By Blood We Live Part 9

And thus the years have pa.s.sed: sand grains, deposited along the riverbank, uncountable in their succession. Every one has contained a seeming infinitude of killings, each one terrible despite their numbing similarity. Only the blood of mankind will properly feed me, and a hundred generations have known terror of me.

Strong as I am, virtually immortal, unkillable as far as I know or can tell-blades pa.s.s through me like smoke; fire, water, poison, none affect me-still the light of the sun causes a pain to me so excruciating that you with only mortal lives, whose pain at least eventually ends in death, cannot possibly comprehend it. Thus, kingdoms of men have risen and fallen to ashes since I last saw daylight. Think only on that for a moment, if you seek sad stories! I must be in darkness when the sun rises, so as I range in search of prey my accommodations are shared with toads and slugs, bats, and blindworms.

People can be nothing to me anymore but food. I know of none other like myself, save the dying creature who sp.a.w.ned me. The smell of my own corruption is in my nostrils always.

So there is all of my tale. I cannot die until my time is come, and who can know when that is? Until then I will be alone, alone as no mere man can ever be, alone with my wretchedness and evil and self-disgust until the world collapses and is born anew....

The vampyr rose now, towering up like a black sail billowing in the wind, spreading its vast arms or wings on either side, as if to sweep us before it. "How do your stories compare to this?" it cried; the harshness of its speech seemed somehow muted, even as it grew louder and louder. "Whose is the saddest story, then?" There was pain in that hideous voice that tore at even my fast-pounding heart. "Whose is saddest? Tell me! It is time to judge..."

And in that moment, of all the moments when lying could save my life... I could not lie. I turned my face away from the quivering black shadow, that thing of rags and red eyes. None of the others around the campfire spoke-even Abdallah the clerk only sat hugging his knees, teeth chattering, eyes bulging with fear.

"...I thought so," the thing said at last. "I thought so." Night wind tossed the treelimbs above our heads, and it seemed as though beyond them stood only ultimate darkness-no sky, no stars, nothing but unending emptiness.

"Very well," the vampyr said at last. "Your silence speaks all. I have won." There was not the slightest note of triumph in its voice. "Give me my prize, and then I may let the rest of you flee my mountains." The dark shape withdrew a little way.

We all of us turned to look at one another, and it was just as well that the night veiled our faces. I started to speak, but Ibn Fahad interrupted me, his voice a tortured rasp.

"Let there be no talk of volunteering. We will draw lots; that is the only way." Quickly he cut a thin branch into five pieces, one of them shorter than the rest, and cupped them in a closed hand.

"Pick," he said. "I will keep the last."

As a part of me wondered what madness it was that had left us wagering on story-telling and drawing lots for our lives, we each took a length from Ibn Fahad's fist. I kept my hand closed while the others selected, not wanting to hurry Allah toward his revelation of my fate. When all had selected we extended our hands and opened them, palms up.

Fawn had selected the short stick.

Strangely, there was no sign of his awful fortune on his face: he showed no signs of grief-indeed, he did not even respond to our helpless words and prayers, only stood up and slowly walked toward the huddled black shape at the far edge of the clearing. The vampyr rose to meet him.

"No!" came a sudden cry, and to our complete surprise the clerk Abdallah leaped to his feet and went pelting across the open s.p.a.ce, throwing himself between the youth and the looming shadow. "He is too young!" Abdallah shouted, sounding truly anguished. "Do not do this horrible thing! Take me instead!"

Ibn Fahad, the vizier, and I could only sit, struck dumb by this unexpected behavior, but the creature moved swiftly as a viper, smacking Abdallah to the ground with one flicking gesture.

"You are indeed mad, you short-lived men!" the vampyr hissed. "This one would do nothing to save himself-not once did I hear his voice raised in tale-telling-yet now he would throw himself into the jaws of death for this other! Mad!" The monster left Abdallah choking on the ground and turned to silent Fawn. "Come, you. I have won the contest, and you are the prize. I am... sorry... it must be this way...." A great swath of darkness enveloped the youth, drawing him in. "Come," the vampyr said, "think of the better world you go to-that is what you believe, is it not? Well, soon you shall-"

The creature broke off.

"Why do you look so strangely, man-child?" the thing said at last, its voice troubled. "You cry, but I see no fear. Why? Are you not afraid of dying?"

Fawn answered; his tones were oddly distracted. "Have you really lived so long? And alone, always alone?"

"I told you. I have no reason to lie. Do you think to put me off with your strange questions?"

"Ah, how could the good G.o.d be so unmerciful!?" The words were made of sighs. The dark shape that embraced him stiffened.

"Do you cry for me? For me?"

"How can I help?" the boy said. "Even Allah must weep for you... for such a pitiful thing, lost in the lonely darkness..."

For a moment the night air seemed to pulse. Then, with a wrenching gasp, the creature flung the youth backward so that he stumbled and fell before us, landing atop the groaning Abdallah.

"Go!" the vampyr shrieked, and its voice cracked and boomed like thunder. "Get you gone from my mountains! Go!"

