Harken unto my words, oh best belov-eds, for I bring you tidings of our enduring friend, Jonathon (pronounced yo-nah-TAHN) ben Macabi (pronounced ma-CAH-bi), one vahmpeer, late of your American Philadelphia, but now abroad on Hah Adon's (The Lord's) Highway. He goes to 'heal the world' and right wrongs and all that... A knight errant, with fangs instead of knives and an abiding magic more potent than Old, Yemeni cava (coffee). On the night before he left, our faithful one slipped into the darkened sanctuary(save for the warm russet glow of the 'nair tameet' (light eternal)) in a venerable, beit k'nesset (meeting house)) and silently danced up and down the central aisle and all about the bima (beemah -- Table of The Book), as he prayed. The little angel guarding that House of The Book, for all consecrated places of prayer and introspection have guardian angels, said he sang. In a still, small voice, he sang. Our reverent vahmpeer gave voice to a collection of old hymns and cantorials first heard in Toledo, Granada and Sevilla many centuries ago.... Who am I, that a heavenly messenger should address me? I am Zebulon, a well known disembodied spirit narrator of this tale... the ghost of a thirteen year old Judean boy stoned to death during the reign of the last Hasmonean king, either John Hyrcannus II or Aristobolus the whatever. ... Family records indicate that Jonathon hails from that line. Believers never lie about such things. For kings are raised up by The Lord and he who bears false witness to The Divinity fears The Resurrection for obvious reasons. But I know God is merciful and although I was stoned for consorting with Assyrian Witches, I fear not The Day. For He who saved The unobservant Children of Israel from the flesh pots of Egypt with compassion and grace seeks not the eternal banishment of a curious young Jerusalemite. So I have taken it upon myself to accompany our hero and relate the parts he does not tell in his own voice. At times our story may be told by an unnamed voice much greater than I. You know who I mean... No, not God, but Metatron, the Angel of angels, the chancellor of Heaven. He must like books, for he narrates so many of them. Perhaps he curates the libraries on High? When next the dark time comes again, we go to your national capital, the City of Washington. He seeks to play conscience to the president. He seeks to pierce the royal bedchamber and waken your ruler from his sleep. The vahmpeer, Jonathon, knows how to convince even the most hardened and ignorant of souls. Failing that, he'll bring him 'over.' How can a vampire function as president of a great land, such as yours?...What would they say? How could they explain it? ... 'Oh, he likes to sleep in. You know how it is?'..... Hardly.
So for a while we shall be vagabonds... hiding in the modern equivalent of root cellars and..... well, more root cellars. Jonathon doesn't like mausoleums. '... Attend to the living. Let the dead take care of the dead' and all that. It's a very Hebrew thing. God does His thing and we ( all right. I'm no longer in the flesh, but you know what I mean) do ours. In the physical world, our hands are His hands.
Now permit me to prepare myself for what is to come. True, I pack no 'things,' but thoughts and dreams and memories are 'things' too.
Don't I talk nice for a thirteen year old? ... I think I do.
Peace. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click ACROSS THE DIVIDE .... to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland. Then, when you get there, please also click on the 'subscribe' rectangle in the upper right part of the screen. Feedreader OnLine changed things. . thank you. click LISTEN TO THIS .... to join me on Twitter. maybe consider leaving a comment. I appreciate your support.
Sometimes our special angel would leave his post at The Alt-Neu Schule and pass through the town. There were other angels there. Some promised to 'God Houses' as he was and free lancers delivering 'letters' from The Lord' or just seeing the sights. Baroque era Prague was a very happening place. One saw beys and pashas on errands from Constantinople. Rome is forever, you know. Whether the empire is ruled by imperators or basileuses or sultans, the realm never ends. One saw German speaking merchants from the city-states to the west and Muscovite boyars from their own nascent empire in the cold plains and forests to the east. The whole world came to this city of spires and towers. Chimes and church bells filled the air with music. Matrons hurried home forcing troublesome geese into large, wicker goose-baskets. Neck wringing happens later. One gander saw him, the angel, I mean, and yelled - Angel! Angel! Save me! Save me!..... The angel said - Alas, that I cannot do. But I bring you tidings from a Better Place and know this, as your flesh goes in the oven, the core of your being will glide 'cross a Heavenly Pond with all your kith and kin..... ALL of them? - asked the gander.... No, just the dead ones - said the angel. I got that part wrong..... Well, that's good enough for me! - went the gander and he stopped trying to bite the fat matron's hands. Animals believe with a sincere and perfect faith. And when it was time for the matron to wring his neck and crush the bones, she did it in an efficient, practiced manner with a minimum of suffering.
Our Angel walked home, following two gentlemen from his congregation. That's how he knew it was time to return, for the gates to the ghetto were locked from the outside at sundown. Such barriers were nothing to him. He could pass through walls, floors, ceilings, root cellars, locked chests, just about everything, but the congregants, if caught outside would have been very roughly handled indeed. Split noses and severed fingers were a specialty in those parts.
A bit later, during evening service, the angel looked at the people at prayer. Almost each had a dream... a deep desire either for themselves, another, or the great wide world. And he thought about the people on the other side of the gates too, for they also had dreams.
Some prayers were answered. The book seller's daughter found a fine husband and the vintner's widow, severely short of funds and reluctant to burden the community, discovered ten lost bottles of a rare and costly Alsatian vintage eagerly snapped up by the captain of the guard (he guarded the ghetto) for a price mutually beneficial to both of them.
