Frankenstein's Monster by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe Page B

only from a distance. The highest of the wolds rise hundreds of feet up. From the top looking eastward I could see bands of color like an earthbound rainbow: the green of the marshes, a yellow rim of sand, the blue of the sea.
    I am currently in Yorkshire, where at every turn there is a river, stream, or brook. After fording or swimming across the Don and the Aire, the Wharfe and the Ouse, and dozens of rivers whose names I do not know, I have come to a sea of a different sort, an ocean of heather. The bluish purple of its rolling waves is broken only by flocks of red grouse. A huge stone cross stands to mark the way—to where I do not know. No doubt its builders thought to dwarf men with its size. I can easily trace the full front of its face, its carved lessons worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. The sun shines now though, and I have stopped in the cross’s shadow to write this.
    My thoughts twist ever inward. My father was not a believer. Nevertheless, if he had accepted me as his son, would he have made me learn, even if by rote, the Christian creed? Left alone, abandoned, I made my own creed. In mine, the son does not die as atonement; the father dies. This is as blasphemous as my father’s seizing the power of creation—and as unsatisfying. Neither offers me hope, nor does the Church itself, that hoarder of redemption. If there is a Hell, I am probably damned to stand outside that as well.
Berwick-upon-Tweed
October
19
    The words skitter on the page with excitement: I have just spoken to someone who at last knows where Tarkenvilleis. I must retrace my steps, as it is a little south of here. If I had traveled along the coast instead of inland, I would have passed it on the way.
    More important, my informant has also heard of the Winterbournes; indeed, he is cousin to a man who works their flocks.
    Walton’s sister, Margaret, came here years before he began his mad pursuit of me. Although she had had no previous acquaintance with Gregory Winterbourne, she married him only six weeks after her first husband’s death had made her a very young widow. Winterbourne carried her and her small daughter up here to wild Northumbria, away from the more civilized south.
    Over the years, the pleasant new bride became a morose and suspicious woman. She now believes the whole world is determined to do her ill and imagines a thief or murderer hidden in every shadow. She has grown miserly, too: there had better not be a sock’s worth of wool nor a chop’s worth of meat missing when the accounts are tallied up.
    Never mind the chop, I thought as the man spoke; the murderer that Margaret believes to be everywhere has come to her at last.
    Walton’s sister has no issue from her second marriage. That there are only three Winterbournes to kill disappoints me. I want to leave so wide a trail of blood that Walton can see it from Venice.
Tarkenville
October
24
    I know now why the name Tarkenville is not on the map; it is barely a smudge on the coast, as small as a town may be and still be called a town. The Winterbourne estate is its chieffeature: an ugly square on top of the sandstone cliffs by the sea, although set back from the edge. At the bottom of those cliffs is the cave that now shelters me.
    As close as I am to the estate, I feel safe. The cliffs are treacherous; there is no easy path down, not even for one as goat-footed as I. The shoreline before the cave is empty of signs of fishing lines, traps, or other human occupation. In addition, a veil of fresh water spills over the cave’s entrance, hiding its existence from all but the most curious.
    When I made a fire in the cave, I found myself in a chamber that was an uncanny shade of red, too deep to be merely sandstone. The red color comes from a type of moss that paints the cave’s walls and ceiling. With the firelight flickering against these crimson walls, I can imagine myself Satan in Hell, plotting against all mankind.
    Driftwood for fire is plentiful, and there is