The stranger was an old, worn-out man, who, as I discovered from a brief conversation, had been all around the world. For several years he had resided in Paris. He made a fortune there, and lost it all again. He was returning, after an absence of twenty years, to London, his native city, “Where,” he added, “we have a family vault.”
The manager made the remark that it wouldn’t matter to the soul where the body was buried.
“I don’t suppose that you could give the chapter and verse from the Bible about that, could you?” asked the stranger.
“I only meant that the simple graveyard manner of burial is far prettier,” the manager answered. “The churchyards are perfect when visiting a loved one, for sitting on a bench under a shade tree, smoking good British tobacco through a stock pipe.”
“But what about the Chinese, for example,” said the old gentleman. “They dance around the resting places of their dead, and pray, and drink tea. They ornament their graves with all sorts of gilded latticework and porcelain figures, rags of colorful silk, artificial flowers, and Chinese lanterns. It’s a pretty sight. Any verse in the Bible about that?”
“Dead is dead!” I insisted, throwing my napkin down on the table. “It doesn’t matter where, or how, or even why. Dead is dead, gentlemen! Trust me.” Then I left them both abruptly. I went immediately to my room, leaving far behind this issue of death that had followed me across the Atlantic like my own shadow.
The night was pulling down its long black cloak. From my room I stood watching the moon, considering life—death—immortality. Immortality? Immortality!
I wonder who was the first to conceive this notion of immortality? Could it have been some London shopkeeper who sat on a warm summer’s evening in front of his shop door and comfortably considered how pleasant it would be if this would last forever? Or was it a young lover, because of something he or she felt? Love! Immortality!
Then suddenly the night air was filled with the sweet scent from the flowers below my window. Scents are the feelings of flowers, just as the heart feels more strongly in the night when it feels itself lonely and unobserved. So the flowers, with a sensitive bashfulness, seem to wait for the veil of darkness to give vent to their feelings and breathe forth a sweeter perfume.
With these reflections I couldn’t help but think of Linda. Linda! My heart thought of her as sleeping. At her feet knelt the angels. And to this peaceful sleep, she finally smiles. Behind the silken curtains of those once beautiful eyes, the sun has truly set forever.
I found Stonehenge a solemn place, especially under the celestial heavens by night. It was a wonderful site for me to visit alone and to make my peace with God for the crimes I had perpetrated against Him. I spent several days there, staying at a nearby inn. But it was that last visit . . . The moon was waxing. It was late—well past midnight. There was a fog that surrounded the ruins, yet the stars were as clear to see as your desk lamp. I stood in the center of this ancient observatory of the Druids when a voice suddenly called out to me. It whispered the name “Daniel” from somewhere behind one of the great pillars of stone.
“Who are you?” I asked, but only heard my name being whispered again.
The shadowy stones were aligned in a perfect circle; out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark figure run from one stone to the next. As I turned to face the second stone, I heard the voice whisper for a third time, “Daniel.”
When I finally reached the second stone, this shadow from the mist had vanished. But such a haunting place by moonlight, the fog that surrounded the ruins—it was a perfect setting for such a ghostly hallucination. I was convinced that it was just a trick of the mind.
But suddenly I heard the voice again—coming from the opposite side of the circle. And it felt as if I were surrounded.
Finally the dark, distorted configuration of a man stepped through the mist. And soon an equally familiar figure walked to the great sacrificial stone in the center. He stood there watching me. He said, “It’s been a long time, Daniel.”
Just imagine—he had crossed the Atlantic to find me, a feat that should have otherwise proven to be impossible, given his circumstances.
“I looked for you—I searched the woods for days.”
“Then you’re glad to see me?” he finally said, and I could feel his stare through the mist—cold and steady.
“How did you know that I was—?”
