The Book of Sarah

The Pow Wow Woman spoke first. She said - The small one's name is Annie. At least that's the name she has now. She is what Pow Wow people would call a lucid wanderer. I can see her in your mind and I know. Please permit me to relate the rest of our discussion as if it were a play. That will make things easier. TOMAS - What is a lucid wanderer? POW WOW WOMAN - It means she has never been dead. She, or that which inhabits her, has never been divorced from the world of the living. As soon as it dies in one incarnation it is born into another. BAYLAH - How long has this been going on? POW WOW WOMAN - I don't know. I can't tell. But something happened to it the first time out. TOMAS - And? POW WOW WOMAN - She's been a vessel for the Enemy ever since. SARAH - Is she the only one? BAYLAH - No. I can tell you that. I saw a man. I'm sure I saw a man. I think he was the same one who set the dogs on that 'foreign' vampire a few weeks ago. What can you tell us about him? P:OW WOW WOMAN - I don't know. I'm not typing him as a lucid wsanderer. I think he's just a regular person who's been commandeered by some presence. I don't know. That's all I can tell you. BOB - What are you? Who are you? Just what is a POW WOW  person?

the Book of Sarah

I saw the Enemy take a victim. I witnessed the whole thing. It happened while I was making my way across the rooftops of an especially old district of the city. The streets are very narrow there. They were laid out threehundred years ago, when even coaches were a rarity. I stopped. I heard a noise. I looked down into a small, brick courtyard four stories below. It was not a well kept, gentrified space, like most of the others, but was neglected and trash strewn. I suppose the yuppies, or whatever they call themselves these days had not discovered it yet. There was a man. He was on his knees and he was pleading for his life. A person stepped out of the shadows to confront him. It was a girl. It was a little girl. She was dressed in  a plaid jumper, a grade school uniform. And she just stood there looking down at him. This went on for perhaps two or three minutes. He stopped to choke back some tears and catch his breath. The words he said are not important. What does anyone say when begging for existence? The peculiar child was having none of it. She waited for him to stop. He sniffed. He trembled. He even peed himself a bit. I could see the puddle spreading out around his knees. But his diminuative tormentor was quite unmoved. She snapped her fingers. It seemed odd to see a small child do that. Most of them are incapable of such a move. But she had no trouble and in an instant six menacing hounds silently came out of the shadows and arranged themselves around the still, silent victim. He whispered one more word - Please. But the young one ignored him. She snapped her fingers again and the dogs were on him. It all happened in a strange, dark silence. I could hear him whimper. I could hear the dogs expertly tearing off bits of his flesh. They were delft and neat, like canine surgeons. Their tiny mistress just stood there, never so much as moving a muscle. I could see the blood. I could smell the blood. I could taste the blood. But he was not my intended victim. No, he apparently belonged to other captors. But I stayed there. And I watched until it was done. Now this was late, very late. Most of the district was fast asleep. But the odd traffic noise still came through. I heard a jet, as it etched a line into the blackness high above. The victim must have heard these noises as well. To be so isolated and helpless, while all around the city still goes on. And then he was dead, a heap of bones and gore on a red stained patch of concrete in a not-yet-gentrified yard. The little girl picked up the remains and put them in a large, plastic trash bag. Then she turned on a hose and washed the rest away. Her hounds watched soundlessly, as they contimued to lick their chops. I am sure she saw or sensed that I was up there. One or two of the dogs seemed to sense me as well. But nothing happened. It just was not my turn. They left me alone. The little girl stepped back into the shadows and I went home. We all made it home safely . That night was all right. But there was a large, viscous puddle of dog piss spreading out on the sidewalk at the entrance to our building. And I seemed to recognise the scent......... Now please know that time does not unfold for me as it does for you. I view the passing of the 'great parade' rather differently. Perhaps it is because of my age. Sometimes I think that when I sublimate I stumble through to other realities, what learned individuals of your generation call a 'parallel universe'.  Thus I am not always sure if events are unfolding now, or on some other point in space and time. But it could be that this explanation  is just an attempt to lessen our fear. Things happen. They just happen. It could be that we will never know why.

