The Frankenstein Papers

by Fred Saberhagen

  "Now," I insisted. "Now, or never."

  "I cannot."

  Without another word I departed. In the space of a few minutes I had picked up Freeman's letter to his father, and had deposited it at the gatekeeper's lodge. I left it there in the middle of a stack of other outgoing communications, where no literate person will cast eyes upon its address, or pay the least attention to it, until it is far from that estate.

  Then I returned again to Freeman's room. I tried to move cautiously, but something, perhaps my continued scrambling around on the outside of the house, or the noise I had made in breaking the bars on the laboratory window, had already given us away. Saville's household had been quietly alerted. An ambush had been set.

  The timing with which the trap was sprung was excellent. Scarcely had I reentered Freeman's room than the door burst open—if he had locked it, it had been silently and almost immediately unlocked from outside—and our enemies, armed, burst in upon us. Saville himself was in the center of the doorway, with Walton on his right hand and Small on his left. A crowd of armed footmen were gathered at his back.

  Trusting that Saville still did not wish me dead, I ignored the deafening shouts for my surrender, and the firearms that were leveled at me. Immediately I lunged for the window and scrambled back out onto the roof. No shots were fired.

  Freeman, who had been caught too far from the windows to attempt such an escape, reacted with remarkable quickness of wit. He staggered and fell, away from me, as if I had thrown him to the floor. Then, pointing after me with a quivering arm, he immediately set up a cry of alarm. The impression was conveyed that I had been attacking him, and that he was glad to see our host and his armed retainers break in. Meanwhile he gave me to understand with a wink that I should not take all this too seriously.

  I, crouched once more on the narrow ledge just outside the window, hesitated, ready to spring either direction.

  Small aimed a firearm at the window where I was, and again cried for me to surrender, but he did not fire when I ignored him. Walton and Saville were shouting at me simultaneously, and I could not distinguish the words of either one. Mrs. Saville's face had now appeared in the bedroom doorway behind them, and I could see that she too was armed with a pistol.

  Freeman, who had scrambled to his feet now and was talking excitedly to the others, was in no immediate danger. Also I wanted firmer footing, so I abandoned my precarious post outside the window and moved away across the roof. The rain had stopped at last, but the roof tiles were slippery. Lights below me caught my eyes; down there in the grounds were more men, what looked like a small army of footmen and others, all equipped with torches and clubs, and controlling unhappy dogs.

  I climbed carefully up one gable, then slid down a new slope slowly, looking the situation over, whilst the crowd of footmen rushed around a wing of the house to get below me again. I wondered what would happen if I were to leap down among them, and came to the conclusion that they would probably jump out of my way, and I would break a leg. Besides, I was not yet ready to leave Freeman.

  Once more I moved; once more the roof sloped up before me, then angled down again. People inside the house were running from window to window, trying to keep me in sight. With all the wings, gables, and angles that the house possessed it was a fairly even game.

  We reached a temporary stalemate at last. I could still be seen from below, but thought my back was relatively secure. Walton, leaning out a window a few yards below me and in front of me, began a determined effort to keep me talking, my attention fixed on him. I suspected the plan called for others to use the opportunity to sneak up on me from behind and somehow capture me alive.

  Mrs. Saville, her lovely figure framed in another window beside Walton's, tried, or pretended to try, to make peace among us all, though she could not keep the anger out of her voice. We all of us ignored her, which I suppose fueled her rage.

  Captain Walton, ready to dazzle me with his wit and erudition, freely admitted that he had somewhat abused his poetic license in the creation of that notorious book.

  I said: "I do not approve of my memoirs, as you have created them for me."

  "You are of course free to compose your own."

  That was said, naturally, in perfect, serene confidence that I should never be able to do anything of the kind.

  "I intend doing so."

  He took it well. Such a statement, from me, could make no impression on him, really. "I should imagine that the effort will bring you to a better appreciation of what I have done. Even if you die tonight, as you seem determined to do, people are going to remember you because of me. What I have written of you."

  "Indeed."

  "I even went out of my way to add a touch of sympathy to your character_and a touch of intelligence and elegance."

  Saville, who had been out of my sight for a while, had now evidently given what he considered the necessary orders to his footmen. He came forward, in the next window over, as if he had been attending to me all the time, and picked up the conversation. He seconded what Walton had said. Saville was rather proud of the book too, and regretted that it had to be put forward as a fiction.

  It was at about this time that I realized that some time had passed since I had seen Small. Obviously he would be busy, probably behind me somewhere. But doing what? My back was against a wall, and the roof above that would be exceedingly difficult, I thought, for any mere human to clamber about on.

  "Then," I asked Saville, "you think that readers are not really likely to believe it?"

  "More of 'em will read it, since we called it fiction. As to belief, perhaps. Perhaps not. Matters are never that simple where books are concerned." Saville sighed. "I genuinely regret," he added, "not being able to keep a closer control over the writing and editing. But then, one cannot do everything. There is never time."

