The raging storm outside pressed drafts into that high room, and those blustering currents knocked the dangling bones against one another. When in the nightmare he had at last made it up the stairs into the attic of the house, the throbbing light of an oil lamp revealed to him the source of the clicking and clattering.
Now, ascending the hospital stairs toward the thin childlike cries of misery, he felt as if Earth’s gravity had doubled during the climb, for he carried not only the weight of this moment but also the weight of all those dreams and what they surely meant. And the nature of those grim memories identified the hateful source of the brain. The repetitive nightmare of the old stone house-with its cursed attic where something ticked and rattled, clicked and clattered and its cellar in which the air itself was evil-returned to Deucalion so often that he knew as surely as he knew anything, the dream must be fragments of memories the donor had left behind somewhere among the sulci and the gyri of his gray matter. He said his brain was that of an unknown miscreant, which was true but only in that he’d never been told the man’s name or his crimes. On the night that Victor had drawn upon the power of a thunderbolt to enliven his first creation, the cooperative storm, of unprecedented violence, had seemed to leave in Deucalion the lightning’s glow, which manifested in his eyes from time to time.Īlthough he sought redemption and eventually peace, although he cherished Truth and wished to serve it, Deucalion had long tried to deceive himself about the identity of the man whose head, whose brain, had been married to the patchwork body in Victor’s first lab.
If he had stood before a mirror, he would have seen a pulse of soft light pass through his eyes.
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