by John Burke
At the end of half an hour I was growing apprehensive. If we didn’t find him soon, others would find him. He would stray into their farms or down lanes which led to other villages.
Or he would lie low in the woods, hidden for as long as he chose to remain still, a constant menace—and perhaps past salvation by the time I found him.
Then we heard a voice. It was some distance away, and came eerily through the trees like the muffled cry of an animal in a trap.
Paul glanced at me. We swung off the path and trampled over leaves and snapping twigs without further concern for the noise we were making. Once again there was a cry, causing us to veer slightly to the left. We broke out, after scratching our faces on a thin but stinging barrier of trailing branches, into a clearing. Through the trees on the far side was a faint glimmer of water, and when we came to a stop we could hear the gentle chatter of a stream.
An old man lay beside a fallen tree trunk in the centre of the glade. For a moment my breath caught in my throat. Then I saw that he was not dead. He stirred and groaned, and reached out blindly with a gnarled hand. He touched the trunk and groped over it. His hand fell back.
Paul hurried forward to help him up.
At the first touch of Paul’s hands, the old man flinched and began to moan.
“No . . . who are you . . . what are you . . . ?”
Beside him lay two pieces of a stick as gnarled as himself. Clearly it had been his support, but now it was snapped clean in two.
I advanced into the clearing and stood before him. A man of his generation should recognize the Frankenstein face when he saw it. I had hoped to calm him, but he babbled on unintelligibly.
“What is it . . . what are you . . . ?”
Then I understood his groping and the blindness of his movements. He was indeed blind.
Paul said: “It’s all right. Have no fear. We are friends. What happened to you?”
“My grandson—where is he?”
Trembling fingers clawed at Paul’s sleeve.
“Your grandson?” Paul spoke as soothingly as possible, but he glanced at me urgently.
“The stream . . . he left me sitting here, in the sun . . . so warm . . . he went to the stream. Has he wandered away? Or is it after him, too?”
“Is what after him?”
“The stream . . . my grandson,” the old man raved.
Paul got to his feet. “Stay with him,” he ordered. It was not his place to give orders, but before I could protest he had moved away and was hurrying towards the stream.
I wanted to follow, but the old man wavered on the tree trunk and once I had tried to hold him steady he gripped me and would not let go. His story came out in fits and starts. His grandson had brought him into the woods as he often did on sunny mornings. It was good to sit here and reflect. The boy was a good boy, very patient with his old grandfather. He would go off and pick mushrooms—sometimes went farther away than he ought to, but he always came back.
Today the grandfather had thought he heard him coming back much more quickly than usual. There had been footsteps—slow footsteps—and then when he had spoken to the boy there had been no reply. Only the footsteps. And all at once he had known that this was not his grandson. He could not tell who it was, and it wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal.
“When you’re blind as I am, you get to know things—to sense things. This thing, it . . . it wasn’t right.”
He had groped for his stick and then waved it. He had struck something, and then his stick had been snatched from him and he had heard a crack. In his blind gyrations he must have fallen over the tree trunk and gone down heavily.
“And it went away. I felt it going. Something lost,” he said hesitantly. “A pathetic thing . . . a lost soul.” Then his puzzled sympathy was swept away. “Where’s my grandson—my little boy?”
The crack of Paul’s rifle resounded through the woods. The old man started against me. I freed myself from that biting grip, and pulled his hands firmly down to the tree trunk so that he would know where he was. Then I raced into the woods in pursuit of Paul.
He had gone some distance along the stream. I caught a flicker of movement between the trees, and charged straight through the undergrowth.
Paul was standing irresolutely with his rifle at the ready. As I came up he said:
“I saw him. Making down that way.”
“Did you have to shoot?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “I had to shoot. I’m taking no chances.”
“If we can take him back without harming him—”
“The villagers should be on their way by now, surely?” he said. “Where did you tell them to make for?”
“The south lake shore. I said that if we converged on that we ought to be able to flush him out.”
Paul jerked his rifle towards a gap that had been smashed through some bushes. “The trail ought to be easy enough to follow. But where’s that boy the old man was talking about?”
We went on. The creature had certainly made no attempt to hide its tracks. It seemed to possess no cunning, no intelligence. Or else it simply did not care. In either case it was tragic: had Professor Bernstein’s sensitive brain been irreparably damaged?
“There!” breathed Paul suddenly.
We stopped. Through a gap in the trees we saw the stream curling round on itself before disappearing down a shallow slope. A small boy bent over it, plucking at something on the bank. He carried a rough local basket and was filling it with mushrooms.
A larger shape moved across our line of vision. The boy was obscured. The creature, swaying slightly, began to advance through the trees.
Paul raised his rifle.
“No!” I caught at his arm. He tried to shake me off.
