Part 9-9: Julian and Charles Darwin.

Part 9-9: Julian and Charles Darwin.

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Flipping the tails of his jacket out behind him, he settled down to write. Taking the bull by the horns, Julian picked up a pheasant quill, and penned the letter that would shake things up, and give Charles that much needed kick.
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Before he closed the flap on the manila envelope and melted blood-red wax onto the parchment to seal his thoughts inside, he enclosed the handwritten request he had received for sponsorship from a young man named Alfred Russell Wallace.

Julian had heard the young man was working on his own theory of “natural selection” and curiosity had driven him to track Wallace down and pick his brains...and the news was not good. He was on the same track as Charles’ although, to Julian’s mind, his delivery lacked the grace and passion of his good friend.

However, Charles’ research clearly predated Wallace’s, and for Julian, that was the most important factor. But Charles’ findings, being in note books, artist pads, and loose sheaves that littered his study like confetti, would be of no consequence if he did not get his act together.

Julian’s words were blunt and to the point.

“Charles. Publish. Publish now, before you have your life’s work laid to waste by this young Wallace stealing your thunder.”

And Charles had listened. He had gathered his notes, and the ink-blotted scribbling, and working twenty hours a day, allowing his health to suffer in the process, he had organized his thoughts and published.

In 1859, “On the Origin of the Species” made it into print. Julian was gratified when the first print-run of 1250 copies sold out in that first day. To see Charles and congratulate him was a yearning that he found hard to suppress.

Julian buried the blade of that yearning deep inside, and threw himself into his duties as principal of the vampire council. It was a role that took up an increasing amount of his time as vampire complacency crept in, and the disposal of their human victims became careless.

Julian devoted a decade to cleaning up the vampire clusters in Europe, as well as England, and if he was more ruthless than they remembered, condemning them to death without qualms, none dared to ask him why. He welcomed the distraction of tracking down The Butcher, a vampire that had littered the north of England with mutilated victims, and had spawned the human term “serial killer”.

Death was too good for him, of course. Another ridiculous human myth was that vampires had a heart that did anything other than lay as a stone in their chests...dehydration until their consciousness failed: That was vampire death.

The Butcher was sentenced to locked-in syndrome and interred in a mausoleum in Kensal Cemetery, where a tablespoon of human blood poured into his mouth every day brought with it a level of consciousness. His body hardened to granite, his skin a brittle tracing paper mask that clung to his skull, but his mind would consider his crimes for an eternity...or for as long as Principal Julian decreed, in any event.

When a feeling of unease had swept through him, and Charles’ face had crowded his mind, Julian knew something was amiss, and he broke away from the horrors of vampire nature for a short while. 1882 was to be the last time he would see Charles, who was on his death bed, when he had a heart attack at the age of seventy three whilst walking along his “thinkers’ path”.

Julian arrived in time to sit at his bedside and hold his hand. They had reminisced, Julian recounting the tales “his grandfather” had shared about days spent with Charles at Cambridge. Charles had said several times, how Julian was the split image of his old friend.

“So, another Julian. I am glad he had children. I wondered... he always seemed so contained. I am glad that he loved.”

Julian resolutely clamped his jaw tight, trapping inside his chest the words that fought to tumble out. But that is what love is. Protecting the one you love like a brother, even when it tears you apart. Oh yes, Charles, I love, thought Julian as he left Down house for the last time.

Julian stood in Westminster Abbey at Charles’ lavish funeral recounting his lost opportunities. He was proud of what Charles had achieved, “The Descent of Man” having made an even larger splash than “Origin”, and he flirted with regret.

What would have happened, had I turned him so we could philosophize together forever? Would he have understood? I think not. What was it he said to me when swilling brandy in Cambridge?

“A grain of balance will determine which individual shall live and which shall die.”

Julian felt proud that he had hung onto that grain of balance, his humanity, and had done the right thing.
THE END