The Book of Sarah

Sarah reminded me that Annie was not born in Philadelphia. She was born in California. That's where the Shaky Hand Man incarnated. So why was it so important for him to come here? Were there not enough appetizing targets out there? I find that hard to believe. I am aware of what goes on. I see TMZ. I watch Entourage. What is it about our city that brought him here? The Pow Wow Woman says he's probably here to prevent a birth. He needs to get to us, among his other targets, because we're doing something to bring that birth about. So I am thinking... who are we helping? Who has been receiving the little blood kisses? Who drinks the 'elixir' filled vials? We each have our favorites. Am I assisting the woman who is to bear this child? The father who will provide for it? Some other interested party? And is it one of my clients? Maybe it is someone connected to Baylah, or Sarah, or Bob? It is a mystery. We must think. We must talk. What is it that the enemy desires? He hates progress. He hates progress of all kinds. He has targeted activists in the past, usually those who would be termed liberal or progressive and even those conservatives who believe in an equitable leveling of the playing field. I will think of it. I will find it. What would change if we were not here? Would he still devour (not him actually, but the dogs, or occasionally the rats) the random strumpet. I don't know. I do not think his heart is really in that. No, we are the meat upon his platter. The others are merely the potatoes or perhaps  those insipid little garnishes they drop onto the rims of over-sized plates in jumped-up, sit-down, fast-food restaurants. I know they killed a lot of vampires during the renaissance. The enemy tried everything back then to stop the reawakening. Nobel vampires were included in all the best after dark autos da fe. The flames showed up so much better then. And the anguished shrieks  seemed  to echo better in the still, night air. Imagine a twelve year old girl condemned to the stake. Me? Well, I do not have to imagine it. I witnessed it. And when I went after the greasy, hate-ridden, superstitious minded simpletons who implicated her I did so with relish. It was one of the few times I culled those not sent to me in visions. And I liked it. I enjoyed it. Their screams were as music. Their tortured cries a lark-song. Little cuts. Tiny bites. Trickles of acid. Nibbling rats. Hungry lepers. Rabid cats. The 'dance' went on throughout the night. And by the morn the wrong was right. And best of all, I did not have to do the clean up. My familiars took care of that.... I am not proud of such transgresions. But what is it they say? Everyone falls off the waggon now and then. Anyone can suffer a crisis of faith. ..... The Pow Wow Woman wants us all to quit the city for a time and retreat with her back to the deepest part of the dense, pine forests. She wants us to take part in a 'throwing of the bones,' a most potent Piney tool that reveals the future in all its countless, onion skin layers. I don't know. I think that we should go. A crisis of faith is one thing. But this is major unrepentent paganism...... Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The Book of Sarah

This is our plan. We all agree. We must kill Annie. No one likes it. But it has to be done. At least it will give us some breathing time. And who can say that our enemy will reappear in a human vessel in Philadelphia? He may reincarnate through some poor soul in Jakarta, or Lisbon or on some other world altogether. I'm sure the prey we provide here is not unique. We are not so special. There must be bigger fish to fry. Yet we are charged with frying a little fish, a six year old girl with stringy hair and painfully skinny legs. I have never killed or taken part in the killing of a child. And believe me, the brutal conditions in medieval, supposedly 'God fearing' Europe produced countless numbers of murderous, feral ragamuffins. But I never harmed them. They could not help it. Such was their culture. Father forgive them. They know not what they do. There are many occasions for that prayer, especially in our own time. So who will do the deed? I think it will be Bob. It is strange. I now know that his true name is Lyle, but I cannot call him that, any more than the others can call me Jonathan. I guess we are just creatures of habit and so I am Tomas. Sarah has purchased the most cunning of gifts for the cherubs (and for the elves too). They zip through the air decked out like carriage trade yuppie babies with superpowers. But according to those yuppie braggarts, all their babies have superpowers. Yet I am partial to our own. Yes, our own. We have come to view them as our children. They are orphans with none to protect them. We are men and woman with none to protect. The connection is completely understandable and quite natural to all parties concerned. For the time being we've set them up in an abandoned storage building deep in the forests of Fairmount Park. Sarah, Baylah and their other mothers both magical and human  have transformed the space into a veritable vampire wonderland. But for juvenile vampires, little vampires, not for such as we. They have bright, upholstered chests (their beds) fit for a legion of teletubbies. Warm, thick, comfy carpets grace the cold, slick concrete floor. And viniettes of the finest in nursery furnishings find their places amidst the storybook splendor. The whole is liberally peppered with enough toys and games to satisfy the wants and desires of even the most spoiled mortal spawn. The cost? Do not worry. Our coffers are deep. True we only feed but once a month.And just how far will a purloined Rolex or wallet filled with hundreds go. But remember, we also share our blood with the worthy. We preserve the lives of those souls meant to live. Not all of them are poor. Some are quite rich. Money is not necessarily a bar to goodness. And very often one of our wealthy recipients graciously provides us with a portion of their earthy treasure. Well, I don't mind telling you that I am very easy to shop for. Treasure always works for me. And for the others too I might  add. It's not as if we keep it all for ourselves. Many are those who have benefited from our largesse. And hopefully, if we are able to foil our Enemy and survive we will be able to help many, many more.

