by Arthur Slade
Mr. Socrates tugged his shoulder, and Modo followed down a hallway, avoiding his reflection in a large oval mirror. Next to it was a painting of an earl or a lord or someone of noble mien. He looked a little like Mr. Socrates. “Who’s that?” Modo asked.
“The past,” Mr. Socrates said. “Best to leave it behind. Now hurry.” He was standing in the open front door. Modo tried to charge by him, but Mr. Socrates whipped his walking stick across the doorway to block it. Modo cowered.
“For heaven’s sake, boy, put your mask on,” Mr. Socrates snapped. “No one should see your face.”
Modo dropped his head in shame, lifted his mask from his belt, placed the cold papier-mâché across his face, and tightened the strings behind his head. This one was flesh-colored with a small nose.
“Few people wear masks, Modo. Only those with serious burns or facial disfigurations. You’re too young to be a wounded veteran, so if anyone asks, tell them it was a boiler accident.”
“I will, sir.”
He followed Mr. Socrates out of Ravenscroft and into the green yard, past a well-tended flower garden. “Cowslip,” he whispered at the yellow flowers. Mrs. Finchley had brought them into the house on occasion. “They grow right here. And epimediums!” He leaned down to touch the white petals and breathe in their scent.
A loud snort disturbed the quiet of the morning. Modo looked up. Down the lane stood a carriage, four horses intermittently stamping their hooves. Horses! They were so much bigger than he had imagined. He wanted to pat their sides. A pigeon flitted in the air, drawing his attention, and for a moment he stared right at the sun. The sky seemed to stretch forever. He shook his head, blinked, and focused on the decaying gazebo, vines crisscrossing its latticed walls.
Mrs. Finchley waited near the driveway, fidgeting with her apron. He leapt across the lawn toward her.
“Outside! I’m outside!”
“You’ve had to wait a long time,” she said sadly. Modo frowned behind his mask.
“Yes—yes, I have.”
“You are a good boy,” she whispered. “A good, sweet boy. Never forget that.”
He grinned and bowed to her. “Oh, you are far too kind.”
“Come along, Modo,” Mr. Socrates called. He was already seated in the carriage, checking his pocket watch. “Mrs. Finchley, we cannot be detained any longer.”
She gently lifted the mask and stroked Modo’s cheek. He put his hand on hers. “I shall truly miss you, Modo,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”
Modo squeezed her hand. “Why are you upset? I’ll see you soon.”
She said nothing. Modo swallowed. “I will, won’t I?”
“Of course,” she said, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Modo. Come now!” Mr. Socrates shouted.
She grabbed both his hands and held them tight. “Go on, Modo. You’re strong. And you are beautiful, remember that. It has been a privilege to teach you.” She took a step back, then walked up the path to the house, wiping her face with a handkerchief.
Modo watched her for a moment, his heart aching. Then he pulled down the mask, plodded to the carriage, and reached for the handrail.
“No,” Mr. Socrates chided. “A servant rides beside the driver.”
Modo climbed up the step and sat on the narrow bench next to Tharpa, who flicked the reins until the four horses began trotting. Modo turned and waved madly at Mrs. Finchley. She stood at the door of Ravenscroft, one hand covering her mouth, the other waving limply.
He lifted his mask and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, then peeked at Tharpa, who, thankfully, had been too busy with the horses to pay Modo any attention.
Modo couldn’t allow himself such sadness. He would see Mrs. Finchley again; he’d make sure of it.
They traveled without speaking. Modo’s eyes, watering in the breeze, darted everywhere, trying to take in every tree, stone, and field as they passed. His ears echoed with the snorts of the horses and the melodies of birds. Birds! The carriage moved so fast that the blurring ground made him dizzy if he looked down at it for too long. His stomach churned and he gripped the seat tight.
Soon farmers in their carts joined them on the road, and other carriages. Tharpa pulled on the reins until the horses slowed. When they dropped manure, Modo laughed uncontrollably until Tharpa gave him a frown.
After another hour they were at the outskirts of a city where people carrying baskets walked along the side of the road. Costermongers, Modo knew from the books he’d read. Out to sell their vegetables and fruits. One girl gave him a curious glance and Modo pulled the cowl of his cloak further over his face and touched his mask to be certain it was tight.
“Where are we?” he asked. “Is this London?”
Tharpa chuckled. “No, young Modo, this is just Lincoln.”
They passed by a castle so enormous that Modo could only gape. The books he had memorized were coming to life before his very eyes, but the pictures had been so deceivingly small. A maid lugged an overstuffed clothing bag up the hill, followed by a woman in a fine blue dress and a portly man using a walking stick. Everywhere he looked someone new popped up, more people than he could possibly count.
They stopped at the station and Modo caught his first breathtaking glimpse of a steam train. The iron beast dwarfed the clumps of passengers. He helped unload the luggage. Tharpa took the carriage to the nearby liveries, while Modo carried the bags and followed his master, playacting the dutiful servant. He stared at the train, counted eight cars and an engine. Mr. Socrates purchased three first-class tickets and led Modo through the lines of people to the first car, where a private compartment awaited them.
