Frankenstein in London

by Brian Stableford

  “You were sent to find me, were you not, Monsieur Knob?” the Grey Man said.

  “Strictly speaking,” Ned said. “I was sent to find Germain Patou. He’s the one with the valuable knowledge—unless you’ve persuaded him to make you party to all his discoveries.”

  “He knows less than you suppose,” Mortdieu retorted. “I remain a mystery to him, although he’s persuaded your old friend Ross to remember something of his former life, and the monster too.”

  “Monster?” Ned queried.

  “The patchwork man—the one he put together when he and Belcamp still believed more of Walton’s fantasy than was actually credible. The one whose brain was placed in a different body.”

  “The one he called John?” Ned queried, rhetorically. “I remember. Did the transplantation really work?”

  “Better than most straightforward resurrections employing fresh and relatively undamaged corpses, although subsequent experiments along the same lines failed miserably. Patou understood it no better than I—but I, at least, have the privilege of personal experience. I know better than anyone what is involved in metamorphosis, mentally as well as physically.”

  “Metamorphosis?” Ned echoed, as he continued his experiments with the strange fruit. He raised his voice because a number of drums—perhaps as many as a dozen—had begun to beat outside, soon settling into a common but complex rhythm. “Is that why I have no idea who you are? Because you have undergone a metamorphosis that has made you a different person, no matter how many memories you retain of…your former self?”

  “That is one of evolution’s customary pathways, is it not?” Mortdieu said. “The Chevalier de Lamarck once presented my former self with a book on the subject. Worms discovered ways to transform themselves into all kinds of different creatures by means of their innate drive to perpetual improvement, just as the embryos of mammals learned how to become all manner of creatures by similar effort. Now, humans are beginning to master a new means of metamorphosis, in order to produce further imagoes…but few have begun to master the art, as yet, even with the right alchemical assistance.”

  “The most spectacular exception being yourself,” Ned observed, “and you don’t know how you performed the trick.”

  “No, I don’t,” Mortdieu admitted. “One thing I do know, though, is that it was not Patou’s science that determined my transition, no matter how cleverly it assisted me. The urge to return, and the ability to make it happen, was already within me. The making of Grey Men is no mere mechanical process.”

  “That does seem to be the case,” Ned agreed, thoughtfully. “Have you seen any zambo zombies as yet?”

  “A mere handful,” Mortdieu told him, “and all of them more stupid than the least of my erstwhile followers. Their existence proves, however, that return from death is not something new, and that Jacobin science cannot claim full credit for it.”

  “If what Guido told me about his vampire master is true,” Ned murmured, “vaudou magic cannot claim full credit either, for such metamorphoses can happen without any kind of artificial intervention at all—and might be more common, were it not for customs dictating the burial or cremation of the dead. There are Societies for the Prevention of Premature Burial in Europe and America, which offer testimony to the fact that people thought dead do sometimes recover consciousness. Even so, artificial interventions of more than one kind obviously enhance the chances of the dead returning to a semblance of life. Do you know, perchance, what that drumming signifies?” The number of active drums had grown by now from a dozen to something of the order of 100, although most were more distant than those that had begun the concert.

  “The zambo use drums in signaling as well as to regulate dancing,” Mortdieu told him. “I suspect they’re spreading news that will eventually be transmitted to every corner of the island—but not in any detail.”

  If the General was correct, then the drums served a dual purpose, for a Grey Man came into the hut then, with a zambo companion. The Grey Man greeted his commander formally, but it was the zambo who spoke thereafter, saying: “Anacaona invites you to witness the rite of Damballah Wedo, Monsieur Mortdieu.”

  “You won’t have an opportunity to rest, after all, Monsieur Knob,” the Grey General remarked, as he came to his feet. “We had best take some food and water with us. I’ve been witness to these native rituals before—it might be a long night.”

  Ned saw no objection to that. He stuffed fruit into his pockets and picked up the water-jug. He noticed that Mortdieu, as befit a great general, left that humble duty entirely to him, and permitted himself a slight sigh.

