Dr. Frankenstein's Daughters

by Suzanne Weyn

  “Not at first, but eventually you would.”

  “And it’s not because you have fallen in love with Giselle?” I had to know.

  He pulled back to scrutinize me with disbelief. “Your agitated sister?”

  “Don’t you think her beautiful?”

  “Yes, I do. Incredibly beautiful.”

  My heart sank.

  “But the two of you are identical,” Walter added.

  “She is the radiant, attractive one. I am a duck to her swan.”

  At this, Walter threw his head back, erupting with laughter. It was the first time I had ever heard this wonderful sound. “You are the one who radiates intelligence and warmth. You are her equal in beauty, but it is your inner being that makes you so precious to me.”

  “I am precious to you?” I asked softly, just to hear him affirm it.

  He pulled me even closer. “So precious, you can’t imagine.”

  “And you no longer think your love is selfish?” I asked hopefully.

  He smiled sadly. “Not at all. I know it is selfish of me.”

  “Then what has changed?”

  “I have given in to the truth.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “I am a selfish man.”

  Pressing against him, I held him tight, saying nothing more. I was too filled with happiness to speak.

  “Things must stay as they are,” he warned me. “Know that I love you, but there can be no life together. It’s not right.”

  I rested my head on his shoulder. It was blissful to be so close. “Knowing you love me is enough for now,” I said honestly.

  Turning, he kissed my cheek and let his head rest against mine. We sat there in loving togetherness until he drifted off to sleep. Disentangling slowly, I left him there to nap.

  Oh, Walter! My Walter! I thank the heavens for your “selfishness.” You love me! This night I am the happiest young woman alive!

  July 20, 1815

  I have been spending countless hours down in the laboratory reading the new set of albums I found down here, almost without pause. No one could blame me for the breathless fascination I bring to this endeavor. The information contained in these large volumes is beyond belief.

  Victor Frankenstein succeeded in creating a real human being … and in these albums, he tells exactly how he did it. Exactly! Every step is recorded in minute detail.

  All his feelings of triumph are summed up in one hastily penned, exalted scrawl: IT’S ALIVE!!!!

  I still have not discovered what brought him here nearly six years later. I can only assume it was to continue his work. I will keep reading in search of this answer.

  There is another reason beyond fascination and curiosity why I need to master the information here. Things are not going well for Walter. These past several days his condition has worsened and he hardly gets out of bed. He is in tremendous pain. How my heart aches to see him so. I have asked Mrs. Flett for various herbal remedies I have seen her dispense to the workmen. Walter tries them but they help only a little.

  Walter says he has a doctor on the mainland of Scotland. He plans to go see him soon. I don’t see how he can accomplish this if his condition does not improve.

  I am convinced that these albums hold the key to grafting new body parts to him. If my father could build an entire human, would it not be possible to graft on a new leg or replace a withered hand? New tree limbs from other varieties are connected to existing trees. If Victor Frankenstein could reawaken dead nerve endings with a bolt of lightning, why not bring them to life with the more controllable buzz of a voltaic battery?

  In one of Anthony’s volumes, I have found reference to the ancient Asian practice of acupuncture. I keep thinking of Sarlandière’s work, which Investigator Cairo told me about — combining acupuncture with electricity. Electropuncture. I am resolved to write Anthony to see if he can find a set of acupuncture needles for me.

  My father’s legacy must continue.

  FROM THE DIARY OF

  BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN

  July 20, 1815

  Dear Diary, these days I am haunting the harbor, awaiting all the supplies I have ordered: linen napkins, tablecloths, china, glasses, silverware. And the food must be exquisite, so I have commissioned multiple food shipments: quail eggs; caviar from Normandy and cheeses from Paris; Champagne; scones from Aberdeen; jams and jellies from Glasgow; smoked herring from Amsterdam to complement our own local oysters. Oh, the list is endless. It’s so nice to have such a supply of money!

  When the mail boat arrived, the captain handed me a bundle of letters tied together, and it was all I could do to keep from ripping them open there and then, since I could see that they were responses to my invitations. There were no further packages, so I headed back up the dock.

  I saw one of the men who deliver food in the morning sitting in his wagon. “Deliver your packages for you?” he offered, and I knew this meant he would do it for a fee and not out of friendliness.

  “No packages today, thank you,” I declined, hardly looking up from the bundle of envelopes I was perusing.

  “Give you a ride?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.” It was a lovely day and I preferred to walk.

  The man grumbled under his breath, and I turned to look at him. It sounded like “Damn foreigner,” though I still get confused by the heavy Orkneyan dialect.

  “Excuse me?” I challenged him. “Did you say something?”

  “Too good to take a ride in my wagon?” he sneered.

  That he said clearly enough, making sure I would understand.

  I felt like telling him that maybe I was too good for it, especially if he was going to be so hostile. I forbore, though, and instead ignored him.

  I was halfway up the winding road to the castle when I could stand the suspense no longer and settled on one of the stone walls bouldering the side of the road. It was a quiet spot, and I thought it a good place to sit and cut open my party responses using the steel letter opener I’d brought in my skirt pocket for just such a purpose. I was busy splitting open envelopes and sorting them into piles of yes and no when the same carriage driver pulled up alongside me.

