The Dark Deeps

by Arthur Slade

  He did so as Octavia took two steps from the cot to get dressed behind the hanging sheet. Modo hid under his own blanket to change his features. He was still sleepy and had to struggle to remember the right face.

  “I wish you would tell me what you’re doing,” Octavia said.

  She was already dressed! “Just the usual ritual,” he said between clenched teeth. When he was done, he wiped his forehead, and lowered the blanket.

  She smiled. “Well, whatever you did worked. You look very dashing.”

  Cheeks burning, Modo changed behind the hanging sheet and led the way out, carrying the photographic equipment.

  It was after nine and the sun was only beginning to rise over a rather unremarkable, gray stretch of ocean, nothing but rolling waves in the distance. The captain and three of his men were standing near the mainmast. “Not sure why you wanted to see this amazing ‘vista,’ ” Goss said, “but here it is.”

  “Are you certain they’re the correct coordinates?” Octavia asked.

  Goss furrowed his brow. “Of course!” He pointed north. “That way is Iceland. I know the sea like the back of my hand. Remind me what you want to do here?”

  “It’s all about the light,” Modo said, unfolding the wooden legs of his tripod. Octavia held out a light meter. “This latitude and longitude and the refraction from the curvature of the earth create perfect light.” Modo was pleased with his use of baffling jargon.

  “Perfect light for what?”

  “For portraits, Captain Goss. Portraits! Your crew would make good subjects for our study.”

  “A photograph? Of those dogs?” Goss’s eyes lit up momentarily, and Modo seized on what he saw was the captain’s vanity.

  “Not them so much, sir, as you. They will be good background material. You should be front and center.”

  “Your face is very Roman and powerful, Captain,” Octavia added. “Such cheekbones and a strong jaw.” She turned to Modo. “He’s truly perfect, my husband.”

  Goss blushed slightly. Modo raised an eyebrow at this.

  “Are you dressed appropriately? Your image will be recorded forever, you know,” Modo said.

  Goss patted at his hair. “Give me a moment. I forgot my sash. Should I wear a saber?”

  “Do you even have to ask, Captain?” Octavia said. “Of course you should! We need to capture the drama of your occupation.”

  Once the captain had scurried off, Modo and Octavia went to the rail of the Hugo and looked out over the water.

  “Well,” she said, “we’re here. Now what?”

  One of the men sneezed. It seemed rather close, but when Modo turned, the nearest sailor was several yards away.

  “Frankly, Octavia,” Modo said, “my guess is we’re just supposed to get the lay of the land, so to speak. I think it’s a long shot if Mr. Socrates believes some fish will just suddenly rise out of the ocean to greet us. The grand poisson could be anywhere. We’ll take a few photographs of the area. Perhaps Mr. Socrates will have some use for them.”

  The Hugo lurched to one side and Modo grabbed the rail. Octavia latched on to the same spot and their hands touched. “What was that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The first mate shouted, “We’ve lost our anchor, sir!”

  Captain Goss burst out of his cabin and marched down the stairs, holding his belt, a scabbard clicking against his heel.

  “Lost our anchor? But that’s impossible.”

  “The chain has been cut, sir.”

  “Cut? By what?” He turned to the nearest deckhand. “Tell the engineer to put on steam! Move, you lackey!”

  Modo was about to shout out that they’d paid to come here, they needed to stay, when the ship was hit on the port side so hard that it tilted toward starboard. The railing Modo was holding, worn by time and rusted by salt, broke, and he slipped over the edge.

  Octavia grabbed his shoulder and he whipped out his arm just in time to catch hold of a piece of the broken railing, leaving him hanging in midair. He pawed the rusted side of the ship until Octavia was able to grab his free hand. Something splashed into the water below.

  “Don’t let go, Modo!” she cried as the last bit of railing creaked under the strain of his weight. It wouldn’t hold long; both of them would fall. Where were those bloody seamen? Couldn’t they see their passengers’ predicament?

  Modo looked into Octavia’s eyes and saw her determination—she wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t have her fall into the water too.

  He pictured his wrist expanding, growing larger, and a moment later it began to do so.

  “What are you doing?” Octavia screamed as she lost her grip on him.

  He tried to find some final, memorable words to leave her with, but all that came out of his mouth was “Uhh-ooh!” as he fell into the Atlantic.

  11

  The Cold Truth

  Octavia watched Modo fall and disappear into the waves. She nearly tumbled after him; only by gripping the remains of the railing and pushing back did she manage to stay on the Hugo. She leaned over the edge as far as she dared, watching for him.

