By Blood We Live

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."