The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  We followed a hard dirt track down the incline, where two rises rolled together. As the angle of vision changed, I noticed that the house seemed connected with the rock face behind – not leaning against it for support, but actually protruding from the rock, making use of some natural crevice or cave.

  We had reached the bottom of the descent and turned toward the house when a figure emerged and stood by the door, watching our progress. A stocky man, solid on widespread legs. I recognized Hubert Hodson, from photographs taken a generation before, a little heavier, a little greyer, but the same man, sturdy and imposing in woollen shirt and heavy boots. His face was windburnt and tanned, and his brow was as corrugated as the roof above him. He was watching me, and he didn’t seem pleased.

  We halted in front of the house and the Indian slid from his horse. I nodded to Hodson. He nodded back and turned to the Indian, his hands moving rapidly. The Indian replied in the same fashion, and glanced towards me. I believe it was the first time he’d actually looked at me. Hodson made a final, terminating gesture, and walked over to stand beside my horse. His shirt was open halfway down, his chest hard and matted with hair. He looked more like a lumberjack than a scientist, and his obvious strength would have impressed me, had such feelings not been overwhelmed by observing the giant Indian.

  “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

  The Indian had apparently understood that much.

  “Yes, very much.”

  Hodson grunted. “Well, you had better come in. Leave your horse, the Indian will take care of it.” I thought it curious that he referred to his servant that way, instead of by name. I dismounted and handed the reins to the man, and he led the horses around the side of the house. Hodson had gone to the door and I followed. He’d started to enter the house, then stepped back to let me go through first, a perfunctory politeness that seemed to show a determination to keep our meeting on a formal basis. Courtesy had never been associated with Hubert Hodson.

  “I saw you coming,” he said. “Thought you’d most likely been lost in the mountains. A mistaken idea, obviously. Always been a fault of mine, leaping to the hasty conclusion. Well, I’m usually right, anyway.”

  The interior was as bleak as the outside. We stood in a barren room with home-made furnishings and bare walls, one small window throwing insufficient light. Two doorways led out at the other side, hung with curtains of strung beads. There was one battered leather chair, the sole acquiescence to comfort.

  “Who are you?”

  “Brookes. Arthur Brookes.”

  “You know who I am,” he said. He held his hand out, another surface politeness. His grip was unconsciously powerful. “Afraid I can’t offer you much hospitality here. Have a seat.”

  I sat on a straight backed chair that wobbled on uneven legs.

  “This is luxury after a night in those mountains.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Your servant sets an inexorable pace. A remarkable man. I don’t know his name – ”

  “I call him the Indian. I expect you did, too. Mentally, I mean. Anyway, he can’t speak so there’s little sense in giving him a name. Always better to classify than denominate. Avoid familiarity. Once you label a thing you begin to think you know what it is. Clouds the issue. Trouble with society, they designate instead of indicating. Give everything a name whether it’s necessary or not. Etiquette. Confusion. Nonsense. But I expect I’d better give you a drink, for all that.”

  This brisk monologue pleased me. I saw he was still the same Hodson I’d been given to expect, the same iconoclast and rebel, and that seemed to indicate that he would still be carrying on with his work – and furthermore, that he might be willing to talk about it. That was a paradox in Hodson. He denied society and civilization, and yet burned with the need to express his ideas to his fellow men, needing the objects that he scorned.

  “I’ve some brandy. Not much. Plenty of the local stuff, if you can take it.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Hodson clapped his hands loudly. He was watching me with an expectant expression. A movement caught my eye at the back of the room and I glanced that way. I saw a young woman come through one of the beaded curtains, started to look away and then found myself staring at her. She was coming towards us, and she was absolutely splendid.

  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a magnificent physical specimen, and there was little cause to doubt my perception because she was wearing no clothing whatsoever. Hodson looked at me and I looked at the girl. She was tall and lithe, her flesh burnished copper and her hair so black that it reflected no highlights at all, an absence of all colour. She smiled at me inquisitively, flashing teeth in a wide mouth and eyes as dark as her hair. It is extremely difficult to manage a polite smile of greeting in such circumstances, and Hodson was amused at my effort.

  “This is Anna,” he said.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  “Anna speaks English. Anna, this is Mister Brookes. He has come to visit us.”

  “How do you do, Mister Brookes,” she said. She held her hand out. Her English was flawless, her handshake correct if somewhat disturbing. “It is very nice to have a guest. I don’t think we have had a guest before?” She looked at Hodson.

  “Bring Mister Brookes a drink, my dear.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.”

  She smiled again as she turned away, her firm breasts in profile for an instant, and her buttocks inverted valentines rolling tautly together as she walked away. She left the same way she’d entered, moving through the beads with supple grace, not the acquired poise of a woman but the natural rhythm of some feline animal.

  Hodson waited for me to comment.

  “A charming young lady,” I said.

  “A trifle disconcerting, I suppose?”

  “I must confess I was a bit taken aback. By her symmetry, of course, not her nakedness.”

  Hodson laughed.

  “I wondered how you would – but no matter.”

