Island of Doom

by Arthur Slade

  “Please don’t judge me,” she whispered, so low that Modo didn’t know if she’d even spoken. “Don’t. Judge. Me.”

  Modo didn’t move, didn’t even blink. What to say? He considered closing his eyes and pretending he hadn’t heard, but she wouldn’t fall for that. “I don’t,” he whispered. Perhaps she nodded, but if so, it was imperceptible.

  When the conductor began to shout the name of their stop, Modo went to the washroom, glad not to encounter any other passengers on the way. He sweated and struggled to change into the Knight. It was the most familiar of his regular personae, and he could maintain the form for at least an hour longer than the others. Perhaps with practice he would be able to wear it for the whole day.

  They arrived at Verton and paid passage on a two-horse carriage to Montreuil-sur-Mer. It would take at least an hour. The name of the town was so familiar to Modo, but it wasn’t until they saw the ramparts in the distance that it came back to him. “This is Jean Valjean’s town!” he exclaimed. “He was mayor of the town!”

  “Who was the blinking mayor?” Octavia asked.

  “Jean Valjean,” Modo said, “from Les Misérables. He was mayor of this town.”

  Both women stared at him blankly.

  “It’s a novel,” he said.

  “Oh. Well, I don’t have time to read novels,” Colette said.

  “He does this every once in a while,” Octavia said, “has little outbursts of literary fancy. I’ve learned to put up with them.”

  They shared a small laugh, and Modo snorted and stared out the window. Soon they were passing through the medieval walls that surrounded Montreuil-sur-Mer. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see knights and siege engines lining the road. Perhaps there had been battles, but it looked peaceful now. Modo couldn’t help gawking at each resident they passed. Could one be his mother? His father?

  The carriage drew to a stop in front of a brick coaching inn at the center of town. It was called Le Hôtel de France and was three stories tall with a long slanted roof and three dormer windows on the top floor. It looked like an oversized country house to Modo.

  A few people stared at the new arrivals. Modo wondered if visitors were few and far between. “Come,” Colette urged. “We shall rent our room, eat, and begin our task.”

  “I ain’t much for little towns,” Octavia said in a falsetto. Modo wasn’t certain whom she was imitating.

  “Do not speak,” Colette chided, “unless you can speak in French. We agreed to this.”

  Octavia saluted. “I shall remain silent, Captain Brunet.”

  “Stop drawing attention to yourself,” Colette said, trying not to smile. “Now follow me. That’s an order.”

  She led them into the Hôtel de France and went straight to the innkeeper at a mahogany desk. “How may I be of service?” the man asked.

  While Colette organized their lodging, Modo looked around the room, noting several people waiting on a bench with their luggage. There was a small pub area near the desk. He looked for exits, a habit Tharpa had hammered home.

  Before long Colette was handing Modo the key to room 12B. “It’s at the top of the stairs,” she said as they climbed the spiral staircase. “You’ll have a nice view of the courtyard. Very romantic. Which is good since you and Octavia will have to continue your ruse of being married.”

  “I’ll be his simple British wife,” Octavia said.

  After freshening up in their rooms they met in the pub. It was as dank as any English pub, but the beguiling smell of cooking made Modo’s stomach grumble. He ordered roast hen for himself and Octavia; Colette chose lamb stew. He sipped a pale apple cider and their food arrived within minutes. Modo was hungry, but he found it hard to eat. Everywhere he looked he saw potential mothers, fathers. The woman who had served their meal was older, slightly hunched. He couldn’t stop staring at her.

  “I did ask the innkeeper about the Héberts, but he wasn’t familiar with them,” Colette said. “That may indicate they don’t frequent establishments such as this.”

  “Of course they don’t. They’re probably upper class,” Modo said, joking, but his own vehemence surprised him. For all he knew they were drunks sitting in the gutter and clutching their bottles.

  Colette gave him a peculiar look. “Oui, I see. Anyway, it is a small village, we will just have to visit a few of the potters—” She sucked in a breath. “Mon Dieu! Don’t turn around. Don’t even move.”

