This Dark Endeavour (with Bonus Material) (3 page)

Exhausted, I stopped fighting the mechanical hand, and instantly it stopped tightening—but it did not release me.

“‘Enter only with a friend’s welcome,’” Elizabeth said, reading the message painted on the door. “It’s some kind of riddle. “A friend’s welcome …”

“Crushing someone’s hand to pulp!” I said.

“No,” she said. “When you welcome a friend, you say hello, you ask how they’ve been, you …
shake their hand!
Victor, maybe it wants you to shake hands!”

“I’ve been shaking hands with it for ten minutes!”

But had I? I’d been pulling and thrashing wildly about. I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath. As smoothly as I could, I tried to lift my hand. Amazingly, I was permitted to do so. Then I pushed gently down—and then politely pumped up and down once more. Instantly the mechanical fingers sprang apart, my hand was released, and the door creaked open a few inches.

I cradled my molested hand, flexing my fingers to make sure none were broken. “Thank you,” I said to Elizabeth. “That was a very good idea.”

“You troublemaker,” she said angrily. “Your adventure’s got us locked in—
Victor,
what are you doing now?”

“Don’t you want to have a look inside?” I said, poking the door open a little more.

“You must be mad,” said Konrad, “after what that door just did to you.”

“It may be our only way out,” I said. I was aware that I’d done a good deal of wailing and shrieking. At least I hadn’t wept. But I wanted to save face—and I was genuinely curious to know what was inside.

“Come on,” I said to Elizabeth, plucking the candle from her grasp.

I pushed the door wide, stood to one side, and waited. Nothing flew out. Cautiously I stepped in, and peered behind the door.

“Look at this!” I exclaimed.

An elaborate machine, all gears and pulleys, was bolted to the back of the door. Against the hole was an amazing mechanical hand with jointed wooden fingers.

“What an ingenious lock,” said Konrad in amazement.

“And look here,” I said, pointing up. “I bet those ropes go to the library door. Didn’t it close and lock after the machine grabbed my hand? I’d wager we can unlock it from here. A brilliant trap to guard the room.”

“But why,” Elizabeth began slowly, “does it need to be guarded?”

As one, we all turned. The skin of my neck turned to goose-flesh,
for I honestly did not know what to expect. A gruesome torture chamber? Human remains?

I held the candle high. We were in a surprisingly large chamber. Nearby was a torch jutting from a wall sconce, and I quickly lit it. The room brightened, an orange glow flickering over tables scattered with oddly shaped glassware and metal instruments—and row upon row of shelves groaning with thick tomes.

“It’s just a library,” I said, relieved.

“We must be the first to discover it,” Elizabeth said in wonder.

I stroked my finger through the thick dust on the closest table, looked at the cobwebs sagging from the corners of the low ceiling. “Maybe so,” I murmured.

“Curious instruments,” said Konrad, peering at the glassware and scales and sharply angled tools arranged atop the table.

“It looks a bit like an apothecary shop,” I said, noting the large sooty hearth. “Maybe one of our ancestors made primitive medicines.”

“That would explain the well,” Elizabeth said. “They’d need water.”

“But why do it in a secret chamber?” I wondered aloud. I walked over to one of the shelves and squinted at the books’ cracked spines. “The titles are all Latin and Greek and … languages I’ve never seen.”

I heard Elizabeth laugh, and turned.

“Here is a spell to rid your garden of slugs,” she said, paging through a black tome. “And another to make someone fall in love with you.” Her eyes lingered a bit longer on this one. “And here is one to make your enemy sicken and die …” Her voice trailed off. “There is a very upsetting picture of a body covered in running sores.”

We laughed, or tried to laugh, but we were all, I think, in awe of this strange place and the books it held.

“And here,” said Konrad, paging through another volume, “are instructions on how to speak to the dead.”

I looked at my brother. I often had the uncanny feeling that I was waiting for his show of emotions so I could better know my own. Right now I saw fear—but not my own powerful fascination with this place.

He swallowed. “We should leave.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, replacing her book.

