The Resurrectionist

by A. Rae Dunlap

to hide inside the library with a book, more content in the company of words than my siblings.

The essence of life, the very organs that granted our being, that was the wonder of it all! To unlock the mysteries of the human form was to behold God’s masterpiece firsthand, and that is what sparked the fire within me for the very first time.

Yet I must insist that, in the end, this is not a story about Death. It is perhaps a Life story—or even, yes, a Love story. It is the story of how I clawed my way from the decay of a crumbling legacy into the modern era of Reason and Science. It is the story of how I escaped the prison of archaic superstition to the freedom of enlightenment. It is the story of how a rose can blossom from even the bloodiest soil, of how light can grow from shadow, how love can grow from despair. This, dear reader, is the story of my Resurrection.

For the first time ever, my life was mine, and I was determined to live it to the fullest.

“Don’t worry; you’re not the first Englishman to trip over it. Ah-NYE-run. Aneurin.”

He shrugged impishly. “A cut of meat’s a cut of meat, no matter how you slice it.”

But as I’ve forewarned, this is not the tale of my life as it was. This is the tale of how that life ended and my new life began. My old life was buried one idle Monday in the fifth week of my night watch. And like all avalanches of the most ominous designs, this one began with the near-imperceptible ping of a single pebble against my windowpane.

“Grave robbing is a felony. To purloin the possessions of the dead is punishable by hanging.” He seemed insufferably smug about it.

“I can’t tell whether you’re stupider than you seem, more naïve than I’d come to believe, or so intentionally obtuse as to be a rare and volatile combination of the two.”

You came here for knowledge, and this is the price of it. Now that you know, you can’t look away. No more pleading innocence for you.”

“You came to Edinburgh because you were looking for the face of God and couldn’t find it in your Bible. Don’t cast blame on me if His true appearance is not the one of beatific serenity you’d been deceived into believing. This is the face of Progress, James. Don’t you dare look away.”

“Nonsense, a snatcher’s work happens on the fly. A problem arises, you find the simplest viable solution and take it. Just do the next cleverest thing.

We are members of the league of men who call ourselves not by the mantle of snatchers, but Resurrectionists. Our motivation is not the value of the bodies we steal, but in the second life we give them; each acts as a post-mortem Prometheus, bringing fire to mankind.

Aneurin had transformed his world from monstrosity to marvel, and I felt the veil lift from my eyes, leaving me lucid and nearly blinded by its poignant truth.

“No, like metal. Some families have taken to using coffin collars as a deterrent to snatchers; they fasten a metal ring around the throat of the corpse and secure it to the coffin, preventing us from extracting the body cleanly.”

“You must understand; throughout my life, I have learned to be cautious about whom I trust. I have been betrayed many times over, and always to a sorry end. And while I realise my defenses must make my actions appear unforgivably predatory upon first blush, I assure you, James, it was never my intention to cause you harm through my deceit.”

When I could not tell dreams from wakefulness, he remained my touchstone and my Truth; a glimmer in his eye and a quirk of his lips were all that it took to make me feel manifest, whole, and worthy.

When I spoke, my voice was low and commanding, leaving no room for interpretation. “Don’t stop. For the love of God, don’t you dare stop.” And with that he was upon me once more,

My intentions towards you are born of deepest affection, and it was never—and will never—be otherwise. Do you understand?”

I, of course, would not admonish you for questioning my methods as your colleague, for in that regard I am quite without scruples and often in need of a check; but if we are to be companions, James, we must trust one another in at least that much.”

“Hardly my fault we’re here,” I murmured against the warmth of his skin. “If you weren’t so eager last night, we could be back in your chambers, sleeping amongst all the disemboweled guts and dangling bones like proper gentlemen.” Nye laughed heartily at this, and I shifted to peer up at him.

I was once again caught off guard by Nye’s earnest vulnerability. His disposition was so mercurial that even after all this time, I could often forget that beneath the calculated exterior of a devoted scientist and shrewd businessman was a tender heart and wary soul—and an inherent goodness that glimmered through the cracks of his stoic façade.

“I crave no absolution but yours,” I murmured between breathless kisses, stilling him so that I might look him in the eye. “You have not brought me low; you have raised me from the utmost depths of despair and longing. I did not follow you out of desperation, I followed you out of desire. Do you not see that? Do you not see that all we have done, I have consented to do? This is my will, Nye. My truth and my reason, it’s all with you.”