by Arthur Slade
On those rare days when Modo succeeded, Mr. Socrates would dole out a smattering of praise. Modo could feed on one passing “That was satisfactory” for a week, enthusiastically practicing at night in bed, shifting his face, his shape, hoping to receive another compliment when next they met.
At one session, feeling brave, Modo asked, “Why do I have this ability?”
“Chameleons modify their color according to their surroundings,” Mr. Socrates explained. “Hares change their brown summer coat to white for the winter. I’ve seen species of fish that glow to hypnotize their prey. It’s the perfect survival skill, Modo, to bewitch your enemies, to blend in with your friends. It’s an adaptive transformation. Mother Nature has given you this gift.”
Mr. Socrates kept calling it a gift, but Modo wasn’t so sure. He thought of the hours he’d spent changing his face and body, always reverting to his original form. Why couldn’t he be changed forever? Mother Nature had been cruel to him.
He understood that a son should learn from his father. He had been told about being abandoned as a baby, so he had no father, but still he yearned for his master’s attention. He wondered what Mr. Socrates did when he wasn’t at Ravenscroft. Sometimes months would pass without the usual weekly visit and he’d explain his absence with a lesson, such as, “I was visiting Afghanistan. Point it out on the map.”
He was away now, and had been for over a month, but Tharpa had arrived like clockwork.
“You do not need to wear your mask for me, Modo,” Tharpa said. “It is made for the outside world. You will not always be able to hide behind it when you fight.”
Modo undid the knots and removed the mask, setting it on a table. He felt naked. This was not a face for the world to see, Mr. Socrates had told him so. At the master’s insistence, Mrs. Finchley had long ago hung a mirror in the bedroom. Modo still had not grown used to his own reflection.
“Now, let us spar,” Tharpa directed and cracked his knuckles.
Modo raised his fists.
“Not boxing, nor savate.” Tharpa reached for two long bamboo swords. “Kenjutsu.”
He tossed Modo a sword and immediately swung at him, forcing him to parry. They moved side to side, slowly. The tick and tack rhythm was mesmerizing to Modo, so much so that he was completely surprised when Tharpa kicked at a small stool and sent it into Modo’s knee.
“Anything can be a weapon, Modo. Even your own breath.”
Modo laughed, but Tharpa looked quite serious. A second later he smiled. “It depends on what you eat, of course. Garlic and onions: very dangerous.”
This time Modo truly guffawed and at that moment Tharpa swung a blow toward his head that Modo parried with ease. “Laughter relaxes the muscles,” Tharpa said. “Your technique is more natural now. Anger tightens them.”
Modo struck back and Tharpa parried the blow.
“How long will I have to stay inside Ravenscroft?” Modo asked.
“Sahib will decide.”
“Has he told you?”
“Sahib has not shared his plans with me.”
Modo thought he saw an opening, so he snapped the sword down, but Tharpa turned it away. Modo watched his teacher’s steady eyes.
“When you look at me, you don’t cringe,” Modo said.
“There’s no reason to,” Tharpa answered. Modo dodged to one side a moment too late; the bamboo slapped his shoulder and stung.
“Even Mr. Socrates recoils a little at the sight of me.”
Tharpa shrugged again and brought the sword down on Modo’s leg.
“Ow!”
“No complaints,” Tharpa said softly. “Expressing distress will only encourage the enemy.” Then he stepped back, held up a hand, and said, “The eyes see what the mind wants them to see.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was invisible, once. I was born and raised in Bombay. I was a Dalit, an untouchable. My father was a carcass handler and he did not exist in the eyes of the upper castes. One day, he was struck by a wagon. No one would come to his aid as he lay there, so he died and I was left alone. I could no longer bear to handle the dead bodies of animals, so I joined the army and became Mr. Socrates’ orderly. He recognized something in me. He said I had quickness of hand and spirit, but my past weighed too much on me, so he gave me a new name, to release me from my past. As Tharpa, I am no longer an untouchable Dalit. But he made me untouchable in a new way.”
