His name was Kahan, pronounced with a strong and somewhat lengthened second syllable. It means Lord Krishna, or Warrior's Son, or Beautiful. I never knew if he was born with the name. Perhaps it came when he disembarked at that seventeenth century London quayside? The City does that to people. Even then it was unique... theatres... coffee houses.... clubs... brotherhoods... cat houses and cathedrals. My God, it was wonderful. Urban manor houses in Chelsea were all the rage. Most were smaller representations of the palace of Saint James. Some not by much.
That's where I had my adventures with The Brigands, an informal group comprising curious risk takers with, at times, more gold than sense. Spoiled sons from the landed class were like that. We saw live pigs fed to alligators imported from Spanish Florida. We sampled magical mushrooms from God knows where. I liked the moonlit cat hunt. Where they got genuine Arabians, I don't know and I know genuine Arabians. Those horses were fast. We pounded 'cross the moors after a beautiful matched pair of black panthers brought over from what used to be The Inca Empire (rightly called Tee-wan-tan-su-yu). I'm sure they were jaguars. Certain specimens exhibit extreme pigmentation, thus the rich, glossy black coats. I led the charge, being vampire and all, I could see in the dark..... Did we get the panthers?.... No, I told you, I led the charge. Night-folk have a feel for nature. But we had a good gallop and I paid for ale and meat pies at the inn, so everyone was happy... Did they notice I abstained?... Well... 'vampire eyes' can cloud the keenest mind.
One night we went to a stylish salon at the petit palace of a newly minted baronet. They had a reputation for the finest meals and entertainments of the first rank.... so eager to make their mark. But who doesn't like good drink and a savory grill? So people went... and after meeting that Nepalese monk I mentioned earlier... they went again.
Tantric magic will do that to people...
It's an early form of enchantment that made its way into the world of dharma. Hindus and Buddhists know it... many avoid it due to its bad reputation... a slight tinge of black magic, though true adepts know better. You see, magic of the tantric variety accepts all facets of the human organism. It recognizes our hungers and addictions, but looks for benign ways to satisfy them. Will social distinction, public acclaim and casks filled with silver ducats keep you from becoming a cruel, perverse autocrat? Well, this form of wizardry plays to the 'need,' for a craving sated is a crime forestalled.
The monk in the manor house did this ...
Tantrics manipulate the universe with sound. They chant. They repeat mantras. They create vibrations and thus cajole the universe.... Look at the video up above. You'll see....
The baronet and his consort ,who hosted that salon, were known as Sir Henry and Lady Asgood. He wore curled shoulder wigs of the finest Persian lamb and the fabric for her gowns came from the looms of the fabled Silent Nuns of Wallonia. Many tried to learn their secrets, but as they never spoke, all one could hope for was a very dirty look. The thing took place in Asgood House, a Palladian masterpiece at the end of a long, crushed gravel drive. They say it was bought on the backs of slaves. Asgood owned majority shares in three ships well know on the Cameroon - Jamaica run. Oh, it was all supposed to be hush-hush, but this was London... and people talk.
The night of the sublimation (passing through solid matter) the place was festooned with great names of the nobility and gentry. As cognoscenti know, a fair share of gentry families actually out rank many peers.. They have more land... more money.... longer histories... comelier daughters and finer stables. Everyone makes way for a Redmond, or a Castile. Shakespeare, if he were more than one hundred and ten years in the flesh, would dedicate plays to them.
Ladies in sumptuous attire and gentlemen in rich brocades graciously acknowledged each other across the wide, candlelit, parquet expanse, as they fed tiny mouthfuls of smoked eel to the pedigreed 'toy' spaniels on their laps. Some brought little monkeys. I told you about the monkeys. (Remember, this is vampirino Jonathon speaking) But simians are not as regular in their toilet habits as canines and most were left home where any shite balls they might fling at shrieking maids really didn't matter.
