The Dark Deeps (10 page)

He worked his claw-fingers into the latch. It wouldn’t turn. Locked! He summoned up his last spark of strength and pulled. He half expected his fingers to break and fly off. His every muscle was knotting up, but he heard the metal begin to grind. Then came a
snap
and he pried the lid open. Inside was a ladder. A light. Safety.

Something struck the side of his skull, hard. As he tried to raise a hand to protect himself, he was hit again. He grabbed at the ladder, but his stiff hands couldn’t catch the rung, and he fell headfirst down the hole.

W
hen he opened his eyes, Modo wondered at first if he’d gone blind. He blinked, quivering. Darkness. Perhaps his eyes were frozen. He could feel warm air surrounding him, but every inch of his body trembled. He touched his face and traced the familiar lumps, his concave nose, his elongated ears. He had shifted back to his normal self.

He patted his chest and discovered he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He ran his hand over his back. The hump was still there; even his numbed claw-fingers recognized the shape. His underclothes had been removed and he was naked under a prickly wool blanket. He tried to wiggle his toes but felt nothing. Had his toes fallen off? He reached down and counted all ten.

Someone had undressed him. Who? Had they seen his ugliness? The thought of someone else’s eyes on him made him sick.

The room was so humid he wheezed each breath. He was on a mattress of sorts. He felt a wooden frame, decided he was on a small cot. He waved his hands in the air and they brushed something cold and wet as an eel. It seemed to hang in the air above him. He stuck one hand out to the side and found a wall.

At that moment a light burst to life above him and he raised a hand to shield his eyes. He saw the outline of a small dresser at the end of his cot. Someone knocked heavily on the door. He yanked the gray blanket up over himself and pushed his back against the wall, peeking out of the shadows. The narrow door swung into the room, banging against the cot.

A man squeezed inside, his frame thick, a black beard striped with gray beneath his round glasses. He was wearing a blue military uniform without any stripes or markings. He looked like a clerk who’d been raised by woodsmen. He set a steaming bowl and a cup on the dresser, then spoke, but his words were guttural and unrecognizable, another language.

Modo said nothing in response … .

“English, then,” the man said, his steady gray eyes measuring Modo. “You speak English?”

“Yerr,” Modo answered. His tongue was withered with dryness. “Yeerrrsss.”

“I should have guessed. I’ve brought you a bowl of soup. Eat it slowly with the bread. Wash it down with the tea. Why do you hide yourself?”

“I—I’m naked.”

“I know that. I removed your clothing and hung it to dry.” The man pointed above Modo’s head. Modo saw that
it was his own wet trousers that he’d mistaken for an eel. “I apologize for doing so without permission, but you would never warm properly in your wet clothes. Why do you hide your face?”

“I—I suffer from an ailment.”

“What kind?”

“A facial deformity.”

“I saw no such thing. You did suffer a blow to the head. Is it affecting you?”

“No.” Though now that he thought of it, his temples throbbed. “My deformity comes and goes. It’s like a rash.”

“Well, do not feel that you must hide your condition. That is the old way of thinking. You are among equals—there are no deformities here.” The man said this in such a matter-of-fact manner that Modo felt as though he’d been chastised. “I’ve brought some clothing that I hope will be suitable. It is not as stylish as your own garments, but we are not concerned about fashion. You should consume your food—it will bring you back to health.” He pointed a thick index finger at the bowl.

“Where am I?”

“The captain will inform you of any details you need to know.”

“When will I meet him?”

The man shrugged two lumpy shoulders. “When the captain decides.”

“May I ask your name?”

The man’s smile was friendly. “Anselm Cerdà,” he said, then backed out of the room and closed the door.

Modo pulled on gray trousers, a thick wool sweater, and
a seaman’s wool cap that covered his ears. He massaged his toes; they were gray and cold, but he could move them now. He put on the socks and thick-soled shoes the man had provided.

Modo tried to lift the bowl of soup, but his shaking hands spilled so much that he had to leave it on the dresser and lean over it. Then he couldn’t control the spoon. The few drops he got into his mouth were salty and heavenly. Finally, he lapped it up like a dog, which left some unfamiliar vegetables and a white fishy meat at the bottom. He scooped these out with trembling fingers. When he was done he felt a little more energetic. The tea was salty and sweet, with a faint orange flavor.

