The Frankenstein Papers

by Fred Saberhagen

  "No, hardly," Henry cautiously agreed.

  "Nor, I think, anywhere in Ingolstadt. I think he must be taken to Geneva… or somewhere near there." In ecstasy and agony, he stared at me again. "I must have time to think. To plan."

  "I'll help you," Henry Clerval assured him. Then Henry addressed me boldly, while holding one hand, perhaps unconsciously, near his own pistol. He demanded: "How do you live here? Are you troubling the local peasants? What do you eat?"

  "I sleep here." I pointed to the hollow tree from which my dried leaves had spilled. "I eat—what I can find. Sometimes the people—the peasants—see me, but they always cry out and run away when that happens. I don't try to follow them. Victor, I am—"

  "You are not to call me 'Victor'." Frankenstein said quickly. I believe he shuddered. "By rights it should be 'master', I suppose."

  "Master." I tried the word out on my tongue; French, German, English—in whatever language, I like it not, and did not like it then. Though it is hard now for me to remember just what I was thinking then. Perhaps I was scarcely capable of thought at all, but only dealt with things as they happened in the world around me, and grasped at memories—odd things, mostly fragments that came and went before they could be seized and examined closely. My mind, perhaps, had not yet cleared from the electric trauma of my birth.

  The two young men began to take food from their wallets and put it before me, setting some of it on the ground, as if I were an animal—or some minor deity being offered sacrifice. I was hungry, as always—I fell to and began to eat. Bread, cheese, sausage. The food they provided was better than anything I had yet been able to find in the forest.

  Victor—it was not long before he changed his mind and gave his tacit consent that I should call him that; what closer relationship could two beings have?—Victor, I say, went on pacing and thinking aloud. Soon they had the rudiments of a plan; between them they were starting to work something out.

  I was commanded to stay where I was, by which they meant near the spot where we were presently standing. In a few days they would return, bringing more food, and meet me on a disused road nearby. They would be driving an old carriage, a wagon, some kind of inconspicuous vehicle which they would obtain in the meantime.

  Clerval insisted that someone named Roger would have to be consulted on the scheme—Roger was spoken of, by both of them, with uncertainty and respect. Frankenstein was uncertain about everything, and plainly relieved to have the support of his friends in dealing with his so passionately sought responsibility—that is to say, myself.

  When they had brought the wagon, I would ride concealed in the vehicle while they drove. Somehow I would be taken to Geneva, the city where Victor's family lived and where he could be sure of additional help. Somewhere in the vicinity of Geneva I would lie concealed, while my creator-master and his friend Henry—presumably still in conference with the mysterious Roger—pondered what to do with me next.

  I listened to it all, bemused, uncertain, not knowing what part of the strange world around me I ought to trust, unless it should be this man who said he had created me, and his companions. Rather than listening to the planning so intently, I should have watched their faces, and tried to gauge the depths within their souls. But how could I have done that then?

  In any event, their plan, as I shall relate, was altered drastically.

  Again I find that I must pause in my struggle with these memories. At the same time I must continue writing, to retain a hold on sanity, and on my newly-restored determination to deal with the world around me. I have conquered the white bear…

  Let me relate more of what has happened since I came to be the sole voyager upon this ice-bound ship. Oh yes, it is indeed a voyage that I now endure, and not sheer immobility. The ice is moving. The sounds it makes are proof enough of that, even if it were not possible to see the great cakes sliding and crumbling along the Mary Goode's stout timbered sides. Toward what destiny the ship may be drifting, and how rapidly, are questions I cannot hope to answer while there are no real landmarks to be seen. Only rarely in the midst of this months-long day, darkened only by brief periods of twilight can I even glimpse the stars or moon. And the sun, never moving far from the horizon, is of but little help in determining my location. I can make a rough judgment of south and north, and that is all.