Social niceties went on for perhaps thirty minutes, then the monk appeared. They all went silent. A shaved head, coppery skin and a well formed body in a rough silk toga had that effect in these parts. Four disciples in lesser weaves took up compass points 'round their leader and began to chant in that low, rolling, vibrating fashion peculiar to their homeland. The 'ingles' (Jonathon often lapses into Spanish) were transfixed. Footman discreetly padded about the hall extinguishing three candles in five, lowering the illumination to an appropriate and mysterious level. Then the monk gracefully snatched a small songbird out of the ether and sent it flying up to the ornate, crown molding...In quick succession he conjured and released five more... People began to applaud.. The monk known as Kahan, who never opened his eyes, issued a low, guttural command and all went silent. A white lamb bleated as it tapped its way across the glossy, carefully fashioned wood floor. The monk scooped it up and hugged it to his chest. His disciples altered their resonating chant and it burst into flames. The monk's arms, shoulders, neck and jawline disappeared behind the fire. This went on for at lease twenty heartbeats, till the chant changed just a bit and the flames vanished. Man and beast were whole, unblemished and unharmed. .. The monk bent down, released the little ewe and listened to it tap its way into the shadows.
Those in attendance refrained from any type of reaction... The hall was silent, save for the pants of a few small dogs. Footman bearing wooden parts to some type of apparatus, filed out and assembled what looked like a large, seven foot tall, polished wooden table right by the monk and his four disciples. The supports seemed spindly and unable to truly hold up the platform, but the monk emanated a deep, rolling mantra and all was secure.
A trim, compact young man appeared. Whether he walked out, or was brought forth by some other means was hard to tell... Tantric chanting can cloud the mind. He might have been from what was called Hindustan, or Burma, or The Great Horn of Africa. He wore a seventeenth century, British representation of a crisp, Egyptian, linen kilt with the pelt of a young leopard tied around his waist. A medium, rich brown he was. Long dark, curly, glossy tresses reached his shoulders. How perfect he looked in the low glowing light.
Kahan, the tantric master, his eyes still closed, gestured toward a spot on the floor under the wooden platform. The brown skinned young man lay down. For a while nothing happened. Here and there a few ladies began to titter.
The monk clapped his hands. His brethren did the same, till they produced a fast, intricate rhythm, coupled with an harmonic, almost electric (if seventeenth century people recognized it as such) hum. The large 'table' thing began to vibrate. Little dogs held fast on their mistresses' laps howled. Steam rose from the man in the Egyptian kilt, as he slowly left the floor and began to levitate. The aristocrats crowded 'round the hall saw him bounce against the bottom of the table and stop.
A hissing sound filled the space. The wife of a Scots laird fainted dead away when blood spurted out from a throbbing red vein in the white of her bulging left eye. Two peers spontaneously voided their bladders. Atonal chanting can do that to people.
Ten heartbeats later the form of the man in the Egyptian kilt began to pass through the platform. First the tip of his nose ... then his face... his chest... the shoulders... his toes... his groin. The skin pulled back on his face. He slowed. The walls began to shake. A huge crack ran across the high ceiling, down the richly paneled wall. Heavy slabs of plaster rained down on the crowd, as the remainder of the poor man's body, devoid of face, pectoral muscles, toes, groin, plus almost every bit of flesh on the ventral side of his being fell down onto the floor with a sickening, bloody thud.
People raced for the doors, trampling the weak and elderly. Rafters crashed down from above. Sixty one people died. One hundred and thirty five of the survivors were questioned by Anglican authorities. Twelve were hung for witchcraft. Nineteen spent the rest of their days 'buried alive' in the foul dungeons beneath The Tower. Dead little King Charles Cavalier Spaniels were everywhere.
I gathered up my fellows, my 'Brigands,' stole four horses from the elite Asgood stables and spirited them away to my own manor near by.
When next the sun went down again I showed them what I was.
The vampire, Jonathon stops....
