Dark Resurrection

  * * *

  Joseph and wife met with the teacher, at first warily in the kitchen, but quickly learning that Cyril was an honest, intelligent, and quite charming man. After a few evenings they accepted the elderly teacher and philosopher, leaving him to converse privately with Jesus and Mary.

  As Jesus studied the writings one stormy summer night with Cyril, one troubling aspect for him was that Herodotus’ scroll explicitly stated that a vampire is always brought to the realm of the undead by another vampire, a ‘master’, offering no explanation for he being a part of the undead. Inexplicably, the vampire Jesus Christ had no master.

  Relating his thoughts on that subject to the teacher while Mary conversed with Joseph and wife in the common area, Cyril replied, “I am truly sorry Julius, there is no explanation I can give you, nor could I even begin to conjecture a theory that would explain your unusual situation. According to the scroll all vampires have masters, the one who brings them to the realm of the undead.”

  “There has to be some other way, I’m here aren’t I? Believe me, I died on a cross and awoke in the tomb three days later, no one made me a vampire!” Jesus exclaimed, the wind growing stronger as it blew through the open kitchen window, parting the curtains. A thunderclap punctuated the conversation after a bolt of lighting striking behind the house momentarily illuminated the slave house, the smokehouse, and the Euphrates in the distance, visible from the kitchen window and front porch.

  “I believe you Julius, but according to the scroll, there is no other method of bringing one to the realm of the undead, nor the slightest mention of an alternative that would make possible the creation of a vampire,” said Cyril, hands in the air, the rain coming down very hard.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Jesus spat, holding a goblet of wine, “Every action has a cause.”

  “Not to us perhaps, but that does not mean there is no another way, a hidden cause that we are unaware of. There is simply no mention of it in this scroll, nor in the one written by Thucydides.”

  “But how?”

  “I imagine that Herodotus and Thucydides were unaware of this aspect of vampiric existence.”

  “No – how the hell did I become a vampire in the first place?” Jesus asked with a helpless expression, a bolt of lightning striking near the river, brightly illuminating the kitchen and his countenance.

  “Who knows, perhaps you should look at it this way. For example, how did the first man get here, or the first bird?” Cyril asked after another thunderclap pierced the air.

  “I don’t know,” Jesus answered, thinking of the story of Adam and Eve in Genesis.

  “That is correct, no one does,” said Cyril, “So, accept it, and go on.”

  “I do, but I’m not the first vampire,” Jesus replied, resting his chin in the palm of a hand.

  “That is true,” said Cyril, raising eyebrows in confusion while scratching his beard.

  Jesus sat in silent contemplation for the next few minutes, the teacher filling his teacup, the storm continuing violently outside.

  “They hardly ever had storms like this in Judea,” said Joseph, entering the kitchen, walking to a cupboard and grabbing a bottle of wine.

  “Huh?” Jesus asked, broken from his reverie, Cyril occupied sweetening his tea.

  “I said this is a hell of a storm,” Joseph replied, staring at the downpour, “Let me close that window.”

  “Of course father,” said Jesus, ruminating on how he, of all people, a Hebrew preacher from Nazareth, had become a vampire.

  After several evenings of intense discussion, Jesus relented; realizing further conversation on the subject of his origin was pointless. Cyril didn’t know the answer, neither did he, nor did historians Herodotus and Thucydides, so he dropped it, figuring he could ruminate on it later, perhaps finding out one day.