  Have I not already mentioned the circumstances of my first arrival at the ship? It came at the end of a flight of nearly a year, that had begun in Paris when I realized that Franklin was unable to help me, and that my enemies, Frankenstein among them, were closing in on me again.

  From Paris I traveled ever north and east, thinking to lead my pursuers ever farther from the lands with which they were familiar, and in which their wealth and power had their roots. Month after month I fled from them, by coach, on foot, and at last, from the vicinity of Archangel, by dogsled.

  When I came upon the Mary Goode I was staggering on foot over the ice, my dogs long since eaten or drowned. I had abandoned the last platform-portion of my sled when most of my supplies were gone and it would no longer serve me as a raft. In such a plight I came sliding and scrambling toward the ship, because in all the vast white emptiness there was no other goal in sight.

  Exhausted by my long flight, I dragged my hungry, weary body aboard the hulk. Here in this cabin I found lamps, oil, a stove, and wood aplenty. I contrived to start a fire. That done, I pulled the bedding from the captain's bunk and, wrapped in what had once been the captain's blankets, fell into a slumber so intense that it was akin to a swoon.

  How much time I have been asleep since reaching the ship I cannot say, only that most of my time aboard has been spent in that condition. There have been intervals of full wakefulness, in each of which I have been increasingly aware of hunger. Each time I awoke I fed the stove, and melted ice and snow on it to drink. Then I fell into oblivion again, wrapped in furs and blankets. Sometimes on awakening I ate sparingly from the small stock of provisions I still had. Later, somewhat rested, and increasingly aware of my plight, I began to search the ship more or less methodically. I found only frozen crumbs.

  So things stood when the bear came.

  I was sleeping, as usual, on the cabin floor beside the berth, when sleep was broken by an awakening sharper, more sudden, and more complete than any that had preceded it. Hunger was my first thought_that the beginning of starvation had again tipped the balance against exhaustion. For a moment, still wrapped in fur, I lay in the endless twilight, staring up into the gloom of dark planks above my head. The ship creaked around me, with the ponderous, glacial movement of the ice shifting its grip.

  A moment later I was sitting bolt upright, throwing off my furs and blankets. Another moment and I was on my feet. A rhythmic component of the sound had separated itself from the inanimate noises of ice and water—a heavy, padded shuffle on the deck above.

  I was not the only inhabitant of that frozen gloom, nor the only one who hungered fiercely. But that sound emanated from no human agency. Thus I first heard the tread of the white bear.

  Moving swiftly to the cabin door, I made shift to close and block it with such poor materials as were at hand. My effort came none too soon; a hungry snuffling and a heavy scraping soon began outside the door. The keen senses of the beast had led it unerringly to warmth, motion, and potential food.

  On my first arrival, I had noticed a musket leaning in the corner of the cabin, as if it had been set down there by some careless or distracted hand, and then forgotten. I could picture the captain, tormented by the fear of some mad mutiny, and then abandoning his precaution when another danger became more real and pressing. I had supposed, without giving it much thought, that the weapon must be loaded. Whether the powder in the pan might still be dry and ready was something I might have ascertained earlier, but now had no time to try; my slight barricade at the door was already about to fall.

  Gripping the weapon in one hand, I smashed out one of the ice-covered windows in the stern, and made shift to clamber
out and up, quickly gaining the poop deck.

  When I reached the deck I realized that my escape from the cabin had availed me only momentary respite. As always, the eternal icefields stretched away in all directions to an indeterminate horizon. Out there lay only death and desolation. My only chance for life was here aboard the Mary Goode, and I suddenly discovered that life was, in spite of all, all-precious to me.

  The bear, on discovering the cabin empty, and hearing my movements on the deck above, was not long in coming after me. The only delay was the few seconds required for the bulky animal to turn itself around in the cramped quarters below. Then as I had expected, it reappeared on deck. But to my consternation it came up by a different companion-way than the one where I had aimed my musket.

