This Dark Endeavor

by Kenneth Oppel

  It was such an obvious ploy that I couldn’t help laughing. I slouched back comfortably against the cushions.

  “And what is it you see for yourself, Henry?” I asked my diplomatic friend.

  “Well,” he said, “the view is clear for me. I will become a merchant and in time take over my father’s business.”

  Elizabeth pushed herself up on her elbows, indignant. “That’s dismally practical of you, Henry.”

  “Nothing wrong with being practical,” Konrad remarked.

  “But, Henry, what of your interest in literature?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “You can’t eat it, that’s the problem,” he said. “I’ve tried, it’s very dry, not at all nutritious. And a man does have to earn a living.”

  “But look at the applause your play won!” she reminded him.

  “I felt like an imposter taking credit,” said Henry. “The idea was yours.”

  This was true. But Elizabeth had thought the audience might have been horrified to know that a young lady had invented such a violent and bloodthirsty tale.

  “Well,” said Elizabeth, pleased, “a story comes easily enough to me, but the writing was all yours, Henry. You have the soul of a poet.”

  “Ah, well,” said Henry. “A merchant does not need to rhyme. What do your stars tell you?”

  “I will write a novel,” Elizabeth said with decision.

  “What will it be about?” I asked, surprised.

  “I don’t know the subject yet,” she said with a laugh. “Only that it will be something wonderful. Like a bolt of lightning!”

  “You’ll need a pen name,” Konrad said, for the idea of a woman writing a novel was scandalous.

  “Perhaps I will shock the world with my own,” she said. “‘Elizabeth Lavenza’ has such a literary flair, don’t you think? It would be a shame to waste it.”

  “And what of marriage?” Konrad asked.

  “It would take a remarkable man to make me marry,” she said. “Men are mercury. Always changing. Look at my father. He remarried and just sent me away. I was packed up like a bit of furniture. And he visited me only once in two years.”

  “Scoundrel,” I said.

  “Not all men are so bad, surely,” said my brother.

  She laughed. “No doubt. I will have a fabulous husband and many beautiful, talented children. Now, I have embarrassed myself enough. Victor, what do you see in your future?”

  I thought a moment, and then said, “When I see the stars, I think of the planets that must orbit them, and I would like to travel among them. And if we could do so, would not we be gods?”

  “A modest goal, then,” said my twin. “Victor just wants to be a god.”

  Laughing, I elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m imbued with high hopes and lofty ambitions. And if I can’t travel between planets—”

  “Always good to have a back-up plan,” Henry interjected.

  “—then I will create something, some great work that will be useful and marvelous to all humanity.”

  “You mean a machine of some kind?” asked Konrad.

  “Yes, perhaps,” I said, thinking more seriously now. “An engine that will transform the world—or a new source of energy. It seems scientific discoveries are being made every day now. In any event, I will be remembered forever.”

  “Statues and monuments will bear your name, no doubt!” Konrad said with a grin.

  “Very well. Let us hear your little dreams!” I said.

  Konrad stared at the sky. “I will follow Father’s example,” he said thoughtfully. “I would like to help govern Geneva, to make it even greater than it is now. But I’d like to see the world, too. Perhaps cross the ocean and see the new America, or the British colonies to the north. They say there are still vast landscapes there, untouched by Europeans.”

  “Then you would abandon us all,” Elizabeth asked, “and marry some exotic native princess?”

  Konrad chuckled. “No. I will make my journeys with a soul mate.”

  “You’d just want me to carry all your supplies,” I joked. “You’d best find another travel companion.”

  But I loved the idea of having a grand adventure with Konrad.

  It had always been a favorite game of ours, since we were very young, to lie side by side on the library floor with the great atlas before us, picking the countries we would visit together.

  I still yearned for such a trip, just the two of us. West to the New World: to some remote, wild place—where no one would compare us.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE ALPHABET OF THE MAGI

  EN GARDE!” I PANTED, LIFTING MY FOIL.

