And now, I tell you about Long Night, quite possibly the oldest, continuously celebrated 'holiday' in the world.... or in our part of the world. I'm sure denizens of the Night Wood in Patagonia, the Antipodes, or the old lands of The Zulu Empire, possibly the Maoris too dance a mean Stampanada on June twenty first. Our globe is but an exercise in opposites. One end 'north,' another 'south.' One side light, the other dark.
Well, this is our dark time. How the very physical particles of our bodies revel in it. I am Tomas de Macabeus, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi and I know. We all do. Little Annie capers about like a giggly, stringy haired spider, scampering up walls and skittering across ceilings. The wan, pubescent elferinas and elferinos drift through the streets and walls and mausoleums too.
I find others, vagabonds, from different shadows. They don't threaten us. It's Long Night, after all, a time for freedom and pixilated wonder. The bright, white heat of summer will be here soon enough.
The glass-like, icy cold, how it calms me. No garment sheathes my body, nor the bodies of any other Life-Eater. Our vampire flesh delights in each freezing caress. We resonate with a frequency undetectable to mortal eyes. We pass unseen among you, stopping only to cull the wicked as they sleep... a bad dream... a hungry incubus... a parched, dry succubus. How they purr as we lap them up... an easy death and quite undeserved. But their wickedness is gone. When they die, hallelujah, bye and bye, they'll fly away. Where to, is not our problem. Therein lies our purpose.
At other times, we dine but once each moon. On this night, rules are few.
We do mischief, flitting by those not foul enough for death, yet deserving of some troubling penalty. Snatch a heavy, golden wristlet. Pluck a diamond ear-bob, a fat wallet, or precision trophy watch. After centuries of such harvesting our casks are full. It's not leprechauns who have treasure. It's us.
The feast goes on... madmen and monsters... fools and mountebanks... heartless courtesans... poisoners and liars. Something for everyone. Such comedy tonight. Not all things 'funny' are clear and bright.
Little Annie, our sly child vampire, returns with an old Flintstones jelly glass filled with toes. She bites them off just before the 'finality'... just before death comes and spits them out, gristle, fat, moldy nails and all... There are dozens of such glasses on a little shelf in the cellar...all closed tight and sealed with wax. I suppose they are her treasures.
Now, please know that some 'cullings' are effortless. The bad folk slide into wherever it is they slide into. But every so often one fights. We're forced to persuade them. Ripping out livers works for me. You should see how surprised they look. Sometimes plucking an eyeball works. Sometimes it doesn't. You know how that is.
Then, with bellies filled we reconnoiter atop an urban tower, or in some small, unseen clearing in the park, to dance the Stampanada and howl. None can see. We're still invisible. Some mortals pick up the sound. They talk. They tell people. The press blames ghosts. Let them blame ghosts. Ghosts don't care.
But I do care for our ghost. I do care for the nice, little boy, the polio victim in the townhouse. We all do...
Now excuse me. I have an appointment to eviscerate and destroy a rather evil, toothsome loan shark in the Northern Liberties ( a nineteenth century district hiding narrow, cobbled streets on the northern ramparts of Center City). He doesn't know, but I do.... Vampires are privy to so many things...
And I want to dance the Stampanada once more 'fore the dawn...
<more 'Long Night' accounts next time>
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I might tell you of the minutiae ... of each little thing that happened. Vampires are like that. We have so much time to study and think. I know. They who follow this account understand. They've read the words and imagined these things. They've 'seen' me sit before paintings in dimly lit museums. They've seen me trace each brush stroke with my eyes and count dust motes on crisp, dry mummy skin. Some mummies 'talk.' I hear their words... the tiny scratching of scarabs upon the sand.
And now, of Jeanette...
She traveled with her newfound companion till they reached the hamlet where I found her. They spoke. He told her of his life in the south. That part of France is foreign territory to people in the north. French holdings along the Mediterranean are more akin to Italy's Piedmont and Spain's Catalonia than Picardy or Champagne or even Burgundy. Kings grab what they can. Culture means little. It always has. And the Jew she met lived not in those sun kissed lands but up by the Channel. Still, people value their memories, whether true or not..
