Frankenskar was a nine day's wonder and a fright when
he first came on the scene. Later he made the scene.
Just where he came from and how he got his sewed up,
zipped up multilateral and impossible scars was never
quite clear at first. Later, it didn't matter so much as
what to do about him.
They never did get it through them, generally, that
Frankenskar was no joke played by a grisly surgeon. But
then, when did the masses ever grasp that there is more to
life than watching the stupefying TV screen or gassing
about baseball, football, soccer or what-have-you's, such
as the latest golf classic? Personally, I could never grasp
what the general public grasps about any "major news" fact.
And he was that!
Frankenskar was a major news fact...a fact that occupied
a lot of column space speculating as to what was at the
bottom of the mystery surrounding his sudden appearance.
Frankenskar reminded one newspaperman of the legend of
Osiris. Early in his career some wordmonger got it into
his column that IF the legend of Osiris were true, then
Frankenskar would be the parts of Osiris, put back together
by his doting spouse. He looked like that.
It never occurred to even that newsman that there WAS
anything to such legends of immortality, or that Frankenskar
actually possessed supernatural powers.
If it had, he would never have used phrases like "doting
spouse". of Osiris' goddess wife, Isis. For the ancient
gods were always jealous of their prerogatives, and one of them
was not to be spoken of lightly, derogatively, or in any
manner not entirely respectful.
Even after several news gatherers died mysteriously, it
still did not occur to them that there was anything to be
inferred in the way of vengeance. They went right on pooh
poohing all of Frankenskar's feats, and comparing him to
Osiris revivified was as far as any of them got in understanding
what Frankenskar really was.
To understand what he was, you have to go back to Lindbergh and
Carrel and their immortal chicken-heart experiments. If you
were around that long ago, you would remember the news accounts
of the immortal bit of flesh in the test tube that just kept
growing and didn't die. For some reason, none of them ever
wholly realized that Lindbergh and Carrel had cracked open
a mystery much greater than even the lost tomb of Osiris.
They proved that given the right nutrients in the right
way, flesh doesn't die but goes right on living and growing.
But the world of stupidity and vicarious sports paid
no attention.
It didn't occur to any of the writers of the time that
the legend of the immortal Osiris, who didn't die when his
enemies cut him up and strewed the pieces around the Mediterranean, but lived while Isis went Śround gathering up the
bits to sew them back together ... it didn't occur to them
that it was not necessarily a wild old legend. It was
perfectly possible ... if you consider the Lindbergh-Carrel
experiments in the light of truth. They proved that Osiris
could have been immortal, and that Isis could have known what
she was doing, traveling around looking for bits and pieces.
His wife looked as regal and marvelous as Isis herself
but Frankenskar wasn't Osiris revivified. And only that one
ever drew such a parallel between the lives of Frankenskar
and Osiris.
In this modern time we have an infinite scorn for all
the ancient ways and thoughts and records. We call them
"survival mythology" -- meaning tales for children.
That they were NOT tales for children, but actual records
of events that occurred long ago, few people of today ever
get through them.
Otherwise the mystery of Frankenskar would not have been
such a mystery, and a lot of trouble could have been avoided
by paying proper respect to himself, his wife and his doings.
But no one ever accused modern newsmen or moderns generally
of being salons of wisdom, or even of being respectful to
anyone unless they had a gun at their head.
They just didn't realize that Frankenskar DID have a gun
at their head, is all.
Not a one of them ever realized that Frankenskar was
living proof of life itself. Not a one of them ever managed
to put two and two together and come up with the real
answer...Frankenstein (sic) was living proof that flesh and
age are not necessarily companions in this vale of tears.
Where did Frankenskar come from? He was asked often
enough, in the latter days of the limelight that centered on
him, after the Washington Incident. But about all the questioners
learned was "I have no way to tell you of things you cannot
understand."
What Frankenskar said, another time, was (I found this
after many a session with the clips and other records of his
career...) "How can I tell you that space itself is collapsible
as a rubber balloon and that it is perfectly possible to
reach through a hole in the balloon to another place and
another space and another world?"
I suspect that Frankenskar came from such a place as the
Bermuda Triangle, which I hear swallows ships and planes and
boats as regularly as a crocodile feeds on washer women in the
deeps of the African jungle. He just happened to pass through
the other way.
From where the ships go, he came silent, inscrutable,
powerful and eerie -- with his eyes like green marbles, and
missing no nuance and no possibility around him. He could
take the least occurrence, and make from it an impossible
event. A jostling kid -- like, suddenly, the kid was on the
other side of the room.
