Cornelius Philo the Immortal

From Dr. Gwain Marsh’s Notes

Dated:  February 19, 1712

For our purposes of creating a state of suspended automation, our first task was to choose a subject willing to agree to the conditions of our experiment.  In sending out handbills in all the local pubs and social gathering places, we had a young man in average physical stature in just about every way who was not very well educated as he was born on a farm in Cornwall where education consists of fertilizing crops and the proper upkeep of livestock.  His name is Corniellus Philo, age 24, male, dull witted and very trusting as he signed the document forthwith.  He was dressed in dirty overalls and a rough hewn shirt with thick work boots made for field work. 

He comes from a rather large family of five girls, Nora age 20, Tessie age 17, Kensia age 12, Cassandra age 8, and Nessie age 5 in addition to three brothers Maxwell age 22, Norman age 20 (Nora’s fraternal twin), and Peter age 3.  Father Lathen age 43 and mother Kristin age 40. Their farm is forty acres according to the last assessment with over eighty heifers and an undetermined number of chickens that varies depending on family needs.  The family farm goes back six generations according to local title deed records.  

Medical examination has determined that Corniellus Philo has no major medical concerns that would prevent him from being a suitable subject for this study.  After discussing it with my colleagues it was decided that Corniellus would be a proper subject for this project. 

Signed by Drs. Abbott McClacken, Norton Amherst, Dalton Olmstead, Kenton Ossinger, Whitney Patten, Kendra Longly, Myra Bellahuse, Owen Warwick, Shelton Pierce, Brenton Parsons, Avery Stone, and myself Gwain Marsh all signed the document at 3:15 pm on February 20, 1712

The serum was ingested shortly after that in which Cornelius Philo was induced into a very deep sleep that would result in suspended animation.  

I read the document again just to be certain.  I glanced at Dr. Rose Sinclair who was smiling at the very aimable Cornelius Philo who was seated in a chair in my office. 

“This is preposterous.” I proclaimed. “Cornelius Philo what year were you born?” 

With his pasty white face and spectacular crystal blue eyes that seemed out of place in such an ordinary setting like a diamond misplaced in a poorly crafted setting.  He swallowed and you could see the visible movement of his extra large Adam’s Apple which made his long neck odd shaped by the protrusion.  With his wispy voice, he answered. “December 24, 1688, Christmas Eve, sir.  Me mum told me I was her Christmas present that year.”

Rose allowed herself a short snort of a chuckle as I rolled my eyes in disbelief.  

“Do you know what year this is, Master Philo?” I asked, feeling as if I was the butt of someone’s sick prank.  

“No sir.” He shook his head as if he was trying to shake it free from his neck.

“It is April 2019. Which if the math is correct you are three hundred and twenty years old.” I put on my death mask face knowing that one of my colleagues was whooping it up somewhere watching this ridiculous video feed of some simpleton claiming to be over three hundred years old. “Preposterous.” 

“Sir...can I see my mum...she must be terribly worried about me.” Cornelius requested with his hat in his hand, his hat made hastily from hay or straw.  There was no doubt he was a farm boy.

“I’ll take him.” Rose was entranced by his simple charm, but then this was nothing new either. 

“And I want pictures of this woman as proof.” I waved my finger at her as they left.

“Of course, Dr. Wineman.” She smiled as she led the lad out, “We’ll get some fresh air if nothing else, eh?” 

After she left with Cornelius, I decided to visit the Department Chair, Dr. Wilton Chambers who was a leading authority on preservation of living tissue that had implications in cancer treatment among other things.  Having had over twenty years in the field as a leading researcher, he was most interested in this case of Cornelius Philo.  As incredible as it was, Cornelius Philo was found in a crypt covered with a sheet, opened his eyes, yawned and sat up as if he had been taking a nap. Eugene Peppin was in charge of the dig and of all of the people in charge of this sort of thing, I trusted Gene exclusively and in his account he said exactly that, “Upon finding Cornelius Philo, he yawned and sat up as if he had been taking a nap.” 

Our department had a reputation of having a lot of hijinx in our methodology, but I knew Dr. Chambers was a straight shooter and he would quash any hope of a repeat of the Piltdown Hoax.  But when I walked into his office, he seemed distracted and irritable. 

“Dr. Wineman, what is the skinny on this Cornelius Philo fellow?” He asked directly.  

“I questioned him before Dr. Sinclair took him out for some air.” I pinched my lips between my thumb and index finger.

“Dangerous.  No telling what that chap will do.” He coughed. 

“I’d be more concerned what she would do to him if he tried to pull anything.” I mused.

