They once sealed a vampire into a heavy, thirteenth century iron maiden made of lead. When it was shut and locked they wielded the seam with more lead. For the unfortunate life-eater sealed within there was no way out. Vampires cannot sublimate through that dense metallic substance. He sat there, forgotten, in the burial crypt of a semi ruined Austrian castle. Snow melt filtered down through the stones. He felt the cold. Thus he marked the seasons. Sometimes he dreamed. sometimes he didn't. The world turned 'round without him.
He's still there. The 'magic' rests differently on everyone. Some would dry and shrivel. But only some. I am Jonathon and I know many things. I feel them. I smell them. I taste them. And I sit here in our Philadelphia townhouse contemplating what I should share with you. There's so much... But let me just say this --- Truth usually comes at the beginning. So pay attention to our early writings. First utterances are the most accurate. All the really good words get used up. What comes after that rings hollow. It's like that with musicians... with poets and artists. The initial torrent runs clean and fresh. Subsequent trickles bear pebbles and sand.. Do you understand?
I've been practicing my 'expansions.' It's like sublimating. But when we sublimate the atoms of our beings diffuse only enough to allow us to pass through solid matter. Expansions are different. We grow like clouds. Each particle moves away from its neighbors like stars in the firmament. Of course you understand the universe is expanding too? Maybe that's just how it is? 'Entropy' and all. I rise up above the atmosphere unto the very portals of space and I expand till my outstretched arms reach Heaven's Door... figuratively speaking.... I rest like that, drifting toward the Moon.... an invisible human shaped thing perhaps twelve thousand miles long. The silvery orb a basketball . My fingers rake the dust.... Then I contract and come back home.
'Papa' says I may not feel compelled to feed much longer. though I'll still possess that ability. Am I afraid?... Of course. But life goes on. What comes next is also a new beginning.... Will I still be here? Certainly... Things take time. Ux Mal wasn't built in a day.Sarah, my consort, watches me.. Now please know she has abilities far in advance of most other six year old vampirinas. I created her. My blood is her blood. But I've witnessed more than a thousand years... Well, maybe not. But close to it.
She sits there, in her comfortable club chair doing needle point.... petit point, actually. Her eyesight is superb. With concentration, she can see microscopic creatures cavorting through a glass of tap water. I can see souls rise up from corpses. I can hear the shrieks and cries of those buried alive. That doesn't happen so much anymore, not in 'developed' western cultures. But when it does, I can hear them.
Edith, our 'witchy woman' housekeeper, hands me an 'old fashion' glass of chilled vodka... more than chilled, icy cold actually. I enjoy the sensation... Cold is good. Vampires love cold. Winter is our time.... long starry nights.
The summer solstice approaches. They say in the misty time of first beginnings, early vampires truly feared that event. What if the days continued to get longer and longer till nighttime was no more? They gathered for prayers and for what some might call 'feeding frenzies.' But that was far, far in advance of my time... Papa's time too... even the Lady Renate knew not those things, though we all heard stories.
I suppose 'Mr. Old Bones,' the only extant Neanderthal vampire I've ever encountered might know the truth? ___________________
With that, the life-eater known as Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea (both are equally valid) puts down his glass, exits the 'den,' proceeds through the entrance hall and leaves the house.
Sarah, his consort, waits for the door to click shut. It locks automatically. Vampire doors are always locked.
She exhales and returns to her craft.
<next time - magic even you can do>
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Your vampire friend, Jonathon ben Macabi, like this. He listen to it all the time. He think and he listen. Tried to get rid a y'all for a while. Had Billy throw that Illuminati tale at you. True stuff too. Got it from an old journal. Lawrence Edgerton was real. A lot of what we tell you is real. Thing is... y'all don't know which parts.