“Oh.” Modo assumed Tharpa meant all the martial arts that he now taught.
“But I remember my past, young sahib. That is why I do not cringe when I see you. Your disfiguration, it is not your true self.”
Modo would have smiled, if Tharpa had not struck him a glancing blow off his cheek.
“Hey, that’s not fair. You raised your hand; I thought we were finished fighting.”
“There is no fair, Modo. No matter what you are doing, your mind should not drift from the task of defending yourself. Your body must react no matter where your thoughts take you.”
Modo nodded, his cheek stinging. It occurred to him then that Tharpa no longer had a father. And Modo did not know who his own father was. This was something they shared.
Then another thought came to him: Mr. Socrates was father to both of them.
4
The Masterwork
Dr. Hyde sat at a large oak table strewn with gears, keys, small metal bones, and two tiny marble eyes. Looking through a telescoping lens strapped over his left eye, he connected a silver wing to a metallic sparrow’s body. Behind him, outside the mouth of the cave, palm trees waved in the wind. He didn’t know the name of this island, even though he’d been living on it for more than eight years.
He rarely ventured outside, avoiding the burning sun as much as possible. His food and all his scientific materials were brought to him by dark-skinned men and women in grass skirts. He looked at them curiously, wondering how to make them taller and stronger. As with all people their bones were weak; the human skeleton was such a poor design.
He still knew so little about those who employed him, only that their leader was called the Guild Master and that there were soldiers in the Guild’s employ on the island too. The insignia on their gray uniforms was a clock face inside a triangle.
He tapped the wing with his finger, pleased to see it move smoothly up and down. The clockwork bird would be his newest pet. He still missed his hound, though. Magnus had been strengthened by the tincture, but age had eventually taken him. However, he had sired puppies, and, with the right alterations, Hyde had made them much more powerful and perfectly obedient. They were being used by the soldiers to patrol the island.
Three chimpanzees watched him guardedly from inside their iron cages. Two of the creatures had metal arms, the third a metal jaw and skull. Sticking out of each of their shoulders was an iron bolt.
Two cages were empty. A tinge of sadness struck Hyde. He had been fond of their occupants, had even named them—Isaac and Galilei—but a failed batch of the tincture had ended their lives rather brutally. From then on he stopped giving his subjects names.
He squinted at the three remaining chimps. There was something in the way their cages were stacked, one on top of the next, that gave him pause. An idea began forming, but he dismissed it, determined to complete the task at hand. Perfecting the tincture for these cousins of humans was enough of a challenge for now and would require much more time and materials. He marveled at how easily his requests were filled; any chemical, any kind of metal, any substance he asked for, was brought to him. Sometimes it would come a month later, but it would arrive.
When he mentioned to one of the soldiers that an assistant would be helpful, three weeks later they delivered a Liverpool-raised boy named Griff. They had found him on a deserted island, half starved. It hadn’t taken the boy long to learn to follow Hyde’s orders. His skin had turned yellow, though. Hyde noted that perhaps he shouldn’t conduct experiments on his staff. It would be hard to find and train another assistant if the boy
perished.
He placed both marble eyes in their sockets, and the sparrow seemed suddenly alive. Hyde unclipped the telescoping lens from his forehead and turned a key, winding the clockwork inside the bird. He set the sparrow down and it walked in a circle and chirped three times. Success!
A great boom sounded and Hyde looked up. It seemed to have come from the direction of the docks, several hundred yards away, down the hill and partly hidden from the cave by palm trees. He shuffled to the door and saw that another steamship had docked. Steamships arrived every few days; it was nothing impressive.
He peered a bit further along the beach and was pleased to see that the airship Vesuvius had docked at the large black iron tower, a massive floating gray cloud harnessed to the earth. He’d seen the dirigible Henri Giffard had used to fly from Paris to Trappes, but the Vesuvius was five times larger. The steam-powered propeller spun slowly. He was always impressed by the Vesuvius; it was as if he were seeing the future. Maybe a new shipment of powders had arrived.