  More faces and guns, in yet another window. There was Freeman, looking rather grim. Still I might have got away, as I thought, fairly easily, a feint in one direction, a quick scramble in the other. None of these people were really aware as yet of how quickly I could move. But I continued to feel a reluctance to abandon Freeman, who I was sure could seal his father's loyalty to me. His pretence of enmity towards me had been well performed, but I was not convinced that all of the audience had been thoroughly taken in. Once I was gone, temporarily out of their reach again, they would have time for some leisurely discussion among themselves, and Freeman, now being ignored, might not fare so well.

  A new factor entered the equation, a new face appeared at the window beside Saville. Our noise had been enough to disturb even Victor Frankenstein in his eyrie; or else Saville had dispatched a messenger to bring him out.

  My creator no sooner saw what was taking place, than he wanted to act as an intermediary. He wrung his hands. "Oh God! That what I wanted to accomplish has come to this!"

  He wished aloud that we could all let bygones be bygones, with regard to the injuries we had all done one another.

  Saville paused, as if for very careful thought; then said, as if granting a great concession, that he was willing to do so.

  Frankenstein thought back with agony upon the night, his wedding night, when he had found his bride murdered. He expressed his sorrow that the book blamed me—he does not think that I am guilty.

  I said, with a sudden glimmer of light dawning: "Nor do the ones who wrote and published it."

  "Done merely for dramatic purposes, old, uh, old fellow." That, with forced jollity, from Walton.

  "They have a more direct knowledge of the truth." It was a shot almost at random, but I think it told. Saville's jolly expression appeared to have frozen in place.

  I called to my creator: "What success is your work having now, Victor? Does Molly breathe again?"

  His gaze turned stony. "Death comes to us all_her glory lies in the chance that through her something greater may be accomplished."

  "And what of Bess? You failed with her. What of William? Of Clerval? You were not there
to try to bring them back. Odd, that there have been so many deaths around you. It has taken a whole book of lies to explain them."

  There were cries of rage.

  "Victor. What of Elizabeth? Where was Small on the night she died?"

  Fresh cries of rage burst from our enemies' throats. I saw the truth, though dimly and without fully understanding it. Victor as always saw only what he wished to see.

  I shook my head. "Enough of this. Saville, tell us, tell Victor and the rest, what it is you really want. I know you have no intention of letting me go free." I was certain that at the very least he was determined to recapture me for study and eventual dissection. My death would serve him better than my freedom, but he would much prefer to have me in his grip alive. Somewhere within me there lies the secret of godlike power and he means to have that secret at all costs.

  A sharp outcry alerted me, and I turned. Small was there, on the roof above and behind me, approaching from an angle where he must be invisible to Freeman in his window at my side. But my creator had seen him, and had cried a warning. The little man was creeping forward on all fours across the roof, in his hand what looked like a short arrow or a long dart. The weapon, I realized, must be meant to paralyze and not to kill me.

  The chief assassin, somewhat in advance of his cohort, the climbing footmen and gardeners with their darts and nets who were following close behind him, came within reach of my lunging arm. I caught Small at his treachery, dragged him from the roof, and wrenched the weapon from his hand. He screamed, for once not threats, but in sheer terror.

  I held him over the edge of the roof, above a fall that ought to cripple if it did not kill outright. Then, twisting his arm, I urged him to confess what I now seriously suspected, that he had killed not only Clerval but Elizabeth, and perhaps William as well, with at least the tacit consent of Saville and Walton.

  Elizabeth had been determined to keep Victor from returning to his nasty work, and she appeared to have at least a fair chance of succeeding. Small had also been scouting out the Frankenstein family, at Saville's orders, when William was killed.

  There was a shout of great outrage from the master of the house, and bullets began to fly at me.

  Small went over the edge of the roof, I presume to his death.

  Freeman in the confusion got out of the house to me, grabbing a pistol on the way. The gun blazed in his hand, and I saw a liveried footman topple from the roof above, his own pistol discharging a ball that sang sadly past my head.

  I gathered my strength and leaped for a tree branch, then clung to it with one hand and caught Freeman when he leaped after me.

  From then on our flight was comparatively easy, and we successfully fled the estate.

  My companion and I are now in agreement that we should make an effort to reach France. He is skilled and experienced in arranging clandestine Channel crossings, and he assures me that, working together, we stand a much better chance of surviving than would either of us alone. I am touched by this fairly obvious lie—clearly he, traveling alone, would stand a much better chance than when burdened with the company of such an obvious monstrosity as myself. Nevertheless I have accepted his help, and am determined to repay it when I can.

  I watch him sleeping now, and I reflect upon America, as represented by this young man, and her meaning to the world. Some kind of a new beginning, certainly.

  How is it possible that I know enough of history to reflect upon such matters? And yet I do.

  Later_Talking again with Freeman. I had supposed that once we were able to reach France we should be free of pursuit, or very nearly so. But he has convinced me of what seems, upon reflection, to be no more than logical, viz., that the peace treaty is not yet concluded, though probably very close to being so. And Franklin himself has warned his son that nothing must be done to upset the negotiations at this most delicate stage. For Franklin to be implicated in the accusation of a prominent Englishman on charges of murder, kidnapping, and other foul crimes, would create the most dangerous sensation.

