Origins: A Vampire Chronicle

Prologue

I know you. I have watched you for thousands of years. More years than I can perhaps recall at times, when I struggle to contemplate the enormity of my own existence, of my own time. Yet, you are something different. Certainly, you are different from me. But, then again, those differences go without saying as you shall no doubt soon discover.

I knew you when man's world was so but an infant. The world was a much quieter place then. Sometimes, when I think back through the mists of the centuries and try to determine the innumerable differences, the silence must be one of the greatest, if not the greatest. When I first came into this world, an event I can no longer recall but I will speculate on further shortly, you could hear the stillness of the world. The wind rustled through the leaves on the trees, over the blades of grass upon the ground, and caressed the mane of a nearby horse. If you held your hand out just so, as though you were reaching to touch someone who was simultaneously so close and yet had never been there, you could hear the soft breeze slipping through your own fingers, like fine sand. You could hear your own breath, especially on cold winter mornings in the purplish-black just before the dawn. I do miss the stillness. I miss the sound of my own breath, of my own steps.

Yet, in spite of the fact that most of my contributions to the noise of this world ceased so long ago, the world is now decidedly loud. Even in the woods, it seems the sounds of mankind are never far away.

Imagine, you used to be able to just sit. Sit. For hours if you liked. And only your thoughts would fill your mind. Now, well, now one cannot sit in silence for more than a fleeting moment before some cacophony interrupts.

All this is to say the world is so much tighter than the world I once knew. You can feel it. It presses upon you like a sweater shrunk in the wash. It crushes down upon your shoulders like sacks of earth or sand. It is the weight of all that sound, of all the commotion, of all the, well, life. For you see, reader — and I must call you that for I know not who will read these pages — centuries ago there was less life, or I suppose at least a different kind of life. The greatest cities in the land of my birth held no more than one or two thousand humans. Those cities would not pass for the smallest of hamlets today, they might not even warrant a gas station.

But with all this life comes this tightness, this feeling that no space remains on this planet which is currently not being used by someone. Or, at the least, that has not been used by someone. When I was young, reader, you could walk a path never walked before. You could touch a rock never touched before. There was an emptiness but also a newness that was so intoxicating to the senses. Perhaps that is the fascination with traveling to the moon, though, as I sit here writing these thoughts, that seems the furthest thing from anyone's mind, including my own. And I, reader, I have the luxury of time.

Now nothing is new. Certainly, there are new gadgets. You have your technology, which is all fine until it destroys you. Or, rather, until you destroy one another with it. But is that new? Are your ideas new? You can send information across the globe in a matter of seconds, but does any value in that speed remain if the information simply spreads the same hate? Would you not rather that information move more slowly? There is a value in such slowness, I think. A slow-moving snake is easier to slice in twain. A fast-moving cobra will fill you with venom before you can react. And causing more pain and suffering is what you use your technology for.

But, I digress and I beg your apologies. The purpose of this prologue is to introduce ourselves. Well, to an extent I suppose such is the purpose of all these volumes. I wish you to understand me as I finally go to take my leave of this world and, in my own way, I wish you to better know yourselves. Humans have many talents. I have had the fortune of observing them over these many thousands of years. But, your greatest talent, I should think, is your undeniable ability to ignore your faults. Humans can bring joy into this world. You can bring life into this world. You can honestly and emphatically change things for the better.

Yet, all while you do this, all this bettering, you ignore why you do it. Moreover, you conveniently ignore the reality that better for some means worse for others. I believe after several thousand years on this planet I can count on one hand the number of times a human has undertaken any activity with the goal in mind of improving the lives of everyone on the planet.

Not that most of you can conceive of humanity as everyone on the planet. Indeed, when you speak of such you generally mean those within your relatively proximity. Or perhaps those who swear allegiance to the same piece of, often tattered, cloth. Or, of those who just so happen to look like yourselves. And, all the while, I have been watching you.

But who am I? That is a story that will take many thousands of pages I am afraid, dear reader. This is only the first volume. We will get there. Try to have patience, though I know such is not your strong suit. I shall introduce myself in due time. Yet, before we get to me, I want to finish with what I have learned of you.

