Frankenstein's Monster

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  Death had cheated me, but I was not angry at death. I was not angry at all. Still, why could I not breathe? What angry thing choked me?

  Walton was right: I was flawed, I was perverse, I was unnatural. I should not have been. I should not be. For the briefest of moments, I had been a man. Now Winterbourne was dead, and I was a man no longer. It was not enough that I had killed the father given me by Fate. I had killed the father I myself had chosen.

  It was shame that suffocated me.

  I fled before Barton’s sad, cruel eyes.

  I ran at a crouch until I was some distance away and then sat until my heart was some distance from bursting. At last I turned. Having finally created a mirror large enough to reflect me, I comprehended my whole life in one glance, a revelation of what I was and what I did, of what I am and what I do, and so I stole words from what man calls his Book of Revelation and made them my own:

  I was a star fallen from heaven upon the earth. And there was given to me the key of the bottomless pit. And I opened the bottomless pit: and the smoke of the pit arose, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit.

  And lo, the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; and the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, and the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us. For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?

  The insistent clanging of a bell informed me that a fire brigade, belated and futile, was on its way from Tarkenville. I left.

  Halfway down the cliff, spasms of grief, shame, and disgust nearly shook me loose. I stopped and clung tightly to the sheer rocky face.

  What if I simply let go?

  The moment passed, and then another moment, and then …

  I no longer wanted to die. But how would I live?

  A single madman had searched me out before. Then I left my place among life’s outcasts and dared to walk among civilized men. Now, spurred by their civilized hate, they would hunt me down with more thoroughness and method than Walton had ever possessed.

  They would comb the cities, thinking I would seek the anonymity of crowds. They would comb the country, thinking I would go to ground like a badger. I needed to go beyond both to a place so barbarous it would repulse even those who would kill me, a place where I might rule.

  My spasms broke into laughter and I again pressed myself closer to the rock lest I fall. Had I not already been shown my empire? Was there any site more wild?

  Eagerly I scrambled down the rest of the cliff, rushed into the cave, and scooped up Lily. From behind her gag, she screamed. Ignoring her struggles, I carried her down the shore and back up the cliff where the carriage was tied. There she saw the flame-lit sky, with its glowing bits of ash like fireflies on a mild evening.

  Still this was not enough. I drove the horses onto the Winterbourne property. I held Lily’s face toward the fire and said, “You have nowhere to go now but with me.” I took up the reins and whipped the horses into a gallop.

  There in the north, in a place storm-lashed and sterile, my father once shaped a creature to match my ugliness. His nerve failed him. Mine will not. I have my mate, my bride, my harlot, my whore. As the worm eats her, her fairness will turn foul and fouler. When she is more worm than woman, and her ugliness rivals my own, I shall crown her my queen consort. For I take her now to my nation, a land under my dominion, and there in the Orkney Islands I will claim my throne as king of the monsters.

  PART THREE

  Outside Haltwhistle

  November 25

  Lily escaped …

  After urging on the horses till dawn, I had pulled the carriage off the road to hide it as I rested. I was still in England, having driven southwest from Tarkenville through the night. As dangerous as this was, I would have been more vulnerable if I had attempted to go north at once to cross the River Tweed. I planned instead to roughly follow the border down the Cheviots and to cross into Scotland at a lower point. From there I would travel directly up to Stirling and at last over the Highlands to the coast, and then northeast to the Orkneys.

  Lily had been strangely docile. Bound and gagged, she lay on the bottom of the carriage, having toppled off the seat after I had driven over a rut. As we raced through the countryside, she did not seem to see the clouds or trees that overhung us; her dazed eyes were filled with images of burning. At last she fell asleep, disturbed by neither the carriage’s breakneck speed nor the sudden cessation of movement when I pulled over to rest.

  I stretched out on the ground next to the horses, which made them skittish. What creature was it that had driven them, rather than wear a harness like their own? I closed my eyes and began to drowse.

  The sudden thunder of galloping hooves shattered the quiet. Though the riders were not visible, I leaned into the carriage and kept my hand by Lily’s mouth lest she, too, wake and try to call out. She did not. I sat watch till exhaustion forced me to true sleep. When I opened my eyes too many hours later, the sun marked late afternoon.

  While I lay there, light slanting into my eyes, I noticed the flutter of something white caught on a bramble just beyond my reach. I realized what it was and jumped up.

  Lily was gone. All around, clinging to rocks and brambles, were the strips of wedding veil I had used to bind and gag her.

  In the distance a white-clad figure moved toward a speck on the horizon that might have been a town. I had suffered too much with no pleasure as reward to let her escape. That first night, Lily had hunted me. Now she was the rabbit.

  Even from here I saw how slowly she ran. I followed at an easy loping rhythm. She looked backward, still expecting me to be asleep, and nearly tripped when she saw me. Her feet were shod in thin white slippers, which offered no protection against the rocky soil and forced her to run awkwardly, as if barefoot. But my presence proved inspirational: she gathered the skirts of her gown and, despite the slippers, ran faster.

