by Arthur Slade
Mr. Socrates stared after them, looking flabbergasted, his face contorted by a cold rage.
Modo put his mask back on. “Mr. Socrates …,” he began.
“Don’t speak of this, Modo.” Mr. Socrates waved his hand. “Lizzie, get us out of here on that airship. Who knows whether or not those natives will be back in force? Or Miss Hakkandottir, for that matter?”
They hurried down to the Prometheus and boarded. In no time, Lizzie fired up the boiler, and soon they were airborne, the roaring engine announcing their departure. As the Prometheus rose slowly above the ruins, Modo looked out over the edge of the car, searching for a sign of the Rain People in the forest. Nothing. He could clearly see the sphinx and the tomb entrance they had escaped from. The temple where a replica of him, a part of him, had been waiting for over two thousand years. The God Face hadn’t driven him mad, but trying to understand how it had come to exist just might.
Octavia stood beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to lean in to her but was afraid to. Instead he leaned even farther over the edge of the car.
“What do you see down there?” Octavia asked.
“My new beginning,” Modo answered.
The Message
Nulu and the warriors watched as the man with the God Face climbed into a large basket and it floated into the sky, pulled by a large gray thundering cloud. Soon he was gone, returning to the heavens.
There were so many questions. Why had Moh-Doh come? Why had he given them the God Face? No Rain Warrior before him had been brave enough to actually touch it. And he had brought it out of the cave for them.
“Did he explain what we are to do with it?” her grandfather asked in a whisper.
She shook her head.
“It’s not easy to know the will of the gods,” he said to the gathered warriors and tribespeople. “It’s a gift, though. A gift.”
Nulu thought about that. Moh-Doh had come. There had been a battle against the gray enemies, which he had won. Then he had given them the God Face. No longer would they have to travel into the temple. They would carry it with them.
It was a new way of being, she decided. A new way of doing things. That much, at least, she understood.
One by One They Fall
First, Miss Hakkandottir banished the voices and images of madness from her head, one by one. Then she tromped through the rain forest and, gathering what soldiers she could find, seven in all, she began the journey on foot to Port Douglas. The soldiers’ minds were weaker than usual, but by pure force of will she drove them forward. Later, she discovered Visser tangled in the roots of a gnarled mangrove tree, his eyes empty, the mechanical falcons on his arm screeching softly. She shouted at him until he got up and joined the band of weary travelers.
They marched through the mud, the vines and roots, the murky water, and didn’t stop to eat. She smashed branches aside, cut through vines with the extended nails on her metal fingers. At nightfall two of the soldiers died, each struck through the heart with a spear that flew out of the darkness. This threw the rest of the troop into a muttering panic, and one ran screaming into the jungle. His scream was soon cut short.
No one slept the rest of the night.
In the morning as they struggled on, a lieutenant trailed a few steps behind the group and vanished. A short time later another soldier was struck through the heart by a spear. Miss Hakkandottir had to give it to the natives: their aim was impeccable, and they were as invisible and silent as snakes.
By midafternoon, she and Visser were the only ones left to trudge over the stones in the gorge. Visser was still dazed, his birds clinging to his now bloodied arm. As they waded across a shallow section of the river, a crocodile grabbed Visser by the back of his neck and yanked him down. The falcons, too dumb to fly away, joined their master in his watery, bloody death. A second later the crocodile’s mate lunged at Miss Hakkandottir’s throat, but she slammed her metal fist into the beast’s skull and it sank, dead, to the bottom of the river.
She ran along the banks. The natives were in the trees, but they hadn’t struck for some time. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for far too long and was growing weak, so she imagined they were waiting until she collapsed. But half an hour later, when the forest finally thinned and she sighted Port Douglas a few hundred yards away, she had one last burst of energy. A spear hissed next to her leg, burying itself in the red soil. She jumped over a bush, then turned her head to glimpse the blur of something near her head. By reflex, she caught the spear in her metal hand. She broke it in two and kept charging forward. Another spear cut along the side of her neck, merely scratching her. Then she was on a stone-littered road leading into the port. When she paused to look back, the tribe seemed to be gone.
