HIGH STRANGENESS-Tales of the Macabre (9 page)

The being reached out and with his bare hands thrust into the fire, scattered the burning coals all around the area between them. Walton jumped back so as not to catch fire to his c
lothes. He stood, looking down at the bowed head of the most incredible creature ever designed by the mind of man.
Those arms
, he thought,
come from another human. Those legs, that torso, the massive distinctive head upon the broad shoulders. They all belo
ng to men long dead. I do not believe Frankenstein could have known what he was intent on creating.

“
You...must...go away.”
The being left the twinkling bits of coal and moved to where his bed waited. He lay upon his back, one graceful arm flung over his e
yes to blot out the moon splashed night.

Walton followed. He would never give up. He knew now the same furnace of ambition that drove Dr. Frankenstein. He must take this bounty, this remarkable genesis of a new man to show the world. The being had spent tw
enty years paying for his crimes. He was a different creation than he was when he jumped from the ship, devastated by his master's death. He was not as articulate, his hair was uncut and filthy, his clothes consisted of animal skins, his mind was desolate
and empty, but he was a complete and total wonder, a demi-god.

Walton said it. “
You will be a god before the people if you return with me. They will hail you as they would a king. I have money, plenty of money. I will fill a coffer for you, give you rooms,
buy you a wardrobe. I will introduce you to the greatest men in the world and watch from the sidelines as they go down on their knees before you. There has never been another like you in the history of the world. Time has moved on and, in this modern era,
you will receive the glory you never received before.”

The arm lifted wearily from the being's face. The moonlight limned his craggy features and his look was as cold as the deepest ice, as haunted as the most forgotten grave. He turned his head slowly on
the thick stem of his neck, and for just a moment Walton's heart stopped in his chest. The look he saw in those glacial eyes congealed the blood in his veins, weakened his knees, and if he could have made a move to flee as had his men, he would have run
o
ut into the pitch black darkness begging for God to save his soul.

“
You...want me...to be...your
God
? That is...what...you want.”
First he asked and then he stated what he knew.

Walton felt his eyes filling with grateful tears that the truth, once and for
all, had been brought into the open for him to hear and to welcome. What the being said answered all the questions Walton had asked himself over the years. This thing had told him, finally, what his real motive was in the perilous undertaking to find him.
“
Yes,”
he whispered, falling down into a crouch, his fingertips touching icy floor, his head raised high as if to take the brunt of the truth. “
Yes, you are my god. I want you to come with me and lead the way and teach me all you know.”

The great beast's a
rm moved back over the terrible stony face. Walton waited breathlessly and then stretched out before the dying embers of the scattered fire and gave in to exhaustion and sleep. He knew, felt it in his bones, in his molecules, that his wish would be grante
d.

* * *

Dear Margaret,

I send this letter with the wild hope you'll receive it before the news travels as far as your fair city. I have found Frankenstein's monster and he has agreed to accompany me back to civilization. He is a frightening person; he is
what he told his maker
—
that he would have been Frankenstein's Adam, but instead he is a fallen angel. He is all the names he called himself in the cabin as his master lay dead, but he is also the most magnificent and awesome creature the world will ever k
n
ow. Imagine if he is studied and scientists of today can make more like him! We will revive the dead and have them walk. We will restore life, overcoming the dark night that takes our souls, stealing them away into the universal silence.

What reaches will
our imaginations take us next? What wonders will we perform, greater than our Jesus whose miracles we still venerate? I know that sounds blasphemous, but it is not meant to be. If God did not will for Frankenstein to create life, it would not have been cr
e
ated. Don't you see?

It has been many days since we left together from the hovel in the ice cave. My bearers all escaped, never to be seen since. I have no supplies, my kerosene is gone, my food, my medicines, but Frankenstein's monster is as brilliant as
he is beautiful and he finds food for us to eat, and provides the fires to keep us through the long hours of cold night. He is so awesomely large that when we stop at night, he even bends over me while on his knees, his head touching ice on the other side
of me, creating a shelter from the wind. Would a demon do that? More so, you should see the speed with which he can run! And the quickness he employs to naturally reach out and snag a running varmint to wring its neck.

We should come into the first village
along this bleak plain of constant winter tomorrow. I have advised my friend (Yes! He is the best friend I might have ever hoped to have.) to cover his face when we enter to hire passage across the cold seas home, for what if the men who came with me spo
k
e of him? I don't think they would, being worn and frightened, hurrying to the port and a ship home. Still, I fear the reaction of man until I prepare them for what they will see upon looking into his face. There is an abyss waiting there to swallow men w
h
o aren't prepared. How can I explain it? It is not like looking into the face of a dead man. Or looking into the face of a live one. It is a live-dead man and so new, so thrilling, so horrific, that it makes the mind numb. He has changed, too, and there i
s
more death lingering about him than there was twenty years ago. It's as if a delicate balance has been upset, weighing down toward the grave. I am growing used to him, in a small way, but still when he stares at me with those unwavering colorless eyes or
when he suddenly reaches to touch my flesh, I can't help but automatically recoil as if he were a snake with fangs full of poison and just as mindless. If I can't control my own reactions, I who love him, I know others would feel compelled by revulsion to
smash him to his death rather than deal with the unholy feelings he causes to stir in a man's heart.