The Book of Sarah

Baylah's place closes at two in the morning, so it's just us now. We're holding our meeting here. A few drunks see the light leaking out from between the window curtains and try to come in. But Edith, the Pow Wow Woman cracks open the door and slips them one of those little airline bottles. Then she sends them on their way. She's a good person. I'm pretty sure I have eleven or twelve thousand dollars in my purse and if I'm right a six carat, square cut emerald that looks pretty nice. I must remember to give it all to her before we leave. Oh, and Morticia too. She and her friends are real sweethearts. You should see how she blew out my hair. Just like what's her name from the CMA awards. I'm afraid to go to the hairdresser's. They touch you and get all intimate and all and tell you about their no-good, dead beat, baby daddy and they stink from cigarettes. Plus, a lot of them belive in all this magic crap. They think they're witches. I don't know, maybe a few of them are. That's what scares me. I don't like a bunch of living people all up inside my business. They might 'type' me and I can't deal with that. I am nervous enough as it is. Why am I talking this way? Sarah never talks this way? Well Tomas and I got here early. We've been sitting at a little table back in the corner for about three hours. Tonight was jazz night. And you know how it is. That kind of music just gets to you. But now it's just us, the vampires and Edith. Some of the elves are hear too, Albion and two of his girlfriends. Morticia and two of her BFF's. They look more 'living dead' than we do. Oh, and there's an adoreable little cherub flitting about with a dust rag cleaning up around all the ceiling light fixtures. Chubby little thing. I'm going to buy them some nice, little outfits at BabyGap, the cherubs I mean. I don't care how immune they are to the cold. Winter time is winter time. And a mostly naked little baby buzzing along over the El tracks just don't look right. Annie is apparently active again. The killings have started. A crazy hooker and an intern hooker up on Spring Garden Street. Two Gypsy fortune tellers on North Ninth Street. I suppose their powers of precognition were not what they were meant to be. Bob isn't here. He thinks he's going to be next. But Baylah tells him considering his past, they (our enemy) probably don't want to kill him. They want to recruit him. This makes him even worse. So he does what he always does when he's nervous. He runs to the casino. Tomas gave him twentyfive thousand in cash. And now he's in Atlantic City blowing it all in the high-roller video poker parlor at The Borgata. Bob can never remember what he does with his own stash. One time, last March, some cleaning woman at the cosmetic surgery center of Jefferson Hospital  found threehundred and twelve thousand dollars under the bed of a sixtyfour year old sun damaged bitch in for an ass lift. She told her family a leprechan gave it to her. Don't ask how it got there. But let's just say that the wrinkled hag's doctor, or the surviving partner, I should say, is doing a lot more charitable pro bono work these days. Sometimes when he wants to be, Bob can be all right. I'll let you know what we decide to do. But I have to switch my seat. My little cherub boyfriend is letting the dust fall right onto my new hairdo. Ooooh! Look at his little face. See? He knows he did wrong. How could anybody stay mad at a huggable little bundle like that?