Abruptly the boy scuttled away. He had not even noticed the creature plodding towards him. His basket was full and he was on his way back along the winding edge of the stream.
“Grandpa!” There was a cracked note of fright in his voice, but it was not because of what he had seen: it was simply that he had wandered farther than he realized, and was now worried about getting back. He began to run. “Grandpa . . . !”
The creature stood still for an instant, then turned slowly as though to retrace its steps. It was facing us. A terrible rictus convulsed its mouth. The fingers flexed.
I had let go of Paul. Before I realized what he was doing, he brought the rifle up again and this time he fired.
The hands—the sculptor’s magnificent hands—shot up to the face and clawed at it. The creature took a few helpless steps forward, as erratic as those of the blind man; and then it bent its head piteously back and forth and slowly, in an awful sagging surrender, rolled forward and fell to the ground.
I ran towards it.
“Be careful, Victor!”
Paul’s warning was unnecessary. He was a good shot. Too good a shot. My creation, my painstaking handiwork, was dead once more after having been so laboriously brought to life.
Paul stood over me. I gazed up at him accusingly.
He said: “I did what had to be done. We’ll bury him before the villagers arrive.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “They won’t come.”
“If you told them to meet us—”
“I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want them prying into my work and spreading ugly rumors. Better for them not to know.”
“You madman! You risked just two of us against this. We might have been killed.”
“We might. But we weren’t.” Did it matter, now that he was dead? In my mind I was blurring the distinction between “he” and “it”. I wondered what kind of a man he would have been. “It’s done,” I said, “and I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I’m satisfied we were able to stop this monstrous act before it was too late,” said Paul.
I thought that I would never forgive him. Looking back, I associate all my troubles with Paul Krempe. A loyal assistant turned traitor is more dangerous and more destructive than an e
nemy whom you know from the start to be an enemy.
We buried the creature there in the peace of the woods. Paul scattered leaves over the newly turned ground and we made our way in silence back to the village. We were dirty and sweating from the labor: digging even a shallow grave is arduous work. Even if we had had the breath to speak, I don’t think we would have had much to say to each other.
When we parted I held out my hand. He was reluctant to take it, but finally we shook hands.
He said: “I shall leave now. You won’t see me again.”
“As you wish. If you think I owe you anything in the way of fees for your services over the years . . .”
I let the remark trail away. He flushed. I could see that the reminder of our relative status hurt him. He replied stiffly: “I think all the debts have been paid.”
“Where will you go—what are you intending to do?”
“I have no idea. But it’s no longer necessary for me to stay here.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that his presence had not been necessary for quite some time now. Then I realized what he meant.
“Ah,” I said. “Of course. Elizabeth—you stayed to protect her. Well, you’ve done what you set out to do. You can leave with a clear conscience.”
He gave one longing glance towards the path which led away from the village, up to the house. I left him there. He could take his fill. Let him look. The house and its contents were mine, and Elizabeth was mine.
When I reached the entrance hall Elizabeth was waiting for me. She had been troubled by my absence. The sight of the rifles alarmed her. I said that I had been through the woods and had thought of doing some shooting—the second gun was one which I had lent to one of my keepers.
“I like to think of you in the open air,” she said. “You spend so much time locked away. I would like to walk with you in the woods sometime, if I may.”
I was able to tell her quite honestly that I had been thinking of just this while I was out.
My life could at this stage, I suppose, have taken a different turn. Many a man would have abandoned his researches or at least sought new channels. It was time to make plans for our wedding. Everything else could have been postponed until after the ceremony. To forget the disappointments and frustrations which had ended in tragedy, I could have devoted myself to Elizabeth and shaped a new existence, not just for myself but for the two of us.
It was not to be. I was not a man who could forget. I was not prepared to abandon all that had so far been achieved. Those years could not be discarded: it could not all be allowed to go to waste.
To Elizabeth’s delight I spent my next two evenings with her. We made plans for our future. I promised that we would travel and that I would restrict my working hours to reasonable limits. This was a sincere promise. I was convinced that, in spite of all that had happened, there remained very little to do. Soon I would be able to rest on my laurels.
On a night when there was no moon I took a horse through the woods to the place where we had buried my creature. In the gloom the grave was hard to find, but I did not dare to risk going out on too bright a night. At last I found the spot, and took the creature from the earth. I carried him home across the crupper, and over my shoulder up the stairs.
Paul’s shot had drilled a hole between the eyes. I foresaw further work on the brain, but that would have been essential in any case.
“I’ll give you life again,” I vowed.
