I know not what I am, or how I came to be. Some say I am a carving shattered from a pediment atop a Florentine church. Renaissance artillery was so imprecise. But now I have a soul, of sorts, and eyes that see and skin that feels.
I scamper in the darkness, lest people should see. For the artist made me naked and I am bashful.
Oh, I know you are waiting for the resumption of the tale. You follow the vampirini of Philadelphia. But it is hot and the disembodied spirits narrating this thing pick up on the energy of the ether, as rising temperatures stir the atoms and make them dance.
Now I rest, wedged between a bench and a planter, not far from il Duomo, listening to the chatter of New World gawkers, plus occasional Alemanni . This one wants a lemon ice. That one craves biscotti. Another seeks a lover. The thin one wants to die.
Sometimes I whisper. My lips never move. But they all hear my words. 'Travel to Vienna'..... 'Buy the silver sugar bowl'..... 'Marry the foreign Jew.'
People listen to what I say. Catherine De Medici called me 'pet.' She sat me in her boudoir, right by the bed and told me secrets in the dark.
I know so many things, yet still don't know my name. Tomorrow night I'll scamper somewhere else.... a fat, little angelkin diving into shadows.
But indulge me for a bit. Play 'cat' to my magician. Let's see what strangeness we can do. Let's see what powers hover hence.
I will whisper a play.... a favorite of 'the Bard,' performed in Shoreditch long ago, yet known to you and me.
Please COMMENT if you hear the name. Tomorrow we will see if our souls proceed apace.
Farewell for now. I have to race. Some students from afar draw near....
And I have secrets yet to hear....
A cherub made of stone...
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There was a hangman in our town... a true sadist... a devil much worse than any life-eater (vampire). He had a way to let the victim swing. No snap. No neck break. No quick drop into oblivion. Just a pendulum swinging in the breeze.. They gasp.... They drool.... They pee and shit. The crowd laughs. They clap and throw chestnuts. Throwing chestnuts is a tradition here.
If the family of the victim can afford it, they give the hangman three silver crowns. This happens during the final visit. He ushers the victim into a marginally cleaner and brighter cell... No greasy stones... No black soot from eons of cheap, fatty candles wafting smoky dreams to nowhere. Three dirty bowls of stew. Well, not too dirty, but you know what I mean. And the beef is fairly free from mold and mildew. One for the victim. Two for his chief, not yet mourners. Most bring their own spoons. They sit on stools and eat. They talk. Some people cry. The crowns trade hands. The victim mouths a heartfelt 'thank you,' then silence. After a bit the clergyman comes in. What a coincidence... Everyone believes the same as the king and has done so for one thousand years. They even control the souls.
Then, when it's time, they do it. The poor soul walks out. Peasants cheer. They throw the nuts. Children caper about, miming 'the hanged man'... lolling tongues.... eyes rolled back... twitching arms... kicking feet. Bawds sing songs and flash their wares. as churchmen take down names. But death will be quick, for the rope is long and wound just so.
Does the crowd like that? No, they don't. Dirty faces droop in disappointment. Eyes dart about. Perhaps there's a witch to burn? Or a heretic? Or a Jew? But the Jews were banished years ago. And they burnt their last heretic after the witch flew off. That one really could fly. Pity they didn't grab her feet before she got away. Young toughs began smashing market stalls run by immigrants, Walloons and Lombards and the like...... Oi, what they jibber-jaggin' about? Smash 'er teef.... And they did.... At least she had teeth.
I fixed the hangman. I fixed him good. Not that he was the biggest villain in all this. But that night it was his turn. Made him swallow each and every silver crown he had. Kept them in a secret niche within the stout stone wall. Tipped a pewter chalice and spilled them out.... like rain upon the floor. No one heard. His cell was like a fortress, though he possessed the key. And moonlight filtered in to gild the coins.
How he cried. Was I a demon, or a witchy-man? He wanted to know. And I just laughed. Sublimation is a special talent of mine and stout stone walls meant nothing to me. Though some of my ilk might have been scared. Condensing in stone is a terrible way to die. And had he lived in a more public venue, say a room over the tavern, I might have passed him by. Night-folk shun notoriety.... Well, back then they did.