“In England?” His head tilted as he continued to stare. And he smiled. “From a postcard you sent home. It was thoughtful of you to send some picture postcards. And getting myself to England wasn’t as difficult as you might think. From Waterford, I made my way to Boston. I checked all the crates on the docks until I found those shipments bound for England. Then I hid in the cargo bay of a merchant ship headed for the British Isles. But enough about my adventures—tell me, have you enjoyed your stay in England?”
“I did try to find you!”
I heard him chuckle. “Was that after you murdered Linda? Or before you set fire to my only means of shelter against the snow and the cold?”
“What other choice did I have? She murdered a woman, and—”
“Tell me, Daniel, have you ever eaten rat? It’s really not that bad, once you get past the first bite.”
“Would you rather have had her hunted down by the townspeople?”
“Rat meat is good—the blood truly warm. Perhaps not as good as British cuisine. But when there’s nothing else to eat . . .” He paused to tighten his stare on me. “I saw the smoke from the fire you set from a distance. But before I could get there, you had already left. There was a trail of blood in the snow. I knew it was hers!” He pointed to his nose. “ Something I smelled. I tried to save her, but the fire was just too intense.”
And he must have. His hands wore bandages and scorched areas were scattered across his cloak.
“So I waited for the fires to stop burning. When the wreckage had cooled, I dug through the rubble to find her with my hands. But I was only able to reclaim a few bones, including a part of her shattered skull, fractured by the gunshot, no doubt. . . .
“And you’ll be glad to know that I found a decent place to bury her. I took the bones that I found to the shoreline. The spot I picked was beautiful, and I’m sure that Linda would have approved. But what am I thinking?” He tapped the side of his head. “I get distracted so easily these days. Forgive me. I almost forgot to tell you the bad news. It’s your sister, I’m afraid.”
“Nicole? What’s happened to Nicole?”
“She’s dead!” he answered, nodding—smiling—shrugging his shoulders.
“You lie!”
“Oh, no, she’s quite dead—I’m positive. I should know,” he said, then broke out laughing. “I’m the one who killed her! Ripped the heart right out of her chest. Just as you did to me when you murdered my Linda. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
I tried to speak, but words would not form.
“But wait!” He reached into a pocket. “I believe she wanted you to have this. A keepsake! A trinket to remember her by.”
It was Nicole’s high school ring, and as I cried, he lifted the sacrificial stone over his head. He smiled. He never once stopped smiling. “I just can’t stand the sight of you suffering like this, Daniel. Allow me to end this misery of yours. Oh, but don’t worry—I’ll make this as slow and as painful as possible!”
My grief over Nicole quickly changed to rage. I sat perfectly quiet. I was the spider, patiently waiting for the fly to enter its web. “That’s right, devil—come to me!” I whispered, still kneeling on the ground.
Then I grabbed a handful of dirt. I threw it into his face. It blinded him, but only temporarily. And when he tried to clear his eyes, that giant stone collapsed on top of him.
He was pinned to the ground, the full crushing weight of the granite resting on his chest and arms. And he screamed! God, how wonderful it was to hear him scream out in pain.
Before he had the chance to free himself, I picke
d up a smaller stone. I knelt over him and struck him in the face. I kept on hitting him. I couldn’t stop. It felt so damn good to hear each thud as the stone struck skin and bone. His screams electrified me. It filled me with a sense of pleasure that I can’t even begin to describe.
Then he grew quiet. A puddle of blood surrounded him. I dropped the bloodstained rock down on his head for the last time, and that was for Nicole. But I wanted more! I wanted to see him burn. I wanted to scatter his miserable ashes into the sewers, as foul a place as I could possibly think of!
I remembered a couple of road flares in the trunk of my rental car. I went to get them, but when I returned, he was gone!
Somehow, he had managed to free himself from underneath the stone. I saw a trail of blood. The tracks he left in the sand showed that he had staggered off on his hands and knees. He was badly hurt, but he did escape.
But allow him to live after what he had done to Nicole? Never!