The Book of Sarah

We settled in. Sarah kept vampire's hours. She had a room, a very nice room with a view of the Rittenhouse Square Park and everything. But she chose to stay with me. The Old Woman made her own schedule. She was there when we awoke, but was sawing wood (and could she ever saw wood) by the time we retreated to our cabinets just before dawn. When it came to the Pow Wow Woman, I don't think she ever slept. She would sink into these trances. They lasted for approximately twenty minutes and seemed to replenish her. And she knew things. She said she could wander through someone's mind like a wide-eyed child exploring a dusty, cluttered attic. It made no difference to her if the mind in question was mortal, vampiric or something else altogether. She did not care. I would ask her questions and she would answer me, uncovering locked, cold memories wedged in dark and undisturbed corners. I rediscovered a beloved Saluki, a noble hunting breed somewhat like an Afgan Hound. We had him when I was a youth, just before the time of my metamorphosis, just before I shed my skin. His name was Malik (mah-LEEK). It means prince. He was supposed to sleep in the kennels out behind the stables with the rest of the pack. But Malik was different. He was a pet. And he slept with me. The Pow Wow Woman visualized him perfectly. And I could feel his warm, soft breath and the solid weight of his trusting body next to me. She also found my time in Thrace at the court of Suleiman The Great, Sultan of The Ottoman Empire and one of the greatest kings in Europe. Oh, but how we lived back then. I'm told the rich and nuainced cuisine was quite exquisite.But other things had flavor for me too. The weighty, silk brocades. The polished, marble floors. I had a chest filled with peerless, Kashmiri gemstones. But one night, on a whim, I gave it to a beggar out by the hippodrome. He went on to found an international banking dynasty. It is still with us in the world today. And then there was Kadeesha, my alabaster Circassian princess. How I did love her. But she backed an attempt (by the hated vizier) to take over The Topkapi Palace. Now she is a mollusk encrusted rock at the bottom of The Bosphorus. They threw her into a seam of molten lava. Here's a bit of advice... Don't mess with the king. It's odd. How could I have forgotten that time? It was over forty years of my life. True, I too was almost destroyed. They wanted to grind me into a paste between  two, monstrously huge mill stones attributed to some long dead local cyclops. Wouldn't that have been a show? You see, they suspected me of sorcery. My Dorian Grey-like eternal youth troubled them. But what can I tell you. The rest  of it was good. The rest of it was all good..................... Oooh! About that floor covering person! He came by. But a completely new surface would have required up to two weeks time. And he was not a 'familiar'. He was not in the least used to vampires. He did not know a thing. So how could we have managed that? No, we made due with a light buffing and resealing of the original oak flooring. The results were quite pleasing. It reminded me of the upper-crust country manors I used to frequent during my British years........... Now to the meat of the matter. When we first moved in, we stayed in the penthouse for a few weeks, until it was time for our monthly feedings. Even Sarah did not go out. The Old Woman did not go out as well. The Pow Wow Woman claimed she did not go out either. But I am sure she was able to project her soul out of her body, so who knows what to think? The Enemy did know we were back in the city. They could conjour visions of us. But they did not know exactly where we were. And none of us wanted to provide them with any clues. We were momentarily safe. We were left alone, as they busied themselves with weaker prey. I believe prostitutes were a particular favorite of theirs. Still, there was one day when the floor sanders were there. The immortals among us were snug in our beds behind stout, locked doors. But Bob had a dream. He called out in his sleep. He screamed. He produced a sound not like a human sound. Not just louder, for it was not simply louder, but more piercing. And one of the sanders noticed it. The Old Woman was watching him. He did not say a word. But he bent down and scooped up a small sample of sawdust, which he carefully sprinkled into his handkerchief  before stuffing it into his pocket. A fortnight later, when we went out to take our predetermined meals, they were there and they were waiting. The sky was strange that night. The stars were colder. The clouds more torn and vivid. How were they so white? From whence came the light? And there were noises, such strange, sad noises. Sounds like whispers. They seemed to eminate from the very stones and cobbles. I could make out my name, my true name. Each of us heard his own true name. But since Bob could not remember his own true name, he did not think they were talking to him. I have no rational explanation for that. It is just how his mind worked. Perhaps he was better off?

