The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas... And Sarah too. They're having a 'throwin''... That's a term they use now, but it originally stems from an ancient Red Paint dialect. It sounded something like this---- A trovin ova bon, and even the surviving 'Reddies' (a nickname) don't know what it means. About twohundred and fifty of us are winding our way through the pines. Each holds a small, flickering candle. Not more than twentyfive or thirty are true R.P.'s by blood. The rest are Piney neighbors who have lived right by them too long and absorbed a lot of Red Paint ways. Edith says they got 'a taint o the paint.' It's cold. The humans are wrapped in well-worn woolen layers. The Reddies too. They are, after all still human. We 'blood folk' as they call us are similarly attired. It is not that we have anything to fear from old Jack Frost. But rather a desire to fit in. And I have to agree, it is comfortable. Sarah looks like a fetching, turn of the twentieth century immigrant. Baylah has her head wrapped Erika Badu style. I look like a cold-campus college kid straight out of Penn State or Michigan  or some place like that. Our feet crunch on a thin layer of snow and ice. Some of the others softly chant an old song. And some do not. We approach the partially hidden entrance to a cavern. There are not many such places in the Jersey flatlands, but apparently they have found one. And from what I am told, have been using it for centuries. We file insside. Orange candlelight dances around the rocky outcrops. The passage is narrow. It snakes down into the earth. No one sings anymore. A ghostly scattering of gruesome pictographs decorate the cold, hard walls. Ours is not the greatest colony of Reddies. Most are found far to the north along the Canadian, Newfoundland coast. That is where the first migrants apparently  made land fall all those milleniuum ago. But ours maintain a strict orthodoxy. And it seems they have attracted a certain number of converts from among the ranks of the Pineys. Edith whispers to me -----Tomas? You seen a few of those human bonfires they used to light up back in the day, right?..... I assume she means Inquisitional Spain and answer in the affirmative,..... Well, this is gonna be a little bit like that, but with a taste of say a rustic Mardi Gras and a reality TV show thrown in to spark things up a little....We hear an angry 'shush' from up ahead. Everyone files into a large-ish, roughly circular chamber. Some of the Leaders use their candles to light torches affixed to the walls. Various gradations of shadows dance all about us. And in the center rests one of the most unusual objects that I have ever seen. It is large, at least as large as a small bus. Like the ten passenger jitney buses they use to ferry people around airports or along Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City. But this thing has a threatening ancient menace. It is a coarse rendering of a huge bull, almost prehistoric, probably an aurochs. It stands twelve feet tall and measures about twenty feet long. But it is not solid. The monstrous carving (probably from a single quartz boulder) is hollow. A matching 'saddle' seals a small opening along the back. A stone fire pit occupies the ground between its legs. The congregants (for that is what we are) move about, forming a circle around this centerpiece. Drums sound. A shuffling dance begins to wind counter-clockwise 'round the idol. A 'Caller' takes his place under the head of the beast. He is blind. A white haze covers his useless corneas. He begins a chant and rhythmically shifts his weight from foot to foot. Every so often his claw of a hand shoots out and he grabs someone. Those chosen join him under the bovine head. And then the dancing stops. Each of the 'grabbed ones' is given a razor sharp, silver knife, which they use to silently saw off a little finger. No one says a word. A woman gathers the severed digits in a metal bowl and drowns them in what appears to be a strong acid. The contents fizz. A froth is formed. She pours everything onto the stone floor. The blind one gets down on his hands and knees and examines the bones. The newly mutilated are given draughts of something to numb their pain and rags to staunch the blood. And then the blind one begins to call out names... four names... two men and two women. Those called step forward. Two young men wrestle the cloudy, crystaline saddle from its resting place. The bull is opened. The four 'Ridders' remove their clothing and climb inside. They tenderly assist each other. We can see them through the foggy, semi-precious surface. The interior chamber is small. They can move around, but just a little. A few buckets of water are thrown in with them. The saddle is jammed back into place. The bull is closed. Some of the people have been carrying kindling. Others retrieve armloads of wood from alcoves. They deposit their flamable burdens into the pit and return to their places in the circle. Another woman comes forward. She ignites the crisp, dry fuel. It begins to burn. The smoke is drawn up and disappears through cracks and fissures of the arching roof. The rest of the celebrants fall back.  They reverently watch their encapsulated brethren contort and writhe, as they futily attempt to escape the searing heat. And we witness the spectacle of human  beings roasting and boiling and charring in their own juice. No one so much as coughs. The screams of the victims issued forth through small openings drilled into the nostrils, mouth, ears and rectum of the beast, blending into a hellish song. Shamans quickly called out interpreting the 'music..'  Baylah and Sarah and I stood close together with our arms about each other, waiting for it to end. And the 'singing' went on for a very long time..........