I hope you will also prepare yourself for I expect meeting him will scare you into speechlessness
—
if not worse. I rush to assure you he is not dangerous an
d means no harm unless you were to raise your hand to him, or displease him in some other manner, for he is more like God than we are, and we know we cannot trifle with God.

I must sound mad, and blasphemous, as usual, and sometimes feel that I have fallen
over a precipice, truly, but I am filled with envy, loyalty, and yes, stupendous fear, of bringing back the one man who could change the entire world as we know it. I am not mad, dear Margaret, you must believe that. I am bringing home the Savior.

Your lo
ving brother,

Robert

* * *

Walton walked alongside the tall, powerfully-built monster as they entered the village of fishermen and roughhouse sailors and men of small commerce. Even with his face covered with a length of wool wrapping, his eyes necessaril
y peeked from the hood, and something about the way he carried himself, how he moved like a strong dancer who has forgotten all his steps, how he clumsily tucked his hands into his coat
—
all these nuances combined to give off an air of dread and loathing t
h
at caused passersby to move aside, to turn and stare, to whisper behind raised hands.

Walton most feared the trip home and how to get his prize there without mishap. If he could have put the being into an iron cage and transported him
the way he would a vile man-eating cat from the Dark Continent he would have done it. Of course, there was no man who could do such a demeaning thing to a god, not one who dared to try it however much he thought it might be the best way.

“
Are you thirsty?
Shall we go into a taphouse for an ale before I arrange our passage?”

Asked not to speak, the being nodded. He took a hand from his coat and held the wool over his face tightly together.

“
I haven't had an ale for two months. I suppose it's been a lifetime
for you.”
Walton chuckled a little, but the sadness of it caused him to break it off in mid-chuckle. To live without the comforts of man was high punishment and it had robbed this creature and caused him the most extreme loss and agony.

Once inside the tav
ern, Walton took off his hat and threw back his heavy cape. He had eaten nothing but rabbit and wolf and seal for weeks. His mouth watered for the bitter ale and the hot steaming stew full of thickly chopped root vegetables. He ordered two plates and two
a
les from the slovenly young woman who came to serve them. Then he looked around, feeling alive again instead of frozen and half starved for community. He knew he must look a sight, unwashed, bearded, his cheekbones prominent from the restricted diet. Righ
t
away he saw the men in the dimly lit smoky room were not looking at him, not one of them, none of them interested in the aging man with the big appetite. They were deathly silent and stared, of course, at Walton's companion wrapped mummy-style in wool, h
u
nkered over the odd little rough table, his large head in his impossibly huge hands.

Fear came like lightening struck through Walton, stinging and mangling all his innards. He cleared his throat. He must do something, do something immediately to forestall
violence. “
Hello, gentlemen! We've come from across the tundra and it was a worrisome trip. My companion unfortunately had some frostbite to his face so he prefers to keep it covered until a physician can attend to it. We've been on a hunt. It's wonderful
to be back with all of you and to share a drink with everyone. Woman! Fill the glasses! I will pay the bill; it's on me.”

Still the patrons made no move to be at ease and none answered Walton's generosity. “
My friend here...he apologizes for keeping silent
and his face covered. It's the...the tip of his nose, you understand, not a pretty sight...”

As a body the men rose from their tables and stools. They came toward Walton, who felt increasingly nervous. He looked up into faces all around him that showed no
smiles, not even a welcoming word. “
What's wrong?”
he asked. He felt, rather than saw, the great creature push back his chair slowly. He put out a hand to stay him, but it was shaken off.

“
We know who this is,
what
this is. This is the monster,”
one of th
e men said in a grave tone. He pointed and frowned fiercely. “
We were warned he would be back. Your men told us of him. And here he is, we know that much. He is an abomination before heaven
—
that is what your men said and I believe it.”

Oh my God
, Walton thought,
the men had brought the news
—
what he'd prayed would not occur
. Now Walton's mind skittered and slid and scampered as if on icy slopes to find some exit from this catastrophe.

The monster swung out from the table to make way for the door,
but he was overpowered; there were too many enemies to defeat. He fought valiantly, striking out and sending lesser men tumbling. A roar erupted from his dark mouth, filling the tavern with sound unlike any had heard before, but still the attackers came a
t
him. As Walton watched in horror, the men rode the great man to the floor, screaming back at him
—
DEMON! DEVIL! UNHOLY!--beating at him, stabbing at him with whatever they had in hand. The room was a sudden incredible melee of violence and bloodlust. The
s
cent of fear, like baking copper, mingled with the ozone tinge of unleashed fury. The creature cried out now in pain, his cries drowned by the clamor of the men. Walton broke from his chair and joined in. He tried vainly to pull off the frenzied crowd of
a
t least a dozen men beating the life from their victim, and at last, knowing he was losing the one thing that had made his life worth living, Walton shouted his misery as his heart broke, shattering to splinters in his chest. He was struck, fell, was roll
e
d aside, and lay there in tremendous psychic pain, panting, weeping, cursing in his mind the Supreme Creator for ever allowing him to meet and to know of Frankenstein's freakish, godlike mortal.

In a short while the violence abated, though it seemed it las
ted decades. The thunder of the enraged patrons fell to reverent whispers, and Walton heard the last words uttered from the throat of the dying beast.