Humans are of intense interest to me. First, because, long ago, I was human. Second, because you are my primary source of life. Third, because you are the most incredible combination of ignorance and unabashed self-confidence of any creature I have yet to come across. The first two reasons are stories for further pages in this work. I will tell of my life as one of you in due course and my transition to my current state. Then, I will tell you how I killed one of you for the first time.

But, first let me provide for you a few general observations that frame my telling of this story, which is as much a story of you as much as it is of me. Humans, it seems to me, have an almost infinite capacity to forget, perhaps this internal wiring is on purpose.

I met a man once in Paris. The year was 1923. (I, unlike yourself, am completely sure of every date and of the details of every event which has ever happened to me.) It was several years after the war. My complete retelling of the war will have to wait for another time, but suffice it to say that those of my kind fought on both sides — sometimes changing back and forth as it suited them. I, on the other hand, have more iron in my commitments, but, as I said, that is a tale for another day.

I was sitting in a small cafe on the corner of the Rue Balzac and the Rue Beaujon, about an eighth of a mile from the Arc de Triomphe. It was April 24, 1923, and a lovely spring afternoon. The temperature was not above sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. (As an aside, while writing these pages I sit in a modestly sized apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Hence, I shall, in most cases, use American standards for all things measurable.) The sky was the same soft blue of the ancient fleur-de-lis of the French kings of old. There was a soft breeze coming up the Rue Balzac from the direction of the Seine.

Not that I could feel the wind, of course. But, I could see the leaves were rustling ever so slightly, leading to such a conclusion. I sat at an iron table just outside the cafe. The seat would have been a little uncomfortable, had I been able to feel discomfort. The top of the table had been painted a soft white, but I discerned the telltale signs of deep red rust underneath. As I sat, I sipped at a delightful glass of Chateauneuf de Pape, which I drink as much for the irony as for the taste.

I noticed a man sitting not two tables away. He was, perhaps, in his middle twenties. Not handsome, but neither did he resemble Quasimodo come back to life. He had soft brown hair and a lean build. He looked like the kind of young man who would quickly identify himself as a poet or painter. The kind of young man who would be working for the family business once said family's patience for his youthful dalliances wore off.

But, as I have said, none of those attributes were remarkable. What was, however, was the reality of his missing left hand. He had done quite an admirable job of hiding it and I guessed many a passerby probably had not noticed the wound at all. I, on the other hand, saw and appraised the lost hand before he even sat down. Nay, I believe I saw it when he came around the corner.

"Monsieur," I called over to him, raising my glass.

"Yes?" he answered jovially enough for someone who had just been addressed by a complete stranger.

I nodded towards the bottle of wine on my table. "Would you join me for a glass? I have more than I need or want."

The young man smiled. "I'll never turn down a Chateauneuf de Pape. And, if I am correct," he said while getting to his feet, "that is 1899. A good year."

I moved a chair for him to sit, pretending the action of sliding the wrought-iron chair was difficult for me. "You have a good eye, Monsieur. It is in fact."

The young man took a seat. I was impressed with how well he was able to hide the injury. Was I not aware of it already, I might not have noticed how it ever so slightly impacted the manner in which he took the chair. Fortunately for him, I realized he must be left-handed.

I raised my hand for the waiter, who quickly brought another glass and poured the wine for the young man.

"Merci," I called to the waiter as he left. Settling myself, I looked at the young man more closely now. Maybe not a poet, I thought. Maybe more of an accountant. Not betraying my knowledge of his missing hand in the least, I causally sipped my wine. "Where did you serve in the war, Monsieur?"

The young man somewhat absentmindedly tugged at the empty sleeve at the mention of the war. "Eighth infantry."

I nodded. "I see. Your family must be proud."

He sipped his wine. "I suppose. My brother died fighting at Vimy Ridge. My sister died of the flu three years ago. So," he paused for a moment and swirled the wine in his glass, "if they are proud of me in particular, it is more out of default than anything else."

I studied the young man for a long while. He had premature wrinkles on the sides of his eyes and graying hair at his temples. He will be dead before the decade is out, I thought to myself. War kills in many ways.

I decided to press on. "Where were you injured?"