But nobody read it, or not 'nuff nobody. Y'all want blood. Gets like that in the summertime. Folks get hot. Get itchy. Get buggy. I Mister Never You Mind. Y'all know me. Just a disembodied spirit of a man what got throwed in acid 'bout ninety five years ago somewhere in Le Vieux Carre. Dat de Frenchie part a New Orleans. I was a Creole gentleman, or at least I dress like one. Had dem white suits and nice cool Panama hats. You know them hats not come from Panama? Get 'em little way passed Panama, down Ecuador way. I used to go down there for de white powder... de cocaine. Folks in Quito, dat de capital, like doing business wit America people, 'specially us Creole folk, 'cause we sorta speak they talk. Most Creole be a mash-up a Spanish an' Frenchie. Talk both ways. But I digress.
Jonathon tired. Night-folk (vampires) get dat way come June. Nights too short. Blood too hot. Dey like it hot, but not dat hot. He once make a gal take a cold bath 'fore he kill her. She say - What for I got take a cold bath?.... He say - 'Cause I say so.... She go - Humph.... He say - You take dat cold bath, I give you gold bracelet.... She say 'humph' again, but she take dat bath an' he give her dat bracelet. She wear it when he kill her. But then he take it back. What for she need gold bracelet when she dead? Not like she know what comin'. Ain't nobody know dat. I once knew a fellah walkin' by de boneyard get killed by a beer bottle from the sky. Aviator guy toss it out. Diss right after de Great War. Dem bastids think they hot shit. He got gal up dere wit him. She say - Whoopee! How 'bout you an' me get drunk, big boy?...... So they do. She get herself little bit knock up, but dat wit 'nother big boy.
Dey send me out here to talk to you first. Night-folk, I mean. Jonathon gone break some bastid's knuckles wit a hammer 'fore he kill him tomorrow. You know ev'ry finger got three knuckles... the big one what meet the hand and two little ones. Gone be lot a bone crackin'. Punishment fit de crime. Dat how it is... He got this thing he do, vampire fellah, I mean. Stand behind a guy. Put his right hand over guy's forehead, so head can't move. Then he hook his left hand over fellah's jaw an' rip it right off. Tongue too, most a the time. Dat for like a real big crime.
Vampire got they ways. You don't wanna cross 'em. They tear you right up. Not like gettin' throwed in no vat a acid, but still....
It gone be a long hot summer... an' if y'all want vampires, you gonna get 'em.
<more to come>
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also, please read the post right before this one, especially if you'd like to join an expanded version of this blog... go see what we mean.
This is Jonathon ben Macabi speaking, or Tomas de Macabea. Both truths are equally valid. I am the vampire 'star' of this site and in a sense its mascot. We've been here, on line, for six and a half years, detailing all types of fiction and fantastical escapes (well, at least we 'say' it's fiction) And we will continue to do so, but it's time to grow. That's where you come in...
Everything is everywhere... We believe that. In this digital plane of existence location is not a bar to anything. Light shines through every screen... hopefully some of it bounces off you. So join us. Pick a niche and write, or report, or interpret and tack your words up here. We already enjoy a somewhat respectable level of traffic. As of tonight, we're closing in on 400,000 hits. Considering most came in the last two years or less that's pretty good.
It's time for you to stake out a platform and fully inhabit your space. We're adding writer-reporters to our authorized contributor list. I think we're allowed one hundred.. A few we've already nominated. Many will nominate themselves. If videos are your thing, post videos... Cover food, or style, or cinema, or politics, or culture, or humor. Interview people. Share your links and any other sites you might have... Cover music. Post your own material... Discuss creativity with other creative people.
Switch niches whenever you want, just preface every post with --- KEYWORD MUSIC ... or KEYWORD POLITICS ... or KEYWORD CINEMA ... You get the picture. Make's it easy for browsers to search topics... example --- vampirewonderland.blogspot.com music.... All written posts should be at least 500 words. That's not our rule. Blogging experts say readers prefer 500 words or more. If you post video or audio material, you're the director. You pick the length... You decide how your by-line looks.. Does it come up top right after the keyword, or at the bottom? If you have a Twitter of FaceBook page, or any other social site add those links too. You can make them clickable. You'll see 'Link' on a bar at the top of the page when you write. Click on it. Very easy to figure out.
If you'd like to do this, click Billy's Twitter link just below all this and he'll set it all up.... Uh, I'm not 'Billy.' I'm Jonathon... remember?... OK.