7
We made no grand proclamations regarding our forthcoming marriage. I wrote to the few relatives we had, and was relieved when two of them said that due to illness in the family they would be unable to attend the ceremony. The quiet, frugal life which Aunt Sophie had imposed on her daughter meant that Elizabeth had no close friends of her own, and there was a similar lack in my life due to the fact that I had shut myself away with my experiments for so long. We decided upon a simple reception after the wedding, to which we would invite those local dignitaries who would expect it. I called upon the burgomaster, who was overwhelmed to see me: my father had contributed greatly to the social life of the district, and my own seclusion had given rise to a great deal of adverse criticism. The poor man was so transparent: he was sure that my marriage to my charming young cousin would bring me out more into the world and that there would be parties up at the great house, money flowing into the village, and heaven knew what else besides. I did not disillusion him. My wife should be entertained and should build up a circle of friends if she wished, but it would not be to these parochial boors that we would turn.
One evening, two weeks before the date of the wedding, I had been working in my laboratory. The need for absolute precision in the repairs to the brain meant that for practical as well as emotional reasons I was keeping my pledge to Elizabeth. I spent less time in the laboratory because it was possible to maintain such concentration and steadiness of hand for only limited periods. I set myself a target each day, but if I found my vision growing blurred or my hands wavering, I stopped at once. This evening I had decided to finish shortly before dinner. In fact, I made better progress than I had expected, and it was with a renewal of my earlier sense of triumph that I realized the work was complete. I closed up the head. The stitches could be taken out later. I was impatient to see life pulsing through the creature again—to talk to him and explain what had happened, to test the re-created faculties under strict test conditions.
It was with a sense of impending fulfilment that I closed the door of the laboratory behind me and began to descend the stairs.
On the next landing Justine was waiting for me.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “We shall want dinner served in a few minutes’ time.”
I made to pass her, but she blocked my way.
She said: “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“About you marrying that . . . that woman.”
I would not tolerate insolence of this kind. “You’re forgetting yourself.”
“I’m not forgetting that you promised to marry me,” she said.
I looked round. Fortunately Elizabeth was already downstairs. I said: “That’s absurd. It would never have entered my head to make such a promise.”
“The things you said to me . . .”
I laughed. “Justine, my dear, we’ve discussed all this before. I thought you had understood the position.”
“Don’t laugh at me!” she blazed. “Stop it, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll kill you.”
I was really in no mood to deal with a serving wench’s hysteria. She needed the sharp slap of reality to bring her to her senses. I said:
“You stupid little fool. Did you imagine for one second that a man of my standing would contemplate marrying you?”
She raised her arm as though to strike me. I gripped it above the elbow and forced her back along the landing, away from the staircase.
“You’re hurting,” she whimpered. She could change her tune very quickly, little Justine.
“Get back to your work,” I said.
“You’ve got to marry me. You’ve got to.” As I released her she fell back against the wall, panting. “I’m going to have a child.”
I refused to believe it. It was like a glancing blow—a sudden sting that one instinctively dodges and that ceases to hurt immediately.
“Since when would this be?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s true.”
“Why choose me as the father?” I said sceptically. “Pick any man in the village. There’s a reasonable chance you may select the right one.”
Hatred burned in eyes which I had seen lit with a very different fire. Even when her violence and lack of breeding repelled me as they did now, I could not help but observe what a splendid specimen of womanhood she was. But I was not going to be cajoled or intimidated, whatever variations she might play on her banal theme.
“She won’
t think much of your story about a village man,” hissed Justine. “Not when I tell her what we’ve been to each other. And I’ll tell her a lot more besides. I’ll tell her about what you’re doing in that laboratory of yours. And then I’ll go to the authorities and tell them, too.”
Her threats might be idle, but I felt a chill of foreboding. She was so silent, Justine, so accustomed to slipping soundlessly along the corridors, entering my room, and leaving it: she could have seen more than she was ever meant to.
“Tell them what?” I said with all the contempt I could muster.
“Oh, I know a lot. If I care to tell.”
“What do you know?”
“You wouldn’t like that, would you? Well, if you don’t marry me I’ll tell.”
“Tell what?” I persisted.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know. And if you intend to make any accusations against me, you will need proof. Proof, my dear—that’s all the authorities would be interested in.”
I turned and left her there. Protracting this conversation could only result in further petty attacks on my self-respect.
She cried after me: “I’ll get proof. Oh, you’ll see—there’s plenty of proof.”
“I want you out of this house,” I said, “tomorrow morning.”
After dinner I told Elizabeth that I had dismissed Justine. Fortunately she was relieved. Justine’s manner to her had always bordered on the impertinent, and although Elizabeth had tried to run the household smoothly she had been disturbed by this hostility. We would both be happier without the girl.
“Do you think I should have a word with her before she leaves?” she asked anxiously.
“No. I am discharging her because of her slovenliness and insolence, and if you were to speak to her at all I have no doubt that she would take the opportunity to vent her spleen. I have said all that needs to be said.”
Again Elizabeth showed that she was happy about this. She was glad that she had not had to take action and that I had settled the matter of my own accord.
