Frankenstein's Monster

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  “Hurry, boys!”

  The gasped words mingled with growls and snorts. Amazingly, the woman ran after me, too. Her one hand gripped the lantern; the other gathered her cape and skirt in great folds about her knees. The hood of her cape hid all but her smile, as wide, white, and sharp as a snarl. She did not have the good sense to be afraid, and I grinned back, hoping she saw it.

  The landscape grew more desolate and wild. Stunted trees mockingly human greeted me with outstretched limbs. The wind through their empty branches whispered, “Here is a good place to kill her.”

  I stopped, wheeled round, and waited, my anticipation intense.

  At my unexpected halt, the dogs howled. The closest one hurled itself at me. But then the command—“Down!”—and, in midair, the dog snapped its fangs shut. It hit my chest passively, like a thing thrown, and fell at my feet. At the command, the other dogs dropped to the ground, too, mournful complaints half-strangled in their throats.

  No longer hurrying, the woman closed the gap that the dogs’ speed had created between them. As she walked, she pushed back the hood of her cape. She was young, much too young to be Margaret Winterbourne, and so instead must be her daughter. By the lantern’s light, I could see her features plainly: a heart-shaped face, porcelain skin, a wild halo of raven-colored hair. Her beauty, and that it came from Walton’s family, mocked Mirabella’s plainness and made me all the angrier.

  I expected the woman to cry out at the sight of me. Instead, she approached slowly. Her one hand lifted the lantern high toward my face; the other reached out, palm forward. I took the gesture for a calming motion as one might make at a strange dog. When I realized that she meant to touch the knots and seams of my skin, I knocked away her hand.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, though it should have been she who asked the question.

  “Lily Winterbourne.”

  Walton’s niece.

  “You stopped deliberately,” she said. “You could have outrun the pack. No one’s ever done that before. But you stopped. Why?”

  Steeling myself against her face, I focused on her words, spoken as if she chased intruders to the cliff every night, perhaps over the cliff as well.

  “I stopped to see who you were,” I lied.

  She accepted that as if, indeed, all the world should want to know who she was. She was unflinchingly fearless. To be out walking alone at night, even with hounds, gave indication of her character—and then to chase me down to the cliffs and try to touch me …

  What would frighten a woman so bold? The sight of my face had not. The feel of my hands? The image made my breath quicken, fingers dance. I had come to do murder. I could do worse harm first.

  She stepped closer.

  “Who are you?” When I did not answer, she said impatiently, “I am mistress here and am not accustomed to asking twice. Shall I let the dogs give you another scar? Attend,” she said to them. The animals stood in anticipation. “Who are you?” she repeated.

  An idea took root in my mind.

  “I know your uncle. Robert Walton. Your mother’s brother.”

  “I have never met him,” she said coolly. “He rarely writes to Mother even though she writes him every day.”

  “Your uncle travels extensively. By the time a letter from your mother arrives, he has undoubtedly moved on, and the letter must be forwarded, sometimes more than—”

  “What are you to my uncle? Surely not a friend.”

  “No, not a friend. Despite that, our paths have crossed frequently. I thought, while I was in England, that I would give your mother news of him.”

  “And you steal upon my grounds past midnight to deliver your message?”

  “I wanted to see the house first, before I decided how to make my approach. I am not welcome everywhere.”

  “Of course you aren’t. You’re repulsive.”

  “I was in an accident,” I said, remembering how the priest at San Michele had tried to explain my appearance.

  “An accident?” She laughed too merrily. “You must tell me about it. Call on me for tea tomorrow and you can relate your story then, as well as deliver your news to Mother.”

  “Do not jest with me,” I said. “I am not someone who is welcome in polite company.”

  “I am quite serious,” she answered, an edge in her voice I could not interpret. “I want to know the story of every crooked scar. I must warn you, though: Mother will respond with disgust, despite her ecstasy at hearing news of Uncle Robert. Father will respond with shock, although he will try not to show it. I will enjoy seeing that. I will also enjoy seeing your reaction to them. I want to know what it’s like to be hated.”

