Stage Flight


The last time I took to a stage was when I was about 9 years old.  I don’t  remember what the play was, just one of those school plays that we were expected to take part in as a portion of our learning experience.  One that was supposed to be fun and rewarding.  As we grow older, we learn that if someone must tell us that something is supposed to be fun and rewarding, we should probably turn and run as fast as we can in the opposite direction.  For this person, we shall learn, just wishes to use us to justify their existence and will use us in whatever capacity they see fit to accomplish their goals.

I was one of the chosen ones.  I was doubly chosen, as it was decided that I needed to be placed in a more prominent role due to the fact that I would get lost in the crowd if I was not.  Plus, my mother made it known that I had taken both ballet and tap dance lessons.    Another of those cruel jokes played on children whose parents are intent on molding their child into their personal fantasy design. I didn’t mind the tap lessons so much though;  shoes that make clickety-clack noises are quite fun and give you a perfectly legitimate excuse to be a noisy annoyance to the parent that forces you to these lessons when you would rather be collecting frogs and snakes.   She was later to add insult to injury by forcing me to take modelling lessons as well.  But, I held true in disappointing her from even a young age.  I was never able to transform  into the next Shirley Temple, I was never to become the next Miss America and I never married a doctor.  I was a complete let down!  However, all of this was sufficient to impress the mistress of the play into placing me into this prime role on the stage.

I was a tiny wisp of a thing back then.  Truth be told, I was the smallest kid in the school, including the kindergartners.   My sole dream going into high school was that I would break the five foot mark.  Which I did in my final year there.  Well, there went wish number one!  I am sure they understood that I was quite small when they ordered the costumes for the big night.  I guess they just underestimated just how very small I was.

I studied my part, my class becoming a daily rehearsal, setting aside studies and it wasn’t long till I was utterly and hopelessly bored!  I went through the motions, watching the clock each afternoon for the minutes to click off so I could make my escape and wander the wilderness outside,  a creature of the wild, explorer, seeking out new specimens to take back for further investigation.  When I arrived at the home base, I buried myself into the pile of books far more to my interest than required lessons of the day, at least those that weren’t suspended for the “Great Play”.

The big night arrived and we gathered in the auditorium, back behind the curtains where we were handed the packages with our names on them, till all held a soft paper wrapped bundle in their arms.  Then the boys were sent towards one room, the girls to another to change into the “wonderful costumes” we were so “lucky” to have had made just for us that night.  Paper began to rip, strips and pieces flying haphazardly through the air, more for the sheer fun of shredding and tossing than was necessary to reach the contents.  One by one, each stepped out of their day clothes and transformed magically into the character they were to assume.  I began to slip into my own outfit.  A princess-like dress and saw the concerned look on my teacher’s face as I tried to hold it up over my shoulders, skirt trailing till it formed a small pool of fabric at my feet.

It seems they were way off in their assumption at just how small I was!   After quite some time of trying to fuss and pin the dress, it was obvious that nothing was going to quite work to make this mass of fabric conform to my body.  I graciously offered to allow one of the other students take my place.  The truth was that I never really wanted to be a part of this display.  But, this would not be considered.  I had been chosen, and I would perform.  That was all there was to it!  They would come up with a solution.

And so, the search began.  Pieces of clothing were plucked from this corner, from that pile, dredged up from trunks and a myriad of mysterious places.  “Here, try this on.  No, that won’t do, try this one!”  I don’t remember how many things I pulled off, put on, pulled off before the nightmare appeared!  Some light colored stretch top was handed to me.  A leotard, I believe, which was a bit loose fitting, though it was deemed it would do.  Then I was handed a pink net atrocity someone had managed a drawstring tie into to form a waistband.  This torture device was cinched tightly about my waist, brambles and thorns, all infused deeply with the oil of poison oak!    They turned me around between them and decreed that it would just have to do, ignoring my loud protests of how it scratched and itched and told to make the best of it, there was no choice in the matter!   We were all then herded together and bustled us out the door toward the stage.

The night became a trip into hell itself as the skirt bit into the skin on my stomach and back,  itching so badly I wanted to tear my skin off with the the infernal drapery.  My hands were slapped as I tried to ease the contact to my skin and strong admonishments that I must ignore it and just live with it and do my part.

That was probably the longest night of my young life.  How I made it through the ordeal, I have no memory of it.  To this day, I still cannot remember what the play was of, what my role was or even a single word I had committed to memory for recital.  I know that I did indeed make it through the entire thing, for what is etched permanently in my memory was the finale where we all approached the edge of the stage to take our bows after the applause, and bow again at the next wave of applause.

I remember so well, because it was at that last wave that I knew I had done my duty.  I had played the role.  I had suffered the agony.  My obligation was over and I would be free of my restraints.  I headed to the edge of the stage as my peers headed to the side, calling to me as they were leaving.  With each step, I loosened the ties at my back till they split and the pile of net crumpled to the floor, left only in the little top and my panties. I jumped free of the folds and kicked the wad as far away from me as I could, never hearing the laughter from the other children or parents as I made my escape from the stage and down the aisle.

I was far too relieved to be free to consider being embarrassed at my exposure.  Too angry at the indignation of the bramble skirt to hear the shouts of anger and disappointment from my mother.  My father’s silence during the drive home, trying to hide the smile on his face, my one ally at the end of the tunnel. My mother’s “humiliation” meant nothing.  I was free.  I told her I would never step on a stage again.  And I never did.



