I was the unwilling actor in a tragedy which was real, not Miltonic. You cannot imagine the agony and the shame I experienced while the monster was performing his ritual of lust and murder upon Elizabeth, Frankenstein's bride. Yet, I must confess that I also shared the ecstasy of his orgasm; though, soon after I was transported, I loathed myself.
Frankenstein, after he was put in prison because he went temporarily mad—temporarily?—after his father's death, began to track down his creation in order to slay him. After much time and many wanderings, both Frankenstein and his creature were in the Arctic, traveling on dogsleds. Victor became very sick but took refuge on an icebound ship. After telling his story to an Englishman aboard the vessel, he died.
Meanwhile, the ice pack broke up. The passage to warmer climes was open. But the monster came aboard just after his creator died. He had by then been stricken with the pangs of conscience, perhaps because he felt dimly my own reactions to his satanic deeds, though I was as eager as he to slay Victor, and these, in a twisted way, caused the monster to repent.
I do not think that he had sufficient reason because of this to decide to kill himself. He was far more the injured of the two. What did Frankenstein expect? That the creature, like a true Christian, would turn the other cheek? He had not been instructed in Christianity and, anyway, how many of those so instructed would have forgiven such great evils done to them?
In fact, that the monster did have a conscience so tender and highly ethical trumpets forth his innate goodness.
But it may be that my mental urgings were by then influencing him, however small their voices. I had been trying to get him to kill himself, for his sake and, I have to admit, for my own. What a miserable life I had been leading! Starving and freezing with him, hurt with him, sick with fury and desire for revenge with him. I wanted our lives—actually, a single life—to end.
One of the unforgivable sins is suicide. But I was not killing myself through my direct action. The nameless and pitiful unnatural creature would be doing it. My hands were clean; his would be dirty. But he would not have to burn in hell for that deed. He had no soul. Nor would I burn. I had died once and should have gone to Heaven. Instead, Frankenstein, the foul incarnation of the archdemon, had brought me back to life. For that blasphemous crime, Frankenstein would exist forever after death as a shade on the plain of burning sands in the seventh circle of hell. There, an eternal rain of fire would fall on him. There, according to the great Italian poet, Dante, are the blasphemers and the sodomites, the violent against God, which Frankenstein certainly was. There also are the usurers, that is, the violent against Art. Frankenstein belongs in their ranks. He violated God's Art by making the monster. Thrice accursed, thrice tortured!
His monster finally forgave him, but I cannot do that. Thus, the monster is more Christian than I. Theological and philosophical question for you, colleague. Does that indicate that God should or must endow the monster with a soul? If He does, to whom belongs the brain of that soul? What is my brain is his brain and always the twain shall be one. The implications are staggering. A whole college of St. Aquinases could consider that one question for aeons.
To resume. The creature—and myself—declared to the Englishman on the ship where Frankenstein died that he would build a funeral pyre and lie down upon it until his loathsome body was burned to ashes. Of course, you will find this ridiculous. Where, in this Arctic wasteland, could he find a single branch for fuel?
Then he boarded a large piece of ice and floated away. During the interval before the ice island came to land, I managed finally to communicate with the other part of my brain. It was a one-way form, that is, I could impart some of my mental suggestions or commands to him, though he was not aware of my presence or of the command. I do not know how I finally did it. I believe that it was his weakening state of health, his decaying flesh, that enabled me to overcome whatever obstacle had previously existed.
He—we—wandered over the snow-and-ice-covered land until we came to this remote outpost inhabited by a few miserable natives. We were given food, disgusting fare but nutritious, and a shelter scarcely worthy of the name. Now, I could transmit my commands, though they became distorted in the passage as if they were flags manipulated by a drunken semaphorist. No doubt, this was because of the rapidly decaying state of the monster's neural system. Of course, that affected me, and my transmissions may also have been at fault.