“I want to stay a little longer,” I said. I was not pretending. Books usually held little interest for me, but these had a dark lustre, and I wanted to run my fingers over their ancient pages, gaze upon their strange contents.

I caught sight of a book titled
Occulta Philosophia
and thirstily drew it from the shelf.

“Occult Philosophy,” said Konrad, looking over my shoulder.

I turned the first few vellum pages to find the author’s name.

“Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa,” I read aloud. “Any idea who this old fellow was?”

“A medieval German magician,” said a voice, and Elizabeth gave a shriek, for the answer had come from behind us.

We all whirled to behold, standing in the doorway … Father.

“You’ve discovered the Biblioteka Obscura, I see,” he said, torchlight and shadow dancing disconcertingly over his craggy face.

He was a powerfully built man, leonine with his thick silver hair and steady hunter’s gaze. I would not have wanted to stand before him in his courtroom.

“It was an accident,” Elizabeth said. “I fell against the books, you see, and the door opened before us.”

Father’s mood was rarely as severe as his fierce demeanour, and he grinned now. “And naturally you had to descend the stairs.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“And would I be right in assuming, Victor, that you were the one to shake hands with the door?”

I heard Konrad chuckle.

“Yes,” I admitted, “and it very nearly crushed my hand!”

“No,” said my father, “it was not designed to crush the hand, just to hold on to it. Forever.”

I looked at him, shocked. “Truly?”

“When I discovered this secret passage as a young man, no one had descended the stairs for more than two hundred years. And the last person to do so was still here. What remained of him, anyway. The bones of his forearm dangled from the door. The rest of his ruined body had fallen into the shaft.”

“We wondered if we’d seen … a finger bone down there,” Elizabeth said.

“No doubt I missed a bit,” said Father.

“Who was it?” Konrad asked.

Father shook his head. “Judging by his clothing, a servant—unlucky enough to have discovered the secret passage.”

“But who built all this?” I asked.

“Ah,” said Father. “That would be your ancestor Wilhelm Frankenstein. By all accounts he was a brilliant man, and a very wealthy one. Some three hundred years ago, when he constructed the chateau, he created the Biblioteka Obscura.”

“Biblioteka Obscura,” Elizabeth said, and then translated the Latin. “Dark Library. Why was it kept in darkness?”

“He was an alchemist. And during his lifetime its practice was often outlawed. He was obsessed with the transmutation of matter, especially turning base metals into gold.”

I had heard of such a thing. Imagine the riches, the power!

“Did he succeed?” I demanded.

Father chuckled. “No, Victor. It cannot be done.”

I persisted. “But maybe that explains why he was so wealthy.”

There was something almost rueful in Father’s smile. “It makes a fine story, but it is nonsense.” He waved his hand at the shelves. “You must understand that these books were written centuries ago. They are primitive attempts to explain the world. There are
some
shards of learning in them, but compared to our modern knowledge they are like childish dreams.”

“Didn’t the alchemists also make medicines?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes, or at least tried to,” Father said. “Some believed they could master all elements, and create elixirs that would make people live forever. And some, including our fine ancestor, turned their attentions to matters even more fantastical.”

“Like what?” Konrad asked.

“Conversing with spirits. Raising ghosts.”

A chill swept through my body. “Wilhelm Frankenstein practised witchcraft?”

“They burned witches back then,” Elizabeth murmured.

“There is no such thing as witchcraft,” Father said firmly. “But the Church of Rome condemned virtually each and every one of these books. I think you can see why the library was kept in darkness.”

“He was never caught, was he?” I asked.

Father shook his head. “But one day, in his forty-third year, without telling anyone where he was going, he mounted a horse and rode away from the chateau. He left behind his wife and children, and was never seen again.”

“That is … quite chilling,” said Elizabeth, looking from Konrad to me.

“Our family history is colourful, is it not?” said Father humorously.

My gaze returned once more to the bookshelves, glowing in the torchlight. “May we look at them some more?”

“No.”

I was startled, for his voice had lost its affectionate joviality and become hard.

“But, Father,” I objected, “you yourself have said that the pursuit of knowledge is a grand thing.”