  An invitation into the Winterbourne house—with such motives as I could not understand.

  “Are you afraid of being taunted?” Lily challenged. “Then do not come for tea tomorrow. Come instead the night after that. It is my birthday and my father is holding a costume ball in my honor. I can invite whomever I wish. The guests will be wearing all manner of masks. Wear one to hide your hideous scars. Or come without one and say your face was made by a master mask-maker from the Continent. You’ll be the envy of the party.”

  “If I do go,” I said, “how will I know you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her lips curled back. “Clearly I will know you.”

  With those biting words she turned to leave, my attendance confirmed in her mind. She spun round. “What is your name? I’ll leave it at the door so you’ll be expected.”

  For the first time my namelessness vexed me. Her beauty forced me to seek out what little humanity I possessed, and I took my father’s name: Victor.

  “Victor. And your surname?” Though it is the usual practice of men, it was too much to say Frankenstein and take my father’s surname as well. My hesitation made Lily shake her head. “Very well. I shall simply say I am expecting a foreigner named Victor.”

  I waited till she was out of sight before I climbed down and made my way to the cave.

  Later

  One by one I count the charms round my wrist. Twelve little charms. Did I have twelve days with Mirabella? Walton should know that only a fool takes meat out of the mouth of a hungry dog.

  And now my enemy has unwittingly sent him to his family. Soon he will have no family, as I have none.

  Patiently I wait and one by one count the little charms.

  October 27

  Tomorrow is the masked ball at the Winterbournes’. Earlier tonight I climbed the cliff—farther down the shore was an easier route—and saw the preparations being made. A great hall, lit up, had opened its several sets of double doors to the night. The enormous room was alive with maids and manservants rushing back and forth. A tall, thin woman roamed about, her eyes ceaselessly inspecting, always with displeasure, everything from the room’s decorations to a wrinkle in a servant’s uniform. Her words caused fearful looks and a flurry of curtsying and bowing. She is Margaret Winterbourne, I am certain. She shares her brother’s sharply pointed features and look of fanaticism.

  I yearn to venture within that room. I have been invited to venture within.

  Slowly, as I write, a plan begins to form in my mind. Will revenge not keep one more day? Tomorrow night offers my first opportunity to walk “unmasked” among men. There will surely be queries as to what I am. What if I tell the truth under the guise of a story? I will see how my listeners react. If they can grant a storybook character its right to exist, perhaps they will grant the same to me. If they say it should be destroyed, they will be describing their own fate.

  October 29

  Last night, I heard the strains of the orchestra as I climbed toward the estate. The wind off the ocean beat at my back, tugged at my cloak, and rushed by my ears, but when it softened, music dripped down over the edge of the cliff as thick and sweet as honey. I paused, clinging onto the rocks like a lizard ascending a wall, and lifted my face to the sound. Each note called me closer.

  Colored lanterns had been placed on either side of t
he drive, providing a multihued path for the endless stream of carriages. Jesters and fairies, princes and princesses, animals both real and imaginary, descended from their conveyances. Stern-looking liverymen opened the doors, letting out a rush of light, music, and conversation as the invited guests hurried in. Expecting to be refused entrance, I waited for a break in this line of visitors, stepped out from the shadows, and walked up the drive.

  The liverymen spoke quietly to one another as I approached—a huge hooded figure, alone, on foot—but they opened the door for me without saying a word. I gaped disbelievingly at the extravagant sight: dozens of blazing candles, carved lacquer vases as high as my waist, intricately patterned Oriental rugs, silver candelabra, marble busts, bronze elephants, oil portraits, tapestries, and huge potted ferns.

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you going in?”

  All this was only the entrance hall.

  I crossed the threshold, the doors swung gently shut behind me, and I was inside.

  “Your cloak, sir,” someone asked. There was a quick intake of breath, even a choke of disgust. I did not turn, trying to ape the indifference the wealthy show their servants. I was a guest, I was wearing a mask, of course, and I had every right to be there. I shook the cloak from my shoulders, handed it over, and waited, uncertain what to do.

