Chapter Text
From the cupola, my secret nook, I watch the storm roll in to the valley town.
"Ah, poor fools", I sigh. By tomorrow, I wager half the houses will be flooded, and the rest swept down the mountainside.
Despite only being a visitor to this place, I did try to warn them, but my youth and the gossip do little to garner favor. So when I told them the dark clouds and strange weather meant danger in the coming months, they did not take heed. No, they have let the starvation and pestilence run rampant. Of course, it was the most vulnerable who succumbed first, suffering from the folly of their fathers. Despite the calamity, one must make the best of a bad job. This sudden influx in cadavers grants me and many other students of medicine a fair treat of learning. A bountiful harvest for scholars of anatomy. I descend the ladder to my makeshift laboratory, though it's merely a barn’s loft one must make do.
The rain is relentless, the droplets drumming against the wood paneling. A high whistling draft cuts through the barn, and thunder rolls through the valley. The scent of wet wood and earth occupies the space. Despite the chill, this is the ideal workshop for my research. The gooseflesh adorning my hide is a temporary inconvenience, a price for science, I suppose.
Yet I should be thankful that the chill of the autumn offers the ideal conditions for preservation; dim lanterns hang on every wall. Allowing a faint glowing halo of light every few steps. I carefully walk through the barn, mindful of my every step as the wood creaks under my weight.
I walk through the neat rows of the bodies of unblinking children I have arranged; despite having it nearly memorized, it is more of a challenge to navigate in the low light of dusk. Nearly every inch of the floor is occupied by newly dead. I have them in rubberized bags, keeping the animals and bugs from interfering. Some of them still open from my initial inspection; they hadn't made the cut, so they will not be contributing to the experiment once I am complete, though I shall eventually have a burning pile.
I had needed to find the very best parts for the perfect whole. The heart from body 0018, the eyes from 0032, the hands from 0004, and so on. I have done the painstaking process. Shifting through the rubble, finding the diamonds in the rough. Separating wheat from the chaff. I've personally selected, nested, joined, and sewn in place every piece of this puzzle, building my masterpiece one cell at a time.
The veil separating the living from the dead is thin, but I believe it’s possible to return function to a failing body. I will be the one to reach through the veil separating the planes. Dragging a soul back from the beyond into the vessel I've forged. The most important experiment I've ever conducted. I will be the first on this new frontier, the only one brave enough to dare attempt such blasphemy. To defy god, and nature itself, in the name of scientific exploration. Let the university tribunal question my expenditures now; let the grant committee demand their progress reports. Every crown, every mark they allocated to my thesis will be answered tonight.
I reach my workbench and pore over the text one last time. I have memorized the studies of anatomy and alchemy. At the crossroads where medicine and magic meet. I run my hand over the lines, tracing the nerve endings and veins, the points that will be the key to restoring life. As I trace the nerve endings on the parchment, I catch sight of black ink smeared all along the side of my forearm, stains from endless nights of scribbling calculations I hadn't bothered to wash off.
While these young frames would lead to tedious work, I had to make smaller tools to accommodate the delicate work being done; my palms thick with rough, cracked callouses and blisters from filing down the tiny steel picks late into the night, it is a labor of love. If it had been, say, an adult form, the energy would be too spread out among the limbs; the spark of life would scatter, unable to catch. But condensed in the vessel of a child, that would work; it has to work. And tonight is the night it shall be done. The storm is drawing closer.
I put on my leather gloves, flexing and curling my fingers; the material groans. I have done a few renovations. I cut down the spindle of the millstone; I replaced it with a new 13.7-meter lightning rod, that goes through the barn’s roof. I go down the stairs of the loft onto the ground floor. My boots squish down the dirt and wet hay. Lying in the cradle of the bed stone is a small silhouette with a tarp draped over their frame, keeping the rain from drenching them completely. The stone will trap the energy in her, not allowing for life to slip through the cracks and death's second triumph. No, I will earn my name's sake; tonight I shall be the Victor.
From my apron I grab my conductive equipment, vise-jawed clips I pry apart and clamp onto the lightning rod. From that main point I have much smaller delicate copper wires threaded through a new tool I crafted; a blend suture needle, crossed with the eastern medicinal acupuncture needle. I adjust the specimen to lie on its side; I start the procedure. I press needle after needle, piercing deep into the waxy, moldable flesh; 15 points of contact, all in the nervous system points I have mapped out. Rumbling thunder shakes the barn; it’s here. I rush back; I hand-crank the prongs of the spindle to extend, casting a wider net to catch the electric energy.