The main problem is that, the weaker and more disorganized the creature's brain becomes, the easier it is for me to influence him but that very removal of mental obstacles decreases the monster's efficiency in carrying out my messages.
To put it in the colloquial, you pay for what you get. Also, the more progress you make in solving a problem, the more problems you encounter.
I really cannot see now how legible the handwriting is. The objects I observe through his eyes are getting smaller and smaller. And the watery veil now seems to have swirling particles in it. These are becoming more numerous. It may not belong bfore them coleisce to from a seemerly slodid well.
Ferwale ... is end . . . Dog forgove . . . menster. Me too . . . evn fregiv his creatr . . . Farknesten . . . Dog . . . nod Dog . . . min, God . . . God . . . furgiv . . . nodpar . . . pardin . . . pardon . . . fregiv . . . all . . . rweched . . . humn . . . beins . . .evn monster . . . humn too . . . iverbudy . . . forlgev . . . all . . . Gd . . . God . . . fregiv me
A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
▼▼▼
IT WAS difficult writing with a crayon. His big, spatulate fingers were too awkward to manage more than a few dozen scrawled words on every page. He had asked for a pen, but they had not given him one, of course.
The other men in the psychiatric prison stayed away from him, except for Rowell, who made a point of not being frightened of anything. Occasionally he would swagger up to the large man and catch him with a hard look; he did that now, knowing that several of the other prisoners were watching.
"Whatcha doing, Frank?" Rowell asked while Frank struggled with the crayon. "Drawing a picture? What kinda picture?"
"Writing a letter," said Frank, every word coming out slowly and precisely, sounding like he was recovering from a stroke. When he was caught up in a different task, speech became an ordeal for him.
"Uh-huh," said Rowell, doing his best to read the red marks on the yellow paper upside down. "Who to?"
"A lawyer," said Frank. He leaned forward on the table and had the satisfaction of seeing Rowell take a step backward.
"Another try at getting out," said Rowell with certainty. "Man, they're never going to let you out. Never happen. Get that straight. Outside they think you're dead. No one knows you're alive, and that's the way they want it. You're here for forever." He smiled his dazzled, manic smile and struck the table with his fist. "You get that!"
"Leave me alone, Rowell," said Frank patiently, doing his best to write sympathize on one line. The z was getting away from him and he bit the tip of his tongue in concentration.
"You're a freak, that's what you are. You think you're such a genius, but you're a freak. Freak Frank, that's it!" He struck the table again, and hastily retreated as if he expected to be caught and punished for his audacity. "Freak!"
"You're probably right," said Frank as he went on with his letter. It covered five pages now, and would probably take another five, but that was no deterrent. He had learned that persistence paid; he kept at his task.
When he was finished, some four hours later, he read over the fruits of his labor:
Dear Mister Gregory Hartford:
Please excuse the way this looks and bear with me. I am in the psychiatric ward of Senzono State Prison and we are not permitted to use pens, pencils or typewriters, and I have some disability directly related to my case.
I would be most grateful if you could be willing to review my case. I have no money and can offer you very little in the way of a fee. But I believe that my case is sufficiently unique th
at you might decide to take it for the notoriety it could cause.
My case records can be put at your disposal if you would like to review them before speaking with me. After you have seen these I would hope you would sympathize with my predicament and be willing to file a writ of habeas corpus on behalf of my body. As you will discover in my records, there are reasonable legal grounds for such a request.
No matter what your decision, I thank you, Mister Hartford, for your attention.
Most sincerely,
#5598735-PSl4
Frank Einstein
The night staff physician addressed the envelope for Frank, and gave him the stamp to post it. "Good luck," he said to Frank as a matter of form. This was the fifteenth such letter Prisoner #5598735-PSl4 had written and so far he had received no answers; none were expected. Prisoner #5598735-PSl4 was one of those invisible inmates who had no family, no visitors, no contact with the world on the other side of the walls beyond what they saw on the evening news.