She stopped at the hotel to send two telegrams, the clerk following her instructions and watching her with wide, fearful eyes. She did not know if it was the blood, her unkempt hair, or her metal hand that intimidated him. The first coded telegram was to the Guild Master, reporting her failure and asking for the Kraken to rescue her. At least he would be pleased with the news that she still had Modo’s finger in the tin in her pocket.
This was the third time the Permanent Association had stopped her. There wouldn’t be a fourth. She vowed she would rid the world of that organization and, in time, of the British Empire itself.
Her second telegram was to her operative in London. When the agent at the other end deciphered her code, he’d be left with three words: Burn Victor down.
EPILOGUE
Homeward Bound
LIZZIE STEERED THE PROMETHEUS NORTHEAST toward Cooktown, following Mr. Socrates’ directions. After two hours they’d left the rain forest behind, crossed over a small mountain range, and finally passed over a series of grassy hills, catching their first glimpse of the Pacific.
Modo was happy to see the ocean, even more so when Octavia pointed out a troop of kangaroos on a hillside. He and Octavia laughed as the odd creatures bounced across the ground. They did exist after all! Until now he’d seen only illustrations in books. He would have been disappointed to return to England without having viewed a real one.
They landed on the outskirts of Cooktown. The roar of the steam engine and the peculiar sight of the airship drew gold miners from their perches on bar stools, townsfolk from their wooden houses, and Chinese workers from their labor; they all stared. Mr. Socrates disembarked and walked through the crowd with Tharpa beside him. He found the nearest hotel and sent a telegram.
A few hours later the HMS Basilisk, a large iron-clad steamship and one of England’s finest warships, pulled into port. Lizzie flew the Prometheus on board, and by nightfall the airship had been dismantled and stored in the Basilisk’s hold.
The travelers were assigned recently vacated officers’ cabins, much smaller and more spartan than those on the Rome. Modo slept like a stone, glad to at least have a cot and the comforting sounds of the ship rather than the whirring and clicking of insects and the hoots and screeching of animals.
He was awakened early the next morning by the hollers of men scrubbing the decks. He didn’t bother to change his face. Instead he dressed in unadorned military clothes provided by the marines and wandered out onto the deck wearing his African mask. He watched the sun rise on the Pacific, a beautiful sight to behold.
A lot had happened in such a short time. He wondered what the Rain People were doing at that very moment. Were they waking too, starting their campfires and setting about their daily chores? Had they brought the God Face back to the village? For all he knew, they might very well have returned it to the temple. It was theirs to care for as they saw fit.
Modo heard a cabin door open and turned to see Mr. Socrates on the deck, wearing an officer’s uniform. He hadn’t spoken to Modo since their arrival, other than to grunt a few commands and point him toward a cabin. In his heart Modo wanted to beg for forgiveness, to further explain his motives, but he knew it would be pointless. He’d betrayed his master. His master
would punish him one way or another.
“Lizzie’s leaving,” Mr. Socrates said. “If you wish to say goodbye to her, she’s departing from the port side. After that you’ll be on your own for the rest of the voyage. And you’ll be taking a hiatus from your training.”
Modo nodded and followed Mr. Socrates, not daring to walk at his side. Lizzie, Octavia, and Tharpa were already waiting on the departure deck. Someone had found a gray nurse’s gown for Octavia.
Lizzie had no luggage and was wearing her one set of clothes and her long coat, though they’d been laundered and pressed.
“Once again, Lizzie, I appreciate your assistance.” Mr. Socrates handed her an envelope, and it disappeared inside her coat.
“Good of you to bale up,” she said. “And it was my pleasure.” She shook his hand.
Then she shook everyone else’s, leaving Modo to the last. She didn’t say a word, but met his eyes with a look that he couldn’t quite measure. Admiration? Sympathy? The slightest smile flickered on her tattooed lips; then she patted his shoulder.