After a few minutes, Hyde returned to his table and stroked the sparrow. As he did, he thought of the Society of Science in London. Those weak-minded men would be amazed at what he had accomplished in the past few years. He still seethed when he thought of them and the Parliamentarians who had branded him a scientific blasphemer.
“What are you dreaming about?”
Her voice startled him; its purr raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He turned toward the woman he knew only as Ingrid. His analytic mind wished he could measure the beats of his skipping heart and use that data to ascertain whether or not it was love. Oh, he was being foolish, again. Surely he was too old for love.
“What do I dream about?” he answered, and cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s complex. Why, just this morning I nearly had a wonderful idea, but I let it pass. Better to keep my mind on the tincture. I do see so many things of wonder, yet to be created.”
“Like this?” she said, raising her left arm. Her hook had been replaced by a gleaming metal hand. Her brass-hinged knuckles opened and closed quietly; even her golden fingernails were perfect. My design, Hyde thought, added to her beauty. She’d been stronger than any patient he’d ever encountered, keeping her trusting eyes open while he performed the operation, not once crying out as he attached piano wires to her tendons.
“Is it still functioning properly?”
She clicked her fingers together. “Yes, of course, thanks to you.” She bent and kissed Hyde’s cheek. He felt himself go red.
“I’m coming so close to realizing the full potential of the tincture,” he sputtered. At this, one of the chimpanzees let out a howl. Hyde locked eyes with the animal. They were even more intelligent than he had surmised. Maybe he could augment their jaws and tongue so they could speak. A new voice box? Would that—
“You were saying, Doctor?”
“Oh, yes, yes! The tincture is nearly ready for human consumption. And I have decided, after all these years, to give it a name: Lycaeunium.”
“Ah, that is a clever name.”
Hyde raised an eyebrow. “You know why I chose it?”
“I’ve read the Greek myths, dear doctor. It can only be a reference to King Lycaon. He sacrificed a child to Zeus and was turned into a wolf.”
“Well then, you understand the reference. I do love my symbols. Lycaeunium turns creatures into stronger, more beastial versions of themselves. It seems there will be other uses, too, which I am still investigating.”
“The Guild Master will be pleased to know that.”
“I have appreciated his assistance. Your support has allowed me to push past the limits of modern science. I possess a much greater understanding of the inner chemical workings of the human and animal brain.”
“You must be very proud of yourself.”
Her tone made him pause, but she gave him a guileless smile.
“I would like to know your thoughts,” he said. “Are we just the sum of the chemical reactions in the brain? Or is there more, is there—as a man of science I hesitate to say this—a spirit in us that can be tapped into?”
“Of course. It is our will to live. What it can be used for, I imagine, is boundless.”
Hyde nodded. “I believe I’ve found a way to access this energy.”
“The Guild Master celebrates your every success.”
“When will I meet him?”
“In time, I suppose, if it’s necessary.” She stroked the wing of the sparrow and it let out a little cheep. “Very pretty. Will you make one for me?”
“Of course! Anything!” He caught his breath. “Within reason, of course.”
She tapped her metal fingers against her cheek. “I am always reasonable. And your sparrow reminds me, I do have a new side project for you.” She made a motion with her good hand and four soldiers rose from where they’d been hiding in the foliage outside the cave. They marched in carrying a lumpy object on a stretcher.
“What’s this?” Hyde asked, but as they rolled the object off the stretcher onto his operating table, he couldn’t restrain a shudder. The thing they carried was a man with no arms and no legs. His dark hair and beard were matted and his eyes closed.
“This is a valuable member of the Guild. I wonder if you could repair him?”
“Repair him?” Hyde watched the man’s chest slowly rise and fall. “How—how is it that he still lives?”
“Oh, an infusion into his bloodstream of some sugars. We have other doctors in our employ. He does wake occasionally to eat, and to swear. Be prepared for that. He has a temper.”