  A huge bonfire had been lit some distance from the edge of the village, beside the stream that wound into the tangled forest. Ned saw that a number of shallow graves had been dug to either side of it, in the soft and glutinous soil of the stream’s bank. When he was able to make a more accurate estimation, he counted two dozen of the pits, each containing several inches of muddy water, in which the bodies that lay within them were almost completely immersed. They were not so much graves, he realized, as baths. Each one contained a dead man harvested from the sea-battle—which implied, Ned supposed, that at least some of them must be dead mestizos rather than dead zambo, although the combination of firelight and shadow was not conducive to judging the identity of any particular body by the shade of its complexion.

  Marie Laveau was about to attempt zombie resurrection on a scale that had probably never been attempted before among the zambo. She must, he presumed, have had teams of assistants working flat out to produce adequate quantities of bokor, according to the supposedly-secret recipe, for she had certainly not been able to bring anything with her from the Belleville when Desart had set her adrift.

  The drums were still pounding, and many people in the crowd that had gathered in a broad arc around the fire were swaying to the rhythm, but there was no dancing as such. Drinking-bowls were being passed around, but Ned could not tell what they contained. Some of the seated drummers were chanting, but their words were meaningless to Ned and Mortdieu.

  Mortdieu was conducted to a stool set up at the mid-point of the arc of human beings, but Ned was left to stand beside him, while the other Grey Man was positioned on his other side. Some time passed before Marie put in her appearance—perhaps, Ned thought, because she was allowing the tension of expectation to build up, in her guests as well as those she intended to become the loyal followers of her new cult.

  The insects were not as troublesome now as before—not so much because the night was not completely dark, save for starlight, as because of the smoke from the fire, which was thick and aromatic. The wood and foliage that was burning was green and rich in sap, but the spitting and crackling of the conflagration was easily drowned out by the insistent drums.

  Eventually, though, some invisible signal was given, and the tempo of the drums changed.

  Marie Laveau then appeared, in her guise as Anacaona, the serpent in Columbus’ Eden. There was, indeed a snake—a constrictor, Ned assumed—draped over her shoulders, with its tail coiled around her waist. She was not dancing, though. Instead, she was walking slowly, in a labored and awkward fashion occasioned by the fact that she had a heavy wooden pail in each hand, presumably full of water. Half a dozen nubile girls followed her, arranged in three pairs, also moving slightly awkwardly because they bore collections of huge palm-fronds in their arms.

  Marie moved to the nearest of the pits, set the pails down, and reached into one of them, a trifle tentatively. She drew out something that might have been a fish, or a snake; it was difficulty to be sure, because it was wriggling so furiously. Handling it very carefully, she introduced it into the mud of the pit, beside the corpse’s head. Then she began to cover the pit, neatly and carefully, with palm-fronds—a task completed by her acolytes.

  “What is she doing?” Mortdieu hissed, in Ned’s ear.

  Ned was about to tell him that he had no idea, but then he guessed. “Dear Lord!” he murmured. “She’s ce
rtainly not short of daring—or faith in her blessed loas.”

  “What kind of snakes are they?” Mortdieu demanded, as the reincarnation of Queen Anacaona laid another wriggling creature in the second pit.

  “They’re not snakes,” Need replied, “although I dare say that they can pass for Damballah Wedo’s creatures in the eyes of the zambo. If my guess is right, they’re eels—electric eels. She must have had 50 fishermen chasing them up and down every stream in the region.”

  “Ah!” said Mortdieu, who knew well enough how Germain Patou carried out his own resurrections. “Surely it won’t work?”

  “Maybe not,” Ned murmured, “but it can’t hurt, so any effect it does chance to have is likely to be positive—and in any case, it’s new. If it does contrive to increase the chances of zombie resurrection, it’ll be proof positive, in the eyes of the zambo that she’s exactly what she claims to be. Even if it doesn’t, any success that she can achieve—and she’s certainly giving herself plenty of chances—will work in her favor. It’s a wild gamble, but it always was—the whole enterprise, that is. You have to give her credit for guts, even if she is a little crazy, and credit for listening too. I gave her that idea. I only helped to confirm the plan she’s already made to use Drake’s name, but this is a hasty improvisation occasioned by what I told her about Patou.”

