L'aura del Campo

Vampire stories in the raw (lightly salted, barely silvered)

Vampire stories in the raw (lightly salted, barely silvered):

Smell of fear R92 NaNo73 25.Nov

Who: Old Sniffer
When: mid-winter. Can be Part 1, 2 or 3.
Theme: an unknown fear

Smell of fear

Old Sniffer went walking along the old train tracks attracted by the fragrance of fresh blood. No vultures to fend off, he thought. It was almost the dark of the new moon and mid-winter. The odor was carried on a faint breeze. One horse neighed when he walked by. Obviously it had smelled the fear too. Yes, fear. Beyond the now overwhelming scent of blood there was fear. A body slowly revealed itself. Human, straddled across the rails as if a train had rolled over it. —I’m late, Old Sniffer said to the wind. One arm and both legs severed, the head bashed. It was a child of about 10. The blood would be tasty but he turned and walked to neighbor’s house and had them call the police then called Mr. Nightengale, the mortician.

The cops gave Old Sniffer the complete up and down.

—Why were you walking along the tracks at that time of night…
—It was the shortest route on a cold wintry night.
—Why alone…

At some point his neighbor spoke up.

—He was coming to see me.

Two cups of cups of coffee were on the kitchen table and a deck of cards.

—And why did you call Mr. N…
—Body severed, head bashed; he’s dead.
—How do you know it’s a boy…
—Dressed like a boy, short hair.
—How could you see? It’s dark…
—My eyes may be old officer but I can see. My night vision has always been excellent.

The cops weren’t buying it.

—Stay put…

So old Sniffer and the neighbor sat down to play gin. When they loaded the body bag into the hearse (it was there; it was handy; the child was obviously dead; no rescue; no ambulance needed.) an older cop came in.

—You can go now, she said in a soft voice that tried to cover her emotions. It betrayed hurt.

The neighbor spoke up.

—Know who it is? The cop nodded.
— Fits the description of a girl that’s been missing since morning. She was from Lansing. Only 9.

The neighbor sighed.

—Sit down. Want some coffee?
—Oh, I can’t but thank-you. I’ve seen my share of death, but this was brutal. And just a child. I guess someone wanted to make it look like a train had passed. —Well, they would’ve had to wait. It’s been many years since they passed through daily. They still come through now and then.
—Hmmm, the cop nodded, then left.

—What do you know? the neighbor said when he and Old Sniffer were alone. —She was afraid. I could smell it. There’s was a horse in the field. She could smell it too. Doesn’t take much to figure that out.
—No. And yes.
—How much do you know about predator and prey? Old Sniffer asked, picked up a card, discarded. —Sometimes they know. Not everyone is afraid of death. And sometimes it comes so quick there is no time for fear. That child was afraid. Of what, I don’t know. But I suspect she was afraid long before she was killed. No, it wasn’t a new fear either.
—Gin, his neighbor said. There was no joy in the word. —It’s odd what one learns if you live long enough. You should visit more often. I’m 77 next birthday but I suspect you have a lot to teach me. And I could teach you gin, Old Sniffer grinned.
—Well, I do like to win. By-the-way, thank-you for what you said to the cops.
—No problem. You can pay me back by stopping by some night next week. The cops? They’re paid to be nosy, but some have no manners. They treat everyone like dirt. Back in the day, the neighbor continued, I had my run -ins too.

They played gin till 4 in the morn, until Old Sniffer said, time to leave.
—Ah, it’s late. Need a lift?
—No. I’ll walk back along those tracks; I can see well enough, the horse may need to speak to me and it’s safer than taking the road. There’s idiots out at night around here. But, I’ll let the cops look that spot over before I walk there again, maybe after a snow.

What Old Sniffer didn’t tell the neighbor was that he knew more than he was telling and that snow didn’t hide the smell of blood anymore then a cup of coffee and gin hid fear.

© Kåre Enga [316] 25.November

Lessons: RedBook 91a; NaNo 61; 21.November [303]

Who: Czeszniak, Ajo
When: no season. Part 3.
Theme: wisdom and eternity

Lessons

         Ajo interviews Czeszniak:

—I have met many scribes over the years, whether they spoke in pictures or words. It was the same story. Read this. Know me and my place, my family, my community, they would write. What they meant was… know ME, what I've endured, my failures, my triumphs. Even lists of who did what to whom and when or the price of salt or corn reveals the world of the scribe and his place within it. Look at the murals found in caves painted before the Egyptians. They tell the same stories of hunter and hunted, the lover and his captured bounty or his loss. The rise and fall of civilizations can be known by reading between the ancient lines on the walls of grottoes. Little has changed. There is Mother Earth in her majesty and the mystery of the stars. There is the comings and goings of mortals, so self-absorbed yet there are lessons to be learned by their interactions with it all and the belief that there was something beyond their knowing. They prayed to that spirit for wisdom so seldom granted. Cracked vessels can’t hold on to the essence of knowledge anymore than our bodies can retain our souls forever. What flows from the source returns to it in time. Your eyes ask about time. Life’s but a blink and you know it. Mine may be two blinks or three and Thoom’s a few dozen. Knyflok’s gaze into eternity. But even his soul knows it’s but a blink and that his vessel , no matter how well-fashioned, will someday break. Even the scribes of old knew that there was much in their world older and wiser and they gave thanks when wisdom was shared. Even stones have wisdom. We just don’t have the ears to hear nor the patience to listen.

—How do I gain that patience?

—You don’t. You make assumptions and over generations come closer to the truth, but nylon will comfort you that after all these millennia he’s no closer than the nearest star.

—So how do I learn anything?

—By putting your nose in it or traveling afar! We live for today, but each day is yesterday’s tomorrow and every tomorrow passing into yesterday. You do well considering you came here not knowing yourself, afraid of no future. Now you know your future will be remembered by Knyflok as some distant past, like rays from a beloved but dying star. It is humbling. I know. But you should be filled with joy. You’ll always be cherished and remembered as cherished. What will be forgotten is the daily dross that hides the gem that’s inside you, pulses inside you, what survives the winds of fire and the drowning flood. Much like a zircon you’re precious. Poets sometimes try to explain this but for many rhythm and rhyme are mere toys and the soul of existence is stripped of its joy. Some do better. Read Rumi, Tagore or Lalla or the ancient wisdom of a hundred cultures handed down by generations, memorized even before there were scribes to write it.

—You learned this from books?

—No! Czeszniak laughed. I read books upon books, from myths to stories written for children to the weighty tomes of the Dark Night of the Soul. No. Books only help me look deeper, ask more questions that my lifetime will never answer. When you read Romeo and Juliet did you ever think of what you could’ve said? One thought it was the nightingale, the other the lark. We know now that it was the Owl of Death calling their names. But which of us would’ve understood that morning? No. Better to know the sweet songs of the night, the sweeter songs of the morning. The swoop of the owl is silent at best.

—Is it better to not know then?

—Perhaps. There are always those who know, even welcome the breaking of the vessel to set free the soul. Some have stood in harms way to free others.

—But then what’s the difference between humans and vampires?

—Oh, vampires are human enough. We eat, drink and breathe. We only have certain gifts and certain burdens we must someday see as the same. We’re no better, just live long enough to see patterns in air, earth, and water. Flesh is nothing but a weave of the three with a pinch of fire to burst forth in flame or smolder like embers. When the ember dies out, when the flame is snuffed, all become an exhale of breath and crumbling bone as words return to syllables and sounds, as books disintegrate and paint flakes off the walls of caves. Such is the wisdom scribbled by the scribes. All returns to earth as hot ash or wet clay.

© Kåre Enga [303] 21.November