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Jonathon ben Macabi a.k.a. Tomas de Macabea speaks --- I enjoy satire. Indeed, the very idea that vampires actually exist is a grand satire.... We magnify and focus every fault and strength of humanity. The very drama of our lives echoes the truth of yours.
But sometimes I like to laugh. This blend of comedy and satire lets me do that. Oh, I know we have Little Bastid Annie and Pin Head Mel and Horsey Skezzix ( did I spell it right? strange, after centuries the English language still trips me up... you know how much it relaxes me to fall into the old Mozarabic , Spanish - Arabic salsa of Al Andalus). Though the focus of this tale is me and I am not Pagliacci .....
Laughter amidst pathos is a very special thing. The vampirino known as 'Seymour' is an intriguing specimen. Where I have a 'family' of sorts... my beloved consort, Sarah, the , well, if I have to describe her, I'd say 'Beyoncé-like' Baylah.... Billy, our scrivener, 'Papa,'.... and the one who comes and goes, the vampirino who likes Dockers pants... O Jalla! I forget his name. But you know all the rest.
It seems Seymour has a circle of nearest and dearest too. He relies on them for support... a fish out of water... just like White Boy Rick.. I do so savor unusual situations. What night-folk wouldn't?...
Perhaps we of El Mundo Vampirido can learn from this newborn life-eater?... I suspect he is real, even if they claim he is not.
Many vampires crave attention, yet maintain that their truth is fiction.... Makes things oh so simple.... Like real magicians who claim to be merely illusionists. Mortals like it like that.
Now, permit me my pre-dawn ramble. I do so hate these short summer nights. Still, the air is hot and sultry. Stinks and scents and perfumes rise like mist.... a buffet, of sorts, arranged in the shadows of wee-hour Philadelphia... I sport trim, black jeans, a well tailored tee shirt (also black) and my signature (ditto the color) soft, leather bootkins. It's a good hair night too. I'm a vampire. It's always a good hair night. My long, dark, wavy tresses subtly dance in the breeze.
How I enjoy these Center City streets. The 'downtown' neighborhoods of Philadelphia are second in size and population only to Manhattan, but with a history, grace and attitude all our own. How glad I am The Lord Protector (William Penn) brought me here.
I whistle my song... The Teddy Bears' Picnic... When you go out on the streets tonight, you're in for a big surprise...
So happy I am to have discovered 'Seymour' and his 'familiars.'
Please click on the video up above and discover him too. Then tell your friends...
Hasta la proxima.....
<more of our usual tale next time>
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The vampirino known as either Tomas de Macabea or Jonathon ben Macabi speaks --- What shall I speak of? You know that Lawrence Edgerton saga (or the beginning of it) detailing Illuminati life in Regency England, was my idea. Billy had nothing to do with that one. I spoke. He typed. And all of it was true, yet it didn't pull you in. Still have hopes for that one. I will revisit it one night. Perhaps you will indulge me. Night-folk love to revisit the past, especially moderately long lived specimens, like me. While I possess not the multi-millennia of 'Papa,' a thousand years still makes a fine collection. My favorite era, as regulars know, is Restoration London. To my way of thinking, that was the first, purely 'modern' time in the world. The son of a former (beheaded) king reclaimed the throne and if that piece of furniture was a bit truncated by an ever more democratic populace, life within the royal circle was never merrier. We had monkeys in London. For the first time, they were all the rage. Small, quicksilver, chattering things dressed up like Tudor gentlemen. Each trained to doff his cap to a lady. I think all the semi-exposed bosoms tipped