“Safe travels,” she said to everyone, then turned and climbed down the rope ladder to a waiting boat. She was rowed into Cooktown by two marines. Not once did she look back.
They soon lifted anchor and began traveling faster than Modo had ever traveled by ship, with the steam engine and the wind in the sails of the Basilisk pushing them to Sydney. When they arrived, Mrs. Finchley was already waiting on the docks of Cockatoo Island. She was clearly pleased to see them again, but seemed to sense that all was not well.
They set sail for England. Modo spent as much time as he could on the deck, studying the horizon. The marines and sailors left him alone; he assumed they’d been ordered to mind their own business. He preferred it that way. The prow of the ship rose into the sky and sank down into the sea, each time sending a white cloud of spray into the air.
The day after they left Sydney, Mrs. Finchley joined him at the forecastle. After a few minutes of silence, she looked at him and said, “What happened in the rain forest isn’t my business. I’ve learned not to ask questions about such matters, but I must say, you seem … changed.”
“In what way?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps you seem older.”
“How can you say that when you haven’t seen my face since we got back?”
“It’s not your face, Modo. It’s in the way you carry yourself.”
He didn’t argue with her. She was right. He had changed in some fundamental way. He couldn’t say exactly how, but when he thought of the Rain People and of Nulu he felt both joy and grief. If only he could live with them. Or with people like them.
Mrs. Finchley touched his arm. “I do wish Mr. Socrates would allow me to continue to work with you. I miss our lessons.”
“So do I,” he said, knowing that wouldn’t happen for a long time, if at all. Mr. Socrates’ orders were written in stone: no time was to be spent with Mrs. Finchley or Tharpa. Was this Modo’s only punishment? Or a sign that he was finished as an agent?
He rarely saw Mr. Socrates on board. His master usually dined with the officers or was in meetings with the marines or Octavia and Tharpa. If Modo happened to walk past Mr. Socrates on the deck, they exchanged little more than pleasantries.
To Modo’s eternal frustration, he saw very little of Octavia, too, during the first two weeks. The officers on the ship found her enthralling, and she seemed keen to spend time with them. Modo discovered a library and filled the long hours with reading.
One evening he was watching the sun set over the beaches of India and wondering about Tharpa and the vast country he’d come from. He turned at the sound of a footstep and was surprised to find Octavia standing beside him.
“They’re singing songs in the mess, Modo,” she said. “Some of them quite bawdy. Do you care to join us?”
“I don’t feel like singing. What are you doing out here, when you could be enjoying the warbling of all those navy officers?”
“And the bass burbling of the marines, too, don’t forget.” She laughed. “You’re in danger of becoming a stick-in-the-mud, Modo.”
“You’re in danger of avoiding me, cousin.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’ve been on this ship for weeks and have hardly said two words to each other,” he said.
She looked as though she was about to say something clever, but paused and chose her words carefully. “You’re correct, Modo. I have been avoiding you.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Do you think this is a game, Tavia?” he said, then gave himself a moment to take a deep breath. “Fine. I know why. Just tell me what you think and get it over with.”
“About what?”
“My face, of course. What’s your opinion of … of it?”
Octavia looked out at the sunset for a long while. “I know what you are getting at, Modo,” she finally replied. “I must say I was shocked. I didn’t—well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“What sort of a face is it?” He was disappointed that he’d allowed a whine to slip into his voice.
“Modo, I …”
Tears began to well up in her eyes. Had he ever seen her cry?
“Girls, even me in an orphanage, we grow up dreaming of the handsome prince. I …” She paused.
“Just say it.” He spoke calmly. “It’s better to have truth between us.”
“Yours is not the face I’ve dreamed of my whole life, Modo. So, truthfully, I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s not a prince’s face. That much is obvious.”
“I’m not intentionally being cruel, Modo. It’s what I feel.”