He shook his head. "In the war."

I leaned forward. "Yes, I see. But where? I fought as well you see."

He looked at me, incredulous. "For whom?"

"For Britain, believe it or not. You see, I've kind of stayed on after the war."

"Are you from the colonies then, Monsieur?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am."

The young man took another long sip from the wine. "And you had the good fortune to emerge unhurt I see."

At this, I paused for a moment. I looked at him now like a scientist might study a new specimen. He was wearing a white shirt that had grown beige around the collar for overuse and under washing. It had once been starched to a neat point but was now wavy like a napkin carelessly tossed aside. Other than the injury, he wore no medals — though he must have some — nor any other indication of having served.

"Not all injuries are visible," I said after a while.

He laughed. "True, very true."

I leaned forward on the table now, looking down I could see the rust from the underside wearing off on my pants. I brushed at it absentmindedly. "But, the hand. How did you lose it?"

The young man said nothing. I saw him look out across the street where a happy couple was walking down the Rue Balzac, hand in hand. For a long while, I assumed he would say nothing more. I would not have blamed him. You see even then I had seen more men die and more wounds inflicted than I can ever hope to count. Though, if you forced me, I could tell you about them all. Memory can be a curse. Little did I know in 1923, I had not yet seen the worse humanity had to offer.

"You know," said the young man at last. "I really don't know. One moment I was reaching for the barbed wire to clear it away. The next," he clicked his tongue, "well, the next I woke up in a hospital bed."

I leaned back now. "Perhaps it is best not to remember."

"Perhaps," he whispered in a tone so soft that, did I possess remarkable hearing, I would not have heard him.

"Perhaps," I said, taking the bottle of wine and refilling his glass, "it is best to continue moving forward."

He gave a low chuckle. "Huh, sure. Forward to our glorious future. For whatever it's worth." He looked at me more intently now, leaning forward. I could smell the wine on his breath and realized this was not his first bottle today. "You know I volunteered. I volunteered to go to protect our damned glorious future. And now what future is there for me?" He looked around. "What future is there for any of us? At least we all get to die someday. Get some rest."

I stared down into my wine, unsure for once what to say. I considered just agreeing with him, though agreeing would be a lie as, until very recently, I assumed I would never die; again, that is.

But then I thought such an agreement would serve little purpose. His mind was made up regardless. Decade? I thought, he probably wouldn't last the week.

"Find value in what you can," I said at last. "Trust me, imagining what might have been is an errand that only ends in regret. And that, I can tell you, is nearly worse than any memory."

That was almost a century ago now, but I still remember that young man's unwashed collar.

I got his name, do you know that, reader? I got his name and followed up with him. Do you know I was wrong? He lasted more than a week. That was April. He hanged himself in June.

So if memory is a curse for you, as it is for me, I understand why you so often reject it. Yet, that only leaves you with the alternative of inventing your own history, an alternative you choose with remarkable regularity. Again, I cannot say that I blame you. Do you know what I have seen over the past several thousand years? The hypocrisy of your species is deeper than the deepest parts of the Pacific Ocean.

From the start of the world, in my time, you used images and ideas of gods and goddesses — oh yes, long before you decided there was only one — to justify horrific atrocities. Tell me, reader, if all-powerful and omnipotent gods do exist, why is it that they depend on mere mortals to do their bidding? Either these gods, as you call them, are vastly more powerful than yourselves, or they are not, is that not true? Does the man wait for the carpenter ants to lift the board? If Osiris or Zeus or Shiva or Yahweh are completely invincible, which given there are multiple versions of them I assume they cannot all be at the same time, then why do they need you to murder your neighbor?

You call me monster. You say I am a nightmare. Perhaps so, but, if it is the case and you are correct, then you are the nightmare of nightmares. The things I watched your kind do would make the worst of my kind cringe and, let me you, there are some of my kind you deserve the titles you heap upon us.