There's a 'share' bar at bottom of each blog page. I'll get into how to use it later... but USE it... It works.
Till next time.....
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We've been experimenting and considering new things. Story arcs will still be a part of it, but so will a lot of other things.... non fiction... 'newsy' things.... critiques... opinions...interviews.... Still feeling our way around... Will be sending invitations to writers soon... Manhattan's Ron Woodard might be the first (his invite already went out).. If you're a regular reader or TWITTER inter actor<---- click here to communicate with me (us?) about this via Twitter.... Morphing (maybe, I hope) into #vampirewonderland (clickable) an Urbane 'Evening' Newspaper... as we always say ---- 'everything is everywhere'..... what do you want to say, or highlight, or share?.. What's YOUR niche?
We already have 'some' name recognition... Might as well stretch and grow...
Also note ---- you can cover goings on in ANY city on Earth.... arts.... politics.... film.... pop culture..... how to get a break... how not to get a break.....Everything is everywhere.... borders are merely an illusion....
Please think about this... If you like, go watch ALMOST FAMOUS for inspiration...
Lawrence Edgerton, in spirit form, shares more from his early years with the Illuminati-----
Besides Hefton, I made three other friends that night. They were all a bit older than I and called me 'little brother.' One was a 'lord,' since his father was an earl and, as elder son, he carried the secondary title. The other two were brothers hailing from an amazingly rich gentry clan. Now gentry families are a whole other thing. They bear no titles, but not due to any social deficiency. I suppose, they just don't need them. Everyone knows who they are. And not being peers allows them to pull strings in the commons, where it really counts. Besides, they often hold vaunted county seats, such as sheriff and that provides real power too. Tarlton, they were called. Twins, though not identical, if I recall correctly.
Why do I dwell on this?.... Well, that's due to what happened next. They took me to a secret establishment. London was filled with secret establishments, from hidden gambling dens to a variety of gimmicky whore houses and occult cellars where they (at least according to whispers) sewed live humans into the carcasses of gigantic Nile crocodiles, which were then slow roasted in a long narrow bed of red hot coals. They say a certain Upper Egyptian river deity appreciated the gesture and dispensed eternal largesse to all committed supplicants. Why they didn't just write him a nice fat check, I'll never know.
We went to a rare and new display, deep beneath the second cellar of an old country house (or what was once a country house) a bit to the west of Vaux Hall, a once esteemed pleasure garden with wine dispensaries, live music and lovely little boats for hire, as well as a festively decorated merry-go-round and other such fun-fair devices. The place sat off beyond a dark, secluded copse patrolled by armed guards. Some said a Scots Laird paid them, others a gentleman close to the throne. Wise men said nothing, as it was their place to know nothing.
That night we travelled incognito, in a nondescript hired coach, devoid of ostentatious trim. The coachmen was a mute illiterate. Any secrets he might know were sealed within his bones. The two bodyguards, brought up from Palermo and blood members of The Black Hand were the best that money could buy.. So we rode through the gardens and passed through the trees, till we came to the house (still a large commodious affair) and entered through a discreet, little kitchen door 'round the back...... A quick race down two or three turns of an ancient, spiral stair delivered us to the spot.... How many similar places hid among the rabbit warrens of London, I do not know. In that age they were numerous and well frequented.... You might call them 'television' and 'internet.' So feign not exalted honor at our expense. You do the like, though from a proper distance.
None were witness, save myself, my four companions and a master of ceremonies done up like a cruel, dandy clown. The walls, thick, white washed, rough hewn stone. In the center of the chamber was a large, black, cast iron cage with a small narrow passage going off to the right and a matching one going off to the left. They floor was strewn with straw. A miserly bit of dull, orange light fell down from lanterns widely placed about the space. The cruel clown whistled. A door opened and a whimpering naked wretch crawled forth from the sinister side out into the round cage.... No one made a sound.... The wretch, in a barely audible voice, whispered - Please..... but in vain. No rescue there that night.... The clown sighed and the remaining door burst open, releasing a bristling, bounding ape, brought hence from the banks of a river deep within the fetid depths of an equatorial jungle... How it shrieked and rattled the bars.... The victim curled up like a nut and tried to disappear, but the keen eyed beast already knew his scent and studied him . It hissed. The man screamed. The carnage was on.
