This Broken Wondrous World

by Jon Skovron

  Then suddenly his face broke out into a genuine smile.

  “At last. Land ho.”

  I squinted into the hard sun and could just barely make out a dark mass in the distance. I turned and waved to La Perricholi, who stood on the bridge with the wheel held loosely in one hand. She looked over and I pointed to the spot. She grabbed a pair of binoculars and, after looking through them for a minute, nodded.

  “Guess you’re right,” I said.

  “Of course I am,” he said. “When Stephen and I made this voyage the first time, it was in far less comfort. A small sailboat we’d stolen from a coastal village in Ecuador. The trip took us over a week. We barely survived.”

  “Why did you risk your lives to free this guy?” I asked. “What’s in it for you?”

  He gave me another of those annoying smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Because there’s like a huge trap waiting for us or something?”

  “Nothing so banal. We are not enemies, Boy. We’re practically kinsmen. Certainly far more connected than that pathetic human descendant of Victor Frankenstein you cling to. When will you grasp that?”

  “Maybe after I forget how you nearly killed me and my friends on the Plaza de Armas.”

  “That was Stephen. I don’t agree with his methods. But ultimately he and I want the same thing.”

  “What is that?”

  He continued to stare out at the island off in the distance for a moment. I thought he was going to ignore me like he’d done before. But then he said, “When Jackie—Stephen and Claire’s mother—killed our father, I went a little mad.”

  “I noticed.”

  He turned to me and his face was utterly serious. Maybe even sad. “I blamed Jackie for our father’s death. Our poor, sweet, simple, human father was helpless against her rage. I decided that all the Hydes were a curse on the family. One that I intended to cure us of. But I never stopped to ask myself why Jackie was angry enough to kill the father of her children.”

  He turned back to look at the horizon and was silent for a while. I decided the best thing to do was wait and not say anything.

  “Now I see it from her perspective,” he said, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him over the wind. “After a lifetime of subjugation and repression, her actions were almost . . . inevitable. Like a gun fired decades before finally reaching its target.” He turned back to me. “They’re dead, you know. Jackie and my mother, Harriet. Suicide. In hospital. They could always get out of the straitjacket, of course. The humans only ever saw Jackie so it was fit to her size. She was tall, like Claire. And much thicker. But my mother was a tiny little thing. Smaller than Sophie, even. One night, she forced herself into shape, slipped out of the jacket, and hung herself with it.” He was silent for a moment. “Just like her father. Finally found the strength to take the Hyde down with her.”

  “I’m . . . sorry.”

  Robert sneered. “She was a fool. We cannot fight the Hyde within us. We must embrace it. That is what my suffering has taught me. They died for nothing.”

  “Do Claire and Sophie know? About their mothers?”

  “No,” he said. “Will you tell them?”

  “Of course. I have to.”

  “But when? Right now, as you march headlong into unknown, potential danger lurking around every bend? Think they’ll be able to keep their heads in the game?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that. And he knew it.

  “I guess,” he said, “that for now it will have to be our little secret.”

  “God, you’re such a douche.” I stood up and started walking back to the bridge. I didn’t care anymore if he tried to jump ship. I needed to get away from him before I threw him overboard myself.

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he called after me. “You know, douches are tools for cleansing. So is it really an insult?”

  I FOUND CLAIRE on the back deck, sparring with Mozart. She’d really gotten into the whole fight-training thing. And as I watched her, I realized just how much better she’d gotten in the four or five days she’d been working on it. She wore a black tank top with thin straps, and the lean muscles in her tanned back and shoulders clenched with each punch she threw. She was dripping with sweat and her silky black hair clumped together into little points at the back of her neck.

  It’s amazing how you can be with someone for a while, and it’s nice and comfortable. Then all of a sudden, because of some new context or location, you see them with fresh eyes and it hits you all over again how much you love them. How much you feel like you need them. There’s an actual feeling of yearning, like you’re missing a part of yourself that has been somehow cut off from you. Sometimes it feels like you can never truly bridge that space between. But you have to try.

  “Hey, sorry to interrupt,” I said.

  They stopped, both panting as they looked at me.

  “Mozart, can you give us a minute alone?”

  He looked at me for a moment, his gray eyes speculative. Then he nodded. “Sure, kid. Looks like it’s my turn to keep Robert company.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Claire eyed me warily as she mopped her face and neck with a towel.

  “What?” she said.

  “Robert just told me something. Maybe he’s lying. He said it was true, though, and I have a feeling it is.”

  “What is it?”

  “He told me not to tell you. He said you couldn’t handle it right now. But I . . . I don’t feel like I can keep something like this from you. Not even for a little while.”

  “Christ, just tell me already.”

  I took the towel from her and laid it on the railing. Then I took her hand in mine.

  “He said your mothers are dead. Harriet killed herself and your mom. I’m so sorry.”

  She looked into my eyes. The muscle in her jaw twitched. She was silent for a long time.

  “Poor Mum . . .” she said in a breaking voice.