He lay down again. The ceiling light was bright and contained in a circular, glass-enclosed compartment. There was no flame, so it was neither gas nor oil. The whole room thrummed, and a sense of gentle vibration came from everything he touched.

It was a ship, of sorts, and if this wasn’t all a dream, it was a ship that could travel under the water. He’d read about attempts at underwater exploration, but those vessels had been tiny and powered by pedals. This was surely powered by steam. But if it was, how were they venting the coal smoke? He couldn’t imagine any other way to move such bulk through the depths of the ocean.

It was the kind of technology that Mr. Socrates had hoped they might find when he’d sent them on this assignment: a steamship that traveled underwater, ramming ships from below. Whoever had an army of these vessels would rule the seas.

Modo leapt from the cot and dug into his wet vest pocket. He pulled out the wallet—soaked, of course—containing the wireless telegraph. Surprisingly, the telegraph still looked usable, but he assumed the electric cell had been destroyed by seawater. He set the telegraph under the cot to dry.

Someone banged on the door. “Come out,” Cerdà commanded, “the captain wishes to meet you.”

“Yes! Yes, one moment.” Modo felt in his wet pants pocket and found the net mask. He squeezed out the seawater and pulled it over his face, then put the seaman’s cap back on.

His legs were wobbly and threatened to cramp up, but he forced himself to the door. He stepped into a narrow corridor lit by three more of the mysterious round lights. Cerdà looked down at him. “You cover your face.”

“I must,” Modo said. “I’m ashamed of my rash.”

Cerdà nodded and led Modo down the corridor. The walls were gray metal, with railings every few feet; the floor was hardwood that shone in the light. Bolts protruded from the wood, providing traction. They passed several more cabins and came to a winding iron staircase that took them into a large, darkened oval chamber. Modo limped, and occasionally a sharp pain shot up his legs, making him grit his teeth.

It was twelve steps to the bottom. He’d also counted each of his steps from the cabin so he could guess the length of the ship, presuming his room had been near one end. Now he tried to figure out what this room was—the only light in the chamber was entering through a cluster of glass
portholes. He squinted, had the impression that there were levers and perhaps a wheel to one side. Then he saw what was on the other side of the glass: fish!

He shuffled as quickly as his body would let him across the room to look out. Gray fish with bulbous eyes goggled back at him as if they were just as surprised to see him. How deep in the ocean could the ship be?

“It is a marvelous sight,” a woman said.

Modo spun around to see that he had walked right past two women standing in the shadows. I let my surprise overcome my training, he thought. How stupid! Tharpa had drilled into him that he should always take full stock of any room he entered.

He was taking stock of the first woman now. Tall, dressed in black, with a red sash across her waist, a small cutlass in her belt. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin ivory. “Yes, it is quite the sight,” Modo agreed. She glared at him, her gaze not wavering. She was at least thirty years old, but the bags under her eyes made her seem older.

Beside her was a young woman in a long skirt who wore her dark hair pulled back in large barrettes. She seemed angry too. Her familiar features were vaguely Oriental. Then it came to him—the photograph! The woman standing before him was the French spy, Colette Brunet!

T
he five-and-a-half-hour journey to Iceland seemed a lifetime to Octavia. When she wasn’t staring out the porthole, she paced the deck, but they didn’t see another ship until they were at Reykjavik’s port. She stared at the capital of Iceland, no bigger than an English town, the tallest building being a church on a hill. The houses were small and brightly colored. She surveyed the port for a steamship, but there were only sailing ships with great masts. It was as though she’d gone back in time.

Once the
Hugo
had been tugged into the harbor and secured to a wharf, she ran down the gangway. She stopped a fisherman carrying barrels from his ship. “Where’s the port authority? I must know now!” He shrugged and shook his head, and muttered something in Icelandic. Ah, he didn’t speak English. And she didn’t know a single Icelandic word,
so she shrieked across the dock: “Please, please, someone tell me: where is the port authority?” A skinny man in a thick gray sweater pointed toward the town and said, “Red house. Over there.”