“Quite.” He nodded as he remembered Rose when she put an abrupt stop to unwanted advances during a department office party a few years ago.  

“Still, he told me his birthday was December 24, 1688.” I reported to which he glared at me in alarm.

“That would make him over three hundred years old.” He gasped. 

“So it would seem.” I shrugged.

“Is that even possible?” He pondered as he stated out the window into the courtyard.  

“We have tissue samples being worked on in the lab.” I sighed, “Still waiting on the results.” 

“Let me know post haste.” He gave me one of his expressions of desperation, “The press is already lined up on the lawn.”  He pointed to a gathering army of reporters on the courtyard lawn. 

“What a mistake.” Rose entered the conference room where I was reviewing some information on the internet.  

“What happened?” I asked, noting that Cornelius was not with her. 

“He’s at the cemetery surrounded by the press, sobbing uncontrollably.” She put her hands on her hips in exasperation.   

“He has found his mother and father’s grave in that ancient plot.  They died three hundred years ago.  Lathen and Kristin, died within months of each other.  He slept through it.” 

“Slept through it?” I repeated.

“Slept through it.  Those blokes out there are calling him Cornelius Philo the Immortal.” She was on the verge of tears, “I can’t imagine someone grieving three hundred years after the fact.”

The Anglican Church of Downey Ave. had been built during the reign of Henry VIII and was adjacent to the university, but no of us even nodded as we passed from the parking lot to our department buildings.  It had another name back when Cornelius was supposedly born. Looking at the small church constructed of rocks from the quarry, I sensed that the answers to my questions lie there somewhere in the ancient stone hiding places inside the church.

One of the curious things was that Gene reported Cornelius was laying in a mausoleum which was reserved only for those with money or power, neither of which he had possessed at the time of his internment.  When I got to the church, it was seemingly empty, but I removed my hat as I entered the sanctuary.

“May I help you?” I heard someone ask and when I turned I saw an ancient woman standing there with a duster in her hand. 

“Good afternoon, I am Dr. Wineman.” I nodded.

“Yes, I know.  You are the one working with Cornelius.” She walked toward me and it was then I saw Cornelius was with her. “He has told me all about it.” 

“I want to know about what took place in this church over three centuries ago.” I glanced up at Cornelius, but he looked immediately away.

“We have records that go all the way back to the construction of this church.” She waved me on with one of her skeletal hands.  Her name was Agnes Figg and she had been in the employ of the church since she was a young woman forty years ago. “Cornie, you stay here in the vestibule.  I’ll be right back.” She smiled and put a hand tenderly on his cheek before nodding me toward a door I had not seen until she opened it near the pulpit. “This is where we keep the records.  The light is not good, but I think we can manage.”

The stairs were damp and slippery with mold, but within a minute she had put a box on the table and lifted the lid.  Cackling to herself, she said. “The Elders’ Council used to meet weekly.  Seemed their practices were not always holy or divine. There was alchemy and pagan worship conducted here.  Dr. Gwain Marsh made some notes which are in the file and explain what they did to that poor man upstairs.  You see his part was innocent.  He was just a rube they had talked into signing a contract where he would sleep in suspended animation.  He had no idea of what he was getting himself in for, now did he?” 

She put the paper on the table, it was so yellow and brittle, I was afraid to reach out and touch it, but in reading it the whole plot became instantly clear.  The council was made up of doctors from the university that was established over three hundred years ago during the enlightenment era, just before the Tudors came into power. They felt that due to their education and their understanding of Divine Providence, they had the power alter the direction of the future even if it was just one ignorant son of a farmer.  

“He did not publish his formula.” Agnes noted as I ran my fingers over the documents. “So there is no record of what they forced down that lad’s throat.  One can only imagine.” 

“So he slept for three hundred years?” I shook my head.

“As it appears.  When your man opened the vault, Cornelius woke up as if waking from some enchanted spell, just like the fairy tales.” She shrugged. “Where do ya think these stories come from, Dr. Wineman?  They aren’t just made up from someone’s wild imagination.  Even Mary Shelly created Frankenstein from the notes of a mad man who toyed with the idea of reanimating someone from the dead parts of another poor soul,” 

As incredible as it seemed, the truth was Cornelius Philo was over three hundred years old.

When we ascended the stair, Cornelius was in one of the pews with his head bent in prayer, his long yellow hair hung down in his face, there were hints of tears on his pale cheeks.  It would break one’s heart just to see him there.

“Cornelius.” Agnes tugged at the tattered sleeve of his decaying garment. 

“Whut.” He jumped, startled.

“You will go with Dr. Wineman.  He will take care of you, I promise.” She once again put her hand gently on his cheek.

