“I am aware of the function of a name,” the Monster said, shifting his weight, his shoulder dropping slightly out of socket. He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he continued, “Mary Shelley once called me Adam, but I believe it was meant as ridicule.”
“Who’s Mary Shelley?” Charlie asked, wondering if she might have been his mother.
“M-M-Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (née Godwin), 1797 to 1851,” Rohmetall announced. “Author. Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus . . .”
“Shut up with all that claptrap,” the Monster snapped.
Charlie looked up at the Monster. “So it’s true?”
“Is what true?”
“Frankenstein . . . the story,” Charlie said, thinking that Old Joe would be thrilled.
“True?” the Monster said. “Perhaps inspired is more accurate. Shelley was a writer of her time, and there were stories—rumors, really—in the hills where she vacationed, so she wrote about them—”
“Like ghost stories,” Charlie interrupted.
“Not ghosts, quite the opposite,” the Monster said. “Stories of a living creature assembled by a madman’s profane fingers; dissecting rooms, slaughter and charnel houses were said to have furnished its gruesome materials. So this Mary Shelley took the tale and then embellished it, as most writers do. But true? I suppose to some degree. I am here, am I not?”
The Monster turned to Charlie.
“A name, you ask? Who is to know all the names that provided the sum of my many parts? Too many to recall and too long ago . . .”
“We could make one up,” Charlie said. “You have to have some name that you like.”
“It is odd for a person to pick his own name. Besides, who is to use it once you are gone? The Prime Minister?” the Monster asked, hooking a disjointed thumb to the steam man. “Herr Rohmetall there?”
Charlie thought about it for a minute.
“What about Frank? I could call you Frank . . .”
“Frank?”
Charlie smiled. “Yeah, get it? Frank N. Stein.”
The Monster did not look amused, but for a split second, Charlie thought he saw something in his dark, empty eyes—a flicker appeared for the briefest of moments.
“Frank. No, not Frank . . . Franklin, perhaps,” the Monster said, stoking the coals with the tip of his long knife. “I doubt it will stick, but I have always been fond of that name.”
“I like Franklin,” the boy said. “Reminds me of Benjamin Franklin. You know, the kite and lightning? He was an inventor and a statesman, just like you.”
“If it pleases you, then, and if it will put an end to this tedious conversation, you may call me Franklin.”
The Monster seemed generally amused with himself.
“As for a last name,” the Monster continued, looking back to Rohmetall, “how does Prometheus sound?”
“Franklin Prometheus,” Charlie announced.
“I said that in jest.”
“Prometheus,” Rohmetall recited, “a Titan. Credited in ancient Greek mythology for his aid toward mankind. Some say man-man-mankind was his creation. Also credited for . . . the gift of f-f-fire.”
Rohmetall rotated his head to Charlie.
“In reference to the title of the 1818 Mary Shelley novel Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus, Shelley considered Prometheus a devil responsible for bringing fire to earth-earth, which led to the cooking of animal flesh or meat, which is said to have led to the downfall of man.”
As if to emphasize the point, the skewered venison dripped hissing on the coals.
“Enough,” Franklin growled.
“No-no-notable quote from the novel, the Monster to Herr Frankenstein, ‘My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment.’”
“Acorns and berries?” Franklin huffed, turning the meat from the flame. “What did I tell you about that story? Like to see ol’ Mary survive on acorns and berries in this place.”
“Franklin,” Charlie said again. “Franklin Prometheus!”
“And now that this pressing issue has been resolved, can we please see to dinner?” Franklin Prometheus said. Ringo barked with approval.
They began their meal, and Franklin was right: The food tasted much better over the open fire. They ate the venison and dug into a sack of turnips from the cart. After dinner, Rohmetall brought out bedding, and Charlie laid his blankets next to the fire.
“The book,” Franklin said, handing him a lit lantern.
So Charlie settled in beside the blaze and went over his studies by the lantern light. He searched the tome for more on Prometheus but found little else, save for the section about the monstrous eagle that ripped out the Titan’s liver daily, only to have it grow back again—his punishment for giving man fire.
