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It is I Jonathon and tonight I'd like to explain why you haven't seen me much these last few moons... maybe it's been more like years? Who knows? Night-folk don't count days. We count heartbeats and raindrops and moonbeams. We count clouds sailing 'cross the stars and solitary souls crying in the night. I sit in the 'little library,' my favorite room, and I think. I think abut the small ghost boy who used to keep me company... the little polio victim. But he's moved on and our townhouse is poorer for it.. I think about all of them, mortal and night-folk. They're not so different. Each is a soul destined to glide 'round this Earth for a time and then pass on to somewhere else. For some the passing is peaceful. They drift off in bed surrounded by their loved ones. Others die alone in dark cold shadows chilled by the rain, but secure in God's love. I talk a lot about God. I'm sure there are those who think that's odd for a vampire. To that, I must answer - They don't know vampires.... We are not all the same, just as mortals are not all the same... Please permit me to let it go at that.
It's dark but I can see between the the deep green, velvet draperies that blanket the bay window. There's a streetlight a little way down the square. I say 'square' instead of 'block,'.... an affectation of the seventeenth and eighteenth century... from Penn's time... and a lifetime or two later, Franklin's. A thin, pure, narrow, pearly blade of light cuts into the room., slicing through the mullioned panes, on through the upholstered window seat and through the old rich hardwood. It bisects the dense, wool 'Turkey' rug, the tip of my fine, black, leather bootkin, my left leg, including the like portion of my torso, shoulder and arm... And I sit and I contemplate...
Billy, the mortal who coordinates this tale for us, had a health scare. Not his soul. His soul was never threatened, just his body. He hates seeing physicians, but I make him. I insist. Oh, I could cure any earthly malady with a few drops of my blood... but he wouldn't have it. Nothing against night-folk. I realize that. It's simply his way... Thus the doctors... I made the necessary appointments, or rather a trusted 'familiar' (devoted mortal assistant) did and he went.... They took blood, in a far less subtle way than I ever would. They poked and prodded and made enlightened observations, or rather a certain singular 'general practitioner' did... The others came later, as did a whole subsequent series of blood tests, urine samples, cardiograms and sonic images of strategic internal organs... Then, after almost microscopic snippets of livery prostate tissue, plus a quick little bladder scan guaranteed to cause blood tinged orange-red urine for at least seventy two hours (Billy slept through the tissue harvesting and bladder scoping) they pronounced him 'fine.' or the closest they ever come to saying fine. As his 'guardian vampire' (well, what else am I?) I am exceedingly grateful to relieved.
I love mortals... and not just as a food source. For I help many more than I cull... Edith, our mortal 'witchy woman' housekeeper says I see them as my own special ant colony. When she shares that I give her a bemused look and add - But I and the ants are different species. Mortal, I am not, but 'human' I am. Observe my body and the form of my being. A sea slug I am not.
--- Then he lapses into silence.... a homeless gentleman who does his best to hide that fact walks down the street, head down and lost in thought... sniff sniff sniff.... our vampire friend, Jonathon, picks up his scent... He sublimates his hand through the mullioned panes and carefully places a stack of five vintage silver dollars (each worth about forty times their face value) on the external brick sill... a magical bit of streetlamp illumination makes them glisten just so. The pathetically self conscious 'little tramp' allows his gaze to rise and sees them. He silently approaches pockets the treasure and continues... Jonathon watches through the slit between the draperies and smiles. It's a thing he does, placing stacks of sparkling, mint condition, antique silver dollars where the 'little tramp' will find them. He does the like for others too. Once in a while he slips in a truly valuable fifteenth century golden Venetian ducat. Through discreet mental imagery, each recipient knows the address of a fine, old basement level coin brokerage on Samson Street, in a way, Philadelphia's answer to Diagon Alley. The lucre is redeemed for a very fair price and a little bit of goodness seeps out into the world...
Our vampire, Jonathon, falls back onto the music, quietly playing on an small turntable in the darkness.... He mouths the words and sighs.... Billy has a good friend indeed...
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