Dearest Friend,
It rained each day I awaited your letter, and today it rained the hardest, before the clouds parted and the heavens shined down for one, short moment, and it was gone before I could confirm it true. Like waking from a dream, I completed my duties for the day and confined myself to my laboratory, where neither rain nor light can reach, with a vague sense of sunshine warming my bones.
Forgive my awful scratchings, William, as my hand shakes even as I write this letter, for I've had an extraordinary day. 'Tis as if my hand wishes to relieve itself of the excitement that currently courses through my body, like a pleasant poison. On top of this already extraordinary day, I received your letter, and it is that which sets me over the edge.
Half of me is anxious to write of this, William, for I know this very topic is what caused this rift to fall between us—miles of physical distance do not compare to the immeasurable gap that has come between our friendship. Do not deny it, William, as you know you cannot lie to me. I know you too well. My other half, however, the one I keep locked away, the one that lives in the cellar laboratory as the rest of me serves the Whites, is indescribably pleased to share this news.
It begins with a most peculiar dream. Be it a call from God or a result of my isolation at 24 Thornewood Road, it was regardless my inspiration for what I am about to inform you. I believe the dream itself was inspired by your thesis on food science, William, though I know you will want no part in what is to come.
I dreamt I was surrounded by cold darkness. As my vision corrected, I found myself fitted inside a velvet-lined box. Much to my panic, I found it impossible to move even an inch in the confines of the box, not even to wiggle my toes or part my lips to shout for help. The terrible panic grew within me to the point of pure agony. I felt many hours pass by in this state, until the sound of footsteps caught my ears. Someone had come down the basement stairs—for I knew, somehow, that I lay in the cellar—and entering my laboratory by way of the secret door. A new panic shot through my bones, an irrational fear of being discovered as more than a simple butler in a country house. I wondered, who could it be entering my laboratory, if not a soul knew of its existence besides myself and my dearest William, who lives so many miles away?
My heart nearly burst within my paralyzed chest at the thought of my William entering my laboratory. I yearned to see his face, and my yearning grew as the footsteps grew louder, nearer to my coffin prison. I tried to shout, to cry out in utter joy, as the footsteps stopped and the being lifted the lid of my box. But the face that bore down on me wasn't the brilliant golden face of my William, but a man less familiar, a man I knew only from odd angles, vague shadows, momentary reflections in glass or water. Impossibly, I stared into the face of Edward Poole, who stared back at me as if I wasn't there at all. Suddenly, the dream changed slightly, as dreams often do, and I now stood within the body of my Other, staring down into the box from which I was just revealed. But inside the box was not a man, not Edward Poole as you or I know him, but a body reduced to bone, a black hat and a deflated suit the only indication to whom it once belonged.
I tell you this, William, not to disturb your own dreams, but to explain how I came to continuing my dark research that took me away from you. I awoke from this dream, shaken but inspired, for it had given me an idea I hadn't previously considered: Perhaps, as you've told me, science can't keep a mortal being alive forever, as you might keep a ham from spoiling. This dream has revealed to me another path to immortality: the preservation of the soul.
Recall the Magnum opus, the prima materia, the Philosopher's Stone, which, in theory, could be used to transmute metals to gold, prolong human life, heal illness and injury, even restore life to the lifeless. For centuries, the greatest alchemists of this life sought to "square the circle," to conquer human mortality, but to no avail: no human on this earth has or will survive physical death, the failure of our organs, the rot of our muscles, the decay of our flesh.
I know now that science will never save humanity from this inevitable truth, William, as you and others have told me countless times in my stubborn pursuits. But the soul does not concern itself with science, it is not governed by its laws. To attempt to capture a soul, to set it free of its mortal constraints, to let it live in the world for eternity, to watch the centuries pass... that, my friend, would be an act of magic.
I have come to peace with the university expelling me from its institution, banning me from its facilities, for alchemy is not a science, and therefore I am not a scientist. This knowledge, though it should disturb me so, only brings new life to my once-disillusioned will. I am no longer trapped like a rotting corpse in a coffin, confined by the laws of science and its ethics. With this knowledge, I am free to experiment, to discover, to unearth the forces of life yet unknown to man: the spirit, the soul, the essence, and the transcendence of life and death.