First they go for the scrotum (true). Do you know how easy it is for a one hundred and eighty pound thing with two and a half inch canines to do that? The immediate and prodigious fountain of red is absolutely amazing. One can see the heartbeat in each and every pulse. Very often other sex parts come off with it. Death, due to exsanguination is a given. The straw was completely blood soaked. The ape's head resembled nothing so much as a crazed, candied apple. One or two of my companions downed swigs from cunning, little flasks.... Then the ruined fetal human babbled in an unknown language, reigniting the ire of the troglodyte, which grabbed the doomed meat sludge by its ankles and swung him around in complete circles, like a frightful ballerino committed to smashing as much bone as possible against the bars. Finally, the dizzy, stumbling ape settled down and proceeded to strip the flesh from the skull. We heard weak, little moans as it sucked out the eyes. Hard to stomach the fact that any measure of consciousness still remained.
The small door at the end of the passage to the right scraped open. The ape grabbed his dead 'toy' by the mandible and quickly disappeared back to its den.
No one moved...
After a heartbeat the cruel, dandy clown clapped his hands and giggled with delight.... We freshened ourselves at the kitchen pump (fortunately no one was splattered... they obviously had this show down to a science) and left.
The cool, night air through the slightly opened coach windows felt good.
And the sound of lurid hurdy gurdy music (a Vaux Hall staple) played us down the lane and out to the streets.
Tomorrow, or some day soon after, I'd see the Tarltons about an investment. My Illuminati mentors need their money to proceed.
And I think I know how to approach them..
That's how it was... Witness a murder, make a friend....
'Society' in the capital, circa 1830's......
<more next time>
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I hope the great and talented creator of musical culture responsible for this inspiring material begrudges us not for highlighting it here. But this disembodied spirit narrator burdened with the telling of the tale (for it is his tale) wafts through productions of the great composer's work all the time and wants you, oh best belov-eds, to think upon it.
Though that comes later...
Now we must return to Lawrence Edgerton (please know that the spirit was Edgerton) and what happened to him after the 'pleasurable' dinner and card came at Mivart's Hotel (the egg that grew into Claridge's) last time we met..... David Hefton (known as the 'second Beau Brummel') dropped him at the London townhouse he shared with his ersatz 'aunt' and left.
Inside, the selfsame lady sat in the main salon entertaining a late night visitor.... the man with the long, salt and pepper hair, indeed the gentleman who first brought young Edgerton 'out from the darkness' (an Illuminati term) a few weeks ago. They shared an aromatic Turkish hookah, as a large, wind-up music box played Gypsy folksongs in the corner. London culture in the 1830's still had a very 'romantic' bent. A soft glow from a pair of milk glass whale oil lamps bathed all in a most flattering way.
Edgerton nodded to the seated pair and joined them... The dapper, gentleman guest said - What's that smell? And I don't mean the ambergris scent from the lamps. It's something else.... The ersatz 'aunt,' herself a valued Illuminati 'light,' blushed and smiled, as the man went on... Is that some sort of perfume, or eau de cologne? And I don't mean that concoction the 'Little Corporal' favored, 4711, or whatever it was........ Edgerton didn't say a word.... I believe it is a perfume. Chantilly water if I'm not mistaken - whispered the 'aunt.'....... The visitor thought for a moment, smiled knowingly and chuckled.... Please forgive us, young sir. We're quite familiar with current practice. We know what goes on at those 'gentlemen's evenings' - said the guest..... Speak not for me - went the aunt. I am a lady..... But she ever so slightly rolled her eyes.....
The salt and pepper haired man reminded Edgerton that although true Illuminati plans and purposes were in no way evil or sinister, the world was not an innocent place. 'Lights' (members) sometimes stepped down from the high ground for the greater good. Then he referenced the Biblical story of Joseph, a well known Illuminati symbol of one who did just that.... a reverent Son of Jacob, who made his way in a scandalous, foreign society, thus saving his brethren from certain starvation, as well as saving the Egyptians too..... We are all Josephs - said the man.... And Josephinas - added the lady..... We do what we can, where we can and when we can to move the herd along. Some may hate us. Some may love us. But all need us - he added.
