A Taste

The following is an out-of-context, random snippet: a taste (one of many to come), of a three part book series that I have been slowly working on. It is a passion project, born of a desire to preserve my familial history.

I am Romani, a product of two immigrant families that found their way to the United States in the early 1900's. I was raised by my mother's side, and specifically by our familial elders. During the first ten(?) or twelve-ish years of my life, I was blessed to have been more directly raised by the few remaining immigrant members of my family. 

They passed on to me our language, our culture and traditions (romanipen), and all the stories of my maternal clan -- who we were, where we came from, and how we ended up in 'America.' 

We were 'outsiders amongst outsiders,' because unlike much our community, we were only "Catholic on the outside." On the INSIDE, we were goddess worshiping pagans. "Kitchen witches, midwives and herbalists," according to my great, great aunts and uncles. Through them I learned divination, fortunetelling, and the ways of the Strega. We were closed and private about who we were, and hid in plain sight amongst the Italian Catholic neighborhoods we lived in.

I was often told; "It's up to you to keep our stories, add to them, and pass them on."

This was due in large part to the majority of their kids -- my great aunts and uncles -- deciding rather unilaterally to assimilate and 'just be Americans.' Many of them were unaware of our lineage as it was, and only passively passed on traditions they never thought to ask about. I don't really know why our elders let that happen, but I figure that they wanted a safer future for the family.

But because my elders parented me, they passed everything to me, because -- quite simply, I asked them to.

In the last maybe ten or so years of my life, as more and more of my family dies off, and especially as a part of the Roma movement towards our peoples' sovereignty as a stateless nation, my promise to pass on our story has felt more urgent. I am the last living member of my familial line -- on either side -- who still lives by and practices our traditions.

I do not have children. Never wanted any. So the problem then presented itself: how do I preserve, add to, and pass on my elder's stories? Our history??

Initially, I just wrote down the stories as they were told to me. But like any good artist, I asked myself; "why?" Why would anyone care about these stories? (Outside my family or the Roma community at large, that is). As we are a people almost completely unacknowledged here in the U.S., I could not think of an effective way to drum up interest and really 'share' it all.

So I sat on it and waited for inspiration to strike.

Meanwhile, I had started playing an RPG with my friends: "Vampire the Masquerade." I am a goth, (since the late 1980's, at least) and am a little obsessed with vampires. Or a lot. OK, I am a LOT obsessed with vampires. The lore, the horror, the romanticism -- all of it. Gimme.

So, obviously, I made my character an extreme version of myself. This got me thinking on her backstory. Well, I had JUST typed up my family stories, so I referenced them for inspiration. And that's when it hit me -- I could write a novel (or three. Why not three? Some of my most favorite authors wrote things in threes.) 

As I outlined my project, it evolved into "The Sacred Pilgrim;” a three part fantasy narrative that chronicles the life, death and rebirth of a Romani woman born into a world of adversity, magic and mysticism. 

This epic narrative, which begins just after world war 1 and is set in Sicily, follows the transformational journey of Aradia Medrano, birthed twice into surreal situations: once as the avatar of the Mother Goddess, and once as a powerful vampire. But not just any vampire. A creature from Romani folklore called a Mulo. A "Mulo" is born of pain and suffering and injustice all served up fresh on a wrongful death and an improper burial. 

You might be thinking "Revenant," and you'd be right -- sort of. When a poor soul rises from the grave to seek justice and/or revenge on those who wronged them in life, AND kills them by drinking their blood and then being cursed to roam the earth for all time, AANNNDDDD can only be stopped by their first born.... you get a Mulo. Or in my story's case, a Mula -- which is the feminine version. 

I employed the stories of my elders to serve as the backdrop and origin of my character, took the lore of the Mulo, and added the mysticism of my personal family lineage. It is many things, this book. It's folklore. It's historical fiction. It's fantasy. And -- it's horror.

On the outside.

On the inside, it is an attempt to decolonize my people. It is me sharing pieces of my culture. It is reclamation, preservation and metaphor. It is survivor's guilt, loss and compounding generational trauma. It is the universal human experience of discovering and embracing your truest self, against all odds. 

