Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein) (6 page)

CHAPTER VI:

The Ice God

The structure that had come to be known as Castle Frankenstein rested like some monstrous stone gargoyle atop the hill, sharply silhouetted against Ingolstadt’s blue sky. A pervading silence had settled over the ancient building, the only sound being made by a few birds that had dared to make their nests in an opening in one of the castle’s towers.

On this day, however, there was also the sound of wagon wheels carrying the creaking conveyance they were rolling toward the foreboding building. The wagon was driven by a haggard looking German who fiercely cracked his whip over the nag that drew both him and his passenger over the old drawbridge, crossing the watery moat that connected with the mountain streams which eventually intersected with the Rhine.

“You sure this is where you want me to let you off,
Fraulein
?” the man asked in a gruff voice that betrayed his fear of the place they were approaching. He squinted as he gazed up at the castle. “You know what place this is? You know what demon was born in this place?” As he spoke, he turned his head to see the young woman seated next to him.

“I know,” she replied.

The man drew in his reins, bringing his wagon to a noisy halt at the end of the drawbridge. “If I might warn you but one more time — " he began.

“There’s no need for anymore of that,” she answered, recalling his many attempts at trying to dissuade her from this journey ever since she had stepped aboard his wagon back in the town. Briefly she thought of her many failed attempts at securing an automobile ride to Castle Frankenstein, the many refusals on the parts of superstitious drivers, and her final offering of enough of Burt Winslow’s money to purchase at least this uncomfortable method of transportation.

Lynn Powell handed the driver the agreed upon amount of money with a little extra added. The money had the intended effect. The driver kept his opinions to himself, at least while in her presence.

The man scratched his curly hair, then, after tucking the small fortune inside his shirt, jumped down from the wagon. Still, he could not justify the presence of such an American beauty out here, on the unhallowed grounds of Castle Frankenstein which was feared and shunned by even the more courageous members of the town’s population.

For a few moments he could only wonder and look upon his passenger. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with long hair cascading down her shoulders and back like gentle waves. Rarely had he seen women with a body as classically perfect as hers, which was further enhanced by the fashionable American blouse and skirt that she wore.

Lynn stepped down from the wagon, as the driver 
immediately proceeded to bring down her luggage. She noticed the caution he employed in setting down the suitcases before the castle’s front door, careful not to step too close to the legend-shrouded structure. When he finished his work, the driver flashed Lynn a forced smile, then took his place again behind his horse. Again he cracked the whip, turning his wagon around and over the drawbridge, to head back toward the town, no doubt, thought Lynn to spread some gossip about the American woman who had come to the castle of Frankenstein.

With the departure of the driver, no one else approached the castle for awhile, Lynn Powell stood outside the building, finding herself marveling at this once proud fortress. She wondered what history might have been made here besides that of Victor Frankenstein. Her imagination was suddenly fired by visions of knights and battles on horseback before the coming of gunpowder. Lynn had never seen a castle before other than in photographs or book illustrations. The thrill of this new experience made her feel like a child again, one who had suddenly become part of some medieval fantasy.

There was a breeze blowing, tossing about her long hair, as she walked toward the main door of the castle. She noticed the five enormous wooden crates, each one stamped Fragile, which had been stacked in a niche on the patio. Although she already knew what those crates contained, she went to the tags and read them silently:

"To: Dr. Burt Winslow. Paid."

Burt’s equipment has arrived, she thought, or at least the first shipment. She realized that no one in the village would probably give her any assistance in getting the boxes inside the castle and decided to leave them here, untouched, until Winslow returned to Europe.

She diverted her attention to the main door. It seemed strong enough to have held back an army in its day, having been constructed out of stout wood which rose high above her head. Strips of rusted, bolted metal braced the door to give it added strength. Some of the timbers, she noticed, were warped out of shape. But the new lock which Winslow had installed and which  gleamed shiny in the sunlight brought the door into the twentieth century.

Anxiously the woman searched her purse and found the key which Burt had entrusted to her before he and she had parted back in the United States. She clasped the key firmly, the anticipation of entering the castle making her heart beat faster then slid the key into the lock. After a slow twist, she opened the great door to the legends of past centuries.

Flicking on the electrical lights, another improvement installed by Winslow after purchasing the castle, Lynn walked through the musty building, her eyes widening with awe at every step she took. The lights did little more for the place other than to accentuate the extreme dilapidation into which the castle had sunk.

Burt, she thought, had obviously thought only of the castle’s history and significance and nothing of its appearance or atmosphere. Perhaps he had knocked down a spider web or two, but other than that the place looked like a dirty tomb and smelled nearly as bad.

Certainly this was no place for a normal human being to live, especially since Burt had given her only an approximate date for his eventual return to Ingolstadt. Lynn had usually shied away from housework and the stereotyped role that went with it. But somehow, surrounded by the morbid atmosphere of this place, she suddenly felt within herself an urge, albeit an ephemeral one, to go domestic. Besides, for lack of anything better to do to occupy the long hours and days until Winslow’s return, what better way was there to pass the time other than to transform this grim Frankenstein castle into a more hospitable temporary home.

* * *

The large truck with the Morris Lamont Transport Co. logo painted on its canvas covering, rumbled out of its garage like a World War II surplus army tank. The truck thundered, black smoke coughing out of the smokestack near the driver’s cab, along the snow-packed road. Dark exhaust fumes billowed out to pollute the cold Arctic air.

Three men sat in the truck’s cab. The driver, Morris Lamont, occasionally took one hand off the steering wheel to rub the beard stubble on his face. Next to Lamont sat Dr. Burt Winslow, who was doing his feeble best to remain calm during this greatest journey in his life, while still recalling the incident with his intended assassin back at the hotel. By the other window in the cab sat the Frenchman, Pierre Dupré, who was once again chewing on an empty pipe.

