Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 21

 

Eighteen

And so I told them everything I’d figured out—to this point.

“Dr. Eastbrook,” I said, “was doing experiments on cloning human beings—grown human beings. He was,” I continued, “both a success and a horrible failure.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harriet.

“I mean that he was able to clone humans—but that something in his experiments had gone horribly wrong.”

The others were just staring at me. “Take Blue Boyle,” for example.

“You take him,” joked Harriet.

I smiled—and went on. “The doctor took that poor kid, offered his family some money, and proceeded with experiments.”

“This is horrible,” said my new mother.

“He wanted a son,” I said as softly and kindly as I could.

“Oh,” replied Mother.

I went on: “And you could see the failures, couldn’t you? The increasing size—the increasing cruelty—the vanishing humanity?”

I continued. “The only thing I can figure is that the real Blue died in his first experiment—and with the tissue the doctor had saved, he created ‘new’ ones, each one even less human than the previous one.

“We saw the doctor looking for new bodies down on Middle Island. And later, too, in other places. Everyone was told that Gil’s body was never found at Niagara Falls—but the doctor had found him—and created a new Gil, who seemed to retain few of the traits of the old one. Except the way he looked.”

I noticed I was making everyone very uncomfortable. “Should I go on?”

“How much more is there?” asked Father.

“Not much. In that lighthouse up on the Lake Erie island I found a key device that he created and used. Recognizing what it probably was, I destroyed it.”

“So that’s why he was after us,” sighed Father.

“Yes.”

“And probably still is,” he said.

“Oh, most definitely is,” I said.

But here’s what I wondered then—and still wonder. Several times that oddest collection of people—actual and fictional—had rescued me. How was that possible? And if they had rescued me, why did Dr. Eastbrook and the Boyles keep coming back?

***

In Oklahoma we lived fairly close to a horse ranch, open to the public, a place we often went that summer after all the craziness had happened—at first, we just wanted to look at all the horses they had. Then, gaining courage, we began to go on horseback rides there. It wasn’t too long before most of us (not all: I won’t name names) became pretty good at it.

The trails on the ranch led through some stands of woods, and it was fun pretending we had returned to those old horseback days. We made up silly games, chasing one another as if we were pursing enemies—or fleeing from them.

Till one day—we didn’t have to pretend.

***

That day, all four of us were riding together through a remote part of the ranch that we had never really explored before. And then I heard a voice cry out—a voice I recognized: “There they are!”

And thundering toward us were Dr. Eastbrook and a number of others, all mounted on huge black horses that looked as if they’d once belonged to the Headless Horseman.

No one had to tell us to ride away—as fast as we could. But those black horses were far too fast for us. They seemed … supernatural.

Our pursuers were now riding on both sides of us, and I could see several versions of Blue Boyle, looking even more huge than before, and, in a sad surprise, Gil.

All of them except Gil had swords.

But just as they were getting ready to swing them at us, the sky opened, and down some kind of ramp raced more horses.

“Look!” I yelled.

And everyone did—including our pursuers.

Each horse bore a ghostly character I knew: William Godwin, Mary Shelley, Herman Melville, James Fenimore Cooper. And a new one—Washington Irving—who carried a huge sword. Irving rode swiftly alongside Dr. Eastbrook—and it seemed as if all these ghostly horses ran without touching the ground. At all.

Irving swung his sword, and Dr. Eastbrook’s head flew from his shoulders and began bouncing along behind him—yelling in pain, cursing—as if it were still alive. Right in front of us, the earth opened up and all the black horses and all of their riders were sucked down into it, Aunt Claire holding the door open, then slamming it after them. Only Gil and Blue Boyle—the oldest one—remained.

As Gil stopped by me, he looked at me, and I saw on his face an enormous expression of relief. He spoke in a sad voice, “Thank you, thank you, thank you”—over and over again.

And after he had ridden/floated off, Mary said to me, “We are related, you know?”

“I feel it,” I said. “But can you answer a question for me?”

“Surely.”

“Who were/are Aunt Claire and Mr. Leon?”

“That’s two questions,” she smiled. “But I’ll answer them. They are both the spirits of your stories—all stories have them. You are just very fortunate that yours are very powerful.”

She smiled again and rode over to join the others. Blue followed, a very puzzled look on his face.

Then those ghostly friends, waving their swords in triumph, flowed back upwards, Gil and Blue Boyle among them, and as they disappeared into the clouds and haze, I could have sworn I heard voices singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

We looked around: No sign that anything had just happened. Our horses, panicky only moments ago, were again calm and moved along as they usually did. We all looked at one another.

“I think it’s finally all over,” I said.

***

Later, I asked Father: “Why did Blue Boyle join them?
            “I’ve thought about that, too,” he said, “and I think it’s because he did nothing wrong. He was a victim, not a perp.”

***

Not long after, I was online with John, back in Ohio.

“So,” he wrote, “anything special go on recently?”

I sent him a picture of the Headless Horseman.

His reply: “LOL.”

 

From Blue Boyle

I’m safe. I don’t know how. No one hurts me anymore. Doctors help me. I feel like … like … like a … person.