them off. They doffed their little caps with such rapidity during the candlelit balls at St. James, it was almost like an early form of air conditioning. I was Don Tomas de Macabea, grandee of Spain. That, as old friends know is my Catholic name. Jonathon ben Macabi is my Hebrew appellation. Vampires at the various European courts needed to pass as members of the majority faith. Muslim night-folk adopted patents of Sicilian nobility. Christians of Eastern Rites feigned Western orientation. Protestants passed as Catholic and those loyal to Rome played the part of Lutherans. That's how it was. The freest court was The Purple Throne of the Emperor-Sultan of the Ottomans, the New Byzantium and the Third Incarnation of Imperial Rome. Some of you via your explorations of this site know of the venerable palace school, where likely young vampires were trained to be functionaries and assassins to the royal house. Ah, Topkapi was quite the place, Muslim in faith, but as I see it now, largely western in the superficialities. All roads led to Istanbul. Dissenters were welcome there. Indeed, the House of Osman championed the Protestant and even the Jewish cause, seeing them as more attuned to their own Sunni denomination. Look, you've seen the Renaissance and Baroque paintings. Granted, the rulers wore turbans. But consider the paintings of western gentlemen. Many of them wore turbans, or turban-like head gear too. Such was the age. It stood for opulence. It stood for wealth. But if I told you the portraits of the Osman royals were renderings of English, or Holy Roman or French royals you'd believe me. The doublets were the same, as were the pantaloons, hose and foot gear. Henry the Eighth and his red headed daughter, what's her name, were pen pals with The Purple Throne, addressing each other as 'brother king' and 'sister queen' and all that. It's why they had so many coffee houses in Europe during those times. The Arabs discovered the drink in the Horn of Africa and brought it back to their territories. Turkish beys and pashas learned about it and soon there were coffee houses throughout Anatolia and the Balkans. Thus the world changes. Thus cultures grow. And I have seen a lot of adaptation. I had a little monkey, Jacque.... The English always gave their monkeys French names. The French gave theirs English names. We fed them exotic vegetables from the Isles of Scilly off the tip of Cornwall, Britain's only semi-tropical territory. Jacque drank wine, when I'd let him and even rode 'horseback' on a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. Everyone at court loved him. That's how I fell in with the Brigands, a group of fellows addicted to fine Aztec tobaccos and aromatic Turkish hashish. They also experimented with Tibetan magic of the tantric variety. Did they know I was a vampire? Not at first. But I was curious to see what this tantric knowledge might achieve, so I accompanied them on their evening sessions with a being as foreign to seventeenth century London, as denizens of Andromeda might be in my current city, Philadelphia, today. He was a Nepalese monk, studying at a Mumbai ashram when some British traders met him and he was just as curious about Europeans, as they were of him. So he agreed to sail with them, thus he reached England, where he quickly acquired a late night salon dedicated to the pursuit of all things arcane and mysterious. That was where I saw my first mortal sublimate... But Billy's tired and wants to go to sleep and I find typing quite tedious, So permit me to retire to my sleeping cabinet before the sun gets me.. Hasta la proxima y buenas dias. <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click CORNWALL ... for a one time sample subscription to Vampire Wonderland, allowing you to browse through a whole lot of episodes. if you like, subscribe for real. click DORSET ... to join me on Twitter. maybe leave a COMMENT? thank you.