  Then she wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my shoulder. I could feel her shaking and my shirt getting wet as I held her. We stood like that for a few moments. When she stepped back, her eyes were red and wet with tears. She took a deep breath and wiped her face with the towel again.

  “Thank you,” she said hoarsely.

  “For what?”

  “For not buying into Robert’s bollocks. For trusting that I was strong enough to handle it.”

  “Of course you’re strong enough. You’re probably the toughest person I know.”

  She smiled wanly. “As tough as La Perricholi?”

  “Wait, are you getting jealous?”

  “She’s pretty amazing.”

  “You,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders and looking deep into her brown eyes, “are still my favorite badass.”

  “Even though I’ve never used a dead man’s giant magical hat as a raft?”

  “Screw that,” I said. “You would have lassoed some sharks and just ridden them home. Much faster.”

  A FEW HOURS later, I stood on the front deck again, this time with Claire, Mozart, and Robert. Noble’s Isle was close enough that we could make out details. A long, white beach stretched across, empty except for a single wooden dock bleached by the sun. Past the beach was a dense line of palm trees and underbrush. Far off in the distance, on a plateau of what looked like volcanic rock, was a large beige building. It looked worn, almost crumbling in places, and most of the windows were broken or just empty. With its large balconies and sweeping archways, it looked like an abandoned drug cartel hideout.

  “The house of Dr. Moreau,” said Robert, pointing to the building.

  “Subtle,” said Mozart.

  As we drew nearer, I heard little splashes of water alongside the boat. I leaned over the railing and saw a figure zip past under the surface.

>   “Was that . . . a mermaid?” I asked. “A real, saltwater mermaid?”

  Robert laughed. “I’m afraid not. Moreau has a rather esoteric sense of humor. What you see are not humans with fish tails, but his own creation, monkeys with fish tails.”

  “Why would he make monkeys with fish tails?” I asked.

  “I believe it is a reference to a hoax perpetrated by P. T. Barnum, who claimed to have found proof of real mermaids. Thousands of people paid to see it. He even had newspapers fooled. In the end, the ‘proof’ turned out to be manufactured by a skilled taxidermist, who simply stitched the top half of a monkey to the bottom half of a large fish.”

  “And re-creating a living version of that was Moreau’s idea of a good joke?” I asked.

  “As far as I can tell,” said Robert. “I’ve never heard him laugh, so it’s hard to say for certain.”

  13

  On Noble’s Isle

  IT WAS LATE afternoon when we finally reached Noble’s Isle. I half expected to see a bunch of pig people charge out of the brush the moment we docked, but the beach remained empty. In fact, I couldn’t see a single living thing. No little critters or birds. Even the monkey-fish were gone now. The entire place seemed deserted, except for the distant house of Dr. Moreau, which loomed against the red horizon of the setting sun.

  Claire kept watch over Robert while Mozart and I tied up the boat. As I wrapped the line around the cleat, I noticed Robert saying something quietly to Claire, his mouth twisted into a smirk. She turned to him, her face expressionless. Then she calmly punched him in the face.

  “Everything all right over there?” called Mozart.

  “Sure, why?” Claire dragged Robert back to his feet. His eyes looked a little glazed and there was a trickle of blood in the corner of his mouth. “Just having a friendly chat with my half brother.”

  “Don’t beat him up too bad,” said Mozart. “We might need him as a bargaining chip.”

  “A little blood is good, though.” La Perricholi emerged from the cabin holding an old, long-barrel Colt revolver. The metal was engraved with intricate patterns and it had a pearl handle. “Blood shows we mean business.”

  “I thought you were into hand-to-hand combat and stuff like that,” I said. “Not guns.”

  “I am into whatever is necessary to get the job done.” She hiked up her skirt and slid the Colt into a holster strapped to her thigh.

  “I doubt Maria approves,” said Mozart.

  “It is not her place to approve or disapprove. I am La Perricholi now, not her. And I am not the first to use this weapon.”

  “I’d prefer if you only use it when absolutely necessary,” said Mozart. “I don’t like guns.”

  La Perricholi shrugged. “I will try to use discretion, old wolf. For the sake of your delicate conscience.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly.

  Claire brought Robert over to the rail and handed him down to me.

  The island was so empty and quiet. No birdsong or insect noises. The only sound was the wind whistling through the palm trees and our footsteps as we walked slowly down the wooden dock to the beach.

  When we hit the tree line, Mozart turned to Robert. “Is there a path of some kind?”

  Robert was already panting, his face flushed from walking. He shook his head.

  “We go through the rough, then,” said Mozart.

  “Wait,” said La Perricholi. There was the sound of hissing metal as she drew a machete from her backpack. “I’ll go first.”

  “Blimey, but you’re armed to the teeth,” said Claire, sounding a bit awed.

  “Prepared,” said La Perricholi. Then she began to hack through the brush as she led us into the darkening jungle.

  I ENDED UP carrying Robert. He lasted about thirty minutes on the rough path La Perricholi cut for us. It was really dark by then, with only a faint bit of moonlight leaking through the trees. I heard him hit the dirt more than I saw him.