I moved to Seattle about 3 1/2 years ago.  From the moment I left California, I felt like a prisoner must feel when the doors of the prison have been thrown open after decades of incarceration.  The first rest stop that I pulled into showed me once again that I had crossed into a new country.  No longer were there chained fences keeping you from the lands beyond.  Each of these areas was like a mini hiking area, gentle trails to wander and stretch your legs and admire the trees.  Oh, and we must not forget the free coffee!  Every rest stop from Oregon onward had a small trailer that served free coffee to all that visited.  Mostly, it was manned by Military Vets, though sometimes, other organizations.

When I first came into sight of Seattle, I think it was instant love!  It was a big city in every sense of the word.  Tall glistening skyscrapers, houses and apartments along every turn and hillside.  And yet, it wasn’t the same as any city I had ever seen.  For though there were skyscrapers and tall buildings in abundance, it was not a complete concrete jungle.  For along with the expanses of concrete, they made room for the trees.

Having spent over 3 decades trapped in the land of Summer/not Summer, or Southern California, I had little memory of what true seasons were when I first moved to Washington.  I had experienced them in my life.  But, I was a child then and a very young child when I had been migrated from Washington.   Though I went through high school in Southern California and into my adulthood and the raising two children till maturity, the state nor the climate ever felt like home to me.  The only times that I every felt truly at peace down there was on the rare occasion that I was able to wander the mountain terrain.  That is, when it wasn’t shut down due to the annual fire season.  I’m not sure if there is any old growth forests down there.  On the times that I was able to take treks on the trails, I don’t believe I ever saw a truly old growth tree.

Seasons don’t really change there.  Not in any sense that one can call a true season.  There’s a slight shift in the air around Halloween and the temperatures begin to drop a bit.  Cold is considered 60 degrees or lower.  Rarely does it even hit the 40 degree mark.  The trees are bared most by the Santa Ana wind conditions coming through and with near hurricane velocity, strip them in a matter of hours.  These can be expected to be followed by a rise in temperature of up to 30 degrees.  So, you can be at 50 degrees on one day and stripping to tank top and shorts to survive the 80+ degrees the following day.  So, when I got up here, I was very much looking forward to my first real winter since I was a small child.

They tell you to be careful what you wish for, and my life has always tended to play itself out in extremes.  I should have expected that in this, it wouldn’t be any different.  The day that the first snow fell, I was just ecstatic!  I stomped all over in it and stood outside with my arms outstretched, head tipped back and let the flakes cascade down all over my face.  There is nothing quite like the first snow kisses of the year.  And I have received many a strange look from people, even those here, when I speak of snow kisses.  But, I know of no other way to describe the experience.  The tiny ice flakes when they meet the skin of your face and sending this feathery cold touch upon it.  Its almost too faint to feel, a touch that is almost not a touch.  Like when someone reaches to touch you gently and comes within a hair’s breath away from actual contact.  But, unlike the warm of the fingers, there is the whisper of the cold.

The first snow did not last long and was just enough to touch my heart with the wonder of it.  But, then came the siege!  The extremes once again did not let me down.  My first winter here offered the harshest snowfall that had been seen here in 30 years!  I was lucky in that my new job had one of the other employees play chauffeur to me during this week.  And even with the large 4-wheel drive truck he had, we still found ourselves not risking the roads on a couple of the days.  Which gave me the time to truly enjoy the wonder of watching my tree studded environment transform into a magical winter wonderland.  I took a lot of pictures of the snow around my home.  And they are quite pretty even though I didn’t have much of a camera at the time.

The trees were just magnificent with their blankets and pillows of snow upon their branches.  One of the amazing things about this area is the variety of trees, many of which are evergreen so they stay green all year round.  This grants you a starkly contrasting landscape of the snow casings of the branches of the barren trees mixed with the stretching tiered branches of the evergreens bowing under the weight of the snow building ever thicker upon them.  And my apartment gave me the perfect vantage point to observe it.  I am at the top of a hill a number of miles outside of the main city.  My window looks down on the hills below and there are trees as far as the eye can see.

Even in the darkest of night, there is a glow to the horizon when it has snowed.  It takes only the barest hint of light to illuminate the icy crystals.  The air takes on a misty haze, as if it is frozen mid-air.  The clouds are different as well.  They’re whiter than the rain clouds and seem to be lighter.  Suspended icy mists careening across the heavens.

I was told that the first year, I would probably have a hard time keeping warm, not being used to such temperatures.  That was very much an understatement!  I also learned that first year that a fireplace is not a very good source of heat in such weather.  I suppose if you have a wood burning stove type, that might be different.  But, you have to open a portal into your home to let the smoke out.  Which means that it will also let the cold come in.  And when the temperatures drop to the 20’s and teens, you want to keep it out as much as you can.

Though, I did learn another lesson during this first winter.  The danger of driving during a snow flurry.  They are amazing sights to look on through the windshield of your car.  And if you are not careful, they can mesmerize you and draw you in to them.  You look into this swirling spiral of snowflakes, ever changing and seeming to beckon you to come deeper.  Its an enchanting temptation that you need to quickly learn to resist.  Its much better to pull your car to the side of the road and watch for a while!

Many worried that such an extreme introduction to winter would have sent me scurrying back to the warm southern regions from whence I came.  But, as great of an adjustment it was that first winter, it affirmed that I had made the right choice.  I had finally found my way home and this was where I was meant to be.