Jeanette became Hannah, his kinswoman. He taught her a few Hebrew liturgical terms... the names of holidays... a prayer or too. Women, in the general population, were never expected to know as much as men. Jewish women were taught enough 'prayer book' Hebrew to follow the service. Maybe the head of a convent might be literate. Maybe not. Some dictated daily records to a male clerk sent over from their brother monastery, who in all likelihood tailored her words to suit his lord and father abbot. Too much distaff knowledge hinted at witchcraft. Everyone knew that.
Her benefactor, the money lender Avigdor, meant to find her a place with a group traveling south toward Paris. She could find work there at a market stall and maybe put enough by to start a stall of her own. Any place else, her best hope would be a drudge for some well-off burgers wife, or dying young....
'Dying young' was a glamorous resolution back then.
And it was dangerous for Avigdor to help her, for Jeanette was a Christian. Anything he did would be twisted the wrong way. Besides, the lord of that place owed him five pounds of English silver...
Now every year just after the final harvest, when root vegetables were dug up and the soil had its rest, they made a count. All souls were listed in a book. The church kept count for Trinatarians. Jews in the district were not permitted their own official record, but one of their number was charged with that duty. The tally was passed to the local landowner. But, please know, all Jews existed for the benefit of the crown, or some other august member of the royal family. Lesser nobles served merely as stewards. They may skim off some of the take from the peasants and serfs, but all tax moneys owed by Jews went directly to the king. Woe to the baron with an inaccurate tally.
In this woodsy holding north of Paris but south of the channel things were coming to a head. The lord had sticky fingers. The tally was due. Taxes must be paid. He'd find a way to make things right. So what if others 'suffered?'... So what... So what, indeed.
When the clerk came to count souls all were gathered in a little clearing... Christians to one side... Jews (when there were any) toward the other.... Avigdor prayed. He'd planned for Jeanette to be in Paris by then. He thought she'd be long gone. But she was still there, seated in the dirt, amongst the Jewish women, demure in her simple tunic and robe...
This holding was a small one... a few semi-free peasant families... eighty male serfs and their households... seventeen 'benighted' (as they were always termed) Jews and their dependents...That was it... And then the clerk came to the Jewish women.... Each gave her name, her age, her marital status, whether or not she had reached childbearing age, was in childbearing age, or had passed childbearing age. Things moved at a pace... till he came to the former Jeanette, now known as Hannah.
Avigdor tried to hear, but he sat too far away. Jeanette's back was to him, though he could see the clerk's eyes. The sly, little man took down everything. Then he gave poor Jeanette an incredulous look. She trembled. Avigdor saw her shoulders shake.
Three nights later he was dead, bludgeoned and burned, along with all others in his household... but Jeanette, or Hannah (whatever name the clerk put down) wasn't among them. They slaughtered the entire community. No Jews were left. All debts owed Avigdor or certain lesser personages were cancelled as were the lives of even the little children thrown down the well.
The lord was pleased. He kept his five pounds of silver. Look, not only were all debts cancelled, all records were destroyed. Plus the land formerly occupied by the Jews was now free for crops... Later on, when things settled down, he could lure in other Jews. How would they know about the massacre? Just let the king have one of his fits and (temporarily) banish them from Paris. They'd be begging for any putrid, mud hole they could find. That's the beauty about 'milking' Jews. What other choice do they have?
But Avigdor was the ranking money lender in these parts. He didn't live in a cottage. He had the 'Jew's House,' a stout, stone edifice with thick walls, no first floor windows and only small slit openings upstairs... a secure place to keep precious metals. At one time that was the fortress around here, till they put up the castle and that was still a work in progress.
Now they dug there day and night. All that silver had to be somewhere. They didn't throw it in the well with the babies, after all...
