"Allardyce hesitated at the crudely made entrance, 'C’moan Mr Harding, an’ take the sack wi’ ye.'
"Both men struggled into the hole and were lost to the darkness. I looked around the churchyard in the gloom and then Allardyce, in silhouette, loomed against the sky. A length of rope was wound once around the sack and its macabre contents as he drew it after him, Harding following him through the hole.
"We gathered by one of the yews, Allardyce suggesting we wait in the cemetery for the rest of the night as, he explained, returning to the Swan at a late hour might cause some suspicion. We ate oatmeal bread washed down with draughts of water before retiring to a mass of broom bushes at the edge of the churchyard. Amid the smell of the cornfields that were freshly harvested, Allardyce drifted off to sleep as though unfettered by guilt or shame. Sitting against a tree, I unwrapped Allardyce’ Brown Bess flintlock musket. It was full-stocked with brass mounts and featured a brass-tipped fore-end with three ramrod pipes and a brass trigger guard and buttplate. It was loaded.
"We were awakened by the dew of morning, the sound of the bugle and the accompanying flurry of barking hounds. The local hunt was drawing nigh. Of course providence ensured that the young Master Howard liked to ride past within sight of his family vault and of course he was passing on that day. He had become separated from the hunt, met with a group of beaters, and, while giving them instructions, came upon the scene. The emergence through the trees of a man on a horse, a groundskeeper walking alongside, a musket in his hand, caused me to stand stock still. As I stood, blinking in the light and clutching my blanket, I saw the beaters that came in the young man’s wake. The ruined vault and the enwrapped body were plainly in view.
"In an instant I saw the look of outrage on the young master’s face and the arrogance of youth surrounded by the tugging of forelocks. The beaters, wearing nankeen (leather breeches) and simple linen shirts, rushed upon us enthusiastically in that eager to please obedience of the rural poor. In the cemetery, perhaps the horse made a noise, perhaps the young master cried out; but in the thrill of the conflagration, I heard nothing.
"In rushing between the gravestones, the beaters appeared reluctant to put their hand upon obvious gentlemen and so rushed towards Allardyce, where he stood bearing the tools of his trade. But Allardyce was an experienced ruffian and struck out savagely with his shovel at first one then another.
"As the beaters struggled to regroup amid the tall stone markers, Allardyce laid his hands upon his musket where I had laid it on the ground. The musket’s report rang out and the man that had distinguished himself as a leader by his calling out of instructions crumpled and fell among nettles. Then, with the loyalty of a faithful hound a large powerful creature dressed in man’s clothes moved forward. In killing the servant, Allardyce had taken Harding and myself to a place we had never been before. Elisabeth however, entertained no such qualms.
"Dragging the wealthy horseman roughly from his saddle, Elisabeth threw him through the iron railings that surrounded one of the tombs. In an instant the bars had mangled his body in a way that was quite horrific. In the midst of the maelstrom, Allardyce had kept his head while Harding, rooted to the spot, stared around him looking for salvation. Throwing the corpse against the foot of a tree, Allardyce tapped him with his musket barrel as he passed, Harding dumbly following.
"In the blink of an eye, Elisabeth had pulled up a grave marker in the shape of a cross to use as a bludgeon, swinging left and right so that the men about her cowered back. There was perhaps no more fight in the beaters but the conflagration had begun and would progress like a bolted horse. Having struck one man a glancing blow, Elisabeth threw her weapon of stone so that it spun through the graveyard, tearing lumps from other graves and tombstones. I did not see clearly where the man was struck by the spinning cross, the stonework driving and crushing him against a tall, flat marker. A moment’s look of surprise then the head fell down onto the stone that brought his destruction, and then lolled to one side.
"As I watched, Elisabeth moved like an adder to grab the head of another and dash it on a tall monument, a stone angel looking down upon the scene in distress.
"I myself struck one of the ruffians with my stick. It was a glancing blow, but was enough to dissuade him from pressing on with his attack. Before me, Elisabeth had now thrown one beater against a tree and forced another violently against a gravestone so that surely his bones would crumble.