The Book of Sarah

I am beginning to recall the events of my past. I think this has happened to me before. I remember things for a time and then I lose them. Maybe I want to lose them. I do not know. Am I simply a disembodied spirit, or am I the remnant of lifetimes gone before? Once I told you that I remembered the orange-gold reflection of sunlight upon the sacred Ganges. I remember the ghats. I remember the families releasing beloved corpses into the current. I can smell the colors and see the aromas meandering through the air.I can see the river. I can see the flow of time. There is one seated beside me. At times he speaks .. At times he refrains from speaking.Some know him as the wayward son of a king, a ruler rich in the temperate lands to the north. He reclines upon the red, sandstone paving lining the quayside. And he studies the grand parade. Listen to the tambourines. Hear the tiny chirping of the finger cymbals. Oh how perfectly measured are the rhythmic chants. How precise the steps of the dancers. There must be dozens of professional mourners. Such incense! What colors! Look! Look! Look! I have captured a silken handkerchief swimming through the breeze! A gift to keep. A souvenir of this special moment. Who is it? Who sets off for The Bardo? Who will stand before the divinities ? Who will learn his fate? A powerful nawab, a leader of armies. One beloved of Krishna. That is what they are saying. But the One seated beside me says other things. The one some call Siddhartha speaks different words. Who sets off on the eternal voyage? Is it truly a prince? No, says my neighbor. It is each of us. Death is but a rest-stop, a chance to void the bowels before setting off once more upon the river of enlightenment. But Teacher...Great Teacher... what fate befalls those who miss the boat? What fate befalls those who tarry in the land of death? What fate befalls those who do not venture on? And he said --- They fail to complete themselves. Their spiritual boils contimue to fester. And the rancid poisons of their misdeeds grow until they drown in a cesspool of human corruption...... I watched them complete the elaborate funerary rites for the rich one from the north. And I took three coppers from my alms bowl and passed them on to one who had even less than I. Such is a memory of this Disembodied Spirit, who now wants to tell you about more contemporary things...... The Shaky Hand Man is positively giddy with distruction. He has used his little girl. He has used Annie and her animals to kill many random, unfortunate humans. The hounds are fat. They doze in the shadows. The rats are sleek and warm. They all grow lazy. But that is the way. Their hunger will return. And in those odd,misplaced forests that hide between the Gotham and Quaker metropolises, along the trails through the lonesome pines, interested parties begin to gather. Preparations are made for a powerful rite. The world is being readied for 'a throwing of the bones.'

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas. There will always be evil---- That is what he communicated. That is what the Red Paint gentleman 'said.' I heard him in my mind. No, deeper than my mind. I heard him in my soul. And I learned other things as well. His people sailed to our shores in ships much like those of the Vikings, or the American Indians of the Pacific Northwest. Some mixed with native tribes and some did not. They stayed hidden. The woodland sprites of the New World, if you will. And they claim descent from an even older human line. Their stories detail an ancient lineage wrought from those who witnessed the Ice Age. Formed from a people as old as the moon. Fashioned from those whom 'others' term Neanderthals. Yet the resemblance is tenuous at best. If you saw them pricing sneakers in Target you would never suspect a thing.  And if their brow ridges are now more refined and their chins a bit more pronounced, that is only normal. People change. Evolution. Get with the program. But somethings do not change. Certain abilities resist transformation. And that can be a good thing. For there are talents which when lost, can never be reborn. And the Red Paint People never lost the 'thought magic.' They never lost the ability to communicate without words. Not like we do. Not even like the cherubs. These individuals converse in a rich and nuanced manner. And they share other remarkable powers as well. The gentleman predicts the coming of a big show down. Is it an apocalypse? --- I ask. He shrugs. He does not know that term. He does not trouble himself with such things. I ask ----- Is it the end of the world? He smiles and we know what  he knows. We know that the world will endure for a baby eternity. We know it is foolish to ask such questions. He knows that there will be a confrontation. On one side stand the forces of good. And on the other side, the forces of evil. It has happened before. And it will happen again. But it will happen soon... on the streets of Philadelphia..... on the streets of The City of Brotherly Love. Then he falls back, or rather his mind does. He closes his eyes. Edith and I sit there for a few moments. And then the woman comes in, the one who looks like world-famous-skier, Peekaboo Street, only thinner. She drapes an intricately woven blanket over the gentleman's body. Then she gestures for us to follow her to the door. We do. The portal silently swings open. We hear the slow, final song of late autumn crickets. She asks if we have learned anything. We nod. She tells us she is sure we will be invited back. We shake hands. She slips each of us a tiny, wrapped tid-bit. We descend the steps and retreat back into the woods. She turns and goes back inside. The heavy door closes. We open our palms to examine our gifts. Edith has a small, wax paper wrapped Tootsie Roll and so do I. I laugh and say --- You want mine? I'm kind of allergic. She smiles and takes it. On the way back 'home' I say prayers for Bob. And maybe some prayers for the rest of us too. God knows what is coming.

