control, I am so excited to be on my way at last to find either the monster or his bones, that I hardly s leep. Adrenalin races through my body and clouds my brain day and night. I cannot thank you enough for giving me leave to make the trip.
I hope this finds you well from your bout of sickness, that you do not fail to pray for my soul, and that you know my l ove resides with you even as the waves press me onward to an uncertain future. This quest has such hold on me that not even physical ailment, interrogation, or the fear of finding that what I seek can delay me in the least.
Your devoted brother,
Robert
* * *
Walton had hired bearers to carry his supplies north through a wasteland of snow and ice. Across great flat plains they trekked, spidery shapes of shadow struggling across the whiteness of open tundra, beset by winds so cold it froze the bits of hair the men failed to shave from their cheeks and chins. White blinding light swept down from across the far craggy mountains so that tinted glasses and goggles covered everyone's eyes from the pain and the possibility of the loss of eyesight.
Where he was going, Walton did not know, save north. He consulted the compass every hour, making sure the troop of tired and bedraggled men not lose their way. At each towering snow bank, natural ice cave, or deep crevice they came to, he paused to search the white pristine realm for evidence of habitation.
His hired men were beginning to balk, to hang back and walk in sullen groups to speak among themselves in whispers. Walton felt their reluctance growing with each new day, and he despai red that he would find anything to prove to him Frankenstein's being was either dead or alive before his companions, like the crew of his last ship, threatened to abandon him to his intractable mission.
He would die if left alone. They must not leave him n ow!
It was twenty-two days into the trip, having passed two outposts where their group spent time warming by fires and taking home-cooked food. They were six days distant from the last hamlet of the north. Already four of his men had turned back, slipping away in the night while he slept, when Walton chanced upon an artifact that made his heart leap with joy. Just at his feet as he trod relentlessly up a slippery hillside of ice, he spied something glinting in the torturous blaze of sunlight. He bent to re t rieve it, to peer at it closely. Finally he raised the tinted goggles and turned the item over in the palm of his gloved hand. It was a flint stone, shaped by human hands, chiseled by other rock, perhaps, but unnatural in shape. The being had done this, h e knew it! He was close by, surely. Frankenstein's creation had found flint; this meant he had fire and had discovered a way to survive the cold and ice that would have claimed him if his suicide had not.
Walton smiled a little smile, his lips just curving slightly beneath the covering of thick wool over his mouth. He looked back over his shoulder at the men coming along behind him, and quickly shoved the stone into a pocket.
The thrill was such to spur him to even greater expenditure of his energies, and th at day he covered two more miles than on most days before. His bearers grumbled and called out pleas that he slow down, but nothing could hold back Walton's immense desire to find the dark treasure of the north.
It was near sundown when the night came drop ping over the plains like a black sheet, that Walton found the place he had dreamed might actually exist.
Around the bend of a mountain's foot, he happened upon a curved wall of ice, the south side of another ice cave carved into the mountain's belly as if God had taken a giant scoop and hollowed out a cavity. He hurried forward, racing the dying sun to the lip of the wall. Grabbing hold of it with his left hand, he swung around to peer into the vast opening.
There! Walton stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
In a great gaping hole with a roof overhead of shining ice
I hope this finds you well from your bout of sickness, that you do not fail to pray for my soul, and that you know my l ove resides with you even as the waves press me onward to an uncertain future. This quest has such hold on me that not even physical ailment, interrogation, or the fear of finding that what I seek can delay me in the least.
Your devoted brother,
Robert
* * *
Walton had hired bearers to carry his supplies north through a wasteland of snow and ice. Across great flat plains they trekked, spidery shapes of shadow struggling across the whiteness of open tundra, beset by winds so cold it froze the bits of hair the men failed to shave from their cheeks and chins. White blinding light swept down from across the far craggy mountains so that tinted glasses and goggles covered everyone's eyes from the pain and the possibility of the loss of eyesight.
Where he was going, Walton did not know, save north. He consulted the compass every hour, making sure the troop of tired and bedraggled men not lose their way. At each towering snow bank, natural ice cave, or deep crevice they came to, he paused to search the white pristine realm for evidence of habitation.
His hired men were beginning to balk, to hang back and walk in sullen groups to speak among themselves in whispers. Walton felt their reluctance growing with each new day, and he despai red that he would find anything to prove to him Frankenstein's being was either dead or alive before his companions, like the crew of his last ship, threatened to abandon him to his intractable mission.
He would die if left alone. They must not leave him n ow!
It was twenty-two days into the trip, having passed two outposts where their group spent time warming by fires and taking home-cooked food. They were six days distant from the last hamlet of the north. Already four of his men had turned back, slipping away in the night while he slept, when Walton chanced upon an artifact that made his heart leap with joy. Just at his feet as he trod relentlessly up a slippery hillside of ice, he spied something glinting in the torturous blaze of sunlight. He bent to re t rieve it, to peer at it closely. Finally he raised the tinted goggles and turned the item over in the palm of his gloved hand. It was a flint stone, shaped by human hands, chiseled by other rock, perhaps, but unnatural in shape. The being had done this, h e knew it! He was close by, surely. Frankenstein's creation had found flint; this meant he had fire and had discovered a way to survive the cold and ice that would have claimed him if his suicide had not.
Walton smiled a little smile, his lips just curving slightly beneath the covering of thick wool over his mouth. He looked back over his shoulder at the men coming along behind him, and quickly shoved the stone into a pocket.
The thrill was such to spur him to even greater expenditure of his energies, and th at day he covered two more miles than on most days before. His bearers grumbled and called out pleas that he slow down, but nothing could hold back Walton's immense desire to find the dark treasure of the north.
It was near sundown when the night came drop ping over the plains like a black sheet, that Walton found the place he had dreamed might actually exist.
Around the bend of a mountain's foot, he happened upon a curved wall of ice, the south side of another ice cave carved into the mountain's belly as if God had taken a giant scoop and hollowed out a cavity. He hurried forward, racing the dying sun to the lip of the wall. Grabbing hold of it with his left hand, he swung around to peer into the vast opening.
There! Walton stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
In a great gaping hole with a roof overhead of shining ice
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