Behind the threesome, under the canvas covering of the vehicle, a number of huskies barked continuously.

“... And that man who attacked me was identified absolutely as an orderly at the medical center,” said Winslow, trying to make himself heard above the dogs.

“At least, now he’s in jail where he belongs,” said the Frenchman. “Fanatics!
Sacre bleu
! as we French are supposed to say at times like this, but fanatics such as he can be a terribly dangerous lot you know. He might have killed you, Burt.”

“Probably would have, if not for all my anticipation — along with Lamont’s six months of daylight — keeping me awake all night.”

Morris Lamont turned away from the windshield, which led hardly more than the bleak whiteness of snow and ice. He snickered at his two passengers. “
My
six months sun? My friends, you can take it back with you when you leave here.”

“That man who tried to kill me must have overheard us talking to Fairfax in the hospital,” continued Winslow. “Obviously superstition is strong enough to affect even the educated natives. And obviously the natives aren’t too happy about outsiders finding their Ice God. That orderly must have followed us back to the hotel and found out my room number.”

“It’s a good thing you told the police to watch over Fairfax,” said Dupré. “Now that the news is out that he told us about what he saw, his life will be in constant danger.”

Winslow only nodded in reply.

Lamont continued driving on the course outlined by the hospital patient. He was glad that he had, at last, decided to go along on this trip and not remain back at the shipping company office. Business was slow these days anyway and he liked nothing better than finding an excuse to get back behind the wheel of his truck.

As he listened to Winslow and Dupré discuss their mission, with frequent references to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Lamont kept watch over the vast expanses of whiteness, carefully looking for any dark objects that contrasted against the snow.

Waiting for a break in his passengers’ conversation, the driver finally remarked, “Those superstitious Eskimos are a funny group. We’d better watch out for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started something, even if we do have the Protection of this truck. Just keep in mind that we’re the trespassers...trodding on their sacred grounds. Guess it will be the same as if, back in your civilized countries, someone came in and desecrated a Christian altar.”

“I know,” Winslow agreed sternly. “In their eyes we are the Persecutors of their faith. That’s why I had you bring along those guns.”

“Hmmmm . . . You had me pack along enough rifles and hand guns to hold off a regiment.”

“Or a Monster?” added Dupre’.

Winslow said, “I just hope it isn’t necessary to use those guns.”

“We just might have to,” said the driver, his eyes scanning the bleak horizon.

Lamont’s truck continued to roll at the maximum speed the snow-covered road allowed, the road almost indiscernable from the rest of the white terrain. The wind blew harder against the canvas top of the truck and the huskies seemed to become more restless.

The cab’s heater offered only the slightest protection from the cold. The two men seated next to the driver shivered and rubbed their hands to stimulate their circulation. Yet, it was probably their own anticipation of what reward this quest would bring that really helped them to forget much of their discomfort.

The men saw no other vehicles in the area. No people, no animals, nothing save the great snowy mounds which appeared everywhere outside the truck.

So it was without warning, after a considerable distance had been traversed by the truck, that Lamont cleared his raspy voice and applied his boot to the brake. The mammoth vehicle thundered to a halt, slipping several yards on the glossy white strip that was almost a road.

“This is as far as we can take the truck,” said Lamont, looking out the cab windows at the Arctic desolation.

Winslow turned his head in the direction of the barking. “That’s why the dogs, Mr. Lamont,” he said.

“And from the sound of those animals,” said Dupré, “I’d say they’ll be glad to get out of the truck. They’ve been cooped up in there for quite a while.”

“Well, let’s get moving then,” said the scientist, not wanting a precious moment to be wasted. “Mr. Lamont, will you please wait here and guard the truck while Pierre and I go off on the sleds?”

“Sure thing,” answered Lamont. “You don’t think I’m going to leave this valuable piece of equipment out here, do you? Not with angry Eskimos possibly lurking behind every glacier just waiting to do her some damage!”

The doctor smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Lamont. You didn’t have to come out here with us and I appreciate what you’re doing.”

Laughing, Lamont shook his head, then waved down his hand.

“Aww, go on,” he said. “It’s nothing at all. Anyway, you sure paid me enough for this little trip. So I won’t be needing another customer for at least a month.”

Dupré opened the cab door, then he and Winslow jumped out cold. Fighting the sudden rush of freezing air that assaulted them, they hurried to the back of the truck, their boots digging into the snow, to fetch the snowshoes Winslow had purchased at the general store. Wearing the snowshoes, the two men shushed about awkwardly, then removed a ramp from the truck and attached it to the rear end.

The Frenchman checked a pair of loaded rifles while Winslow rushed up the ramp and entered the canvas-topped back section of the truck and hitched up the two teams of sled dogs. Dupré re-checked the rest of their gear and made certain that the axes picks, hooks, shovels and various other tools were all securely wrapped in their supply packs.

Within minutes, all preparations had been made, and the huskies and sleds were waiting for their drivers.

Both Winslow and the Frenchman took their places behind their respective teams. Nodding to each other, they each shouted
“Mush!”
into the shrieking northern winds and cracked their whips over the heads of the dogs. Immediately the huskies pulled at their burdens.

Around them, the two men saw nothing unusual about the desert of ice and snow. Still, neither of them could escape the feeling that they were being watched. Constantly they scrutinized the area as they drove their teams harder and faster through the wilderness. The wind was biting at their faces and it was sometimes almost impossible to breathe, but the excitement of their quest pushed them further.

Suddenly Winslow’s eyes snapped. A look of utter enlightenment swept across his face. In the distance he could perceive a large flash of silver which was reflecting the light of the sun. As he drove the sled dogs onward in that direction, Winslow could identify the tail of an airplane.