The Book of Sarah

We met, or should I say encountered one of the Red Paint People. It was a man, the one who resembles Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprize. He resides in a small, stone cottage deep in the woods. Hans Christian Anderson could not conjure up a more fitting site. Edith took me. Sarah was not invited. Maybe next time, but not now. Two huge black newfoundland hounds stand guard on either side of the heavy, oaken door. They possess the bluest eyes. I do not know iif that is natural to the breed or not. We stepped up onto the porch. They dogs examined us carefully. Screeners at an airport could not have done a better job. Edith pushed open the massive door. We entered. A welcoming orange blaze crackled in the large, river stone fireplace.The furnishings were storybook-cozy, in a turn of the twentieth century, country-English fashion. But the wood finishes seemed a bit heavier, rougher and more massive. The 'Man' sat in a throne-like winged chair. Edith and I took our places upon an old settee. No one spoke. But We could sense his mind. And we began to communicate.Now I cannot share much withyou today. My familiar, my wilkravitz is unable to devote much time to this task. I hope you understand. Please go to the vampirewonderland discussion at  the Billy Kravitz hasgtag site. Google it... It's all there...... Have a joyous day of thanks and a happy start to the holiday season.

The Book of Sarah

More from wilkravitz among the elves and cherubs...... They did not actually teach me how to levitate. They levitated me. I was like a big old beach ball and they sent me slowly sailing back and forth. I think they were playing ping pong with me. It was as if every tiny, point in the universe was a little hand softly cradling my body  and carefully supporting my weight. Like a giant, Swedish Temper Foam mattress. Like bubbles floating up from the mermaid's chest at the bottom of a fish tank. Like three dimensional figure skating but without all the sequins and tight, binding spandex. All in all, a very memorable experience. Albion slips out to get me food, but I don't think he has much experience providing for actual living humans. Yesterday it was two bags of Cheetos, a pint of Maalox, a container of liverwurst, one gallon of milk and a seven month old box of matzoh. And it ain't even Passover. Figures. Where does that boy do his shopping? Ooh, that reminds me. I have to tell him to get some toilet paper next time he goes out. You should see. The very idea of toilet paper, not to mention the bodily function it's used for, completely baffles them. They hover outside the door to the scuzzy bathroom like frantic puppies. I don't have any privacy at all. And then, after I vacate the premises, they swoop in to investigate. God only knows what it does for them. Personally, I think they use it like cat-nip. Everything about living humans intrigues them. Marianne, the eldest elf girl, likes to sqeeze through crowded subway cars inhaling the five p.m. putrid exhalations of tired office workers. You know how dogs sniff butts? Well, then you know what I mean. But at least I'm safe from Annie in here. And they do bring me little gifts. Last night one of them brought me a single, solid gold, lady's earring. The night before that it was a moldering human finger with a platinum wedding band. Hey, look, it's the thought that counts.

The Book of Sarah

My skin itches. It's me, wilkravitz. I'm here with the elves and cherubs. The little ones, the cherubs flit all around me taking sharp, tiny blood kisses with their pointy tongues. Just a bit. Just an almost microscopic drop. I think that's how they communicate. But I'm actually breaking out in hives from it.They're nice, little babies and I don't want to upset them, but I need some relief. This place used to be an old storage building or garage. There's a dried up, filthy restroom in the back. I found an old bottle of calamine lotion in the rusty medicine cabinet. But it's so out of date (Oct/99) that I'm afraid to use it. Oh God, I hope this goes away. They have a real nice flat screen TV here, but all it seems to run is a continuous loop of Mary Martin in Peter Pan. I think the 'There is a Land Where Dreams Are Born' song is kind of a national anthem around here. Albion and the older ones, the elves, are all right. At least they talk more. But it's still like being locked up with a middle school cast of Pippin or something. Oh, and they pick up things. So I'm pretty sure something big is going on with the others, the ones in the Pines. And they told me what I did with my old car keys. But if it wasn't for the extensive collection of legos they have here, I would go completely crazy. Right now I'm half way through a detailed, lego rendering of Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. So I can't talk anymore. Shhh, don't bother me. I'm looking for a few of the skinny, little red ones. Hey, how are you getting this, 'cause I don't have any keyboard? Gee this is all new to me. I mean I'm used to being a channel for the others, but this is real MAGIC! Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Two of the girl elves are asking me if I want to learn how to levitate.... Hell yeah, I want to learn how to friggin levitate. Wouldn't you. Look, I'll talk to you later. I think they're telling me I have to take my shoes off.

