by Arthur Slade
28
Westward Ho!
Modo was so impatient to get his feet on land that he stood by the gangplank with their luggage long before they had docked in Montreal, next to several tall-masted ships. Octavia stood beside him, using her umbrella as shade from the sun. It was colder here in Canada: the early October wind chilled Modo. Or was he shivering with nervousness? He had assumed the Doctor persona again. The moment the sailors lowered the gangplank Modo scurried down it. He and Octavia were the first to have their papers stamped at Customs House. He strode up a ramp to the street.
“Wait, Modo! I’m not a gazelle!” Octavia blurted. He slowed down, and once she had caught up, she hissed, “You should try running in a dress. It’s abominable!”
“I’ll leave that to my imagination.”
He was just about to wave down a calèche when he saw Tharpa standing outside an ornate carriage, beckoning them over. Modo placed the luggage in the carrier on the back and shook Tharpa’s hand. He wanted to hug his weapons master. He hadn’t done that since he was a child, but he needed it now. Instead, he held on to Tharpa’s hand longer than usual.
“You have returned, young sahib, and young Miss Milkweed,” Tharpa said, slapping Modo’s back. “Old sahib awaits you inside, as you have likely surmised.”
“I have. It’s good to see you, Tharpa,” Modo said. A well of emotion was rising up in him, so he bit the inside of his cheek.
“Mrs. Finchley sends her regards to both of you,” Tharpa said.
Modo nodded, a little confused. Wouldn’t he be seeing her in a few minutes? He reached for the carriage door.
“Modo! You help the lady in first!” Octavia reminded him.
“My apologies.” He bowed to her, then opened the door with a flourish, took her hand, and helped her step into the compartment. He followed, sitting across from Mr. Socrates, who wore a long coat trimmed with fur. Modo was surprised at how happy he was to see his master again. How he wished he could lay all of his problems at Mr. Socrates’ feet and have them solved.
“Welcome to your home away from home, both of you,” Mr. Socrates said as the carriage began to roll down the street. Tharpa was riding with the driver. “I hope you rested well on your journey.” He leaned back in his seat, his walking stick across his legs. “We’re about to travel west by train, all the way to the coast.”
“We won’t be stopping at Montreal House?” Octavia asked. “I need a bath. And my clothing needs a wash.”
“There’s no time. We’ll have the clothing and you laundered along the way.”
Octavia frowned and turned to stare out the window with a huff.
“And what of Mrs. Finchley?” Modo asked.
“She’s in charge of Montreal House.” Mr. Socrates raised an eyebrow. “You’ll see her when this next phase of our battle is over, Modo. If that is your worry.”
It was. He had wanted to tell her about what he’d seen, to be held in the safety and comfort of her arms like a child. Of all his teachers, she would be the one to understand his pain. There was no point in mentioning this to Mr. Socrates. Perhaps, Modo decided, he could write to her.
He felt time pressing on him. Thirteen days had already passed since his mother’s capture. She could very well be dead. He couldn’t help imagining how she must have cowered in the car of the airship.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“First, Modo, I need to hear in your own words what happened in France. Every detail. Of course, I’ll want your version too, Octavia.”
Reporting was a skill Modo had perfected during his years of childhood training at Ravenscroft, so he spoke calmly from that place in his mind where he remembered every pertinent detail. He didn’t even tear up as he described Colette’s death and his mother being hauled away. Octavia followed with her own observations.
“I’ve read files on this Lime,” Mr. Socrates said. “Several agents have fallen to his blade. Typhon is someone new.”
“Larger than any man I have seen,” Octavia said. “And he smelled.”
“Smelled?”
“I was in the carriage with him. He stank like rotting flesh and formaldehyde. And he had stitches along his neck and face and arms.”
“From wounds?”
“No. The pattern was more like a surgeon had, well, stitched him together.”
“Curious,” Mr. Socrates said.
“He was impressively strong too,” Modo added, “but he was cold, sir.”
“Cold?”
“His flesh was like ice. And he was impervious to bullets and Colette’s blade, which struck his heart.”
“You are certain she hit him there?”
“Yes.” Modo remembered it so perfectly. Colette, his savior, standing between him and the monster. She had paused in disbelief when he didn’t fall.
“Do you know the origin of the name Typhon, Modo?”
“I … I hadn’t thought about it, sir.”
“Come now. You know the Guild has a penchant for Greek names. Who was Typhon?”
Because Mr. Socrates’ teachings had centered on military tactics and history, Modo had not spent much time on various mythologies, though he had memorized every tale he’d read. The Greek and Norse stories of how gods and Titans had once walked the earth were too fanciful for Mr. Socrates. But Modo was pleased to be able to dredge up the answer from memory.
“Typhon was the father of all monsters in Greek mythology,” he said. “His hands reached east and west. He had a hundred dragon heads, and massive snake coils for legs. He had wings, and fire flashed from his eyes. Even Zeus feared him.”
“Your brain is a great big book, ain’t it, Modo?” Octavia said. “If we cracked open your skull we’d just find pages and pages of words.”
“I’m glad I impressed you.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” But he could tell that he had.