It was in the old stories of The House In Philadelphia
where you can climb a stepladder and disappear into thin air
that gave me the key to Frankenskar's origin. For the telling
included descriptions of the weird looking people who
climbed down the stepladder and walked into our world...and
some of them bore just such scars as those that gave Frankenskar
his name.
It was the scars linking up with the visitors From
The House In Philadelphia. that gave me the first real clue
to the origin of Frankenskar. (Not that anyone else ever
bothered overmuch with such links, any more than they ever
bothered tracking down some of Charles Fort's clippings to
see what truth was in them.) People don't really think, it
seems.
Which is why I never bothered writing down all the little
things that betrayed the weird sidelights of Frankenskar's
life ... all the disappearances and appearances that marked
his career.
To begin with, his rest was perfect rest. When he wasn't
moving, he didn't move. That was the most striking thing
about the big man, his ability to be absolutely motionless.
Not an eye twitched, not a muscle tremored, not a finger
moved. Like a statue, he could be motionless. And there
was something inhuman about this motionlessness that struck
a quiver of fear into those who noticed.
It was this inhuman quality that was always most noticeable,
and that gave rise to the name they gave him -- as much as
the scars. Lots of people have scars, but nobody calls them
"Frankenskar." It was originally "Frankenscar," but some
typesetter put the K in place of the C, and started the thing
in the newspapers. Frankenskar became the press name for him
... and nobody ever got around to finding out if he had
another name.
There was a white scar round his head like an evil white
worm that gave him his most sinister and striking aspect. It
looked as if the top of his head had been torn 1006e, then sewed
back in place. One couldn't help wondering what else they
did when they had that brain case off. Or even if he had a
brain, or some sort of computer installed inside.
He was good looking ... that is, he must have been very
good looking, before the scars were there.
But he was no monster, people liked him in spite of the
sinister-looking scars and his unmoving, unwinking manner.
And when She ... (I called her Isis to myself, but most
people called her She out of sheer fear of asking her name)
... when She came in and sat beside him, motionless and
unwinking as himself ... there was in fact an eerie dual presence of some mysterious alchemy that caused hushed tones,
tip-toe walking, and a funereal quiet, out of respect, as in
a tomb.
It was this silence and unmovingness that was their
most striking quality, for they seldom spoke. When they did
speak, in bass or contralto resonance ... there was more
silence, as if people found their words too much to take.
No one could ever really describe for anyone else just
why they went to Frankenskar's place, or what went on there
that drew them back time after time.
He took a place on the hill above ... an old rambling
house, vintage style -- 1910, or so. It was one of those
big houses with gingerbread scrollwork and high ceilings
they don't build anymore -- no one can afford the lumber,
and besides, no carpenters know how, any more.
What went on? Nothing, absolutely nothing you could
call by any name, or fit any word to. Maybe telepathy,
but there were no particular thoughts you could carry off
and set down on paper.
Frankenskar sat on a big chair with his wife beside him,
both motionless. And people came, and bowed a knee in an
uncontrollable ritual as in a cult center. Then they sat
on the floor or on the few benches and chairs scattered about.
Nobody talked. They just sort of communed with nothingness.
I couldn't describe it in words.
But I'll try. The few times I could get in ... they
only allowed about a score in at one time ... my curiosity
sort of drowned in a blue sea of strange silent wonder
that welled up from nowhere and swept over my mind. It was like watching a sunset and thanking Mother Nature for the sight. But it wasn't an eye experience -- rather some other interior mental organ was excited from long slumber and came awake out of an age of atrophy. Back to life again.
You see, Frankenskar and his wife seldom spoke. Occasionally
they spoke, with effort and in a heavy accent. But that was
only to people they did not know well, as if speech were for
people who no brains.
In everyday usage, they didn't speak. Not to each other,
nor to people around them. They just looked ... and people
knew what they wanted. At first, acquaintances in the very
early days of his appearance put them both in the mute
category and to communicate with them went through all sorts of shouting and gesturing
and mouthing of little words. Then, all
at once, they knew. It wasn't necessary for them to speak
because they knew your thoughts, and could talk to the
mind directly. People aren't used to this, but it is some-
thing they adapt to remarkably well, and quickly.
So Frankenskar's silent meetings with his followers
weren't really silent. There was a lot going on in that silence,
and he could hear them and he could direct an answer to
this one or that one without disturbing or interrupting the
others.
This took time to get accustomed to, and I never really
had the time. I was too busy in those days chasing a dollar
on my job to have much real time to spare, and my knowledge
of the whole Frankenskar scene was casual and happenstantial.
It was only later that it sank in...when he was gone. I had
missed the greatest thing that ever, or nearly ever, happened to
me just by being otherwise occupied.
