The Resurrectionist

by A. Rae Dunlap

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.

But . . . but I was not ignorant! Not of this! I’d studied the vascular systems of the forearm in one of the scant medical texts I’d found in my father’s library, rendered in hauntingly pale reds and blues. As a child, it had mesmerised me, and as a man, it had astounded me. I knew the Latin. I knew the map. I knew it . . . well, like the back of my hand.

For the briefest of moments, I could swear I saw a shadow of something dark and hungry flicker across his eyes. But I quickly broke the silence by taking a resounding swill of my gin, then clapped the glass down on the desk with considerably more fortitude than I possessed.

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.

“But now you are here.” He pounded the table so suddenly as to startle me from my thoughts. He was staring at me so intently, with such passion and vigour, I felt once more pinned beneath his gaze. “We are sons of the Enlightenment. All of us. To allow all that potential to moulder beneath the soil, like the specimens we require but are legally denied—tell me, what would be the holy cause in that?”

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.”

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.

Crawling through the window of my chamber had all the surreal qualities of returning to a former life; I could scarcely believe that I was the same person now as the boy who had whiled away his hours lost in books and thought, innocently lighting a lantern for the depravity occurring below. Depravity of which I was now, undeniably, a part.

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.

As deplorable as my newfound vocation may have seemed to an objective outsider, to me it felt duly justified in a tangible way: My hands brought forth and gave new life to that which had been seized by Death—a power so heady it was intoxicating to wield.

“But in matters of a personal capacity, I must urgently impress upon you that I endeavour to conduct myself as a man of honour. I have no desire to inflict pain upon your sentiments or shame upon your pride. My intentions towards you are born of deepest affection, and it was never—and will never—be otherwise. Do you understand?” My cheeks felt red-hot with so personal a revelation, and I could only offer a small nod in response, such was my surprise at his sudden declaration.

How could anything be unnatural when our coupling felt as easy as breathing air? How could the life I’d found with Nye be anything other than a benediction, full of grace? How could Nye ever be less than everything?