by Arthur Slade
The hag moved a step closer. “He was abandoned near Notre Dame. We bought him from an orphanage.”
The gentleman nodded. He whistled and his carriage charged out of the fog, pulled by four huge horses. Three men, clean-cut and dressed in dark greatcoats, jumped to the ground. They marched over to the carriage and, at the gentleman’s command, pulled the caged monster-child from the gypsy carriage and transferred it to the other.
“Farewell,” the gentleman said as he mounted the steps. The child could be heard moaning and bumping up against the bars of his cage. There was the crack of a whip as the gentleman stepped inside and the elegant carriage lurched forward into the mist.
2
The Reflection
The boy was seated at a small wooden table. He wore black knee-length breeches, a white linen shirt, and a black cravat tied carefully around his neck, every inch a young gentleman. He stared at the blank parchment for a moment and then, using a chrome-plated cedar pencil, wrote his name with his left hand in large, careful letters: M o d o. Beside that, he wrote the date: October 12, 1864. He’d been taught how to write a year earlier, at the age of four.
No mirrors or reflective surfaces had been allowed in the room, nor in the rest of the house. The windows were boarded up and papered over, so what sunlight there was entered through a skylight cupola onto his parchment.
Below his name he began to draw how he imagined his own face to look. Occasionally he would hold the pencil up and examine a sliver of his reflection on the smooth side of the chrome. He could make out eyes and lips, but all his features were distorted. He couldn’t see his nose. When he rubbed the center of his face with his gnarled fingers he felt only a crooked protrusion of flesh. He kept drawing, adding a straight nose and perfectly formed ears. He chose eyes from one of his favorite illustrations of the Royals—the eyes of a prince. He’d memorized so many engravings from the books that he didn’t need to open one for reference. He added a top hat, for effect. All gentlemen wore a top hat.
Through the door was a larger room with Indian clubs and dumbbells hung on one wall, and rows of wooden swords and spears hung on the opposite wall. A practice dummy, made of straw-stuffed sacks, was strung up in the middle of the room. It never failed to give Modo a shiver, as it conjured the hanging he’d read about in a book. A small earth closet had been tucked into the furthest wall of the furthest room, complete with a metal washbasin.
He had spent the past four years inside the rooms of Ravenscroft. Mrs. Finchley had told him a story about how the house was named for the large number of ravens that perched on the roof and marched around the skylight. He had seen them when he climbed up the rope and pressed his face against the skylight to glimpse the tops of trees, his only view of the outside world. Alas, he hadn’t been able to see his reflection.
The click of a distant lock made Modo prick up his ears. Someone was entering the house. He slowed the rate of his breathing, the way he’d been taught, so that his pulse wouldn’t interfere with his hearing. A knife clattered in the kitchen, a drawer closed, and he heard a great sigh. It was Mrs. Finchley, who was no doubt feeling sad again. Modo wondered what he could do to make her happy. Perform a dance? Draw another picture?
Maybe she needed to play a game. He considered climbing up into the space above the door and clinging there to surprise her, but the last time he’d done it, she’d shrieked and roundly scolded him, so he let the thought pass. A plate rattled on a countertop. She would be bringing him food. He licked his lips.
Modo heard another lock click. The door to the gym room squeaked open and closed, then locked a moment later. His back was to her, but he heard each step, could picture where she was. When she turned the corner into his room, he said, “Mrs. Finchley, is that bread and honey for me?”
She let out a tiny huff of surprise. “You are a clever one, aren’t you? But not clever enough to know that you shouldn’t draw with your left hand.”
“Why?”
“Because most people are right-handed and you don’t want to stand out. Only the devil draws with his left hand.”
Modo shivered and switched hands; he was equally adept with his right. He continued shading the cheeks on the prince’s face. “Is this what I look like, Mrs. Finchley?” He tried to keep his voice from cracking, but failed.
She placed a plate with a piece of bread, slathered with butter and honey, in front of him. “Don’t concern yourself with your appearance, Modo. You’re a beautiful child in your own way.” He gazed up into her green eyes. She was gaunt and softly wrinkled. He wanted to leap up and hug her, but she had narrowed her eyes as though she had seen something disturbing.