When your gods were no longer enough to justify your cruelty, you turned to lines drawn upon a scrap of parchment. You called then kingdoms, nation-states, city-states, and empires. You decided because someone who, for all practical purposes is just like you, was born fifty feet to the north, they deserve to die. Humans, you worship men like Alexander the Great (who was a terrible drunk by the way) and Napoleon (who I did not know personally but I can surmise) and hundreds of others like them for their capacity to slaughter. Yet, you fault the wolves for thinning the weakest of the herd. Did your great conquerors take only the weak and the sick? The rivers of blood that could be filled by their battles would stretch up and down your world, if only you could see them. And all this for glory. All this just to move one line on your pointless insignificant map a little further. May I ask you if that village, now south of the precious line on your map belongs to you now and, therefore, is now part of your glorious empire, why did you burn it down in the first place? Worse still, why will your enemy burn it down once more before “liberating” it?

And when nationalities fail and religion is imperfect to feed your never ending blood lust, you turn to the most minute of differences between yourselves as justification. In my thousands of years, you cannot fathom the different arguments I have heard justifying why someone deserves to be your slave. You say they were conquered. You say they are black or even slightly darker than you. You say they have the committing the penultimate sin of being born a woman. You have redefined this particular justification so many times even I, with my nearly infinite capacity for remembrance, cannot recall all the reasons you gave for enslaving someone.

And yet, all your justification comes down to one thing. It is because I can. And when you cannot, someone will do it to you.

Such is the beginning of what I know about you, reader. Most you will disregard my assessments; most will disregard the warnings. That has always been the way and will continue to be the way long after I am gone. But, like a man leaving those with whom he has just completed a long journey, I felt you deserved, at least, to know about the cancer slowly consuming you from within.

Before I begin the story, however, I think it best, reader, if we cover the basics. For, as much as I have had thousands of years to study you, you know shockingly little about me. I am not obsessed with names. I cannot be. I have been called so many names over my time on this earth. I remember the Eastern Romans, titled quite erroneously the Byzantines by the way, used to call me Vrykolakas. The Greeks, always in love with their naming, had three names for me: Empusa, Lamia, and Striges.

The Babylonians, not far from where my story begins in earnest, by the way, called those like me Lilitu. Interestingly this turned into Lilith in Hebrew, though I must tell you, in spite of how that name remains potent in popular culture, I never met one of my kind with her name. I did know a group of females like me whom I met in Prague in 1323 who gave rise to the folklore of the Estries in the Hebrew tradition. So some stories are not too far afield, I suppose.

But mentions of me go far beyond Europe and the Near East. The Mayans called me the Camazotz. The Australians called me Garkain. The Jubokko in Japan. In India, I am the Pichal Peri. Sri Lankans call me the Riri Yaka.

Yet, I think you know me by my most famous name, Vampire. Now, I know what you are thinking, this story must begin in Transylvania. First of all, you are thinking of Vlad Dracula. He was quite a real person. I should know, I met him. He, however, was the ruler of Wallachia, not Transylvania. So let us start this relationship with the correct facts and names, shall we?

And no, this is not a story about Vlad the Impaler. His is a fantastic story though and I implore you to look it up if you do not know anything about the actual Vlad. He has a fascinating reputation in history and popular culture, some of it well-deserved, and, should you be of Turkish descent, dear reader, he would be no friend of yours.

The story you know of Vlad Dracula, or Count Dracula I suppose, was all pure invention and I think we might as well dispense with some of the more obvious misconceptions about my kind straight away. Dracula, penned by Bram Stoker, is both immensely irritating to me personally and extremely helpful to my existence. As they say, the devil's greatest mischief was in convincing the world he did not exist and, to the idea that vampires are purely fictional, Bram Stoker is my greatest publicist.

For the purposes of simplicity, vampire is the term I shall use to denote my kind throughout the remainder of this work though, as I mentioned earlier, many cultures have different names for those who hunt in the shadows. No doubt you wish to know what we call ourselves. Sadly, you would be disappointed to find we call ourselves nothing. Only mankind is obsessed with setting such arbitrary ideological boundaries. You are humans. We are not. That is enough.

As I was saying, I have noted but a few of the myriad cultures who recognized the existence of vampires or vampiric creatures. Some of these folk traditions are accurate. In what was then referred to as Prussia, in the mid-eighteenth century, a coven of vampires (yes, popular fiction did get that term right, much as I suppose a blind man endless tossing darts will eventually hit the board) slaughtered an entire village, leading to vampire hysteria. In that same century in Serbia, a father turned vampire created quite the stir by subsequently undertaking to turn his son. Both incidents led to, quite real, fears about a rise in vampires in their local communities.

