By Blood We Live (16 page)

"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."

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 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 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?"

Lincoln shook his head. "No, I didn't. I know what you're thinking, but after that first time, I didn't want the doctor to chastise
me
again."

"And did you send Joseph to school again the next day?"

"No, because it was Saturday. A week ago today."

"That makes two bites."

"The third one was last night. Same pattern, only this time Joseph told me the full story. Apparently the vampire—"

"Yes?" the cantor prodded.

Lincoln whispered. "I'd rather not say. Let's just say that she promised to show Joseph a good time, and being the adolescent that he is. . ."

"I understand. You need not elaborate."

They had reached the door to Lincoln's apartment, and Lincoln let them in. The room was dark. Lincoln turned on the light and then pulled his hand back from the switch. "Sorry. I forgot, no lights on shabbat, right?"

"No using electricity," replied the cantor. "But you can leave lights on from the day before. Where is the boy?"

"This way." Lincoln showed the cantor through the living room to a small bedroom. They entered and closed the door behind them. It was dark inside. A small figure writhed under the blankets of the bed.

"I'm not going to turn the lights on in here. Joseph asked me not to. He says it hurts his eyes."

The boy moaned from under the blankets. "Dad? Is that you?"