Amazed, we pulled Fawn and the chief-clerk to their feet and went stumbling down the hillside, branches lashing at our faces and hands, expecting any moment to hear the rush of wings and feel cold breath on our necks.

"Build your houses well, little men!" a voice howled like the wild wind behind us. "My life is long... and someday I may regret letting you go!"

We ran and ran, until it seemed the life would flee our bodies, until our lungs burned and our feet blistered... and until the topmost sliver of the sun peered over the eastern summits....

Masrur al-Adan allowed the tale's ending to hang in silence for a span of thirty heartbeats, then pushed his chair away from the table.

"We escaped the mountains the next day," he said. "Within a season we were back in Baghdad, the only survivors of the caravan to the Armenites."

"Aaaahh...!" breathed young Ha.s.san, a long drawn-out sound full of wonder and apprehension. "What a marvelous, terrifying adventure! I would never have survived it, myself. How frightening! And did the... the creature... did he really say he might come back someday?"

Masrur solemnly nodded his large head. "Upon my soul. Am I not right, Ibn Fahad, my old comrade?"

Ibn Fahad yielded a thin smile, seemingly of affirmation.

"Yes," Masrur continued, "those words chill me to this very day. Many is the night I have sat in this room, looking at that door-" He pointed. "-wondering if someday it may open to show me that terrible, misshapen black thing, come back from h.e.l.l to make good on our wager."

"Merciful Allah!" Ha.s.san gasped.

Abu Jamir leaned across the table as the other guests whispered excitedly. He wore a look of annoyance. "Good Ha.s.san," he snapped, "kindly calm yourself. We are all grateful to our host Masrur for entertaining us, but it is an insult to sensible, G.o.dly men to suggest that at any moment some blood-drinking afreet may knock down the door and carry us-"

The door leaped open with a crash, revealing a hideous, twisted shape looming in the entrance, red-splattered and trembling. The shrieking of Masrur's guests filled the room.

"Master...?" the dark silhouette quavered. Baba held a wine jar balanced on one shoulder. The other had broken at his feet, splashing Abu Jamir's prize stock everywhere. "Master," he began again, "I am afraid I have dropped one."

Masrur looked down at Abu Jamir, who lay pitched full-length on the floor, insensible.

"Ah, well, that's all right, Baba." Masrur smiled, twirling his black mustache. "We won't have to make the wine go so far as I thought-it seems my story-telling has put some of our guests to sleep."

Lifeblood.

by Michael A. Burstein.

Michael A. Burstein is a ten-time finalist for the Hugo Award and the winner of the 1996 John W. Campbell Award for best new writer. His fiction frequently appears in a.n.a.log Science Fiction & Fact magazine, and much of his short work was recently collected in I Remember the Future, from Apex Publications.

"Lifeblood" takes the vampire mythos out of its usual Christian context and adds Judaism to the equation. "I've always been interested in the question of how someone who doesn't use the cross as a religious symbol would turn a vampire," Burstein said. "I was interested in the specific question of how a Jewish person might turn a vampire. Could he or she use a cross? Would a Jewish symbol have any sort of power?"

Although Burstein originally wrote the story just to play with the concept of Jews vs. vampires, the story ended up being a cautionary tale about the dangers of a.s.similation. "A lot of debate takes place among the Jewish people, especially American Jews, about a.s.similating into the overall culture," he said. "Without my realizing it, 'Lifeblood' turned out to display my own biases in the debate."

Lincoln Kliman burst into the synagogue, causing the cantor at the front of the room to halt his chanting momentarily. Lincoln panted, catching his breath, and the congregants turned to look at him. He knew his disheveled appearance would not endear him to them, and he noticed one or two of the congregants scowling.

The cantor resumed his Hebrew chant, and Lincoln took a moment to study the synagogue. It wasn't a synagogue really, just a small room where these particular Jews gathered to pray. There were three rows of folding chairs set up, mostly empty of people, which gave the room an aura of despair, at least for Lincoln. He was used to much more elaborate synagogues, but then again, he hadn't been in one for over fifteen years.

He counted the number of congregants. Ten men, exactly the minimum number of Jews required for a minyan. Technically, Lincoln 's presence made the number eleven.

He approached a man sitting alone in the back row, bent over and murmuring to himself.

"Pardon me," he said, "but-"

The man looked up from his siddur, his prayer book, and waved his hand to quiet Lincoln. "Shush," he said. "Put on a yarmulka."

Lincoln nodded and went to the back of the room to don a skullcap, another thing he hadn't done in a very long time. He sat down next to the man and said, as quietly as he could, "I must speak with the cantor. It's important."

The man glared at him. "You must wait. We're about to do the Alenu; the service will be over soon." His tone was accusatory, as if he was questioning Lincoln 's right to show up at the end of a service.

Lincoln wondered that himself, but felt better when he realized that he still remembered to stand and bow at the appropriate times. He didn't pray, though. The man next to him offered his siddur, but Lincoln shook his head; he couldn't read Hebrew anymore even well enough to p.r.o.nounce the words, let alone understand them.