"Then suddenly, Allardyce was at my side. To my surprise, in the conflagration, he had gone back to collect the body and now bore her, in the sack, over his shoulder.
"'This way Mr Walton,' he said, moving in a direction I could not fathom. 'Let us begone.'
"I followed, Harding appearing to my left as we followed the ressurectionist’s back out of the confusion around us. From out of the morning mist and amid the gravestones I heard him call, 'This way.'
"I could see Elisabeth close by as she pushed over a gravestone that was in her way. There was a certain grace in how she bounded. On we scrambled towards the gate.
"Amidst the horror of what had befallen, we made our escape across the fields, taking refuge in a barn close to the mill by the village stream. In the village, the locals had been roused to the trouble but I fancied that in the confusion myself and Harding would draw no suspicion and we hurried back to the inn to retrieve our coach and luggage. In our absence, some of the villagers had stumbled upon Elisabeth and Allardyce, the former smashing a hole in the wall to allow their escape. I heard the sound of a musket discharge as I opened the coach-house doors.
"Aboard the coach I drove it towards the edge of town along the rough and rutted road. I was unsure where our companions were and I was very much trusting to providence. Harding stood on the step by the open door. On this occasion providence smiled upon us and Allardyce and Elisabeth suddenly broke from a cluster of trees at the side of the road. Allardyce held his musket ready as he ran alongside the coach, hefting the corpse from off his shoulder and throwing it after Elisabeth through the swinging door. Harding drew the sack clear of the doorway as Allardyce pitched after it."
A look of relief passed over Walton’s face as he relived the escape. I fancied that it was not a time he recalled to mind often, for his own sake. He proceeded to skirt around the next part of the story and he talked somewhat aimlessly, mentioning how he would mop Elisabeth’s brow when she became feverish, changing her bandages on occasion. He was, it seemed, curious at how quickly the swellings around the wounds had dissipated. In the evenings they would stop to sit around a campfire, later sleeping in or under the coach. After hesitating for a moment, perhaps gathering his thoughts, Walton continued.
"I was disturbed for several days afterwards by the deaths that had occurred and I felt that we had 'heaped villainy upon villainy.' Allardyce did not share my sensitivities, being somewhat ‘French’ in his outlook.
"'Mere lapdogs of the gentry,' Allardyce had grunted, 'Such people live a life of ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ and ‘it won’t happen again sir.’ A long humiliating death, mercifully cut short.'
"I did not share his sentiments. A few miles distant lay the holiday home of my sister, Margaret Saville and we made for there immediately. As we drew close to the estate, the sound of horse hooves on the park road persuaded me to instruct Allardyce, who was driving, to redirect beyond the shrubbery and into the gardens, along the footpath running part of the way beside the fence. Crossing the grass beyond and past the closely planted evergreens we drew up outside the coach-horse stable.
"Margaret’s house, formerly that of my uncle’s, is a handsome mansion. Tall and of red brick where not concealed by ivy, it features a plain parapet that conceals the roof. Ascending the rather grand steps up to the front door, it would have filled me with elation had not recent events been weighing so heavily upon me.
"Walking the halls, beneath the carvings of the ceiling, the tapestries on the walls and the ebon blackness of the dark oaken floors, it seemed a melancholy
house, perhaps influenced by my mood.
"We thought it prudent to break up the coach, burning the pieces in the many fireplaces throughout the mansion. The rooms were much in need of the heating. In the days that followed rumours came to us from the Bures area but the talk was of ruffians from one of the large towns or cities. A theory gaining in popularity however, was one involving French sympathisers.
"In disposing of the corpse in one of the spare rooms, I found I could not look upon it. As we struggled up the stairs, I saw a strand of light brown hair protrude from the sack. It momentarily darkened my mood still further. Harding inspected the rooms and settled on the butler’s pantry as most suited to serve as a laboratory. He consulted Frankenstein’s book for several hours while Elisabeth sat with us, on the floor by the fireplace with the high mantle. We engaged in halting chat although the talk with Elisabeth I found quite difficult.
