For a few moments he could only wonder and look upon his passenger. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with long hair cascading down her shoulders and back like gentle waves. Rarely had he seen women with a body as classically perfect as hers, which was further enhanced by the fashionable American blouse and skirt that she wore.
Lynn stepped down from the wagon, as the driver immediately proceeded to bring down her luggage. She noticed the caution he employed in setting down the suitcases before the castle’s front door, careful not to step too close to the legend-shrouded structure. When he finished his work, the driver flashed Lynn a forced smile, then took his place again behind his horse. Again he cracked the whip, turning his wagon around and over the drawbridge, to head back toward the town, no doubt, thought Lynn to spread some gossip about the American woman who had come to the castle of Frankenstein.
With the departure of the driver, no one else approached the castle for awhile, Lynn Powell stood outside the building, finding herself marveling at this once proud fortress. She wondered what history might have been made here besides that of Victor Frankenstein. Her imagination was suddenly fired by visions of knights and battles on horseback before the coming of gunpowder. Lynn had never seen a castle before other than in photographs or book illustrations. The thrill of this new experience made her feel like a child again, one who had suddenly become part of some medieval fantasy.
There was a breeze blowing, tossing about her long hair, as she walked toward the main door of the castle. She noticed the five enormous wooden crates, each one stamped Fragile, which had been stacked in a niche on the patio. Although she already knew what those crates contained, she went to the tags and read them silently:
"To: Dr. Burt Winslow. Paid."
Burt’s equipment has arrived, she thought, or at least the first shipment. She realized that no one in the village would probably give her any assistance in getting the boxes inside the castle and decided to leave them here, untouched, until Winslow returned to Europe.
She diverted her attention to the main door. It seemed strong enough to have held back an army in its day, having been constructed out of stout wood which rose high above her head. Strips of rusted, bolted metal braced the door to give it added strength. Some of the timbers, she noticed, were warped out of shape. But the new lock which Winslow had installed and which gleamed shiny in the sunlight brought the door into the twentieth century.
Anxiously the woman searched her purse and found the key which Burt had entrusted to her before he and she had parted back in the United States. She clasped the key firmly, the anticipation of entering the castle making her heart beat faster then slid the key into the lock. After a slow twist, she opened the great door to the legends of past centuries.
Flicking on the electrical lights, another improvement installed by Winslow after purchasing the castle, Lynn walked through the musty building, her eyes widening with awe at every step she took. The lights did little more for the place other than to accentuate the extreme dilapidation into which the castle had sunk.
Burt, she thought, had obviously thought only of the castle’s history and significance and nothing of its appearance or atmosphere. Perhaps he had knocked down a spider web or two, but other than that the place looked like a dirty tomb and smelled nearly as bad.
Certainly this was no place for a normal human being to live, especially since Burt had given her only an approximate date for his eventual return to Ingolstadt. Lynn had usually shied away from housework and the stereotyped role that went with it. But somehow, surrounded by the morbid atmosphere of this place, she suddenly felt within herself an urge, albeit an ephemeral one, to go domestic. Besides, for lack of anything better to do to occupy the long hours and days until Winslow’s return, what better way was there to pass the time other than to transform this grim Frankenstein castle into a more hospitable temporary home.
* * *
The large truck with the Morris Lamont Transport Co. logo painted on its canvas covering, rumbled out of its garage like a World War II surplus army tank. The truck thundered, black smoke coughing out of the smokestack near the driver’s cab, along the snow-packed road. Dark exhaust fumes billowed out to pollute the cold Arctic air.
Three men sat in the truck’s cab. The driver, Morris Lamont, occasionally took one hand off the steering wheel to rub the beard stubble on his face. Next to Lamont sat Dr. Burt Winslow, who was doing his feeble best to remain calm during this greatest journey in his life, while still recalling the incident with his intended assassin back at the hotel. By the other window in the cab sat the Frenchman, Pierre Dupré, who was once again chewing on an empty pipe.
Behind the threesome, under the canvas covering of the vehicle, a number of huskies barked continuously.
“... And that man who attacked me was identified absolutely as an orderly at the medical center,” said Winslow, trying to make himself heard above the dogs.
“At least, now he’s in jail where he belongs,” said the Frenchman. “Fanatics! Sacre bleu! as we French are supposed to say at times like this, but fanatics such as he can be a terribly dangerous lot you know. He might have killed you, Burt.”
“Probably would have, if not for all my anticipation — along with Lamont’s six months of daylight — keeping me awake all night.”
Morris Lamont turned away from the windshield, which led hardly more than the bleak whiteness of snow and ice. He snickered at his two passengers. “My six months sun? My friends, you can take it back with you when you leave here.”
“That man who tried to kill me must have overheard us talking to Fairfax in the hospital,” continued Winslow. “Obviously superstition is strong enough to affect even the educated natives. And obviously the natives aren’t too happy about outsiders finding their Ice God. That orderly must have followed us back to the hotel and found out my room number.”
“It’s a good thing you told the police to watch over Fairfax,” said Dupré. “Now that the news is out that he told us about what he saw, his life will be in constant danger.”