Luckily for me, an alcoholic Irishman is always to be found when services are needed. Bram Stoker located old maps of Wallachia, discovered the past of Vlad Dracula, and invented his wonderful story out of whole cloth. I am not a fan of epistolary novels, but, in the case of Dracula, I must make an exception. It is a good story, but hardly any of it is true.

I think, then, it makes some sense for us, dear reader, to run through the simplest of the errors here and dispatch them forthwith. The more complex mistakes or half-truths, for again, even the fool must be right sometimes, we will leave for our narrative and I shall endeavor to explain them to you as best as I am able. Again, I do not believe in an all-powerful deity, for surely such would destroy me, and nor do I purport to be one. So I can only give you such answers as to my nature as my experience and intelligence allow.

Error number one: Vampires are deterred by garlic. This is baseless. I love garlic. While vampires, technically, lack the ability to taste, other than blood, I still enjoy the aroma. To those who love garlic, I highly recommend Julia Childs' garlic mashed potatoes. They are, tongue in cheek, to die for.

Error number two: all vampires are sensual. We are not. We are as diverse as humankind. If you are an overweight businessman when you become a vampire, an overweight businessman vampire you remain. You do not become an underwear model simply by virtue of the fact you have turned into a vampire. Vampirism stops the growth of the human body where it is, though how exactly that works we will get into more in the course of our narrative.

Error number three: vampires come from the Balkans and I use the term, Balkans, to avoid the whole Transylvania versus Wallachia quagmire. Either way, so far as I know, vampires originated with me. And I, as you shall know in a few short moments, am not from what you call Europe. However, I should note that I cannot prove definitively I am the first vampire. It is a contention I advance herein and, at the end of all this, you must decide: do you believe me or not? That is your choice.

Error number four: vampires can be deterred by silver. So far as I know, this is false. Or, at least it is so for me. I, for example, am wearing a lovely silver locket around my neck as I write this.

Error number five: vampires hate Christian things. This one requires more explanation. I, for example, predate the man know to history as Jesus of Nazareth by around three thousand five-hundred years. Moreover, I met him, and he had some good points, though, I am not sure he would agree with most of the ways in which his name is being used today. In that way, he and I are oddly similar. Furthermore, I have visited many churches and cathedrals in my life and if you have not been to see the magnificent cathedral at Chartres, you simply have not lived. I have nothing against Jesus of Nazareth or his ideas nor does anything related to the Christian god impact me in the least. In fact, I find many of the paintings and sculptures of the Renaissance quite beautiful. This error I place once more squarely at the feet of Stoker as I understand the man had certain religious leanings. Yet, dear reader, please know I predate most, if not all active religions and philosophies in the modern world and I take no position as to any of them.

Error number six: vampires can transform into bats. This one is simple. No, we cannot. I am not sure where this fanciful notion came from. Nor can we fly or levitate. I would have much appreciated that magical power, but have it we do not. At least, I never met one of my kind who can perform either of those feats.

Error number seven: vampires can only be killed with a stake through the heart or by cutting off their heads. Yes, certainly cutting of something’s head would kill anything. However, being burned alive, shot repeatedly, or exploded would also do the trick. Suffice it to say, vampires can be killed many of the ways humans can.

I suppose it would be easier to list the methods that will not cause a vampire to die. Again, vampires are not super-human, a fact I will discuss more momentarily. The things that do not result in the destruction of the vampire are, if you think about them, fairly obvious. Nothing that causes death by asphyxiation will destroy a vampire. We do not breathe. Thus, no hanging, no smothering, no choking. I, for one, once choked on a chicken bone for nearly six months in 1574. It was not pleasant, but I did not die. Nor can vampires die of poisoning. Oddly, even drinking the poisoned blood of a human, or one who is suffering the effects of a lifetime of alcohol poisoning, does not appear to impact us. I am not sure why this is. I myself tried consuming cyanide, arsenic, and ricin to no effect. Finally, and this should go without saying, vampires do not die of old age. I am over five thousand years old. And I feel as well as ever.