I’m in the middle of my 4th winter here now.  None has come close to the extreme of the first and last year had only a momentary tease of snow.  We had a nice share again this year.  Not as much as the forecaster predicted, but they are never ones that can be relied on to speak with accuracy.  We did get enough to keep most of the city home for a couple of days.  And it was just as glorious as that first year.  I have learned that most here don’t like the snow.  Unless they make an effort to find it in the mountains.  But, it doesn’t fall here as it does in other parts of the country.  We may have a couple of days of being housebound by it, but not much more than that.  And it makes the air so very clean and season it with a crispness that cold alone cannot.  Its a time of fun and curling up by the window with a cup of hot cocoa and a children’s movie marathon.  Its bundling up in the heavy jacket and knit hat and gloves and going outside to play like a child.  And its a joy to watch the home trapped neighbors surrender to nature’s short incarceration and abandon themselves to making the best of it and taking their sleds and snowboards to the nearest hill to careen down, then return to stud the walks with snowpeople to guard the night hours.

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Old Blood is Better than Young Blood

Richard looked around the dimly lit hall, taking in all the figures in groups and huddles milling about.“So, All the people here are vampires?  As is the blood drinking, real honest to God vampires?”  Richard asked his escort Michael.

“Yes, everyone here, save for you my friend.”  Michael answered, his voice soft and low, its tone inviting, though reserved.

“I knew some existed, but I never dreamed there were so many!”  His eyes darting in amazement as he surveyed the numbers littering the room.

“Oh, this is a quiet night.  Sometimes the numbers are three and even four times this.”  A slight tone of amusement beginning to creep into Michael’s voice as he spoke.

“And the old one that we spoke of, will he be here?”  Richard asked.

“No, probably not.  He’s not, how shall we say it, very welcome here.  We have rules.  Rules that have allowed us to live among you for centuries now without drawing the attention that used to send the hunters for us.  He chooses not to live by those rules, so he has left us no choice but to caste him out from us.”

“But, you promised me I would have the story of him if I came with you this night!”  Richard’s voice raised a bit as he spoke, causing many of the eyes in the room to draw to their direction.
“And so you shall, my friend.  But, not from his lips, but from whence he came to be.  And the story will be told complete so that it doesn’t recast the veil of fear that once threatened our kind.  You will have your story, but you must promise to tell the all of it, not just of him.  But, I warn you, none will believe it.  In the eyes of your kind, we are but a myth told to children to keep them in their beds at night.  Should they ever find “him”, they will think him a lunatic and lock him away.  And though immortal blood flows in his veins, he is still young and untaught and there are things that can destroy even us.  He will not survive long without protection and help.”

“And you would let that happen?”

“He made his choice.  He was told that if he chose that path, he would have no help from us.  Without the vow, he is not one of us and has forsaken the privileges that go with belonging to the order.”  Michael replied calmly.

Richard looked around the room at the people again.  All seemed to be between their late 20s and early 40’s.  Some of them were very conservative in their dress, others quite flamboyant.  The only thing all had in common was the pale, almost iridescent complexion.  He wondered how they could all get along so well, all seeming so very different.  He was about to ask when Michael drew his attention to the far end of the room and a group sitting at a table there.
“Ah!  There are the ones I wish you to meet.  The ones that can tell you of the old one.”  Michael scooped his hand under Richard’s arm and guided him across the room to the two men and the woman seated at the table.

Richard looked at the three people as they approached.  One of the men looked to be in his early 40’s, wearing a long coat, a bright purple shirt and a top hat with neon coloured plumes adorning it.  His hand resting on a beautifully carved cane, though his hand covered the top, but enough peeked out between his fingers hinting of an animal head of some kind. The younger man was much more conservative in his dress, simple dark suit with white shirt and neatly cut sandy brown hair that looked like it could tend to wildness if not tamed with dressings.  The woman, now here was one that was hard to describe.  It was like she couldn’t quite make up her mind what look she wanted, so she just took bits and pieces of each and put them all together. She wore a black and red corset over a high-necked white Victorian blouse with a fox wrap around her neck, complete with heads biting the tails.  Around her waist was a skirt that looked to be fashioned from about a thousand strips of fabric, no rhyme or reason to the choices as there were solid colour pieces, chequered one, striped ones, all hanging in various lengths from a single waistband.  And over the waistband dangled on of the wide metal belts full of dangling coins and beads that you would expect to see on a belly dancer.  Raven black hair hung in wild curls and flowed down her back with a single strip of blue at one temple.  And on her head, she wore a pirate’s hat festooned with a live raven.  And lastly, was the necklace, if you could call it that, around her neck.  It was like a catch-all for any trinket that seemed to catch her eye.  Keys and beads, bells and twisted colour bits of twine, and bones, lot of them and even a few small animal skulls.  Oh my!

“This is Richard, the man I told you about.”  Michael offered as we reached the table.  
He pointed to the 40 something man, “This is Gregoire, 12th degree high sire and custodian of records.”

Gregoire stood and extended his hand to Richard and taking a deep bow at the same time.  “Most gracious pleasure, Richard.”  he said as he grasped Richard’s hand, a slight brogue to his speech.  

“And this,”  gesturing to the younger man, “is Raphael, though he prefers Ruffy.  He is the mentor of the newly made and responsible to train them in our ways till they are ready to take the vows.”

Raphael/Ruffy rose, twirled about a couple of times, made a wide sweeping bow and swept Richards hand up in his as he rose.  “A joy it is to welcome a querying outsider into our little den of blood-letting!”  His eyes sparkling mischievously as he spoke.

“And last, but most certainly not least, the most beloved and feared Lady Circe, punisher and bestower, seer and sage to all within the fold.”