Were they afraid Jeanette would run off? Well, she'd done it once before. That came out real fast. Sometimes all that's necessary is to show the intended victim the instruments of torture. Show and tell. Show and tell. You show. They tell.
Know how they kept her from running? Made her wear a chastity belt... a heavy duty, tortuous chastity belt. Even a blacksmith would have trouble cutting through such tempered steel. Plus there was an engraving along the waistband ---- Kindly return the loathsome device and wearer to the castle in question and collect twenty silver pennies. Nobody wants to die locked in like that.
So she stumbled through the night, never going far, mumbling to herself and visiting the blessed innocents in the well.
That's how I, Jonathon, found her. All it took was a little drink and her thoughts were my thoughts. That's how I'm able to tell you this.
I HAD to save her. A reverent life-eater has no choice...
Would I be compelled to leave that cave? Would I have to cease being the 'Hermit?'... Of course...
But I'd be true to my 'call'.....
Cull the wicked... Save the worthy.
That's what we do...
<more next time>
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It is I, Jonathon, who lived this , but Billy types it out. Sometimes he misses a word or doesn't hear it all. A phrase might get changed. But memory does that too. Life itself edits what was and transforms it into what is. I've lived a long time. I know that very well. And I really did not think of Jeanette for decades, though memories rise up from depths on their own. Now please let me continue. She told me how she left her village and started walking. Women never traveled alone and 'declasse' types without any social standing, never left their assigned places at all. They couldn't. Would a grate leave it's place in the hearth? What difference could her hopes, or aspirations make? She was a serf, a human tool and nothing more. Only fortune prevented her from falling into the hands of a whore-trapper. They loved runaways... completely defenseless and all that. Sold them to the licensed brothel keepers of Paris. 'Licensed'... that's a misleading term. They paid protection money to some lord who ran a few 'dove cotes' on back streets here and there. And the lord passed some up to his betters too. Aristocracy has its prerogatives, don't you know. But, the whore-trappers didn't get her. She never wore the 'ankle bracelet' .... a shackle meant to link up to a stout chain. Some 'Paris Doves' never left their bedchamber. ... The slop woman came round and fed them like pigs. A 'wash hag' bathed them with a shallow bowl of greasy water, a none to clean sponge and something like soap when the stink grew too strong. Bedding was burned every three months. That was considered a Paris affectation. New pillows, blankets, sweet straw mattress and perhaps a sheet cost money. The 'doves' were kept naked. More efficient that way. Those who sickened, or showed signs of 'the taint' were discretely poisoned. New hatchlings were easy to find. I wander like this so I do not forget. So many memories. So many caves to explore. I'm sorry. Please, let me return to Jeanette. She met a man. He rode a mule. Two retainers walked with him. A man of wealth he was. Not a land owner. They had assets, but he had cash. He spoke to her, not in the language of those parts... not in the manner of the Isle de France as men spoke alone the River Seine. But in the older, more Latinate tongue of the south, as heard in Provence. His name was Avigdor, a man of finance and he was a Jew. Was she frightened? A little, for she'd never met a Jew before. One or two passed through her master's house, but she never spoke to them. Few serfs ever laid eyes on actual coinage... not silver. Maybe a copper here and there. This was a man of wealth, yet he made his way with but two retainers for he carried no coin. His business relied on notes of promise warranted by the ducal seal. None would harm him. He offered her wine, not to beguile her, for Avigdor was a devout soul, with a wife and children. It was only refreshment and Jeanette took it. Then he told him her story. She told him of her violent defilement by a boorish nobleman. He nodded. Avigdor knew their ways well. In the south, his people were vintners with hillsides of grapes going down toward the sea. They could own land and that was a very important thing. But where they were now, money lending at all levels was all they could do. Great lords used Jews to concentrate actual coinage, which the nobles in turn squeezed out of them. They traveled this way for a while. At night, the retainers prepared two small lean-tos, one for the Jew and themselves on the left side of the horse and one for Jeanette on the right side. They ate salt cod, carrots and hard bread. They drank