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 space, 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 God 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 Hassan, 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 Hell to make good on our wager."
"Merciful Allah!" Hassan gasped.
Abu Jamir leaned across the table as the other guests whispered excitedly. He wore a look of annoyance. "Good Hassan," he snapped, "kindly calm yourself. We are all grateful to our host Masrur for entertaining us, but it is an insult to sensible, Godly 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 Analog 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 assimilation. "A lot of debate takes place among the Jewish people, especially American Jews, about assimilating 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 pronounce the words, let alone understand them.
True to the man's word, the service ended in a few minutes. The congregants began folding the chai
rs 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 glasses 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 embarrassed. "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 assented, 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 titles 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 God, right?" Lincoln blurted.
The cantor looked shocked. "An impudent question, Mr. Kliman, but yes, of course I believe in God. 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 God 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.
The cantor had been decidedly uncommunicative during the walk over, but as they ascended he began to ask Lincoln about the boy.
"Tell me exactly what it is you think happened."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
The cantor shrugged. "That remains to be seen. But I will tell you this much: I find what you describe hard to believe."
Lincoln sighed. "Well, you've trusted me this far, at least. I appreciate that. The others refused to even listen to me."
"The others?"
Lincoln felt his cheeks redden. "Yours wasn't the first synagogue I went to, Cantor. I tried a Reform temple and a Conservative synagogue first, but neither of the rabbis believed me. They wouldn't help."
The cantor nodded, stopped at a landing to catch his breath. "The boy," he prodded.
"Yes. The boy. Joseph is a pretty good kid, does well in school and all that, but recently has been acting very independent. He's just turned twelve; you know what that means."
The cantor shook his head. "Go on."
"Anyway, it started when Joseph came home very late from school three weeks ago. It's only a few blocks away, and I've let him run around the neighborhood before. I mean, I grew up in New York as well, and I never got in serious trouble. But this time he didn't call."
"Don't you meet him after school to bring him home?"
"I can't. I work."
"What about the boy's mother?"
Lincoln looked away from the cantor. "Gone, these past five years."
"Oh. I am sorry, Mr. Kliman."
"Thanks. It's been hard, raising Joseph on my own. Anyway, he finally did come home that night, well after sundown, and he looked terrible. His color was bad, and he looked sick to his stomach. I thought it was food poisoning, as he smelled like he'd been to a fast food place. You know, that cheeseburger smell."
The cantor glared at him. "No, I do not know."
Lincoln felt embarrassed again. "Right. Well, anyway, he practically passed out when he came in the door, and I rushed him to the doctor."
"Nu? What did he find?"
"Anemia. Loss of blood. That and two tiny pinpricks on Joseph's neck."
"Hm. Did he say anything about that?"
"No. He gave Joseph a shot of something, chastised him and me over drug use, and that was all. Only thing is, he didn't find drugs in Joseph's system.
"Joseph refused to answer my questions about where he was that night, and the next day he acted like he had forgotten the whole thing. His color had returned, though, and he ate a big breakfast, so I let him go to school. The next day he came home on time,
and I thought that would be the end of it."
"I presume it was not."
"Well, it was for about a week. Then the same thing happened. He came home late, looking very sick, and he almost passed out before I could get him to bed."
The cantor's eyebrows shot up. "You didn't bring him to the doctor this time?"
By Blood We Live Page 13