“Why do you cringe when you look at my face?” he asked.
“Sometimes you are too observant for your own good, Modo. You remind me of my Daniel, that’s all.”
Modo knew her son had been killed by a runaway carriage many years before. “Was he beautiful too?”
“Yes, very. But please, let’s not speak of him.” She looked sad again and he searched for some way to soothe her.
“I nodded off reading and fell into a story.”
“You really are a wonder, Modo. Reading at such a young age.”
“Yes, well, it was that book you brought from—from outside—the book with the baby princess. You see, she had lost her gravity, so she floats.”
“I thought you might enjoy that story. One can read only so many books about generals and military tactics.”
“Oh, yes! I did enjoy it. The nurse has to hold on to her tight so she doesn’t drift away. And she only laughs and never cries. In my dream I floated too, and the princess was there. But not her aunt, the witch. She wasn’t in my dream and you were the nurse.”
“You have a marvelous imagination, Modo.”
“Have you ever been a nurse?” he asked.
Mrs. Finchley shook her head. “No, but I once played a nurse onstage at the Theatre Royal.”
“Really? Tell me more! Please!”
“That was long ago and those years are gone. I’m only a governess now.”
“Oh.” Modo sucked in his bottom lip for a moment, then quietly said, “Are you my mother?”
“No. I’ve told you many times already. I’m only here to care for you and to teach you. I don’t know who your mother was.”
“I see.” He paused. “Wot’s me teacher got for me today?”
Mrs. Finchley laughed. “That’s a good cockney accent. You only began studying that last week.”
“Will we be dressing up today? I have a new character to try.”
“It’s Sunday. You know that, Modo. On Sunday you learn history. But eat first, child.” Modo took two quick bites before she whispered, “Eat like a gentleman.”
He ate eagerly but more slowly, at the end licking his thick lips for the last few crumbs and bits of honey. She wiped his face with a napkin. He clasped her arm firmly. “You’re still sad.” She nodded and he squeezed more tightly. “I don’t want you to feel that way.”
Modo looked deeply into her eyes and grimaced. He felt the familiar sensation of his face shifting. As far back as he could remember, he had always been able to do this. He’d seen the locket she carried containing a miniature portrait of her son. He pictured Daniel’s face.
She gasped and tried to pull her arm away, but Modo was strong for his age. His eyes grew smaller and his features compressed as though they were made of clay. His lips thinned.
“Daniel,” she whimpered, “No! No!” Tears ran down her face. With a jerk she broke Modo’s grip and turned away to wipe her eyes. “No! Don’t do that. Not for me.”
“I only want you to be happy.”
“No. It’s not right. Don’t.”
“But it”—he stood a bit straighter—“it’s just the way I am. You don’t like it?”
“Please don’t change for me. It isn’t necessary.”
She closed her eyes and allowed herself a few last sobs, then composed herself while Modo let his fa
ce slip back to its usual from. He blinked away tears.
“Don’t cry, Modo. Your eyes will be red like mine,” she said. “I’m a soft, silly woman.” She cupped his face and patted his shoulder, inadvertently touching his hump. “You’re a sweet, beautiful boy.”
Her words made him glow. He had, of course, felt his face enough that he was aware of the large protruding mole tucked next to his nose, and that above his right eye he had a spongy bump. Mrs. Finchley had gently called them beauty marks. But she never explained his hump in such terms. If he turned his head he could see the edges of it.
Mrs. Finchley stood and straightened her apron. “Come now, let us work on Latin history. Today, we shall read about Caesar Augustus.”
“I love Suetonius,” Modo exclaimed, following her to the bookshelves where she took down a worn copy of De Vita Caesarum.
Modo felt other eyes watching him, heard a soft noise. He spun around and gave a start at the sight of Tharpa, his combat instructor, standing in the doorway, his eyes dark and intense. Tharpa was holding a burgundy carpetbag. Since he rarely spoke, all Modo really knew of him was that he was from India. How had he unlocked the doors and crept across the hardwood floors without so much as a creak? Tharpa was a panther.
Modo tugged on Mrs. Finchley’s elbow, and she turned and shuddered a little when she saw Tharpa. “You’re not scheduled to train him today,” she said. Modo gave Tharpa a little wave.