"Thanks," said Frank, and trudged back through the recreation room to his cell. Some of the others were watching television, but Frank was not a mingler and did not want to see Stagecoach for the fifth time. Old movies held little interest for him these days; they reminded him too much of the past.
▼▼▼
The envelope was as much a surprise to Frank as it was to the guard who brought it to him. Gregory Hartford had responded with a promptness that was as suspicious as it was gratifying; Frank opened the letter with many doubts possessing him.
Dear Mister Einstein;
Your letter surprised me, as I had been informed some time ago that you were dead. Yes, I am aware of your case and I think you may have a workable approach to your problem. I believe you are correct in calling your predicament legally unique.
You may be aware that my great-uncle was Spencer Dare; he followed your case with a great deal of interest, an interest I have come to share. It would please htm if he knew that one of the family was acting on your behalf.
At present I am making arrangements to visit you next month. I hope this will be convenient.
Sincerely,
Gregory S. Hartford
Frank read the letter three times before he believed it, and even when his incredulity was gone, the notion had not yet sunk in. Someone was actually willing to review his case; Gregory Spencer Hartford was going to confer with him. In all the time he had been locked up he had never felt so vindicated as he did that afternoon.
He went for his weekly injection that was supposed to keep him calm, though both he and the chief surgeon knew that it had no effect on him whatsoever. For once he was annoyed at the farce of it all. "Let's get this over with," he told the surgeon, and then startled both of them by telling him about the response to his letter.
"Well, you must feel pretty good, I guess," said Doc Reginald when Frank finished.
"I don't know what I feel. I mean that, Doc. All the other letters— nothing. I wasn't expecting . . . this," said Frank, watching the needle sink into his arm just above the cicatrix. "It takes some getting used to."
"I guess it does," said Doc Reginald.
"I'm not getting my hopes up," Frank told him, anticipating just such a warning.
"I hate to say it, but much better not to, Frank. It's hard to take, I know." He patted Frank's huge shoulder. "You've got pretty good sense most of the time. Don't forget that now."
Frank nodded out of habit, then said, "But it is the first encouragement I've had. That's important, isn't it."
Doc Reginald considered his answer. "Encouragement is one thing, if you don't let it get its hooks in you. You've been inside a long time, and getting out isn't easy when you've been here so long. You don't know what you're getting into. That's what you've got to watch, making sure you don't expect much."
"That way I won't be disappointed?" Frank said, and nodded before Doc Reginald could answer.
▼▼▼
Gregory Hartford was small and wiry and incapable of holding still for more than three seconds at a stretch. He paced the interview room as he waited for Frank Einstein, his greenish eyes alight with the fire of battle. For once he was being offered a real challenge, something he could sink his teeth into; at thirty-six, he was primed and ready. And it was a case that Great-Uncle Spencer had followed. Great-Uncle Spencer said that the Einstein case had been a great miscarriage of justice, and the movie hadn't helped. Frank Einstein shouldn't be held responsible for what his brother did. Hartford almost rubbed his hands in anticipation. What could be better than that? He turned abruptly as Frank Einstein was ushered into the stark, dreary interview room.
"Mister Hartford?" said Frank, holding out his huge hand.
Although Hartford thought he was prepared for this moment, he goggled at the sight of Frank Einstein. He had not realized the size of the man, or the harshness of his scars. The one across his forehead was about the worst of the lot, Hartford decided, unable to keep from staring. It was wide and white and the suture marks straddled it in a series of deep puckers. No wonder there had been no doubts about his identification
from witnesses. That face would linger in nightmares for years. "Mister . . . Mister Einstein." He had to steel himself for the grip of his hand.
"I'm very grateful to you for coming," said Frank, stepping back. He had seen that expression before and knew that he had to put some distance between himself and Hartford.
"Yes. Well. Glad to do it. It's an interesting case; you could say it's without precedent." He glanced once at the door, then made himself look at Frank again. His ten years of courtroom experience helped him keep his voice steady as he regarded the man who wanted to be his client. "Yes. Very interesting."