The Book of Sarah

We walked. We walked back to Philadelphia, to a new existence in our new tabernacle in the sky. I led the way. Sarah, Bob, Baylah and a Pow Wow woman named Rachel followed. She was the one who claimed to have a vampire Indian in her lineage. I sustained the two weak mortals with small infusions of my blood. The journey took about three nights. We could not travel by daylight for obvious reasons. The first day, we slept in a forgotten, old mine. On the second day, we found shelter in an abandoned chamber built to contain a sweet water, underground spring. It was a 'mikvah', or baptismal pool used by a late nineteenth century Orthodox Hebrew meeting house (synagogue means 'meeting house' after all). Central and southern New Jersey had a few such congregations comprised of poor, but industrious farmers and chicken ranchers. The people drifted off to the vast cities of the eastern seaboard long ago. But the blessed  water survived. The clean spring still ran true, a trickling, holy presence as we slept. And in the gloaming, when we awoke, I went down the rough, stone steps to bathe in its water. Sarah came with me. After a few moments, the others did too. We were preparing for a battle and we knew it. If this righteous ablusion could give us any help, so be it.. And with the setting of the sun, on the third night, we crossed the bridge and entered The City of Brotherly Love. Considering our rather frayed, woodland appearence, we could not rise up to our new abode, but instead found refuge with my homeless friends in their shadowy tunnels deep beneath the throbbing heart of Chinatown. I summoned an especially well connected 'familiar' of mine, a certain high profiled sports agent. No, not via the spirit, but through a stylish, little cell phone borrowed from one of my underground devotees. The 'mole people' do keep up. He arranged for us to shower and change into clean, stylish attire, in a shuttered, off season basketball clubhouse. When we were all presentable, when we once again looked 'human' , he ran us into Center City. We went up to the penthouse. Thank God it had its own private elevator. After 'oohing' and 'aahing' over the stellar views and peerless surroundings, the six of us settled in and took our ease among the tastful artwork and fine furnishings. The vampires among us, namely everyone save Sarah, that Pow Wow person and The Old Woman, had commodious accommodations fitted out with plush, nest-like sleeping cabinets, safe, dark, private places to dream away the day and hide from the desiccating light. They even came equipped with small, built-in, flat panel TV's hooked up to DVD players so we could take in our favorite programs. I don't know what the others watched. We had a library. But I stuck with my Andy Griffith Show classics. I find them to be spiritually  comforting. Yet that day, Aunt Bea seemed to gaze at me with a threatening look in her eyes. I saw hatred. I saw the feral face of our enemy. And it wasn't just her... Otis too. Bob watched Happy Days and apparently Fonzie gave him no such problems. Baylah didn't watch anything. She just went to sleep. Look, whatever comes, we will just have to face it, along with that guy from the floor covering place who's due here after sundown. Bamboo or cherry? Cherry or bamboo? What the hell do I care. I was born in Spain and we tend to go for the tile. But would the others ever listen to me? You get the tile. You throw on a few thick orientals and you're set. That's how my mother did it. And she came from class, let me tell you. Perhaps I will retreat to those times for a bit. Perhaps I will once again walk across the cool tiles of my youth. Why not, my dreams are very real.