Lady Circe remained in her seat and looked up at Richard, starting from the top of his head and travelling till she gazed up the shoes on his feet.  Then she looked him in the face, golden eyes with the longest lashes he thought he had ever seen, the eyes glowing and dimming as her pupils contracted and expanded  while she watched him.  After what seemed an eternal stretch of time, she slowly extended her gloved hand, bracelets dangling from her elbow to her wrist.  “You are welcome.” she toned as he took her hand and softly kissed the back of it.
“Pleasure is mine.  And gratitude at allowing me to be here to answer my questions.”  Richard replied then took the chair that Michael motioned for him to take.

Gregoire leaned across the table and and fixed a stare on him that made Richard feel as if he were slowly becoming naked before him.  Not as in the cloathed sense, but as if the veils to his soul were being shed to flutter away in a breeze.  After what seemed an eternity, Gregoire sat back and issued a deep belly laugh, his eyes twinkling brightly as he slapped his hand down hard on the table top sending all the glasses to rattle violently on the surface.

“So . . . how old are you Richard?  Not so young as I would have expected to be chasing such a. . . how shall we say it, a demon inquiry.”

“I’ll be 58 this year.  Why should curiosity fade with years?”  Richard replied.

“Oh, it shouldn’t!”  Gregoire answered with another long chuckle.  “But alas, it often does.  You humans often become more reserved and cautious with age, choosing the known and comfortable rather than seek out the strange.  The security of the known just seems to naturally follow with ageing among your kind.”

“I suppose that is true of many, okay, most of us.  But, not all of us.”  Richard countered.  “I pray the day never comes when I fail to seek out the curious and the novel.  I believe that should that day ever come, it will be the day I shall start looking for the reaper at my bedside and shall gladly welcome his invite to pass from this journey to the next.”

“Oh!  Simply marvellous!”  Gregoire exclaimed, clapping his hands like a child that has just witnessed an act of magic.

As they spoke on of his travels and experiences, Richard began to notice Circe out of the corner of his eyes.  She seemed to have nothing to add, nothing to question in the exchange, even after Ruffy joined in as well.  she just quietly listened to all that was exchanged and shared between them.  Her silence presence became a distraction that couldn’t be ignored and he found himself glancing in her direction more and more frequently to look for even the slightest change in her expression as they talked.  But, nothing.

Suddenly, Michael appeared off to Richard’s right side and set a wine goblet down in front of him, hand still firmly grasping the rim of it.  Richard tried to think on when Michael had vanished as he didn’t remember him leaving the company.  Ah well! Michael looked over at Circe and for the first time her expression changed.  She nodded just slightly and her lips parted in a partial smile, then she sat back in her chair and crossed her hands over her stomach.

“Well!  Richard, this is for you.”  Michael said and lifted his hand from the goblet.  Its a very special Port reserved for only very special occasions.”  With that, he slid the goblet over till it was right in front of Richard.  “And now, I think it is time we get to the matter Richard is here for, no?”  Then he took a seat at Richard’s left and slapped Richard on the shoulder before continuing.  “So, I suppose we should begin at the beginning, no?  I find its always a good place to start.”

Richard opened up his notebook then and looked up to see who would begin with the story.  Ruffy picked up his glass and motioned to Richard to do the same and all glasses were lifted for his toast.  “Dearly beloved . . . No, that’s not right!”  Ruffy laughed.  “To truths to be told, histories written and prayers that maybe this once they will be written right.”  All heads nodded in agreement just before the glasses were raised to their lips.

As the dark liquid passed Richards lips, he felt its thick rich substance caress his entire mouth, deep, heady, spicy and very unusual.  He pulled the glass slightly away and took a deep inhalation of it.  His eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to make this one out.  He had never smelled anything quite like it before.  It was like . . . antiquity infused into a viscous liquid of spice and flowers and wrapped in the bonds of the wine.  And it was heady!  He could tell he would have to keep that in mind as he took another sip and looked up at his hosts, the surprised look on his face quite obvious in the looks he was receiving back.

“Before you ask, no, there is no place you can obtain the wine you are drinking.  It is a special blend held secret within these walls and rarely offered.  Enjoy though, my friend.”  Grgoire answered the unspoken question, a broad grin on his face.  “Please, do enjoy!”

“And now, I shall begin if you are ready.”  Ruffy stated and sat back in his chair after Richard nodded.  “We, our kind, have been here at least as long as your kind.  It is told that in ancient times, we lived in harmony with each other, sharing int the bounties.  No one is really sure when those times changed.  But, as in all things, the world does change.  Fear and distrust eventually find their way in when two are so very different.  The need to draw lines between the light and the dark, the good and the bad.  The desire to find oneself as superior and in the so doing, requires that the other be found as inferior.  Who started it so many ages ago, it is hard to tell.  But, start, it did.  It is said that there was a time when we did not have the taste for human blood.  But, the truth of that, as well, is past the time of true knowing.  At any rate, the time came when both became the hunter and the hunted.  Ours is a creature of the night, and yours of the day.  Thousands of both of our kind fell to the other.  Many was the time when it was questionable if we both would exterminate the other.  Then, one day, it seemed your kind led the war and our kind fled to hide in the shadows.  It may be that it was then that we first tasted human blood.  Maybe it was before and that is what started the wars.  The records conflict of that time.”

Ruffy paused and drew his fingers along the moisture on his glass, his face cast in deep thought, eyebrows pressing deeply to the center and biting gently on his bottom lip.  A deep sigh escaped his mouth and he sat back and looked at Richard, then continued.  

