Rick Yancey - The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist, Book 2)

Von Helrung posed the first question immediately upon the conclusion of Warthrop’s reply.

“I thank my dear friend and former pupil, the honorable Dr. Warthrop, for his cogent and entirely earnest response. I am flattered—indeed, I am humbled—to be the recipient of such an impassioned—may I say, even passionate —reply. I have taught him well, have I not?”

He joined in their nervous laughter.

“But I do have one or two questions before I yield the floor, if that suits the honorable doctor? Thank you. I know the hour grows late; we have trains to catch; we long for our homes and families and, of course, our work . . . and we have friends to bury. Alas! Such is our lot. Such is the price we pay for the advancement of human knowledge. Dr. Gravois understood this, and accepted it. We all accept it. Even John . . .” His voice broke. “Even John accepted it.

“But I digress. To my question, then, Dr. Warthrop, mein Freund . If your hypothesis is correct in this most strange and pathetic episode, how do you explain the testimony of your own apprentice regarding the nature of the beast?”

“I have explained it already,” replied the doctor tightly. Though the swelling of his jaw had receded somewhat, it still pained him to speak. “The evidence is as plain as the wound on his neck.”

“Ah, by that you mean the bite of the Allghoi khorkhoi , which he suffered prior to the events to which he has this day testified?”

“I mean precisely that. The effects of the creature’s venom have been well documented, by some of the very people who now sit in this room.”

“But it is my understanding that the good Adolphus Ainsworth administered to him the anti-venom within minutes of the exposure.”

“Equally supported in the literature,” said the doctor through gritted teeth, “is the tendency of the victim to suffer lingering, intermittent aftereffects, even after the administration of the antidote.”

“So your explanation for Herr William Henry’s testimony is that it was all a dream?” He was chuckling warmly.

“A hallucination would be more accurate.”

“He did not hear the Outiko calling him upon the wind?”

“Of course not.”

“And the Outiko did not remove him to the Monstrumarium by riding with him upon that wind?”

“I would ask you, and all members present, to close your eyes and imagine such a scenario.”

There was a smattering of applause. A point scored by Warthrop.

“Then, how do you propose he brought him there from that tenement cellar? Did he hail a taxi?”

Now laughter, much louder than the tepid applause. A point for von Helrung.

“I propose he carried him there.”

“On foot.”

“Yes, of course. Under the cover of darkness.”

“I see.” Von Helrung was nodding with mock gravity. “Now turning your attention to the first incident, Dr. Warthrop. It is your contention that the creature—”

“John. His name was John.”

“Yes, it did used to be John.”

“It was always John.”

“It is your contention that he jumped through a fourth-story hospital window—”

“It is my contention that he escaped through that window. Whether he went up a drainpipe or down it, he escaped. He did not ‘take to the high wind’ as you suggest, unless he sprouted wings, which I suppose you will say he did.”

“And as to the other eyewitness accounts—what do you say to them?” The old Austrian held up the stack of sworn affidavits. “Are they also unfortunate victims of the Death Worm?”

Warthrop grimaced through the attendant laughter, waiting for it to die away before saying, “I can’t say what they suffer from except perhaps a form of mass hysteria exacerbated by an overzealous press eager to sell newspapers.”

“So you would have this august assembly reject the sworn testimony of seventy-three eyewitnesses based upon . . . what? What, Dr. Warthrop? Based upon the fact that since you say it can’t be so, it can’t be so? Is this not the very thing of which you accuse me? Assuming facts not in evidence?”

“I don’t accuse you of assuming facts not in evidence. I accuse you of making them up out of whole cloth.”

“Very well, then!” von Helrung cried, throwing the papers down with a dramatic flourish. “Tell me—enlighten all of us, good doctor—what killed Pierre Larose? What stripped him of his skin and fed upon his heart and impaled him upon a pole? What dragged Sergeant Jonathan Hawk forty feet into the sky and crucified him upon the highest tree? What did our beloved colleague find in the desolation that did this to him?” He flung his hand toward the autopsy table, where the body lay exposed under the harsh glare of the stage lights.

“I don’t think,” said the doctor deliberately, “that he found anything at all.” He rose from his chair. I fought the instinct to rush to his side. He looked on the verge of collapse.

“I don’t know who killed Pierre Larose. It may have been the natives in an act of superstitious dread. It may have been a disgruntled creditor or someone to whom he owed a gambling debt. Perhaps John himself did it after he had succumbed to whatever demon possessed him. I doubt anyone will ever know. As for Hawk . . . clearly a case of bush fever. I ask what is a better explanation—that something dropped him from above or that he climbed that tree? A boy half his size climbed it. Why couldn’t he?”

He turned his head toward the body of his friend, and then turned away again.

“And John . . . I suppose that is the crux of it, isn’t it? What happened to John Chanler? You would make a monster of him, and I suppose one could call him that. I do not deny his crimes. I do not say he suffered horribly from something I little understand. The key being . . . Well, I suppose I am the sole gardener on earth who is ignorant of the seeds he plants. But I will say”—and here the monstrumologist’s voice became hard—“I will say he did his best to meet all our expectations. You wanted him to be a monster, and he obliged you, didn’t he, Meister Abram? He exceeded your wildest dreams. We do strive to become what others see in us, don’t we?

“I tried to save him. From the beginning I was willing to lay down my life for him, for there is no love greater than this . . .”

He stopped, overwhelmed. I rose to go to him. He waved me back.

“He asked me ‘What have we given?’ I do not pretend to know all that he meant by that, but I know this much: It shall not stand. I will not allow it to stand. You will not desecrate his body as you desecrated his memory. That is what I can give him. That is all I can give him. I will bury my friend, and I swear I will kill the man who tries to stop me.”

He swung his eyes to the crowd, and the crowd could not return his righteous glare.

“Take your vote now. I will answer no more of your questions.”

The doctor and I retired to our private box while the vote was taken. It would be, at von Helrung’s request, by secret ballot. Warthrop lay across the divan, arms folded over his chest, head upon the armrest. He stared up at the ornate ceiling and refused to watch the vote.

The silence between us was not of the comfortable variety. Since the death of Chanler, he’d barely spoken to me. When he looked at me, I detected that he was more confounded than angry. The affair had begun with his firm conviction that his friend had been past all salvation—and had ended with the equally steadfast belief that he would save him. That the doctor’s faith had been shattered by me, the last soul on earth bound to him in any way, seemed beyond his ability to comprehend.