Do not pity me, William, and do not worry for me. I am starting down a path I know God has drawn for me. I only hope the path does not lead me further away from you.
Yours,
Edward Poole
24 Thornewood Dr.
May 22nd 1789
Stunned silence followed Malcolm's reading of the latest letter. The brothers looked at each other, feeling the weight of the words in the air between them. They sat this way for a moment longer before simultaneously bursting into wild, incredulous laughter.
"Hey you guys," Malcolm and Owen's mother, Serena, said, poking her head into Owen's bedroom. "What's so funny?"
Serena Allan was all smiles, but Malcolm could detect a flicker of worry in the glint of his mother's eyes. He wondered if she had been startled by their laughter, momentarily mistaking it for cries for help. She wasn't used to having her boys home. It had been a couple years since Malcolm had moved out for college, and even longer since Owen left the nest. Having both her sons at home that summer filled the home with life—laughter, chatter, the sound of video games through the walls—it filled her heart with life, too. But Serena looked on edge, and Malcolm could tell that Owen's remission gave her as much trepidation as it did hope. As much as she tried not to show it—to act natural around him—the truth was written on her face.
The boys laughter quieted, Malcolm wiped a tear from his eye.
"It's just these weird letters from Uncle Jack," Owen explained, still grinning as he caught his breath. "They just keep getting weirder."
"It's like a soap opera, mom, you would love it," Malcolm said emphatically.
Serena smiled.
"Uncle Jack? You mean, our Uncle Jack? Jack Allan?" Serena said facetiously.
"We're as surprised as you are," Owen said.
The Allan house was a large, cookie-cutter suburban two-story about two hours away from Forest Park University. Where the university was all green hills, lush forest, red brick streets and historic buildings, the suburb the Allans resided was all flat plains, parking lots and mini malls. Serena and Ray Allan lived comfortably in the suburban town with their two hypoallergenic lap dogs, Mitzi and Buckeye.
Owen and Malcolm sat in Owen's childhood bedroom, positioned on the twin bed like they did when they were kids—Owen lounging against the pillows, knees pulled up, Malcolm facing his older brother at the end of the bed, legs folded criss-cross applesauce. A stack of Edward Poole letters sat in Malcolm's lap. Around them, the walls were painted a pale blue, shelves lined the back wall with trophies from pre-K to his senior year of high school. Three disheveled lacrosse sticks leaned in one corner of the room and a large computer modem Owen built himself sat in another.
The room was living proof for how accomplished Malcolm's big brother was. Star athlete, prodigy student, a big group of friends. Owen had always been one of those magnetic people—smart, but not a know-it-all, funny, but not disrespectful, successful, but not intimidating. Owen's only real fault was that he was bored—so unchallenged by school and life—often to the point of careless laziness. Owen's flaw was what struck Malcolm as the most impressive—that his older brother could seemingly accomplish so much by doing so little.
Now that Malcolm was older, he no longer worshipped the ground his brother walked on, but he continued to look up to him. Even as Owen recovered—bald and deathly thin—Malcolm looked to Owen as a role model.
"I'll have to tell Uncle Jack you're finally becoming the history buffs he's always wanted you to be," Serena said playfully from over her shoulder as she left the room.
When she was gone, Owen sighed. "I love her, but she's gotta stop looking at me like that," he said.
Malcolm hoped he hadn't noticed the strain in their mother's eyes, the way she smiled a little too wide.
"She'll chill out, just give her a few days," Malcolm said.
The words felt strange coming off his tongue. Malcolm wasn't used to being the one to offer advice or comfort. Being the younger sibling, it was always Owen who played that part. "Just keep practicing, you'll make the team next year," Owen had told him after he got cut from the eighth grade soccer team. "Sleep on it, it'll help you figure it out with a fresh start," Owen had told him when he couldn't solve a calculus problem his junior year of high school. It was always Owen, the big brother.
It's my turn, Malcolm thought. It's my turn to be there for him.