The Book of Sarah

I am quite aware that Baylah wants to share more of her melodramatic life. But what  do I care? I am the disembodied spirit, the universal narrator. I break in whenever I want to and  the hell with everyone else. If they don't appreciate my commentary and clarification then take this show to video. But no, I stand corrected. For even those supposedly desperate house fraus make with a lot of voice-overs. So get used to it. I'm no different than that voice at the supermarket that tells you when  tomatoes are on sale or they need some part-time kid to mop up toddler piss on aisle six. You get it?.... Good, because little do you know what I'm whispering in other people's ears about you!......Now, back to the real world. Annie still languishes in her mummy closet prison. She's developed a lot of strength in her wrists from unscrewing all those Snapple bottles. See? Even something as tragic as this has a bright side. And due to the contimuous stream of quiet, mumbled conversations between she and the dessicated Egyptians, her knowledge of ancient Coptic has increased exponentially. She even calls one of the grotesque corpses 'mom-mom.' But look, someone is fiddling with the lock. Someone is trying to open the door. Annie garps. She puts down her tough as shoe leather dollar menu burger and waits. Even the mummies stop their barely audible jibber jabber. The door finally opens. It's the Shaky Hand Man. He gestures with his palsied mitt and says - Come. Annie slowly uncurls her cramped, stiff body and struggles to stand up. Oh, jeez! She bumped the slop bucket. Look at her little legs. I can't take it anymore. She steadies herself and exits this chamber of horrors. Her former 'roomies' whisper heartfelt good-byes and best wishes. The ancient Kemeti (true name for ancient Egyptians) had such fine manners. She looks up into the face of her puppet master. It is hard to see the details in a dark and shadowy basement passage. But she knows what he's like. She's seen him before. He rests his hand on the back of her frail and vulnerable neck and guides her along.  She asks - Are we going out? He answers - Yes. They progress through the low, weak somber illumination of a museum at rest, weaving their way through the pagan treasures and gruesome idols of long gone (we hope) murderous dieties. As they come to the large and formal entrance hall, the heavy bronze portals leading out to freedom slowly open. They step out into the cold, nighttime air. She takes a clean,pure breath and exhales a nimbus of warm, moist vapor. They descend  the granite steps and proceed along the deserted thoroughfare.  A huge black hound trots out of an alley and approaches, carrying  a warm coat clenched tightly in its iron jaws. Annie takes the coat. She says - Thank you. She puts it on. It feels good to be warm. She finds gloves and a scarf in the pockets. She puts them on too. And she and the hound and the puppet master continue on their way. But  if you were following them and watching this progression, your eyes would detect  only Annie and the hound for the puppet master is nowhere to be seen.

The Book of Sarah

This is Baylah talking. I don't think I've spoken to you directly that much. But tonight I feel chatty. And there are things I am compelled to say. First of all, I want you to know who I am. I want you to know me as a discreet personality and not merely 'the black girl in the cast.' This isn't a Star Trek movie or episode. I won't be the first one killed, not if I can help it. Sometimes I just keep my mouth shut because I'm thinking. I am studying the situation. No need to be haisty. I learned that during my time as a slave. It was only for a few years. But memories like that tend to stick with a girl. My father was a prince. Some say he was a king, but no, my grandfather, the high-king, the asantehene was still living. And as my father's mother was not most-favored-queen, I do not think he would ever have received the sacred vessels. But I enjoyed a charmed existence never-the-less. Our smooth, cool stucco palace had many courtyards. We drew our water (actually, our slaves did) from the most god-blessed of the wells. Our garments were made of the richest Ming Dynasty silks brought overland from the Somali coast, not to mention our own much coveted kente cloth. Gold was as silver to us. And silver was as brass. What did we lack? Nothing. Kumasi, our capital, was world famous for its vast marketplace. Every type of possession from the basest clay pot to the finest human was readily available. Schlars from all points under The Great Carver's gaze made their way to our accademies where they studied our poetic, Akan tongue. Timbuctu? What was that dusty place, but the dry abode of arid minded people? Elizabethan London? I think not. Hampton Court holds little charm to a resident of The Palace of Thirty Perfumes. Maybe the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan could have given us a run for the money. But they knew nothing of us. And we knew nothing of them. Sultry dry season evenings spent on the royal barge upon The River Niger. Exquisite, intoxicating beverages rendered from the sweetest mangoes. My life was rich. But there was a spider in the bananas and she was one of my 'aunt' mothers, another royal wife burdened with a daughter much less accomplished and comely than I. Now my grandfather intended to marry me to a Tuareg prince, inorder to forge a dynastic union between our two peoples.  I was to be the link in the chain. But 'auntie'  dispaired of such a match. She was jealous and wanted her own plain as yam paste girl child to take my place in the tents of the dashing desert heir. So what was I, but another Joseph in yet another tale of hatred and betrayal? Coins changed hands. Promises wre made. Servants were subverted. And I was spirited away from my perfect home to be sold as a slave in the brutal markets of the Ivory Coast. It would have been a hard, punishing experience for any young girl. For a princess, it was absolute torture. Perhaps I will find it in me to whisper the details some other time. But for now, just know that I endured the 'middle passage,' only to emerge as the coseted pet of a spoilt French- Creole in Old New Orleans. And after a time I learned she was more than French... more than a Creole... and more than a human... Indeed, she made me into the creature I am today. Forgive me, but I must stop now. The patrons down in the piano bar are calling for me. They want me to join them in a song... Who can sing in times such as these?... I can... I have to. Come back tomorrow and I will tell you more.