But now I should tell you about William Theodopalis, a man whom I met by chance while searching a village near Stonehenge. He was a peddler of fortunes at a local park, but dressed more like a vagrant, with a bushy gray beard. William was a gypsy, of sorts, who claimed to be an actual descendant of the prophet Nostradamus.
“Nostradamus? You? I don’t think so!” I told him, annoyed, with no time to spare for this sort of nonsense.
“Well,” he answered, half smiling, shrugging his shoulders, “perhaps not. But I can still tell you your future.” Then his smile faded, and he carefully nodded his head quite confidently.
I walked away from him, of course. But he followed from behind. He called out to me. “A Sleeper was never meant to be awakened!”
Remembering my first dream, I stopped and looked back at him. “What did you say?”
“This man that you look for is a child of death, and—” But then he stopped in midsentence. He pointed to the side of his head and laughed out loud. “See, William knows your future.”
“Tell me about this man.”
He held out the dirty palm of his hand, wanting to be paid his British pound. “I can tell you everything. I could tell you even more for ten dollars American. You are an American, aren’t you?”
I took a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket. I tore it in half, giving him one piece only. “Tell me about this man, and I’ll give you the rest.”
“Good—good,” he answered, slipping the bill underneath his shirt. He pulled me over to a picnic table by a chestnut tree. “Sit—sit, please.” He picked up a twig and drew a figure in the dirt. “Do you know this?”
I did. It was a T-shape with an oval on top. It was an Egyptian ankh, the symbol of eternal life.
“From the ancient pagan god Isis,” he added, patting me on the arm. “The legend says that she found her husband murdered, his head and arms and legs all cut off. But she put him all back together. She brought him back to life.” He paused to look me suspiciously, pointing his finger. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Tell me about this man you mentioned.”
He grabbed my wrist, then closed his eyes. William remained quiet for a time, then slowly turned his head to stare at me. His smile faded. “He is no man! It is a child of death. So you must remember, death only makes him stronger. It gives him more life!”
“I don’t understand.”
“You and I are children born into life.” He held out his index fingers, then crossed his arms to point in opposite directions. “But for him it’s just the opposite. A child of death! So death will only give him life. Just as death will only cause us to die. But this creature that you seek is cursed! He is damned by God to suffer like a man for your sins. The sacrilege of his creation! To feel love . . . to want . . . to need, but to never have. That is the curse for the both of you. This is the damnation here on Earth!”
“But why should he suffer for my—”
“Wait! God will take him into his grace. He will forgive you for this blasphemy, but only after he becomes a part of the light.”
“You keep mentioning the both of us. Which is it?”
He laughed and shook his head. “You don’t understand. . . . There is no you or him! The two of you, both the same. This creature is just as much you as you are him.”
Now he appeared frustrated, twirling the ends of his knotted beard with his fingertips. His lips moved but made no sound. He was talking to himself. Then his eyes suddenly grew wide as if he had found his own answer. “This man who is no man. You brought him into the light of life? Yes?”
I answered him by slowly nodding my head.
“Yes! But he has no soul. He’s not born like you and I . . . yes! He has no soul. So you and he share the same soul. You must have touched him at this very instant when he comes into this world. You touch him! Now, you . . . him, both share one soul!”
“But how could such a thing happen? Ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous?” Theodopalis shrugged, smiling. “How does the dead walk again? How ridiculous is this?”
“Then—”
“He feels what you feel. He sees, he knows, he senses what you do! He is the opposite side of the mirror.”
As strange as this all sounded, it made sense. He rescued Nicole from drowning. He felt something for her because I did. And at my father’s funeral, he was there, sharing my own sense of loss. I killed—he killed, but equally, someone whom we both held deep feelings for.
Bizarre? Yes, I grant you. But I believed him.
I gave him the other half of the bill. I offered him more. I showed him five hundred dollars, but asked, “How do I kill him?”
