The Dark Deeps

by Arthur Slade

  “I—I suffer from an ailment.”

  “What kind?”

  “A facial deformity.”

  “I saw no such thing. You did suffer a blow to the head. Is it affecting you?”

  “No.” Though now that he thought of it, his temples throbbed. “My deformity comes and goes. It’s like a rash.”

  “Well, do not feel that you must hide your condition. That is the old way of thinking. You are among equals—there are no deformities here.” The man said this in such a matter-of-fact manner that Modo felt as though he’d been chastised. “I’ve brought some clothing that I hope will be suitable. It is not as stylish as your own garments, but we are not concerned about fashion. You should consume your food—it will bring you back to health.” He pointed a thick index finger at the bowl.

  “Where am I?”

  “The captain will inform you of any details you need to know.”

  “When will I meet him?”

  The man shrugged two lumpy shoulders. “When the captain decides.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  The man’s smile was friendly. “Anselm Cerdà,” he said, then backed out of the room and closed the door.

  Modo pulled on gray trousers, a thick wool sweater, and a seaman’s wool cap that covered his ears. He massaged his toes; they were gray and cold, but he could move them now. He put on the socks and thick-soled shoes the man had provided.

  Modo tried to lift the bowl of soup, but his shaking hands spilled so much that he had to leave it on the dresser and lean over it. Then he couldn’t control the spoon. The few drops he got into his mouth were salty and heavenly. Finally, he lapped it up like a dog, which left some unfamiliar vegetables and a white fishy meat at the bottom. He scooped these out with trembling fingers. When he was done he felt a little more energetic. The tea was salty and sweet, with a faint orange flavor.

  He lay down again. The ceiling light was bright and contained in a circular, glass-enclosed compartment. There was no flame, so it was neither gas nor oil. The whole room thrummed, and a sense of gentle vibration came from everything he touched.

  It was a ship, of sorts, and if this wasn’t all a dream, it was a ship that could travel under the water. He’d read about attempts at underwater exploration, but those vessels had been tiny and powered by pedals. This was surely powered by steam. But if it was, how were they venting the coal smoke? He couldn’t imagine any other way to move such bulk through the depths of the ocean.

  It was the kind of technology that Mr. Socrates had hoped they might find when he’d sent them on this assignment: a steamship that traveled underwater, ramming ships from below. Whoever had an army of these vessels would rule the seas.

  Modo leapt from the cot and dug into his wet vest pocket. He pulled out the wallet—soaked, of course—containing the wireless telegraph. Surprisingly, the telegraph still looked usable, but he assumed the electric cell had been destroyed by seawater. He set the telegraph under the cot to dry.

  Someone banged on the door. “Come out,” Cerdà commanded, “the captain wishes to meet you.”

  “Yes! Yes, one moment.” Modo felt in his wet pants pocket and found the net mask. He squeezed out the seawater and pulled it over his face, then put the seaman’s cap back on.

  His legs were wobbly and threatened to cramp up, but he forced himself to the door. He stepped into a narrow corridor lit by three more of the mysterious round lights. Cerdà looked down at him. “You cover your face.”

  “I must,” Modo said. “I’m ashamed of my rash.”

  Cerdà nodded and led Modo down the corridor. The walls were gray metal, with railings every few feet; the floor was hardwood that shone in the light. Bolts protruded from the wood, providing traction. They passed several more cabins and came to a winding iron staircase that took them into a large, darkened oval chamber. Modo limped, and occasionally a sharp pain shot up his legs, making him grit his teeth.

  It was twelve steps to the bottom. He’d also counted each of his steps from the cabin so he could guess the length of the ship, presuming his room had been near one end. Now he tried to figure out what this room was—the only light in the chamber was entering through a cluster of glass portholes. He squinted, had the impression that there were levers and perhaps a wheel to one side. Then he saw what was on the other side of the glass: fish!