“This is not knowledge,” he said. “It is a
corruption
of knowledge. And these books are not to be read.”

“Then, why do you keep them?” I asked defiantly. “Why not just burn them?”

For a moment his brow furrowed angrily, then softened. “I keep them, dear, arrogant Victor, because they are artifacts of an ignorant, wicked past—and it is a good thing not to forget our past mistakes. To keep us humble. To keep us vigilant. You see, my boy?”

“Yes, Father,” I said, but was not sure I did. It seemed impossible to me that all this ink could contain nothing but lies.

“Now, come away from this dark place,” he told the three of us. “It’s best if you do not speak of it to anyone—especially your little brothers. The stairs are perilous enough, and you
already know the hazards of the door.” He looked at us gravely. “And make me a promise that I will not find you here again.”

“I promise,” the three of us said, almost in unison. Though I was not so sure I could resist the strange allure of these books.

“Excellent. And, Victor,” he added with a wry grin, “wonderful to see you on your feet again. Now, if I’m not mistaken, it is nearly time for us to prepare dinner for the servants.”

“Surely that’s enough now,” I muttered, tossing another peeled potato into the heaping bowl.

“A few more, I think,” Konrad said, still diligently peeling. He glanced over at Ernest, who was sitting beside us at the long table, his brow furrowed with concentration as he worked away at a potato. He in no way resembled Konrad and me. He took after our mother, with fair hair and large, blue eyes.

“Remember, push the knife away from yourself,” Konrad said gently. “You don’t want to cut your hand. Good. That’s it.”

Ernest beamed at Konrad’s praise; the boy practically hero-worshipped him.

I added yet another potato to the bowl and looked about the crowded kitchen. Mother and Elizabeth were preparing the ham, and chatting happily with some of the maids. Mother was much adored by all the servants. She was younger than Father by nearly twenty years, and very beautiful, with thick blond hair, a high forehead, and frank, gentle eyes. I couldn’t remember her ever speaking sharply to any of our staff.

At the far end of the table, Father chopped parsnips and carrots for the roasting pan, and talked to Schultz, his butler of
twenty-five years, who was currently sipping our finest sherry while my father worked.

Our home was a most peculiar one.

The city of Geneva was a republic. We had no king or queen or prince to rule over us. We were governed by the General Council, which our male citizens elected. We had servants, as all wealthy families did, but they were the best paid in Geneva, and were given ample free time. Otherwise, as Father said, they would have been little better than slaves. Just because they did not have our advantages of wealth and education, Father said, that did not make them lesser.

Both Mother and Father were considered exceedingly liberal by many people.

Liberal meant open-minded.

Liberal meant making dinner every Sunday night for our own servants.

“It’s terrible, sir, this situation in France,” Schultz was saying to my father.

“The terror these mobs are spreading is despicable,” Father agreed.

“Do you still think the Revolution so good a thing now, sir?” Schultz asked in his frank way, and I could see all the other servants in the kitchen pause and look over, curious and nervous both, waiting for their master’s reply.

In France, the King and Queen had been beheaded, and landowners were now dragged from their beds in the middle of the night, arrested, and executed—all in the name of the Revolution. I too watched Father, wondering how far his liberality would extend.

“I am still hopeful,” he said calmly, “that the French will
establish a peaceful republic like ours, which recognizes that all men were created equal.”

“And all women, too,” said Mother, then added tartly: “Equal to
men,
that is.”

“Ah!” Father said with a good-natured grin. “And that, too, may come in time, my dear.”

“It would come sooner,” Mother said, “if the education of girls were not designed to turn them into meek, weak-minded creatures who waste their true potential.”

“Not in this house,” said Elizabeth.

Father smiled at her. “Thank you, my dear.”

Mother came and affectionately kissed the top of his greying head. “No, this house is indeed the exception to the rule.”

Father was one of the four magistrates of our republic. His expertise was the law—but there was no subject under the sun that didn’t win his interest. Indeed, so great was his respect for learning that he had resigned many of his public duties and business dealings so that he could devote himself to our education. The chateau was his schoolhouse, his own children his pupils—and that included Elizabeth.