True to the man's word, the service ended in a few minutes. The congregants began folding the chairs and stacking them up next to the wall. Lincoln muttered, "Excuse me," to his row companion, and darted to the front of the room. The cantor was just removing his tallis, his prayer shawl, when Lincoln approached. He was an old man, slightly stooped, with a pair of round gla.s.ses on his face.

Despite the fact that Lincoln had interrupted him before, the cantor smiled as he folded his tallis. "Good shabbes," he said. He spoke with a slight Hungarian accent.

Lincoln repeated the phrase; it echoed oddly in his ears. "Good shabbes, Cantor-?"

"Erno Gross. How may I help you?"

Lincoln 's eyes darted around the room. Two congregants were opening boxes of little pastries and setting them out on a table, and speaking in a language Lincoln didn't recognize. Another man hummed, and poured small cups of red wine out of a dark bottle. Lincoln almost shuddered at that, but controlled himself.

"Cantor, where is your rabbi? I need to speak with him."

The cantor sighed. "Unfortunately, we have no rabbi. Rabbi Weinberg, a dear friend of mine, was the last rabbi to serve this congregation. We are a small group, and so can't offer a new rabbi enough of an incentive to join us on a permanent basis. Not that one is needed for a service, you must know."

Lincoln felt embarra.s.sed. "Actually, I didn't know. But if you have no rabbi, then all hope is lost. The others-" He shook his head.

"Perhaps all is not lost," said the cantor. He put his hand on Lincoln 's shoulder. "Perhaps I can help you, Mister-?"

"Kliman, with a long 'i.' Lincoln Kliman."

" Lincoln. An odd name, for a Jew."

Lincoln shrugged. "My father was a historian, studied American history." He was used to explaining it.

"Very well, Mr. Kliman. How can I help you?"

"Not here. Can we go talk alone some-"

Lincoln was interrupted by shouts of "Erno!" The cantor said, "Excuse me a moment; I must make kiddush." He gave Lincoln an odd look. "Unless you would rather do the honors?"

Lincoln felt his face flush. "Uh, no thank you, Cantor, I really would rather not."

The cantor nodded. "At least take a cup of wine."

Lincoln a.s.sented, and tried not to look uncomfortable as the cantor began chanting kiddush and the others joined in. The only words he remembered was the last part of the blessing over wine, borai p'ri hagafen, and after the cantor sang it, Lincoln chorused "Amen" with the rest of the congregation.

The wine tasted sweet going down his throat.

Lincoln walked over to a small bookcase afterwards, studying the t.i.tles as the cantor circulated among the congregation. One by one, the elderly men put on their coats and left the room, until finally, the cantor came over to Lincoln.

"I believe you wanted to talk with me alone?" he said.

"Yes. Thank you."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Kliman?"

Lincoln looked into the cantor's eyes. "There is a boy. My son. He's very sick."

"Sick? Shouldn't you be fetching a doctor, and not a rabbi? Unless..." The cantor looked grim.

"It's not that kind of illness, not physical."

"Spiritual?"

Lincoln thought for a moment. "Cantor, may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"Have you studied Kaba-Kaba-Jewish mysticism?"

"Kabala. Why do you ask?"

"You believe in G.o.d, right?" Lincoln blurted.

The cantor looked shocked. "An impudent question, Mr. Kliman, but yes, of course I believe in G.o.d. I devoted my life to helping the Jewish people practice our religion." There was a chastising tone in his voice; Lincoln noticed that he slightly stressed the word "our."

"I didn't mean to question your faith, Cantor," Lincoln said. "I just don't want you to think I'm crazy. I needed to know that you can accept the possibility of something out there that you have no direct evidence for, something-something mystical."

"As a Jew," the cantor said, "I have all the evidence I need for G.o.d in seeing the wonders of the Earth each and every day. I rise from bed with praise of Him on my lips and I go to sleep the same way. That does not necessarily mean that I will believe in anything at all, Mr. Kliman."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that-well, I needed to find a religious man, a religious leader, and I didn't feel comfortable going to a Catholic priest. I thought a rabbi could help as well."

"Help with what, Mr. Kliman? You barge in here, claim to be worried about your son, and then question my faith. What do you need my help with?"

Lincoln looked down at his shoes for a moment and wrung his hands. "I'll have to trust you. My son's been bitten, and I need you to lift the curse."

"Bitten? By a dog? Better to see a doctor."

"No, not a dog. Cantor, my son Joseph has been bitten three times by a vampire. And unless I can find a cure by sundown tonight, he's going to turn into one himself."

An hour later, Lincoln and the cantor arrived at Lincoln 's apartment building. It would have taken only ten minutes if they had driven, but the cantor would not ride on the Sabbath, and so Lincoln left his car parked at the synagogue. Although it was early spring, the weather was cold and overcast, and Lincoln had to bundle himself up in his thin jacket as best as he could while they walked.

When they got to his building, the cantor also refused to take the elevator up to Lincoln 's ninth floor apartment, so they slowly climbed the stairs.