  I felt I’d passed some examination, although I wasn’t sure how he’d graded my reactions.

  “She is an Indian?”

  “Yes. Not a local, of course. From the Amazon. I found her there when she was just a baby – must be fifteen years ago or more. Bought her on a whim of the moment.”

  “Bought her?”

  “Of course. What else? Surely you didn’t think I stole her? Or does the idea of purchasing a human being offend your morality?”

  I didn’t like that.

  “My morality is unequivocally subjective. But I notice you’ve given her a name. Unlike the Indian. Would that be significant, in any way?”

  Hodson frowned and then grinned.

  “It was necessary to the experiment. I had to give her an identity, in order to see how it developed. But, I must admit, it would be rather difficult to refer to Anna as, say, the subject under observation. Some matters defy even my principles.”

  Anna returned with two glasses, gave us each one and left the room again. Hodson pulled a chair over and sat facing me, balanced on the edge as though the interview would not be lasting very long.

  “Now then. Why have you come here, Brookes?”

  “I’m from the museum. You know Smyth, I believe. He sent me to find you.”

  “Smyth?” His face was blank for a moment. “Yes, I know Smyth. One of the more sensible men. Knows better than to scoff without comprehension. But why did he send you here?’

  I took my cigarette case out and offered Hodson one. He declined. I wondered if a direct approach would be best. Hodson would certainly resent anything else; would slice through any oblique references with his sharp perception. It had to be direct. I lighted a cigarette and proceeded to tell him about the reports and Smyth’s deductions. He listened with interest, hands resting over his knees, eyes shifting as though they reflected the thoughts behind them.

  “And so I’m here,” I said.

  Hodson leaned back then, crossing his legs. “Well, I hardly started thes
e rumours,” he said. “I don’t see any connection with my work.”

  “Just an idea of Smyth’s.”

  “An erroneous idea.”

  “Surely you’ve heard these rumours yourself?”

  “No reason to make that assumption. I am, as you can see, completely isolated here. My only contact with the world is through the Indian.”

  “Well, you’ve heard them now.”

  “What you’ve told me, yes.”

  “Don’t they interest you?”

  “Unfounded and fantastic.”

  “I thought so. Smyth didn’t. And now that I’ve spoken with these people . . .”

  He waved a hand.

  “Genetics is my line. This wouldn’t concern me, even if it were possible.”

  “Yes, I know your work. Tell me, what has kept you here for twenty years?”

  “That same work. Research. Paper work, mostly. Some experimentation. I have a laboratory here, crude but sufficient. I stay here for the isolation and lack of distraction, no more. You were mistaken to assume that my research had any connection with the area in which I chose to pursue it.” He drained his glass.

  “You see, Brookes, I have the unfortunate trait of optimism. I overestimate my fellow man constantly. When I am surrounded by other men, I invariably try to give them the benefit of my work. It’s disrupting, takes time and proves less than useless. That’s why I’m here, alone, where my progress can continue peacefully and steadily. It’s going well. You are, in point of fact, the first distraction I’ve suffered in years.”

  “I’m sorry if – ”

  He waved the apology away.

  “I understand your interest,” he said. “I’ve observed these people. Anna, for instance, is a fascinating study. One of the few people in the world who is completely natural and unspoiled. Been kept from the degrading influence of society. Not necessarily modern society, either. All society corrupts. If If I hadn’t bought her she’d be ruined already, filled with superstitions and legends and taboos and inhibitions. Sometimes I actually believe that the so-called primitive man is more degraded than civilized man; more governed by superstructure. She came from a savage tribe and has become a superb woman, both physically and emotionally. Her nakedness, for instance. She is as immune to the elements as she is to shame, as innocent of the wiles of a modern world as she is the sacrifices and bloody religion of her parents. If I had met a woman like Anna when I was a young man, Brookes, I might have – oh well, I suppose I was born a misogynist.”

  Hodson was becoming excited. He was a talker, denied the opportunity for twenty years, and although he might not have wanted to, he was talking.

  “Or the Indian,” he said. “The intellect and the instincts of an animal, and yet I have his total devotion and loyalty – not an acquired trait, like patriotism, hammered into the young by conditioning, but a natural loyalty such as a dog gives to his master. It doesn’t matter if the master is kind or cruel, good or bad. That is irrelevant. A most interesting aspect of natural man.”

  “Then you are studying these people,” I said?

  “What?” Hodson blinked. His face was flushed beneath the weathered skin. “No, not studying. A sideline. One can’t help observing. It has nothing to do with my work.”

  “Will you tell me about that work?”

  “No,” he said. “I am not ready yet. Soon, perhaps. It’s a new field, Brookes. Unrelated to the study of primitive peoples. I leave that to the social anthropologists, to the do-gooders and the missionaries. To you if you like. You’re welcome to them.”

  “And these rumours?”

  “I may have heard something. Perhaps an aborigine or two just trying to live their own lives. They’d be enough to shock anyone who saw them, and of course no one has ever told them it’s wicked to kill sheep.”

  “That, too, would be of immense interest.”

  “Not to me.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Do I? That’s why I’m here, alone. Because I surprise people. But I have nothing for you, Brookes.”