  She began counting silently. Come on, where are you? Not until she hit twenty did Modo’s head bob up a hundred yards away. He flailed his arms. What to do? She glanced around, grabbed a nearby wooden barrel, and hefted it over the side, shouting, “Modo, hold on to this!” But he wasn’t even looking in her direction.

  “Ah, good lord!” Captain Goss rushed to her side. He was sweating, his scabbard bouncing off his heels. “That’s bad luck!”

  “Bad luck!” she cried out. “Your ship is a wreck!”

  “Don’t blame the Hugo. We’ve been attacked! All because you and your husband wanted to come here.” He waved at Modo and howled, “Keep moving or you’ll freeze. We’ll send help.”

  “Kick, Modo!” Octavia yelled. “Keep kicking! We’ll be right there.”

  “Madame,” Goss said, his voice surprisingly soft, “Madame, the cold truth is he’s beyond our help now.”

  “No!” She grabbed his arm. “Turn this ship around. We can pick him up.”

  “Mrs. Warkin, calm down,” he said, pulling her hand off his person.

  At first she didn’t even know whom he was addressing, having forgotten her married name. She clenched her fists. “I won’t calm down.”

  “You must understand, our anchor has been cut, so we can’t stop properly. Our ship has been rammed—the hull is punctured. We have little time before the chambers fill to a dangerous level—we must immediately get to port. A rescue attempt would use up time we don’t have.”

  “If you won’t go, I will! Lower a rowboat. Now! I insist!”

  “Madame, that would be a death sentence. I can’t allow it. Our only hope is to travel with all speed toward Iceland. Perhaps we’ll encounter another vessel on the way. If not, we can alert the Icelandic authorities and give them the coordinates. They can conduct a more systematic search.”

  It was all Octavia could do to stop herself from diving in after Modo. He was out there, alone. He wasn’t even visible anymore. Her eyes blurred with tears.

  “Madame, Madame, please don’t weep,” the captain said soothingly.

  Octavia couldn’t hold back a sob. Modo!

  “There, there. Moments ago I ordered the engineer to go full speed. We have good winds, too. We’re about sixty leagues from Iceland. Rescuers could be back by this evening.”

  Octavia sighed and wiped her eyes. She had been taught to cry at will if the situation demanded it. But these were real tears. Tears wouldn’t accomplish anything, though. “It is all we can do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Warkin. I’m sorry. It was wise of you to throw that barrel to him. Let’s hope your husband is floating on it right now. If he can keep most of his body out of the water, he’ll last much longer. He looked like a fit man. He’ll have a better chance than most of surviving.” The captain paused. “Is there anything else you need? I could have one of my men bring you tea.”
>
  “Tea? No. I’m fine.”

  “Then please excuse me. I must look after my ship. I would suggest returning to your cabin. It would do no good for you to catch a chill.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” She looked toward the ocean one more time. There was no sign of Modo. It was as if nothing had happened at all. She sent her warmest thoughts, her brightest wishes out over the water. Be strong, Modo. We’ll do everything to rescue you.

  Then she remembered the wireless telegraph Mr. Socrates had given them. She might be able to send a message to him—maybe he could alert the Icelandic authorities immediately. She ran back to their cabin, searching madly through their luggage and drawers, but she was unable to find the device. It would be in Modo’s pocket. She collapsed on the cot and pounded her fists into her pillow until feathers flew everywhere.

  12

  When Hands Become Claws

  On his way down Modo had the presence of mind to take a deep breath. He hit the water with a huge splash and plummeted like a cannonball deeper and deeper into the shocking cold, then kicked and kicked his way upward. When he finally broke the surface, he sucked in a breath, then treaded water. His eyes stung from the salt water. He blinked until his vision cleared. Then, as he was lifted by a cresting wave, he saw that the Hugo had already drifted hundreds of yards away. He could make out Octavia and the shorter figure of the captain beside her, both shouting and gesturing. Then Modo fell with the wave and it seemed forever before he rose high enough to spot the Hugo again. Octavia was so far away, he couldn’t imagine her being able to see him.

  Minutes later he could still hear shouting and the rumble of the engine, but could no longer see the ship. The next thing he saw was a funnel of smoke on the horizon.

  “Don’t leave me! Don’t!” he shrieked, swallowing a mouthful of seawater. He hacked for a minute, trying to keep his chin above the surface, until his throat was cleared. Then his world fell silent. Good lord, he was alone now. Even the smoke had vanished.

  Over his right shoulder there was a splash. Sharks? Would they go for his legs? Oh no! Oh no! He kicked hard and swam until his limbs ached and his lungs wheezed.