  I swung my aim quickly toward the animal, and pulled the trigger. Almost to my surprise, the musket fired. But I had not aimed accurately enough. The musket-ball, that at point-blank range could have slain the beast instantly, instead tore into the furry neck and shoulder, producing as its only immediate effect a most savage roar. A moment later, the bear had lurched free of the companionway onto the open deck, and with a blow of its paw had knocked my now-useless weapon from my grasp.

  With all my agility I sprang away, just in time to avoid the next sweep of that deadly arm. Leaping to grab the frozen shrouds, I swung myself from line to line, across the ship and back again. I might have climbed one of the masts and got my-self well above the monster's reach; but I perceived at once that such a maneuver would only leave me hopelessly trapped, in a place from whence I must eventually climb down, or fall, or freeze in place if I did not.

  There was nowhere to flee, nor did I wish to. A mad rage was upon me, and I roared as fiercely as did the bear.

  I maneuvered myself above the wheel, and certain crates and other obstacles upon the deck, more quickly than the bear could dance around them, and thus attained the position of advantage that I wanted. Then, giving a howl compounded half of rage and half of despair, I sprang upon the monster from behind. Locking my right forearm under its throat, I gripped my hands together with all my strength, while my legs clamped the great body of the beast between them. With eyes closed I sank my teeth into my adversary's hairy ear, adding the strength of my jaws to that of my arms and legs in the effort to keep my position as the huge body thrashed and rolled and bellowed beneath me.

  The horizon of ice and snow and sky spun round me, and the masts seemed to be toppling together upon my head. Indeed, when the beast rolled over in an effort to dislodge me, I thought that they had done so. Yet still, with the strength of rage and fear combined, I persisted in maintaining my grip.

  The slavering, roaring jaws of the bear were only inches from my face, yet he could not turn the inches necessary to fasten those great teeth into my skull. The four mighty limbs of my enemy worked with pile-driving force, yet almost helplessly, for I remained out of their reach while the claws tore splinters from the mast and deck. I tasted the blood torn by my own teeth from my enemy's flesh, and I gripped the furred body ever harder with both arms and both legs. Again and again I was battered and bruised as the massive weight rolled over me, pounding me against the deck, the rails, I know not what. Fighting for breath, certain at each moment that in the next I must be torn off and devoured, yet I clung on, my whole being concentrated on maintaining my grip, and even tightening it.

  A moment came when the bear roared no longer, because it no longer had the breath to roar. How long the grim contest continued after that I could not tell, only that it was a long time before the struggles of my opponent ceased. A long time later still I dared release my hold. Quivering, gasping, bruised in every fiber of my body, I dragged myself away, and lay for long hazy minutes on the verge of fainting before I could regain my feet.

  Probing the dead carcass with a knife has confirmed my first impression about the musket-ball: The damage done by it was hardly more than superficial. With my teeth, my hands, my arms, the strength of my body, I have slain the white bear.

  No human being could possibly do such a thing. My creator, in some ways, wrought exceedingly well.

  That was the day on which I began this journal. Since then I have feasted on the bear's meat, scorched over the fire in my stove. I have fitted a sheet of clear ice over the cabin window from which I broke the glass in my escape.

  And since my fight with the bear I have looked long into the captain's frozen little mirror. The face that gazes back at me is still smeared with traces of the bear's blood, and is undoubtedly inhuman. But it is no less alive and worthy for all that.

  Whatever the mirror may tell me, whatever answer the universe may hold to the riddle of my existence, I am determined now to remain alive. So much has the bear accomplished for me.

  Chapter 2

  June?1782?

  I have been ill for I know not how many days, and very weak. Tried eating some of the bear's liver, which sickened me.

  Will write more later. It seems to me essential that I keep on with this journal.

  Some time later_Much better today. It appears that I am going to survive the poisoning. The rest of the bear's carcass, which of course is well-preserved by cold, still nourishes me.

  As nearly as I can determine, daylight is still waxing with every cycle which the sun makes round the horizon. My best guess now, as I have written above, is that the present month is June.