  “You must be very proud,” said Mortdieu, dryly.

  It took time to place an electric eel in very pit, and then to cover each “grave” over with palm leaves, but Marie and her assistants completed the task, moving more elegantly now to the rhythm of the drums. Then she took up a position close to the fire—so close that Ned feared that she might be scalded or burned by the spitting conflagration. She unwound the constrictor from her body and handed it over to one of her female assistants. Then two men came forward, carrying two rush baskets in a very tentative manner.

  “What now?” Mortdieu wondered. “Surely she can’t…”

  “I think she has to,” Ned murmured. “The demonstration has to be complete.”

  From each of he two baskets, Marie took a snake—no constrictor, this time—holding each in one hand. Whether they were the “black mambas” that she had mentioned in the boat as having been imported to the island along with black slaves, Ned could not be sure, but their bodies were grey-green rather than black. Initially, the young woman held each one behind the head, in such a way that they could not possibly bite, but then she let their bodies coil around her outstretched arms, and released the heads, so that they hung down, suspended, free to strike at her body if they so desired.

  The snakes apparently had no such desire. They were content to hang there, swaying slightly as if in time to the music.

  They’re torpid, Ned thought. They’ve been numbed—not merely by the smoke and the rhythm of the drums, although that probably helps, but by some kind of drug. Deadly the might be, but there’s no way that they’re going to sink their fangs into her lovely breasts unless they’re jerked out of their torpor by some sudden alarm. What a showman she is! An American through and through!

  Marie was swaying too, but only swaying, as if she too were benumbed. Her eyes were closed, but she was humming. The crowd took up the hum, until it grew into the sound of a vast insect-swarm: a hive of bees numbered in millions, or a host of locusts ready to devour everything in its path.

  Then a single gunshot rang out, and the shock of the impact sent the would-be Witch-Queen reeling backwards.

  For a moment, it looked as if the young woman might tumble into the fire, but the shot had not been mortal, and she contrived to avoid that disaster, falling on to her side in the margin between the roaring flames and the green-topped mock-graves.

  Chapter Five

  Pandemonium

  Hundreds of the zambo seized makeshift weapons, and raced into the forest toward the place from which the mestizo sharpshooter had fired. There must have been other mestizos waiting in the trees, having used that cover to creep closer while their enemies’ attention had been riveted on Marie Laveau. The sounds of conflict immediately flared into a chaotic cacophony of shots, shouts and screams. Dozens of gunshots initially rang out in near-unison, but the mestizos had only time enough to fire one concerted volley, which was quite impotent to stem the angry tide of vengeful zambo. The gunfire became sparse thereafter.

  “The fools!” groaned Mortdieu. “For months I’ve been drilling them, teaching them discipline. I had a force that could at least defend its holdings, although it was not yet fit to mount an efficient attack—but they failed to set pickets, as I’ve taught them to do, and a single well-aimed bullet has taken them back to savagery at a stroke!”

  We have two nests of angry hornets now, it seems, Ned thought.

  He ran forward toward Marie as far as his short legs could carry him, leaping over several of the zombie-pits in order to get to her. As he went, he picked up a log intended to feed the fire, intending to take no chances with the snakes she had draped over her arms. It was as well he did; torpid as they had certainly been, the shock of the fall had revived them, and they were ready to strike. He killed one with a single blow, but had to dance backwards out of range of the other one, along a strip of ground that was by no means wide, with the blazing fire on one side and the treacherous pits on the other.

  As soon as he was balanced again, Ned attacked the second snake with a will, and beat it to death in a matter of seconds. Marie, meanwhile, lay quite still.