  Keep your thoughts clear! Tharpa had told him that a thousand times over the years. Modo paused to gather his wits. He treaded water in a circle, scanning every inch of its surface. No fins. Therefore, he deduced, it was unlikely there were any sharks. Octavia’s voice echoed in his head, “Look out, Scotland Yard.” Unbelievably, for an instant, he smiled.

  Suddenly he was aware of the drag of his clothing, so he struggled out of his jacket and kicked off his shoes. Think, Modo. What next? The ship wouldn’t come back, and in any case he would be very hard to spot.

  There would be no rescue, unless they were able to send another ship in the next hour, and then, by some miracle, the crew would have to pick him out in the vast rolling waves. Would it be soon enough? He was shivering so hard that his teeth clacked together. Just keep moving! Keep yourself warm. Since Modo’s last assignment, Tharpa had taught him how to swim properly at Forest Hill Baths. But the ocean was much colder than the plunge pools at the spa.

  He had read so many stories about men being stranded at sea, then captured by pirates. But pirates liked islands. Under Mrs. Finchley’s tutelage he had memorized the map of the world, and he knew there were no islands in the area. Ergo, no pirates.

  Maybe Mr. Socrates would save him! Yes! Yes! With a balloon! He’d float down out of the sky. With Tharpa. Who would lower a rope and lift him out of the water … . Madness! He shook his head to dispel the daydream. Stay calm, stay calm. Think! Think!

  It was after nine in the morning, which meant the sun was in the east. If he swam north he’d be heading in the direction of Iceland, but it was miles and miles from here, and no one could swim that far in this frigid November water.

  Unless I change my shape into that of a dolphin! More madness! He nearly slapped himself. He could think more clearly if it weren’t so cold! He didn’t understand why he hadn’t already frozen to death.

  Perhaps it is my odd ugly body! This thought made him chuckle. It might be that some quality of his adaptive transformation made his body less likely to freeze.

  He was growing colder and colder. His hands were as gnarled as claws; he couldn’t straighten them. Though he was exhausted, his features remained in the form of the Knight, as though the cold had frozen him that way. Wouldn’t that be something—to die with this face, forever handsome.

  He thought he heard another voice. Or was it the onset of real madness? In the next few minutes his legs cramped, each sharp pain the only feeling in his universe. At least that meant he was alive. Within a half hour his feet had arched and twisted into throbbing hooks. Even his toes were crossing, frozen in place. Each breath became harder.

  Say goodbye, Modo, he thought. Goodbye to Mr. Socrates, the enigma of a man who had rescued him from a traveling sideshow and raised him as a son. Well, not a son, but as close as one could be. Mr. Socrates, you struggled so hard to teach me, and I am failing you now, sir.

  Then Tharpa. Young sahib, he always called Modo. Young master. Had there ever been a man as strong, quick, and light on his feet as dear Tharpa?

  Mrs. Finchley. She had raised him like a mother. Just one more cookie! One more. He could see a cookie jar floating on a wave just out of reach. He splashed toward it, but the jar vanished.

  And Tavia, who had such perfect eyes. It was as though she were there. He wished he had remarked on her hair, told her that it looked fine that day, that she was dazzling.

  A hissing cut through the air, a fountain of water spouted some hundred feet away, and soon he felt himself lifted slowly from the water, higher, higher, as though to heaven.

  His knees cramped again and bent. There was something solid underneath him. A large, dark blue whale was surfacing. It took all his strength to cling to it. Another column of water shot skyward. His mind wandered to Jonah, then to Moby-Dick and Captain Ahab’s need for revenge.

  Finally he remembered: this was the metal-sparred whale Mr. Socrates had spoken of! From his prone position Modo couldn’t see much of it, just the many bumps along its back. Barnacles.

  His fingers were fused together by the freezing water. A cramp ran alongside his spine and he cried out in pain. The whale was like a block of dark blue ice that vibrated. A shiver? The swishing of its tail? He’d heard of shipwrecked men who’d swum to an island, only to discover when they lit a fire that the island was actually a whale that had been sleeping there for years. Could that be true?

  His eyes were half frozen shut; the glinting of the dull sun made him blink. Only one eye was working now. He blinked again. His vision cleared momentarily and he saw that they weren’t barnacles on the side of the whale after all, but glittering gold flecks across the dark blue skin.

  He touched one with numb fingers. A nut. It was a brass nut, fastening a steel plate.

  The sight shocked him, gave him a spurt of energy. He spotted a small rail a few feet in front of him; a rounded section protruded from the metal. He crawled to the rail and hung on. Then he saw the circular door at the top of the protrusion.

  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.

  13

  The True Meaning of Ictíneo

  When 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, h
is 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?”