Groan
Victor didn’t stay for the rest of the party. He returned to the main room with Mr. Sauer, said his goodbyes to the rest of the men, and took off into the night.
The book he borrowed was burning a hole in his pocket, and he needed to return to his rooms to spend some time with it.
His landlady had long since gone to bed. The house was dark and he did not want to wake anyone. He crept upstairs, locked the door to his rooms, stripped off his clothes, and settled into bed.
Even the paper inside was strange. He paused for a minute, warring with himself, then licked the edge of a page. Vellum. Strange for such a small book. Vellum was mostly used for large illuminated religious texts, not personal ones.
The typeface was tiny, had the marks of an individual screen press, and the book was written—to Victor’s surprise—in conversational French. Like a journal and a textbook in one.
Victor’s French was passable but not perfect. He could read enough of these words to make use of the book, and it was fascinating beyond that.
The anonymous author was curious and enthusiastic, speaking with awe and reverence of that which he’d seen.
It became clear that this was not the work of a scientist but the careful observations of a travel writer whose interest lay in seeking out stimulating subjects regarding the body and its limits.
The first few chapters were fascinating accounts of brain operations to change a person’s language or what colors their eyes saw by damage and manipulation of the physical brain flesh.
There were interesting deliberations on Hypnotism and Haitian Zombies,* a few spells, and potions designed to strip free will from its hosts that made a chill run down Victor’s spine.
Spells perhaps was not the right word—perhaps prayers instead. Or maybe it wasn’t about the words at all. Maybe it was like how medieval medical chants were designed to measure time while performing procedures, less about enchantment than the rhythm of application. . . .
Anyhow, there were accounts of manipulation of the muscles with electrical stimulation. An elaborate theory for metallic replacement limbs and hands, stimulated into motion by the body’s own electrical current, that made Victor’s heart race. There were purification rituals and healing instructions.
Then, under a chapter titled “Manipulations de L’ame” were spells. There was a small foreword where the author commented on similar elements involved, such as electricity, water, and even magnets in some cases.
Though Victor was sure this was what he was looking for, there was some difficulty as the language began to veer toward vagueness and similarity.
Destruction of the soul is close to Deconstruction of the soul. Dividing of the soul to Divining of the soul. If not in language, then certainly in meaning.
If a spell designed to split a person’s soul into movable parts to then be removed or replaced was called Deconstruction of the soul, what was then Dividing of the soul in comparison? Divining of the soul was to what end? And how would one see that which was divined?
Thankfully, the spells most useful for his experimentation were a bit clearer.
There was a tethering spell to hold a soul to a body and a spell for releasing a dormant soul, which perhaps referred to comatose revival.
And a spell that appeared to call a random soul to an available vessel.
Similar to a golem,* though it made clear to mention that the body must be available for implantation.
So perhaps instead for the preservation of a beloved’s soul in a recently deceased or comatose body?
It worried him that all the incantations specified their design for a human subject, which could call to question the effectiveness on animal test subjects.
Finding someone who would volunteer to be involved with this seemed impossible. Victor could likely accomplish it only once—maybe twice. He had to be sure it was going to work.
And more, the thing that gave him pause, was a terrible sense of wrongness about this.
Victor had spent his whole life reading medical texts or alchemical texts, so he knew the way each writer engaged with the subject.
But it was strange and slightly terrible to read a medical text by an alchemist in the field.
The books he read at school were philosophical.
This? There was a detachment to it: “the patient, the bodies, the hand, the mind.” Lives discussed like they were copper, ash, and lead.
It felt illicit to read, much less to practice.
He knew this would not be like his father’s work. The first time his hand touched another man with alchemical intent, he would be walking far from home.
But if he succeeded . . . Oh! If he succeeded!