  He waved towards the window. The sun was coming in now, as it settled into the western junction of the hills, blocking a shallow parallelogram on the floor.

  “You may seek your wild man out there. But you’ll find no clues here.”

  And that positive statement ended the initial phase of our conversation. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a time. I felt a sense of futility and annoyance that, after waiting so impatiently in Ushuaia and then undertaking that arduous trek through the mountains, it had all come to nothing. I blamed myself for expecting more than I reasonably should have, and felt irritated at Hodson, even while I admitted his right to resent my visit. Vexation does not depend on justice.

  Hodson seemed to be pondering something that didn’t concern me or, more likely, something he didn’t wish me to be concerned with. My presence both pleased and disturbed him, and he seemed undecided whether to treat me as the conversational companion he’d been without for so long, or the disturbance he wished to avoid. I felt it best to refrain from intruding on his thoughts, and sat quietly watching the dust dance in the oblong of light beneath the window.

  Presently he clapped his hands again. Anna must have expected this, for she appeared instantly with fresh drinks, flashing that searching smile at me, undoubtedly puzzled at my visit and, I think, enjoying the change in daily routine. She moved off reluctantly, looking back over her shoulder with interest that was innocent, because she’d never learned that it wasn’t.

  Hodson began to talk again. His mood had changed during those minutes of silence, and he wasn’t expounding now. It became a mutual conversation. We talked in general terms, and Hodson was interested to hear of some of the latest theories which hadn’t yet reached him here, although he expressed no opinions and no desire to go into them in depth. I referred to some of his own earlier work in this context, and he seemed pleased that I knew it, but passed that same work off as misguided and outdated. This turn of the conversation came naturally, and brought us back to his present work, from a new angle, and he had lost his reticence now.

  “For the past twenty years or more,” he said, “I have been mainly concerned with the replication processes of the nucleic acids. I believe – I know, in fact – that my work has progressed far beyond anything else done in this line. This is not conjecture. I have actually completed experiments which prove my theories. They are immutable laws.”

  He shot a quick glance at me, judging reactions with his old desire to shock.

  “All I require now is time,” he continued. “Time to apply my findings. There is no way to accelerate the application without affecting the results, of course. Another year or two and my initial application will be completed. After that – who knows?”

  “Will you tell me something about these discoveries?”

  He gave me a strange, suspicious look.

  “In general terms, of course.”

  “Do you have any knowledge in this field?”

  I wan’t sure how much familiarity I should show here – how much interest would inspire him to continue without giving him reason to suspect I might be too formidable to be granted a hint of his secrets. But, in fact, my acquaintance with this branch of study was shallow. He was speaking of genetics, connected with anthropology only at the link of mutation and evolution, the point where the chains of two different sciences brushed together, invariably connected but pursuing separate paths.

  I said: “Not very much. I know that nucleic acid determines and transmits inherited characteristics, of course. The name is used for either of two compounds, DNA and RNA. I believe latest thinking is that the DNA acts as a template or mould which passes the genetic code on to the RNA before it leaves the nucleus.”

  “That is roughly correct,” Hodson said.

  “Very roughly, I’m afraid.”

  “And what would result if the code were not transmitted correctly? If the template were bent, so to speak?”

&nbs
p; “Mutation.”

  “Hmmm. Such an ugly word for such a necessary and elemental aspect of evolution. Tell me, Brookes. What causes mutation?”

  I wasn’t sure what line he was taking.

  “Radiation can be responsible.”

  He made a quick gesture of dismissal.

  “Forget that. What has been the cause of mutation since the beginning of life on this planet?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I do,” he said, very simply and quietly, so that it took me a moment for it to register.

  “Understand what I say, Brookes. I know how it works and why it works and what conditions are necessary for it to work. I know the chemistry of mutation. I can make it work.”

  I considered it. He watched me with bright eyes.

  “You’re telling me that you can cause mutation and predict the result beforehand?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You aren’t talking of selective breeding?”

  “I am talking of an isolated reproductive act.”

  “But this is fantastic.”

  “This is truth.”

  His voice was soft and his eyes were hard. I saw how he was capable of inspiring such respect in Smyth. It would have been difficult to doubt him, in his presence.

  “But – if you can do this – surely your work is complete – ready to be given to science?”

  “The genetics are complete, yes. I can do, with a solitary organism’s reproduction, what it takes generations for selective breeding to do – and do it far more accurately. But remember, I am not a geneticist. I’m an anthropologist. I have always maintained that the study of man’s evolution could only be made properly through genetics – that basically it is a laboratory science. Now I have proved that, and I demand the right to apply my findings to my chosen field before giving them to the self-immured minds of the world. A selfish attitude, perhaps. But my attitude, nonetheless.”

  I said nothing, although he seemed to be awaiting my comments. I was considering what he’d told me, and trying to judge the truth of the statements and his purpose in revealing them, knowing his tendency to jump to conclusions and cause a deliberate sensation. And Hodson was peering at me, perhaps judging me in his own way, balancing my comprehension and my credulity.