Charlie lay by the fire, listening to the crackling flames and the humming howls from the trees, thinking how grateful he was for Prometheus’s gift and sacrifice.
— chapter 19 —
The Monster’s Rage
CHARLIE WOKE UP from a troubled sleep. It was the dream again, the desolate place with its vast emptiness, the jagged rocks and blowing sand. But this time there were no birds; this time there was no Billy. He sat up and looked around the camp, finding Rohmetall slouched down on a boulder near the horses. The lantern was out and the fire had settled down to glowing hot embers.
“Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper is awake,” Rohmetall said, suddenly at attention.
Charlie pushed Ringo off his bedding and climbed out into the cold night air. “Yes, just need to visit the trees.”
“Charlie Cooper visits-visits the trees.”
Leaving Rohmetall, Charlie wandered to the edge of the firelight and peered up at the moon, which drifted lazily behind a veil of black clouds. The night’s cries were thick in the air around him, until a horrible roar that pounded like thunder abruptly interrupted the growing murmur. The roar was followed by a wailing moan that sent shivers down Charlie’s spine. He turned to run back to the campfire but stopped himself. Every part of him wanted to leave, but once again, his curiosity got the better of him. Charlie ventured forward, counting his steps until he was perched on a rock overlooking a lower tree-lined bowl. It was almost like an amphitheater and there in the moonlight, center stage, he saw Franklin.
The Monster clung to a large tree. Shaking it to its very roots, he was ripping the trunk from the ground. With unharnessed rage, he flung the tree across the clearing, and then turned his attention to a boulder, which he lifted and hurled, smashing it against the other rocks. There were more trees and more boulders, and this continued until he dropped to his knees, raised his head to the moon, and let out a howl that again sent shivers up Charlie’s spine. Then Franklin fell back and clawed at his chest, his cry growing to the terrible roar that Charlie first heard in the tavern.
Charlie had seen enough. He ran stumbling through the woods back to camp, where Rohmetall was calming the horses. They stamped in place, shaken by the Monster’s furious display. Ringo was whimpering at the metal man’s feet.
“Charlie Cooper has returned from his visit to the trees-trees.”
Rohmetall appeared calm, almost oblivious to the Monster’s cries that echoed in the forest around them.
“Yes, it’s me,” Charlie said, climbing into his bedding. He flinched when another ghastly roar boomed from the trees.
“Do not concern yourself, Ch-Ch-Charlie Cooper. According to Mrs. Winthrope, this is how the Monster cleanses his rage,” Rohmetall said blankly. “His anger at the world and the horrors of his past that tor-torment him.”
Charlie was silent. He lay back while the outburst continued, thinking about what it would be like to go through life without ever having a name. Without ever needing a name because there was no one to use it. What it
must have been like to be that isolated, that lonely. Charlie knew he felt lonely sometimes, but there was always someone around, someone who knew his name, at least.
He turned the thought over in his mind, letting the next roar bring some comfort in this frightening place. What would dare attack them with such a beast in their presence? He fell asleep again listening to the anguished cries of his protector. He hoped that the Monster, now named Franklin Prometheus, could find some peace someday, but was also glad that he had found an outlet, as Charlie did not wish for it to be him.
— chapter 20 —
The Lester Mortlocks of the World
THEY RODE FOR the next three days, climbing higher and higher into the mountains. The road became narrow, winding up rocky passes and down into heavily forested valleys. The travel was good, but late on that afternoon of the third day Charlie felt an eerie presence, as if they were being watched. Franklin must have sensed it too, as he studied the trees that lined the trail with more diligence than he had for the past two days. Ringo was also uneasy. On narrow stone passes or under the dark canopy of the great trees, the dog barked at movement that no one else could see.
With the trees behind them, they soon approached a traveler on foot in an open meadow. The traveler wore a hood that hid his face from full view.
