S. P. Somtow - Vampire Junction.pdf - S. P. Somtow - widez2

Vampire Junction

s.p. somtow

I'll hop on the train in Kansas

You change atSanta Fe .

We'll cross tracks at the Vampire junction

that sucks our souls away.

—Timmy Valentine

*fire: A.D. 79*

. . . brimstone. . . a child's footsteps patter on a splintering mosaic, bittertoast smell of charring feet . . .

fleeing, mountain thunder, then. . .

. . . blood, spatter spatter spatter bursting spatter spatter spatter boiling on the hot stones spatter

spatter spatter

. . . marble columns snapping like bones over the screaming and. . .

. . . blood spatter spatter spatter

. . . bloodgutted eyes through the sulphur-haze and the screaming and. . .

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. . . through the ash-hail, fangs glitter blood spatter glitter spatter glitter spatter glitter

*dissolve: the present*

I'm scared.

Why?

Don't you feel anything? I'm cold. Hold me.

All right.

No don't. Your hands are so cold. It's nothing, I guess. Brrr. Ever since I got into the car though.

Maybe I'm not as blasé about the very rich as I'd like to be, huh? You are very rich, aren't you? I mean,

like you're only a kid, but you must be one of the richest people on earth, what with that new album and

everything. Vampire Junction. Yeah. Am I talkingtoo much? I'm nervous. Where was I? Yeah, money.

They want to know about money. Tell me all about your money.

FDR Drive, Rudy.

I've interviewed lots of people before, you know. You name 'em. But you, like you're so mysterious.

Is this really the first time you're going to be on TV? Of course it must be. You know you're even shorter

than in those photos. How old are you? Twelve? But cute. I'm . . . twenty-nine. I don't look it, right?

They always say I don't look it. Now I want to do a huge feature for the magazine, understand, huge.

You don't have to say anything at all though, frankly I'm just going to make most of it up, like who gives a

shit about those weeny-boppers anyway, huh? Oh sorry, maybe I shouldn't have said shit. They're your

fans after all.

Well. . .

Hey, like this is some limousine you got. Two phones! I guess the driver picks it up and then just

intercoms it back to you? Ritzy. Look, here's the toll booth. Nice night, huh? Traffic's not too bad either.

Sometimes it can take hours to get to mid-town from LaGuardia.

I've done it before.

Huh? Yeah, of course. You know you got beautiful eyes. . . so sexy . . . if I were a weeny-bopper

I'd go for you in spades. How do you likeNew York ?

Well enough.

I guess you've seen the whole world though, even if you're just a kid. Huh?

Probably.

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Where do you get those cute cloaks from, by the way, the ones you do the concerts in?

InEurope . I have them sent.

Oh.

I love the night.

What? Oh yeah, really, like I love the way you talk, you know, really compact, like those songs of

yours. There's never been a teen star like you before, never in my ten years of working for Idol

Magazine. But if I'm going to interview you you'll have to tell me more about yourself, I mean like what

you like to eat and drink, your views on teen sex, your—

Anything wrong?

No. Just. . . memories.

What kind of memories? That's just the kind of thing the fans want to know, like how you grew up

and stuff and— look, the Big Apple already! I know how I'm going to describe it in the article: "rearing

up over the water like a giant graveyard in the moonlight."

Pretentious.

They love shit.

I can see that.

Huh? Oh, yeah. Back to you, Timmy—can I call you that? You and your memories—

(spatter spatter spatter) You wouldn't want to know.

Bad childhood, huh?

Very bad. I've forgotten it all.

There you go, looking at me with those haunting eyes. I'd swear they shine in the dark. There now.

It's not often I get to hold the hand of a million-dollar property—oh, I don't mean to hurt your feelings—

It's all right. They're like ice, your hands! Your metabolism must be weird or something. You should

try more organic foods, you know? Here, I'll warm them. Better? Hey, this is sort of a turn-on, you

know, I. . . oh, your hand, it's burning my breast, I mean burning, and . . . why're you smiling at me like

that? Oh, let me hug you, let me. . . don't think I'm kinky now. You're a sophisticated kid, but I don't like

little boys, you know, I'm all of. . . twenty-nine . . . want to see them? Here, look, I keep in shape, you

know, I. . . how am I going to explain this rip? You like my breasts? Here . . . ouch! Like glaciers, your

fingers, like glaciers, and here, don't scratch you've drawn blood it's running down my Izod sweater

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don't think I'm into this stuff now but you're so famous and all and ow! Let go of it! What are you doing?

Don't bare your teeth, you animal, you little bastard, you—

I grieve for you. You should not have awakened my memories. I've known. . . someone like you. . .

before.

Let me go you're so strong your teeth the moonlight don'tbite! don't bite! it hurts it hurts it hurts oh oh

oh.