The Book of Sarah

We are seated around a small coffee table in the front parlor of our new townhouse, Tomas, Albion and I. Yes, Albion. I know him now, at least officially I do. He was dressed as a lithe, young Christmas Elf. The outfit was quite adorable. Even 'Buddy' had none better. And he was smiling and capering about before a stout, old woman attempting to raise money for The Salvation Army. I think it was the music of her bell that initially attracted  him. But he does have a heart and so he stayed to help the woman achieve her task. Bundled pedestrians thought he was part of the show and after a bit that little red kettle was filled with one dollar bills, some larger denominations and a few leftover Halloween coupons for junior frosties at Wendy's. Tomas and I watched his inspired performance from a distance, sheltering in the entrance alcove of a massive high-rise. Tomas said - Look... The little one... He is one of us.You've seen them. You've seen the like before around the city, no? Now I did recall him mentioning them, the elves and cherubs I mean, from time to time, but I really did not know too much about them.Tomas said - Watch. He changed his stance, tilting his head just a bit. He cleared his throat. The elf-princling heard. He noticed and he looked up. Tomas took my arm. We walked forward. The woman with the bell paid us no mind, staying focused on her purpose. The pedestrians ? Well those Center City magnates were far too important to bother with the likes of us. Tomas was not wearing standard, accepted business attire and I was a little too free spirit sporty for them as well. You know the type, like Regis and Joy (both of whom I truly quite like) rushing off to nibble at some three hundred and fifty dollar dinner presented amidst the latest in sang froid elegance. Well screw them. We've nibbled on far more expensive fare. Fresher too. Anyway, the fine featured young one did notice us. He stopped his cavorting and came forward to meet us. We shook hands, a bit warily, but sincere just the same. I think I know you - said Tomas.. But before he could contimue the juvenile responded - Albion. I am Albion, sir. Yes, yes, I remember. And this is my dear consort, Sarah ......I nodded. Albion bowed deeply.. I offered my hand and he kissed it. I said - Please walk with us. Come, we are returning to a warm, cozy hearth. Join us. Savor a spiced candle. I'm sure we have a scent you would like..... And so we strolled back to the townhouse. Two stylish, young 'townies' and their yuletide attired  son. Perhaps he is in a play? ........ Perhaps we all are. And now we sit here talking, making plans, plotting intrigue and hopefully forging an alliance to see us through these trying times. What could this flesh and blood Peter Pan do for us? What weapons would he and his siblings bring to the battle? And is it truly fair of us to ask?

The Book of Sarah

Poor, little Annie. Her true, human psyche will need a lot of work. There, there, don't cry little girl. It will not help you. So don't even bother. Close your eyes and imagine happy things... if you can remember any. It is I, the will -o-the-wisp, the disembodied spirit. I feel for the tiny bundle of meat and bones.  That second rate puny spirit holding her hostage has her locked in a seldom used storage closet tucked away in a dark corridor down in the second basement of University Museum on thirty fourth street. Her only company a quartet of partially unwrapped, low status, dusty Egyptian mummies. And as we all know, some of those preserved, dead Egyptians can be very, very dull. The pathetic ragamuffin has managed to push them back a bit in order to carve out a beach head for herself. She sits curled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth in the darkness, as salty tears roll down her cheeks. Once every day or two the door opens and someone (I don't know who) throws in a sack of horrible, flat, dried up 'burgers' from some dollar menu. The mummies would make a better meal. There's also a case of Snapple juice drinks that gets replenished from time to time. At least that's made from the good stuff. Her toilet? A bucket. I haven't seen the like since  death trains ferried martyrs to the test  in the Europe of the nineteen thirties and forties. He's holding her. He's keeping her stored away. Oh, he will use her again. And she will be grateful for even that illusion of freedom. But for now she waits, chained to a rock just outside the entrance to the caverns of hell. Tomas and Sarah moved. They have a new place now, another tiny, secluded, jewel-box of a townhouse set up by one of his lawyer familiars. The lawyer's wife decorated it. She got a fat commission check too. Thinks it's for a 'dedicated' relocating pediatric surgeon from France. Since it was a rush job, everything had to be bought right off the floor. No special orders. So it looks a little like a high priced suite in some faux Federalist boutique hotel. But Tomas says he's willing  to put up with that, since he (and Sarah too, I guess) can always make things right in the future. Tomas culled a victim (some brutal pimp) behind one of the massive, gray stone towers supporting the Ben Franklin  Bridge. I'm telling you, the name and image of old Ben is all over this place. He's like Snow White in Disneyland. I guess that's what Donald Trump will be like for New York. Sarah has been running into some of the elves and cherubs. I think Albion has a thing for her. She doesn't know that much about them, but they seem to be drawn to her. I don't remember. Did Tomas ever take her to meet them or did he just talk about it? Perhaps I will search the asashic records. But right now I feel lazy. Maybe I'll drift into The Forrest Theatre and take in a performance of Jersey Boys, or slip under the security gates at the municipal prison (you know... where L'il Kim lived) and watch the dumb thugs in the holding pens knife each other. Either way, it should be quite a good show.