His name was Mordi Massus. He was born an only child in the year 1868 in Romania. His earthly mother gave birth to him in the back of a caravan on the harsh landscape of a mountain pass outside the City of Tirgo Mures, Trannsylvania. His father often recounted to the young Mordi in later years the circumstances of his birth, how a wheel on their caravan split in two from exposure to the insufferable frost, stranding the family whilst on their arduous journey to a 'new life' west. And how the ripped and opened carcass of a slaughtered young goat provided heat to Mordi's mother during the horrendous delivery of their first and only son. 

Little is known of the upbringing of Mordi's real parents, save to say that they were both born into the tribal grouping of gypsies known as the Kalderash, a clan of the 'Ravnos', who spoke a language onto themselves now known as 'Cant' or 'Gammon', also referred to by modern-day academics as 'Shelta'. 

Both Mordi's parents were born and grew up in Tirgo Mures in Transylvania, known as the 'Gypsy City'. It was, at one time, an exuberant city. Romany folklore has it that Tirgo Mures was often powered into uncontrollable celebrations after the Ravnos had consumed and were intoxicated on 'Fairy blood'. Apparently the Ravnos would hunt for the Fae (Fairies) in the mountain forests around Tirgo Mures and then drag them back screaming to the camps before taking their blood. It is this blood, a magical sustenance that allegedly gives the Ravnos their strange power of illusion and ability to conjure magic. Even today, Irish Travelers, some of whom are descendent from the Ravnos, are said to possess such a gift. 

Following Mordi's birth on the mountain pass, the family continued its painful journey west, his mother tenderly holding the newly born child, his father driving steadily the weary horse. Sometime in the late months of 1870, (for their ever onward journey took them through many strange lands on route), they made a final sea crossing to the land known as Ireland. 

In Ireland, a change of name from 'Massus' to 'Kildare' came about. Not long after their landing, it suddenly seemed wise to Mordi's father to alter the surname. There indeed was a definite need to blend in, so fluid and forthcoming was the display of fear and hatred of them by the locals as their caravan passed through each tiny village. 'Kildare' was the Irish county to which the family first traveled having come ashore. And it was there amidst the green pastures of the Irish countryside that they met other Cant-speaking Travelers from Romania, locally known as the 'Tinkers', or as they themselves called 'The Pavee'. 

Seven months later, in the late summer of 1871, the Kildare's relocated their new, brightly painted and lovingly constructed caravan to the County of Cavan. It was known to Mordi's mother that one group of Ravnos, the 'Sheridan' family, existed there, and were headed by her only brother Malachy. This particular group of Travelers had crossed from Romania many years prior, and had likewise adopted a name...Sheridan. Mordi's mother was blood related to this clan, herself being one such Sheridan. It was there, on the hills and roadsides outside the small village of Butlersbridge in County Cavan, that Mordi and his exhausted parents finally came to rest. Mordi 'the child', and his parents, were welcomed with open arms into the Sheridan group of Travelers by Mordi's uncle Malachy Sheridan, otherwise known to all as "Mad Malachy The Feret-Mangler". For what reason this name was coined is unknown. 

Mordi Kildare grew up like any other Traveler child does, still today. Days were spent on the hand of his mother walking from door to door in the local village and countryside begging for alms, and promising 'a prayer to the One True God in return. It must be noted that Mordi's family were part of a cultural identity of Travelers who were devout Catholics, and who held strong communal ties. Therefore, attending Mass on Sunday was part of their lives. Mordi's mother would stand with her young boy alongside all the other Travelers at the back of the small church on Butlersbridge, and although the Mass was delivered in Latin, they made their own unique peace with God in Cant-prayer. With regard to Mordi's education, it is enough to say that all the learning he received emanated from home...a powerful and spirited education in Ravnos culture, storytelling, the horse trade, and survival. And so it was that Mordi Kildare was reared, and so the years rolled by. 