The Book of Sarah

I can see you, but you can't see me. It is I, the disembodied spirit. I don't mean to play with you, but I can see you, all of you. So tell that bartender in Singapore to take his hand out of the till. And that sixth grade hotsie-totsie better keep her eyes on her own paper, 'cause Missus Buttwasher is closin' in for the kill. That's the hotsie-totsie in Aukland I'm talking about. There's a wild party full of drunk, barfing seventeen year olds in Flosmoor, Illinois and no, that vomit stain on the new, Henerdon couch will not come out. So some soon to be busted, little mister big stuff is gonna have to do without his new k'nect, or whatever the hell they call it this year. Look, I am just trying to put off the inevitable. I do not enjoy being the bearer of bad news. But the Jersey Klan got Bob. Oh, come on, you knew it was Bob. What? Did you think it was gonna be Baylah? She already told you she would not be the first one down. And you better get in the habit of believing what she says, because Baylah don't play like that. But Bob is gone. And it was not pretty. The Jersey Klan saw that posting on the web, the one that shows him launching Barbra's sloppy, old head up into the air, just like it was a bottle rocket. You remember Barbra, Bob's eighty something year old Big-Mama-Nazi wife? Well she had some runnin' buddies over the bridge in Jersey and some of them, the old ones, the great grand daddies of the current bunch of head bangers, recognised Bob from way back when. They downloaded the picture and sent it out to all their fellow travelers. Now he would have been safe if he'd listened to Edith and the other Pineys. They told him to stay inside. But he was restless. That's how Bob gets. He just can't spend the night tucked inside with all the others watching Jimmy Kimmel and eating potato chips (everybody but the vampires that is). No, he has to go roaming around out in the woods. True, he didn't have to worry too much about the rattlers, or the bob-cats, or the bone crunching snappy turtles, or the occasional black bear, or even the half dozen or so fully grown Jersey Devils they got gyrating around in these parts. But he never banked on stumbling into a pack of shit-faced Jersey Klansmen doing their best to maintain an investment in a brand new, shiny copper, state of the art still. Bob didn't know. He thought he'd discovered a passel of South Philly wise guys planting some of the competition. But them Klan guys got fast reflexes. One of them had a copy of that web picture stuffed in his back pocket. He sees Bob. He pulls it out, eyeballs it and starts yelling - It's him! It's him! It's that no good puzzlingly young race trader what killed 'Mother' Barbra!! Well, they grab brands from the fire and give chase. Now you know Bob gets rattled real easy. And you know he ain't got much brains for a supposedly, immortal, omnipotent, supernatural guy and all. So he does what he did back in Rittenhouse Square Park when Annie and the hounds was after him. He shimmies up a tree. A dry tree. An autumn tree. A November tree. Do I have to tell you the rest? Them J.K.M.'s (Jersey Klansmen) use their flaming brands to set fire to that tree. And a couple of the new guys go running back to their truck for a big, old container of high octane gasoline. Yes siree, high octane, only the good stuff for our Bob. So they lobbed the volitile fluid right into that over-sized burning bush and whoosh!!! We got a human (or formerly human) sacrifice going on right here in Burlington County! They was whooping and jumping like a regular bunch of wild Indians, gettin' all sweaty and poppy-eyed and spittin' and dancin. And you know it is dangerous to get so over heated out in the deep woods on a cold November night. Those boys could have caught pnemonia. As it was, one of them smashed a foot right into the den of a fixin' to hibernate rattler and got hisself bit real bad. And Bob tried to run down that tree and sublimate through the flames. But the only thing is some of his atoms got mixed up with some of the  aerasol (did I spell it right?) fire-oil atoms that were bouncing around in the air, so when he commenced to solidifying poor Bob found out that he was sorta made of fire. Looked a little bit like Flame from the comic books. Oh, you could smell him burning. And you could hear him shrieking and hollerin' and all. I guess one of the worst parts was when his eyeballs exploded. But seeing as I ain't got no physical body, I can't rightly tell which part smarts the most. Damn, I like this country livin'. I think it kinda suits me. Think I'm gonna look up the ghost of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline and have a hoe-down or something. The other vampires heard the noise. They ran out and saw it all from a little ways off. It's sad. It's not like they truly liked Bob, but they felt the loss. And for the last forty, fifty years or so he was doing his best to make up for past transgressions. But now he is gone to the Great Beyond. And the way I hear it, he is trying his darndest to set things right with them little toddlers (and their teacher-wimmen) he originally exploded all those years ago.