“Nice day for a wander, I’d say,” he said in a voice that was hoarse and cracked.
Franklin continued without reply, so the traveler gave Charlie a wave as he passed.
“It is a nice day,” Charlie said, returning the gesture.
The traveler looked up, revealing his face, which broke into a craggy smile. Charlie could clearly see an X branded onto the side of his pockmarked cheek.
“Yes, it is. Safe travels to you. Safe travels to you all,” the stranger replied, watching as they rode away.
“To you-you-you too, sir,” Rohmetall added, drawing a glare from Franklin, which made Charlie laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Franklin barked.
“Nothing,” Charlie said, clearing the chuckle in his throat. “Nothing at all—”
“Well, mind the horse there, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Charlie felt good, he thought. Better than he had in days, weeks, maybe a year. He wasn’t sure if it was Franklin and Rohmetall’s ongoing back-and-forth, or the pleasant weather, or if it was just the feeling that he was doing something important. Their little group was well on their way, and he was finally going to find Billy.
They left the man standing in the meadow and continued up over the rise of a small hill that was covered in wildflowers. But on the way down the other side, the solid path turned to loose gravel, making the horses slip as they trotted along. Rohmetall pulled on the cart’s brake, but instead of stopping, it skidded off the road, hitting a boulder that was hidden in a patch of mountain daisies. Franklin quickly turned his Clydesdale, caught the harness of the cart horse, and forced the entire rig to a stop.
“Charlie. Dismount and hold the reins.”
Charlie did as he was told. Rohmetall set the brake and climbed down from the cart.
“May I be of service, F-F-Franklin Prometheus?”
“No, you’ve done quite enough,” Franklin growled. He crouched down on one knee and ran his hand along the edge of the wheel, inspecting the damage. “Lost the rim, but it can be fixed.”
“May I be of ser-ser-service?” Rohmetall inquired a second time.
“Yes,” Franklin sighed. “Take the horses and go find water.”
Rohmetall turned to unhitch the cart horse.
“Charlie. You stay here,” Franklin ordered, looking over his shoulder at the boy.
Once more, Charlie did as he was told and sat on the hill in the wildflowers, watching Rohmetall lead the horses to a stream at the edge of the meadow. In no time at all, Franklin had the cart propped up on a stack of rocks as high as the loose gravel would allow; with the wheel in hand, he hammered the clamps in place.
“Come here, boy,” Franklin said.
Following Ringo, Charlie ran down and stood next to the Monster.
“The wheel, put it in place,” Franklin instructed. From one knee, he rested the cart on his shoulder. “When I stand . . . ready . . .”
Franklin stood, lifting the cart and all the provisions.
“Now, Charlie.”
Charlie struggled with the wheel; he tried to pick it up but could only bring it a few inches from the road.
“The wheel, Charlie,” Franklin repeated.
“I’m trying!” Charlie gasped, doing his best to lift the heavy wheel again, but it barely moved.
Suddenly, a shadow cast over them. With the weight of the cart bearing down on him, Franklin twisted to look behind him. “Who’s there?” he called. Ringo barked.
“Here, allow me to give you a hand,” a raspy voice replied. It was the traveler from the road. He knelt beside Charlie, lifted the wheel, and slid it onto the axle with ease. “Ah, there, tighten her up, and with a little goose grease, good as new.”
Franklin set the cart down and stood towering over the man. He shook out his lumbering arms and brushed his hands on his heavy trousers.
“I am sure we could have managed,” Franklin said.
At the sight of Franklin’s gruesome features, the traveler began to turn away but caught himself and looked straight at the figure above him.
“Ah, yes. I see now that you could have. A strong man, a strong man, to be sure.” The traveler moved uneasily, a hint of apprehension in his eyes. “Well, yes. There’s a stream ahead, the water’s not bad. I could give you a hand with the cart.”
Franklin looked back up the hill behind them.
“Oh, but my help? What would a strong man like you need with my help?” the traveler added, walking quickly ahead down the slope.