“We were the more vulnerable.  We were hunted while we slept during the day.  We are defenceless then.  Were.  It is not so much any more for many of us.  But, then we could be slaughtered like lambs.  And we retaliated!  We hunted mercilessly, taking far more down than we needed.  We took all down that we found in our paths.  Women, children, old, young, it didn’t matter.  In all places where we both numbered, we both diminished.  We became monsters in your stories.  You became nothing but blood in ours.  One day, your kind found our main safe hold, one that had remained hidden for decades, possibly centuries.  As I said, the histories are vague at times.  We fled.  We found a sanctuary in what we thought was an abandoned monetary and hid in the cellars, dusty and full of cobwebs and night creatures.  It was obvious it had not had a human visitor in a very long time.”

“We were not alone as we thought though.  One still remained in the halls above.  He found our lair.  But, unlike the others, he made no attempt to destroy us or inform on us.  He began to leave small gifts, offerings if you will.  Never were we able to discover where he lay at night.  If we had, we would have taken him.  If we had, we would not be who we are today.  In time, we began to ease about his presence and agreed to leave him be.  Then, one night as we were awakening, he was there to greet us.  He wanted to see if there was a way to end the bloody war between our kind.  He offered a hand of friendship.  He taught us and brought order to us.  He became the first leader of our order, guided us into initiation, wrote the laws with us.  He even offered up his own blood to a few of us on occasion, teaching us to stop short of taking life.”

“Then, one night, one of ours returned wounded.  He rushed to minister to her.  He didn’t know yet that we heal quickly.  That she would have been fine come the next night.  Her wounds were not lethal.  With us, there is only lethal or temporary.  He tried to breath into her, fearing she could not breath on her own.  Some of her blood entered him when he did that.  And it was that night we learned that your kind can become one of us.”

“He began to slowly change after that.  Curious, we fed him more of our blood and the transformation became more pronounced.  He became one of us from that.  And still, one of you as well.  He was not bound to only the night.  He was still very sensitive to the harshness of the sunlight, but properly clothed, he could move around at any hour.  We also found that those that shared with him, they also became less sensitive.  They couldn’t move about with as much freedom as he could, but they could stay out in the early hours and when the sun was not direct.”

“He taught us how to take blood and still leave life.  In time, we learned ways of the taking where no memory of the event was left in our victim’s minds.  The hunting of our kind slowed, and in time ceased.  We became the stuff of legends, fairy tales.  We were safe.  And we could again live in peace.  He made us into an order and the humans believe that was what we were.  They left us in our walls and believed our seclusion was part of our vows.  Which, in truth it was, though not in the way they thought.  We learned that we needed a few that were older to give us validity.  Your kind seem to confer knowledge and respect on maturity.  That we were often centuries old didn’t change the fact that we looked youthful.  We don’t age, as I am sure you know.  And those we turned, though they lived far longer than they would have as human, we learned would eventually die as your kind do.”

“So, every so often, we would have to find a new leader, master of the order, if you will. We made some mistakes in the early days.  We chose a few old ones that didn’t like our laws.  They had been powerful men and when we “made” them, they would have us return to the days of taking at will.  Of restarting the war that almost destroyed us.  That put is in a bit of a predicament.  We had taken vows not to take lives.  What to do with these rogues we had created?  After much talk and consideration, we simply turned them out.  Eventually, they were caught by the human authorities and believed to be insane.  Oh, they tried to inform on us, who we really were, but we had been here too long without a blemish of suspicion in all those years.  We counselled the authorities that hours in the sun might do their insane minds some good.  Help heal them a bit, so to speak.  Because they were part human, this was not a death sentence.  It simply aged them much faster.  And they died very natural deaths, unless one of the other inmates took their lives first.  And that did happen a couple of times.”

“We began to research our candidates better.  Learning the traits we needed.  Intelligence, learned men, men of character, and yes, powerful as well.  But, powerful in a different sense.  Ones that could command power and yield it so that others would follow, would respect.  They were not easy to find.  Not easy then, not easy now.  Sometimes, we had to travel to find them.  But, never again were we without an “old one”.  And a mistake such as we had made in the early times has not happened in a few hundred years.”

“Until now.”  Richard commented.

“Yes,”  Ruffy replied softly.  “Until now.”

“So, tell me about him.  How did you make a mistake after all this time?”  Richard asked, turning the page in his notebook to ready for the next chapter.

Gregoire inched his chair forward a bit, leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.  “I guess its my turn.”  He stated with a hesitant, almost displeased tone in his voice.

“The blood is like a fine wine to us.  Each has its own flavour, the spice of experience, hint of laughter, subtle undertones of sorrow and imbued with the essence of the soul.  And as such, we each develop a taste for those certain combinations that are to our liking.  Much like those of your kind that prefer the reds over the whites, the fruitier wines, the flowery wines, the dark mature wines.”  Gregoire paused and glanced over at Circe who for the first time, shifted a bit in her chair, then glared defiantly back at Gregoire before shifting back into her stolid state.
Richard watched the exchange, his curiosity peaked.  

“We have rules . . . laws.  We are all bound to them.  No matter how many centuries we have to us, no matter how high our rank, we are all of us bound by those laws!”   the threat and accusation evident in his voice.  

“Old blood is better than young blood.”  a soft voice issued from Circe’s still figure.  “Is.  I’m just saying.”

“All of that is fine,”  Gregoire continued, his voice quieting to a low vibration “so long as we remember that we can take as our tastes inspire.  It is in the sharing that the forbidden is involved.”