Tharpa’s reply was to step aside as his master strode through the door, dressed in a fine suit. His cravat matched his white hair. His green eyes peered intensely out of his angular, pale face.
“Mr. Socrates!” Mrs. Finchley said. “Had I known you were coming I certainly would have prepared tea and biscuits.”
“No need. I came on a whim. How has our pupil been?”
“He still learns so effortlessly.”
Mr. Socrates crossed the room and looked down at Modo. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Modo. Are you obeying Mrs. Finchley in all matters?”
“Yes, Mr. Socrates.”
“I see you are reading Suetonius. Good. What is your opinion of Julius Caesar?”
“He—he was strong.”
“Yes. But what was his greatest strength?”
Modo scratched at his eyebrow. “Umm …”
“Don’t preface your thoughts with ‘umm.’ It’s boorish.”
“His greatest strength was that he was … he was …” Modo searched for a word that described Caesar. Brave? Intelligent? “He was very determined.”
“Determination will take you a long way. Good answer, Modo.” Mr. Socrates took the carpetbag from Tharpa, reached inside, and handed Modo a book. “I think you’re ready for this. It is Colonel Graham’s translation of On War, by Clausewitz. The prose is clunky but passable and—” He paused, picked up a book that was lying open on the side table. “The Light Princess. Mrs. Finchley, why is this book here? It wasn’t on my list.”
“Sir, it’s only to improve his imagination. His ability to think.”
Mr. Socrates’ eyes narrowed. “Ability to think? If he reads books for children he will remain a child.” He handed the book to her. “Have him read Shakespeare or Coleridge if you must encourage flights of fancy. I thought I’d been clear that any other books must first be vetted by me.”
“They will be, sir.”
Modo stared at his feet, ashamed that Mr. Socrates knew he had been enjoying a child’s book. Am I acting too much like a child? he wondered.
Mr. Socrates turned back to Modo. “Tharpa certainly praises your skill and strength. He claims you’re an apt pupil.”
Modo blushed.
“It has been four years since I rescued you. Four years that you have spent in these three rooms. You have been extremely diligent in your training and your studies. I’m pleased by your performance.” He put his hand on Modo’s shoulder. Is this what fathers do? Modo wondered. Mr. Socrates wasn’t his father, but he was the closest thing Modo had to one. Mr. Socrates lifted his hand and looked at it as though he had surprised himself with that gesture. “You are well worth the investment, Modo. Now, would you like to one day see the outside world?”
“Yes. Yes!” Modo exclaimed, beaming. Then, catching himself, he replied with some restraint, “I would enjoy that very much, sir.”
“Patience, Modo. That day will come soon enough. Today we have a different, more important lesson. But I must warn you, it will be a hard one.”
“I don’t understand,” Modo said.
“Well, Modo, in all this time you have not seen your own reflection, have you?”
Mrs. Finchley cleared her throat. “Mr. Socrates, I—”
“This is not an appropriate time to speak, Mrs. Finchley,” Mr. Socrates replied without allowing his eyes to stray from Modo’s face. “Before you meet the world, you must first know yourself. Do you understand?”
Modo looked from his teacher to his master and back again.
“Do you understand?”
Modo nodded, hesitantly.
With that, Mr. Socrates pulled a small hand mirror from his vest pocket. On the back of it was depicted a royal lion inlaid with gold. The glittering mirror hypnotized Modo. Mr. Socrates turned the mirror slowly toward Modo’s face.
Modo looked into the glass and saw, for the first time in his life, his own eyes blinking. One eye was larger than the other, protruding like an insect’s. His enormous teeth were crooked. Bright red hair grew in clumps on his head. He had imagined his face as everything from beautiful to scarred and ugly, but this was much worse than he’d dreamed; uglier than any illustration he had ever seen. Disbelief turned to horror, and Modo’s eyes grew wide and welled with tears. He looked up at Mrs. Finchley and whispered, “You told me I was beautiful.”
Collapsing on his knees, Modo slapped his hands over his eyes and wailed. He rolled into a weeping, moaning ball, his hump pressed against his shirt.
