Fred Saberhagen - The Frankenstein Papers

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.

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.

Indifferently I accepted the role of servant. The coarser chores of cleaning up were almost invariably left to me, and I discovered that in a rough general way I was aware of how they should be performed. Might I have been a servant in my previous life, or lives? If so, why such evidence of education as I display? I had no idea then, and have little now.

When it came time to sleep, I was relegated to the out-of-doors, while the men snored under canvas.

In a privately chartered riverboat we went down the Rhine to the sea, and it was in the port of Rotterdam that I first met Captain Walton. There it was that I first boarded his ship, the Argo of evil memory. But I will write of that anon.

This good ship, the Mary Goode , continues drifting. She is moving fairly rapidly, I think, a mere chip caught up in the massive migration of the ice. At times I can hear the ocean murmuring beneath the hull, and by certain prominent features in the distant icefields I am able to determine that the hulk is turning amid the floes and cakes that alternately grip and scrape against its sides. If I were able to see the stars I might learn more about my motion; but to catch more than the merest glimpse of celestial objects is impossible, what with the frequent cloudiness and the nearly continuous daylight.

Two days later (by estimation) _Still drifting. There is still a vast reserve of bear meat left, though I have grown heartily tired of the taste. This, more than any need, led me to search again, and this time my efforts were rewarded by the discovery of a hidden cache of food, well preserved by cold. I conjecture that some member of the vanished crew established this small secret store, then somehow perished before he could enjoy it. Or, perhaps more likely, he was forced to leave it behind when he joined in the general evacuation of the ship.

The cache contained:

Two or three pounds of ship's biscuit, not at all wormy.

An approximately equal weight of dried beans, wrapped in a paper packet.

Twice as much of salt pork, wrapped in paper and oilskin.

An equal weight of bacon.