I hadn't even fully realized what his non-speaking really
meant, even though I thought I'd heard communication in my
head. It was so small and still I didn't consciously recognize
its nature.
But the non-speaking was the key to the whole thing.
They didn't have to speak and never had spoken, where they came from.
So ... only a few days before his final disappearance
I asked ... "Where did you come from, originally? How did
you come to this place?"
This asking wasn't oral. It was mental, something like
wondering to myself, and the answer was rather like an
imagined answer ... deep-toned and resonant, but still not
sound. And I learned.
Frankenskar answered all right, pictorially. He 'said'
"After my brother usurped my place and slew me, Isis gathered the pieces and fled into the cavern world."
There were pictures of that place ... of machines and
living quarters of vast size, outsize for normal people ...
huge, endless corridors and complexities I couldn't grasp
at that instant. There were pictures of Isis (as I saw her)
working with the dead body ... and finally of the freezing
place ... and pictures of her also frozen and waiting beside
him. Waiting for what?
They were waiting for the usurper
to die of old age, or in war ... so that they could return.
They waited, as nearly as I could tell from this thin
communication, for long centuries frozen stiff in some subterranean, cyclopean place. Then, something woke them.
What it was I couldn't understand ... an automatic thawing
of the freezer device, perhaps.
Then, once more alive, the two had wandered, looking for
a way out of the cavern world, so empty and so endless and yet so weirdly rich with endless food stores and freezers full of food and like one huge, endless deserted hotel.
Finally, the portal had opened before them, and stepping
through, they had found themselves amid the throngs on a busy
street.
That was one version. Later, I found a man who claimed
to have been there when they appeared. I append his story
for what it's worth.
It was one of those bashes ... a bunch of young people
having a time, high on grass, reefers passing Śround and
endless talk of the kind only youngsters would
tolerate under the influence -- about God and emotion and
their place in Life. The "Establishment" was
getting its usual excoriation. The witness was there, more
or less as a tolerated guest. He carried a guitar.
There were about twenty, ten couples ... with people
coming and going and bunching and unbunching and getting
ready for some sort of meeting later in a place he'd
never heard of, called Blue Heaven.
But all that is unimportant. What is important is that -
the ceiling opened with a noise rather like muted thunder.
One minute all was normal ... low talk, laughter, a low-
turned radio was muttering about the weather ... and suddenly
this long, drawn clap like distant thunder, and the ceiling
had a roughly circular hole in it six feet wide.
Some kind of fluid blackness swirled in the hole, and
down through the opening drifted with a slow turning motion,
like astronauts in a gravity-free newscast, two people.
A big man and a tall woman, not herself big, but tall
and slender, with one hand clasped in the man's heavy
fist. They turned and turned twice and then they were standing
on the floor, motionless, watching out of dark Egyptian eyes,
with a studied wariness, as cats watch a trainer.
Nobody else moved either -- frozen like people playing
statues. Then the two tried a step or two, as if trying
the gravity, trying the floor. The most striking thing about
them was that they didn't blink; didn't move in nervous movements that other people accept as natural. They moved and
stopped, but when stopped, were still.
What really impressed the witness was the ceiling. .
gaping, a round ragged hole that should have been shedding
plaster and wooden splinters, but wasn't. Instead, it slowly
healed itself ... like a lens coming into focus, the shutter
slowly closing ... and the dark fluid of darkness
withdrawing like drifting fog, but black.
Slowly, the ceiling closed itself, and was again as
it had been. A perfect old ceiling, with a slight peel of
paint.
A numbness settled on everyone in the room. A girl started
to laugh hysterically, but the man looked at her with his
heavy brows drawn together in a frown, and she stopped
laughing and her face took on a startled look as if she'd
just touched God with a finger, or swallowed an ice cube.
The two were wearing Egyptian clothing, as if going to
a Fancy Dress Ball, but in that place and that time it
didn't mean anything. Coming through the ceiling didn't mean too much either.
The eyewitness had never mentioned lt. Some others there
had tried, and been laughed at for their trouble.
He was wearing a short kilt, a long dagger, and little
else but an Egyptian collar, very brilliant with enamel. The
white scars that ran everywhere over his body were like heavy
cobwebs, and in places like white manila quarter-inch ropes.
But you didn't think about his scars because his eyes would
fix you with a glance, and you didn't think of anything but
a kind of sudden liking. An awe and a sort of subdued
love would sweep over you with as much effect as a dab
of water, fluid and awakening.
She was wearing a transparent skirt with pleats, and her
breasts were bare and beautiful under her wide collar and
lacquered hair. She was neither young nor old.