  Konrad and I were near the end of our match, and we were tied. Whoever scored next was winner. In the château’s armory, Signor Rainaldi, our fencing master, watched over us, as well as Henry and Elizabeth, both suited up on the sidelines, awaiting their own match.

  I took the offensive and made an unimaginative lunge, which Konrad parried easily. I was weary, and my movements were getting sluggish.

  “You can do better than that, Little Brother,” said Konrad.

  I could not see his face behind his mask, but I doubted it was as slick with sweat as mine.

  Almost from the first moment Konrad had held a rapier, he’d seemed born to it. But not me. So I had practiced and practiced, asking Signor Rainaldi for extra drills so I could keep up. It paid off, for Konrad and I were now closely matched, though he still beat me more often than not. Fencing with my twin posed another unique challenge, for we knew each other’s instincts so well it was nearly impossible to surprise each other.

  I parried his attack, and planned my next move.

  “Pacing, pacing!” cried our master. “I have seen old men with more verve!”

  “I do not want to tire my brother,” Konrad replied.

  I feinted once, and then feebly struck Konrad’s foil at the midpoint.

  “Rather a waste, don’t you think?” Konrad goaded me.

  “Indeed,” I said. But it was what I wanted. Let him mock me, I thought. I had my plan now.

  Konrad returned to the en garde position, and we circled warily. I watched him, waiting for his attack, waiting for the flex of his knee as he lunged. When it came, I was ready.

  I performed a passata-sotto, a difficult maneuver I had been secretly practicing for weeks now. I dropped my right hand to the floor and lowered my body beneath Konrad’s thrusting blade. At the same time, I lunged with my own foil. His blade hit empty air. Mine struck his belly.

  “A hit, a very palpable hit!” cried our master. “The match is Victor’s. A passata-sotto. Well done, young sir.”

  My eyes went to Elizabeth, who was clapping with Henry. I pulled up my mask, grinning. It wasn’t often I bested Konrad, and the victory was sweet indeed.

  “A very fancy move,” said Konrad. “Congratulations.”

  He removed his mask, and I was taken aback by his pallor.

  “Are you well, young sir?” our fencing master asked, frowning.

  Elizabeth walked toward us. “You two have fought too hard,” she said. “Konrad, sit down a moment.”

  He waved her away, shivering. “I am fine. I am fine.”

  Elizabeth put her hand to his head. “You’re scalding.”

  “Merely from our exertions,” I said, and gave a lighthearted laugh. “It was quite a match. Shall we fetch the wheelchair for you?”

  “He is feverish, Victor,” she said to me sharply.

  As I looked more carefully at my brother, I knew he was truly ill. His skin had a parched look to it, and beneath his eyes were smudges of darkness.

  “I am not feverish,” said Konrad, and then he fainted.

  Elizabeth and I caught him clumsily before he hit the floor. He was not long unconscious, and by the time he awoke, Henry had fetched Mother and Father and they were at his side.

  “To bed with you, Konrad,” Father said. “We will have Maria bring you some broth.”

  I helped my father raise him
to his feet and walk him unsteadily from the armory, with Elizabeth and Mother keeping pace with us. I kept hoping Konrad would meet my eye, give a playful wink to set my mind at ease, but he seemed groggy and withdrawn.

  “Was it too many nights on the balcony, practicing our play?” Elizabeth said anxiously, as though she herself were to blame.

  “More likely too long on the lake without a cloak,” said Mother.

  “He will be up for dinner,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Just a chill, no doubt.”

  Dr. Lesage arrived later in the afternoon to examine Konrad. To everyone’s huge relief, he said it wasn’t plague. He advised bed rest for three days, no food but broth, and regular doses of his patented strengthening draft.

  Mother forbade us from entering his bedchamber, for fear we would catch the fever. Elizabeth wanted to help tend to Konrad, but despite her protests, we were only permitted to call out hellos from the doorway.

