Outtake--Carlisle and Marcus

Conversation between Carlisle and Marcus in Dublin

Carlisle stepped into the pub, and a grin spread across his

face. “Marcus, you son of a bitch!”

A pale, long-haired man at the bar turned. “Solomon! You

fucking bastard!” he yelled in a thick Scottish accent He strode to

the door and caught Carlisle up in an enthusiastic hug, pounding

his back. “It’s been a long time, old man!”

Carlisle stepped back, holding his friend at arm’s length.

“Listen to you. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were a

Scotsman,” he laughed, a little of his old English accent creeping

back into his voice.

Marcus laughed. “And what about yourself? You sound

more American all the time.”

“I am American,” Carlisle said jovially. “That’s the beauty

of living in the Melting Pot. I can be a born and bred Englishman,

and not be any less American than anyone else.”

“You and your experiments,” Marcus said, leading Carlisle

back to the bar. “Tarquin! Give us two pints of the best stuff you

have that you cannot get in the glorious United States!”

The bartender laughed and drew them some drinks.

Carlisle tossed some money on the counter and the two men took

their glasses.

“To life,” Carlisle said, raising his glass.

“To getting drunk!” Marcus returned, and the two of them

chugged from their mugs.

Carlisle lowered his glass first, and Marcus grinned at him.

“You’re getting soft on me, old man. Time was when you could

drink me under the table, and now look at you. You’re drinking

like a little girl.”

“I can still drink you under the table,” Carlisle laughed.

“But I rarely get to Ireland, and I don’t intend to spend my entire

holiday sleeping.” But he chugged from his glass once more,

Marcus hurrying to match him swallow for swallow, and drained

the dark liquid.

“Two more,” Carlisle grinned, setting his empty glass

firmly on the counter.

“That’s the Solomon I know,” Marcus laughed

approvingly. He threw down some money for the second round,

and the two of them moved off to a corner to find a table.

“So what brings you here, old friend?” Marcus asked.

“Why not Scotland–or better yet, Wales?”

“Edward,” Carlisle said. “Or more accurately, his father

Anthony. Edward thought he might like to visit his homeland.”

Marcus shook his head grimly. “I thought you’d have

come to your senses on that by now, Carlisle. You oughtn’t be

stringing out the man’s misery.”

“It’s not my decision to make,” Carlisle said with a

dismissive smile.

Marcus pointed a finger at him. “Rubbish. You gave him

his life, you have every right to take it away.”

Carlisle laughed. “By that theory, parents should be

allowed to kill their children.”

“Perhaps they should,” Marcus said sternly. “You’ve got to

remember the lessons we learnt partner. Death is natural, and no

one knows better than the two of us how bad it can be when you

try to cheat it.”

“But we did cheat it,” Carlisle said with a small smile.

“And no one knows better than the two of us how precious life is.”

Marcus shook his head irritably. “You’re still a damn fool

idealist after all these years. But let me tell you something,

Carlisle. You gave up your right to be a pacifist when you started

messing with the power to create and destroy life.”

“I disagree,” he said evenly. “I think I made pacifism my

obligation.”

Marcus suddenly laughed out loud. “It’s an argument

nearly as old as we are,” he said. “In seven hundred years we’ve

never yet seen eye to eye on anything that matters.”

“Except the Guinness,” Carlisle pointed out, and raised his

glass with a grin. “To common ground.”

“Common ground!” Marcus raised his glass and the two

drank deeply again.

Carlisle set his glass on the table. “Are you still settled

with Didyme?” he asked amiably.

“Aye, we’ll celebrate thirty-three years this winter. She’s a

keeper, that lass.”

Carlisle raised an eyebrow. “A keeper?”

Marcus laughed out loud. “Temporarily speaking, of

course. I’ve never yet been so bewitched by a woman that she

could tempt me to divulge me secrets.” His eyes sparkled

mischievously. “I guess I’d have had to go to Salem for that.”

“I’m very sorry you missed it,” Carlisle replied. “Those

Salem witches inspired more than just my own undying passion,

Marc.” His eyes shone. “Buy me another drink, and I’ll tell you

the most sensational story you’ve ever heard.”

Marcus ordered another round, and Carlisle joyfully

described to him the incident with Aro Volturi. The two of them

roared with laughter over the details.

“That little Isabella of yours sounds like a firecracker,”

Marcus said when he was finished, draining another glass.

“Absolutely,” Carlisle agreed. “And she’s got a sharp

mind, too. She questions everything, and works with me in the lab

to find the answers; she’s my protégée in a way my boys never

were. If I didn’t have my Esme, I’d marry her myself.”

“You’d make a good match, too,” he laughed. “It sounds

like she shares your poor opinion of religion.”

Carlisle shook his head. “Here we go.” He sighed.

“Please, Marc, please don’t tell me you’re still a man of the cloth.”

“Not a man of the cloth these days, but always a man of

God.”

Carlisle pressed his palms against the tabletop. “How can

you have seen all the things that we’ve seen and still believe in a

God?”

“How can you have seen all that we’ve seen and not

recognize the hand of God in it?” he countered. “I just don’t

understand you, Carlisle. You’ve lived among the most God-

fearing people on Earth, and yet you never learned to fear God

yourself.”