Rudy, not this exit yet. If we go into mid-town they'll see us.

I hate it when they scream and struggle. It attracts too muchattention. I'm so hungry, it hurts so! The

breasts are all rippedup. She'll die in a minute or two. Oh, the fresh blood . . .warming. . . easy . . . easy .

. . shall I kill you permanently? Shall I? If I did not you would wake up to a terrible solitude . . . poor

creature. I've yanked her heart out, Rudy. That should save her from the great loneliness. There it is, on

the seat, going pit-a-pat as it seeps into the upholstery. . . easy. . . still now, heart. . . look, her lifeless

eyes. . . I'll close them ... there, she's dead. The seat's all bloody now. Tell Maria to clean it up. My

concert's in an hour.

I'm sorry, Rudy! I was angry, she plucked such vivid memories from me. . . Forget, master Timothy.

How can I?

*memory: 1918*

He has slipped through the railings, this child of darkness, and is standing in a pool of moonlight by

the quadrangle's edge, his thin pale face striped by the shadows of the iron bars. He feels the hunger a

little, like a rodent scurrying in the pit of his stomach. But it is not hunger that has drawn him out of his

hiding place. It is the sound of children singing. It has touched him in his dreamless sleep; he has followed

it blindly, as a bloodhound follows a scent, many days' walk fromLondon , leaving behind the house

onFitzroy Square and the old woman who took him in.

For a few moments he watches the stained glass windows, lit from within, of the massive

fifteenth-century chapel. It must be an evening choir practice. The building is one of theCambridge

colleges with its own choirschool where young boys are trained for chapel services. He hears the

children's voices, cool as the wind.

"What are you doing here, boy?" He averts his eyes, catching a glimpse of theCambridge don's face,

then looking down at the mirror-polished boots and the edge of the gown. "Answer me. Are you lost?"

The hunger stirs in him for a moment. "Are you late for practice?" The don indicates the chapel. "No,

you're too scruffy to be one of the choristers. Go away, it's out of bounds here."

He stares at the man's eyes, stung by his rebuff. He thinks of feeding for a moment. The pickings

have been slim since he left the city. The young men have gone to the war, the womenhave latched their

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doors, and there are only tramps, whose blood is bitter with methylated spirits. He is about to spring-But

no. The don rubs his eyes and sees only a black animal, perhaps a cat, dark silver slicing the gloom.

The boy comes to in the nave. Soft light on the Rubens over the altar in the distance. A few seconds

of memory surface; he has been here centuries before, and there are dead men, dust now, whose

memories still touch him through the warm earth and the cold stone. He longs to join them. In the dark

the fan vaulting is shadowed, and there appears to be no ceiling. The boy crouches in a pew as the

singing dies away in the musty stillness. It is Purcell's Funeral Music: the boy remembers it from long

ago, a king's funeral.

For a moment peace steals into his haunted eyes, for he has always loved music.

The voices have allayed his hunger for now. It is at such times that he wishes he could weep. . .

He hears voices. "Perfect, chaps. But Miles, don't attack that top B flat so viciously in your solo. Just

let it grow naturally from the phrase. It's a nuisance, I know, having all these extra choir practices, but

with all these chaps dying in the war, and all these memorial services, what can you do? Damn the

Kaiser! Very well, that's all for tonight."

The boys troop out, passing under the ornate archway of dark, oily wood that splits the nave. They

are giggling, irreverent. The Organ Scholar has come down from the loft and is discussing something with

the director; childish laughter and old men's whispers blend into cavernous echoing.

The lights go out. The boy is alone. The dark is kind to his eyes. He must feed now.

He rises, making no noise.

He crosses the aisle, soundless as shadow.

He freezes. Somewhere hinges creak. He hears distant clattering. He dissolves behind the altar's long

shadow. Once, the cross, boy-tall, silver, crusted with amethysts, would have caused him grief, but it is

not a fervent age, and the symbols are losing their power.

Now he sees tiny lights, dancing, flickering, casting shadow-giants on the walls. An old verger is

leading a grotesque processional of men with black robes on which are embroidered stars and moons

and cabalistic signs and hieroglyphs, holding candles and staves. The boy smells terror.

It comes from a young woman, bound and gagged, whom they are dragging behind them. Two young

acolytes, mere boys, bring up the rear, swinging censers that exude a stench of perfume and charred

flesh.

The boy remembers such things from a past better forgotten. He peers from the pool of darkness.

The celebrants are giggling. This is no genuine rite of the old ones, but some game they are playing.

The young boys run in front now, scattering the foul smoke everywhere.

"Thank you, Sullivan," says one of the robed ones. He appears to be tipping the verger, who slinks

away, leering at the woman.

"You're sure she can't be traced?" says a plump Asian man.

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S. P. Somtow - Vampire Junction.pdf

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