  “I’m not being a very festive host for you, Henry,” Konrad said from his bed.

  “Then you best hurry up and entertain him properly,” I replied.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Henry. “Take your rest, Konrad.”

  “Get better soon,” said Elizabeth.

  Konrad nodded. “I will. I promise.”

  But five days later he was still bedridden.

  Our morning lessons were subdued, as Elizabeth, Henry, and I sat in the library listening to Father tell us about the early Greek thinkers and the principles of democracy.

  At the best of times I had trouble concentrating, and right now it was nearly impossible. I kept looking over at Konrad’s empty chair. Father, too, seemed distracted. Usually his lectures were full of Sturm und Drang, and he would pace and thump the table, and fire questions at us like a volley of arrows. But today he dismissed us early and told us to get some fresh air.

  At lunch, when Mother joined us at the table, she looked grave.

  “How is he?” Elizabeth asked worriedly.

  “Feverish again, and he complains of aching limbs. He says it makes his head throb when I read to him.”

  Father took Mother’s hand. “He’s very strong. The fever will break soon for good. All will be well.”

  Throughout the afternoon Konrad’s fever mounted. Dr. Lesage came and left some powders that he said were very beneficial for fighting infection.

  Before dinner I went to check on Konrad with Elizabeth and Henry. He was asleep. We stood at the doorway and watched Maria gently mopping his brow with a cool cloth. He flinched and twisted and muttered nonsense. Maria tried to smooth his sheets, made shushing sounds to calm him.

  “I’ve never felt a hotter head,” she said quietly to us.

  Seeing my brother so ill sparked in me feelings of such intensity that I was nearly overwhelmed. What if he didn’t recover? What if I were to lose him? Looking at him was like looking upon myself, seeing my own body racked with fever and pain.

  And, even more strange, I felt anger. How could Konrad have allowed this to happen? How could someone so healthy, and so smart and sensible, become so ill?

  I was ashamed for having such thoughts.

  And I was ashamed at how powerless I was to help him.

  At dinner that night I could not eat. My body ached, and my stomach swirled.

  “Victor,” my mother said. “Are you well?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re pale,” she said.

  I looked over at Henry, and then Elizabeth, and caught her quick, nervous glance at Mother. Suddenly my stomach clenched and turned over, and I had to rush from the table to the nearest water closet, where I retched, again and again, tears welling from my eyes. I could not remember feeling sicker.

  What had happened to Konrad had happened to me.

  An eternal night spent tossing and turning, shivering and sweating. When awake, I lay in the grips of terror; and when I slept, it was only in cruel snatches, and my dreams were foul. In one, Konrad and I were playacting, joyfully at first, but then with more and more fury, and when I slew him with the sword, it was a real sword, and real blood poured from his chest, and I laughed and laughed—and started awake, drenched and panting.

  Throughout the night, I was dimly aware of Mother and Father and the servants checking on me.

  Finally I must have slept properly, for when I next opened my eyes, it was dawn, and Dr. Lesage stood over me, taking my pulse.

  “Let us have a good look at you, young Master Frankenstein,” said the doctor, gently helping me sit up.

  Limply I submitted to his grave prodding. He seemed to take a great deal of time, which made me all the more agitated.

  “It is the same ailment as Konrad’s,” I rasped.

  “I will speak with your mother,” the doctor said, and with that he left.

  The next five minutes might have been hours. I was filled with dread. I stared out the window and saw the sunshine and the mountains, and it was as though it had nothing to do with me. It was a different world, one from which I was cut off forever. I was certain of the news I was about to hear.

  It was not Mother who came in finally, or Father, but Elizabeth. Anger radiated from her face.

  “There is nothing wrong with you!” she said.

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  She sat down on the edge of my bed and burst into tears. “You are fine,” she said. “Dr. Lesage said you are absolutely fine.”

  The power of the mind must be a miraculous thing, for at that very moment I felt my fever and sickness lessen. I sat up and patted her shoulder, but she batted my hand away.

