The Resurrectionist

by A. Rae Dunlap

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.

“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.”

“James, you cannot join this world out of necessity or because of your financial desperation. True, there are far too many scoundrels and wastrels in this game who do what it takes for profit and think of little else, but that isn’t Malstrom. And that isn’t me. 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.

At last, Nye’s eyes met mine, and we were once again caught in a crystallised moment of paralysing uncertainty. I wanted, I wanted, but what, what? And I could see he wanted, he wanted, too—

But at night, I felt so truly alive that the genteel pastimes of my days seemed but a pale distraction from the invigorating exploits of my nocturnal being.

And Nye. Every moment with him felt like a dream decoded, a riddle unravelled in a foreign tongue. Whether drinking by my side at the Pig, eyeing me appraisingly across the hall at Malstrom’s, or splayed out casually in my desk chair recovering from the rigors of a dig, he was my North Star whenever the darkness of doubt threatened to envelop me. 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.

Truth be told, there was an effortlessness to our rapport that eluded definition, for the circumstances that brought us together were grim and grotesque indeed. By all accounts, our alliance should have been a sorry one. Yet I found it instead full of joy and deep affection—albeit tinged with a dark, macabre humour that doubtlessly would have offended anyone but ourselves. With him, I could share my thoughts on anything—from discontinuous capillaries to Divine Creation—and know that I was in the presence of a kindred spirit.

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.

I’m going to cry

Like water breaching a dam, a lifetime of suppressed slights was pouring forth from me, and I could no sooner stop it than halt the flow of the Water of Leith.

My beloved slept peacefully beside me, and I dreamt.

He was beautiful—always—but especially now, in this quiet moment of singular solitude, and my heart seemed to swell in my chest with unanticipated emotion.

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?

I shook my head in exasperation at his heresy but allowed myself to consider his point. After all, perhaps I was not the most objective audience, for would anyone else have so diligently memorized the precise slant of his cheekbones? The gentle slope of his nose? The sharp angle of his jawline, the perfect plush curve of his lower lip? To me, these features would be recognisable anywhere, even in pitch darkness or infirm blindness. I had memorised them all in pristine precision with not just my eyes, but my fingers, my mouth, my tongue, my breath. I would recognise his face always, in any manifestation, in this life or any other. Always.

For a moment, we both simply blinked up at the night sky, uncomprehending. The stars were wild and clear that night, and it dawned on me that for the first time in ages, the clouds had lifted.

At long last, when we could take the cold and rain no more, he led me through the emptying streets in the fading light, back to the warmth and safety of his chamber, and reminded me what it meant to be alive.

“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.”

A sudden flash of memories—of a discarded ear upon the surface of a gritty pub table, of hot wax solidifying in a web of veins, of cerulean blue swirling in a transparent tube, and finally, of a diagram of a heart tacked haphazardly above a bed, conjuring precious recollections of Love, of Joy, of Life.