The Book of Sarah

They had this little sub-basement.They called it the root cellar. It was a hidey hole left over from Prohibition, but seeing as this crew were still moonshiners (a venerable profession in these parts), Prohibition was still in force. We slept down there, Sarah and I, I mean. It was perfect and actually quite like the pit in my late, lamented townhouse. Sarah could have kept the hours of our benefactors, but out of loyalty to me, she chose to keep my peculiar schedule. And in the time we spent together I dreamed... And I shared those dreams with her. She saw the warm, golden plains of my homeland, the faces of my loving family and the teeth of the being who made me. We drifted through the palaces of old India and joined in the wild, peasant dances of ancient Muscovy. She lived within my skin as I culled each wicked victim. She felt it all and never once did she flinch. During the night, we sat with the Piney folk and we talked. They asked questions and I answered. One of the senior Pow Wow women, who claimed to have a vampire or two in her own family, asked me why I was so afraid of The Enemy. She wanted to know why I couldn't sublimate through any. human vessel he might sent to confront me. I asked her how she knew about the sublimation. She said that she had a 'life eater' in her family, a Native American, a plains indian , who told stories of flying on the 'smoke wind' and she wanted to know if I thought it was the same as sublimation. I told her I was sure they were one and the same. She asked me how come I was so concerned, seeing as I possessed a tool as potent as that. I explained about the magical serendipity we of the darktime encounter every night. The powers are rarely constant. They change. They fluctuate, like sun spots, or freckles on the face of a child. I told her how that which could save a 'life' could also destroy it. And I think she understood. They asked me about Sarah, how we were bound together and why she stayed with me. Sarah squeezed my hand as I responded and I was glad to have her near me. For as I shared our truth with the forest folk, I was also sharing it with myself. We would always be together. I am not sure what form our union might take, but I know that it is real. From what I can taste of Sarah's soul, she feels the same way too. And those nights 'round the fire were pleasant. Quiet talk. Coppery light. And mellow tunes on old banjos. I think Bob could have remained with them forever, a sylvan 'windago' haunting the thickets and taking the occasional 'meal' or two. But Baylah was impatient to get back. She had things to do in the city. Halloween was approaching and she was a major subscriber to the annual, charity ball. The Enemy? She would face him in her own way. And as I've already stated, she was something of a fatalist. If it was her time, it was her time. But I viewed things quite differently, especially since finding Sarah. and I wanted our time to go on. One night, just as we climbed up out of the root cellar, our guardians told us we had a visitor. It was the Old Woman. She found us. She used her own powers. Strange powers. Old powers. Powers that have little to do with vampirism, but rise from the spiritual birth of humanity. Most mortals fear these abilities and ignore them. But she did not and so she was there. Her clothing was torn to shreads and she seemed to be a bit older. Her usually neat silver-white hair was knotted and matted. And her voice was dry and weak. How did you get here? - I asked. She said that she walked, because it would arouse less notice and it was easier to elude The Enemy that way. She said that she had removed a gemstone or two from a certain safe deposit box and with the help of a dedicated 'familiar', translated the glittering valuables into a new bastion in the sky. We were now the proud owners of a three thousand square foot, pre-War penthouse in the Rittenhouse Square district of Center City (our Manhattan) Philadelphia. and it was imperitive that we return, for the interior designers were coming in a few nights and we had to tell them if the floors were to be Japanese Bamboo or Brazilian Cherry. Ah, the responsibilities of the undead. What would we do about our Enemy? How would we confront him? How would he confront us? And could the contractors get all our granite installed by The Holidays? Bob and Baylah left with us. Their dens were none too safe and with three thousand square feet, there was room in the sky for us all.

The Book of Sarah

This is me, Tomas. I don't know how this is getting through to you. I think it is being channeled through wilkravitz, but I am not sure. I hope it is coming to you via wilkravitz. I do not think any of my other familiars are doing it. May God protect us. We (Sarah and I) spent about fortyeight hours with the underground squatters. The matriarch, Crazy Mary has a 'husband' up topside. She got in touch with him on a 'borrowed' cell phone. He met us on a bench  in a little used station somewhere under Chinatown. We followed him up to his truck, a battered pickup, parked in a sticky, litter-strewn rat trail behind some bus station. The windows were coveered in that dark film much loved by would-be drug lords and paranoid, pseudo-celebrities. He floored it and took us over the bridge into Jersey. I was trying to contact Bob and Baylah. He's not too adept, but she is very strong and I was able to get through to her. She sent me a picture of her surroundings. I described the scene to Crazy Mary's parttime husband. He hunts muskrat, and recognised it as somewhere in The Pines. I instructed Baylah to visualise some structure, no matter how decpreped, nearby. She pictured some little shanty, moonshiner hideaway. There was a dried up old sign on the front. It said 'Zeke's Bait and Gas. I told the 'husband.' He chuckled. He knew where it was, because he and his cousin catch rattlesnakes right by there. They skin them. The skins are valuable. I suppose God was looking out for us. I suppose He was helping us, for ninety minutes later we were there. The 'husband' didn't say a word. He just let us out. Then he turned around and sped back the mud track toward the city. Some people were watching from the tilted porch of a little cabin. I think Jed Clampett used to live there (another TVland show that I like). There was a man and a woman. Bob and Baylah were there too. We were all silent. We all went in. I sensed that the two mortals were very adept. They could read my mind. Not every word, but they got enough. Actual words were not necessary. I told them what happened, telepathicly and verbally. Bob and Baylah told me what they learned from a certain TV host-real estate tycoon in Atlantic City. We just sat there thinking. We had to come up with a plan.  The mortal woman, a big thing, a real virago, toothless and all, started to laugh like a crazy woman. Spit flew out of her mouth. The male just sat there, hugging his skinny elbows and chewing something (a dark wad) in his mouth. The female, after regainning her composure, said - We are in for it now. The Enemy got a wild hair up its ass. But don't worry, at least not too much, 'cause we got some good 'Pow Wow' (folk wizards, like shamans) wimmen in these woods and they know what to do. Sarah said - What, what will they do? The woman said - Not just them, us too. You too. 'Specially you too. You know that hair he got stuck up his ass? Well we all gotta pull it out. We gotta reach up there and pull it out. We gotta pull it out real good. And that's when her male companion softly started to cry. That night was especially dark, even for a vampire.