  Modo froze. He had never seen such fear on her face. Colette was staring over his shoulder, slouching down in an attempt to hide.

  Modo couldn’t resist turning his head ever so slightly. A thin, white-haired man was paying at the desk of the inn.

  “The Clockwork Guild,” Colette said, very low. “The agents I met at Notre Dame are here.”

  “That shouldn’t be surprising,” Octavia said. “They did get a head start.”

  “The one at the desk looks relatively harmless,” Modo said.

  “That’s Lime,” Colette said, “the mad poet I told you about. They have their backs to us now. You can look. See the man just behind him?”

  Modo turned again and saw a giant whose head was nearly in the rafters. “Zounds!” he whispered.

  “A monster with the name Typhon,” Colette said. “I shot the brute three times in the chest and he didn’t so much as stagger.”

  Really? Modo wondered. Or was this her madness raising its ugly head? But the man was so immense he hardly seemed human. Lime turned and glanced at Modo. Modo looked down into his cider.

  “What are they doing?” Modo asked. “Coming over here?”

  “They have left. Let us hope it is for good.”

  “You shot that hulk?” Modo asked.

  “Three weeks ago. It was a small-caliber gun, but still, no man should be left standing.”

  “You must have missed,” Octavia said.

  “Three shots found their mark. One bullet went directly through his heart.”

  “You must have been seeing things. After all, you did spend time in an asylum.”

  Colette reached for the gun that Modo guessed was hidden in her dress. “Would you like me to use you as target practice?”

  Modo thought it best to change the subject. “Well, if they are here, then that’s actually good news.”

  “How so?” Octavia asked.

  “They can’t have found my parents or they would have already left. So we’re not too late. And maybe, if they’ve located them, and if we’re clever enough, they’ll lead us where we want to go.”

  “We will keep our eyes on them. I will poke my nose in a few places.” Colette stood up and smoothed her skirt. “You two finish. I have eaten enough.”

  “You’re going to waste away to nothing,” Octavia said.

  “You sound like my mother,” Colette said, and walked out the front door.

  Modo continued eating silently.

  “You seem nervous,” Octavia said.

  “I’m not.”

  “But you keep tapping your fingers on the table. It’s a nervous habit of yours.”

  Modo looked down to see his rebellious hand was doing just that. Octavia knew him too well.

  “I am nervous,” he admitted. “Now that we’re here, so close to where my parents may be living. If they’re alive, if they’re here, I can’t help but wonder what they’ll be like. Will they be amazed by what I’ve become? Or will they turn away—again? I don’t know what I’ll say to them.”

  “Perhaps you can ask them why they abandoned you?” She sounded sad.

  “Of course. I won’t forget that,” Modo said.

  “As you know, I wouldn’t throw my parents a life preserver from a sinking ship. I’ve become my own woman. You’d do well to remember that you have already cut your own path.”

  Did I? he wondered. Mr. Socrates had forged his mental faculties, Tharpa had trained his body, Mrs. Finchley had designed his manners and perfected his acting ability. What exactly had he done on his own?

&n
bsp; But why was he worrying about the opinions of the people who gave birth to him and then tossed him aside? He was here on an assignment. If they found the Héberts he would warn them of the danger, take them back to Montreal, and hand them over to Mr. Socrates, who would send them someplace safe, and be done with them.

  When they were finished with dinner Modo and Octavia went out onto the street, keeping an eye out for the Guild agents. After walking a few feet they heard someone behind them screaming, “Incendie! Incendie!” A man came running down the street, his desperate voice echoing in the alleys. Church bells began ringing madly.

  “Fire,” Modo said. Outside the city walls, he saw a thin plume of smoke, so he ran a few hundred feet to the ramparts and easily leapt onto them, grabbed the scaffolding, and vaulted to the top. “A cottage is on fire!” he yelled to Octavia. “Not far out of town.”

  By the time he’d climbed down again, Colette had returned. “Commotions certainly seem to follow us,” she said.

  “I have a feeling we should have trailed Lime immediately,” Modo said.

  Colette’s eyes grew wide. “Mon Dieu!”

