And the little angel forgot about attaining flight for a while. He'd sit on the roof of The Alt-Neu Schule in the midst of Prague (Josefov district, if you know it.. where they made the Jews live), studying people down on the street. He whispered in ears, telling them things that might help them. He told Mrs. Grossman that willow bark (aspirin hadn't been invented yet) would help her arthritis. He told Yankel the Lame to buy that art set and paint. He told Lana from Above The Butcher Shop to marry Nathan and not Eitan. They didn't know who was saying these things. Angels don't announce themselves. Well, not all the time. And every message was channeled through him by an even Higher Authority. He whispered things to people from beyond the district too, for during the day, when the gates were opened, people from all over passed through the ghetto. He told a hardworking farmwife where to place her market stall. He told a barrister fearful for the life of his client what to say and who to seek out so that his client might go free. The angel attended services, comforting those who mourned. Sometimes he told rich men to help poor, struggling cobblers. He did what angels do and he did it well. Occasionally a little child would wave to him. He'd wave back and go 'shh.' They'd smile and nod. Winter came. The cobbled lanes grew cold and icy. People wrapped themselves in whatever they had... layers of shawls... old felt boot liners... cloaks.... worn,. cast off, military great coats.... wool caps, sometimes a coachman's hat. Days were short and sunlight hid from the narrow streets of the quarter. Wives kept old copper tea kettles boiling on the grate for endless cups of warmth. Little boys read school books by the fire and little girls rocked babies and embroidered whatever the mama told them to embroider. Market stalls opened early and closed early too, for streetlights were few and far between. Mostly the women went out to work the stalls. December was coming and ruffians from beyond the quarter were less apt to gang up and molest older matrons than young girls or men. Tragedies were rare, but they did happen. The little angel sat on his rooftop and looked at the stars. Some of the grander heavenly guardians and messengers, Seraphim and Arch Angels and beings of that sort, occasionally flew out to the stars and told tales of exotic worlds that raced 'round foreign suns like moths 'round a flame. But our little being knew nothing of that. Soon it would be time for him to walk the walls of the ghetto, paying special attention to the gates, whispering to vandals and telling them to mind their better side and leave the world in peace. Then he visited those with troubled dreams and helped them find peace too. Time passed. Years went by. Generations. The 'life' of an angel is one of service. He never complained. He never would. But one year a sweet little girl... a light to all around her... passed away. Although he knew she was safe, the people of the quarter were broken and few lit candles or made provisions for the Festival of The Rededication... for The Hanukah. December was exceptionally cold that year. The angel spent nights in the sanctuary staring at the small, steadfast, Eternal Flame...Then, on Seventh Light (though few observed, or at least failed to make a big thing over it) there was a knock at the rabbi's house next door. Few came by at that hour, so the angel passed through the wall to listen.... It was Beryl the Barrel Maker. He said - Rabbi, the lights in the sky, have you seen the lights in the sky?..... The rabbi said - At this hour and on a cold night like this? No, I do not watch the sky.... Oh, I am of a similar mind - said the barrel maker, but Greenie, my cat (she has such vivid eyes you know) wanted to come in. So I unlatched the door and went out into my tiny rear yard. Rabbi, I saw. I saw them. High overhead they were. A straight line of silver lights, each in the form of a flame and slowly descending from heaven to earth.... The old clergyman thought for a bit. Beryl said - Come, rabbi. Let us go out into your rear yard ( a similar tiny space like the barrel maker's).... So they went and they looked. The angel went with them. And there in the firmament were eight tiny glittering flames, arranged in measured precision, as if held in a great invisible, celestial menorah. One for each night plus the 'sexton' used to kindle the rest. Each of them stared transfixed, as the wondrous spectacle slowly moved down the sky.
In those days, few would have known they'd witnessed the break up of a small comet, or asteroid. Perhaps a learned man from some venerable academy might. Who know? And as he watched, so slowly he did not notice, the angel rose up from the ground, till the roofs of the ghetto shined in the moonlight below him.
Was he afraid? No, for he heard the voice of his stork-mother friend from long ago. She'd flown to The World To Come and just as she said, had come back to share her wings. Spirit storks can do that. The angel, flightless for so long, was quite pleased. But as he was such a caring being, he asked after the sweet, little girl who passed on and the words of the stork were very reassuring indeed. News of the 'menorah in the sky' quickly spread, till many people came out to see it. On Eighth Light they had a celebration with crisp edged, piping hot potato pancakes, sweet applesauce, nuts and small gifts for the children, plus dreydles and games ands songs. That's how it is. That's how miracles happen. Life goes on, both here on earth and 'up above' as well. No matter how you observe The Season Of Miracles, have a good one. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click - LIGHTS ... to see more Vampire Wonderland.... click - FRIENDS ... to join me on Twitter... please leave comments. thank you.
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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He built a little fire out of moss, or something that looked like moss. It smelled nice, like ambergris and musk, tinged with an unknown green scent that had a certain narcotic quality. The young ones fell asleep. His females quietly retreated back into the shadows and watched. There were other males in the lodge, but they were obviously betas, furtive beasts, just as imposing as their leader, though of quite different dispositions.... Three males... Two females... Maybe five or six children. All with the same gray pelts. The human female, the one called Shimmy Kate, studied them, as she sat hunched against the rough, thatch, igloo-like wall. A surreal scene, as might have played out in paleolithic times, save all of the tribesmen were werewolves. Their prisoner/guest stared at the tiny fire, seemingly hypnotized by the orange glow. And the 'king' studied her. She was right. He knew it. She was right. All was quiet. One or two of the young ones stirred as they slept, but that was it. And then the 'king' began to speak. He sat where he was and he spoke. He said - We have souls. We have hearts. We know pain. Think not that we are monsters. Fear not for your life. Are you scared?...... The one called Shimmy Kate shook her head, for she was not scared. Perhaps it was the slowly burning narcotic herb, or maybe just the quiet peace about her, but she was not. He nodded and went on - They came from a different place and they changed us, taking essence of man and essence of beast. And we are still a new thing, for that was only ten generations past. Frenchman we were and Creoles and Spaniards.... those you call 'Indians' too. The settlement on the river was new then, filled with long, low dwellings and shuttered windows to keep out the heat. Dark skinned captives from a strange, exotic place spoke of 'old gods,' and so we learned the voo-doo. Spirits, rather curious spirits came to watch. They sailed in ghostly orbs... in ships made of light. We asked questions. Occasionally they answered. But we were clay to them, the same as Adam and so they made new things. Don't ask me how they did it. Such alchemy I do not know. They took different things, alien things. They worked miracles. And mothers brought forth wolflings. And she-wolves brought forth men..... One of the females began to moan and keen, obviously remembering an old sadness. He crawled over to comfort her and she kissed him. Shimmy Kate found her voice and said - Please, I want to leave.... Her host said - And how will you elude the bloodhounds? They who have guns lead them and they already come this way....... H-how do you know that? - she asked. The wolfman simply sniffed the air and smiled. They left with the first light of dawn, silently snaking through the bayou toward another place, deep within a cave, beyond a little hidden waterfall, where trackers could not find them. And Shimmy Kate went with them, a lost, skinny white girl amid a stream of gray. Breeding stock. That's what she was. Breeding stock. But she didn't know that yet... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ find more of this and other stories too. click on ~>PARANORMAL TALES ... join me on Twitter. click on ~> @wilkravitz ... please leave a COMMENT. thank you.
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