wine, or fresh water from the many streams. Others on the road did more or less the same, though most ate salt pork and the way was quiet. Bandits had bigger fish to fry. In this way they progressed to the place where I found her.. But so much happened before that.... <more next time, hopefully real soon> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click bit.ly/297pDxg to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland, but they who operate this site say we must also click on the 'subscribe' rectangle toward the upper right corner of the screen... All of us... me too.. There might be a one click way to get there, but I don't know it. I'll share it when I finally discover it. click Twitter.com/wilkravitz ... to join me on Twitter.... please comment. thank you. ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
~~ a continuation of the post when Jonathon met Jeanette, from two or three nights ago~~ Jonathon ben Macabi speaks -- I went back to the place. I went back to the well. Perhaps two or three nights had passed. Sometimes ghosts hover near their former flesh, but none were there. The souls of innocent martyrs tarry not with our blighted world, but rise to a blessed plane. And the little children tortured here were in that better place. But someone had come out to treat their remains. They threw lye onto the bodies and other things to hasten decomposition and hold down the smell. They'll do the deeds. They'll commit the crimes, but they don't like to be reminded of it. After all... they're such good people. Look, the 'baron' probably sent them out. Odds are he owed a debt to one of the Jews. That's how the system worked. According to Scripture, Christians cannot lend at interest to other Christians and Jews, since that Scripture is also theirs, cannot do the same to their brethren in the faith. But the lords denied Jews almost every other means of livelihood. Money lending, or reselling worn, used clothing and other items was it. Then, when the debt grew too high, a convenient massacre solved everything... Fun for the whole family. That's how it was. What else did the serfs have? They called them 'serfs' but slaves would have been more accurate. Jews were a handy, 'God given' release. Primitive times... What else can I say? Unappreciated 'extra' heirs were regularly bricked up into walls, or thrown down their own, more private, wells. Excuse my editorializing, but... well, just excuse me. Look, I was there. I managed to survive it and I mean before I became a vampire. Did you ever see the old video game, FROGGER? That was it. That was life.... WHACK-A-MOLE, but we were all moles, though some got whacked much harder than others. In a fortnight the little dead bodies in the well would be gone. Serfs would be sent out to fill in the shaft, cart away the stones and that would be it. They'd dig a new well. But I remembered what happened and so did the young woman named Jeanette. I saw her step out of the shadows and approach the well. Her hood was up. I couldn't see her face. I didn't have to. Vampires possess a keen sense of smell. That's why we light aroma candles, to mask all the background scents, otherwise we'd never be able to relax. She knelt in prayer. I waited for her to finish, then quietly approached... She said - You came back too?.... I nodded, then asked - How are you connected to those little ones?... She hesitated, afraid to tell me... I said - No, please, you can tell me.... That's how I learned... She was from a place in Brittany, a tiny hamlet belonging to a prosperous knight, no great lord, with a white washed oratory that served as their church. The castle was little more than a well set up country manor with a stable wing, a few out buildings and a stout, log defensive wall. Her people were serfs, but serfs of a different sort. The men in her line assisted the armorer and toiled not in the fields. They had neat, thatched cottages with thick, whitewashed walls. And the women of the family served the chatelaine, embroidering runners and linens and whatever else the lady of the manor got it into her head to decorate. They called her mother 'goodwife.' Her father was 'goodman.' Small courtesies, but in a place like that small courtesies mean a lot. What else could they hope for? The knight had a daughter. Dame Eloise they called her. Pretty, in an obvious way. Sometimes great magnates would stop to spend the night whilst traveling. Her mother positively festooned the place with all manner of needlework when that happened. She had goblets, just plain pot metal, but pot metal can pass for old silver if you shine it right. If the great magnate had a son in tow they did up poor Eloise like a dog's dinner. But first sons never saw her as anything more than a diversion. Even second sons became bishops. Though this