I have to think fast. They know my familiar. They know who that wilkravitz person is. I'm channeling to him. He's sitting in the library right now, but one of my enemies grows suspicious. I must work fast. The vampire lifted me up and carried me out of the smoky ruins. I was near death, very near to the end, for I was already entering the River of Radiance. But he took me into a sheltered place near the town wall and that's where he did it. That's where he made me into what he was. I know now that he could have simply given me a saving draught of his miraculous blood, but he did not do that. He could have saved me and sent me back to my father's camp, but that was not to be. When I woke up to the night world I choked and coughed up great clots of dampened ash and blood. He chuckled quietly and ponded my back. When I finished he hoisted me up over his shouled and carried me out of the town and into the surrounding woodlands. No one paid us any mind. Just a couple of drunken Crusaders going back to camp after a night of fun. He entered a cave. I was afraid to so much as move. I think I held my breath the whole time. But what was oxygen to me? Did I even need it anymore? I think not. Even now, I only breathe out of habit. The rhythm comforts me. He proceeded into a series of tunnel, dark, but I could see. It was like a maze. How would I ever find my way out? We must have been at least a  half mile into the earth. We came to a larger space. It was like the lairs of dragons one reads about in stories. Treasures were heaped all about us. Gold and jewels glittered in the soft light from creamy candles. He threw me down onto an old, gilded, Roman divan. And that's when I heard the muffled screams coming from somewhere deeper inside.

THE MARTYRDOM... plucked from the ashes

Do you promise to accept this as fiction? During a lull in the hymn singing (their cantor was very good, actually) we heard the pounding roar of hoof beats, as a hoard of newly minted Crusaders galloped into the town, only to dismount . They shouted to each other in a dialect I could not understand. But it all happened so fast. The native Jews inside seemed prepared for what was to come.In the few seconds of silence, I studied the simplistic, scriptural paintings adorning this place, Solomon and the other kings, an archangel or two. Very different from our Moorish influenced Beit Sefer in Granada. Johannan slid close to me. There was a loud, pounding sound, like rocks slamming against the great oaken doors and monstrous hail stones assaulting the roof, as volley after volley of stout fire-arrows rained down upon us. There was no escape. In seconds this house of prayer was engulfed in flame. The people inside softly began to intone the prayer for the dead. I just sat there. I was not used to persecutions like this and knew not what to do. Some tried to smash through the small, stained glass windows, but they were instantly shot dead and the rush of air racing into the breech only served to fan the flames. Johannan grabbed me and threw me under the heavy, stone table holding the scrolls of the Bible. I was surrounded by what looked like fiery human automatons. Some just sat there. Others prayed. The sad little boys just prior to their consecration (bar mitzvah) huddled together and wept.  Death was all around me. I passed out from the noxious fumes, but did not die. And a bit later, in the smoking ruins,  was found by a being who I eventually learned to be a vampire.

The Book of Sarah

What is it I always say? Oh, yes, about this being fiction. You know the drill. Now, while we were proceeding up the east coast of Iberia to the vineyard/manor of the great biblical scholar, Rashi, in the south of France, Crusader fever had begun to grip what passed for the hearts of the local Trinitarian populace. We were camped for the night, just over the border of the Christian, Visigothic kings in the north of the peninsula , and in the domain of some Provencal noble. I do not remember his name, but do not worry. He is of no importance. There was a town nearby that styled itself a city. I was eager to visit one of the grey stone municipalities of the north and set off with one of our retainers  to explore this exotic site. We were dressed in the manor of well born travelers. My creed was my own business. Upon entering this  country town, I was struck by the abundance of foliage. It was quite different from what I was used to in Al Andaluz, in the south of Iberia. The edibles and wares hawked by village worthies seemed attractive, but I was bound to follow a righteous diet and could partake of none of it. Well, maybe I would have fudged things a little and eaten a bit of fish, or tasted a tankard of ale, but Johannan, our retainer would have none of it. He espied the local synagogue, which was quickly filling with fellow believers to celebrate the birthday of some sainted regional sage, so we joined the throng and went in. The service was similar to ours. The chanting was a bit different. The order a little off, but what could we expext from these pre-Frenchie Jews? Come back for the next post. I'll tell you more.