The first installment spans the early 1900’s, through the mid 1950’s. We follow Aradia through childhood being groomed for her destiny by her mother, a talented woman known as Mother Losna. We experience World War 2 through Aradia's eyes. Our hearts are lifted when she meets her husband, and when their daughter is born - and stand solemnly by her as she later grieves their tragic deaths. Who is the architect of so much loss? Is it the will of the universe, or the carefully laid plan of a vampire known only as Luna? When she offers Aradia - at her darkest hour - a chance for justice, will she accept? What lies ahead as the Vampire ends Aradia’s mortal life? Walk with her, as she journeys through the seven gates of the underworld on a path of self discovery and empowerment to see what finally rises from the grave.

~~~

    The Vampire Luna awoke just as the final rays of sunlight faded from the sky, like a switch had been flipped. She looked over at the woman next to her and rolled onto her side, spooning. The woman’s hair smelled like wildflowers, and Luna drank it in, as she lightly ran her fingers down the length of the woman’s nimble form. She reached over and gently cupped the woman's supple breast, feeling its weight in her hand; sinking deeper into the tangle of her thick, ebony locks. “I love you,” she sighed, nosing the woman’s ear. “From the first moment I saw you, I was lost forever.” Luna rolled flat onto her back, twirling soft curls around her finger. “But can you ever love me, though?” She sat up, leaning her head against the plush, overstuffed headboard and gazed up at the swirling, sheer pink fabric draped inside the top of the canopy. “I was so nervous when we finally met, you know? I remember playing the scenario over and over in my mind trying to think of the perfect opener.” She laughed then, feeling embarrassed. “I guess it doesn’t matter much now.” She swung her long, pale legs over the edge of her queen size poster bed, and stretched. “You said you’d walk with me, do you remember that?” She stood, gathered her pink, marabou robe off the edge of the bed, and slipped it on – it’s train billowing behind her – her skin shuddering under its decadently gossamer caress. She crossed the terrazzo floor of the master bedroom to the double glass doors leading out to the veranda, and drew back the heavy, magenta curtains. “That was two nights ago,” she called over her shoulder, pouting. She paused, turned back and took in the beauty of the brisk Palermo autumn night.

Did I do something wrong? She wondered.

From her villa, set deep against the hillside, the vampire could see the entire city spread out before her, like an extensive menu at a posh eatery. She watched the lights come on, one by one, as fathers came home to their families, and mothers set the night’s supper out, and exhaled dramatically. “Two nights. Two nights, and you’re still not here.” She looked over longingly at the woman lying in her bed, sticky with viscera and gore; “It’s ok, my love.” The vampire thought briefly of the hundreds of birds camped at Aradia’s grave; “I too, can wait.”

She smiled to herself, revisiting some highlights of the night before with her newest plaything – a young, raven haired woman from Napoli named Guillia. Luna had chosen her, because of the ways she reminded her of her beloved romnij witch; lithe and caramel skinned – an enigmatic morsel with bewitching eyes ... and, as it turned out, very skilled fingers. She had been a lively and good humored girl, who was apparently backpacking through Sicily as part of her ‘year of self discovery.’

What nonsense, she thought.

“Excuse me, Madame Luna?” A small, rotund man with slicked back hair, oily skin, and a pencil-thin mustache entered the room; respectfully keeping his distance.

“What is it?” asked Luna impatiently, drawn from her musings. The man shifted from one foot to the other, nervously glancing at the bloody body still on the Madame’s bed. He absently licked his lips.

Broiled! No, ROASTED! He thought, fresh garlic, minced. Some locally pressed olive oil, rosemary… a little thyme, maybe?

He cleared his throat; “Will you be needing breakfast, Donna Luna?” He loosened his ascot, and unbuttoned his collar, exposing his neck.

Luna, still gazing ahead at the city, said; “No. Thank you, Vincent.”

Vincent re-buttoned his collar, tidied his tie, and smoothed out his pinstripe suit, easing a bit. “Very good. When you are ready Madame, I will update you on the details of today.” He glanced back at the woman lying peacefully on her side, as though deep in a dream – his stomach growled.

… Salt, pepper, dijon mustard... parsnips?

“Fine, fine,” Luna replied, half listening. It was now quite a long time ago, and yet, she could still recall the circumstances of her dark transition with perfect clarity. One does not forget one’s vampiric rebirth, after all. With her embrace, she had risen the very next night in her full glory, marveling at the newness of it all – ravenous. Powerful. “I did EVERYTHING right,” she muttered. Then, in a lightning flash of angry frustration, she spun around and was suddenly upon the man, having moved faster than thought. Before Vincent knew what was happening, an enraged predator was holding him up against the wall, her hands at his neck – his feet nearly a foot from the floor. “Where is my prize, you little Guinea shit?!” Spit and blood bubbled through her clenched teeth, her black eyes bored through him like hot pokers. The man struggled in vain, and clawed with futility at Luna's grip, terrified but also … deeply aroused.

His voice was strained and raspy, a trickle of urine dribbled from his pant leg; “I don’t know, my mistress!” The vampire hissed and with one hand threw Vincent down, who curled into a ball, quailing. Luna put her hands up and out, and took a slow, even breath.

“Of course you don’t, you illiterate bug.” She glowered at the groveling man and smirked.

Pathetic.

Thoughtfully, slowly, she raised a well pedicured foot, and presented it to him. Without hesitation, Vincent placed it tenderly in his hands and reverently kissed it, quietly moaning as he did; “This little piggy went to market...” He began.

She grinned; “Good boy.”

He had barely made it to the third ‘little piggy,’ when Luna, finally bored, kicked him away. In an instant, she had returned to her vista, and continued to gaze down at the city just as the last of the street lights came on.. “Eat what you want and then clean … that ... up.” She gestured at the bed, disgusted.

Vincent scuttled to the remains, and hungrily gathered it up into his arms, drool beginning to froth at the corners of his mouth. “Yes my mistress. Thank you, my Mistress. You are as generous as you are beautiful, my Mistress!”

Luna waved him away. “Go, pig.” He tossed the girl around his shoulders, his lips smacking, and backed quickly out of the room without saying another word. She closed her eyes and counted to ten in a half-hearted attempt at regaining her calm..“Where are you, my pet?”

...