Winslow only nodded in reply.
Lamont continued driving on the course outlined by the hospital patient. He was glad that he had, at last, decided to go along on this trip and not remain back at the shipping company office. Business was slow these days anyway and he liked nothing better than finding an excuse to get back behind the wheel of his truck.
As he listened to Winslow and Dupré discuss their mission, with frequent references to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Lamont kept watch over the vast expanses of whiteness, carefully looking for any dark objects that contrasted against the snow.
Waiting for a break in his passengers’ conversation, the driver finally remarked, “Those superstitious Eskimos are a funny group. We’d better watch out for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started something, even if we do have the Protection of this truck. Just keep in mind that we’re the trespassers...trodding on their sacred grounds. Guess it will be the same as if, back in your civilized countries, someone came in and desecrated a Christian altar.”
“I know,” Winslow agreed sternly. “In their eyes we are the Persecutors of their faith. That’s why I had you bring along those guns.”
“Hmmmm . . . You had me pack along enough rifles and hand guns to hold off a regiment.”
“Or a Monster?” added Dupre’.
Winslow said, “I just hope it isn’t necessary to use those guns.”
“We just might have to,” said the driver, his eyes scanning the bleak horizon.
Lamont’s truck continued to roll at the maximum speed the snow-covered road allowed, the road almost indiscernable from the rest of the white terrain. The wind blew harder against the canvas top of the truck and the huskies seemed to become more restless.
The cab’s heater offered only the slightest protection from the cold. The two men seated next to the driver shivered and rubbed their hands to stimulate their circulation. Yet, it was probably their own anticipation
of what reward this quest would bring that really helped them to forget much of their discomfort.
The men saw no other vehicles in the area. No people, no animals, nothing save the great snowy mounds which appeared everywhere outside the truck.
So it was without warning, after a considerable distance had been traversed by the truck, that Lamont cleared his raspy voice and applied his boot to the brake. The mammoth vehicle thundered to a halt, slipping several yards on the glossy white strip that was almost a road.
“This is as far as we can take the truck,” said Lamont, looking out the cab windows at the Arctic desolation.
Winslow turned his head in the direction of the barking. “That’s why the dogs, Mr. Lamont,” he said.
“And from the sound of those animals,” said Dupré, “I’d say they’ll be glad to get out of the truck. They’ve been cooped up in there for quite a while.”
“Well, let’s get moving then,” said the scientist, not wanting a precious moment to be wasted. “Mr. Lamont, will you please wait here and guard the truck while Pierre and I go off on the sleds?”
“Sure thing,” answered Lamont. “You don’t think I’m going to leave this valuable piece of equipment out here, do you? Not with angry Eskimos possibly lurking behind every glacier just waiting to do her some damage!”
The doctor smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Lamont. You didn’t have to come out here with us and I appreciate what you’re doing.”
Laughing, Lamont shook his head, then waved down his hand.
“Aww, go on,” he said. “It’s nothing at all. Anyway, you sure paid me enough for this little trip. So I won’t be needing another customer for at least a month.”
Dupré opened the cab door, then he and Winslow jumped out cold. Fighting the sudden rush of freezing air that assaulted them, they hurried to the back of the truck, their boots digging into the snow, to fetch the snowshoes Winslow had purchased at the general store. Wearing the snowshoes, the two men shushed about awkwardly, then removed a ramp from the truck and attached it to the rear end.
The Frenchman checked a pair of loaded rifles while Winslow rushed up the ramp and entered the canvas-topped back section of the truck and hitched up the two teams of sled dogs. Dupré re-checked the rest of their gear and made certain that the axes picks, hooks, shovels and various other tools were all securely wrapped in their supply packs.
Within minutes, all preparations had been made, and the huskies and sleds were waiting for their drivers.
Both Winslow and the Frenchman took their places behind their respective teams. Nodding to each other, they each shouted “Mush!” into the shrieking northern winds and cracked their whips over the heads of the dogs. Immediately the huskies pulled at their burdens.
Around them, the two men saw nothing unusual about the desert of ice and snow. Still, neither of them could escape the feeling that they were being watched. Constantly they scrutinized the area as they drove their teams harder and faster through the wilderness. The wind was biting at their faces and it was sometimes almost impossible to breathe, but the excitement of their quest pushed them further.
Suddenly Winslow’s eyes snapped. A look of utter enlightenment swept across his face. In the distance he could perceive a large flash of silver which was reflecting the light of the sun. As he drove the sled dogs onward in that direction, Winslow could identify the tail of an airplane.
“There!” he shouted to Dupré, releasing one hand from his reins to point out the snow-covered object. “That’s it! That’s got to be Fairfax’s crashed plane!”
The Frenchman saw the ship and nodded in acknowledgment. He tried to yell back to Winslow but his voice failed to carry through the wind and over the yelping of his team.
“Looks like Fairfax was telling the truth!” shouted Winslow. "At least, so far!”
The two sleds speeded in the direction Fairfax had told them to go. The sweeping winds no longer seemed to matter, nor did the stinging coldness of the men’s faces. They forced the huskies to draw them faster until, there, standing up from the snow like some frozen gravestone, was a peculiar block of ice, shining in the sunlight like a beckoning mirror.