  They ran to the city gates, through crowds. They must have some kind of fire brigade, Modo thought. But it was so slow. Most people seemed confused, as if they’d never seen a fire before.

  The three spies dashed through the open gate and down the road toward the smoke. Modo quickly outdistanced Octavia and Colette. The small cottage was engulfed in flames; smoke belched from the windows. Two tethered goats strained at their leashes, madly trying to escape the heat. Modo leapt over a dead hound on the front path. The front door of the cottage had been torn off and cast aside. Three farmers stood at the entrance, afraid to go in. Modo jumped a low stone fence, took a deep breath, and threw himself through the doorway.

  “Modo, stop!” Colette shouted.

  “Modo!” Octavia yelled.

  “Je suis là pour vous aider!” he shouted, smoke making his eyes water. The conflagration was heaviest near the fireplace, where logs had spilled out onto the floor. A rug and thick curtains danced with flames. He charged through them, into the next room, crouching lower to avoid the smoke. He saw a body, rushed to it, and heaved it up only to have it tear in half. Horrified, he blinked his watering eyes until he could see again. He was holding a sack of grain. Stumbling back, he spotted a man splayed across an urn, smashed pottery and pieces of a chair all around him. A long-barreled shotgun, bent in half, was on the floor.

  “Modo!” someone shouted.

  He began to cough so hard he thought his lungs would rupture. He nearly blacked out, but bent down and sucked in some of the cleaner air from near the floor. Get out! He scooped the man up like a child. He glanced around and saw no more bodies. He crouched as low as possible, gasping as his lungs began to contract again and again. He careered out of the cottage, stumbled several yards, then laid the man on the ground, practically falling on top of him.

  As his coughing subsided and his vision cleared, he saw that the man’s face was severely bruised. A long cut on his scalp oozed blood. “Mon Dieu,” the man rasped.

  Modo held his hand. In French he said, “You are safe now. I am here to help you.”

  “We’re all here to help you,” Colette added, placing her handkerchief against the wound on the man’s scalp. “What is your name?”

  “Jean Hébert,” the man answered in a daze. Then he blinked. “Non, non, Lambert. I was Hébert … long ago.”

  Modo’s heart nearly stopped. He sat up and edged closer to the old man. His father? He looked for something in the man’s face that would prove it, but who on earth would have features like his own? The man’s grayish hair was shot through with spikes of red, though, the same color as Modo’s. And there was something familiar about his jawline.

  “Are you from Nanterre?” Modo asked, glancing up at Octavia and Colette.

  The man nodded. “W-water,” he whispered, rubbing his dry lips.

  “I’ll get it,” Colette said, dashing to the well through a gathering crowd. Octavia leaned in to hold the handkerchief against the man’s forehead.

  “You’re kind,” he said, “for pulling me out of the fire. You risked—” He coughed. “I thank you.”

  “It was my duty,” Modo said. What a stupid thing to say! But he was at a loss for words and his French was failing him. Hébert was in horrible shape.

  “They … a thief and a monster … they took my wife. I fought. I fought them.… I am broken,” he said. “That beast.”

  “You fought well, sir. We will find her,” Modo said. “I promise you.”

  Hébert stared at the sky. Had he died? But then he grabbed Modo by the shoulder. “I wasn’t strong enough,” the man said. “You’re a Good Samaritan. Your kindness will be rewarded.” He pulled Modo closer. “There’s something familiar in your face. Are you my nephew? Luc, I have not seen you for so long. Years. You’ve grown.” He was coughing more softly now, his breath unsteady.

  “I am not your nephew,” Modo whispered. The man convulsed and coughed up blood. Colette was quick with the handkerchief. Octavia had taken a blanket from an onlooker to cover his legs.

  “Do you have any children?” Modo asked.

  The man shook his head. “I … no. Well, once we had a child, but he was … We gave the boy to God.” He paused. “To God,” he rasped.

  “I … I am your son. The one you gave to God.” Modo grasped his father’s cold hand, cradled his head. “I came to find you. I am your boy. I will take you to a doctor. I am Modo. I am your son.”

  Colette’s hand touched Modo’s and he looked up at her.