  “I wasn’t playacting,” I objected. “I truly felt … I felt terrible, as though all my strength had left me.”

  “You had us all so worried,” she said. “And it was merely in your head.”

  “I didn’t know!” I retorted, but I felt foolish and ashamed. And strangely jealous, too, for I suddenly realized she was not crying for me but for Konrad.

  “The doctor said it’s not unexpected,” she said, wiping at her eyes.

  “What’s not?”

  “He has seen such a thing before, with twins. He knew of one who, when his brother had his arm crushed in a machine accident, screamed, and could not use his arm for weeks because of the pain.”

  “I must see Konrad,” I said. “How is he?”

  I stood up and suddenly remembered I was in my nightshirt. Though Elizabeth and I had grown up together, I now felt self-conscious to be around her in so little state of dress. I noticed a flush to her cheek as she turned her face away.

  “His fever is not so high.”

  “That is good news.”

  “It would be better if the fever were gone altogether.”

  “Has Dr. Lesage any better idea what it is?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “All he knows is that it isn’t any typical infection. It is not contagious. It is some ailment within him that he must fight alone.”

  “Let’s go see him right now,” I said.

  “Ah, Victor,” said Konrad, “I hear you had another near scrape with death.”

  “A false illness,” I admitted sheepishly.

  He put his hot hand on mine. “Do try to keep out of trouble, Little Brother,” he told me.

  “Of course,” I said. “It would be better, though, if you stopped lazing about, so you can keep an eye on me.”

  “Oh, I’ll be up shortly. I feel a bit stronger today.”

  Elizabeth beamed at me. The windows of his room were thrown wide, and the scent of cut grass from the fields wafted in, along with the sound of the lapping lake, and it felt like the spring itself was enough to heal any ills.

  “You’ve had Mother in a terrible state,” I said.

  Konrad rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s making a fuss for nothing. Remember Charlie Fancher? He was laid up with ague for two weeks before it left him. I’ll be up and about soon.”

  “Good,” I said, “because Henry and Elizabeth have been plotting another play,
and this time you are to be the hero.”

  “Excellent,” he said.

  But later when he tried to get up, he did not have the strength to stand for more than a minute without shaking. His face had a gaunt look.

  He was as weak as a newborn.

  Over the next several days I tried to stay hopeful, and tell myself Konrad was on the mend.

  The fever didn’t return with its earlier ferocity, but it refused to leave him altogether. After a morning lull it would come on again in the late afternoon—like some infernal gale that paused only to renew its strength.

  Now that we knew he wasn’t contagious, Elizabeth spent a good deal of her time helping Mother and the servants tend to him, reading to him to distract him from his aches. When Konrad felt well enough, Henry and I would drop by to talk with him, or sometimes even play a game of chess. These were rarely finished, as he complained of headaches, or simply felt too unwell to concentrate.

  I felt oddly incomplete, moving about the château without my twin. Not that we were always side by side, but I felt his absence more intensely now. Once, when we were six, and Mother was unwell during her pregnancy with Ernest, Father sent us each to stay with different relations for a fortnight.

  It was one of the loneliest and most miserable times of my life.

  But this was worse.

  Why wasn’t Konrad getting better?

  “You must take me to Mass, Victor,” Elizabeth said Sunday morning during breakfast.

  I looked up from my hard-boiled egg, my mouth still full of bread, uncomprehending for a moment, because I was so used to Konrad escorting her to the cathedral in Geneva or the small village church in Bellerive.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied.

  “Philippe will ready the trap for you,” Father said.

  Though my parents had no faith themselves, they had no desire to deprive Elizabeth of hers, and I was certain no Sunday had ever passed without her attending a Roman Catholic service.

  It was a relief to be away from the château, to be in the warm spring air, holding the reins, driving the trap along the lake road. We traveled in silence, but our worries of Konrad kept pace with us.