The Book of Sarah

First of all we must agree that what comes next is fiction. What did I want to share with you? Oh, yes, let me tell you how I first contracted the divine disease. As I stated earlier, I was about eighteen years old. We were on our way up the east coast of Iberia, where I was to study with the great biblical scholar, Rashi, at his vineyard/manor house in the south of France. My father's tents were rich and commodious. Thirty retainers rode with us, including a dozen men-at-arms. I was mounted upon the young stallion given me by the son of the Caliph himself. None dared molest us. We were accepted in the great halls of Trinitarian lords, as well as those belonging to our fellow unitarian Muslim neighbors.This was a golden age, a symbiosis of three spiritual interpretations, a fountainhead of philosophy and learning. But  ugly cracks were beginning to appear in the alabaster facade of our rarified world . Not only on the facade, but in the very foundation itself. Demons of intolerance were busy whispering in dirty ears up and down the continent of Europe. Bands of common brigands swarmed onto the crumbling Roman hyighways, stirring up the peasantry and lesser nobility. They demanded a holy war of conquest, a blessed slaughter of all infidels, and the establishment of a Trinitarian kingdom, ruled from the radiance of Mount Zion itself. Ruled from the navel of creation. Ruled from Jerusalem. And as a show of piety, they killed every Jew, Muslim and Trinitarian heretic they found along the way.. Needless to say, they found us. Look to the next posting, for there you will learn more..

vampire wonderland... the book of sarah

Blessed art Thou, O Creator-King, Who enables me to share this truth~~~. This is how I help people. This is how I make up for taking lives, even when those lives are meant to be taken. My blood can also save people. It has certain qualities of preservation. I have cartons of these little vials. They used to use them for perfume samples not too long ago. I have thousands of them. I slice into a finger tip with an old fashioned razor blade and dribble a few drops of my wondrous elixir into the tiny, glass tube. Then I seal it shut with a bit of wax taken from dime store birthday candles. I stuff a few of them down my shirt and go on my way. I walk by houses and feel the lives of those inside. When I stumble upon a deserving soul I sublimate through the wall and go inside. There is a speech that I say... 'Fear not. I am sent to balm your wounds. I am here to make all things right.' They think I'm a guardian angel  of some sort. Well, I am. I'm the sort of guardian angel that is actually a guardian vampire. So what? Who cares? At least I get results. The subject usually bursts into tears. I comfort them, while managing to dribble a few drops of my red medicine past their lips. Afflictions vanish. All is well. Spiritual strength is renewed. And I even fill their coffers too with whatever I scavenge from my evil victims. One poor grandmother with two toddlers to manage got a stack of one hundred dollar bills from some drug dealer, plus the deed to a condo in Atlantic City, New Jersey, complete with the keys and everything. It was all legitimate. I have an advocate who helps me. You'd be surprised at the people who help me. Some of them do it because they believe in my work, others to keep  me away from their door, or their throats actually. There's an old grizzled man who sleeps on steam vents. He's been homeless for eleven years. I slipped a solid gold, diamond encrusted Rolex watch on his wrist a few nights ago (from a shady, extortionist doctor), along with a pocket full of loose cut, high-quality emeralds. I seem to remember that the total worth was somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Then I woke him up and arranged for a suite at a fine hotel. It's easy to mesmerize desk clerks. He saw the watch and not the filthy sleeve above it. When last I heard, my grizzled ward was keeping company with the widow of a wealthy real estate developer and they were contemplating a small investment in Belize. In a few nights I'll be due for my monthly feeding. I'm starting to feel the hunger. During the day, during the time when I leave this world, I have visions. I see the image of my next meal. Each night the picture grows ever clearer, until I know the soul and all their faults. Then I just go out and do my duty. Such is life... or death in my case. Oh, look. There is my favorite Starbucks. I think I will go in (remember, it is a familiar of mine who transcribes this. I communicate with his mind, while I am free to wander at my leisure). The lovely young girl inside thinks I remind her of some curly haired swain on a television show called Entourage. I will have to watch it sometime. Oh, I am so very vain. The other girl, the one in the clothier's, tells me I look best in Dolce and Gabbana. Who am I to argue? What I could tell her about the goods vended in the souks of Marrakesh. But for now, I will just snuggle into a deep, leather chair near the fire (conditioned air makes it bearable) and contemplate my meal. Who knows, perhaps it will be you? The aroma here is so like what I remember in the coffee houses of old Granada. Let me un focus my gaze for a moment or two and lose myself in my thoughts. There is a land where dreams are born. I know, for I have been there. And I seem to think that some of you have wandered through there too.