Crack, a blinding light splits the sky. The air is hot, buzzing with it; every hair on my body is raised. There's a metallic smell so strong, I taste iron on my tongue. I blink rapidly and allow the ringing to subside, gathering my wits about me. Then I hear it, a gasping, groaning sound. I am frozen, unmoving as the cadavers in the loft.
“Scheisse!” I rush forward, sinking to my knees beside the stone bed, my ribs pressed to the cold, wet stone; the sound is louder, closer. I dare to peer down; inside the basin is this small creature, wide-eyed and panicked, tears streaking their hand-stitched skin.
Alive, it’s worked! She’s alive. I’ve done it, I’ve made life! Merciful heaven, she lives, she’s alive, ALIVE. What do I do now? I don't know how to take care of a living thing? I hardly know how to tend myself. Dear gods in heaven, what have I done? What do I do? I’m a mere tosher. I managed to raise the dead, yes, but raise a child? I’m out of my depth.
Her cries do not stop. I look over her- the needles! She could be in pain.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, dear; let me fix it, just hold still”. The words flow off my tongue before I realize what I am saying.
I gingerly remove each probe, discarding them in the dirt. When they are all finally extracted from her skin, she does not yet relent. Why would she? She’s only just been reborn. I wipe the rain from her skin with my handkerchief. I shed my overcoat, wrapping her in it, so oversized it could swallow her whole. I scoop her from the stone basin, little legs dangling; God, was she always so light? I pull her close, holding her prime child-size to my frame. My ribs press sharply against hers; in my obsession, I’d forgotten to eat for days, leaving my own frame hollowed out and gaunt beneath my shirt.
I pace circles in the barn, moving constantly with her held tightly against me. The cries slow and soften. The lack of sound immediately startles me. Her spark cannot be extinguished so soon. Instantly, I slip my hand into the coat, pressing my fingers to her neck; her pulse is steady. She is still alive.
I readjust her in my embrace, tucking her face to the crook of my neck, so I can feel her breath on my skin, a reminder she is okay. With the coat shielding her from the weather, I venture out of the barn into the adjacent cottage. I march slowly through the rain, soaking my clothes as opposed to jostling her.
I enter the threshold, dripping in the entryway. I kick off my waterlogged boots and hang up the coat on the rack. I look around the place, suddenly very aware of the state; I have clothes strewn about, dishes piled on the counters, rotting food that needs to be thrown out for the compost. None of it has mattered in the pursuit of science; yet now embarrassment burns through me. I hadn't realized how severely I had neglected my lodgings.
It is so late into the evening; we will address it tomorrow as it comes. But for now we need sleep; for my mind to remain sharp when I conduct my complete Medical Examination of her. I chart a careful course through the obstacles, moving towards my chambers.
I adjust my hold, slotting her against my hip; little arms are wrapped around my neck loosely. I rummage through a heap of fabrics occupying my trunk, finding at least one sleep shirt. I sit on the edge of my bed with her on my lap. She clings like a barnacle.
“Oh, I know, only a moment, dearest; we must get you ready for bed”. I pry her fingers loose and scoot her just an inch away.
She looks so delicate, all those hours of careful stitches holding her together with silkworm gut, so clear and fine that it seems as though her complexion cannot decide on a single pigment to maintain, as the distinctness of her spotting reminds me of a quality-bred calf.
I guide her arms up and slide the nightshirt over her.
“Oh my word,” I say, straightening the fabric. It looked foolishly long, a sight so absurd that a rare hearty laugh tears through me. I shake my head and wipe tears from my eyes.
“No, that won't do.” I decide with a click of my tongue.
I grab a set of shears from my nightstand. With little regard for the garment, I cut the hem and the sleeves so that, at the very least, her hands are free, and she may not trip over the length. I stare, assessing the work, making sure it's good enough. When she suddenly reaches her arms to the heavens with tight little fists and a big yawn. Right, I have suppressed my circadian rhythm for so long I nearly forgot the signs.
I hold her again with one arm as I maneuver us into bed; I fluff a pillow and wedge it under her head. I pull up the sheets and linens I usually kick aside, enveloping us both in the warm comfort. I lay beside her; she squirms and readjusts slightly to lie on her belly. I place my hand on her back, feeling the up and down of her ribs from breath; it reassures me. An exhale shutters through me; a breath escapes my lips, though I cannot recall holding it back. Looking at her like this reminds me of when I was young.
A hum builds up in the back of my throat, the melody of something deep in my memories. A lullaby if memory fares, ‘‘Schlaf, Chindli, schlaf!’’, the folk song my mother sang me all those years ago. My girl settles deeply into sleep, and within a blink I follow right behind.