“Charlie, in the cart,” Franklin ordered abruptly, stepping away from the wheel.
Charlie looked back over the hill at the tall flowers. They swayed in the late-afternoon breeze in shimmering waves across the meadow.
“Only a bit farther . . . the stream, that is,” the traveler called back to them.
“Where’s he going?” Charlie said.
“The cart, boy, now,” Franklin repeated, glaring uphill.
Charlie ran to the cart as Franklin reached under the tarp and pulled out a heavy club. Behind them, at the crest of the hill, Charlie saw the first of the ogres appear.
It was about Franklin’s size but rounder in the middle. Its meaty head was bald and caught glints of the sun as it slowly lumbered forward. Two more of similar build followed close behind, spread out in a clumsy formation.
From his place beside the cart, Charlie looked ahead toward the stream. He could see the traveler was running away from them, down toward some boulders below.
“Sorry about this! Just business!” the traveler yelled back. “Now, you ignorant beasts, now!”
At this, Rohmetall abandoned the horses and went after the traveler, just as more ogres appeared from the trees behind him. Charlie reached for his sword with a shaking hand, but Franklin stopped him.
“We will be fine, if you promise to do what I say,” Franklin said, swooping down to pick up the boy.
“I promise.”
“What have you learned from your studies?”
“They’re ogres, right?” Charlie was breathing heavily. “The book said that they are slow and dim-witted . . .”
“Aye, ogres, slow and dim-witted,” Franklin said, setting Charlie down in the cart. “Remember, the more you can learn about what frightens you, the less you have to fear. Now, let’s see that justice finds these ogres and this malicious Samaritan.”
The ogres grew closer, bumbling toward them with unexpected speed. Franklin stepped away from the cart, preparing himself for their attack. He lifted the hea
vy club over his head and roared as he brought it back down to earth with incredible force. Charlie felt the cart shake.
Franklin greeted the first ogre with a forceful blow to its sagging belly. The ogre bent over and rolled down the hill, howling past Charlie. Ringo ran after it baring his teeth. The second ogre took a hit squarely to its head, collapsing on the spot, while the third tripped over its own feet and somersaulted sideways toward the tree line.
Franklin turned back to the cart, a faint smile on his face. “See, Charlie, slow and dim-witted.” He picked Charlie up and threw him onto his shoulders. “Hold on tight.”
Charlie did, and they ran down the hill toward the stream so fast that tears welled in his eyes.
“Rohmetall,” Franklin called, setting Charlie down by the boulders at the bottom and gripping the club in both hands.
Rohmetall cocked his head. He was holding the traveler by the scruff of his neck. “Ogre. Ogres. Of French origin. Danger level for . . .”
“Enough of that; secure the boy now!”
“Securing. Securing,” Rohmetall responded, dragging the pleading traveler behind him as he moved to protect Charlie. Then he shouted, “Ogres! Ogres!” when more ogres appeared from behind the rocks.
Charlie spun around clumsily, trying to pull the sword from its scabbard to face them.
“No, Charlie, not now!” Franklin growled, bringing his club down on the first ogre he could reach. “Remember your promise and do as I say!”
The other ogres turned their attention to Franklin, stumbling over to surround the Monster. Franklin just stood there calmly, shifting the giant club in his hands. Charlie stepped back behind Rohmetall, but found he was more scared for the Monster than for himself.
“Stupid, pathetic creatures. You will pay for the unfortunate company you keep,” Franklin bellowed, slamming the club down on the ground again. Letting loose a mighty roar, he set upon the ogres with such fury that Charlie jumped back with a start. One after another, the Monster knocked them to the ground. But two ogres managed to get past him; one wrestled the club from Franklin’s hand while the other locked the Monster’s torso in its powerful arms. The second ogre lifted Franklin off his feet and spun him toward the stream. Charlie could see the sutures along Franklin’s neck ripping under the strain and gasped, wishing he could help him. But the Monster fought to get his feet back to the ground, where he was able to throw the ogre over his shoulder.
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