  The ship is still moving, drifting, I know not where. Now and again I glimpse patches of open water, clear and dark, amid the shifting hills and cakes of ice. It would seem that my long flight continues, whether I would have it so or not.

  Alas, Frankenstein, are you now really dead? And should I swear vengeance upon Saville and Walton and their men for killing you?—you, who out of all the men and gods on Earth I must call father.

  Is Earth herself my mother, then? No other parents have I, certainly.

  There was a time when I thought my creator might indeed be something like a father to me. A few days after that first daylight meeting between us in the forest near Ingolstadt, he came back to meet me with a covered wagon as promised—though the plan was no longer to drive me to Geneva.

  Clerval again accompanied him, and this time another young man, a few years older than Clerval and Frankenstein, was with them.

  It was my first meeting with Roger Saville. Not that what happened between us can be described as a meeting in any ordinary social sense. Sitting on his horse, his head in that position not a great deal higher than mine as I stood erect before him, Saville took his first good look at me and said something unpleasant. But still, as he studied me for the first time, it was obvious that he was intrigued, deeply interested.

  He was blond and looked British, indolent, and arrogant; and I was sure that when he was forty he would be fat. I am still sure of that, if he should live so long.

  Saville exchanged a few words with the other two men. He did not actually speak to me—I think he spoke not ten words directly to me in all the long weeks of the journey that began that day for both of us.

  I quickly climbed into the back of the wagon, as my creator bade me, and huddled there, more comfortable physically than I had ever been out in the cold and leafless woods. There I rested, under canvas, very nearly out of sight of the world, while the three men sat in a row on the front seat, driving the wagon and talking among themselves. There were spare horses—perhaps they were even English horses, the best available—hitched to the rear of the wagon, and weighty supplies of provisions stacked around me. It was obvious that an extended journey of some kind was contemplated.

  I began to open containers, and to sample some of those foodstuffs as we rode. Meanwhile, up front, oblivious to my actions, Saville wanted the others to make sure that I understood I was forbidden the more expensive viands; I think he was a little disappointed that Frankenstein could not assure him that I would be content to share the horses rations. English horses or not, I did not think that I could go that far to accommodate him.
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  We were headed west—I had a good idea of directions—and soon I had heard enough to know that we were not going to Geneva. The first destination I heard mentioned, as one that my proprietors had firmly in mind, was Strasbourg. Once there we would get a boat and descend the Rhine. But why descend the Rhine? It remained for some time, like almost everything else, mysterious to me.

  I knew somehow, in a general way, where Strasbourg was. Had I ever been there? But the mists of memory, or rather the mists that shrouded memory, were even thicker then than they are now.

  From scraps of overheard conversation I began to learn of my origins. Victor Frankenstein had not created me from nothing, or from the dust of the earth. He had employed graverobbers to bring him his materials.

  "… and still no word of Karl," Clerval was saying to Frankenstein, "since the night of your success."

  "Got the wind up, I suppose." Saville was more at ease talking English, and the others generally accommodated him. "Back in his village with a blanket pulled over his head, or whatever they use for blankets."

  They talked a little longer on the subject, and I soon gathered that Karl had been Victor's assistant, or one of his assistants, responsible; along with another man called Metzger, for supplying the philosopher with the material he had needed for his experiments. Dead flesh. Corpses. I looked down at the skin of my arms. Me.

  I soon lost count of the days as we went driving across Germany, on one road and then another, keeping mostly to the lesser-traveled ways. All their waking hours the men talked and argued. It was almost as if I were not present, as far as their conversation was concerned.

  As a rule I emerged from my hiding-place in the rear of the wagon only after darkness fell, and we frequented out-of-the-way stopping places rather than inns or hostels. The men saw to their own cooking and to mine. This was not a measure of economy; already I had heard enough of this and that to realize that Saville at least must be immensely wealthy. Rather, the goal was secrecy; no menials were to know of my existence.