The
golden age of cinematic horror solidified the idea of the monster by its
outward appearance, and further justified this approach by separating the
component parts in the popular consciousness from mad scientist creator only
responsible for the inception of the monster, and of course the rampaging
monster itself, which is to say, Victor Frankenstein receded into history, and
the monster took on a name, Frankenstein itself, monster assuming the full
mantle.
In the original
chronicle of the story, monster is a surprisingly intelligent, even sympathetic
creature, wounded by the pathos of creation for creator, forever scorned
despite an exhilarating chase sequence deep into the heart of the arctic
unknown, where both figures recede into history, the suggestion being the brute
forms used by creator reverted to nature in the most literal sense despite all
impossible potential, story of mankind in a nutshell.
But the truth, as is
often stated, is often stranger than fiction.
I should know.
In the 19th
century it was still possible to discover the unnatural, before the natural
world was tamed by science, was still possible for science itself to discover
the impossible, so that the arcane blended the worlds of science and fantasy,
monsters stalked the earth, and the naturalists plumbed the depths of reason to
tame it in our blessed besotted utopia of today. This is to say, where there were those who pursued
vampires, there were colleagues who sought other treasures, and the first of my
line came into being, the first Oliver Row, a name given to all those whose
adoption of the role forever cursed them to stalk the earth alongside monsters,
to understand their intentions. We knew
where our monster went, after the arctic, knew the aliases he assumed, and when
he emerged as a figure cloaked in mystery known as Sabin, a mere academic, we
were not misled, as was the rest of the world.
We followed him closely.
We followed him all the
way to the Embassy of Shadows, a clever name given to an institution the rest
of the world hallowed, and I am not here today to dispel its reputation by
identifying it further. We worried that
our Sabin had a sinister plot of revenge against a world that could never
understand him, common pablum that I grew ashamed to peddle, and so one day I
revealed the truth to Sabin’s descendent, Henry Grenoville.
Now, some stories begin
roughly, and to read further the reader must have patience that there will be
some reward later, better writing, a point even, some secret to justify the
pittance of faith in such transitory wonder, an allegory perhaps, a reflection
of the real world, something that can’t be spoken of openly but needs saying
all the same, otherwise later generations will lose all respect for us.
Perhaps, then, Sabin
and Henry and myself are not all the players worth knowing in this piece, or
the story sketched so lightly to this point it has hardly been worth
considering. What has Sabin been doing
all this time as our Henry wonders at this strange introduction? How does the rest of the world see him? Does the world see him at all? Or is all this delusional fiction, a fever
dream best left unremembered in moments?
Sabin’s reputation was
as Henry had perceived it, an ogre of a man if not in appearance alone then by
reputation, and this would be the mark of the villain in our times, an irony in
our rush to redefine refinement of perception, to repair the injustices and
shallow natures of the past, how we have come to define evolution not only
mankind’s past but its necessary intellectual future, as if all our collected
thought has come to nothing more than what we need to overcome.
And yet Sabin was
tall, taller than usual, and his features rough, his manners imposing, no
concessions to observers, no attempt to pacify his peers. In earlier eras his height alone would have
given him privileges, and yet in our suspicions of inherited impressions, we
have acknowledged our genius for interpretation, given preference to those who
ask for our attention, and suspicion to those who seek to avoid it, regardless
of their social status, and in fact actively encourage misperception of such status
at our convenience. Such is the
advancement of agendas in our time, however we can bend such minds to our aims,
however easy it might be to flatter, all of us bent low in our courtly
pleasures.
So what of our
Sabin? An academic, resplendent in his
offices, the shaper of young minds, culling attitudes beyond the scope of the
grades and degrees of the day, an authority figure to be scorned and adored,
central in his placement at the head of the room where all eyes must drift
toward for as long as the clock demands, a notebook or tablet recording what
might be useful a few months later, when such soft tyranny ends, his true
influences known by the clubs he runs, the visits he encourages for
apprehensive scholars, the positions he stakes, the memories he will inhabit
for years to come, the last time many future citizens will have been held in
thrall by the suggestion of necessity before some form of income enticement
fills their days, their opinions now cultivated by politicians hungry for a
vote and parties eager for power.
No, Sabin’s power isn’t
in a position but where his power leads, and where he cannot be swayed he would
be hated, and this is how he becomes a monster in today’s world, the image of
the golden age become reality in the minds of those who need such belief, who
will adhere to the ideals of those with such deep yearning for power. And Henry’s antipathy directed not by outward
appearance but cultivated carefully by society, something Sabin is all too
willing to play into.
Why? I am dying as I ponder these things, the end
of my involvement clear to me, my ineffectiveness, my impotence. It is only now that I see these things
clearly, and perhaps the cruelty of it, the whole history of my line, how I too
was manipulated, used as a pawn, a patsy, the invisible fingers of the
assassin. Regardless of a reconciliation
between Sabin and Henry, their roles played out already, the effect of history
already crushing them under its heel, passing them by, steady in its march onward,
bent in shapes by those intent to guide it, or at least believe they do, which
is what makes them so dangerous, so sure of their right, the justice of their
intentions, their anger when they fail, their wrath, their envy, and their
retribution, and their utter ineffectiveness when they finally win power,
because of course then they have no idea what to do with it.
No, you know everything
you need to already. This is, as all
these monster stories always are, a tragedy, and that’s all you need to know,
the stumbling mad blindness of it, the jerking steps toward reconciliation,
seldom witnessed, never sought, always met with suspicion, forgotten, dismissed
as impossible ideal, considered backward in that incessant march onward, always
believing there’s some grand discovery just over the next horizon, wondering if
it would all be better without us, because “us” will always include those not
wanted on the voyage, the aftermath of the apocalypse, always occurring
somewhere in some slight manner and ready to be interpreted however
conveniently by those stepping loosely along the way, careful not to slip, and
if they do, to find their footing again…
And I wonder about
myself, how pointless, and yet how ecstatic I am to have experienced it at all,
to have been here and seen all the sinew and connective tissue, to see it
exhumed all over again, denied in all its splendor in the interests of leaving
something for another generation to puzzle over, the next iteration of the same
story and, I don’t know, another dazzling triumph that will look like abject
failure in slightly different light, an abomination, the eternal abyss, a
direct manifestation of our real fears, the face of doubt, the old inadequacy
of the race.
I really did set out to write something
different, you know.
