Memento Mori

Gabriel heard laughter from outside his window. Rising from his bed, he saw his friends playing a game of hoop and stick in the courtyard. It seemed ages ago since Gabriel had last spoken to any of them. Making sure that his mother would not see him, he swung open the shutters and poked his head outside.

He tried calling out to them, but the strain in his throat prevented him from doing so. The group turned a corner towards the market and disappeared from sight. Gabriel sunk back into his sheets. His eyes burned from frustration. None of them had even bothered to visit.

He quickly wiped away his tears as his mother walked into the room. Rose stared at him for a moment, her brows furrowed. “What’s the matter?” she asked him. “Are you in pain?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“I can call for Dr. Charles if you—”

He shook his head again, more violently this time. The last time Dr. Charles visited he had pricked him full of needles. “I’m fine, mum. Really.”

His mother knelt by his bedside and brushed his hair from his face. His eyes were sunken, and his skin felt like rough leather at her touch. She vainly attempted to dispel the dread building in her chest. The treatment hadn’t affected him in the slightest.

“When can I play outside?” Gabriel asked her.

“Soon. You just need to get well first.”

Gabriel wanted to protest, but hadn’t the energy. The familiar bouts of pain erupted in his stomach again. He sunk into himself, clenching his mother’s hand for support. It was all she could do for him.

As the episode subsided, something warm and wet spilled down his leg. Gabriel tried to cover himself to hide his embarrassment, but Rose quickly drew the sheets off of him and carried him from the mess.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said meekly. “I couldn’t hold it in.”

She removed his undergarments and wiped away the excrement with a rag she found in the kitchen. “I-It isn’t your fault, mo stoirín,” she said, her voice cracking. “There’s no need to apologize.”

Gabriel simply nodded, looking away from his mother. When she finished, she dressed him in a fresh set of clothes, then gathered the sheets to wash outside. She was startled by the sudden appearance of her husband at the front door.

His face paled when he noticed the stained cloth in her hand. “What happened?”

“He’s had another accident.”

“Again? But the doctor said he would—”

“Get better? I thought so too, Oliver, but it seems Dr. Charles is nothing but a damned quack.” She fought back tears of anger as she ran the water pump outside. The color was no different than the ones staining the sheets.

“Perhaps we can find another doctor,” Oliver suggested. He was certain someone would be able to treat Gabriel. They were in London; apothecaries practically littered every corner of the city.

Rose shook her head. “We mustn’t stay here. It’s only making his illness worse.”

“What other choice do we have? We can’t afford to go anyplace else, Rose.”

It had been years since either of them had spoken to their families. When Rose’s mother had learned she had conceived a child with an Englishman, her Irish relatives were quick to disown her.

“Your father,” Rose started, “he lives here in London, yes? You should speak with him.”

“Do you really believe that man would ever consider helping us?”

“He’s your father, Oliver. That must count for something.”

“I’m sure my mother would agree.”

Silence. She’d forgotten. Oliver’s father had sacrificed his family for his work once already. To believe he would offer assistance to a grandchild he’d never even met was foolish.

Gripped with emotion, she sank her head into his chest. She wanted to see Gabriel play amongst his friends again. She wanted to see him grow, to mature and to hear him talk endlessly about the things that caught his interest. She wanted to see him get married someday and have children of his own. No matter what path he’d take in life, or whom he loved, she wanted to be there to see it.

But now that future was a haze of uncertainty.

Hearing his mother’s sobs, Gabriel walked into the room to find his parents in an embrace. His father knelt down to kiss him on the cheek. While Gabriel had often received affection from his father, it was rare to ever see him cry.

***

Ernest’s eyes were transfixed on the passenger train entering the station. Grey plumes of smoke rose above the crowds like an apparition, and the sound of its arrival swelled in the evening. Ernest had witnessed the scene countless times before, yet his heart pulsed painfully in his chest as his guest drew near.

Johann Almon was known throughout most of London. His exploits in the art of alchemy were profound, with some of Ernest’s colleagues even heralding him as the next Sir Isaac Newton. The price Ernest had paid for his services was exorbitant. But he believed it was a price worth paying.

With renewed vigor, he forced his limbs forward to greet Johann at the platform. His hand shook as he tried steadying the cane out in front of him. Passengers poured from the train and tossed him to and fro as if he were swimming down the Tideway.

Ernest’s butler, Clemens, looked on with concern but made no attempt to assist him—he had been instructed not to. Ernest’s health had been declining for some time, yet he continued to walk about as if he weren’t troubled by it. A foolish façade, the butler thought. He dared not say it aloud.

Weaving his way through the bodies, Ernest caught a glimpse of the man he’d been searching for. A charcoal top hat. A lavish frock coat. His face radiated Adonis-like charm. A tinge of envy crept into Ernest’s veins.

“Johann Almon?” Ernest called out to him hesitantly. He’d been disillusioned because he harbored the notion that alchemists were wise, old men. Could a man this young truly have unlocked the mysteries of life and death? He wondered.

