Atticus hated the dust in this place. In this part of the world, the dry air was softened only by the ocean salt, but that wasn’t reaching him here. He longed for the humid air of Thessaloniki.
But Atticus was an adventurer. He didn’t come here to be coddled by gentle winds. Whenever he heard of an uproar visiting a land he was unfamiliar with, he rushed to it with the gait of a bull charging a Celtiberian matador.
Rushing to a place of interest, though, often meant hating the place. This was never truer than here. Atticus had met a man who called himself a shepherd. Then they killed him.
The way local clerics murdered his new friend in this foreign land made him want to rampage with a bloodletting that would be etched onto the dry stones of their buildings until some merciful soul buried their unholy city in salt.
He couldn’t help but witness the murder because they made such a spectacle of it that avoidance was impossible. Every citizen from miles around witnessed it. Atticus couldn’t imagine what foul barbarians could invent the cruelty bestowed upon his friend, but worse, in his mind, was the fanatical gathering that cheered it on.
Yet his new friend withstood it with the strength of a dying gladiator. Stoic, like the greatest Greek philosophers, he asked only once for mercy from whoever oversaw both human and vampire existence.
The shepherd knew who or what that was, it seemed. His familiarity with that unseen universe was his superpower. Atticus had heard stories that the shepherd wasn’t afraid to flaunt his knowledge, but that was not the man he remembered.
The man he knew told him that all power rested only in the truth of love. Atticus had known powerful love at times throughout his life, but he assumed the passion of vampire love far outshone anything humans could experience or even conceive.
But his new friend was a human who understood love better than Atticus or any other vampire he knew.
He first met the shepherd on an empty road in stifling heat. Atticus was bent over three dead human bodies, his first kills in this land. They were random choices, a trio of bandits waiting for passing travelers. In the wrong place at the wrong time.
When the shepherd saw him, blood covered Atticus’s lips and chin. He knew he was wearing a stupid grin.
He looked at the man approaching and wondered if he should take on one more feed. His body had probably reached its limit, but the man’s peaceful gaze tempted him like it was a fat cow luring the butcher’s knife.
Atticus hissed to reveal sharp canines still dripping with the blood of his victims.
“You may drink my blood, vampire,” said the robed man calmly as he neared. “If you do, you shall be cleansed.”
Atticus lunged at the man’s neck, determined to empty every last drop of his blood. But as he fed, the man stood firm, then gently embraced Atticus. By the time Atticus felt finished, it was he who felt drained.
The man released his embrace. “How do you feel now, vampire? Fulfilled?”
For once in his life, Atticus was without words. He stammered a little, but said nothing. Finally, after a few quiet moments of a man and a vampire staring into each other’s eyes, Atticus found the only words that made sense. “Who are you?”
“You may call me the shepherd, my friend. I am your servant.”
“My servant? I have servants in my home. I don’t need any more.”
“You have no true servants,” replied the shepherd. “The salt from the seas that join with Thessaloniki could all dissolve upon your shores and sprout more of what you call servants, and still, you would have none.”
“Well, then…” It didn’t even occur to him to ask the shepherd how he knew of his ties to Thessaloniki.
The shepherd put his index finger against Atticus’ lips. “I am your only servant, and the only one you will ever need.”
It seemed to Atticus that many of their conversations after that day went like that. The shepherd was a man of riddles, and a riddle himself. But full of grace in a way Atticus had never experienced.
And then the shepherd was slaughtered like an animal.
A woman Atticus had noticed as the shepherd’s frequent companion washed the shepherd’s feet as he languished in the baking sun. Atticus walked up beside her. She nodded at the water from a clay bowl. Atticus scooped some with his palms and also washed the shepherd’s feet.
“You’ll come with me, then, to his tomb,” she said to Atticus after the shepherd’s last words. It was an order, not a question. She was too full of grace for Atticus to resist or question. He merely nodded. She took his hand and kissed his fingers gently, then said, “Thank you” as she walked away.
“But how will I find you?” he asked her silhouette as it drifted off. She said nothing, just continued on her way, doing nothing more than throwing a hood over her head.
“Wait!” he yelled. The skies went dark, and she disappeared into an alley that seemed made from black ink.
The woman was not there. A large boulder straddled the cave that held the tomb.
Atticus entered the cave. The echo of his voice bounced along the stone walls: “Where are you, shepherd?”
There was nothing. No sign of life. No sign of death. Just cold stone.
Atticus walked out of the tomb, stricken by unbearable sadness. What was the point of all of that? All of the shepherd’s words seemed now in vain, meant for someone else, not a soul like his, not for someone like Atticus, a soul chained to an endless life of parasitic fury.
He walked the lonely road back to town, fantasizing about a murder spree that would last as long as his never-ending wretched life.
Then he knelt on one knee, looked up at the sky, and asked one more time, “Where are you, shepherd?”
A small hand touched his shoulder. It was that of a child. A bald girl wearing a thick white robe. No more than ten.
“He left me these words,” she said.
“I’m sorry? What?”
“Listen, she said. “These are now your words, to say for all time.” And she sang in a beautiful choir of voices, thousands of children at once:
Lord, enter not into judgment with thy servant; for no human or vampire living is righteous before thee. For the enemy pursues me; Tries to crush my life to the ground; he has made me sit in darkness like those long dead. Therefore my spirit faints within me; my heart within me is appalled. I remember the days of old,I meditate on all that thou hast done; I muse on what thy hands have wrought. I stretch out my hands to thee; While I crave the blood of your children, my soul thirsts for thee like a parched land. Make haste to answer me, O Lord! My spirit fails! Hide not thy face from me, lest I be like those who go down to the pit.
Notes
The song is essentially Psalm 143. Altered a bit.
Keen observers will wonder: “From miles around?” In Roman times?
“Miles” is derived from the Roman “millie passus”, which meant a thousand paces.
This is a short story adjacent to the main character of my novel, Psalm of Vampires, Jade Mourning, whose real name is Atticus of the Argeadai House of vampires.
There’s a scene in Chapter 8 where his foil/nemesis and later ally/friend, vampire hunter and Atlanta Detective Standmoore Owens, rolls his eyes after Atticus tells him his uncle is Alexander the Great. Owens then says, ”Next thing I know, you’ll tell me how you met Jesus or something.”
To which Atticus responds…
“Actually…”
Much vampire “canon” is wrong. For example: As you can tell by this story, vampires are not harmed by sunlight. That is an old myth created by humans long ago, when vampires were more plentiful and filled everyone with fear. Humans thought they needed something to fight back with. All they had was mythology.
Thanks for reading!
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Food for thought.