“Over there!” Winslow roared, pointing.
Both Winslow and Dupré stared at the upright piece of ice as their teams pulled them closer to it. They could see the dark area that betrayed the fact that there was, indeed, something inside th ice block — something imprisoned. As they drew steadily closer they could discern that the shadowy form was vaguely the shape of a large . . . man.
It could be nothing other than the Ice God!
Fired by enthusiasm, both men pulled hard on their reins forcing their teams and sleds to a halt.
“Burt,” the Frenchman started, then paused, “do you think—?”
“I don’t think,” the American interrupted. “Pierre, I know!”
“Then come on,” said Pierre, “and let’s get up there!”
Taking their packs of equipment, their rifles and pistols, the two explorers trudged through the snow toward the ice block. Behind them, the dogs howled, almost in a warning against their approach toward the darkened form within the block. Like two enthusiastic children — or obsessed madmen — they reached the glassy slab and brushed aside the snow that had settled there.
That done, the men stepped back in awe, gasping.
The giant thing loomed above their heads, peering out with a frozen snarl through the obscuring ice, its features twisted into a petrified mask of horror.
“It’s ... it is ... “ began Dupré, who found himself speechless and unable to proceed with his intended description. He could only gawk with wonder and hope that his friend would speak in his place.
“Yes, Pierre,” said Winslow, who was surprisingly calm, given all that had led up to this moment, “it’s the Frankenstein monster.” He then stared at the hideous being in the ice in silent reverence, as if it surely were a deity of the frozen North.
“Come on,” said Dupre’, taking a pick in his hand and gripping it tightly. “Let’s begin chopping away the ice so we can get the thing back to the truck.”
Winslow, who had been staring trancelike at the ice block, suddenly snapped back to reality.
“Yes!” he agreed. “But we’ll chop away just enough of the ice to get it back by dogsled. But not too much of the ice. I don’t want him thawing out on us.”
“Thawing out?” asked the Frenchman. “What does that matter? The Monster looks dead in that ice. How could — ?”
But Winslow was shaking his head, a quite sober look on his face.
“If Victor Frankenstein really did succeed in making his creation immortal, then don’t you think for a moment that the Monster is dead. If that ice thaws out, the creature could revive on us which is something I won’t let happen — at least not here. He’s not going to come back to life until I’ve made all the preparations I need, taken all the precautions, given him all the power to make him completely well. Bringing him back to some kind of ‘half-life’ or in a weakened condition could be disastrous, both for the Monster and for our knowledge of him.”
“I’m beginning to understand,” said the Frenchman.
“He’s been in that ice a long time,” continued Winslow, “and this point, there’s no telling how much damage the ice has done to him But back in Ingolstadt, with a laboratory at my disposal, I'll revive him as Victor Frankenstein himself had intended — by recreating Frankenstein’s experiment in the very laboratory of the Monster’s birth.”
Dupré grinned and clutched his rifle. “Well, even if the brute did come alive out here, we have these to hold him back — if that’s something else you’re worrying about.” He smacked the rifle butt.
For the first time in a while, the American smiled. “I doubt if our bullets would have much effect on him,” he said, “except making him angry — if the legends about this creature are true. But no, let’s do it my way, okay? Now let’s start chopping at that block before we have to use these guns on
some of the local residents.”
They were like children opening a Christmas present. Burt Winslow and Pierre Dupré chopped and slashed away at the ice. Bits and chunks and splinters of ice flew off in all directions as they worked, always careful not to make direct contact with the being beneath the block. The minutes passed at an agonizingly slow pace as the two men feverishly removed more and more of the confining ice. Neither winced as the small, frozen shards shot into their faces. They were making steady progress in their work, which was all that mattered.
But even as they chopped, they could hear the sound of dogs, not their own teams, coming from the opposite direction.
Winslow and Dupré stopped their work and turned simultaneously to see the dark “dots” moving across the snowfields.
“Pierre . . . now that’s why we have rifles!”
“Eskimos!” exclaimed Pierre, perceiving the parkas of the small band of men approaching on dogsleds. “Burt, if they left Fairfax to die just for seeing their Ice God..."
“I know,” grunted Winslow. “What do you think they’ll try doing to us for stealing it?”
Immediately, the two men stopped their work.
Winslow snatched up his loaded rifle, just as a bullet whizzed over his head, barely missing him and piercing the upper edge of what remained of the ice block.
The Eskimos were already leaving halted sleds, rifles clutched in their gloved hands.
“They’ve got guns this time, Pierre!” called out Winslow. “But if you can keep chopping and get the Monster out, I’ll cover you. Don’t worry, I was…”
“I know. You were top man on the university’s target range, correct?”
“Didn’t know I told you that. But just keep at the ice. The job’s almost finished anyway. I won’t have to hold them off for too long.”
Standing away from his partner, Winslow used his body as a shield to protect both Dupré and the Monster. The Frenchman kept hammering away at the ice while another bullet streaked overhead. Another shot nearly creased Winslow’s fur-lined hood.
Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein) Page 6