time there was a third son... a real nice lad. Who knew what prospects he might have? Families know other families. He'd still be a knight, but a knight related to real aristocrats... people with castles... people who know Paris... people with fine tapestries and polished tables from Italy... people who mattered... Even the serfs could sympathize. Now the way the world worked, that third son was already declared for somebody else's third daughter and she had aristocratic cousins too. It all came out over dinner. Mead will do that. Jeanette heard. She served. They made her serve. How could she not hear? Eloise went numb. How many times could they trot her out like that? For her mother it was even worse. She looked at Jeanette. So fresh. So sweet. So young. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Her husband, the knight, agreed. But you know how men are... more stoic... more purposeful.... He whispered to his wife. She whispered to Jeanette. Told her to spend the night in the manor so she'd be there first thing to help with breakfast.... Jeanette nodded and curtsied. She had no say. A few hours later, when everything was quiet, the knight of the manor discretely unlocked the wench chamber, where female servants slept (it locked from the outside) and let the powerful magnate enter... not the third son, but the father. His prey pulled thin blankets tight 'round their bodies. By sun up he'd had Jeanette twice and beaten a mute thirteen year old to death.... Eloise's father refused the traditional forty silver pennies 'fine' in cases like this. The dead girl had but an old grandmother, who'd probably cross over soon after. No use wasting an opportunity to forge an alliance.... When she returned to her family no one said a word. The 'goodwife' and 'goodman' could lose that designation real fast. And Jeanette was unharmed. What could come of it? Later that morning the knight sent over five copper pennies. Jeanette just sat there, but her father picked them up and put them away. The day progressed and she went about her duties in silence. At sundown, Jeanette wrapped herself in a hooded cloak and started walking. Later that night, on a trail to the north bordering the forest, she met a man on a mule.... <more next time> click bit.ly/297pDxg ...to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland.. but they changed things, so 1st you have to click 'subscribe' rectangle near the top right hand corner of the screen. there might be a one click way to do it, but I haven't found it yet. will post as soon as I do. click Twitter.com/wilkravitz ... to join me on Twitter... kindly consider leaving a comment? thank you...
This is Billy. I'm not just channeling or typing these words. They're mine. I don't have much time. Please excuse any mistakes or typos. I want to share something with you. Jonathon showed me some books. One was his centuries old manuscript of La Ciencia Vampirismo. I've seen that before. He's not so secretive about it (among 'us' at least), because the text is in Old Vahmperigo and we really don't understand it. The relationship to medieval Castilian and Catalan is close. Yet there are differences, plus vocabulary that comes from some other mysterious languages. I thought they might be Basque, but Googling proved that isn't so. Then there's the part about 'the sentence.'.... more like three phrases actually. I'm talking about - Scottosh beedosh... Beedosh bopost... Bopost skeedosht.... NONE of us knows what it means. Even Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea only has a slight idea. Doctor Franklin thinks it might be from an early European tongue spoken by the first 'modern' humans to inhabit the landmass after the ice age. Jonathon thinks it might might be Old Scythian. Still, that language is related to Sanskrit? Nobody sees much of a relationship between the two. He showed me a book, or to be truthful, accidentally let me see, another ancient hand written tome in the same language as LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO. It happened in the little library. One of the pieces in the wood paneling opened up... and there it was...wrapped in old linen, ostensibly from Ancient Sumer. But I have no idea if linen can last that long. The book itself isn't that old. Jonathon said it dates from the same era as 'VAMPIRISMO.' I don't know why he let me see it... or remember that I'd seen it. You know how they can 'obfuscate?' Vampires can make us lose memory. I'll bet some of YOU have had run ins or dealings with 'life-eaters' and don't know it. They might even be 'messing' with you right now... not this instant... but on-going... Some might have a feeling. Some might have an intuition. But most would not even suspect a thing. You see all the part about subsisting on living blood and 'culling' the wicked