Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (12 page)

“No bother. No sight. Father is here.”

Modo pinpointed the voice. The man was seated in a large chair that faced the hearth. The shadowy figure stood and slowly came around the chair. “This is my home. My hearth. You are welcome.”

“Thank you,” Modo said.

“I know your voice,” the man said.

Was he mad?
“You do?”

“Yes. I don’t forget a voice. A tone.” The man began to hum softly, a very pleasant sound. “One does not hear the
bells every day without learning the tones. Please come closer.”

Modo could see no harm in doing so. In getting closer Modo could see that the man’s eyes glowed eerily white. Cataracts caught the moonlight.

“I hear your small gasp,” the man said. “Yes, I am blind. For decades now. I have forgotten what it is to see. Tones! Tones are my eyes, the identity of a person, the expression on a face. Do you hear the children crying?”

Modo had no idea what he meant. “No.”

“Come closer, young man. Please.”

Modo did so. Before he could react, the old priest had reached out his hands and touched Modo’s face. His fingers looked to be knobbed with rheumatism, but they were quick.

“You wear a mask?”

“Yes. To hide a disfigurement.”

“Many are afflicted. Some deaf. Some poor. Some rich. God is mysterious.”

“Most certainly so.”

“May I?” the man asked, and before Modo understood his intention the man had peeled back Modo’s mask and let out a sigh as he traced Modo’s cheek.

“What is your accent?” the father asked.

“Canadian,” Modo lied.

“I know your face.” He ran his fingers across Modo’s ragged cheeks. “You were the sweetest child.”

“You know me? That’s impossible.”

“All is possible.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Father Cambolieu.”

His fingers continued to trace the lines of Modo’s face. They touched his cheeks, caressed his forehead. It was so gentle and so … natural. “You have always had such a strong face. Even stronger now.”

“Thank you,” Modo said. “Was this the nursery once?”

“Yes, until Father Mauger closed it down. It was too expensive.”

“And when was it closed?”

“In 1860.”

“Where did all the children go?”

“I was told they went to proper homes and to other churches.”

“Wh-who am I?” The father’s hands were still on his face.

“You are the boy with the blessed face.”

What could that mean? “Did you meet my parents? What were their names?”

“Ah, I am good with names. Monsieur and Madame Hébert.” So Modo was indeed an Hébert! The man placed his hands on either side of Modo’s head, as if measuring it. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Modo replied. “You really and truly knew me as a child?”

“You were here only a short time. Four months. As I recall, you rarely fussed. Then Father Mauger came and took you, said he had found you a home.”

“A home?” He had been sold to a traveling freak show. Did that constitute a home? “What do you know of my parents?”

“I wasn’t allowed to meet them. In any case, the parents—or
should I say the mothers, for it was often the mothers—rarely showed
us
their faces. Most of the children were abandoned on our doorstep. But your parents had marked you for the church. They were very close to God. Sometimes one can get too close to God.”

What did that mean? “I—I am trying to find them. They did not return to Nanterre after leaving me here. Do you know where they were going next?” Modo asked.

“I wanted to know everything about my children,” Father Cambolieu said. “I would pester Father Mauger incessantly. Sometimes the abandoned babies had names pinned to their shirts. Others had a doll or a soft blanket. I wanted to understand where they had come from. Why God had sent them to me.”

“Yes, yes, but did you know where my parents went?”

“I did. I did. Father Mauger did tell me what he knew of your parents. He said they intended to travel to Montreuil-sur-Mer. I remember it clearly. It is the town where I was born.”

The floor creaked behind him and the father seemed to look over Modo’s shoulder.

“Ah, we have more visitors. It is a glorious night.”

Modo knew Colette and Octavia were in the shadows. He adjusted his mask. “They are my friends. It is time for me to depart. But there is so much I must ask you,” Modo said, grasping Father Cambolieu’s hands.

“I have told you everything I know, except for my nickname for you. It was Bright Eyes.” With that he chuckled. “Bright Eyes. Back then I still had enough vision in my left eye to see that much, at least.”

“We must go,” Colette said quietly. “The sun is rising.”

Modo was reluctant to release the priest’s soft hands. He took one and kissed it. “I will return one day and thank you properly.”

“I look forward to that day, my son. Go with God. Bless you.”