  I could have overtaken her at once. Why did I hesitate? Was I considering letting her go because of her illness, her fear of me? Why should I care about her illness, as long as it did not mar her beauty? Why should I care about her fear?

  At last I ran alongside her. She tried to dart ahead. I held out my hand to slow her. She knocked it away, again and again, till I grew tired of the game, and grabbed her, and forced her down onto the ground. Her panting breath was hot against my eyes, the lace of her gown unexpectedly rough when I pressed my blackened lips to her throat. I caught the cloth between my teeth and ripped it, kissed her where the blood beat closest to the skin. She fought and twisted and tried to throw me off. My mindless body was soon aroused, her struggles like the urgent fondling of a hasty lover.

  When I thrust my hand under her skirts, she fell slack against the earth. I pulled back, thinking she had died of fright. Then I saw her eyes. Her fear had been replaced with something else. She looked at me directly and in a soft voice said, “My father is dead, is he not? Or why else would you have said I had nowhere to go but with you? You killed my father.”

  She could not have calculated a remark more damaging to desire, and I rolled away.

  Taking my silence for assent, she continued: “The estate is mine then, what is left of it.”

  “What?” I was shocked by the serenity on her face.

  “The house is mine.”

  “Should you not ask about survivors? Your mother was alive when I left.”

  “So? Was it you who rescued her?” Anger painted her cheeks. “Do not invent meaningless good deeds after nearly destroying my house!”

  “Walton is dead.” The words should have dripped from my lips like honey; instead they tasted bitter and unsatisfying.

  “I did not know him,” Lily said. “But what of my hounds?”

  I dragged her toward the carriage. Luck had
granted me this day while I had slept too long. I could not be so foolish twice.

  “You killed my father. And my uncle too.”

  “You do not understand what was between your uncle and me.”

  “I understand enough.” She dug her heels into the ground. Though her gesture was nothing to my strength, I stopped and faced her. Her eyes narrowed. “It involves a whore, my uncle said. And you would replace such a base person with me?” She pointed to Mirabella’s necklace, which I still wore round my wrist. “Did that belong to her? Such trash. Not like my jewels.” She fingered the barrette in her hair. “The whore forgot her trinket one night and now you hold it dear. She keeps no souvenirs of you, I warrant.”

  “She is dead, as you shall be if you do not keep still.”

  I lifted her into the carriage and drove back to the road. “Get out,” I said, shoving her from the phaeton. She tumbled out and sat in the dirt. “Wait here. There will be riders along tracking me and, if not them, those who use the road for commerce. Tell them there is a reward for your return—although I would not offer one—and they will bring you back safely.”

  “To what?” she said, getting up. “To a smoking shell where I shall sweep cinders all day?”

  “What about your husband?”

  “I have no husband. I’m sure his solicitor has already written up annulment papers and had him change his will at once. My virtue has been compromised,” she spat, alluding to the very thing I wanted from her. “You have seen to that!”

  She tried to climb back into the carriage. A light shove—and again she was sitting in the dirt.

  “What of your mother?”

  “My mother loves no one but her brother. She will not miss me. I am a drain on her monthly purse.”

  I could have simply ignored Lily and driven away, but her gross illogic in trying to get back into the carriage puzzled me.

  “You were my prisoner. Not an hour ago you tried to escape. Now you would come with me willingly?”

  She grinned. A bit of Walton madness glittered in her eyes.

  “You do not want me now, which is why I shall go with you,” she said. “I hate you far too much to do as you wish. Moreover, you have destroyed my house. It is only right that you should care for me till it is once more inhabitable.”

  Did she think I would act as her protector? That her house would be rebuilt merely because she wished it so? Did she believe I would later return her at her command? I had already tried to take her. What might I do with time?

  With amused wonder I bowed and welcomed her back. She carefully brushed the dirt from her wedding gown, then pulled herself up into the carriage. She was with me by choice now. For the moment I would allow it, for the sake of curiosity and for the sake of her beauty. When I next tried to take her, it would be at my ease and not when my eyes must forever scan the horizon. Till then I would keep her like an over-bred pet.

  “I shall drive,” she said, positioning herself daintily. “You are much too slow for someone being hunted for murder.”

  There was a tremor in her voice. Perhaps she plotted to turn the phaeton around. Perhaps she was only cold, clothed in just her lace gown. When I dropped my cloak over her shoulders, she shrugged it off with haughtiness. I gave her the reins and pointed down the road toward the southwest.

  To my surprise, she drove the horses with a fury that surpassed my own. The whip sat familiarly in her hand. With unseemly coarseness she cracked it high in the air over the horses’ heads, low against their flanks till blood ran with their sweat.

  “Easy with them,” I said. “They must run tomorrow as well.”

  “Tomorrow we shall have new horses!” she cried, lashing out again. Pink foam flew backward and splattered her face. She wiped her cheeks and, smiling, showed me her reddened palm.

  She drove the horses faster and took curves recklessly. One horse fell lame. Its limping gait yanked the other horse back as the phaeton shot forward and bumped both animals, nearly overturning us.