But costume and sudden appearance notwithstanding, what
was most remarkable about it was that no one spoke.
No one screamed, and except for the girl who'd
tried to have hysterics but couldn't, there was no panic.
They stood and looked as the tall Egyptian couple walked
slowly out of the room, down the stair and away ... before
anyone came out of that strange trance of disbelief and
awe.
Later I decided to investigate. I found the house, got
a stepladder and went up and looked at the ceiling ... it
was no different than any other ceiling and there was no
hole.
I asked questions of the few people who'd been
there, and got the vaguest answers, as though they had
trouble gathering their thoughts into speech. Which was not
unusual in that area.
I learned they'd walked on up the avenue, and had
not been stopped, arrested or even noticed over-much. For
in that area and that time, weird costumes were accepted as
the "thing."
I'd first heard about them weeks later when, in
conversation, I heard that a pair of Egyptians had moved into a big house, and that people were going to them.
I went. And saw them enthroned on two old captain's
chairs in the big living room.
He never gave any speeches, and those few people who
found words to say to him received deep toned replies in an
almost unplaceable accent -- a Mediterranean accent, that
you could not place from this country or from that.
People either stumbled out of there in deep mental vacuum,
or walked out with a lighter step as if some deep
sense of fulfillment had been satisfied.
People went to Frankenskar with troubled minds, upset
nerves, self doubts, unsure confidence in themselves and
their work. They came away with a different kind of mental
attitude; a sureness and serenity and inner peace. Yet
there was no exhortation, no ceremony, nothing you could
point at and say "that is what does it."
He did it, with his big brooding and scarred face floating
above the room, detached, completely alien to everyone in the room, yet perfectly in command and perfectly knowing. He knew ...
what was in your mind and what to make you think to
relieve the mental block and the tension.
People went into his house and sat down. After awhile
they came out again. They never talked much about it, but
they came again and again. They always left an offering
too, laying something on a table by the door. There was no
receptacle for offerings, and the money lay there in a pile
of coins and bills. But nobody asked for it, and nobody
refused it and some people didn't leave any -- as if they
had been refused the favor or hadn't felt welcome.
I think the secret of Frankenskar was in the times.
People suffer from noise, too much talk, too much music,
too much of everything not "relevant" to themselves. And at
Frankenskar's they found no pitch, push, pull, nothing but
a chance to be quiet and commune with the quiet and think
their own thoughts. At least, that is what I thought before
I learned from experience there was a lot more to it than that.
I've thought about it since, and I learned. For one
thing I learned that a temple and a priest and a god and
a goddess and a religion are all the same thing. Frankenskar
was his religion, he was the immortal wisdom, he was like
Soirees and the big old house he sat down in was his temple.
And those were his people coming to him.
I learned, in thinking about it all, that he was what he
was and that was the whole secret. Just as a maple tree is
a maple tree and had red leaves because it is a maple tree
and in fall flames into color and the next spring puts out
new leaves. It IS a maple -- no less and no more.
So with Frankenskar -- he was an immortal, he was his
own religion. He did not need to say words or shout imprecations
or explain doctrine or say anything. He sat and brooded and
allowed his followers to see him and be where he was ..
and that was all that was needed. The scars on his face
and wherever his flesh could be seen -- a network of white
raised lines, were as much a part of him as the leaves of the
tree are a part of the tree. He was a mystery, living proof
of immortality and he did not need to explain or indoctrinate.
There was peace, there was tranquillity; there was serenity
looking down. And from her face, also, beside his.
It was this sureness of Fate and the inscrutability of
Fate that Frankenskar gave people. Fate itself brooded from
his scarred forehead, and people knew there was a greater
justice than of mere man's devising.
There has to be a mystery, it seems. One day he wasn't
there any more, the big house was silent and empty.
* Footnote to The Washington Incident:
When LBJ called Frankenskar just before his death, he hit
the limelight, yet managed somehow to escape the usual scorn afforded charlatans and cultists in the Press. That the former President wanted to talk to him, during his last illness, put the whole thing into italics. That he should send for Frankenskar was one of those things that set the whole nation on its heels, open-mouthed.
It was no great mystery to me that LBJ would want to talk
to the only person available who could give some information
about life beyond mortal life. I'd already accepted that fact
about Frankenskar ... what there was to know he knew, for I
personally had come to accept the real, the dark, inscrutable
but living face of legend-come-alive that he was.
That they managed to keep this visit out of the press,
except for a few mentions in the financial sheets, was a result
of the respect for the President's illness. And, as with all
of his interviews, it took place in utter silence. So the
Press could hardly quote him.