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Chapter 25

Newton's Theory

Dumbledore: Only a person who wanted to find the Stone - find it, but not use it - would be able to get it. That is one of my more brilliant ideas. And between you and me, that is saying something.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

J.K. Rowling

Months had pasted since I'd last touched clay. I couldn't help the silly smile that curled my lips as my hand worked the cool silky grey mass. I noted how the plastic material warmed under my touch even as it changed shape at my will. Creativity had an almost mystical power all its own, an extension of the divine energy that formed order out of the chaos of the void. It was little wonder then that many of the Great Masters were quite mad; driven past the brink of sanity even as they held firmly to the celestial lightening rod of their gift.

The dark days of my own madness had the opposite effect, nearly extinguished the fire of my creativity. For a long time, I couldn't find either the inspiration or the desire to create. Upon my return from Peru, I wanted nothing more that to curl up under a rock somewhere. Today, however, with the prospect of my return to immortality a growing reality and the shadow of my impending demise a receding nightmare, I was in a much brighter mood.

I felt so much better, in fact, that I'd spent the morning working in my corner of Mama's studio, fleshing out the wire armature that Edward fashioned for me overnight. I described to him in great detail how I wanted the grouping of wolves to look and, as always, he executed the framework perfectly. Perhaps it had less to do with my descriptions and more to do with the images that my imagination conjured of the finished work . . . mental images that his unique gift allowed him to read as easily as a blueprint.

"Whoa, Mom," Bart greeted me as I listened to his and Abby's footsteps coming into the room. "You're working again, that's awesome."

"I'll say," Abby chimed in. "The first time my Dad told me you could sculpt and knowing that you were, you know, blind . . . well, I didn't believe him. How do you do it?"

I found myself giggling at Abby's question, "How does a bumble bee fly?" I asked in return. "According to science, they shouldn't be able too, but they can."

"Ok, it's now official; your Mom has been hanging out with Grandpa Carlisle too long." Abby replied smartly. "Answering questions with questions, that's just not fair."

We were all laughing now and it felt better than good, it felt marvelous.

"Did I hear someone speaking my name," Papa's warm jovial tone preceded him into the room. "I'll have you know, Abby, that the practices of answering questions with questions happens to be a long standing and valuable academic tradition."

I listened to Papa's almost imperceptible footsteps as he floated to my side. Once beside me, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and kissed me lightly on the top of my head.

"It's good to see you working again, Kitten." His voice resonated with satisfaction as he continued, "I was beginning to worry that I would never again witness the wonder of your artistic talent."

"I'm feeling better," I hummed. "For the first time since all this started I feel hopeful; like I really have a chance."

He patted my shoulder affectionately in response to my assertion. "Hope is a powerful thing. I once had a patient who I diagnosed with cancer and referred to a very good oncologist. His prognosis was dismal; death within a few months. At the same time, his son entered high school and he indicated he wished to attend college.

"A few months stretched into almost ten years as the man lived to see his son graduate from high school and later earn his PhD. in physics from MIT."

"Amazing," Abby muttered.

It was amazing, and I was willing to bet that this was only one in a whole galaxy of amazing stories that my Papa could tell. After nearly four centuries of existence, the miraculous sights he must have been witness to would boggle the mind.

"I just got off the phone with Ben," Papa announced drawing me back to the present moment, "he's going to make a brief stop to hunt on his way home, but he should be here in the next hour or so. When he arrives, we need to have another very informal Family Council. I have some announcements to make and I have a couple of surprises. Bart, you and Abby will, of course, join the rest of us in the Great Room."

"Sure thing," Bart replied. "Is it something serious; not more vamps out to destroy everybody?"

"Oh, no . . . nothing like that," Papa assured everyone. "This will be pleasant business."

0o0o0o0o0o

I held the sample up to the frosted window of my lab, examining the pale amber liquid in the diffused light that filtered in. My long hours of hard work finally paid off four days ago when the splicing technique I invented was successful. In my hands I held the most unusual sample of venom in the world, genetically engineered to my exacting specifications. I now had enough of this precious liquid to initiate Sarah's retransformation.