“The Guild picks certain names for a reason,” Mr. Socrates said, “and in those names perhaps we’ll discover something about their plans. Why this name for this man? You said he had stitches.”
“And a very tiny little finger on his right hand,” Modo added, almost forgetting the detail. His own finger tingled when he spoke of it. “It was pink, like normal flesh.”
“What kind of man survives so many wounds? So many surgeries? Who knows what they’ve done to make him this resilient, this powerful. They must see the man as being very important. Any sign of his cerebration?”
“His what?” Octavia asked.
“How smart he is,” Modo explained. Octavia stuck her tongue out at him and he nearly laughed—how he needed a good laugh. “He spoke in short sentences. Very gruff. He seemed to do whatever Lime asked of him. But there was one order he didn’t obey. He was told to break me and could have easily snapped my spine. But he only dropped me.”
“Very curious,” Mr. Socrates said. He took his walking stick and leaned forward. “But we haven’t asked the important questions. Why do you think the Clockwork Guild wants Madame Hébert? And what do you suppose they will do with her?”
“I … I can’t.”
“Don’t hold back, Modo. This is of the utmost importance.”
“It has been a long journey, Mr. Socrates,” Octavia said. Modo gritted his teeth; he didn’t need her to defend him.
“I don’t even want to imagine what they want with her, sir,” he snapped. “Don’t you think I haven’t been running through a hundred horrific scenarios? How can you ask me to speak of this? You know what the Guild is capable of. Your guess is as good as mine. Don’t make me speak of my mother this way.”
“Don’t be weak—weakness will be used by the enemy to break you.” That sharp tone! After years of hearing it, Modo involuntarily straightened.
Modo thought hard and finally drew in a deep breath. “Okay, I can think of two reasons. One, they want to get to me. They would dearly like to capture me. So this suggests they are using her to draw me to them.”
“A doubtful scenario,”
Mr. Socrates said. “They would have to communicate with you again in order to give you the location to which they want to lead you.”
“Exactly, sir. My second conclusion is that there’s something in her, in her biology or her … her body … her blood … something they can use. In the past they’ve employed drugs and metal enhancements to modify and strengthen hounds and children. What monsters they dream up! For what exact purpose they’ll use my mother, I do not know.”
“We must look into the abyss, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “It’s the only way to defeat such blackguards. It is becoming obvious to me that they intend to bring at least one more Typhon into the world.”
“That makes sense,” Modo whispered.
“Then what is the connection between Typhon and Modo’s mother?” Octavia asked.
“There isn’t one,” Modo said. “There can’t be.”
“No, Octavia has a very valid point,” Mr. Socrates said. “Excellent rational thinking. If this Typhon has been somehow strengthened by … by stitching parts of other men together, then he would be well served by the ability to regenerate. And, Modo, no one is stronger nor heals more quickly than you. And your finger grew back.”
“No. The Guild can’t be aware of my regenerative abilities. We didn’t even know ourselves until Miss Hakkandottir cut off my finger.” He stared at his hand. She had sliced the little finger off while he was hanging from her airship and he’d fallen to Earth, leaving his finger behind.
Mr. Socrates tapped Modo’s hand with his walking stick. Modo drew it back. “It would not be beyond Miss Hakkandottir to keep a trophy of her battle with you. And, once that trophy was in their lab, for Dr. Hyde to experiment with it.”
“It can’t be.” Modo recoiled in shock. Octavia gasped. But his finger had itched when he’d seen Typhon’s little finger. As though his body recognized the truth. “Typhon did have a disproportionately small pinkie finger,” Modo said. He shuddered, though he knew it was better to face facts without emotion, as Mr. Socrates had always taught him.
“Then it is possible that there’s a connection between you and Typhon as well. Ah, we have learned a lot in a short while. We’ll have plenty of time to think upon these riddles and others as we travel.”
The carriage stopped in front of Bonaventure Station, a grand stone building that reminded Modo a little of Notre Dame. There were rows of carriages waiting out front, loading and unloading passengers. Modo was the last to get out, and Mr. Socrates pulled him aside and said quietly, “I’m sorry about Monsieur Hébert and the girl. Come along.”
Modo paused. His master had actually sensed that Modo was feeling some pain. Perhaps the old man has grown a heart. It was curious, he noted, that Mr. Socrates referred to his parents by their last name only. Not as your mother and father.
Tharpa tossed half the luggage to Modo and carried the rest himself. Modo followed Tharpa into the train station, almost running across the intricate marble floors. Within minutes they were on a westbound train leaving the island of Montreal.
“Where are we going?” Modo asked.
“Westward ho!” Mr. Socrates said jauntily. “We’re traveling through Ontario, then taking the Grand Trunk line. We’ll follow the North Pacific route through the United States, since the laggardly Canadian government has not yet figured out how to build its own national rail line. This band of metal that crosses the United States is quite the accomplishment. And all done without the British. I guess the old colony is growing up.”
“I’m sure they’d be pleased to know they have your approval,” Octavia said.
“Indeed they would,” Mr. Socrates said. Modo wasn’t certain if he was joking or not.
“Is the Clockwork Guild located in the American West?” Modo asked. “How soon will we lock horns with them?”
