Dear Concealed Ones…
Dear Concealed Ones,
If you’ve done your homework, you know that the Nistarim are the ‘Concealed Ones.’ They live in humility and anonymity, bearing the burdens of those around them, while strengthened by the Nazarene Blood.
You are called to live as one of the Concealed Ones.
Some of you have been waiting to read Field of Blood, the first book about my confrontation with the Collectors, the ones who seek to feed, breed, persuade, and possess. We must stand strong. They are not done fighting. To help you understand a bit better, I’ve attached a short section that explains how Eric stumbled upon this story. Soon, I’ll also be loading some photos onto the website, in the section viewable only by you who know the way.
I hope you get to read the whole book soon, but until then . . .
The Nazarene Blood will prevail!
Gina Lazarescu
—
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
©2008 by Eric Wilson
I love stories full of grit and emotion, especially when I find them sniffing around history’s unexplored corners.
A few years back, my Romanian travels piqued my interest in the legends of the undead. Later, I came across this passage in J. Gordon Melton’s The Vampire Book: The Encyclopedia of the Undead:
“an increasing number of novelists . . . possess no understanding or appreciation of any power derived from Christian symbols. For the foreseeable future, new vampire fiction will be written out of the pull and tug between these traditional and contemporary perspectives.”
The words were a challenge to me, a flag waved before a bull. There were powerful concepts at work here: life, blood, and memory; evil, redemption, and immortality. I knew I had rich soil in which to plant a story.
The soil deepened when I read of two separate events from 1989.
The first involved a mysterious outbreak among thousands of Romanian orphans, an epidemic of subtype F HIV-1 that started with a single infectious source. The second was a discovery of unplundered burial caves on Jerusalem’s outskirts. The tombs contained one sarcophagus and thirty-nine ossuaries—stone boxes built to hold the bones of the dead. Archaelogists determined this place was the Akeldama, a cemetery for foreigners and the site of Judas Iscariot’s death. They also found that a number of the boxes were empty.
Okay, now I knew I was onto something.
As I headed to Israel for two blistering weeks in the summer of 2007, I had no clue how sharply my experiences would hone the concept for a trilogy.
I visited historical locations, made new friends, took hundreds of pictures, and reveled in how much could be done on a shoestring budget and a prayer. The highlight was Jerusalem, with its collage of cultures, religions, and history.
There was, however, a lingering frustration. Where was the excavation site for these ancient tombs? I couldn’t pinpoint the spot, and it was absent from any tourist maps.
The day before my return to the States, I was making a final drive around the Old City when I looked back over my shoulder and spotted the Rockefeller Museum, the building that houses the Israel Antiquities Authority. I made a U-turn into the angled driveway and stopped at the gate.
“I am sorry,” the guard said. “The museum closes at three.”
My watch read 3:05 p.m.
Disappointed, I reversed onto the road. Then, in a stubborn moment, I parked the car and jogged back. I bypassed the gate and went straight to the guard booth, where a different man was seated. He asked how he could help me.
“Is there a museum bookstore?” I said. “I just need some research materials. Please, I’ll pay for them.”
“Too late. There’s no one there. Here, you come with me.”
Unsure of his purpose, I followed along. He led me into the closed museum, past exhibits and three-thousand-year-old relics. Circular stairs took us down a level, where I saw chain-link storage areas full of artifacts. The smell of history hung in the air, and my heart pounded in my chest.
We reached an archive room tucked into the back reaches of the lower level, where I was introduced to a kind-faced, dark-haired woman. Her desk was barricaded by towering shelves on rollers.
“You want to know about the Akeldama?” She pronounced it with a guttural sound. “I suppose I can help. I was the one who drew the cave diagrams and most of the tombs’ inscriptions.”
“What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Why are you interested? I’ve never had anyone so excited to meet me.”
“Well,” I told her, “I’m writing a book.”
“I hope it’s scary.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, “it’s a very scary place.” She went on to describe her own experiences of crawling into the subterranean site, through tight spaces and piles of bones.
“Do you have any reports or maps?” I requested. “Anything that might help me in my writing?”
“It’s been many years, but let’s look here.” She pointed at shelved files.
With her gracious and enthusiastic help, I amassed page upon page of information. I found inventories of the ossuaries, including the Hebrew and Greek inscriptions identifying nearly all of the dead. I read about the Houses of Ariston and Eros, two distinct groupings within the burial site, and it was from this research I found many character names: Ariston, Erota, Shelamzion, and so on.
I was thanking God and making final notes in the cramped copy room, when the dark-haired woman returned from a fact-gathering jaunt to the museum library.
She was beaming. “Eric, are you sitting down? I think today is your most lucky day. Come and meet one of the men who led the dig at the Akeldama. This is unusual that he is here. But very good for you.”
Incredible was more like it.
At a table in the library, I joined the softspoken and internationally recognized archaeologist. He spread out a topographical map and pointed to the Akeldama’s precise location, confirming that it was indeed where Judas hanged himself, the land bought with thirty silver shekels by the high priests.
An hour later I found myself alone in the spooky quiet of the Akeldama, where olive and almond trees clung to a dusty slope. I saw rugged holes reaching into the ground. I even found the old Charnel House, a boneyard used twelve centuries later by the Knights Templar.
My mind was on overdrive with scenes, ideas, and characters. Already, the story was coming to life . . . so to speak.
—Eric Wilson