But the cantor's little boy could still barely walk and Mr. Amshel's lungs grew worse. And they weren't the only ones.
The angel thought - Who am I to ask for flight when the world is as it is?
Later that night, when prayers were over, the angel passed into the old library, took a book from the shelves and sat down to read, accompanied by the soft tick-tock sound of an old wall clock brought back from a synod in Speyer. He needed no light. Angels, when need be, can give off their own illumination, sometimes white, sometimes cream, sometimes a pale, pure blue.
One passage stayed with him --- Every misfortune that we observe is an opportunity for a good deed.
Now angels instinctively know that, but even they forget...
<more next time and hopefully 'next time' means tomorrow>
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And the stork mother and her mate raised their chicks in the nest atop the Alt-Neu Schule. Summer came. The waters of the Vltava River grew silvery-warm under a bright Czech sun and the red tiled roofs of the city shone like candy.
The flightless angels sat by the great birds. He watched their graceful movements and smiled at the hungry, downy babies. They were good babies and they had good avian parents.
He sang songs to them, the angel did... old hymns and folk tunes played at weddings. He told them stories of each and every person passing on the street below. They knew the baker's wife and the silversmith, the old clothes man and the other rabbi from the other schule down the way.
The angel from that other schule would come to visit. He'd float down onto the shingles, fold his wings ( he was a winged angel... not all are... but that doesn't mean they cannot fly) and tell tales about all the places he'd seen. He told about caravans along The Great Silk Road and reverent crocodiles tolling their prayers, as they waited for sustenance ( who may or may not have also been reverent) to drift their way. The storks listened and told tales of their own. Storks see many places too.
This mad our angel sad. He grew silent. The mother stork knew why and said - Your time will come. I will keep my promise and you will fly, for I will bear you up...
But our story will not end this time. You see, the teller stayed up too late watching news of Paris and the tragic things that happened there.
So let him rest and rise refreshed to spin the tale anew.
<more next time>
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Far away, in the picture-book city of Prague, stands an old enduring Gothic house of prayer. Travelers and townspeople know it as The Alt-Neu Schule... the old-new 'schule.' Schule means school. Centuries ago synagogues in Central Europe were called that, for that's where the faithful went to learn the faith. The interior looks like what you'd find in a rustic Quaker Meeting House, though it dates from the mid twelve hundreds, four centuries prior to the founding of that creed. Like prayer houses everywhere, it has an angel. Some chapels have grand angels with silvery wings and fine, shining robes spun from sun beams, moon beams and the occasional leftovers from fleecy, white clouds. They whisper in the ears of the congregants, reminding each one that they are God's Hands on Earth. Sometimes the rouse sleepers. Sometimes they let them sleep. After services, after the morning call, the afternoon call and evening call, the angels flew free to visit other heavenly messengers all around the world. They sang hymns in the ornate temples of India and inspired monks on windy, Celtic shores to create vivid, illuminated texts. But the angel of The Alt-Neu Schule could not do that, for he had no wings, nor any other way to fly. During the quiet times he watched the rabbi study and whispered ideas for sermons. Did the rabbi know they came from him? Well, not directly, but he certainly felt the inspiration. On clear, cold nights, he'd pass through the timbers and shingles and sit on the pinnacle of the high, sloped roof watching the stars. Sometime another angel would pass over head. He'd say - How go your travels?.... They'd tell him of old, wood churches in Norway that creaked in the wind and the ornate calligraphy of blue domed, Turkish mosques. They spoke of enduring synagogues bright with intricate mosaics and pious little children with good hearts, lost in their dreams and studies. But the little angel still could not fly. And so the centuries passed. He sat with the children as they prepared for their Assumption of The Faith (bar mitzvah), whispering scripture in their ears so that they could remember. One spring, storks came to The Alt-Neu Schule and made their home on the roof. He watched them build the nest. How careful they were... How precise. They knew he was there. Animals are good that way. They just are. And how like dancers they were. Such graceful beings. Our little angel sat with them. The mother let him see her eggs. How smooth and white they were. The father whoomt his great wings and soared off to find food, both for himself and his mate. When he came back, the mother had her turn. Prague was new to them. They're usual nesting site was in a country town a bit farther south. So she glided over the city, marveling at the red tiled roofs and intricate clock towers. The angel watched their comings and goings. He wanted to fly so bad. Why was he flightless?... Who knows? No one ever told him. One night, after the city was quiet, save for fussy babies crying here and there, or maybe barks from an agitated dog, he went up to the roof and sat by the nest. The majestic birds were sleeping... a yin and a yang over their trusting eggs. But the mother felt his presence (she's always on guard) and opened her eyes.... She saw him there and whispered - Tell me your dreams, angel..... He said - You know. I do so want to fly..... She said - Are you a good angel?..... He nodded.... She said - I knew that..... They sat in silence watching strangely bright clouds pass over an ivory-white moon. Spring nights can be like that.... Then the stork mother said - One day, you shall have wings.... How? - asked the angel.... She said - One day my earthly life will be over and I shall come back and bear you on my spirit wings. Then she fell back asleep. The angel sat and thought, before going back inside to sit in The Sanctuary and stare at The Eternal Light..... < the conclusion comes tomorrow night. then back to newborn vampire, Danny and his problems> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click - SOAR ... to see more Vampire Wonderland... click - LE GRAND ALLIANCE ... to join me and everybody else on Twitter. please leave a comment. if you're willing to help, please tell people about me. always only one click (tonight we use the word SOAR) away from every episode. thank you.
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