His gaze travelled back up to meet Richard’s eyes, the softness returning to his features as he relaxed back into his chair.  “Our kind is not so different from yours, Richard.  The personalities, the characters, all of them.  We also have our creatures of impulse, and as it so often goes with their kind, they are creatures much adored and often with invaluable gifts to the community.  And unlike those that don’t care about the rules and think they don’t apply, often they sometimes allow their impulses to get a bit . . . . uhmm . . . . carried away with them.  They get caught up in the moment and after it is done, believe that it will all work out in the end.  And sometimes it does.”  He glanced back at Circe again and she tipped her head low, staring back at him with eyes that were equally glowing with anger, remorse and guilt.  “And sometimes it does not.”

He took a deep breath, picked up his goblet and took another deep draught off of it.  “Which brings us to now.  I am sure it is quite apparent that our dear Circe here is the one responsible for the one that brought you to our company.  Our Circe is one of the most revered of our members, she is our seer and the keeper of the secret wisdoms.  But, she forgets that the err is made when emotions are allowed in to cloud what is seen.  That often, our desires replace the true visions.  She additionally made the error of becoming romantically involved with her victim.  This is another thing that is expressly forbidden.  And one of the hardest things for us to do sometimes.  As different as our kind are, they are also very much alike.  So, attractions can be quite common.  But, the differences between us make such a liaison both dangerous and impossible.

“Though, on that count, I put more of the blame on him than our Circe.  He was, is a . . . how do you call them?  Oh, drifter.  A master manipulator.  He thought our Circe a wealthy heiress, though we are not sure where he got such an idea.  He wooed her as a lover and she took her sips of his essence on a more and more frequent basis. He gained her trust over time and she eventually confided in him what she was.  And then he convinced her that if she made him one of us, they could always be together.  Though we already had a recently appointed old one, she saw no harm in bringing in another one as her personal pet.”   
“Her personal pet?!”  Richard sputtered, sending sprays of the thick wine across the table.  

“Yes, her pet!”  Gregoire replied, then laughed heartily.  “Calm down Richard.  Its not so bad as it sounds.  When a mortal is fed only from a single of us, they become bound to us and their need for just another taste of our blood becomes overwhelming.  Its not something that they need to survive.  Its more like those of your kind that develop substance problems.  It seems to be a weakness many of you have.  That forbidden fruit, that taste, that moment of pure euphoria, it drives all common sense from your minds.  And you will do anything, anything, for that one more taste.  And before you think too harshly of us, we didn’t create this weakness in your kind.  And I can assure you that those that have been taken in though such a way, had already succumbed to this need in their nature in your world in one of its many way.  In some ways, we are actually saving them.  The blood does not harm them, does not kill them.  And they lose their taste for the bottle or the needle or whatever their drug was when first they taste it.  They still have their free will.  They just choose to set it aside for another taste.  And I can assure you that it is not allowed for one to abuse their pet.”

Circe looked up at Richard with a slightly cocked head, mischievous smile on her face, then shrugged her shoulders and giggled softly before turning back to her glass to draw circles and patterns in the liquid with her fingertip.

“As I was saying, the bulk of the blame goes on him and how he manipulated our Circe.”  Gregoire continued.  “She has been judged according to her part in it and fulfilled the terms of her punishment.  I doubt she will repeat such an error in judgement again.  Not given the knowledge of what was created by her mistake.”  

Circe’s head dipped at this and Richard thought he saw her eyes begin to glisten a bit with tears at this last comment.

“As I said, he refused to take the vows, abide by the rules.  He saw in his new “blood” a means to achieve power and control that was beyond what his mortal life would allow.  And he became drunk with the knowledge of it.  We warned him he would be cast out.  Even had we not already had an old one, he would not have been acceptable.  He laughed at us as he strode out the door and swore we had not seen the last of him.  Even we were surprised to learn the extent he would take that threat.”  

Gregoire grew silent after that and sat back in his chair, a strained look on his face, weighing on it, adding years in a moment to his features.

Michael leaned forward, crossed his hands on the table before him and cleared his throat.  “He did the unspeakable!”  Michael said, his voice shaking and broken.  “He, whose name is not permitted to be spoken in these walls for what he did.  He sought his revenge at being banned from our presence by hunting and taking the life of our old one.  Left his remains, throat ripped out and drained on our doorstep.  Drained his essence to obtain the knowledge that was in the blood, hoping to drink in the knowledge of power over us.  Thought to take from us the face of the master and reducing our standing in the community.  Thinking we would have to take him back in or lose our status.  When that failed, he tried to accuse one of our members of committing the heinous act.  It proved how much he underestimated us.  The evidence he planted was turned back to him and it wasn’t long till he was charged with the murder.  He has bellowed accusations about what we really are, thinking he would be believed by someone.  And as in the past, one of ours was assigned to him as his therapist and sun therapy has been prescribed for him.  Additionally, he has been put on a meatless diet.  So, he has been denied even the blood of animals to sustain him.  He is withering rapidly, the madness growing each day.  Not only is he newly made, but he is also single fed, which makes him even more vulnerable.  We are certain he will not last too much longer.”

“I didn’t realize he was incarcerated.  I had just heard rumours about such a one.  Seems my information is a bit outdated”  Richard said

“Well, its been in all the papers.  I can’t imagine how you could have missed it.”  Michael fixed him with an intent stare.  “I thought there was little that happens that misses your attention.”

“Oh, wait!  Now I know what you are talking about!  The crazy psycho that left people ripped up like a wild animal had gotten to them!  Yes!  I do remember that.  And also that he attacked a guard at the hospital who only lived for a couple of days.”