Now, I should point out, vampires can die of starvation. It has been known to happen, in fact, with some regularity. There are those who grow wearily with eternal existence or those who become disgusted with their own parasitic being and wish to end this prolonged afterlife. The most common way vampire suicide has been accomplished to date has been refusing to eat. It takes much longer than with humans, but it can be done.

Once, I met a vampire in a tiny village along the Adriatic Coast nearby Split, where the Roman Emperor Diocletian once retired to tend cabbage as his empire collapsed. This vampire had become seriously depressed with her lot in life. All her family and friends had long since died, as had their children, and their children's children until she knew no one in this world who had even the most remote of connections to her prior life. Unable to cope, she began to starve herself. That was in 1788, I recall the date perfectly well for it was one year before the French people threw off their medieval yoke, catapulting Europe into modernity. I had occasion to pass her way again in 1803 when Europe was first beginning to feel the sting of a young gunnery captain named Napoleon Bonaparte. This vampire was, fifteen years later, much reduced in her energies, but still able to move. I came back once more when all the wars of the early nineteenth century had burned themselves, and entire generations of human beings, out. It was 1816. This time I found no one in the village who could tell me of the strange old woman who once lived on the outskirts of town. I went to her dwelling and found only her long whithered remains, skeletal, and translucent. I buried her on a nearby clifftop overlooking the sea, both out of pity and concern that her strange remains would one day be discovered.

Error number eight: vampires possess super-human strength. I will discuss this more in the narrative, but we do not. We are stronger and faster than humans, when at full strength. But, at our best, that amounts to perhaps triple the strength or speed of the fastest or strongest human. Movie depictions of us jumping from mountaintop to mountaintop or flying through trees like lightening are simple fancy, nothing more.

Error number nine: vampires can hypnotize people. While this would be extremely helpful, it is not true. Yet this is another aspect of Mr. Stoker's narrative for which I am grateful, however, as many humans think it is true to the extent that they actually believe you have hypnotized them.

Error number ten: if vampires exist, so do all other manner of supernatural creatures. Perhaps this one is due to modern popular culture more than any other of the errors I have thus far delineated. Most people today believe that, if vampires exist, so must werewolves. I have walked nearly every mile of this planet throughout every single century and never saw a werewolf. Nor am I sure I would even know one if I were to see one at this point as historical depictions of the creature vary wildly. Regardless, I have never encountered a being that transforms via the full moon. Should you truly desire to find a creature that transforms itself under cover of darkness, you need look no further than yourselves, dear reader. Humans have quite the penchant for changing their behavior when they no longer believe they can be seen.

I suppose I should point out here that, same as werewolves, I have not encountered any number of other magical creatures passed down through folktales and fireside stories since time immemorial. There are, to name a few, no unicorns, zombies, griffins, centaurs, hodags, dragons, orcs, or banshees. As to witches, I suppose much depends on one's definition. If a fourteenth-century herbalist doing her best to combat the Black Death is a witch, then yes, there are witches. If, however, a witch is one who communes with the devil and casts spells, there are not. Simply because a woman wishes to live her life outside the norms of society, that does not make her a witch, no matter what the seventeenth-century Puritans believed and no, Joan of Arc was not a witch. She was an illiterate peasant girl who believed she saw visions. Nothing less. Nothing more.

As to the other aspects of vampires, I will explain those within these pages. There are explanations, or at least my attempt at explanations, for many of the larger questions but I think those fit best within the narrative itself as many of them depend upon my independent experiences.

Thus ends my best efforts at a sort of introduction. I am well aware that many of you may not believe what is contained within these pages. However, suffice it to say, it is not my job to convince you of anything. It is solely my duty to tell you my story before it is forever lost to the world. For simplicity's sake, I will tell my story, as Lewis Carroll once suggested, by beginning at the beginning and proceeding until the end. Then, I shall stop.

Every story has a beginning, even one so old and long as mine. This story begins thousands of years ago in a part of the world you now call the Middle East, but which in my day was referred to many as Sumer. We begin there. We begin with my humanity, at its loss.