Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (28 page)

He wasn’t allowed to see Mr. Socrates, who had not yet fully recovered. Tharpa assured him, though, that sahib had already complained about the quality of the tea, a sign that he was on the mend. When he wasn’t sleeping, Modo pulled on his mask and wandered the deck and stared out at the ocean. Or he sat with Octavia, saying little. She too was exhausted. He ate sparingly, the gray sludge still being the only food offered. Only two days out and already he couldn’t stomach much more of it.

On one of his visits to the ship’s surgeon he discovered that Miss Hakkandottir’s life had been saved by cauterizing her stub. “She didn’t let out a peep,” the surgeon said, amazed. She was now manacled in a holding cell somewhere below deck. Dr. Hyde was in a cell on another floor. Both were guarded by several marines. Modo had no intention of visiting his enemy. He hoped the hangman’s rope awaited her and Dr. Hyde.

All of the dragoons were on the
Shah
too, though he rarely saw them. He was happy that Ester had survived and seemed to have no injuries. It wasn’t until the third day that he ran into Oppie on the deck, sitting on a crate in the sun. The gash on his forehead had been nicely stitched. “Mr. Modo,” he said, with a broad smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. We made it through to the other side.”

“Indeed we did,” Modo answered. He sat beside him. It was still so strange that this man—who such a short time ago was a small boy—was taller than him. A scruffy beard was attempting to grow on his face. “How are you?”

“All’s well. I—I miss my mates. Three of ’em gave their lives, but I guess we all knew our chances going in.”

“Yes, you did. You are a very brave man, Oppie.”

“Just did my job,” he answered. “Some terrible things happened, sir. Truly terrible things.” Then he laughed. “But we got the bastards, didn’t we, sir?”

Modo could only nod in response, then returned his gaze to the horizon. They were silent for a few minutes. Modo remembered what Mr. Socrates had said about these dragoons. Every week they aged a month. “What will you do now, Oppie?”

“Do, sir?”

“Yes, are you going back to England?”

“I’ll be going wherever the army tells me to go, sir,” he said.

“You don’t get leave? Or perhaps you’ve done your part? I certainly think so. You could move on.”

Oppie looked him in the eyes. “Do you really believe there’s a place for me in that other world, sir? My job at the inn again? Ha. No, this is my place now. My home is with my mates in the Lucky Sevens. No one else can wear my uniform, sir. There’s still work for the Association to do.”

“Yes,” Modo said, though he felt for Oppie. “I suppose you’re right. But listen, Oppie—you’ll keep learning to read, I hope.”

“I will, sir,” he replied. “That’s a promise.”

Modo clapped him on the back and strode to the aft of the ship, his eyes set on the direction from which they’d come. How many times had he walked around this ship avoiding his most important conversation? He contemplated the view for several minutes before he found the courage to go down the stairs to the lower deck, past the surgeon’s quarters to the recovery cabin. His mother had been here all this time, with reports on her health being delivered to his cabin a few times a day.

He lingered outside her door, having suddenly decided he should be bringing her a gift. She was his mother, after all. But it wasn’t as though he could just dive off the ship and return with a bouquet of flowers. She would have to take him as he was. Perhaps she’d see his part in her rescue as a gift; perhaps she’d even be proud of him.

He adjusted his mask, then raised a hesitant hand and knocked. A frail voice said,
“Entrez.”

He opened the door. Her room, lit only by the light from the porthole, was relatively large for a cabin. It was littered with medical equipment and various supplies. His mother lay on her cot, propped up on pillows, a gray wool blanket covering her legs. He took two steps in and stopped.

Some color had returned to her cheeks, though she was still pale. He didn’t know what to say. He stared at her face, looking for familiar features.

“Parlez-vous français?”
she asked.

“Oui,”
he said.
“Je comprende.”

“I am told that you saved me,” she said in French. “I remember you, though, as you know, I was not well. I thank you.”

“It was my duty,” he said. “I was only doing my duty.”