“Yes, unfortunate that was.  We found that he had given him some of his blood to create another to bond with.  We stepped in on that one and helped him slip mercifully from life.”

“But, I thought that was against your laws!”  Richard exclaimed.

“Normally, yes.  But, as in all things, one must allow for . . . how shall we say? . . . special circumstances.  By this time, he was truly mad, insane.  And the insanity would have infected his blood.  Which, in turn, would have infected the guard with his insanity.  Not to mention the fact that the wounds he inflicted on his victim were so extensive that even if not for the fear of spreading the insanity, might never have healed completely.  You must understand that wounds prior to being turned are not the same as those after, which can heal overnight.  He would have been scarred to the point of monstrous;  and insane.  So, in mercy, we helped him simply slip away.  And because of that last incident, have moved to see his end come just a bit swifter.  Before any others come to harm.”  

Michael looked up at Richard’s face, probing for some reading on how this was being taken in. Richard furiously scribbled out the last bits of what he had been told, beads of sweat blurring his vision as he wrote.  He chewed on his lower lip as he let all he had heard sink in and begin to process.  Then he looked up at his hosts, all of their faces turned to him.

“And this is the story you want me to carry out in the world and set to print?”  Richard asked, hesitancy weighing on each word.

“Yes.”  Michael replied  “Just as it has been told, leave nothing out.”

“Okay then.”  Richard said as he snapped his notebook shut.  “Exactly as it has been told.  Though the world will think I have taken to fantasy writing.  You shall have what you ask.”  He swallowed down the last bit from his goblet and stood up from the table.  “I guess I better get started then.  I have a lot of writing to do.”

“Wait!”  Michael commanded.  “There is still the matter of payment for the story.”

“Ah yes, that.”  Richard’s face paled and he took a deep breath.  “Will it hurt?”

“Just a the tiniest bit at first and then it will be as a dream.”  Michael said, smiling reassuringly.

“Okay, well I guess I’m ready.”  

Circe stood up and walked slowly over to face Richard.  “You’re the one?”  Richard stammered.  His only response was her slow, and so very seductive smile as she wrapped her arms about his neck and slid her body up against his.  A tiny prick and then he was floating, clouds in an azure sky, his body weightless, like all the muscles relaxed, all the strain lifted.  Then slowly, he began to shift back till he felt the hands recede from his neck and he was looking into her eyes.  Slowly, she took a step back, wiped the slight drip of blood from her chin and smiled at him.

“I guess that wasn’t so bad.”  He said, gathering up his things and tucking them under his arm.  “I’d like to say it was a pleasure, but I’m not sure that would be completely accurate, but I do thank you for the evening.  And I hope you will understand if I am fine that we don’t do this again.”  He stammered.

“Oh, but you will, my friend.”  Michael interjected.

“I’m sorry?”

“My friend, this is but the beginning.  You see?  We are in a situation where we are without an old one, as we told you.  You have been chosen.  This, tonight, is just the beginning.”  Michael laughed.

“But, don’t you need me to agree?  I mean, you can’t just make such a decision for me!  It requires that I also drink your blood, which I can assure you, I have no intention of doing.  And I can assure you, you cannot force me to do!”  Richard glowered at them.

“Oh, but my friend, you have.  You have been all this evening!”  Michael replied mirthfully.  “What do you think that so very exotic wine has been that you have been sipping on this night?  You carry within you a bit of all of us.  It takes a little time, but by morning, it will have worked its magic and the transformation will be taking place.  So, may I say Welcome to the fold!”  

Richard’s heart began to race and he made a rush for the door.  About halfway there, his mind started clouding and he felt himself falling.  A few of the others caught him before he hit the floor and carried him to a bed in one of the rooms to sleep off the night.

Gregoire looked questioningly at Michael.  “Oh, calm down.  Once he wakes, the transformation will have begun.  He will join!  We chose well.  He will suit us nicely.”  Then he looked over at Circe and smiled.  “You did well, dear lady!  The last is now forgiven.”

Circe looked at him and smiled in gratitude, then turned and walked slowly away.  Soft though her voice was, it was heard by all in the area.

“Old blood is better than young blood!  Is all I’m saying.  Yes, it most certainly is.”  

copyright 11/26/2011

Ghost Story


Lamia walked quickly down the lane,  Epona at her side, strutting in that cute way she had, tail fanning in the air and ears perked for every sound.  Pulling her cloak tightly about her as a chill wind picked up and etched against her skin. Not very fashionable in this age, but she had never much cared about fashion. It kept her warm, even through the winds, and she felt protected in its heavy folds. She glanced about her as she walked to see if any were marking her journey into this night. She was fairly certain no one would, at this deep hour and on this night of all nights. They would be huddled in their houses summoning prayers and wards against their fears of this night. She watched anyway, for the stray eye peeping from behind a curtain or through a cracked door. As it was, the people thought her wanderings odd and she preferred them to know as little about them as was possible. She saw no need to further stir their superstitions and fears unnecessarily. That, as well as her preference to keep her life as private as possible.

The night was clear save for a few wandering wisps of clouds dancing across the black blanket of the sky. The moon, not yet risen, lay hovering just below the horizon waiting for the proper moment to announce itself. Full, it would be and the closeness of its orbit promised it would light the sky and bathe the earth in silver showers.