"Presently Harding appeared at the door to summon Elisabeth to go with him, speaking softly. She got up meekly enough. She looked back once. Then she was gone. Taking up my copy of the Bury and Norwich Post, I read without interest.
"'What’s Napoleon up tae?' Allardyce asked, from where he lounged in a leather upholstered chair.
"I looked down distractedly. 'Did you know that a new Archbishop of Canterbury has been confirmed? A Charles Manners Sutton,' I said absent-mindedly.
"She appeared in the drawing room around early evening, her body bound tightly with bedsheets. Sitting quietly on a chaise lounge close to the fire, she appeared so young, and in a way I suppose she was. Harding had assured me that the operations he had carried out throughout the day had been successful and that her life would now be extended significantly. In the days that followed, her wounds healed quickly.
"Allardyce was scrupulously clean and I saw him wash in the horse trough one morning. Elisabeth, coming alongside, washed her hands and face in a manner that put me in the mind of the movements of a horse. She walked more upright as a human now, albeit with a somewhat masculine gait, learned through mimicry. She still however made good progress on all fours, like a jack-an-ape but with longer legs capable of staggering leaps.
"'She is a marvelous creation,' I said to Allardyce.
"Allardyce, who was buttoning up his shirt made a sound of agreement, 'Aye, but she knows what is ‘on the other side.’ Does she have memories from her time between lives d’ye think?'
"Certainly I would muse upon Elisabeth and the reality that hers was not a mind unused on her first day of birth. In the days that followed Elisabeth occasionally got up during the night. Several times I, or Harding, would find her, in the early hours, arrayed in white and gazing upon the somewhat fly-blown portrait of Uncle Thomas that was hung in the library. Expecting my sister Margaret back at any time however, I thought it prudent that we move on.
"Purchasing a cart to transport Elisabeth south, news reached us while we were travelling that there were soldiers on roads to the south. What they would make of Elisabeth we could not guess. Allardyce’s toughness and his determination never to be caught, Elisabeth’s inhuman strength and my own adventurous spirit led us to abandon the cart in some woodland and travel overland on foot, sending Harding ahead astride the cart horse to secure another coach in London and to meet us at the Star Inn, in the village of Ingatestone."
Walton grinned to himself, “Harding was less than comfortable on so rough a steed,” he said, “but he secured for us our passage home.
"As evening drew on, Harding appeared to us atop a four-in-hand stagecoach. He was not accustomed to controlling such a thing and had cultivated a number of blisters but we were glad to climb aboard. Travelling through country villages where the passing of a coach inspired great interest, especially among the young, I sat behind the broad back of Elisabeth who knelt on the floor. I felt the approaching relief of journey’s end. Elisabeth seemed to sense my rising spirits and as London drew near she half turned in my direction.
"'Is there a place for me in this world of yours?' she asked. 'The last of my kind left this world on a dog sled, I think.'
"I looked into those slate grey eyes and thought I saw the tall pillars of paradise and the fiery rivers of damnation beyond. Elisabeth looked back and began to smile slowly. It was not a smile of innocent happiness, but one of quiet knowing."
I here began to consider that the brandy has gone to Walton’s head. I myself was certainly beginning to feel the effects. He went on,
"You see Grey, Beth is a woman that has been to ‘the other side.’ Going beyond gives one knowledge. As the years passed, Beth opened up new vistas to me that I could not even have guessed at, taking me to a place I had thought impossible to reach from this earthly realm. It was a voyage of discovery that I had never before dreamed of when I first decided to sail before the mast."
And then abruptly, Walton stopped. The heat and the spirits in the club had taken its toll and he smiled apologetically. Although I tried to persuade him to continue, Walton’s inebriation and his apparent reluctance to continue brought the tale to its premature end.