First I bit his nose and chewed it off like gristle. He moaned and trembled. Then I licked the blood that poured down from the wound. Then he went limp... dropped through my arms and rolled under the bed. I grabbed his legs and pulled him out. He whimpered like a puppy, as I sliced into his nethers and drained him dry.
They all expect the neck. They all protect the neck. But me, I like variety. And it's disorienting to the night-meal when the lungs and heart and brain are still intact while the blood is drained away, like a great, internal tide rushing out to sea.....
He gasped... He wheezed... The whimpering stopped and then I watched the flames....' Spontaneous human combustion' they call it...
When it was over and he was gone, I scooped up all the coins. How greasy they were. So I took them home to wash them and gave them to the poor.
'Saint Francis' they called me, as I blessed them and mumbled prayers...
Was I always so honorable? No.... But that night, I was....
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I wish to continue our discussion. Vampires still perspire. And we do not ooze blood. What comes out is sweat. Which is odd, for we do not crap. At least I do not. They tell me the magic (not all consider it a burden. that jargon belongs to Judaeo-Christian types) settles differently on each and every one of us. Some excrete a paste-like substance. In the middle ages, dried turds were considered relics and sold as 'angel shit.' But I don't think they do that anymore.
Most nights I frequent the East End. I recommend it to all visiting vampires. The 'food' is quite divine. And poor folk die so conveniently. No one cares. Few notice. It's all so easy.
Did I tell you I saw The Ripper? I could smell the blood. There was so much of it, so could the rats. He had her on a bed... a filthy, crusty pallet in a dank, mildew cellar. And, I must say, he was a true virtuoso of the blade. I believe he favored a Neapolitan stiletto, long and thin and sharp. Your California 'Zorro' couldn't do any better. Such a juicy ripping sound. How appetizing. Please, I have to admit it. Don't hate me.
He hummed a little tune.... something from the music halls. I don't know the name. And she was spread open like a Prussian eagle... internally exposed from trachea to pudenda. Though not at all self-conscious. Death cures all manner of phobia, you know.
Did he see me peeking through the small, street level window? Well, I think he did. I think he knew I was there.... An audience and a safe one at that.
Oh, I can tell you who he was. But why should I spoil your fun. Night-folk know many things.... eternal witnesses we are. We know which miracles were real. And we know where all the bodies are buried.
Your Jonathon does not like to hear that, for he believes 'with a perfect faith.' I think he has a messiah complex. I've spent evenings with the young Doctor Freud. Oh, how he wanted to analyze me.... a night fiend... a vampire... I ghoul. Well, to him I was a ghoul. But if you've been reading this for a while, you're familiar with the one they call Johnny Jump Up and you know what a ghoul really is.
I stroll through Covent Garden looking for my own Eliza Dolittle.... East Enders.... Sloane Rangers.... Pearly Kings and Pearly Queens.... My tastes are so eclectic.
Six quarts of blood. Where do I put it all?
I think she picked me for my looks.... 'Mama' Jeanette, I mean. I've been told I'm a pre-cursor to the young Lawrence Olivier.
You should see me play Macbeth.
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And while that anonymous English vampirino prepares for his evening dalliances, permit us to tell you of other things.
Have you ever walked down a tree lined thoroughfare late at night? Street light flickers through the leaves. It's quiet, save for a faint rustling, natures 'white' noise. You look down, lest you trip on an old, cracked, raised portion of pavement. Sometimes you smell mice. Sometimes you don't. And shadows, or perhaps I should say 'deeper shadows' provide sinister frisson.
Images snap in and out of the ether. A person... A raven... A being... A wraith. Merely illusions, or something else? A voice filters out of a house... laughter... anger.... But at least you're not alone... Till a window slams and the sound disappears.
Then the 'white' noise changes. A foot fall?... A cough?.... You pivot 'round to see.... And 'it' stops.... You continue past a neatly trimmed hedge... maybe six feet high.... Then you hear low, subtle mumbling on the other side.... Shhh, be quiet. If you're careful no one will hear you pass. Sneakers can be so quiet. Tense your foot a certain way. Take care with every step. 'They'.... 'He'.... 'It'.... won't hear you. At least that's what you hope... But the mumbling comes back.
Does the shadow by that curbside tree up ahead seem a bit thicker and darker than usual? Is there a tiny glint where an eye would be?... A strange, unexpected movement?...