  “He is gone,” she said in English.

  Modo looked into his father’s dull eyes. Then, seeing what was only the truth, he gently closed the man’s papery lids and stroked his face.

  Modo let out a whimper, then caught himself. Octavia touched his shoulder, but he stood quickly. Something cold and painful was growing in his chest. “Where is his wife?” he hissed. “Where is she?”

  “We’ll find her,” Octavia said. “Please, calm down.”

  “And what do we do now? Just leave him?”

  “We cannot wait,” Colette said. “They have a good half-hour lead on us and will be traveling with utmost speed.”

  She was right. Already a large group of townspeople and farmers had gathered; gendarmes would arrive, and there would be far too much to explain. Modo approached the crowd. “Which of you is the mayor? A priest? Which of you is a leader of any kind?” he asked in French.

  Several people gestured toward a man who stepped forward. Modo gave him three gold coins. “Bury my father well. I shall return to ensure it was done properly.”

  And then, together with Octavia and Colette, he ran back toward the gates of Montreuil-sur-Mer, rage beating in his heart and coursing through his blood.

  21

  Four-Wheeled Pursuit

  Modo ran to the center of the town, not caring if Octavia or Colette could keep up with him, and skidded to a stop in front of the inn. A carriage had just pulled up and a gentleman was stepping out. Modo yanked the passenger aside, grabbed his luggage from the cab, and tossed it to the ground. He threw a handful of francs at the driver, shouting, “Drive west,” in English, then in French. “Conduisez à l’ouest!”

  “Non! Non!” The driver reached for something on his belt. Modo sprang up to the driver’s seat and shoved him over the edge, a small club clattering on the cobblestones beside him. Modo snapped the whip and the horses sprang ahead, the carriage lurching behind them. His mother! They had her and they would dissect her, would do whatever it was the Clockwork Guild was doing to create their monsters and nightmare machines. He would not allow it!

  “You are not behaving appropriately,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. He saw a pair of hands grab the lip of the driver’s seat. Colette climbed up the side and—rather gracefully, considering the circumstances—sat beside him.

  “This is appropriate behavior,” h
e shouted. He snapped the reins again. “Faster! Faster!”

  It was only after he caught his breath and some of his wits that he asked, “Is Octavia aboard?”

  “She is. Though whether she will survive your driving is another question. You cannot even keep the horses on the road. Here!” Colette grabbed the reins. “Hold them like this.”

  “I was doing well enough,” Modo said. “Where does this road take us?”

  “Back to Étaples. This is the only road to the coast and they will not be racing like we are.”

  The small window between the cab and the driver’s seat slid to one side. A pair of eyes looked out.

  “Oh, the French girl is steering,” Octavia said. “No wonder we’re in such a hullabaloo.”

  “This carriage is not designed for such speeds,” Colette yelled back.

  “Well, you two seem to have everything well in hand,” Octavia said, “I’m going to get forty winks.”

  “You can sleep now?” Colette asked, incredulous.

  “No worse than a quiet day in a St. Giles pub.” Octavia slid the window shut.

  Colette gave the reins another snap and the horses sped up. Farmers pulling carts of vegetables rushed to get out of their way. Colette shouted at an old woman with a bloodstained poultry sack slung over her shoulder. The grizzled woman stepped off the road a moment before she would have been trampled by the horses, and gave them several rude gestures.

  “The horses will tire soon,” Colette said. They were already slick with sweat, their manes drenched.

  “Then we’ll steal others!” Modo stared hard at the horizon, as if he could will the enemy to show themselves. He assumed Lime had a carriage. If they were on horseback they would travel faster, but it would be difficult to hold a struggling prisoner on horseback. Unless, of course, they had taken measures to stop her from struggling. It was also possible that they had taken one of the many side roads.

  Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The horses’ breathing was ragged. Just as Modo was beginning to lose hope, he caught sight of a distant carriage. “There! There!”

  “I see it!” Colette flicked the whip and the horses whinnied angrily but sped up. The driver of the other carriage was coming into focus: a thin, tall man. “That is Lime, I am certain,” Colette said.