Octavia dashed past him, avoiding fishermen unloading their stock, and burst into the red two-story house without knocking. A huge man with tiny glasses sat behind a desk, wearing a dark blue sweater. He looked up and said something in Icelandic.

“Do you speak English?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good!” She told her story quickly, finishing with the coordinates of Modo’s location.

The man shook his head. “I am sorry. You won’t find anyone willing to rescue your husband,” he said. “We call that area Nifleheim’s circle. No Icelandic vessel has ventured there in over a year.”

“Don’t you have military ships? Or a steamer?”

He shook his head. “We cannot go there.”

“I’ll find someone else, then. There must be at least one brave fisherman in this godforsaken place!”

She stormed onto the street without bothering to close the door. She still had fifteen hundred dollars, so she went to a post office and sent Mr. Socrates a telegram, then marched down to the docks and ran from ship to ship, begging fishermen to take her to Modo. The few who did speak English just shook their heads sadly or shrugged. Within the hour the sun began to set, and by a little after four that afternoon, the long Icelandic night had begun.

Octavia slumped to her haunches at the end of a dock, knowing in her heart that no one would be willing to venture out into the treacherous night and that Modo would soon freeze to death, if he hadn’t already. She began to sob.

M
odo gawked at Colette Brunet, his mind racing. What was she doing here? She was a French agent. Was this a French submarine ship? The young woman stared boldly back at him. He hadn’t expected her to be so tall; she was at least as tall as Octavia.

The older woman rested her hand on the hilt of her cutlass. If she drew her weapon, Modo’s best course would be to run, but where?

“I am Captain Delfina Monturiol,” the woman said with a slight, unfamiliar accent. “What is your name?”

“Robert Warkin. I’m a photographer.”

“Well, Mr. Warkin, you damaged my ship!”

He was momentarily dumbfounded. “Oh, the entrance hatch? I apologize. I—I was desperate and freezing to death.”

“With a good deal of trouble, we were able to repair the latch.” Her hand remained poised on the cutlass. “I assume
you were a passenger of the
Hugo
. Your vessel was trespassing.”

“Trespassing? But these are international waters. We struck something and I was thrown from the vessel.”

“What struck you was the spear of Icaria,” she said. “If that ship had lurked any longer in my waters, it would be at the bottom of the sea right now.”

“Yes,” Colette said in perfect English, “our dear captain does not hesitate to kill.” Modo glanced at the French spy, puzzled by her tone, and by the fact that she spoke with no discernible accent.

Captain Monturiol let out a sigh. “I am sorry, I should have introduced you. This is Colette Brunet, and she is, in her usual dramatic way, telling the truth. I take the defense of my country very seriously.”

“Your country?” Modo asked. “Are you from Iceland?”

“No. Not every country exists above the land. The world will know that this area is to be avoided. My homeland of Icaria shall be defended at any cost.”

“The seamen on my ship were harmless,” Colette snapped.

“They were soldiers, Miss Brunet. As I have explained before, we watched you for days and saw through your countrymen’s disguises. Then we struck as we would at any invader.” She turned to Modo. “As for this
Hugo
, it was not a military vessel, so we cut her free. Her men will now tell others not to trespass here.”

“That’s why you rammed her?”

“Yes, but we did not penetrate her hull below the waterline. It was only a warning.”

For an instant Modo thought of Octavia. Had they made it to port? He couldn’t bear to think of her going down with the ship.

At one end of the chamber, a light flickered on. Cerdà stood at a desk, filling out a chart, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Next to the desk, the wheel of the ship was lashed in place.

Modo gestured around him. “I’ve never seen such a vessel. What is it?”

“It’s a submarine ship,” the captain said matter-of-factly. “Welcome to the
Ictíneo
. You were not invited, but please consider yourself our guest anyway.”

“By guest she means prisoner,” Colette added.

“Prisoner?”

“I do tire of your sharp tongue, Miss Brunet,” said the captain. “My apologies, Mr. Warkin. I am afraid in her short time here she has grown impatient. Should she offend you at some time during your visit, I apologize in advance on her behalf. The French are not good at apologizing.”