He nodded. “I appreciate that.”
“Do you, Modo? It’s so hard to know what you’re truly feeling when all I see is your mask. Words are never enough.”
He looked away from her, pondered the waves slapping against the side of the ship. If she thought he would remove his mask for her again, she was sorely mistaken. Without looking up, he said, “Thank you for your honesty, Tavia. You should go now. You’ve already missed a few songs.”
“If that’s what you want,” she said softly.
“It is,” he answered.
As he watched her walk away, he reminded himself that the truth was often hard. He’d been abandoned by parents who couldn’t stand his deformities. That was the truth. He’d been sold by an orphanage to a traveling freak show. That was also the truth. He’d been imprisoned in Ravenscroft by Mr. Socrates to mold him into a secret agent. Again, the truth. And now he was here on a ship with a young woman he would die for, and she was looking for a handsome prince.
The hardest truth of all.
Modo woke up one morning, a month into the trip, with a tingling sensation where his little finger had been. Since Miss Hakkandottir had sliced it off, the area had at times felt cold or itchy, but this was the first time it had tingled, as if the finger were still there. He hadn’t looked at it closely for over a week but now removed the bandage. Not only had the wound healed without any scars, but a tiny nub of flesh was sprouting out of the stub!
He went immediately to Tharpa’s cabin and knocked. When Tharpa opened the door, he showed him his discovery.
“Your little finger is growing back,” Tharpa said, as though it were the most common occurrence in the world.
Tharpa left to tell Mr. Socrates what had happened and Modo waited on the deck. He felt certain that Mr. Socrates would return with Tharpa, but instead Tharpa came back with instructions to take Modo to Dr. Hollom, the ship’s surgeon. Tharpa led the way.
Dr. Hollom was a youngish-looking man with steel-gray eyes. He was already wearing his white surgical coat, clearly expecting their arrival. Several surgical blades and other devices were laid out before him. Modo gave them a nervous glance.
“Are you certain I’m to show him this?” he asked Tharpa.
“Yes.” The answer came not from Tharpa but from Mr. Socrates,
who had entered through another door. “Hollom’s worked for me before.”
Modo revealed his finger, and the doctor, who had soft hands without a single callus, measured the growth with calipers and poked it with a pin. Modo bit back a surprised cry.
“You feel that?” Dr. Hollom asked.
“Of course I do,” Modo said. He wanted to punch the man and say, “Did you feel that?”
Dr. Hollom nodded and wrote notes and asked Modo several questions about his eating habits, how often he changed his dressing, and whether he consumed alcohol. Then he turned to Mr. Socrates and said, “It seems his finger is regenerating, like a lizard growing a new tail.”
Lizard? Modo looked at the pink stub. Am I part lizard?
“This is stunning!” Mr. Socrates said. “A wonderful discovery. I always thought you healed quickly, but you actually regenerate.”
Modo nodded. “Yes, it’s brilliant,” he said softly.
He was pleased to see the finger returning, but he chose to wear gloves until it looked completely normal again. He didn’t want others to know how freakish he really was.
After two months of sailing they docked in London and hired a carriage large enough for the five of them. Modo would be happy to have a bed in Victor House. Or to go back to Safe House and sleep for several weeks. Or would Mr. Socrates just shove him out on the street?
No one spoke. They were all exhausted. Octavia had fallen asleep with her head on Mrs. Finchley’s shoulder. Modo took the opportunity to memorize her face. The tiny freckles, her narrow lips. She was such a beauty. He couldn’t predict what would happen next; after the mission was over it might be months before he’d see her again.
He was shocked out of his reverie, and Octavia from her sleep, when Mr. Socrates banged on the side of the carriage, shouting, “Keep driving!” Tharpa gave an extra knock until the driver continued on.
“What’s all the noise?” Octavia asked.
Modo shrugged, equally confused, until he saw that they were passing the site of Victor House. It had been burned to the ground. Partial walls poked out of the rubble, all that remained of the grand home.