For a long time afterwards, my thoughts were filled by all I had heard. What drew Walton to Frankenstein so strongly? Were they, as he suspected, kindred spirits? Would it be surprising that Walton had intellectual ambitions similar to Frankenstein’s, and, free of the personal tragedy that his experiments had brought, where would Walton’s adventurous spirit take him? What if the creator did not need to reject the creation, and indeed, what had become of the mysterious and otherworldly Elisabeth?
Other questions were also arising within me but Walton’s mind had descended into befuddlement from which he would not resurface that evening. Inebriation, brought on by strong drink had dropped the tale alive into a deep pool and, as it transpired, that was the last time we spoke on the subject. We continued to bump into each other, on occasion, at the club and we would chat amiably enough. But we talked only of trifles and little else.
Late evening in the club, and I could see Walton’s eyes through Sir William’s cigar smoke. A nervous twitch, and he looked away, continuing to examine the newspaper, eying me nervously and nursing the ever present fear that I might reveal his secret. Once again I guessed, he was pondering the wisdom of telling me his tale.
By chance we left the club together, stepping into the street where the light mist that accompanied dusk was rising. Flushed with brandy, Walton drew up sharply when we came to the corner.
"I’ll say goodbye here," he said, preventing me from going any further with him.
What could only have been his coach stood by the corner of the street. Thick tendrils of fog swirled around the silhoetted cab and alongside stood a figure that sent a thrill of awe through my very frame.
She must have been over eight feet tall and, in spite of the distance, I found myself looking upon her as a child would look up at his governess. In her arms she bore a bundle that could only itself be a child, of proportions complementary to the woman that held him. Manners decree that a gentleman assist a woman in entering a carriage. I did not tarry to observe the spectacle that decorum dictated should follow.
THE BURDEN
Duncan Ralston
Amelia washed her father's trembling hands with a damp cloth, wrung it out into the bowl of cool water she'd set beside his wheelchair, and wiped sweat from his brow.
His sweat was not from exertion but from the heat in his upstairs bedroom. Her father never exerted himself anymore, and they had yet to begin their daily routine. Since Amelia had returned home to take care of him he existed in one of two states: sitting and resting. Sometimes she sat him in front of his bedroom window. Other times she sat him at the kitchen table or the back porch with a view of the bird feeders and the large maple her mother and father had planted when they'd bought the house several years before Amelia was born.
When she crouched beside him she could never tell if he saw exactly what she did. He could no longer communicate, except through simple eye movements, blinking once for yes an
d two for no. He couldn't feed himself, so he "ate" via an endoscopic tube. Couldn't bathe himself. Dress himself. Couldn't go to the bathroom without her help. She would often find she was already too late.
Not long ago her father had been strong, healthy, active. He'd eaten right. Hadn't smoked, never drank to excess. When her mother had been with them (God rest her, Amelia thought reflexively, though she no longer believed in God), her parents had hiked the nearby woods each morning after breakfast, and biked the dirt roads to and from the house at dusk. He'd exercised his mind as well as his body, completing puzzles, reading mystery novels, making woodworking projects by hand.
James Adam Corbel had done everything experts had suggested to stave off disease, dementia and the eventual wasting away of old age. And like a hijacked jet, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis had crashed into his body and demolished all of his progress. Medical experts called his current condition "locked-in," meaning her father was locked inside of his own mind.
Amelia placed the modified Brain-Computer Interface on her father's head and booted up her laptop. The software worked using subdural implants, converting electrical impulses from the limbic system to interact via transmitter with software on the computer. Researchers had already used the technology successfully to help ALS patients communicate with caregivers and loved ones but after months of daily attempts her father had yet to respond.
She'd known the process would take time. In the original study it had taken weeks for patients to type out a single letter using BCI technology, and those results had been far better than previous attempts with locked-in patients. As far back as 1995, a journalist had written an entire book by blinking it to a transcriber. It had taken ten months and two-hundred thousand blinks, at an average of one word every two minutes, to finish the book.
Amelia had taken a sabbatical from her duties at the Academy. She had all the time in the world to work with her father. What she couldn't count on was how much time her father had left to live.
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