Jonathon speaks - I enjoyed saving those two young men last time. Such acts enrich me. I feel it's why I came to be. And I've done similar things before and I remember them all. There was a time almost one hundred years ago, I visited a prison camp in Mississippi, a miserable collection of ticky tacky worn plank barracks and heavy, iron chains. The souls were shackled together at the ankle. They slept that way, every one on their back in hard, mean, little coffin-like beds, bitten by all manner of loathsome insects... greasy, unwashed faces in the night .... attached to a big chain running through each filthy nest... broken bulbs on a long line of Christmas lights. A 'trustee' sat on an old cane back chair, making sure nobody got 'antsy.' He didn't have a gun, being a prisoner himself and all, but they gave him a starter pistol. Somebody commence to dance around too much he just squeeze off a shot and guards come running. Trustees work two hour shifts. They sleep in the trustees' bunk. No ankle chains. They're like slaves to the guards, though. Some say chains would be better. You see, I like variety. Certain nights I just sublimate up into the air and see where it takes me. The ether moves faster than the actual air molecules you are used to. One night I went to Bermuda. Trips down south are easy. Got to hole up somewhere during the day, because I can't go there and back in one night. But vampires have a talent for finding hidey-holes. Every town has an old, boarded up 'haunted' house. Some days the place really is haunted... by me.... But this stories about that night at the prison camp. I'd pass through the flimsy walls just above bunk height. They call them 'bunks,' but there's only one level. Then I'd slide over my intended subject. I can tell who needs saving, always could. Don't make no noise. Prisoners sleep through anything. Road work tires them out real good. In the middle of the night the trustee rings a little bell and whispers - Piss pot. Piss pot. Who gotta use the piss pot? He has a hurricane lamp screwed into the wall right by his chair. Gives off a little light. Them what gotta pass water raise their hand. Trustee take 'em one or two at a time down the other end to use the piss pot. Got a rule ... if you twin-pissin' you keep your head down and follow your own stream. Nobody want the trustee to call the guards. Guards allowed to kill a prisoner. It say so in the book. They got a little instruction book. On page seven it say --- Y'all can kill a fella what get hisself all worked up. 'cause sometime that the only thing what work...... But you gotta have a good reason to write down in the 'reason' ledger, or Old Mister Big Man, the warden gonna fart in your face. That's what they call it --- fart in your face. ... Means he gonna do something to you, like fire your brother-in-law. Next time it happen, he fire you. Everybody got family 'round here. So I slide over fella I'm gonna help, put my arms around him, like we gonna dance and sublimate out through the wall. Them what's close to me gets carried along in my aura. Pass through anything what ain't lead.... When we outside, I do like I did with them two kids last night. I set 'em down out back of a nice shuttered general store and pass inside for some proper clothes. They tend to be awake by then and start asking questions. I motion for them to be quiet, 'cause I'm a guardian angel and The Lord don't want no trouble. Most cooperate, 'cause they like that bein' free part. Sometimes I bring out a soaking wet towel so they can clean up a little. Then, when they all dressed in new dungarees and work shirts, I slip off a ring, or something and say -- Here, you can pawn this.... They don't ask no questions. Figure we got lots a rings in Heaven. I can't tell you who I saved that night, 'cause he has children and grandchildren and they're real high level these days. Go to The Kentucky Derby and everything. Have a house in Dustin, Florida. Don't want no convict pop-pop, so I oblige them. Look how easy I slip into this Southern Talk. That's a vampire talent too. You see, we fit in real good..... <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click WHAT UP? ... for a sample Vampire Wonderland subscription. poke around a little. if you like, subscribe for real. click YES ... to join me on Twitter. maybe leave a COMMENT too?... thank you.
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Jonathon speaks -
The manipulation of reality can be a very iffy thing. Some adepts are, in a sense, natural illusionists. You might live in a crystal palace and spend your days amidst cool, bubbling fountains, surrounded by a lush, fragrant garden. Winged nymphs might flit through the air and the kitchens give forth the most succulent and savory delights. Celebrities and aristocrats glide through the pool like dolphins, as dead rock legends serenade. Yet after a time that varies with the practitioner it all begins to fade.... The film people disappear from 'round the pool... The savory delights seem markedly less succulent... And there's a nebulous cloud where the Louis XV salon used to be, that sometimes smells from rancid tuna fish.... Nebulous clouds become the norm. They fill the void. They fade away and there you are, just as you were before it all started.
That's what Pow Wow magic is like. Oh, a few of them can do better, but most conjure things of a transient nature, sometimes for a year and a day, sometimes for a flickering instant. Believe me. I'm familiar with all types of enchantment. Yes, I did panic when the Talks-To-God man first ensnared me. The initial sense of floating in nothingness was terrifying. 'Papa,' my creator, the one who brought me over and made me a vampirino is a virtuoso of nothingness conjuring. His favorite is an endless, perfectly flat and featureless, completely dark metallic plain... no sound... no light... no sensory input of any kind. The victim walks and walks and walks ... hoping for a change... praying for a change... but it never happens. They lie down. It's difficult to lie down and get comfortable on a hard, metallic plain with absolutely no 'give.' It's even more difficult to get up. Knee bones grind against bare metal.