Johann smiled brightly, his teeth a great contrast to the dull scenery around him. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Walker,” he said.

“Likewise.”

“It’s quite impressive. The train, I mean. I’ve never traveled by railway before.” Johann surveyed the platform, enchanted by the passing crowds. Some spoke in languages he couldn’t understand. One of them sounded Gaelic. “I take it you’re expanding your lines to America as well?”

“Eventually,” Ernest replied. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was a quarter past six. He had no time for idle pleasantries. “How long will it take?”

“Pardon?”

“The creation of the Stone.”

Johann thought for a moment. He’d need to purchase all of the remaining materials needed for the transmutation. The process itself was tedious, but he’d done it twice before, so much of it would be automatic. “Twelve days. Well before winter, at least,” he estimated.

With nothing but a nod of affirmation, Ernest turned back towards his carriage. The alchemist followed suit, unsure of what to make of the old man’s silence. He caught sight of the steam floating from his mouth. It was colder than he had expected.

***

The sun painted the sky a dark red as Oliver arrived at his father’s estate. Carnations, roses, and daisies decorated the fence surrounding the property, acting as guardians against the pollution of the inner city. As he walked along the stoned path leading to the entrance, Oliver reminisced about the times he played in the garden with his mother. Her face was lost to him, but he remembered she’d been beautiful. Just as the flowers were.

He came to a stop at the door. It’d been years since he last visited the estate. He hadn’t left on the best of terms. Oliver had once owned a portion of the railway along with his father, but after a dispute concerning the mismanagement of business assets, his father shifted all of the blame onto him to retain his image with the railway workers.

Oliver wasn’t there to apologize, nor was he there to seek an apology. The only reason he was there was to help his son.

Resolving his nerves, he knocked. A moment later he heard the shuffle of footsteps from inside. No thump of a cane. It was the butler.

“Ah, Oliver.” Clemens greeted his employer’s son at the door. “What brings you here?”

“I must speak with my father.”

“I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.”

Oliver peered inside, assuming he was in a meeting with one of his contractors. “This is important,” he said. “You know I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I understand that, but your father instructed me to not let anyone disturb him.”

Oliver didn’t move. Seeing the concern clouding his eyes, the butler sighed in submission. He had cared for Oliver since he was an infant. Some part of him even considered him a son. Indeed, when his mother had went away, Clemens had filled the hole her departure had left.

He stepped aside to let him pass. “He’s in the study room.”

“Thank you, Clemens.” Oliver held the butler’s shoulder affectionately before disappearing inside the house. In the study, he found his father in a heated argument with a stranger. Rather than interrupting, Oliver stood off to the side and listened in on the conversation.

“Would you care to explain why the Stone is not yet finished?” Ernest clenched the handle of his cane to contain himself. He wanted to strike Johann and disfigure that flawless face of his. It’d been almost a month since the alchemist arrived in London, yet Ernest had yet to receive the object he’d been promised—the object he had spent nearly a quarter of his fortune on.

“I apologize for the delay, Mr. Walker. There have been complications.”

“What sort of complications?”

Johann averted his eyes. “Not to seem rude, but even if I took the time to explain the process, I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

“I see.” Ernest rubbed his forehead. All of his life he had spent obtaining knowledge of the intricacies of machines, and now that his own body was failing him—a biological machine, but a machine nonetheless—he was utterly ignorant.

Ernest limped toward the window. His expression was devoid of any emotion. “I will offer you everything I own, Mr. Almon. So long as I receive the gift of life, these possessions matter little to me.”

“Sir, I can’t—.”

“You will.” He turned back to face the alchemist. “You told me yourself, you have family in desperate need of money. Would you deny them this?”

Johann considered this for a moment. His brothers had participated in the failed German revolution the year prior and were being pursued by the reigning government. Declining the offer would surely seal their fate. However, the effectiveness of the Stone would be another matter.

Regardless, Johann shook Ernest’s hand and agreed to the proposition. “I will have it ready for you by tomorrow morning,” he said.

Oliver watched as Johann exited the room. The alchemist tipped his hat in courtesy as he glided past him, a large smile etched on his face.

It took Ernest a moment to notice his son standing by the doorway. His mood immediately soured. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What’s this about a stone?”

“How long were you listening?”

“Long enough.”

A silence prevailed over the room. Father and son stared at each other as if they were made of stone themselves. Ernest opened his mouth to reply, but begun to cough uncontrollably. Specks of blood dotted the handkerchief he placed on his mouth.

“This stone is, what, supposedly some magical remedy meant to cure you?” Oliver asked.

“...That’s of no concern to you.”

“How much of your finances did you waste on this sham?” Rage stung the tips of Oliver’s fingers.

“You best hold your tongue.”

“Ironic, isn’t it, father? Perhaps you were the one who belonged in the madhouse for believing in fairy-tales.”

Oliver remembered how attentively his mother tended her garden. He also remembered how it’d been destroyed when the constable and his men came to whisk her away. While Ernest claimed she’d been sick, Oliver knew he had considered her a nuisance. They had often argued over finances. And to think he was now willing to give up his life fortune—the fortune Oliver had helped him obtain.