  He came upon me so quietly that I startled and fell forward, slipping from my rock perch to my knees. Looking up from where I’d fallen, I saw the man standing over me, reaching down for me.

  I had the strong sensation that I didn’t want to touch his hands, so I scrambled to my feet on my own. Not wanting to hear any more of his nastiness, I hurried away.

  After about ten minutes, Uncle Ernest came up the road behind me. “I’m so glad to see you, Uncle,” I said. “A man nearly ran me off the road with his wagon. Did you see him?”

  “No. Did you recognize him?”

  “I think he delivers milk and cheese to Mrs. Flett in the mornings.”

  “Are you all right?” he inquired.

  “I fell down.”

  “You’ve scraped yourself,” he said, observing the blood on my hands. “You must have done it when you fell.”

  I noticed that there was blood splattered on my envelopes too. I had clutched them too quickly after I’d picked myself up. When I tried to rub the blood off, it only smeared.

  I don’t know why I’m even bothering to tell you all this, Diary. It’s just that I wonder why some of the men on this island are so rough and unpleasant. I am very happy that people of a more refined, educated caliber will be arriving here soon. Perhaps there is a way to convince them to stay and build homes here so that we could have neighbors who aren’t as desolate as the ones we do have.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF

  INGRID VDW FRANKENSTEIN

  July 23, 1815

  Good news! Walter has improved greatly. When I went to see him yesterday he was up and sitting. “Do you think Mrs. Flett’s remedies have helped?” I inquired, taking his hand as I sat beside him.

  He shook his head. “Not really. My illness has its cycles and this last one has run its course. I
’ll be much improved until it flares again.”

  “Maybe it won’t flare again,” I suggested hopefully.

  Drawing me to him, he kissed my lips. My eyes shut as I floated in the utter bliss of his touch.

  “Maybe it won’t flare again,” he said softly. But I could tell from his glum, wistful tone that the statement was more a hopeful dream than something he really believed possible.

  “Ingrid, I am going away for a short while. I don’t want you to worry. I feel well enough for a trip to see my doctor. His office is in Inverness. It’s not very far.”

  “Shall I go with you?” I offered.

  “No. It is more restful for me not to keep up conversation. And this treatment will require me to be away from you. I would worry.”

  I leaned my head against his arm. “All right. I’ll miss you.”

  “And I you.”

  “Will this treatment help you greatly?” I asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  At that moment it dawned on me that, in the back of my mind, I’ve been harboring the hope that the power of my love might be enough to cure him. And, in a way, it could be possible. My love can cure him. But not without effort, as I’ve been hoping. The mere fact that I love Walter with all my heart and soul will not be enough. It’s time to kick my lazy mind into action. I’m the daughter of a scientific genius. It’s time I began acting as such.

  August 3

  Yesterday I fell asleep down in the laboratory. For the last ten days I have almost lived down here, searching my father’s writings for the key to helping Walter. Giselle and Uncle Ernest worry about me so I appear at the castle only long enough to eat and assure them I am still alive. I want to use this time while Walter is away to the best advantage.

  Hopefully he is all right and benefitting from his doctor’s treatment. He had so little faith in the outcome, though. I have become obsessed with his cure.

  Where do I start? Do I replace his injured parts? Do I run current through his body to recharge his nerves? Would this be a permanent fix or a temporary remedy that needed constant repetition? And if it required repeating, would his body be able to withstand it? Could he withstand the treatments even once?

  How I anguish over these things! I pull at my hair as I read volume after volume searching for the key. The key! I relive my dream where Anthony tells me I need the key.

  Dr. Sarlandière has not yet replied to the party invitation I had Giselle send. How I pray he comes! More and more I suspect that his work is relevant to my cause.

  August 10

  Walter has not returned. After ten days I went to check on him. The woman who cares for him was there cleaning and tending the horse. She complained that she had not heard from him or been paid. I gave her what money I had in my bag and asked that she let me know the minute she hears from him.

  I have been working tirelessly, reading and taking notes until my eyes burn. I try not to worry about Walter, but it isn’t easy.

  Today I fell asleep in a chair down in the lab with another of my father’s albums still opened on my lap. When I awoke, I saw that the light was not quite so dazzling as it had been earlier. This did not tell me exactly how late it was, only that it was sometime in the evening. It is unsettling to live in a place where darkness never comes and the restorative quiet of the night is lost.

  Longing for fresh air, I climbed the tall ladder up into the hovel and stepped out onto the rocky, windswept island. Immediately I was alert to the white sails of a boat out on the ocean. There is a distinctive pendant on the top of the vessel that I recognized as Walter’s — he has returned!

  How my heart exploded with relief and happiness! But why hadn’t he sent word that he was home?

  I made my way to the edge of rock overlooking the ocean. There I sat and watched him for a while. He kept coming nearer and his horse was on the beach so I assumed he might be coming in.