  Just when my ignorance would betray me, another uniformed servant came from an archway to the left. Face blanching, he tripped back in horror, then steadied himself. A scowl darkened his features.

  “You are Miss Winterbourne’s guest,” he said. There was so little surprise in his voice and so much weariness that I understood I was not the first embarrassment Lily had invited home. The blood rushed to my cheeks, but I met the man’s eyes.

  “Yes, I am.”

  His sigh was audible. A gentleman would not have accepted such insolence. He and I both knew I was no gentleman. “Follow me.”

  He led me down a long hallway past many closed doors, into a large room lit only by a dying fire. So, I thought, I was not to be summarily dismissed; neither was I allowed into proper company. Lily’s invitation had been crafted to humiliate me.

  “Wait here while I inquire if she will see you.”

  He closed the door when he left.

  One wall was lined with the mounted heads of a dozen animals—deer, bear, and elk—as well as sets of antlers and horns. You are just one more beast, their eyes said, perhaps even more beast than man in your parts. Your head belongs up here with ours. I could smell their presence, a warm musky odor that lay beneath the room’s stink of tobacco.

  Books lined the other walls, more books than I have ever seen at once. After running my fingers over their bindings, I pulled out a volume. An inscription bore the date 1832, but the pages had not yet been cut—six years later! How I must plot for each of my books, while here a treasure house went ignored! This, as much as anything, made me despise these people.

  From the hall came the sounds of a subdued argument. Without looking at its title, I tucked the book into my pocket. By the time the door opened a moment later, I had stepped away from the shelves and was standing beneath the mounted heads.

  Lily stood in the threshold, framed by light from the hall behind her. Dressed as a queen, she carried a gold scepter and wore a gold crown encrusted with jewels. Her gown was purple silk; around her bare shoulders she wore a long, wide silk shawl of darker purple, gathered by her one hand and held in draped folds at her waist. Her feathered mask, dyed to match, covered the upper portion of her face; her loveliness struck me breathless.

  “So, this is where Barton hid you!” she exclaimed. Behind her was a tall older man, dressed for the hunt in riding breeches and long boots and carrying a crop. He wore a plain black mask over his eyes.

  She turned to him.

  “Barton quite exaggerated my friend’s appearance, didn’t he, Father? This costume isn’t as dreadfully shocking as he said. At least it is a costume. It shows imagination, Father, which yours does not.”

  In the dim light, Winterbourne squinted at me from across the room. His face was a study in restraint as he tried to master his reactions.

  “You must forgive us for this reception, sir,” he said at last. “I am Gregory Winterbourne. My daughter said only that … that she had invited someone named Victor. Your surname?”

  I could not answer. My silence lengthened beyond awkwardness to rudeness.

  Lily’s eyes darted round the room, then—and she smiled—they settled on the stag I knew was above me, mounted on the wall. I was certain she had guessed the truth, making me hers to destroy if she so chose. Her expression lost its hardness and softened to one of mere mischief. Displaying her power but not using it seemed enough for now.

  “Hart … mann,” she said, dragging out the words. Hart and stag: two names for the same animal, but only hart was common to man.

  “Victor Hartmann. He has news for Mother of Uncle Robert.”

  “Yes, so you told me. Well, there’s time enough later, I suppose. We have been ill mannered enough to Mr. Hartmann for one evening.”

  The name buzzed in my ears as if a wasp had whispered it. Victor Hartmann. Hart-mann. Animal man. Could Lily possibly know? Was she mocking me?

  We left the darkened study and stepped into the better-lit hall. Winterbourne’s eyes widened, and he tore off his mask, the better to see, revealing his own countenance: black eyes, black hair shot with silver, strong hawkish features. But there was none of the predator in him. Instead he looked like a wise old bird that had gladly abandoned the hunt in favor of serenity. His face was so good-natured that, even as he fought wildly to comprehend what he saw, I knew that his words would not be harsh.

  “Sir,” he at last burst out, “I beg your forgiveness for gazing at you so intently.”