Ernest slammed his hand against a table, knocking over the vase of flowers. “Do not compare me to that woman! What I did was for her own good.”

Oliver glared at the old man. “I pray to Almighty God that death comes to you quickly, you bloody bastard.”

Having nothing more to say, he turned and stormed out of the estate. He hoped those were the last words his father ever got to hear.

***

Johann handed the vial to Ernest. The content pulsed a brilliant crimson, almost as if it were alive.

“I had assumed it would be a stone, not a liquid,” Ernest said.

“You can’t consume a stone, Mr. Walker. Or perhaps you actually want to die?”

Ernest ignored his quip and drank the concoction. It was awfully bitter. He waited for a moment, expecting to feel some immediate effect.

“It may be a few weeks before you notice any changes,” Johann informed him. “In the meantime, I’ll be here to study how your body responds. The two previous subjects were far younger than you, so it would make for valuable research.”

“How are they now?” Ernest asked.

“Healthy and happy. At least, so they seemed the last I corresponded with them.”

“I see.” satisfied, Ernest rose from his chair, but the action was difficult as it had always been. “You will receive your compensation as soon as the effects become evident.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Ernest waited eagerly for the Stone to work. But as time passed, one month turned into two, and two into three. On the fourth month, Ernest lost patience and demanded the alchemist for an explanation.

“Has your health progressively declined?” Johann asked him. If the Stone hadn’t worked, the old man would surely die, along with his brothers in Germany.

“It hasn’t.”

“Has it gotten any better?”

“No.”

Johann spent a long moment in thoughtful silence. Ernest’s health should have swung one way or the other at this point. A sudden realization came over him.

“Mr. Walker…” Johann paused, unsure whether he should share his hypothesis. “The Stone may be preventing your condition from worsening.”

“Meaning what?”

“You can never die, but you will never be healthy.”

Ernest was gripped with a mixture of shock and disbelief. He struggled to find the words to formulate his thoughts. “H-How could that be? I was supposed to be cured!”

“You are cured—from death. Old age—sickness—I’m afraid, will continue to plague you.” Johann saw the hope vanish from the old man’s eyes. It was a pitiful sight. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Ernest scoffed at his apology. “Leave.”

“There is a chance I could be wro—”

“Leave!”

Ernest swung his cane haphazardly, striking Johann in the ribs. It wasn’t especially painful. Much of Ernest’s strength had already been lost.

Johann stood up. He understood he would never receive the compensation he was due. In essence, the old man had died. No dead man could save his brothers now. “Goodbye then, Mr. Walker.” And so, with one last tip of the hat, he left.

***

The children played their usual game of rope in the courtyard. The oldest of them glanced at Gabriel’s house, curious about his friend’s condition. His father had instructed him and the others not to approach the boy. Gabriel was very sick, he’d said. Even so, they all missed him dearly and patiently awaited his return.

Inside, Rose sat silently by her son’s still body. Oliver called her name, but his voice hadn’t reached her. Her world had become mute. Shades of color faded into monochrome. The emotions of joy, pain, and indifference all became indistinguishable. She had hoped—hoped so badly. Yet all of her wishful prayers mattered little.

Oliver wrapped his arms around her, but she hadn’t even registered his touch. He peered into her face. Even if he had apologized, even if he had professed his love for her, she would only continue to stare into the void.

He continued to embrace her, hoping someday she would return to him.

***

It had been almost three years since Ernest was expected to die. The eternally old man sat silently by the open window of his bedroom. The drawn curtains danced in the morning breeze, almost as if they were mocking his stiff and decrepitated body.

Pain coursed through every nerve of his being. It sunk into his bones, rested behind his eyes, and deprived him the solace of sleep.

In his younger days, he’d seen how disease ate away at the men working in the city. Their bellies were swollen, their teeth were blackened and decayed. Ernest had feared the death that surrounded him, but now that he lay motionless, plagued with never-ending suffering, death was something he now welcomed.

Outside, the birds sang a joyous song. Ernest imagined himself flying from his body. He perceived the infinite view of the sky and the clouds that slept high above the city. His fingers reached for them.

And without giving it much thought, he fell from the third-story window.

His spine cracked with horrific finality. Insurmountable pain swept over his soul, and the world gradually faded from his vision. He’d finally be able to rest.

Oliver stood over his father’s crumpled body. He had witnessed him fall onto the flowers in the garden. Some time ago, Clemens had sent him a letter expressing his concern over his father’s mental state. The man hadn’t died despite his ailments, he’d said. Oliver knew the Stone had somehow worked, and he wished to see the result for himself.

Oliver knelt beside him. Ernest was still breathing. The man had been responsible for ruining his life, and there was nothing more that pleased Oliver than to see him die there. But knowing that he was doomed to live forever, with his condition in a perpetual state of decay, perhaps it would be a greater compensation to see him suffer.

Oliver proceeded to tend to his father, being mindful of his injuries.