Mr. Socrates lowered the mirror. “I warned you that this would be a hard lesson. You are deformed. You are ugly. Remember this day, Modo. It’s the day you learned that you’ve been given an incredible gift. Your unsightly countenance may seem unbearable now, but because of it, the world will always underestimate you. Natural selection has endowed you with your second gift, your capacity to change your deformed features, an ability that other men can only dream of. It is a most wonderful and valuable asset. Together, we will develop it.”
Modo had stopped listening. The ghastly image of his face had been burned into his vision. He let out a sharp cry and beat at his head and his hump, as if to pound the abnormalities back into his flesh. He kicked so hard he propelled himself back into the wall, knocking plaster loose.
“Stop wailing!” Mr. Socrates commanded, and Modo tried to suppress his rasping. He calmed himself until he emitted only the occasional whimper, keeping his hands clamped over his face.
He looked up from the floor. Their eyes were on him. Mrs. Finchley had been crying. Tharpa was, as always, unreadable, but Mr. Socrates, surprisingly, looked a little sad. “I know you are only five, but you must learn to control yourself,” he whispered. “You must.” He reached into the carpetbag at his feet and pulled out a flesh-colored object. Modo squinted at it, making out holes for eyes and a mouth. “I ordered this especially for you all the way from Venice. It is a mask. They are made from papier-mâché, so they’re very light. You’ll hardly know you’re wearing it.” He set the mask on the floor beside Modo. It had a straight nose and perfectly formed lips. Modo whimpered again.
Mr. Socrates turned away, abruptly. “Do not comfort him, Mrs. Finchley. That is an order. He must learn to accept his appearance. Let us leave the boy now. We shall have tea. I’ve brought a sample from the Tea Derby, fresh from Foochow.” And with that he strode to the door, Tharpa and Mrs. Finchley at his heels. Mrs. Finchley glanced back, but Modo hid his face again.
Through his blubbering, he heard the door lock behind them. After several seconds he reached out and touched the mask
. It was cold and hard. He picked it up and explored the eyeholes, the two smaller holes for his nostrils. He pushed the mask onto his face, pressed his back against the wall, and wept.
3
Learning to Be Untouchable
Sweat dripped into Modo’s eyes as he climbed the rope to the skylight cupola. It was the twelfth time in the past hour that Tharpa had commanded him to “ascend with utmost speed.” Modo paused at the top, held on with one hand and with the other rubbed at his latest mask. With Mrs. Finchley’s help he’d constructed it from flour, water, paper pulp, and glue. He’d given it a devilish, grinning face.
He leapt to a nearby rope, swung to the opposite wall, and climbed down, headfirst. “You are strong for a child of nine years,” Tharpa said in his formal English. Modo grinned with pride. On the ground his bowlegs and awkward form were clumsy, but his large hands were made for climbing. He flipped over a sawhorse and landed on his feet. “Zounds!” he said.
Tharpa didn’t react, so Modo flipped again. “Zounds!”
“Yes, yes, impressive,” Tharpa said, but Modo couldn’t tell if his instructor was mocking him. After five years of his tutelage, the Indian remained completely unreadable.
Three days a week Tharpa would train Modo in what he called “the fighting arts.” The rest of the week was spent reading history, learning languages, and memorizing maps on which all the countries of the Empire were marked in red. As part of his schooling, Modo would dress up in costumes with Mrs. Finchley, perfecting accents and pretending to be other people. Her years as an actress made her a fine teacher. And Modo assumed he was a fine student, for she praised him regularly.
Modo could now effortlessly list the order of precedence, from Queen Victoria down to gentlemen allowed to bear arms, and who should be seated next to whom at a dinner party. Why Mrs. Finchley wanted him to know such trivial matters, he couldn’t imagine.
Once a week, Mr. Socrates would visit carrying a photograph or a portrait and he’d set it on an easel in front of Modo. “You must become this person,” he’d say, and Modo, with all the willpower and imagination he could muster, would visualize his body shifting and the structure of his face changing until, finally, painfully, his bones would actually move. More often than not, Modo failed to sustain the transformation, and moments later slipped back to his ugly self. But, once in a while, he would shift his shape so completely that his eyebrows, nose, and lips were similar to the person in the portrait, and he would manage to hold the look for as long as ten minutes.
