In The Dreams Of The Dead

Part One: Strange Attractors

It was cold, the beginning of a long winter in London, where each morning Robert Walton forced himself from bed to walk to the library; keeping his head down and his arms wrapped tightly around his coat as he made his way through the hollering crowds. He disliked their manners; the way in which they  unquestioningly went about their lives; the ruddy faces of rotund wives and widows that looked out disapprovingly from tenement windows; the general filth of the streets and the merchants that hassled him, quietly passing by. He did not belong here, had not been permitted to; but this was his path and he was determined to see it through to the end. He could not have remained at Ardington, of that he was certain, and the studies would pay off in time. He enjoyed solitude and his routine suited him. Nights were his pleasure, sitting late with his volumes; his guide and his comfort. Those outside were uneducated, he might snort, but that private world of his had always been unshared, and he would check himself around others for fear of either coming across as though he thought himself their better or alienating them. He had spent two years abroad in the navy, and that experience would prove useful, but his life there had not been to his liking. He was a tall man, well-built, and he felt a pressure to live up to the image; to know less, think less, feel less; while also refusing to betray himself. He sought truth, reconciling himself with the knowledge that there were men in this world like Shelley, that glorious spirit, now in exile on the continent. They may not have met, but this man was, in Walton's eyes, his friend. He would look back on this period often, since it would become a time of no little importance and in the months that followed he would come face to face with his very soul in a way that all have the chance of doing should they have honest, intimate interaction with another. It is one thing to be a solitary man, accustomed to your own company, the vibrations of your own mind; but it is quite something else to confront yourself in the mirror that is another;  and despite how much they may long for it, one will never be prepared.

It had been a horrible evening and Walton sat close to the fire, beneath a worn old blanket. The snow was falling again, thick and fast, and the street below was for once silent. He could not quite focus himself upon the task at hand, composing letters, and considered going to bed, early thought it was for him, when came the knocking. Rather, a loud, frenzied banging that seemed to echo through the entire building in the deathlike stillness. Walton would open the door to a man that he recognised, but did not know by name, having often seen him in the library. Walton had, while browsing, caused a stack of books to collapse, and then found the stranger crouched at his feet to pick them up. He remembered that he had paused to survey the title on one old dust jacket, then looked to Walton with a curious, knowing quality in his pale eyes and what could have passed for a smile. He moved quickly away, and they had never spoken. Now, in a kind of wildness, he stared straight at Walton, chest heaving, and seemed to force out his words. 'Forgive my intrusion - but I must talk with you'.

'Come in'.

Walton tried to inject welcoming into his voice and failed, since it was difficult through his surprise.

'Thank you' the man replied, making into the hallway with hesitant steps; he appeared to deliberate the decision and looked up at the bare ceiling. His movements were languid and Walton noticed that he wore no gloves or hat and flakes of snow glistened upon his dark hair.

'Please, come in' he reiterated, 'and sit beside the fire, you must be frozen', good manners getting the better of him.

Once the stranger was ensconced on the settee, without bothering to remove his coat and having refused Walton's offer of something to drink, he stared into the fire with that same wild look of unease, as though something may leap from the grate to grab him. His mouth was chapped and pale from the cold. 'I am unsure in my proceeding with this tale, but I must tell somebody. It has been many years and not a soul knew of - it' He faltered a little and then seemed to regain control of himself. 'I do not have anybody, and I really must relieve my mind of this.'

'You may speak freely. I will listen'.

'Venerable explorer! I hope that you will not think me mad. The only other who came upon any detail of my situation was a magistrate in my native country for my creation had turned murderous and it should not have been acquitted of its crimes - vile insect! - but this is making no sense to you, and so I will endeavour to explain it as clearly as I can'. His index finger scraped repeatedly the cuticle of his thumb and his eyes cast downwards as he fell silent.

'Are you alright?'

'This headache is incessant'. He appeared to grit his teeth and went on 'I was different, unlike anybody else, and so believed myself destined for greatness. Are not the best minds of every generation at odds with the rest?'

'That is the view I take, certainly'. Walton almost stuttered.