“No, no,” Mr. Socrates said. “The West is not that wild. The Guild is somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, I am certain. I’m following my intuition on this one.”
“You mean we may be going through all this trouble and ending up in the middle of nowhere?” Modo asked.
“Be assured, I know their general whereabouts. The real difficulty will be discovering their base.”
“And what will our assignments be?” Octavia asked.
“To deal with events as they unfold. Enough about work. Let us enjoy our trip.”
Modo and Octavia exchanged a glance. No plan? His intuition? Who was this man?
The hours passed. The car didn’t have the first-class cabins Modo had come to admire in England and France. Instead, there were two rows of seats on either side of the train. They did have beautiful wide windows and above them, in the curve of the ceiling, were elaborate stained-glass windows. Dressing rooms and lavatories were at the far end of the car.
The lack of cabins would make for an uncomfortable trip. Modo wouldn’t be able to hide his disfigurement as easily, but for some reason, he found he didn’t care. His mask would have to be enough to protect the other passengers from seeing his face. And if they were put off by the mask, too bad.
He and Octavia were delighted to discover saloon cars, balcony cars, dining cars, and refreshment cars. Modo bought a copy of The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins, from a boy with a basket of books for sale. He loved a good detective story.
They had taken seats at the front of their car so they could not be so easily gawked at. Modo sat nearest the window. They passed into Ontario and through Toronto and crossed at Sarnia into Michigan. At eight o’clock a steward announced, “It’s bedtime, folks.” In the space of a few minutes the seats were lowered; beds and red curtains gave everyone privacy. Tharpa was across the aisle from Modo and Mr. Socrates, sharing with a stranger. Octavia had a seat to herself.
Modo had never slept in the same room with Mr. Socrates, never mind inches away from him. “Good night, Modo,” he said, pulling his nightcap on tight. Mr. Socrates fell asleep almost instantly, but Modo’s mind was still aching from all that had happened. Unbidden, Colette’s face filled his mind. She had asked to see his brutal features before she died, had actually wanted his face to be the last image she saw. His face!
There had been other deaths in his life, but not someone he … he … loved. That was it. He had loved her. Not in the same way as he did Octavia, but under different circumstances they might have spent a lifetime together. She had tried to save him from the monstrous Typhon and had given him a gift by looking at his face. Of saying he was beautiful. Would a dying woman lie?
Such were his thoughts for a very long time, before he finally drifted off to the rhythm of a train chugging westward.
29
Experiencing Elocution
Typhon was sitting on a stone, gazing in wonder at the Pacific Ocean. They had named him Typhon, but he didn’t feel as though the name truly belonged to him. He wasn’t Typhon; he was several people at once. There were voices in his head, bubbling like a brew, but this voice, the one that was thinking at this moment, was his own. Wasn’t it?
His thoughts had returned slowly, as though he were waking from a deep sleep. For so long the only other voices he heard were those of his masters; their commands would rattle around in his skull until he obeyed them. As time passed, more of his own thoughts sprouted up between those commands. Occasionally, he would even have memories. They were dark names and feelings. A mother. Yes, he remembered a mother who had held him as a child. And the feeling of coarse, itchy rope around his neck. Then darkness. Did the memories belong to him or to someone else? And he remembered too the emotions of those moments. The comfort, the uncertainty.
They had tried to turn him into a laborer, but someone had to constantly give him instructions. So they let him wander the island. They fed him when he was hungry, but the soldiers and even the mechanical hounds kept their distance.
Every night he would visit Dr. Hyde to be examined. Sometimes there was a stitch that had broken and needed mending. “Your flesh will eventually grow together,” the doctor said, “like the regeneration
of a lizard’s tail. A very exciting scientific discovery, Typhon.”
The monster nodded.
“And Lime tells me you’ve learned more words. You speak well, at times.”
“I speak well.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard you speak before. But it’s great news that you’ve retained those faculties. Communicating will be much easier.”
“I experience elocution.”
“Ah.” The doctor stared at him dumbfounded, his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses so big they were comical. Typhon nearly laughed. “You use such complicated words.”
“Yes. I can … I am cognizant of that.”
“Marvelous, simply marvelous,” the doctor said.
Perhaps, Typhon mused, he would crush the doctor’s skull. This was the man who had brought him to life; the first face he had seen when his eyes opened. This old, tiny, frail-boned man. Typhon lifted his hands, then lowered them. He chose not to commit the act. It would be an interesting experience, but he had a curious affection for the old man.
“I am very proud of you,” the doctor said. “So very proud.”
Typhon nodded. “Who was I?”
“Who were you?” the doctor said. “Oh, I see. You have some questions that all children ask: Who am I? Why am I here? Very interesting. I didn’t expect that. Do you have memories of, how shall I put it, another time? Another you?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Oh, now, that is very interesting. You see, you were not one person, but several. Your brain is amalgamated from the gray matter of a man named William Middleton. He was a prospector and a murderer. And from that of a man named Duncan McTavish. He was a writer and a murderer. Other brains were required, though I only used smaller portions of those. Do these names mean anything to you?”