  He shuffled as quickly as his body would let him across the room to look out. Gray fish with bulbous eyes goggled back at him as if they were just as surprised to see him. How deep in the ocean could the ship be?

  “It is a marvelous sight,” a woman said.

  Modo spun around to see that he had walked right past two women standing in the shadows. I let my surprise overcome my training, he thought. How stupid! Tharpa had drilled into him that he should always take full stock of any room he entered.

  He was taking stock of the first woman now. Tall, dressed in black, with a red sash across her waist, a small cutlass in her belt. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin ivory. “Yes, it is quite the sight,” Modo agreed. She glared at him, her gaze not wavering. She was at least thirty years old, but the bags under her eyes made her seem older.

  Beside her was a young woman in a long skirt who wore her dark hair pulled back in large barrettes. She seemed angry too. Her familiar features were vaguely Oriental. Then it came to him—the photograph! The woman standing before him was the French spy, Colette Brunet!

  14

  Nifleheim’s Circle

  The five-and-a-half-hour journey to Iceland seemed a lifetime to Octavia. When she wasn’t staring out the porthole, she paced the deck, but they didn’t see another ship until they were at Reykjavik’s port. She stared at the capital of Iceland, no bigger than an English town, the tallest building being a church on a hill. The houses were small and brightly colored. She surveyed the port for a steamship, but there were only sailing ships with great masts. It was as though she’d gone back in time.

  Once the Hugo had been tugged into the harbor and secured to a wharf, she ran down the gangway. She stopped a fisherman carrying barrels from his ship. “Where’s the port authority? I must know now!” He shrugged and shook his head, and muttered something in Icelandic. Ah, he didn’t speak English. And she didn’t know a single Icelandic word, so she shrieked across the dock: “Please, please, someone tell me: where is the port authority?” A skinny man in a thick gray sweater pointed toward the town and said, “Red house. Over there.”

  Octavia dashed past him, avoiding fishermen unloading their stock, and burst into the red two-story house without knocking. A huge man with tiny glasses sat behind a desk, wearing a dark blue sweater. He looked up and said something in Icelandic.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good!” She told her story quickly, finishing with the coordinates of Modo’s location.

  The man shook his head. “I am sorry. You won’t find anyone willing to rescue your husband,” he said. “We call that area Nifleheim’s circle. No Icelandic vessel has ventured there in over a year.”

  “Don’t you have military ships? Or a steamer?”

  He shook his head. “We cannot go there.”

  “I’ll find someone else, then. There must be at least one brave fisherman in this godforsaken place!”

  She stormed onto the street without bothering to close the door. She still had fifteen hundred dollars, so she went to a post office and sent Mr. Socrates a telegram, then marched down to the docks and ran from ship to ship, begging fishermen to take her to Modo. The few who did speak English just shook their heads sadly or shrugged. Within the hour the sun began to set, and by a little after four that afternoon, the long Icelandic night had begun.

  Octavia slumped to her haunches at the end of a dock, knowing in her heart that no one would be willing to venture out into the treacherous night and that Modo would soon freeze to death, if he hadn’t already. She began to sob.

  15

  The Captain
/>
  Modo gawked at Colette Brunet, his mind racing. What was she doing here? She was a French agent. Was this a French submarine ship? The young woman stared boldly back at him. He hadn’t expected her to be so tall; she was at least as tall as Octavia.

  The older woman rested her hand on the hilt of her cutlass. If she drew her weapon, Modo’s best course would be to run, but where?

  “I am Captain Delfina Monturiol,” the woman said with a slight, unfamiliar accent. “What is your name?”

  “Robert Warkin. I’m a photographer.”

  “Well, Mr. Warkin, you damaged my ship!”

  He was momentarily dumbfounded. “Oh, the entrance hatch? I apologize. I—I was desperate and freezing to death.”

  “With a good deal of trouble, we were able to repair the latch.” Her hand remained poised on the cutlass. “I assume you were a passenger of the Hugo. Your vessel was trespassing.”

