The winter winds in the North pole's mid-day lifts millions of snow particles in wave after wave of flurry's giving the appearance of ghosts dancing on the tundra. In the miles of desolate pale landscape, a figure travels on foot against the resistance of freezing 8 mile an hour winds. Bundled in layers of furs and wool, the figure presses onward attempting to see through a pair of goggles that are continuously obscured with snow and frost. The Figure pauses and takes notice to a ship protruding out of the ice. They start to run and upon arriving they see it is a 1400's shipwrecked Italian Tudor Carrack frozen in the ice. A ladder is built into the side of the ship and the figure climbs aboard. They find the steps that lead to a quarter deck meant for officers and they descend. The quarters are bare, with only the wood of bed frames, empty chests and cabinets left behind. A ghost frozen in glass of its former glory days preserved forever antiquated. They ascend to the top deck and enter the captains quarters.
There they find a room dawning 200 year old artifacts. A mattress still resides on the frame here and beside it is a small iron fire pit with three legs. In front of the window that rests at the stern of the ship a captains desk is fastened to the floor accompanied by a chair. They return to the officers quarters and they pull apart a bed frame, using the weight of the empty chests occasionally to break the boards into smaller pieces. Now with a stock pile to burn, they use the small iron fire pit and stack bundled wood inside of it. The figure takes off their layers, removing their fur hood then head wrap and goggles. It is Victoria Frankenstein, 11 years older.
Still mostly bundled up in layers of fur she opens the messenger bag she carries and pulls out a journal. With a lockets chain book marking the last time she has journaled. she unwraps the leather binding and opens the journal. Inside is a flat pressed white lotus flower withered shrunk. She flips through the pages to the saved page with the locket and chain. The date reads:
Spring, 1805
It's clear she hasn't journaled since that night her ancestral castle burned down Eleven years ago. With a fire burning in the small iron furnace she sits at the captains desk. From out of her satchel she retrieves a tin cup and a bottle of brandy nearing its end. One shot of the brandy is poured for herself with the fumes lingering on the roof of her mouth and in the back of her throat for some time after she desperately drinks her pour. Then she pulls out a bottle of black ink that appears to have frozen, and sets it in the tin cup. She sets the tin cup on top of the stove to wait for the ink to thaw. After sometime the temperature in the room is noticeably warmer and she sees the ink has thawed completely. Using her furs she wraps a protective layer around the ink to keep from burning her hands. She places the ink on the desk and pours a few drops of brandy in it. Using the quill she stirs the brandy into the ink insuring the ink wont freeze again. With the quill dipped she prompts to put ink to paper but the point of the quill sits idle just above the paper. Victoria stares straight ahead while she is paused in contemplation. Tears welt up in her eyes and just as quick her eyes slam shut for she painfully considers what she is about to write. The black ink christens the page of a new entry as Victoria writes:
"Winter, 1816. In the event of my demise these are my last confessions and testaments. I am trapped in the North Pole doth nearer to Jan'ry's start I feel the presence of my doom get closer. I have discovered this ship frozen in the ice and I am unable to refrain from making comparisons. This once great vessel, filled with dreams and ideals of grander to carve a path in history to new discoveries. To have been so instrumental in igniting hope among many in the future – now destined to lay frozen and forgotten by the world. What a cruel, yet just fate for something that has potentially stolen the lives of dozens who had pledged their trust within it. We mirror each other in both the adventurous lives we have lived and the icy demise it reached and I am soon to see. It seems the stars and the planets put repetition in our path to remind us or to make us face the irony of our choices. My choices, I still question my choices. I chose to tamper with life and death therefore I created a monster. I know my monster is coming. It's been eleven years since my initial attempt to elude the angry child I gave birth to but their vengeance was unwavering. Like Pasiphae, forever known as the witch who brought forth a destructive creature, feasting on the lives of mortals... I believed here in the arctic I could finally elude the monster but at the sacrifice of my own survival. With my rations depleted and my strength fading I foresee my fate is close at hand for the cold is the wrath of nature that has no match. This may be my last opportunity to record the terrors of my creation. The lives they took and my regret for what I've done."
Both of her fists pound on the desk. She is as chipped and as cracked as unkempt fragile porcelain as a regret filled sorrow spills out of her wretch while she grinds her teeth in tears. Eyes clenched tightly closed; she fights to calm herself back into her seat. When her eyes have finally relaxed she opens them to continue journaling.
"I am devoid of deserving. A storm of gloom has followed me and in time devoured my seasons where golden autumns lived and gentle fragile snowfall once made joy soar. Now consumed by the maws of hell bleeding dry my life's accomplishments and infecting the hollow sky to build an exclusion from the inherent pleasures of the moon and the sun truly depriving me of worth. I replay the carnage and imagine what revenge seeks to find me. I shed all merit for repentance and I choose to use my last efforts to document the events that led me to flee across the world to my death. I carry the voices of what once was my friends, my neighbors, their children. All who'd perished in my monsters wake haunt me, as the spirits I foreordained to destruction. May their existence be known. Geertrudia De Coperslaeger, The woman who housed me and called me sister. Her Husband Jacop, mt childhood friend. Their dear young daughters, Susanna and Madelief. Bernardo, the brave man who gave his life to protect his village. A noble man, a man I was coming to love. Near the golden inlet of the Zwin north sea coast where hills were hugged by forest there was a village that is no longer there that was called Rode Heuvels in the Autumn of 1813. I compare my rash, cold and confined childhood to how freely children were in this village. Often I felt blanketed with gratefulness to see children safely be children. To never know the cruel shadow casted by witch hunts, a veering ugly world of callas prejudice and the inability to feel safe that was not so long ago. So oblivious to the crude black spot in history. It still glows in my memory, for to live in it was to lift you up and spark embers of hope in even the truly desolate despairing. A quaint little village that prospered despite its lack of vast resources. Be there no mistaking, the life of this small town carried wholeheartedly the potential for growth. It could plainly be seen by how nurtured and free the children were. How they were creating together and how seldom the children were scolded for just being children. The fields of hills flourishing with the large green leaves of red mammoth fodder beats, rippled for acres on the kiss of every breeze. A farming village where there was a sense of a true community where everyone took part in making their village thrive. Everyone made sure that no one went hungry. Everyone did their part to help one another. In essence, it was perceived by me an example of a society reaching perfection."
She sits in the captain's quarters journaling at the desk with the small iron fire pit at her side. The 400 year old Italian cargo ship still creaks with every draft threatening the life of warmth no more fragile than the flame on a candle. But for now Victoria has found a small corner of comfort for someone who arrived with nothing in a hopeless North pole.
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