At the age of 27, Mordi Kildare was parent less. It is understood that both father and mother were the victims of a strange and feared illness sweeping the surrounding villages. They died several months apart from each other in that caravan at the side of the road. It was 1895, and Mordi was alone, save for the remaining Sheridan family close by. Several nights after he had put his beloved parents to rest in soft earth at the dip of two nearby hills, his uncle Malachy came to him and said: 

"The vampyr can be held at bay by piling large amounts of stones on its grave - did ye know that Mordi? Did ye boy? " 

Mordi sat in silence for a while, eyeing his uncle Malachy. A look of understanding passed between them, for tales had been old of such creatures called 'Vampyr' long before this day, and Mordi was no longer a child. Flickering in Malachy's ominous left eye, Mordi caught a glimpse, centered at the back of sight's portal, of a shiny darkness he had never seen before. This fleeting image was beautiful, yet sad and alone. Mordi responded carefully: 

"And will that be the last time you shall walk Uncle Malachy? Shall I pile the stones heavy behind you?" 

Malachy smiled, took the young man's head in his spade like hands, and laughed aloud. The Kiss came swiftly and viciously. A sound in Mordi's ears pounded long after the embrace was over. A stream of blood rippled down his neck and drenched his open shirt. Malachy was there, still laughing aloud, and falling to one side in some agony it appeared. Mordi stumbled to his feet and fell over against the wall of the caravan. The night drew in, and sleep came to both. 

The following night, for it was night when Mordi next awoke, news came to his caravan that "Mad Malachy the Feret-Mangler" was dead, and had been found lying face down in a copse nearby. His burnt body was blackened with ash, covered from head to toe with small orifices inside which small embers still glowed brightly. "He's still smoldering!" cried one of his sons. The world closed in on Mordi that night. He remained in the caravan for days and night thereafter. Rumours began to spread, and Mordi could hear voices shouting nearby through the walls of the caravan... 

"'Twas Mordi that did the dirty deed! Poor Malachy...God save his torched soul!" 

With a new 'sense' of being, and a heightened awareness that was beginning to entertain him somewhat, Mordi made a decision. He would leave! Flee the camp on horseback and never return! And so, in the still of that night, he gathered up his few belongings, and packed them into his fathers treasured leather sack, so recently oiled by the frail hands of his beloved mother. Two items he valued most were also added to this bag...a lock of his mother's hair wrapped in a small rip of red linen, and his father's last words, written on a fold of paper. They read as follows, and have been translated from the Cant speak: 

"The Journey, my son, will not stop here. It shall go on, beyond your mother, you, and me. Venture not to where you are unwelcome. Speak not to those who silence you. Eat not with those who would swallow you. Lie not with those who would rise before you. Remember not the thoughts that would confuse you. Sing not the song of sadness. Sing only the song of the Wren. For it is the Wren you shall hear in the spring, when all life is reborn. And when to sight we meet again, I shall sing the Wren Song with you." 

Mordi kept his promise to Malachy, and that night, when all was still, he struggled to pile as high and secure as he could, a large strengthened mound of stone and fortified soil upon the place where they had buried his malevolent uncle. As he toiled, he thought it certain that it was the light of the rising sun that had scorched Malachy's body and rendered it indistinguishable from a funeral pyre. Premeditated Suicide! Yes...that seemed certain to Mordi, given Malachy's stern instructions to fortify the grave thereafter his demise. His uncle's death was the Death of a Vampire, his uncle's 'parting kiss'...the birth of a new vampire. It had been planned. A tradition...no doubt. The passing on of the rare and wondrous gift of preternaturalism. Mordi finished with the stones. The Vampire Kildare was born. 

Mordi Kildare made his escape. The horse was fit and able. Across the countryside he fled. Not once did he look back. Two nights went by, nights of terror, nights of discovery, nights of learning. Not once did he eat or drink, and by the time he had reached the City of Dublin, he was ravenous. 

Dublin. The stench of hops, the yellow Liffey river offering up an eyeful of raw sewage, the sound of the odd ship's foghorn in the bay, the youthful laughter of its young at heart. This was Mordi's new home. And for one hundred and six years he has been here, silently strolling the city's thoroughfares past sundown. From Aungier to Baggot Street, from Fitzwilliam to Dame, his unusually light footfall declares to the acute ear...his presence. And he has blended well with these modern times. Oh how well has he blended...this magnificent shadow! 

Write your own Letter to The Vampire Kildare!