The Book of Sarah

Here's a peek at the beginning ------ My, how Tomas/Jonathon has grown!------First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. You have to accept this. Please, you  must. You do not know. Please... I am in hiding. Even for a 'vampire' I am in hiding. There are secure places. I have them all over the city of Philadelphia. I am writing this through my 'familiar.' He is that wilkravitz fellow . I can send my mind up out of my body. I send it to him and he does what I say. He was eating lunch in an all you can eat Chinese style buffet when I occupied him. Now he is sitting in a public library frantically typing away, while irrate young ruffians await their chance to play games and turn their own minds into jelly. They are after me. They want to destroy me. I do not understand this world. I do not know why. I have never so much as harmed one soul. Countless bodies maybe, but a soul, never. You would think that after almost one thousand years, I would have this all figured out, but everything keeps changing all the time. Just when I get used to a century it's all gone. Do you know anybody who needs any powdered wigs or stove-pipe hats? I believe I have a trunk or two stuffed with bell-bottom pants if you want them. Can you imagine the tag sale I could have? Right now, I'm in the long forgotten, dusty toy department of the buried Gimbels subway store. I like it. I can forget my troubles here. Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys and Legos... They are wondrous. I have reconstructed our old villa in Al Andaluz. It's quiet here. It calms me. Except for the passing subway caravans, I hear nothing... at least not with my ears. Sarah... I want to be with Sarah. I will abandon this wilkravitz person soon and fly to her. She is worried about me. Soon it will be dark. I will leave then. Inshallah, they will not see me. Maybe I will be strong enough to sublimate? Maybe I will  be able to  pass through the solid matter of the world and appear by her side. There are things she has to know. For they who seek to extinguish me , would do the like to her. Please believe me. I have never harmed a soul. No one can harm a soul. their fate rests in the Hands of God. Am I still a believer? Of course. Faith never dies. I am looking at the small, plastic recontruction of my boyhood home. It is a balm to my senses. Yet it reminds me of that fantastical trip and how I came to be. Let me catch my breath. Let me relax and float back down to the floor. This nervous levitation tires me. I like to feel my own weight. I like to have my feet on the ground. I can hear the fire of the sun. It is beginning to pass 'round to the other side of the world now. Perhaps I will soon be able to leave this land of dead, dry, dusty playthings? Perhaps... and then the real games can begin. I am done here, for now. Let the ruffians come and have their fun. Who cares? They'll soon be jelly.Corpses get that way, you know....

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First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. The coming of Sarah. ... 'Sarah' the name means princess , as in Sarah, the wife of Abraham. She is believed to have been the daughter of a pre-Celtic tribe, called the Hurrians, a semi-nomadic people found throughout the eastern Mediterranean. Fair Sarah she was called. Desired by kings. Coveted by princes, but given in marriage to the first patriarch and thus the spiritual mother of us all. My Sarah is just as comely. She is tall and willowy, with auburn hair and eyes like a renaissance madonna. And in her own way, she too has become a spiritual mother. I found her amidst the rare and enchanted volumes of a tiny, cluttered bookshop. It was called Philadelphia After Dark, as it opened with the gloaming and closed up with the dawn. A place for all those who could not sleep... or did not sleep, at least not during the night. She sat behind an antique, wooden counter, absorbed in a classic tale, when I first went into the shop. The floors were old, softened wood and they creaked and moaned with a century of wear. Narrow. winding aisles lead to forgotten tomes and arcane codexes .A collection of old wall clocks quietly ticked thier way into eternity. I could see a dusting of late autumn snow dance down through the multi-paned shop window. But I only stayed in there a moment or two and quickly retreated back out to the cold, gray cobbles, afraid of what I might do. But I knew her now and she was part of my existence. Fair Sarah. My Sarah. My maiden of the night. And that is how it began.... Please, let me just sit for a while. It all comes rushing back. But I promise to tell you more. But please, just let me rest. I need to be still. I need to count my dreams.