“Still, I thank you. It was brave of you.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

“Soldiers bring me horrible food. But the doctor speaks some French. He’s not a religious man, but he’s kind. He told me my husband is dead. I have not had any tears to weep yet. They will come. I’ve been praying for his soul. Had I died, it wouldn’t have been so bad, to join him again in heaven.”

Modo didn’t know how to respond, except to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Modo.”

“What sort of name is that? British?”

“My name was …” He paused. What to say? He began
again. “It’s the name my father gave me.” He hadn’t meant to say father, but trying to explain his relationship with Mr. Socrates was too complicated. “My adoptive father,” he added.

She nodded. “He has raised you well. But why do you wear a mask? Were you wounded?”

“I’m disfigured,” he said. “At least, some would believe me to be so.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How did it happen?”

“At birth,” he said. “I was born this way.”

Her eyes narrowed. Was she thinking about his birth?

“I—” He had to spit it out. “I know you will find this difficult to believe. But I have learned … that I was born in Nanterre. I am your son.”

“You’re lying,” she said. Her eyes grew hard, her face stony.

“It isn’t a lie. The nursemaid’s name was …” He searched his memory. What had Colette said? “Marie. And you left me at Notre Dame Cathedral. You left me there with Father Mauger. Don’t you remember?” He hadn’t intended to sound so whiny.

“I have no son,” she replied. “My husband and I had no children.”

Doubt crept in … but her eyes were so similar to his. He thought about all the facts. No, she had to be his mother.

“Tell me the truth. You owe me that. Especially now. Did you not give up your son to the Notre Dame orphanage?”

Her face grew tired-looking and she sighed deeply, picking at her fingernails. “I prayed. I asked my God why he had given me an abomination. What had I done to deserve this? And my husband was a good, hardworking man. So it was me, my sinful thinking. Temptations I could not resist in my
youth. So I gave the abomination up to the ones who would know what to do with it. It was not a son. And you are not that child. You are not that child. You are only being cruel to me by pretending.”

“What year was it?”

She paused to think. “It was 1858.”

“And this … this abomination, did you give him a name?”

“Why would I? It was a punishment visited on me for my sins. My family disowned me. We chose to change our names. To hide from them and from those who knew about God’s punishment. I have been praying for His forgiveness ever since.”

“Did you give your son anything?”

“I gave him his life. I gave him back to God.”

“And if you could see him again, what would you say?”

“One does not speak to the devil.”

He wanted to rip off his mask. Show her his tortured face. Really punish her. The room was blurring.

He breathed deeply, blinked back tears, and summoned all of his courage. “I
am
your son,” he said. “It’s the truth. Whether or not you are willing to accept it is your own problem.”

She covered her face. “Please, go, go … stop torturing me.”

He thought of changing his shape, of showing her how magical he was, how powerful and strong, but no. It would be a wasted effort.

“I am Modo,” he said. “I am your son, who saved your life.” He left the room, closing the cabin door firmly behind him.

T
he HMS
Shah
landed at Esquimalt in the late afternoon. Already there had been other ships alerted as to the position of the island. Modo wondered if, like the underwater realm of Icaria or the attack on Parliament, this would never appear in the newspapers. The bodies of the Guild’s half-men, half-monsters would perhaps be displayed one day in glass showcases. In the short term they would most certainly be shipped to cold storage in the basement of some well-secured building in London. Or maybe in the Arctic, for all he knew, to be dissected and studied. He hoped they wouldn’t discover the real secret, as it was in his blood. And his mother’s blood too. He wondered what she understood of what had happened to her. Or had she been so drugged that she would only believe it to have been some horrible
nightmare? Would the Association ever allow her to live a normal life again?

It wasn’t until they docked that Mr. Socrates emerged from his cabin and Modo and Octavia saw him for the first time in four days. Tharpa pushed Mr. Socrates along in a wheelchair, a gray blanket across his legs. He appeared smaller, and more elderly, as though his time underwater had shriveled him up. Mr. Socrates shooed Tharpa away and slowly wheeled himself across the deck.

“I owe you my life,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Actually, Octavia and I pulled you out together,” Modo said, giving her a nod.