'Papa's' magic never fades away. You see, he doesn't just manipulate perceptions of matter. He changes the basic truth of it. Sometimes he has pity and makes it stop. Other times he forgets. A few unfortunate victims have been suffering for millennia, unless they find a way to shatter their skulls against that hard eternal surface.
Though the Talks-To-God man was not that powerful. So, I pulled myself together (vampires can focus and more or less 'tighten' the atoms of our bodies) and saw through the illusion to the reality of his dimly lit cave. My eyes cleared. He noticed. I could see the surprise in his eyes. Then I wiggled my toes. He knew I no longer thought they were held fast in the clay floor. He knew I was free. I smiled and gestured for him to lean in. Talks-To-God was scared, but he did. I pulled him toward me and bit a nice, little schnitzel out of his right cheek. He screamed. How the blood poured. His molars were exposed. I spit the flesh into the small fire. Vampires only take 'live' circulating blood. He held his face and watched it sizzle.... Then I stepped passed him and slid down that narrow greasy tunnel into the death pit, splat, right into the mud. The two condemned young men shrieked and pressed back against the inward sloping walls. I dropped down from a hole up above. Place was shaped like a big, hollow, chocolate kiss. They couldn't tell what happened. The darkness down there was no illusion. It was real. Everything wet and warm... all clay and mud and big, slimy slugs. They didn't know what I was. Now I went into the Pines to rescue one of the young men.... 'Young men'..... Everybody says 'young men.' They were boys. I hate when the army calls some poor eighteen or nineteen year old kid, even the one's in their twenties 'men.' They're dead. They were kids and they're not supposed to be dead..... I clicked on this little ninety nine cent l.e.d. flashlight from the dollar store... They both shrieked again.... I said - Who's Fred?.... One said - Me. I'm Fred. I am.... He trembled. It was too warm down there to shiver.... I said - Your dad sent me to get you..... Take me too? - went the other one.... I go - All right. Get up. Stand up... No way I was going to leave him. I grab one in each arm, say - Close your eyes and hold on tight... Then I vaulted up and sublimated through the mud and rocks and dirt to the surface. When vampires sublimate the aura radiates out from our bodies. The boys would be safe. If I solidified in a grove of trees, they'd be dead. But I knew there was a clearing by the entrance... all pounded down dirt where Pineys and Red Paint People dance sometimes, so I angled up that way. Once our atoms all settled down the boys coughed and wheezed a bit, but that didn't last too long.... The one called Fred asked if I was a vampire. His dad was a 'familiar' of mine... handled money, investments and finances. Maybe his son heard something? I don't know.... I smiled and said - What do you think?..... He saw the fangs, but then he was OK. The other one never said a word... I went - Look, I'm going to sublimate again..... What's 'sublimate?' - asked Fred..... What we just did. Are you two all right with that?.....They nodded..... So WHOOSH, we were off again. I can sublimate through air molecules. It's like flying.... Took them to the roof of a Target store on the Black Horse Pike closed for the night. Told them to wait here, as if they were going to go somewhere. Then I sublimated through the roof and came back with a bag full of fresh clothes and underwear... even a pair of 'Chuckies' for each. I'm a good judge of shoe size. You know how particular I am about my trim leather bootkins?.... Gave them each a few twenties and called for an Uber to pick them up and take them back to Philadelphia. Guy met them at a little diner. Most cell phones get all screwed up after a couple sublimations, but Samsung, I think it is, makes a special one for the vampire trade. Works great.
It felt good to use my powers. I haven't really let go in a long time.....
Hey, I'm not 'Papa's' son for nothing.
Jonathon ben Macabi a.k.a. Tomas de Macabea says goodnight.....
<more to come>
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