“I is scared.” He mumbled.

“I know dear, but you must go live your life.” She said softly, “The life someone so cruel took from you.” 

We walked out of the church and there were some people leaving in cars which made him jerk away from me.

“It’s alright, Cornelius.  They’re just cars.  Like wagons without horses.” I explained as his mouth fell open in amazement. 

“Would you like to ride in one?” I asked.

“I don’t rightly know.” He said inhaling.

“C’mon.” I waved to a cab whose driver was having a smoke.  Seeing the smoke swirl up in the face of the man through his mouth and nostrils, Cornelius pulled away again.

“Five quid.” He tossed his cigarette down and stepped on it.  He opened the door and Cornelius drew away for a moment.

“C’mon.” I coaxed him again. With a nod, he got into the back of the cab, sitting next to me.

“So whacha blokes up ta.” The driver said pressing the meter.

“We just want a look around town.” I answered, handing the driver some money to cover the fare.

“Very good.” He put the cab into gear and we pulled away from the curb.  Even after centuries, Cornwall remains a provincial township with streets made of cobblestone and ancient water works that squirt water from various orifices with cerebrum faces.  Factories that once spouted heavy smoke from smokestacks, were now dormant as the soot and ash seemed to be remnants from another era.  Cornelius’ head seemed like it was on a swivel as we rode through the town proper as there seemed to be no end to his fascination with things he had never seen before.  

The cab drove out near the airport and though it was barely one tenth the size of Heathrow, Cornelius nearly exited the cab while it was moving, “What on earth are those birds?” 

“Those aren’t birds, they’re aeroplanes.” I explained, “They carry people.” 

“No. No.  Birds that carry people?” He laughed until one of the 747s took to the sky in a roar of jet engines. “Listen to that.  How they squawk when they take off.”  

I did not say anything as his basic understanding seemed adequate at the moment.  The cab driver did chuckle a bit as we drove on to the countryside where the scenery was a bit more familiar.  Many of the local farmers still use plough horses, but every now and then a John Deere tractor would appear and he would go wide eyed at the window watching the horseless plough dig up the rocky soil.

“I am ready to go home.” He finally said and I knew that he had been overwhelmed by his vision of the future and I could not begin to understand what must have been going through his head.  But then it struck me hard, Cornelius had no home to go to as his parents were long dead along with his many siblings and having been born three hundred years before, he had nowhere he could call home. 

“To the university.” I slipped the driver some extra quid.

“No, I do not live there.” He protested and it was the first time I had seen him angry.   

“Where do you live then?” I asked and his anger evaporated into a deep sense of wonder.

“I dunno.” He whispered.

“I have a room for you back at the university.” I explained.

“It is not my home.” He bowed his head.

“Where?  Where is it you wish to go?” I know I sounded cross at his indecisiveness, but the truth I too was exhausted after a very trying day.  His face became strained with worry.

“To Miss Agnes.” He finally said.

“She has gone home for the evening.” I felt as if an elephant was standing on my chest as the world suddenly seemed so heavy that it was unbearable.  

The cab stopped at the church and we both got out as the driver tipped his hat to me for my generous tip. He walked slowly to the church, but he did not enter the sanctuary, instead he walked to the cemetery as I followed closely behind.  There were some of the press corps there, but they were ready to pack it in as I heard murmurings of Philo the Immortal, but the novelty seemed to have run its course.  

“I am so tired.” He yawned and walked into the crypt where an empty slab awaited him.  The sheet had been folded as the one that had once covered the body of our Savior when he lay in the tomb.  Unfolding it, Cornelius laid down on the slab and covered himself with the sheet.  Within a minute or two he was fast asleep.  There was nothing left for me to do except leave, which I did.

“So you took him to sight see?” Rose smiled as she fussed with the flowers in a vase her boyfriend had given her before coming to the office. “Where is he now?” 

I had not even considered that he had not appeared. 

“I dunno.” I shook my head.  When she looked at me, I finally got it.  Together we walked to the church and into the cemetery.  We passed by a small gathering of reporters who were still waiting for the resurrection of Cornelius Philo, but I already knew that event was not going to take place.

When we got there, the vault was no longer open and peering into the small opening I could see that the slab had been pushed back into place.

Tears were running down Rose’s face as it felt as if someone had their fist wrapped around my heart.  The magic that had brought Cornelius Philo had taken him back to where he belonged.  We cannot change the fact that we are inhabitants of our time and place in this universe and  we cannot alter the setting of our origins and that even if we were allowed to do so, could we, would we find happiness in such a distant, foreign place as the future.