“It was living among the God-fearing that convinced me

that it wasn’t God I should fear, but His people,” Carlisle said

evenly.

“You’re just mincing words now, me boy,” Marcus

admonished.

Carlisle smiled. “Am I? Consider it, Marc. When I lived

among the Puritans, they tried to murder my wife. When I passed

through the Mormons’ territory, they slaughtered my friends and

tried to do the same to Esme and me. Had my boy been but a few

years older he would have been murdered as well. In Jonestown,

we were forced to drink poison.” He held up his hand, ticking his

list off on his fingers. “Consider the Spanish Inquisition, the

Crusades, the wars in the Middle East. Even the Old Testament

itself is nothing more than an homage to war and conquest.

Religious fervor leaves destruction in its wake.”

“Aye, Carlisle,” Marcus nodded. “But religious devotion

does not. Faith brings a peace one cannot find in science or

philosophy . . . or even in Guinness.” He grinned. “And speaking

of which, more Guinness!”

“Here, here!” Carlisle cried as a waitress brought them two

more drinks in answer to Marcus’s yell.

“I’ll consider your holy wars,” Marcus said, gesturing to

Carlisle with his fresh mug, “if you’ll consider this: your Puritans

and your Mormons and your People’s Temple . . . what was the

common thread?” He grinned as he asked the question.

“Religious fanaticism, obviously,” Carlisle responded.

“But your Puritans existed for centuries with no other

supernatural scares. Your Mormons just wanted to be left alone. I

think you have to accept the fact that all the trouble was caused by

something else, Carlisle.” He smiled broadly.

“Oh?” Carlisle’s eyes twinkled expectantly. “And what is

that?”

“You.” He poked his finger into Carlisle’s chest.

Carlisle chuckled deeply. “This ought to be good. Alright,

Marc, tell me your hypothesis.”

“I think,” he said, wagging his finger, “that your fanatics

were really just devout men of God who sensed your

unnaturalness. I think it triggered an instinct in them to rout out

the evil in their midst. That’s why the witch trials started, and

that’s why your wagon train was attacked. And maybe that’s not

so much what inspired your megalomaniac in Guyana, but it might

have been the spark in the powder keg that led him to poison his

followers.” He raised a challenging eyebrow. “I blame you,

Carlisle.”

Carlisle laughed out loud. “That is a provocative

hypothesis; we should test it. Tell me, Marcus, have any of the

local congregations ever tried to kill you?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “But I’m a damn sight better

looking than you, aren’t I?”

Carlisle roared with laughter, slapping his knee gleefully,

and Marcus laughed with him. When Carlisle’s laughter subsided

to chuckles, he went on.

“My point,” he said, “besides that I’m a prettier man than

you, of course–is that you cannot go blaming God for the follies of

men. We’ve spent long hours considering the evils of the human

race, Solomon. You know as well as I do that we don’t need

God’s help to hurt one another.”

“Indeed we don’t,” Carlisle agreed. “But He provides a

convenient excuse when we want one.”

Marcus chuckled and shook his head, then grabbed his

glass and raised it. “To common ground!”

“Common ground!” Carlisle chimed in, and they drank.

“So you’ve made yourself another family member,” Marcus

said, setting down his glass.

“Ah, so much for common ground,” Carlisle replied.

He shrugged. “You seem to keep pretty tight control,” he

said. “I am a bit concerned about the girl’s blood theory being

proved correct, though. Tell me, what did you learn from your

owls?”

Carlisle shrugged. “They died. But my bats lived. I’m

guessing that the body’s standard rejection of blood digestion

simply allows the compound to pass through without being

absorbed.”

“And of course, the bats can digest the blood just fine,”

Marcus nodded. “So that proves the vampire theory incorrect.”

“Not necessarily,” Carlisle said. “Suppose our blood

drinker had gingivitis? Or a canker sore?”

“That’s true.” Marcus shook his head and spoke softly.

“Who would have ever imagined that a mud puddle could give a

man eternal life?”

“We’ll have to ruin any leftover compound before we

dispose of it,” Carlisle said. “If it could get into the plant life . . .

spread to the animal life . . . eaten by a person with an ulcer. . . .”

Marcus sighed. “Carlisle, we’ve created something

terrifying.

Carlisle frowned. “But if it really spreads as easily as we

worry that it might, surely there would be more people giving

media interviews about their unexplained long lives and perfect

health.”

“Or perhaps there are a lot of unrevived bodies in the

cemeteries,” Marcus said softly. “And what happens to their souls,

Carlisle?”

The two men fell silent for a few moments.

“I’ll study the effect on plant life,” Carlisle said softly.

“The compound goes bad within hours. It may be that it can’t even

be absorbed into the cells of a plant before the effects become

detrimental.”

“Tell me what you find out,” Marcus said soberly.

“Of course,” Carlisle smiled. “And if your God ever sees

fit to reveal to you the state of our souls. . . .”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Well,” Carlisle said, pushing away from the table. “We’ve

certainly had enough at this pub to leave us good and drunk. Time

to move on to the next.”

Marcus grinned and stood. “Now that’s a plan I can get

behind.”