The Book of Sarah

 This is coming to you through wilkravitz. Something happened. They firebombed the house. They burned it. They destroyed it. I was 'sleeping' in the pit. I was nestled in the bed of flowers. We were nestled. Sarah was in there with me. Everything was so good. Everything was working out. My sublimation skills were what they should be. Just a few hours earlier I took Sarah. I embraced her. We flew. We passed out of the house. And I took her. I took her to see my haunts. She saw all the places I told you about. It was wonderful. I felt completely tied to a mortal being (not counting my victims) for the first timme in twohundred years. We talked. Well, we whispered actually. We laughed, quietly  of course. She could not believe the matter of fact displays of misshappen humanity at the Mutter. And it was positively etherial gliding  through the marble halls of the huge Museum of Art (the Rocky Steps) on The Parkway. The illumination was very low. We could hear the air circulating through the massive structure, as we stood there looking up at a painting of a Trinitarian saint. Saint Anthony it might have been, or Saint Sebastian. His body was pierced by many arrows. Yet he was still conscious and seemed to be gazing from this world into the next. I kissed her. Was it a grandfather's kiss? I do not know. But I have pondered this before and we are seperated by so many mortal generations. The blood tie is very week. It has been almost one thousand years, after all. But the spiritual and emotional tie is very strong. The Old Woman was dusting my collection of ninth century Chinese porcelain when it happened. Two giant hounds came loping into our alley. She saw them through a crack in the heavy, velvet draperies. They broke into a run and made straight for the parlor window, vaulting up and smashing through the mullioned glass. It happened so fast. She thought she saw a bomb or some such device attached to their collars. There had to be a bomb? An instant later they exploded and vaporized into a universe of blazing lights. Fire was everywhere. The flames raced through our refuge. She grabbed my journal, plus my priceless, illuminated, hand copied volume of La Ciencia Vampirismo (always hidden in plain sight) and made it out through the back door. The spiritual and emotional tie we share is very strong as well. I can hear her thoughts. That is how I know these things. When I sleep, there is always a little part of me that spies upon the daylight world through her eyes. Instantly I was awake. I grabbed Sarah and threw aside the heavy stone slab. We crawled through a small, secret door (just as the flames danced down into our chamber) and scratched our way along a tight, earthen passage. You know that I do not actually require oxygen, but it was stiffling. It was suffocating. I can just imagine how it was for her. After a time, we forced our way out, dislodging some old subway tiles on the other side. We tore down a little used, subterranean concorse (Philadelphia has many), making for a certain encampment of delerious, drug-addled homeless folk who welcomed us gladly in return for tiny droplets of blood, which they greedily licked from my cut, scraped fingers. When they finished (I know not to rush them) they presented me with a terrified, babbling prisoner kept for just such an emercency. I took this much needed source of energy (a particularly dishonorable sort) and devoured him. The homeless folk cheered and clapped. Some of their women capered about. They attempted to roast a bag of stale marshmallows in the blue flame that consumed him. But such flames are fleeting and they were sorely dissappointed. Sarah just stood there watching it all in the flickering orange glow of a can of sterno. A few of their offspring tried to roast the marshmallows in that. But it was all very real to her now. We are fugitives. And we are on the run.