  Restless, I began to wander the island. Random thoughts floated through my head as I listened to the call of the seabirds, the crash of the surf, and the roar of the wind.

  Is it possible that my father’s malevolent nemesis had returned? Are Giselle and I in peril? If he is indeed back, can he be stopped? Reasoned with? Is this nemesis such a fiend that he still seeks vengeance even though my father is now dead?

  It was while walking along lost in thoughts of this kind that my eyes fell upon what I at first took to be a large, smooth, moss-covered stone. Or was it a very big bird’s egg covered in seaweed? I wasn’t sure what a puffin’s egg looked like, though the birds were very common on these craggy cliffs.

  It bobbed there, hitting the rocky edge of the island as the waves bounced it again and again against the stones. Curious, I squatted by the water and reached for it with my two hands.

  No sooner did I have it in my grip than I screeched in horror at its slimy texture and hurled it inland onto the stones. It hit with a sickening plop before turning over once.

  I couldn’t bear to look at it. Desperate to erase the sensation of slippery softness from my palms, I scrubbed them against my skirt. My fingers had sunk right into its top layer into something nauseatingly gelatinous below.

  Slowly, though, curiosity got the better of me and I turned toward it.

  At first I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing, but within seconds I made sense of the distorted thing lying there.

  It was a human head! Waterlogged! Wrapped in long black hair! Its eyes were milky white, but its features were recognizable.

  Screaming with terror, I realized it was Giselle’s head!

  I screamed. Screamed and screamed at the awful sight. I howled with horror until the rock under me seemed to spin and the blue of the sky was mixed with the brown-black of the rocks in a swirling vortex.

  When I awoke from my faint, Walter was sitting beside me. The bow of his boat had been pulled up on the rocks. My head rested on his knee and he held my wrist, his thumb pressed on my pulse.

  “Walter!” I cried, disoriented and surprised to see him.

  “I saw you collapse. I came to see if you were all right.”

  The horrid image of the head rushed back, causing me to tremble. “Did you see it, Walter?” I shouted as hysteria began to climb within me once more. “Giselle is dead!”

  “No! No!” he said soothingly, holding me tight while I buried my face in his shoulder. “It can’t be Giselle. When did you last see her?”

  “This morning.”

  “That head has been in the water a long time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I’ve seen dead soldiers retrieved from the water. I know what they look like in varying stages of decay. That head might have been in a case or a bag originally, which would preserve it a while longer than if the fish were nibbling at it.”

  That made sense. Though even despite its half-rotted state, the grotesque visage bore a striking resemblance to Giselle. And to me. It was as if gazing upon my own dead self staring luridly back at me from the grave.

  Horrible! Horrible …

  “Who could it be?” I wondered.

  “I don’t know.” Walter rocked me softly for a few more minutes with his good left arm as I clutched his shirt. In a while, I was sufficiently composed to notice that he had acquired a wooden lower leg. It was the kind one saw in drawings of pirates.

  He noticed me gazing at it, aghast. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he commented. Though his tone was light, he didn’t smile.

  “This was the treatment you underwent?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Does it help you walk?” I asked.

  “It does. Though my knee aches fiercely and I still need a cane.”

  “What should we do with the head?” I asked.

  He held up a white cotton bag about the size of a pillowcase with a drawstring at one end. “I took this from my boat supply kit.”

  I cringed at the idea of touching it again. “I couldn’t.”

  “I’ll do it.” With great
difficulty, he got to his feet and hobbled over to the head. He used his cane to work it into the bag and then drew the cord shut. “Who would throw a dismembered body into the ocean?” he wondered. “Someone might have been trying to cover up the trail of a murder.”

  “If I showed you something, do you swear you won’t talk to anyone about it?”

  “Who would I talk to? I hardly speak to anyone but you anyway.”

  “Swear?”

  “I would raise my right hand, but I can’t. Yes, I swear.”

  Now that I was calmer, I noticed that something about the tone of his voice had changed. His words sounded as though they were somehow impeded, stifled. In the sunlight I could see what looked like a stiffening of the skin that ran up the right side of his face from jaw to cheekbone. Too concerned to be shy, I ran my hand along his cheek. “What’s happened there?”

  He gazed out to the ocean a moment. “Just another of the joys brought on by my illness.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “It’s difficult to move my jaw and my tongue. Never mind about it. What is it I just swore not to tell?”

  “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  He slowly followed me to the shed and left the sack by the door. He was amazed when I showed him the hatch leading down to the laboratory.

  He was even more thunderstruck when I explained what was down there.

  “I’ve heard rumors about Castle Frankenstein,” he said when I was through. “It was what I was alluding to the first time we met. I never dreamed there could be a fully equipped scientific laboratory down there.”

  “It’s true. There is.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Can you manage to descend that ladder?” I asked.

  “I think I could get down, though getting back up will be more difficult.”

  “That’s all right. There’s another way out, if you don’t mind tunnels.”

  “I’m all right with tunnels,” Walter assured me. “I’d better go first. If I fall, I don’t want to knock you off the ladder.”