"You've gone over the records, then," said Frank, choosing the only wooden chair in the room to sit on; the plastic ones on the metal frames did not look sturdy enough for his bulk.
"Most of them. I've read the arrest records and the various psychiatric evaluations, as well as the press coverage at the time of the . . . uh . . . the events." He pointed out his briefcase. "I've got more material in there. I've gone over the basics, of course. Reviewed your trial transcript, the charges, and all that."
"Good," said Frank, clasping his hands together. "That means you know about the killings. Don't you." He did not expect a response. "I'm supposed to have killed Victor, and that kid by the lake, at least according to the charges."
"The arrest reports are pretty detailed. The case against you is definite, as far as it goes," said Hartford, his tone suggesting that Frank offer no excuses.
"As far as it goes. That's the trouble. You see, I know I was there. I don't really remember anything specific. It's almost as if it happened to someone else. That's the part that bothers me, that it seemed to be someone else. In a way, I guess I did those things. My hands seem to remember being around Victor's throat. But—" He lifted his hand and indicated the terrible scar on his forehead. "This makes a difference. Doesn't it? The brain, and the hands, I mean. Isn't it diminished capacity if it isn't your own brain?"
"That's for the jury to decide, if we can get you another trial." He made himself look at the scars without flinching. "Victor did that to you, didn't he?" Hartford asked, making himself take a sensible attitude toward this grotesque figure.
"Oh, yes. I'm his . . . brainchild." There was no mirth in the tight smile that accompanied his ironic joke.
"There was no question of complicity, was there? You weren't part of a conspiracy. You didn't plan it in advance. You didn't know he was going to do this to you." He folded his arms, then unfolded them for fear he might look too pugnacious. He did not want to do anything that could be interpreted as a challenge, not to someone who looked like that.
"No, I wasn't. Or I don't think I was. Maybe some part of me agreed, but not my mind. And I mean my mind, mine, not the brain in here now. I never knew what he was up to, I'm certain of that. I don't think he cared whether I agreed or not. I was Victor's lab animal, his exper
iment." He sighed. "Some people infect lab animals with anthrax. Victor infected me with life. And he did it with this brain and that machine of his."
"It isn't your brain, is it?" He fought down a sudden impulse to laugh at the bizarre question. "Or is it?"
"As much as my hands are, I suppose," said Frank. "Neither one is the one I was born with." He slumped and succeeded in looking even more like something chiseled out of granite.
"Without your permission." He paced in a circle at the part of the room that was farthest from Frank.
"What permission would that be? How would anyone give permission for something like this? Certainly I would have refused him, if he'd asked me. I might not remember, but I know I'd never consent to something like this. Who would? He never inquired anything of this brain he stuck me with. I'm certain of that much. He was caught up in his experiment, don't you see? The rest didn't matter. First, last and always was his experiment." He made no attempt to disguise the depth of bitterness he felt.
"And so he exhumed you without your permission?" Hartford persisted. "The . . . main part of you?"
"That's what I told the police. That's what I told the judge at the hearing. They never found anything that said I was part of it, not in my will, not in Victor's papers. It's in the record." He stared down at his feet. "I tried to tell them everything, but it didn't do much good. I don't think they believed me, not until they found Victor's lab notes."
"Tell me." Hartford pounced on the words. "Tell me all of it. Start from the beginning."
"Again?" asked Frank. He looked up at Hartford and saw him nod eagerly. "All right. Again." He paused as he cast his mind—if it was his mind—back. "My brother, Doctor Victor Frankenstein assembled me from . . . bits and pieces. He called me Frank Einstein as a joke, I think. Einstein for genius, and Frank so he wouldn't have to remember my name. That much even the cops accept. The psychiatrist who examined me was pretty confused about my identity. He wasn't sure what part of me was me, and who the me was. If it's any answer, most of this body was taken out of his brother's coffin."
The Ultimate Frankenstein Page 12
