welcome to the menagerie....
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And Doctor Franklin went on..... The old reprobate could talk for hours, especially about his favorite subject... himself. The vampire, Jonathon, sat and listened....
Please, my dear Mister ben Macabi, think me not a bigot. I esteem no group's talents, beauty, or ability over any other. It is humanity in its entirety that needs my guidance. I've promised to be a benevolent master. .....
Jonathon doesn't say a word. He listens and tries to understand..... Franklin goes - Are you trying to 'read' me? Don't waste your time. You can't do it. Your vampire abilities, as well as the burdens, don't hold here. I've turned them off. Harmonics can accomplish almost anything. An infinite 'choir' of notes and chords, each with its own frequency, each with its own 'vibration.' I can shatter skeletons, living skeletons, I mean, deep within a living body. Think about it. What once was a man, is now a hand puppet without a hand, a slug quivering on the ground. They don't live long. Breath depends on the diaphragm and the diaphragm depends on bones. Tendons have to be attached to something. Theoretically, a whole city can be 'liquefied' in such a manner. Well, maybe more than just theoretically, but you don't have to know everything.
Then he goes silent, listening to the birds in his garden. Jonathon sighs. He has to humor the old man. He knows that. So he pours himself a bit more wine, the better to fall into a soporific buzz....
Now alternate universes are a funny thing, an infinite number of Brigadoons, each real, each occupying the same space, each with its own unique 'hum.' The 'hum' is pivotal. It's what makes them discrete actualities, the umami of universes, providing heft and weight and presence.... the 'beefiness' if you will. And Pig Blood Annie has been tearing through a lot of 'beef.' The rampaging 'born-witch' has seen a lot of places... all 'dark' worlds.... endless masses of densely packed writhing worms.... one huge, never ending blizzard..... the world where all sentient beings are Charlemagne The God...... But she's making progress. She's getting closer. It's the smell. It's the scent. That's what born-witches go by and vampires and over three hundred year old reprobates named 'Ben' leave very particular trails.
Meanwhile, Billy, who blogs this all for them, is in Jersey, trying to find help in The Pines. Those Red Paint people must know something. But they're quiet. They're cagey. They're tricky. Regular Jersey Pine folks know and they leave them alone. But who can tell? Maybe they'll help? A bunch of shut-mouthed, confident, Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Peekaboo Street lookalikes, that's what they are.
But disembodied, spirit narrators don't judge.
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