  “It is I who am sorry,” I said. “If you think I will disturb your guests, I will leave.”

  My words shocked me. Why had I apologized? Because I had seen a gentleman struggle to accept me?

  “Sir, do not leave,” Winterbourne said. “And, again, I beg your forgiveness.”

  “Why?” Lily asked slyly. “Do you think his mask too horrible?”

  “His mask?” Winterbourne looked from me to his daughter. “Lily, it is clearly—” He gestured for what he could not say.

  “I will leave,” I said. “I see now that my … appearance … is inappropriate.”

  Winterbourne took a deep breath.

  “You are a guest, sir, and are welcome in my house.”

  “Of course, he is,” Lily said. “Now, Victor, accompany me into the ballroom.”

  The sudden slackening of Winterbourne’s face revealed he had not meant his welcome to extend to the party.

  “Lily …”

  “I shall do as I like, Father, as always,” she said, slipping her arm through mine. I looked down at her, at her bare neck and the swell of breasts exposed by the neckline of her gown. I felt the heat of her skin and smelled the faint scent of lavender. Did she toss her head back merely to expose the sweeter part of her throat? I could not read her eyes. I knew only that she stood too close. Despite Winterbourne’s extraordinary effort to put me at ease, if he had tried to separate his daughter from me, I would have struck him.

  The ballroom was so vast it must have run the entire length of the house, and was ablaze with so many candles I wanted to shield my eyes. I did not, lest I miss a thing. The room was a mad whirl of color as costumed couples danced and as servants hurried to and fro with trays of food and drink. Then we entered. Everywhere we walked we created silence. Servants stopped and stared. Musicians abandoned the melody to dissonance. Dancers stopped midtwirl. Only a single serving girl, intent on her duties, continued to pass from guest to guest, until at last she noticed something was amiss and turned. Her silver tray clattered to the floor.

  I tried to stare down each pair of eyes fixed upon me.

  “Well, we have no need to decide whose costume is the best tonight, have we?” Lily exclaimed shril
ly. From a nearby servant, she took two crystal glasses filled with shimmering gold liquid and passed one to me. In my hand, the tiny glass was a thimble. It was an act of will not to shatter it with a simple squeeze of my fingers.

  Lily urged me forward, enjoying how the crowds parted before us as if I wore the tinkling bell of a leper. Eventually, a more subdued tune was struck up by the musicians. People gathered behind us in our wake.

  Off to one side was a door; Lily steered me through it to a salon. Chairs drawn close together, and cigars left smoking in ashtrays, indicated recent occupants who had gone out to see the commotion. As soon as we were alone, she dropped my arm.

  “Why did you invite me?” I asked.

  “Why did you come?” she countered.

  “To see you again.” The truth in my reply softened the violence beneath my every thought.

  “Then if you died tonight, Victor Hartmann, you would die a happy man, wouldn’t you,” she said sharply.

  “There you are!”

  Gregory Winterbourne entered the salon followed by nervous servants bearing trays of food. Several guests peered round the edges of the door.

  “I thought you might prefer to take your refreshment in here. The ballroom is noisy, not a pleasant place.”

  “Thank you.” I appreciated his delicacy of phrasing. “Sir, I do not deserve your attention. Why don’t you return to the party?”

  “No, my place is with my daughter. It is her celebration. There is the matter, too, of your news from my brother-in-law. My wife has not yet come down to the party and may not even appear at all tonight. I fear that preparing for it has been too much of a nervous strain. Tell me of her brother, and I will tell her.”

  Selecting the sturdiest chair, Winterbourne bade me sit, which I did cautiously, testing the chair’s strength as I slowly lowered myself. The guests who had been at the door stepped inside the room. Soon sitting or standing about me—eyes fixed in wary stares, lips pulled tight in revulsion—were men dressed as a baker, an executioner, two knights, and a mouse. Despite the room being a smoking salon, there was a woman, too—an older woman who wore no costume, just a simple gray gown and a silver mask. She had taken the seat farthest from me.