  I have no wish to provoke a fresh outbreak of war. But still there are many scores that must be settled.

  LETTER 8

  February 22,1783 Along the English coast

  Dear Sir—

  I dispatch this letter knowing that if all goes well, I may reach your side as quickly as it does; and knowing, also, that it is entirely possible that all may not go well. Unlike my last to you, this message will be carried on the first leg of its journey by a comparatively common means of transportation.

  My companion and myself are presently in a place of reasonably secure if uncomfortable shelter, waiting for nightfall, and the tide, when we are to risk a crossing of the Channel by one of the small private boats, a mode of transport with which I am by no means unfamiliar, after four years of almost regular use.

  This crossing will be a new experience for my friend, but I am beginning to think that little else in the way of human adventure could possibly be new to him. I have whiled away the last hour or so in listening to some of his exploits, and find them almost incredible; they would be unbelieveable indeed, were it not for some of the things that I have already seen him do.

  A little later_There are certain signs and portents along the coast, perceptible to an experienced eye, and indicating that a search for us is rapidly being organized; I am impressed by the power that Saville has evidently at his disposal, and by the speed with which he can call it into action. But all this is nothing new to me, or to my tall friend either.

  I dispatch this in haste. God willing, it will get through to France, and so will we.

  Hopefully, Your Son,

  BF

  LETTER 9

  February 23,1783

  Most Esteemed Parent—

  Rejoice with us, for we have reached France alive!

  I may describe the crossing as being not unattended by some little danger, for M. Saville's reach was evidently a little longer even than we feared. Had it not been for my own wits and experience, and the strength and sometime ferocity of my uncouth-looking companion, I fear that both of us would be feeding the Channel fishes at this very moment. Or else, ignominiously bound hand and foot, on our way back to a certain estate in suburban London, where a very uncertain welcome would await us.

  The issue was for a little while in doubt, even after we had left the shores of Bonny England well behind us. The cutthroats with whom we had contracted for our passage had decided that turning us in to those who hunted for us, once we were under way and our suspicions allayed, would bring a greater profit and less risk than the service upon which we had agreed with them. Failing a good chance to betray us to our enemies, I believe they would have preferred to carry us only half way, and from that point carry on our purses for us.

  Before we could entirely disabuse them of this notion, one of their number had begun to swim for shore (it proved to be a trifle far for him, I fear) and the other two had received certain stern teachings that left them aching. The remainder of our journey was relatively uneventful.

  I had hoped that Saville might be inclined to give up once we had got to France. But the pertinacity of his pursuit thus far has inclined me to take a grimmer view of the matter now.

  Later_We have purchased a wagon, cheaply, and are now on our way across France. I drive, while my companion for the most part remains out of sight. Our goal of course is Paris.

  I have asked my friend—he has certainly become that—by what name he prefers to be called The look I got from him in response was a peculiar one, as though I had inadvertently touched upon a matter of great importance.

  "If ever I possessed a name," he at last responded, "it has long been lost. Do you wish to assume the responsibility of bestowing one upon me? I think I shall be inclined to accept it, if you do."

  I have never been made such an offer before. I think it was his solemn manner as he said those last words, more than anything else, that made me hesitate. "If it comes to that," I said at length, "I thi
nk that a man should name himself, rather than depend upon the notion of some friend, however well intentioned it might be."

  He nodded slowly. "In that I believe that you are right, Freeman. And yet I hesitate to name myself. It seems to me that I should have a name_nay, that I do. And yet I do not know what it is."

  A silence fell, not grim, but thoughtful, and persisted between us for some time. So far I have been reluctant to press him for what he knows—or even what he imagines—about his origins. He has volunteered a little, enough to assure me that the scene of his creation, as he remembers it, was not very greatly different from the description of that scene in the book.

  If he can remember anything from an earlier life, before his—transformation, if that is the appropriate word—he has said nothing to me about it. But I am increasingly consumed with curiosity. There is a natural nobility in my companion. Might his brain have once inhabited the skull of some great leader or philosopher? And if so, who?

  Later again_We travel, pretty steadily, and in passing we marvel at the destitution among the people. I have observed much poverty during the past four years, in several parts of Europe, and yet this is remarkable. Each time I return to France it appears to have grown worse. A loaf of bread is only two sous, and yet there are many who cannot buy a loaf. The income of Louis XVI, I am sure, must be reckoned in the millions of livres annually; the Condes entertain thousands of guests, in an opulence surpassing even that of Versailles, not to mention ancient Rome—and meanwhile the poor keep themselves alive, when they are able to manage the trick at all, on rye bread and black porridge, with a few chestnuts now and then as luxury when times are good.

  My companion assures me that for the most part his epic journeys around the world have not been conducted in any style of travel familiar to the wealthy. But such poverty as we see around us now in France surprises him as it does me. The condition of the mass of the people here grows more desperate with each passing year. I would not be at all surprised if this nation, one day soon, were convulsed in its own revolution—I do not see how matters can go on as they are.