So Lawrence Edgerton went up to bed. His employer, Sir Charles de Castor expected him to be at his tasks by eight 0'clock and his Illuminati brothers and sisters expected him to learn the ways of 'the street' (financial district), as well as the habits of the powerful men who made their mark there.
The music box went quiet. The house was dark.
Before drifting off, young Lawrence could not help but think about the 'private girl' he'd met just a few hours earlier.
And that was it.
Let the game begin...
<more to come>
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Hotels are a new thing... urban 'manor houses' for those with a bit of social distinction, or the money to create the illusion of social distinction. They set up 'house' for a few evenings or a week, perhaps a month, if funds allow, and live a life of luxury. Mivart's is such a place. London's first major hostelry. Quite a step up from the plain, though comfortable Georgian inns, although some of them still enjoy a devoted clientele. Indeed, so discrete was the neo-classical façade that most actually took it for the city home of an aristocratic, well-off person of distinction.
My entre, my voucher, David Hefton, led the way. We ascended the grand staircase and proceeded down a wide, cream paneled hallway, lit by tall candles in crystal sconces, each surrounded by a sizeable cream framed mirror.... Why do I dwell so on such superficialities? I suppose I want the age to come alive for you. Mirrors were necessities back then, needed to reflect and multiply the illumination. Every floor had its 'sand boy,' even private homes, always at the ready to smother flames with a large, heavy pail-full of white Dover granules. For flames above the floor, such as those caused by mischievous sconces, there was a water boy... same job... different bucket. Should a ceiling alight, those that could escaped to the streets. Those that couldn't ran toward the windows and prayed.
Our era was tinged by the Enlightenment, though not by much. Urban poor often lived on pigeons or worse and prostitution was (no matter what churchmen said) better than starvation.
Now, let me get back on track.... I can use that term. Investment in railroads was beginning. The Illuminati promoted it. What better way to knit humanity together?
Hefton stopped before a pair of doors... cream colored, as usual. Oh, there was a bit of gold leaf applied here and there. 'Eggshell' does get tedious , thus the gory over reaction of the Victorian age yet to come.... Then he quietly knocked. A footman soundlessly let us in. The room, somewhat dim compared to the rest of the establishment was set up as a card room... five tables of gentlemen carelessly placing bets on the turn of a stiffened piece of thick, glossy paper..... I whispered to Hefton - How much is the buy-in? ... That term, I knew. Even country boys gambled. And I did have funds supplied by the 'beacon' (an organized 'chapter' of Illuminati).... Hefton (called 'the second Beau Brummel') smiled and said - Just sit down. Everything's been arranged.... So we took seats at a table occupied by four gentlemen recently graduated from university. Hefton made the necessary introductions. Another footmen gave us each our buy-ins and that was it. Not much different than the last time we spoke. Society was like that. One met a group... sized everyone up and was sized up in return.
Those in attendance were men of wealth, either their own, or some senior relation's... But the important thing is they could get it... should the right organization apply the proper amount of pressure.
So I played cards that night... I ate delicious cold, rare roast beef served Bavarian style with horseradish and pickled slaw..... I drank chilled Rhine wines. In the 1830's chilled wine was a true luxury and quite a delight.
Before play resumed, 'private girls,' as they were called, dressed in corsets and scanties, took their place under each table, surprising every guest in turn. Some closed their eyes. Some giggled. Others just stared into space and gasped for air.... How did I react?... With dignity and aplomb, I must say. I do remember that 'our' private girl was a quite striking Amazon named Charlotte... I did not know that then, but I learned soon enough...
'Dame' Charlotte, as she was called, proved a true friend... and a genuine virtuoso (is there a feminine suffix for that word?) in the persuasive arts.
Now, please let me streak about the universe, as disembodied spirits do. I have an appointment west of The Pleiades.
Edgerton out...
<more tomorrow> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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