is only a small piece of it. I've just learned that. That's why I'm typing as fast as I can. I want to get this down before he 'dries' my memory, as he calls it. Even if he has a 'familiar' erase this, some of you (hopefully) will have passed it on. People might 'save' it somehow. I don't know how these things are done. My digital knowledge is very limited. Regulars among you know that. Will it even make a difference if I get this down? I hope. The title of that other book, or what they call it (I don't know if it's the actual title) is LA CIENCIA DE LAS ALMAS HUMANOS.... The Science of Human Souls.... That's where the lines - Everything is everywhere. What choices do you make?... come from. I know that now. I remember. Everything is about 'pathways.' Everything depends on 'maps'... 'soul maps.'.... I asked Edith about it. She said she didn't know... Papa's not around. I'd be too scared to ask him if he was. And I don't get any 'alone' time with Doctor Franklin, so he's out. When I ask little Annie (our wild child, toe eater vampire) she just grins and makes 'crazy eyes.' I don't know what to do. Last night (sometimes I sleep nights... sometimes days) I woke up to use the bathroom. It was close to dawn. The vampires were already 'sleeping.' All was in darkness. I proceeded down the hall to the toilet. But my feet felt numb... not really numb, just funny. I couldn't feel the floor. I couldn't feel the runner in the hallway. I couldn't feel the tiles in the bathroom. There was a penny on the floor. I probably dropped it earlier. Yet when I passed my foot over it, I couldn't feel it... like it was never there...like the grout lines between the tiles weren't there. I sat down on the lid to think. I got up again. The penny was still there. But I still couldn't move it or feel it... not with my feet.... I could stand. I could walk. But there was no contact with the floor. The skin of my soles flattened out on an unseen surface just above it. And someone, or some thing was rapping on the other side of that surface... not on the other side of the floor... on the other side of that unseen barrier... That, I know. Don't ask me how. But that I know. I left the bathroom... the light was still on... but then it 'disappeared'... Who knows how... But I still heard that rapping noise... I burrowed under the covers. I had an old Hebrew Bible Jonathon once gave me. It was in my night table. I got it out. The noises stopped. And I fell into a fitful sleep with it open across my chest. Even the hidden night-folk world has secrets. Some vampires know and some vampires don't. That's the honest truth. My God, don't believe what you read in novels. Don't believe what you see in cable network crap shows.... What are you, a thirteen year old girl? Look, this is all presented as fiction because that's how we agreed it'd be done. Let me go to sleep now. Let me try and go to sleep. I was supposed to 'channel' more about Jonathon's time with Jeanette (see last post) but obviously I never got to that. But PLEASE, if you can, put this post somewhere. Don't let him erase it. Don't let him 'dry' my brain.... That, he might do anyway. Though if this post goes on somewhere else, the story goes on too. And all I can think of are those lines - Everything is everywhere. What choices do you make? But REALLY... what choices DO you make? <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click bit.ly/297pDxg then click on the 'subscribe' rectangle up toward the right hand corner of the screen, because that's how we have to do it now. the site changed things... but it you want, you'll be able to scroll through all Vampire Wonderland episodes... click Twitter.com/wilkravitz to join me on Twitter... maybe leave a comment? thank you...
Before the coming of Sarah there were other consorts and I remember each and every one. Night-folk rarely forget. We sometimes pretend to forget, or attempt to hypnotize ourselves, but it does not work.
I am one with Old Muscovy and ashrams along the Western Ghats. I have prayed with friends and strangers everywhere. Vampires, especially long-lived ones are history books. We carry the truth within, like an eternal tattoo etched deep in every cell... I speak of my time in Restoration England only because I 'lived' there before coming here. Yet before London I knew other homes... You who are faithful to this record know that. I've shared secrets of Old Byzantium and the vampire academies of the Ottomans. I've known Hapsburgs since before they got into the king business. My likeness graces tapestries in ancient French chateaus. I saw little children snatched from their beds and thrown headfirst into wells till the cold, stone tubes were packed with the flesh of the innocents and the earth could take no more. We were brothers in The Faith, yet I did nothing.