  “Trespassing? But these are international waters. We struck something and I was thrown from the vessel.”

  “What struck you was the spear of Icaria,” she said. “If that ship had lurked any longer in my waters, it would be at the bottom of the sea right now.”

  “Yes,” Colette said in perfect English, “our dear captain does not hesitate to kill.” Modo glanced at the French spy, puzzled by her tone, and by the fact that she spoke with no discernible accent.

  Captain Monturiol let out a sigh. “I am sorry, I should have introduced you. This is Colette Brunet, and she is, in her usual dramatic way, telling the truth. I take the defense of my country very seriously.”

  “Your country?” Modo asked. “Are you from Iceland?”

  “No. Not every country exists above the land. The world will know that this area is to be avoided. My homeland of Icaria shall be defended at any cost.”

  “The seamen on my ship were harmless,” Colette snapped.

  “They were soldiers, Miss Brunet. As I have explained before, we watched you for days and saw through your countrymen’s disguises. Then we struck as we would at any invader.” She turned to Modo. “As for this Hugo, it was not a military vessel, so we cut her free. Her men will now tell others not to trespass here.”

  “That’s why you rammed her?”

  “Yes, but we did not penetrate her hull below the waterline. It was only a warning.”

  For an instant Modo thought of Octavia. Had they made it to port? He couldn’t bear to think of her going down with the ship.

  At one end of the chamber, a light flickered on. Cerdà stood at a desk, filling out a chart, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Next to the desk, the wheel of the ship was lashed in place.

  Modo gestured around him. “I’ve never seen such a vessel. What is it?”

  “It’s a submarine ship,” the captain said matter-of-factly. “Welcome to the Ictíneo. You were not invited, but please consider yourself our guest anyway.”

  “By guest she means prisoner,” Colette added.

  “Prisoner?”

  “I do tire of your sharp tongue, Miss Brunet,” said the captain. “My apologies, Mr. Warkin. I am afraid in her short time here she has grown impatient. Should she offend you at some time during your visit, I apologize in advance on her behalf. The French are not good at apologizing.”

  Colette opened her mouth to say something, then pursed her lips. What had she meant by that “prisoner” comment? Modo’s legs were trembling. He tried to ignore his exhaustion.

  “I—I wonder if I could be taken to Iceland,” Modo said, his voice shaky. “I would like to join my wife there.”

  “That will not be possible at the moment,” Captain Monturiol answered. “We shall discuss the length of your stay at another time.” She paused, her eyes appraising him. “Comrade Cerdà informed me that you have some sort of deformity that causes you discomfort. I assume that is why you wear the mask. I shall respect your wishes, but all people are welcome here, able-bodied and disfigured. In Icaria citizenship means equality for all. The old, the weak, the crippled. There are no poor and no rich in our country.”

  “Thank you,” Modo said, though he wasn’t quite certain what land she could possibly be speaking about. The disfigured equal to everyone else?

  He looked about—it was important to learn as much as possible about the vehicle. The more he knew, the better he would understand his situation. “About this ship, I must say I’m stunned! I’ve photographed many ships—even warships. This is unlike any of them.”

  “Yes,” the captain said proudly. “It sprang like Athena fully formed from my father’s mind. Come!” She finally took her hand from the cutlass and led Modo to the largest porthole. It was disconcerting to know that water was only inches away.

  “Why doesn’t the ocean pour in?” he asked. “The pressure must be overwhelming.”

  “The glass is ten centimeters thick and tapered so that the pressure of the water wedges it into place.”

  “Ten centimeters?” He had never learned metric measurement. Mr. Socrates considered it “foolish French nonsense.”

  “It’s about four inches,” Colette said. “Metric is a much more efficient system, but I know you English are slow to adapt to new ideas.” Modo thought he detected a note of teasing humor in her voice.