He took the money, smelled it, tasted it with the tip of his tongue. He held each bill up to the sunlight. When he was certain that the money was real, he stuffed the bills down the front of his dirty shirt. “If you manage to cause his death, you both perish into purgatory. You be somewhere between heaven and earth for all time. An eternal struggle without end. Each at the other’s throat. But! Remember that death only makes him stronger. It gives him more life.”
“Then there is no way to destroy him!”
“I did not say that,” he answered, crossing his arms in front of his chest . . . shaking his head persistently. “And I warn you . . . should you die, he claims this entire soul as his own. He goes on living. But you? Lost!”
“Then there is no hope!”
“One! There is only one way to bring an end to him but save your own soul. A church, but not just any church. The peasant church of Santo Domingo. It’s said that the blessed Virgin Mary is seen there. She cries for our sins. The tears, they touch the stones of the church, but only at Santo Domingo. There! That is where he must die! But first, you make your confession. You ask forgiveness of the Savior. God will take you back into grace. But only on the stones of Santo Domingo.”
“But you said that death only gives him more life. How would I kill him, if not by death?”
“Expose him to life. Make him see the light! Overwhelm him with life. Too much life, he grows weak. Then put an end to him. But only through the light of feelings. And this, a power far greater than death itself!”
I took a deep breath. At last I had something like a concrete plan. “Then I must go to this church. Where is it?”
“In Spain. But sadly, the church was destroyed fifty years ago from an earthquake. Santo Domingo, this place of the peasants no longer exists.”
I lost myself for a moment, grabbing him by his filthy coat. “If the church is gone, then how is he to be murdered?” I cried. “If the church was destroyed—”
“The church . . . yes.” He laughed. “Ah, but not the stones. You go to the Vatican. They keep the records. They will tell where to find the stones, yes?”
Letting go of him, I asked, “You’re certain?”
“Certain? Tell me, you tried to kill him yesterday? Did he die? No!” He slowly shook his head. “I see this. No man could take what you done to him. But still, he lives. He wants to find you! I
hear his thoughts. I know what his mind thinks, because I know what you think. You want revenge. He wants revenge. But neither one is going to win. Purgatory—” he chuckled—“that’s a bad place to be.”
He stood up, but continued to stare down at me. He brushed the front of his coat where I had grabbed him, then reached down into his shirt. Shaking his head, he dropped the money I had given him down to the ground. It scattered off with the wind. He sighed. “Take your money. The money’s no good. Dirty money. Purgatory! That’s a real bad place to be.”
Then he said something odd. “You ask Victor when you see him how he likes purgatory.”
He laughed out loud. It appeared as if he couldn’t stop laughing. He suddenly started singing a shanty, an old British shanty, I guess. He walked away from me, stepping through the open gate of a vine-covered iron fence, down a cobblestone street, then vanished into the late morning mist.
So I traveled to Rome, to the Vatican, where the tragedies of the world are so easily rocked to sleep by the lullabies of church bells. A place where hope springs eternal. Swaddled in the deteriorating past of an empire that aspired to rule the world. But her legions did fall! And so, the days of the great empire were over, decrepit and feeble amidst the broken pillars of her Coliseum. Strange, but what we admired yesterday we hate today, and will probably pass it by with absolute indifference tomorrow.
I don’t believe that the holy men of the Middle Ages were altogether wrong when they pronounced that prophecy was an invention of the devil. It pained me to be there in Rome under these circumstances, terribly. Beauty—history—the sheer power of it all had no effect on me whatsoever, except to cause me even more pain.
The sight of the fresco in the Sistine Chapel was blinding, as if looking directly into the sun. William’s words heightened my sense of having greatly sinned. This work of Michelangelo was something for me to fear.
So I kept to the shadows like a ghost, eluding the virtue, turning away from all the visions of the Holy City, truly afraid that righteousness would devour me.
Frankenstein: The Legacy Page 8