  Mozart’s gray wolf eyes glinted as he turned to me.

  “Sorry,” was all he said.

  I sighed and tossed Robert over one shoulder like a sack. He wasn’t that heavy, but he was completely drenched in sweat, and smelled like BO and old cheese. We did move a lot faster after that, though.

  As we continued on through the dense jungle, I started to notice sounds around us: a rustling in the trees, a quiet chittering, a flap of wings. The beach may have been empty, but clearly this jungle wasn’t. Gradually, the sounds got louder, more confident. Now and then, a set of eyes would glisten in the dark for a moment, then disappear.

  “I’m getting weird scents,” said Mozart. “These aren’t normal animals, are they?”

  “There are no normal animals on Noble’s Isle,” Robert grunted from my shoulder.

  Whatever they were, they kept their distance and for the most part stayed out of sight as we continued through the dense growth.

  “Does that tree have spots?” asked Claire, pointing at a tall, thin pole off to one side.

  “It’s not a tree,” said La Perricholi, and pointed up. At the top of the pole, a head that looked sort of like a giraffe’s, but not, gazed down at us. I couldn’t make out any body or legs in the darkness and it didn’t move, except to swivel its head as it tracked our progress past it.

  We cleared the jungle about an hour later and arrived at the base of a steep plateau made from black volcanic rock that rose fifty feet before it leveled off. On top of the plateau sat Moreau’s house, dark except for a single harsh white light that shone from somewhere out of view.

  “No steps,” said Mozart. “I guess we climb.”

  I put Robert down and worked the cramp that had been slowly building in my arm. “For someone who supposedly wants to meet us, he sure isn’t making it easy.”

  “Moreau probably hasn’t realized this isn’t easy,” said Robert.

  “I’m curious to know how a man over a hundred years old gets up and down this thing,” said Mozart. “Or maybe he never leaves?”

  Robert didn’t reply.

  After a few minutes’ rest, I picked Robert up and slung him across my back in a fireman’s carry so that I could use both hands.

  “Don’t wiggle around too much,” I told him.

  “Don’t worry,” he said.

  Then we started to climb. Now that we were out of the jungle, the moonlight brightened things up a little. But even so, I had to more or less feel my way up. There were plenty of handholds, but the rock was rough and the edges were sharp. By the time we reached the top, my hands were covered in scrapes and my jeans were torn at the knees. I put Robert down and looked around while I caught my breath.

  The bright light I’d seen earlier spilled from the open front doorway to Moreau’s house. After the climb in near darkness, it was almost blinding. A sheet of flat volcanic rock stretched in front of the house, broken up by clusters of cactus and low spiny shrubs with little white flowers. Faintly, I could hear the hiss and crackle of an old record playing classical music coming from inside.

  “Well, there’s no point waiting out here,” said Mozart once we’d all reached the top. “Let’s go see what this is about.”

  I leaned over to pick up Robert but he shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I can manage the rest of the way.” He climbed slowly to his feet.

  “Why don’t you lead, then,” said La Perricholi.

  “Still so suspicious, I see.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourselves.” Then he marched purposefully across the rocky yard and into the house.

  The inside was lit up with halogen lamps. The stark white was a weird contrast to the antique furniture scattered around the room. Lots of old mahogany, richly embroidered fabrics, thick plush rugs, and stuffed leather chairs. It was the sort of old English style I’d seen in Kemp’s apartment, except Kemp kept his in perfect condition. Here everythin
g was chipped or torn or stained. A chair leg had been snapped off and rejoined with thick nails and strips of tough leather hide. A glass table in the center had a long hairline crack in it. A massive rip in the center of the leather couch had been stitched back together with some kind of coarse, uneven twine. An old windup record player spun in the corner. The original handle had broken off at some point and appeared to have been replaced with a long, bleached-white bone of some kind.

  “Place is a bit of a dump,” said Claire critically.

  “Moreau has more important things to worry about than interior design,” said Robert in a weirdly protective tone.

  There was an open doorway at the far end of the room. As we stood looking around at the oddly patched-together furniture, a creature appeared in the doorway. It looked kind of like a hairless lemur, with wide, round eyes and short pointy ears. But it was bigger than a lemur, about the size of a small child. It stood upright and appeared to be wearing a handmade black suit and red bow tie.

  “Oh!” It cocked its head to one side and stared at us. “Yes!” Its voice was high pitched, and each sound was carefully enunciated, like it took a lot of effort. “Wait.” Then it scampered off.

  We all looked at each other, except Robert, who had his smug grin back.

  “What . . . was that?” asked Claire.

  “The butler?” I suggested.

  Then the lemur thing scampered back in and beckoned to us. “Come! Follow!”

  “I don’t like this at all, old wolf,” said La Perricholi.

  “You got a better plan?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then I guess we follow him.”

  The lemur creature led us through a series of rooms. They were all unlit, but from what I could tell, they had more of the broken antique furniture we’d seen in other rooms.

  “Watch step!” said the lemur as it continued on to the next dark room.