  “Yes indeed! Finally, Colette and I agree on something,” Monturiol said. “This is why we use the metric system in Icaria. The old ways are dead.” She tapped on the large portal. “A solid system, a solid ship. The eyes of the Ictíneo will not crack or break, even at a thousand meters below sea level. Here, have a better look.” She turned a golden key and illumination blossomed outside the window. Fish scattered, shocked by the sudden appearance of an underwater sun.

  “What kind of light is that? It can’t be gas,” Modo said.

  “Ah, you are an inquisitive one. Good! Good! Perhaps that comes with being a photographer. Your questions will be answered in time.”

  Modo stared out the porthole, trying not to gape, but it was amazing. A large squid floated by, its tentacles waving. Modo couldn’t see the surface of the ocean, and had no idea how deep the submarine was.

  Modo stepped back and noticed, above the porthole, a bronze plaque etched with a star rising out of the water. Plus Intra Plus Extra was inscribed below it.

  “The deeper the better,” Modo translated.

  “Oh, an Englishman who can read Latin,” Colette said. “That’s rather rare.” Her intense eyes measured his reaction. Did she really hate the British so much, or was she just playing the part?

  “Yes,” he answered, “and Greek. The Ictíneo. Well chosen. This really is a fish ship.”

  Captain Monturiol laughed. “My father had a way with words.”

  “He’s a brilliant man to have designed all of this.”

  Her face darkened. “He was a brilliant man.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It is the past. And we must build upon the past, that is something he often said. Enough of such talk. I want you to know that as a guest you are welcome to spend time on the bridge. And in your cabin, of course. The engine room at the aft of the ship is out of bounds, along with the crow’s nest at the bow. We have a library you are welcome to visit. Please remember to sign out the books.”

  “A library?” Modo couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “Icaria is a land of thought, philosophy, and spirit. True human spirit. You will be very comfortable and completely accepted here. Forgive me, there are matters I must attend to. I will leave you in the care of Miss Brunet. I am sure she will be only too happy to have new company.” Monturiol disappeared up the spiral staircase. Cerdà continued his work at the helm.

  “So you’re English,” Colette said. “I forgive you for that.”

  “What’s wrong with being English?”

  She laughed as though the answer were obvious. “Were you working on that ship?”

  “I was a passenger. With my wife.”

  “Ah, that explains the ring. And why did the crew drop anchor
at this location?”

  Her questions were so probing and her stare so fierce that he stepped back. “I—I was inspired by the way the light reflected off the water. It was the perfect slant for portraits. I couldn’t capture the effect if the ship was moving.”

  “You must have a golden tongue to have convinced your captain to stop.”

  “If you must know, I greased his palm.”

  She chuckled. “Ah, money! The ultimate motivator. You will find yourself wishing you could bribe your way off this ship. The Ictíneo is hospitable, if you enjoy living like a sardine.”

  “How big is this ship?”

  “It’s about fifteen meters wide and tall. As for the length, there’s no way to tell. Neither forward nor aft is accessible to us good guests of Icaria. Shall I show you the library, or take you back to your prison cell?”

  “Are we really prisoners here?”

  “As the hours turn into days, then weeks, you can make up your own mind about it.”

  Modo didn’t like her answer. Even here, in this large chamber, the walls were beginning to close in around him. Sweat trickled down his neck. The humidity made the mask cling to his face. “Well,” he said with forced jauntiness, “if it’s going to be a long stay, I’d better have something to read. I’d love to see the library.”

  He followed Colette down a second spiral staircase, into a room where three chandeliers illuminated thousands of volumes. He perused the shelves and found books in Latin, Greek, Spanish, and French; all manner of histories, novels, collections of songs, and scientific manuals. “This is remarkable!” He ran his hand along the spine of a book titled Geosophy. “And what is this Icaria she spoke about?”

  “A dream inside her head. She is quite mad, but of course you have likely come to that conclusion yourself.”

  “I don’t know enough about her yet,” he said. “How long have you been here?”