You flip open your cell phone. That's what they tell you to do. Look purposeful. Make like you're talking... Act strong. But darkness can be stronger. You hear a sniff.... Shhhh, where'd it come from?....You hear a name...a word... a 'something.'.... All the windows are dark.... Maybe a car will go by?... Maybe it won't?....
Then your scalp begins to tingle. You want to walk. You want to move, but you can't..... Hide... Do it....Slip back against a tree... Melt into a shadow. Why did you stay out so late? Why did you walk this way?
A shadow floats toward you... A person?... Can they see you? Do they know you're there?
Oh, come on. What do you think?
And then it happens... The street light winks out.... That's when you hear the whistling.... very quiet.... very soft.... but 'there.'
When you go into the woods tonight, you're in for a big surprise..... That's it. Those are the words. You know the song.
But you'll never, ever hear it again...
There is no help and no reprieve. Too late for that. But you pray, you hope, you beg.
And then it happens.... Neck bones snap so easily.... you even hear them 'pop,' as strange, cold hands caress you in the dark.
A centipede tickles your corpse...
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I did shed my skin, but not in a pit. She, the one who made me scrubbed it off in an old claw foot bathtub. And a servant girl sworn to secrecy scraped up the wet, viscous strips and burned them in the furnace. I lay curled in a fetal position, moaning for days. Fortunately, the tub was in the cellar.
Now I know there were other life-eaters in London then, but we never fraternized with any and they left us to our own devices. She taught me to feed... when, where, and how. Tiny bites above a blood vessel. Arteries are best. Always raise the head above the feet to slow the flow. Sedate the victim with alcohol before the ordeal. Fortified wines, like Sherry, work best. We didn't want to torture anyone, just 'eat' them. And she who made me didn't confine her appetites to the wicked... not always, anyway. Though she preferred taking isolated souls who wouldn't be missed. I liked watching them ignite after it was over. I liked the 'cool' blue flame. Sometimes in the autumn, when the air was cold and dry, we'd watch as large, flaky ashes rose up into the sky and disappeared.
Do you know I never once addressed her by name. And to this night I'm not really sure how old she is. I did hear her talk in her sleep. She mumbled in Vahmperigo.... an Eastern dialect quite akin to Old Slavonic, but with an admixture of Byzantine and even Hunnish words thrown in too. Being educated, I knew a bit of Greek and picked out some of the words. She was lonely. I knew that, but not overwhelmingly so.
'Jeanette,'.... The British people called her Jeanette, except when they called her India, or Tess, or Francine. She didn't care.
But she dressed me like a prince. My linen was spotless and starched to perfection.... Not stiff, just white and pristine. My suits were fashioned from the best worsted wool.... long frock coats and all that. And my boots, ankle length, were of a high polished leather. Dragon skin, I believe they were. Vampires knew where to get it. Certain Indian rajahs and naywobs still kept select specimens in carefully constructed enclosures. But the Congress Party put a stop to it. I don't know why. Gandhi cried to see them go. Though I'm told a surviving root stock still survives high up in Nepalese valleys. Perhaps, one night, I'll go there.
Oh, did I tell you? Sometimes I drink from the wrist, or the breast, or the buttock. An affectation of mine. But usually from the throat like everyone else.
Tonight I'm having a Sloane Ranger. 'GOOGLE' it. You'll see what I mean. I'm really looking forward to it.
Now let me be. I have to dress... and Mordecai , my valet, takes such pains.
Where's that flask of sherry?....
(more tomorrow)
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I never knew it was coming. They invited me to a party...more like a symposium, actually. I believe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was there too. There was a house in London, a stylish townhouse, owned by a group given to paranormal investigations and magical experimentation. They brought a goldfish back from the dead once. But the West Indian stevedore stayed that way, so he wound up in the Thames. Perhaps he revived down there.
An older gentleman, though quite well preserved identified himself as 'the facilitator.' Some of the others seemed to know his name, but I did not. He said we would attempt a levitation. None of that parlor game nonsense... No rigid body 'tweet two chairs. They had a subject already picked out. Now I know she was obviously a vampire. Yet those in attendance hadn't a clue.