Manipulating human genetic material was child's play when compared with manipulating vampire DNA. Thankfully, by virtue of the fact that I was her creator, my genes and those of my mate shared a number of similar features. Ordinarily, mixing the venoms of multiple vampires in a single human host was lethal and, had Esme and I come from two different creators, I doubted that my theory would have been successful.

Like combining sperm and ovum together to create an embryo for artificial insemination, I had meticulously combined my venom with Esme's. As a result, when I eventually introduced the recombinant venom into Sarah's blood she would, in essence, have two creators . . . two parents, a father and a mother. It was as much a gift for my beloved Esme as it was for Sarah. My wife longed for a child that I could never give her and my daughter longed for the mother that was stolen from her. With Sarah's full restoration to us, both of them would have the desperate longings of their hearts fulfilled.

"Carlisle, everyone is ready," my mate's sweet voice filtered down from the main floor.

I returned the sample to my lab table and picked up the last of the three shipping tubes that arrived with Aro's dagger. Part of this afternoon's business would be to share the astounding document with the family. When I read it the first time, all the loose ends that had plagued my mind came together. I now understood the importance of the dagger as well as its relationship to the Water of Life.

As I entered the Great Room, I found the family assembled and waiting for me. I took my seat beside Esme and prepared to begin. I couldn't help but smile as my eyes fell on Sarah. Soon, I thought, soon the nightmare would end and the sector of death would be banished from my doorstep.

"I've completed work on the filtration unit and tested it on a sample of Sarah's blood." I began. "It removed all traces of the parasite from the sample . . ."

A happy murmur rose from the assembled members of my family, interrupting my speech. How could I be upset by the interruption as none of them, including me, wanted to lose Sarah.

"If I could continue," I insisted quietly. When they came to order again I went on. "With my experimentation complete and successful, it is now time to move on to the next phase." I turned the full focus of my attention to my daughter, "It's time for you to choose your new birthday sweetheart."

I could tell by her expression that she was stunned and it took her several moments to regain her composer.

"You mean I get to chose the day and time of my transformation?" Both surprise and happiness played in her voice.

"I don't see why not, you've chosen who you wish to change you. Why shouldn't you choose the day as well?" I paused to watch her face for several seconds before adding, "New Years is right around the corner . . . would you like to be a New Years newborn?"

"What is today?" she asked shyly.

"December the seventh, Milady," Ben supplied.

"Would the first of the year give you enough time, Papa?"

"More than enough," I replied happily. "We could begin tonight if you so desired."

"New Years is fine," she hummed contentedly before snuggling into her mate's side.

With that matter firmly settled I moved on to other business. After pausing to change mental gears, I took up the shipping tube that I placed on the coffee table when I sat down.

"Ooh, more ancient scrolls," Emmett moaned. "What will the ancestors reveal this time; did the dagger belong to the Prince of Persia, can it turn back the hands time?"

Before I could say anything Edward smacked his brother in the back of the head. "Shut up, and maybe you'll actually learn something."

"You want me to learn something Bro," Emmett sneered. "Why don't we step outside and . . ."

"Gentlemen, that is quite enough," I interrupted sternly as I glared at the two of them. When they were quiet again I sighed and removed the document from the tube. "If you're done squabbling, I would like to read this letter . . . you might even find it interesting."

"A letter to whom, Papa?"

"The better question, Kitten, would be; a letter from whom?" I insisted warmly. "The address on the back of the letter indicates that it was written to one Nicolas Fatio de Duillier, a Swiss mathematician who lived between 1664 and 1753. It is, however, the handwriting and signature of the letter's author that is of more interest . . . this letter was penned by none other than Sir Isaac Newton."

"Wait a minute," Bella interrupted. "You mean the Isaac Newton . . . objects in motion tend to stay in motion while objects at rest tend to stay at rest . . . that Newton?"

"Indeed, I mean that Newton." I answered with a smile. Once, on a rainy London afternoon, I met Sir Newton at the public library. We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing the principals of applied physics. "He and Mr. de Duillier were close friends and both of them dabbled in the occult; more specifically the art of Alchemy."

"You mean like, turning lead into gold." Jasper's eyebrows knotted together as he pondered the concept. "I didn't think that was actually possible."