A
n agitated sleep had left Lime on edge. He awoke to find Typhon sitting in the same spot, like a child who had been scolded by a teacher. He didn’t know if the monster ever really slept or even breathed like a human, and he never got close enough to check for a heartbeat. He did know that the creature didn’t bleed. When that woman had shot Typhon there were holes in his clothes but there was no blood. For all Lime knew, the bullets were sitting in the creature’s chest, rusting to bits.

Lime ordered breakfast. He had already been to the Saint-Saulve church for the third time that week to look at their records, leaving Typhon on a bench near the town’s wall. There were no Héberts who had arrived in 1858. He was at a dead end. There were no other paths; there was nothing more he could think of. He would telegraph his master and receive
his orders. Perhaps the great mind that was the Guild Master would have an answer.

After breakfast Lime took one last walk, with Typhon a footstep behind. They certainly attracted attention, but the meek little townspeople just watched timidly. He wondered what the reaction would be if he commanded Typhon to start tearing them to pieces. Now, that would be a show! Alas, he was not here for such frolicking.

They walked along the ramparts of the citadel; the stone was falling over in several places. Walls that had been built to keep out the enemy for a thousand years were crumbling to pieces. Lime mulled over what he knew of the Héberts. They had plied their trade at markets in Paris. The father had been relatively unknown in Nanterre.

The church documents had clearly said that the Héberts had intended to move from Nanterre to Montreuil-sur-Mer, but not a single person in their intended destination remembered the Héberts or any other potters arriving fifteen years ago. It was a puzzle. They’d given birth to an abomination and then had handed that child to Notre Dame de Paris, the most revered of all churches in France. Why not their local parish? Instead, they had traveled a small distance to the cathedral, and had left from there to Montreuil.

Were they driven out of Nanterre? Superstitious, fearful people often saw the devil in anyone malformed. More to the point, had the Héberts themselves experienced some sort of religious shame? Had they given birth to a demon? Was the infant’s disfigurement a sign of their own great sin? It was possible.

Religious belief had always been a curiosity to Lime. He
worshipped his knives, nothing else. But his mother had been God-fearing and had often talked of spirits and ghosts and demons … the demons inhabiting her only son. It wasn’t hard to imagine a mother who believed the devil had played a role in creating Modo, a monster-baby. Short of suffocating the infant, which would perhaps have been a sin, why not give it to the church? The priests were the experts in exorcism. Then the Héberts would come to Montreuil and change their names to escape the past.

But he had visited all the potters listed in the Montreuil church records and not one could have been Modo’s parents. Only those who lived outside the walls weren’t in those records.

That gave him pause.

What had the woman he’d seen yesterday said when she saw Typhon?
Is he an abomination? Cursed by the devil?

Would a woman who believed such ugliness was a curse of the devil abandon a child? Would she and her husband move to the outskirts of a fortified town to hide from their shame?

“Typhon, you blighted old troll, you’ve given me the answer,” Lime said. The monster said nothing.

“Typhon, return to the inn with me. We have a telegram to send. Then we’ll get out of this ugly town.”

M
odo watched the French countryside out the window of their private compartment on the train to Calais. After leaving the city in his Doctor form, he had slipped on his netting mask and allowed his shape to return to its natural state. Lately he dreamed of going out with no mask, no shape-shifting to disguise his faults. The Rain People in Australia hadn’t seen his disfigurement as a fault. And blind Father Cambolieu had touched his face and pronounced it strong and blessed. But Modo did not want to upset Octavia and Colette, so he put on the mask. They would be at least four hours on the train, so he couldn’t yet alter his face. He must save his strength for changing into the Knight face just before they arrived.

He had been born in this land and might have traveled a good part of it in the back of a carriage, so he couldn’t stop
himself from searching for something recognizable. How foolish! He’d been so young when Mr. Socrates had rescued him. He had no memory of the months traveling with the freak show, but still, maybe he’d been on these very roads before. Then again, maybe he’d never been allowed off the wagon of curiosities. Despite his doubts, it all felt so familiar. The green land, the thick woods. Perhaps some part of his mind did remember, or some part of his soul, if there was such a thing inside him.

Octavia had fallen asleep beside him, her head occasionally resting on his shoulder. Colette sat across from him, staring out the same window. The dark circles under her eyes made him wonder about her time in the sanatorium.

“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.