Night-folk must be subtle. Loudmouths rarely thrive. But I prayed for their expedient entry into The World To Come. After all, what sins did they have?
And there was a woman, a young woman who silently approached the well. She knelt down in the mud, put her hands on the stones and whispered a prayer. I recognized the words. They matched my own petition, though I prayed in Hebrew-Aramaic and she beseeched God in the vernacular, a rustic strain of Norman French known to all on both sides of The Channel.
When she was done I spoke. I said - Did you lose a wee one tonight?... She was frightened. I could see her fear, but she shook her head and whispered - No, not in that way... Then why are you here? - I asked..... How could I not be? - she said.... I helped her get up... She looked at me and asked if I was the 'one' from the hermitage... I nodded. She nodded back. ... The 'hermitage' was a deep winding cave, often frequented by holy men. I, but the latest occupant. ... She whispered - Their mothers and fathers are dead, slain where they slept. None still live.... Then she ran away, back into the pre dawn shadows..... I stayed there for perhaps four score heartbeats. Did I say new prayers?... I suppose. You know me. That's how I am.
When the sun came up, he who held the castle in those parts sent out serfs and villains to burn the houses and the dead within. But first they took the currency. They always take the coins. That's how it's done. That's the reason why.
I slept little during the light-time, but I put it all down... a few pages... a chapter... the record of a massacre. It's in my journal... an old, vellum, heavy book. I still have it. How would I not?
And the night I met Jeanette bleeds from the lambskin page.
<the vampire, Jonathon, shares more next time>
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click - bit.ly/297pDxg to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland.. but you must now click the 'subscribe' rectangle near the top right hand corner of the screen when you get there. they changed how the site works...
Before I start, you know I'm real supportive on Twitter, so here goes---> click Twitter.com/MikeYungNYC ... He's the long time busker (subway singer) who did Unchained Melody on Twitter.com/jkcorden ... I just saw it on Thanksgiving Night... You may have seen it the first time. I think it might be a rerun... I don't know. Twitter.com/stephenathome was a rerun, so I guess this is too.
I hate talk show reruns. Bring back guest hosts. That's what I say. Like I think Twitter.com/jayleno should be permanent guest host for Twitter.com/jimmyfallon .... Maybe get Letterman to come back once in a while... Arsenio... Don't even call it 'guest host' night. Call it 'retro' night. I'm just sayin'.
I had a few paragraphs on here explaining why I put that Arlo Guthrie song up top, but the laptop 'lost' connection to the little wifi thing I have and they just (sigh) disappeared. Thought I saved it all. Boost 'portable' wifi stinks. It's frustrating. They rarely provide a strong signal. The people you get on the phone are from somewhere out in the Asteroid Belt. They promise EVERYTHING. They do nothing.
At least I'm watching FARGO on TV. All the gray cold and snow calms me down... like GROUNDHOG DAY, but not so cute and cozy and with more dead bodies. If this picture is at all based on real conditions, everyone in Minnesota and North Dakota must be snow blind. They go through life without a friggin' horizon line.
I like the accent, though. It's different.... Real homey... Like the Berenstine Bears must talk that way, or they should if that cartoon company had any sense. But you know how cartoon companies are. All they want is the money and the tie-ins. Half the characters are on crack... cartoon crack, but still...
The movie's over. Now the TV says we can all get rid of unwanted body hair right now, over the phone... No, wait. I must have heard wrong.
I like the music and the sound and the aura of FARGO... Coen Bros. must have been channeling Ingmar Bergman via Woody Allen in his CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS phase.
I hope President Elect Trump supports N.A.S.A., because I want to know what's out there..
OK, not I have to go to sleep, 'cause the vampires are starting to come home and when they sleep, we all have to sleep. You know how it is. They got real sharp hearing.
Good night.
<more next time>
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click RIGHT HERE to join me on Twitter... If you'd like to see other episodes of Vampire Wonderland, click OLDER POSTS down below, or just Google Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz... then ad almost any word to find a portal into all kinds of things. thank you...
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