  Lily jumped from the carriage and beat the lame horse. She turned just as viciously on me and scourged my face. I seized the whip away, broke its handle, and flung it aside. Twisting her arm, I pulled her close. I should wait for this harridan? No, I should take my pleasure, snap her neck, and dump her body. Taken now or later, she would prove the same insubstantial meal. And she was no longer protected by my foolish thoughts about her father.

  The image of Gregory Winterbourne rose up, like a haunt that appears at the mention of its name. It was the face, not of the irrational man who had struck me, but the wise contented bird who had spoken fondly, foolishly, of his daughter. Who would take care of her, now that he was dead and her marriage—even the roof above her head—was in ruins? With one blow, I had both destroyed her life and taken on its obligation, all for the price of a glass of brandy and an hour of talk.

  I dropped her arm and turned away.

  The horses reared and grew frantic when I approached. In their panic they tangled themselves in their traces and reins. Fortunately the lame horse had not broken a bone, so I did not have to put it down. I undid the knots and set it free. It limped off as quickly as it could while I soothed the other animal and reharnessed it to carry the carriage alone.

  As I worked, I felt wetness on my cheek. My fingers came away bloody from where the whip had fallen.

  “What’s one more scar on your horrible face?” Lily taunted.

  Lingering thoughts of Winterbourne subdued me. For the violence I had done him, for the violence I would have done his daughter, I said nothing.

  It is morning again and we are lodged in a hut. The shepherd to whom it belongs unwittingly obliged us by leaving us gruel, encrusted on the sides of a pot, but still warm. After eating a mouthful, Lily wrapped herself in a blanket and fell asleep on the floor, while my mind returns again and again to her father.

  He was the rich man I expected to despise, who in a single evening became the father I hoped to love, and in another, my betrayer. Was he so filled with contradiction, or did I simply not fathom his full nature? My grief mingles with guilt.

  Winterbourne made me believe I was his equal in many ways. Perhaps in death, I will be. I never was in life.

  November 26

  While Lily slept, I pulled from my pocket the volume I had taken from Walton’s room the night of the fire. Instead of print, I saw the same writing as on the letters from Margaret’s desk. Walton kept a journal, the same as I. Some dark night we may have sat at the selfsame hour to write of our mutual torments. I felt unsettled: he is with me still, his journal lying against my heart. He is with Lily now, too, his blood in her veins, his madness in her eyes. Walton joins us, an unseen ghost, on every step of our journey.

  Less than half of the journal has been filled. None of the entries are dated. I can read only a few at a time; Walton’s anger fills me with too much of my own:

  Margaret does not, can not understand. Would I have her see me as I now am? She would not recognize me. She claims to be in despair, yet has roused herself enough to act and take solace in another, too readily I think. She says it is for the girl’s sake she goes north. I had thought she would always keep the light in my old bedroom lit. But now in the north, there is no light lit for my return.

  The monster has been spotted! This time I will not fail.

  Some days I am the Hand of God, carrying out His will. Other days I am the creature’s shadow, following it in doomed mimicry.

  Once I was a reasonable man. I have found there is an end of reason.

  My face is setting itself into a mask of insanity, for it is far easier to present that mask to the world than what lies beneath. I am a wretch, unnatural and forsaken by God. I cannot destroy the unnatural in me and so I turn it outward. That is why I pursue this thing, and pursue it mindlessly lest I take a second to think. It is as much a wretch as I am, and perhaps in more-innocent ways. I should have pity for it, but pity would weaken me.

  November 27

  Detouri
ng southwest to go to the Orkneys grates on me, but yesterday I found my decision justified. It was sunset, and we were about to leave the thickly wooded area where we had spent the day. Hearing whistling, I crept to the road and saw a man walking in my direction. Before I could attack him and take his purse, several men on horseback overtook him and demanded to know: Had he seen a young woman in a white lace gown? Had he seen a huge, terrifying freak?

  The man answered no, though his curiosity was stirred.

  “He cannot still be ahead of us,” said one rider to the others.

  “Perhaps he intends to try for London,” said another.

  “From this far west? I think he’s taken one of the smaller roads.”

  “No. He waits for us to give up and will try to cross the Tweed.”

  Two riders decided to continue south and later separate to search the smaller roads. Whipping their horses, the others returned north to post extra guards along the Tweed.

  I crept back to the carriage.

  “We will remain here for the night,” I told Lily. “There are riders both north and south of us on this road. They are still searching for you.”

  “No. They are bent on catching you, not rescuing me. They presume I am dead, and rightly so, given that you are such a beast.”

  “You must be tired of provoking me. Here is your opportunity to leave. Take it. Go.”

  “I was going to do that very thing,” she said. “But since you bid me leave with so much enthusiasm, I will not.”

  Containing my aggravation, which would only guarantee that she would never quit me, I led the horse through the trees. About half an hour later, Lily pointed.

  “Through there, Victor!” she commanded.

  We had come to a village. I refused to bring the carriage farther.

  “We cannot stop in the woods,” she complained. “I am hungry. You have only given me dug-up roots and water from a spring.”