“What’s his name?”
“You don’t need to know a man’s name in order to operate on him, do you?”
“No, you’re right. But I—I—”
“Say no more. I have faith that you will find a way to help him. I will consider the matter closed.” She made another gesture and the soldiers turned as one and left the cave.
“And the question I asked when I first walked in was not an idle one,” she said. “You have done so much for the Guild. It is time we repaid you. Is there something you dream of constructing?”
He was frozen, his mind still in shock. He stared at the new patient. How could he possibly put that man back together?
“Pay attention to me, Cornelius.”
The doctor looked at her. She was smiling. “You have such a wandering mind. The Guild Master, like you, loves his symbols. He generously offers you all of our resources to create a masterwork.”
“A masterwork?” He looked at his sparrow, the flasks that held the tincture, the chimpanzees in their cages. In a flash his earlier idea became completely clear to him.
“Yes,” Hyde said slowly. “Yes. I imagine a device. A weapon unlike any ever used before.”
5
The First Assignment
Tharpa opened the door to Modo’s room, carrying a bag of traveling clothes. It was Modo’s thirteenth year of living at Ravenscroft and his fourteenth year of life.
“Dress, please.” Tharpa tossed the bag to Modo. The clothes weren’t fashionable, nor well threaded in the style of Mr. Socrates. They were coarse and loose-fitting like those worn by the lower classes. Modo had dressed up in similar costumes while playacting with Mrs. Finchley. He pulled on a pair of worn gray breeches, a thick shirt, and a coat with large bone buttons. Then he squeezed his splayed feet into a pair of hobnailed boots. Finally, Tharpa placed a camlet cloak of wool and cotton over Modo’s shoulders. When the hood was pulled up over his head in just the right way, it hid his features. He snapped it off and back on three times, then froze with it over his face until Tharpa stepped up to peek in at him.
“Boo!” Modo shouted, flicking off the hood. Tharpa gave a wry smile. Nothing unnerved the man.
Mr. Socrates marched briskly into the room, his walking stick tap-tap-tapping across the marble floor. It was topped with a cobalt blue glass knob that Modo thought looked magical. Mr. Socrates peered down at Modo, rolling the stick back and forth between his
palms.
“In a few minutes we shall be taking the carriage to Lincoln. Then we catch the London train,” he said, as though it were just another day.
“London!” Modo had read so much about it. There would be bridges, Madame Tussauds wax museum, Queen Victoria, and Trafalgar Square. The thought of going outside, of seeing the green trees and breathing the fresh air, of visiting London, made Modo want to burst out clapping and shouting, but he knew better than to behave in such an inappropriate manner in front of Mr. Socrates. He clasped his hands tightly under his cloak. “London,” he said, stiffly. “How very interesting.”
Outside. With the rest of the world. Where there were princes and queens, shoemakers and jugglers. Imagine seeing a play or a musical troupe! Imagine standing in a crowd. That gave Modo pause. Would the people be horrified at the sight of him? Outside everything was new and possibly dangerous. He peeked around at the familiar rooms. It had always been safe here.
Mr. Socrates had been observing him. “You hesitate?”
“No, sir.” He had hoped his voice would sound more confident.
“On our journey you shall behave like a second servant, for that, you are dressed appropriately.”
“I won’t let you down. I promise, sir.”
“Then follow me.” Mr. Socrates left the room and Modo glanced at Tharpa, who nodded. The new boots were awkward and heavy. Modo nearly tripped over his own feet as he walked toward the open door. He snatched up his mask as he passed the dresser.
He’d occasionally glimpsed the kitchen through the door to his rooms as Mrs. Finchley went to and fro, but he’d never been on the other side of the door. For the first time in twelve years he stepped out of the only rooms he’d ever known. In the kitchen his eyes darted from the cast-iron stove crowded with tin pots, to the rows of knives and the hanging wooden and metal spoons. The kitchen was marvelously interesting and he wasn’t even outside yet!