She approached the gate just as the first glow illuminated the horizon before her. She paused for a moment to take in the birth shimmer, then reached out and opened the gate. It gave way with a slight moan and she looked again over her shoulder to make sure no one had heard it.  Quietly, she entered onto the narrow pebbled path and made her way along its twists and gentle hills, pausing every now and then to touch a headstone here, whisper a greeting to another off to the side, and listen for the soft replies.

Lamia took her time, breathing in the damp smell of decay mixed with the wild growth. She could feel about her the slow churning of the old and discarded into the new. The sleepy whispers of those who rested here were slowly beginning to awaken, and she listened quietly, a light smile on her lips as she took in their soft murmurs.

The veil was thinning already. She must hurry! She approached the large hill at the center and paused for her first look this night at the majestic tree on its crest. The patriarch, they called it, older than any could remember, older than their grandparents could remember. She called it the Spirit Keeper. Faces seemed to loom from the surface of its massive trunk, ghostly, surreal and changing with each shift of light upon it. It was as if all those who made their rest here had passed through it, leaving just a shade of themselves within it before moving on. At least it was so for those that had found the will to move on. Others tarried, out of confusion, fear, or desperation to cling to what was once theirs, but no longer could be, and some simply because they liked it here. And a small few because there was still something they had to shed before they could move on.

She climbed to the top of the hill, up to the base of the giant oak and placed her hands gingerly upon its surface. A gentle tingling sensation spread into her hands and up her arms. She had lost count of how many times she had stood in this same place, begun this ritual; it never seemed to lose its impact on her. She smiled at the deep lulling sound she heard in her head, that she knew to be a welcome. Then she sat her pack down at its base and began.

The small blanket was laid down first. Her welcome gift into the world, her mother’s as well, stitched with prayers and spells by her great grandmother. Next, came the candles. Six of them this night. The count was always different, but always just the number it should be. She needn’t know why, she would before it was done. She lit them one by one, offering a prayer with each one. Then she sat down on the blanket and removed the bread and cheese, placed them on a napkin, then her thermos. She opened it and poured herself a cup, brought it to her nose and let the warm vapors fill her head with the deep aroma of herbs and spices. She took a small sip, then picked up the bread and cheese and leaned back against her tree to watch the moon’s ascension.

The air seemed to still as the orb grew in its ascent Vaporous forms rose gently from the ground, like smoky tendrils of a cigarette on a lonely night. They hovered quietly just on the edge of her vision, sharing in her watch. Their quiet revelry carried into her and united her with them. She never felt alone when she was with her spirits, unlike how she felt when she was surrounded by the living world.
Lamia knew her kind were few, those that walked between the worlds, never truly belonging to either. But, it was only the living that feared that in her, thought her a witch, or worse, a necromancer. She did her best to fit in on the fringes, immersed just enough to appear acceptably eccentric. She made the obligatory appearances, though it drained her each time. Their chatter, from their minds as well as their mouths, rattled her. They seemed never content, never at home with the life they had, the place they had.

It was only here and away from the workings of the world that Lamia could feel at peace. The spirits, her spirits, were never in a hurry. Each moment took as long as it needed to. Each passage would happen when its time had arrived. And until then, they just existed in what was. Graveyards weren’t haunted as people often thought. She knew that if the spirit travelled here with its earthly body, it was ready to lay that other life aside. It understood that those things that most thought important in the world of the living became trifles when the flesh had become discarded. But, a few things still remained. Love always carried with them between the worlds. It was the thread that most often held them connected to the world before. And it was also the hardest to convince them that they would still have after they cut that thread to travel beyond.

The moon had fully risen now, its massive globe filling most of the sky just before her. She rose to bathe in its glory, then turned her head at the sound of soft laughter at her side. She joined in the laughter as she watched the child spirit chasing the moonflies in the darkness. She hadn’t seen this one before. How curious! Thought she had few dealings with the people, it was a small town and everyone knew of the birthings and passings of all its members. She knew older spirits to lay quietly for many years before coming forth from their earthy slumbers, but a child rarely tarried for long. Especially one as young as this one was! A tingling spread along her spine and Lamia knew this was the one she was sent for this evening. She motioned the young spirit over to her and sat back down to wait.

The child shade made her way slowly over, pausing every now and then to take a close look at something that caught her attention. Lamia smiled in amusement at the realization of how much like living children child spirits were.

They found her the next morning slumped against the tree, the hood of her cloak blown away from her face and her hair making streamers in the wind. The burnt out candles in a half circle in front of her. And in the center of them, a pile of flowers, all of them different, as if each had been brought from a different place and offered by a different hand. A couple of the women crossed themselves at the scene, but all lent a hand in carrying her body and gathering her remains to take back to town.

They buried her at the base of the great tree. They placed her on the bare side where nothing had ever been known to grow, away from the other graves. Unsure, they had to bury her in hallowed ground, but fear made them keep her away from the others. They placed a small headstone on her grave that read, “Lamia of our town. Born, we know not when. Died on this spot on, her body laid where its spirit left it.”
The next spring in the bare place where they had laid her, a blanket of flowers had sprung up, though all swore they had not planted a single seed. And every year thereafter, the flowers came back.

It is said that if you visit her grave at the right time of day and look up into the great tree and turn your head just right, you can see what looks like the hood of a cloak lifting up between the higher branches and the soft features of a woman’s face peering out from underneath, a taproot cascading down like a wayward tendril of hair. And on a night when the veils grow thin, when there is just the slightest of breezes in the air, if you find a place to sit under that great tree in the center, you might catch a stirring of low voices caught in the wind. And if you listen quietly, you might chance to hear a gentle woman’s voice beckoning to those that can’t find the way.

copyright 09/08/2011


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