  The bullet had hit her upper arm—and might, with a little more luck, have struck the snake instead of her. Had it done so, the frightened snake would not have had the opportunity to bite her—which, alas, it had, a few inches below the ragged bullet-wound, close to the crook of the elbow.

  Ned wasted no time, but picked the stricken woman up, and edged between the pits before breaking into a run. He carried her back into the village, to General Mortdieu’s hut, where he laid her down on the General’s own bed. Some 20 or 30 zambo—mostly women—followed him, anxiously, but were content to crowd around the door and windows of the hut, watching to see what he would do.

  Ned judged that the bloody bullet-wound lessened the chances that the poison would be carried by the veins into her torso, back toward the heart, but the poison was still in her lower arm. “Give me a knife!” he screamed at Mortdieu—who was so astonished that he drew his saber and handed it over without a murmur.

  Ned used the awkward but keenly-sharpened weapon to slit the flesh in the vicinity of the snakebite, and then set about trying to suck the poison out as best he could, spitting bloody fluid on to the floor of the hut in a series of violent expectorations. “Do you have any bandages?” he demanded of the Grey Man.

  The General did have bandages, left over from the supplies the Outremort had taken aboard before her transatlantic voyage. Fortunately the bullet had gone straight through the flesh of the arm, so Ned was not required to attempt any further makeshift surgery in order to remove it. He continued spitting while he bound the wounds, fearful of swallowing venom himself. Finally satisfied with his work, he collapsed into a wicker chair that was positioned beside the bed.

  “Will she live?” Mortdieu asked.

  “How should I know?” Ned demanded, harshly. “Patou’s the doctor, not I. Binding wounds was an element of Tom Paddock’s course in villainy, but I could not guarantee the quality of the advice, and everything I know about snakebite comes from casual rumor. The mestizos must be exceedingly determined to murder her, to have found volunteers for a suicide mission like that.”

  “This is Haiti,” Mortdieu told him. “Suicide is not as rare as it is in Paris—and tribal hatreds run very deep. She caused them a terrible loss of face this afternoon—as half-whites, they consider themselves much superior to the half-black zambo, and take defeats very ill.”

  “If she does recover,” Ned muttered, “they’ll pay for it in blood.”

  “They’ll do that whether she recovers or not,” Mortdieu judged. “This is out of an
yone’s control, now—all Hell has been let loose.”

  “Perhaps the mestizos dared not wait for the outcome of her experiment,” Ned muttered. “If the zombies do rise from their muddy graves in due course…there might be more than Hell to pay.”

  “She was crazy,” Mortdieu opined, again, as if talking to himself. “I knew that—but how could I stop her? Any hope I had of maintaining a balance here is lost now.”

  “Can you get word to Patou?” Ned asked, abruptly. “The only chance we have of reasserting control over the situation is to make sure that Marie lives—and we’ll stand a better chance of that if we have a trained doctor to help us. No matter what your differences are, you must summon him if you can.”

  The General only hesitated momentarily, and that was to wonder who he could possibly trust as an emissary. It only took a few seconds for him to decide. “I shall have to go myself,” he said. “Nothing less than that will convince him. I’ll take Jeannot and two more of the Outremort’s crewmen with me, if I can find two more who still have discipline enough to follow orders and respect enough for me to follow mine. Normally, it would be too dangerous, but I doubt that the mestizo siege is as tightly organized now as it was before. You stay here—care for her as best you can, and try to talk some sanity back into the zambo when daylight cools their heads again. Most of them—the men, at least—speak French as well as the old Tairo language.”

  “Agreed, General,” said Ned, knowing that there was no other choice. “Go fetch Patou.”

  When the Grey Man had gone, the zambo keeping vigil outside the hut maintained their positions, patiently waiting to see what would happen. For some while, nothing did—but then the woman on the bed stirred, and opened her eyes. She tried to lift her arm, but could not, so she raised herself up on her other elbow and looked down at the bloody bandages. She was obviously in pain, but she was fighting to control it, and her mind did not seem to be wandering.