She wore a blue dress... quite dark... almost black. They said her name was Jeanette and she sipped some type of French cordial from a small green glass. I believe it smelled of chocolate.
They had us stand up and hold hands. We formed an oval. She lay on the rug. It was quiet, save for all the clocks. Inquiring folk in the nineteenth century had quite a thing for clocks. Maybe it was the intricate mechanisms? After all, computers were still very far away.
An attendant came in with a long metal chain. I think it was aluminum.... back then a precious and little known substance. He draped it 'round our shoulders. The facilitator said a prayer and we replied in Sanskrit.
Approximately twenty four heartbeats later, that Jeanette, laying on the floor between us started giggling, as if tickled by unseen fingers. And then she began to rise up. Our charade had nothing to do with it, but we believed that it did. Vampires can do many things and this simple demonstration was a specialty of hers. Needless to say, the night was a success.
We repaired to the library, an octagonal chamber with a leaded glass roof, for light refreshment and conversation, quite secure in our new found wizardry. Khartoum was the big thing back then...Lord Kitchener and all... the eighteen eighties... the Mahdi. And this group was very progressive, since the ladies joined in too.
When we left, I shared a cab with the vampire woman. The coachman was her 'familiar,' but I didn't know that. Two squares hence, she had him turn off the thoroughfare and proceed down Rotten Row, an equestrian lane much loved by the horsey set, though quite dark and empty now. I noticed, but said nothing, for I was young and desperate to appear less so.
She began to kiss me and nuzzle my neck. I pressed against the door. She moved closer. Her fingers were quite adept. Five minutes later I was naked.... and six minutes after that a vampire, although the shedding of the skin had yet to occur.
We exited the park and entered a little mews. One of the well appointed bijou was hers. She gave me a black, satin cape, neatly folded for that purpose. I put it on, lest any neighbors saw us arrive. When the coachman hopped down and opened the door, I followed her out and into the dwelling, more or less oblivious of my hasty transformation.
Once inside, she pulled it off and then I began to learn.....
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James Gandolfini lost his physical body today. But the rest of him is here. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed... and boy does he have a lot of that.
If I did this right, the video I 'shared' should have a real nice tribute. I'm not too digitally savvy, but I do my best.
Take care of yourselves. Eat right. Move and jump around a little. If you do it to music, you can call it dancing.
<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>
Now here's what our night-folk have to say. I believe we've been talking to RENATE (reh-nah-tay).....
And she says ~~~~ I pity your mortality. Even if you endure for one hundred years that is still but 36,500 days... Maybe a little more, allowing for the leap years. Such calenders you have. Such artifice. Such conceit. Every little tribe thinks they have it right. But who cares about the details? Renate goes by the moon. What more do we need?
Am I the first life-eater (vampire)? No. Those who've journeyed with us for a while know that. There is no first. There always was. Time is only an explanation for accumulated entropy. They who have 'passed' are not erased. All lives still exist.
Though I can tell you a bit about changes you (or your descendants) will see. The primitivism you relish will begin to evaporate. It already is. Each will know the other and nation states will wither. Or rather, Earth will be your nation... and perhaps some other orbs along the way.
Your children shall conquer the stars. Pity you were born so soon. Yet the atoms of your body will be there when it happens and they will cheer.
Renate knows. I've seen the birth of Sumer and polities far 'older.' Mud and stone and wood were always there. And even children build temples out of blocks. They always have. Legos are not new. There are records of those days. But you will not find them, for the seas have swallowed them up. And calamari swim through tombstones in the depths.
It's hot. Summer hastens decay. Tiny piercing mouth-parts spread disease. But that's their job. And vampires do the same. I take lives at will. No moral vows for me. I am far too practical for that and was already old and set in my ways when organized morality appeared.
But I lie. The being you call Jonathon thinks me a saint. And since we are but one or two links apart on the great eternal chain, I permit him to have his illusions.
Now I rise from the waves and walk toward the shore. Tiny phosphorescent lifeforms say hello. There are houses near the coast and salty, blood-filled people within. They sleep, as I creep close, scratching at window screens and whispering through doors.
And the black beetles run and dance. They say - Renate comes....
Night birds sing my name.....
Flowers kiss my feet....
And even though a human soon will die...
the atoms of their body will go on.....
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