"It isn't," I replied. "Alchemy is a pseudo-science. Those who practiced it were not only interested in the transformation of one element into another, they saw in their art the ability to find the essence of immortality. The holy grail of Alchemy was the creation of the Philosopher's Stone; a translucent blood red stone with almost God like properties from which the Elixir of Life could be produced.

"References to the Stone, in one form or another date back to ancient Egypt and beyond and they can be found across a widely diverse cultural cross section. Legends are like pearls; each begins with a single ordinary grain of sand and then they grow to become something magical."

"Will you read the letter Papa," Sarah whispered.

"I thought you'd never ask." I chuckled.

I took a deep breath, cleared my throat and began to read:

OOOOO

May 7, 1693

Dear Nicolas,

My esteemed friend, I write to you now to inform you of my most recent and fortuitous discovery. As you are well aware of my research into the ancient discipline of alchemy, I will not trouble you with complex theories. Suffice it to say, however, that I have found the lost wisdom that man and history have long deemed false and fantastical. I have found it Nicolas; currently I am in temporary possession of the Philosopher's Stone.

You will think me a mad man, as you have warned me on more than one occasion to abandon my quest. But I tell you earnestly, I have The Stone! Even as I pen this letter, it sits upon my work bench gleaming in the lamplight. My excitement is tempered with a measure of disappointment, however, as The Stone is not at all what I expected it to be. Also, I wish I could tell you that it came into my possession by virtue of my skill in the art of alchemy, but alas this is not the case.

The Stone was brought to me by a gentleman of distinctly Middle-eastern heritage who claimed to represent The Stone's owner; a wealthy Italian nobleman. He insisted that his master had found the item some time ago while on excursion to a mysterious place called Al-Khazneh. The relic had supposedly resided there since the time of Our Lord's birth. This directly disputes the claim of Nicolas Flamel who, as you know, insisted he had created such an object through his skills in alchemy.

I said that it is not what I expected, and now I will further explain this sad observation. Flamel described a blood red stone the size of a man's fist. What rests upon my work bench is indeed made from a blood red stone; a strange translucent red stone with oddly metallic properties. According to the accompanying documents that I managed to translate, the substance fell from the heavens; the Philosopher's Stone is celestial in origin. While the stone itself might have come from heaven, it has been fashioned by the hands of man into a most sinister form; the fist sized stone described by Flamel is actually a primitive stone dagger.

But here is where my tale takes on the characteristics of a mad man's ravings; according to the documents, the dagger is as old as antiquity itself and once belonged to none other than the infamous Cain. Unless my translation is significantly flawed, both Cain and the blade were cursed by God; thus the first born son of Adam still walks the earth as a foul creature of darkness, the incarnation of the living dead . . . a blood drinking vampire.

I assure you, my friend, I have not taken leave of my senses. I implore you, come to London, post haste, and see the truth with your own eyes. The Italian nobleman, Lord Aro, to whom the stone belongs, has entrusted this treasure to me until the first frost of autumn. I may explore its properties all I like in that time, but I must submit a full treatise on the subject when I return the dagger.

Come my friend, come to London and see this wonder of wonders for yourself!

Your loyal friend,

Isaac

OOOOO

"He wrote a paper on the damn thing," Rose grumped as she nodded towards the dagger lying on the coffee table. "Why didn't Aro include Isaac Newton's writings, it would have saved us loads of trouble."

"I don't think Sir Newton got the chance to do much research or to write a report." I answered sadly. "Shortly after this letter was written, the poor man suffered a nervous breakdown."

"So all that crock about Flamel and the Sorcerer's Stone was a lie," Emmett grumped.

"I don't think so, Em … at least not entirely." My mind had been stewing over this subject for the better part of three days now. "Remember what I said earlier about pearls." My family nodded in unison. "The meteor shower that brought the chunk of star at the bottom of the pool in Peru to earth was likely the same one that brought down this piece from which Akshay's ancestors fashioned the dagger. What's to say Nicolas Flamel didn't find another chunk somewhere in the French country side. The lie wasn't the existence of the Stone, but rather where it came from."

"What's to say that more of them aren't out there?" Edward sugested.

He had a point, given the diverse scope of the legend. It was quite likely that other meteorites from the same massive shower were still out there, undiscovered. "You're quite right Edward. At the next meeting of the Council, I'll bring up both my research and that fact. This may be an issue we need to take up."