“Yes, I owe my thanks to both of you, though I will take some of the credit for having trained you both so well.” A twinkle returned to his eyes.

“We chose how to apply it, though,” Octavia reminded him.

“You have free will, too much of it at times.” He chuckled hoarsely.

“It is all I have,” Modo said.

“Come now, no time to be melancholy. We have accomplished great things. The Guild has been broken into pieces. There may be pockets elsewhere, but they won’t dare to rise up again for years. The good citizens of England have no inkling as to what we were up against. Therefore, they will never thank you, but know that you did good work. We’re now free to return to London to begin strengthening the Association.”

“No,” Modo said without hesitation.

“No?”

He had spent last night unable to sleep. His mother’s rejection
had rattled him, knocking some key part of himself loose. “I’m done with empires, Mr. Socrates. That was my last assignment. I mean to quit the Association and strike out on my own.”

“Do you?” Mr. Socrates said.

“You said nothing of this to me,” Octavia said, unable to hide her irritation.

“It’s only become clear to me now, Tavia. I’m really best off alone.”

“You can’t just quit, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “This is not a sporting club. You have oaths to fulfill, duties. There’s much work yet to be done.”

“Mr. Socrates, I care deeply for you. You’re the closest thing I have to a father. But, through no choice of my own, I have given you fifteen years of my life. I want my next years to be my own. I may return one day, when I’m older. But right now I must act alone.”

“What madness is this, Modo?” With the help of Tharpa, he rose from his chair and stood shakily on the deck. “I raised you. You would be nothing without me—just a cowering beast.”

“Beast?”

“I didn’t mean to use that word. I forbid you from leaving me—from leaving the Association. The care, the thought, the years I’ve put into grooming you, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?”

“I’m not betraying you. I’m leaving you, that’s all.”

Mr. Socrates looked at Tharpa. “I have made him too much in my own image.” Then he turned back to Modo. “I will not beg you to stay. But know this, Modo: if you walk
away from me, you’ll regret it. The world out there is cruel. You’ll come crawling back to me.”

“I must find my own place, sir.” He locked eyes with Tharpa, who nodded subtly as though to say
I understand
.

Octavia said, “You’re going alone?”

If she came with him, what kind of life would she have? Better for her to stay with the Association. To make a decent living. To find her prince.

“I am,” he replied. Then he walked down the gangplank and toward the gates of the naval base.

T
he cobblestone streets of Victoria were solid under Modo’s feet. He felt solid too, even though he wasn’t certain about what he’d just done. The decision had come upon him so suddenly and so perfectly that he’d acted on it without the slightest hesitation. He was deeply sad now when he pictured the disappointment in Mr. Socrates’ eyes. He’d see him again, he was certain of that, but on his own terms. Living his own life.

Modo didn’t have a plan for his future employment. He had the strength to work on the railways. Or in the mines. Or better yet, on a farm in the wild west. He loved the idea of just bending his back to a task without worrying about the fate of the Empire.

A swift step and a hissing noise alerted him, but before he could react a hard blow fell on the back of his head and
he collapsed to the ground. He expected a knife between the ribs next. Did Mr. Socrates mean to make sure he didn’t leave the Association?

He rolled over to face his attacker. “Tavia!”

Octavia stood over him, her hands on her hips. “You left without me, you … you nizzie, you nincompoop!”

“It’s for the best.”

“For the best? We’re friends, Modo. You don’t turn your back on a mate.”

“But you have a good life with the Association.” He was ashamed to hear his voice warble.

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go along!” His head hurt. What had she whacked him with? “You made assumptions, you … you assumptious ass!”

“
Assumptious
isn’t a word!”

“Don’t lecture me, you traitor.”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. He stood, holding his head. “Will you come with me?”

“No. Not now, not ever!”

“Then what are you doing here?”

She took a deep breath, huffed it out and stamped her foot. “Modo, you’re so … so frustrating! A terribly frustrating, terribly … interesting man. And the silly thing is, I can’t imagine not being around you. I do love your company.”