The door was polished mahogany with a silver latch. Modo opened it so that Mr. Socrates could enter. Once Modo had dragged in the luggage, he sat on the cushioned seat across from Mr. Socrates and gawked out the window. Men, women, children drifted through the mist exhaled by the steam engine as if they were walking out of a magical world. No one looked at him—maybe they couldn’t see through the glass. A few moments later Tharpa arrived and settled in next to Modo.
A powerful, long whistle blasted as the train lurched forward and began to chug, causing Modo to shiver with excitement. The train seemed alive, pulling all its weight down the tracks. Modo had always been interested in steam power and had read as much as he could about it, begging Mr. Socrates and Mrs. Finchley to bring him more books on the subject. Steam engines powered locomotives and steamships all across the British Empire. It was amazing, really.
Modo imagined the fireman feeding coal into the firebox, the heat driving the vapors through the steam chest, pushing the giant piston and pulling the train along.
“How much force would it take to pull this train?” Mr. Socrates asked.
Modo counted on his fingers. How many passenger cars were there? Eight. He’d been trained to keep track of details. He busied himself calculating how much tractive effort it would take. How much would a train engine weigh? A passenger car? He could only guess. Then there were the people.
“It would take eighty thousand pound-force to pull this train, Mr. Socrates,” he said. “I did the figures in my head.”
“Good work, Modo. I remain impressed by your mathematical skills.”
Modo began to fiddle absentmindedly with his mask.
“Keep your mask on in case a valet stops by,” Mr. Socrates said. “You must remember what you are now, Modo. I’ve warned you. It may mean life or death.”
Life or death? Modo dropped his hands and sank back into his seat. What could that possibly mean? Beside him, Tharpa was leaning back, looking out the window.
The train had reached its top speed. Modo watched the world blur in the window. He’d thought the carriage fast, but this was like traveling on a bullet. He grew queasy trying to keep his eyes on the scenery.
Mr. Socrates handed him a paper. “I have the latest edition of the Times. You may read it while we travel.”
Modo t
ook it happily. He’d read countless editions, always days or weeks old, but here he was, on a train to London, reading the Times. Today’s paper!
On the first page was an article about a bill being passed in Parliament, and another about Siberian mammoth tusks arriving at the docks. He was wonderstruck at the illustrations. Below that was a short notice that a man’s body had been found in the Thames. Modo wondered how he had died. He turned the page, hoping to learn more about the man, but his eyes were drawn to a new headline:
WOLF BOY DISCOVERED IN REGENT’ PARK
AT MARYLEBONE IN REGENT’S PARK, Henry Carr, a carpenter, was walking and heard what he described as a loud growl. Upon further inspection he discovered in the trees a young boy, who was naked and dirty. The boy spoke no words and could only snarl. Mr. Carr was able to subdue the feral child and deliver him into custody. He has since been identified as one of the orphans who have been declared missing from their orphanages. He was examined by Dr. Severn, who reported a perplexing discovery. The boy had several clean cuts along his shoulders, recently stitched together by someone with expertise. Who did this, and why, remains a mystery.
Modo touched his own shoulder, felt his hump. He wished a surgeon could remove it. Did the young boy in the article feel as unsightly as Modo did? Is that what drove him to become feral?
He looked up from the paper to find Mr. Socrates staring at him.
“So tell me, Modo, what have you been reading?”
Modo sucked in a breath, the air whistling between his crooked teeth. He was about to be tested.
“Mammoth tusks have arrived in London.”
Mr. Socrates nodded. “Geologically interesting. What else?”
“Uh, Parliament passed a bill about …” His voice trailed off.
“They are always passing bills while others do the hard work of running this country. That’s not news.”
“A body was discovered in the Thames,” Modo offered.
“Tragic but common enough. There are more than three million souls in London—you can’t expect them all to behave in a civilized manner. Anything else in the paper catch your eye?”
“A wolf boy was found in the park.”
“Yes, that was a curious item. What would cause such a condition in a young boy, I wonder? Was his regression natural? Or was he the foster child of some wild beast? The way in which a child is raised will stay with him for life.”
Modo now saw what the lesson was. “Thank you for raising me properly.”
Mr. Socrates chuckled. “I wasn’t looking for gratitude, Modo.”
“Oh … well … why did the child have stitches?”
“That, I cannot say. There are men in London who have unsavory minds. The poor child must have been captured by one of them.” He paused. “I assume you feel some kinship with the boy. After all, you are an oddity like him. Many would look at you and be frightened or disgusted. That’s why I insisted on the mask.”
Modo’s guts began to churn. If Londoners saw his real face would they think he was the offspring of an animal?
“I have invested a great deal of thought into your upbringing and education. You must wonder what my purpose is.” Mr. Socrates leaned forward as though he were about to reveal a tantalizing secret.
Modo had thought about that very thing nearly every day for years, but he said, “It isn’t my place to ask.”
Mr. Socrates rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you are too meek. Even Tharpa has learned to challenge me from time to time.” Modo looked at Tharpa, who raised his eyebrows as if to say this was a revelation to him as well. “It is imperative that you understand how complicated the world is. What you read in the paper is what many would call reality. But under those stories about governments or murders are layers of meaning. When you read about a body found in the Thames, is it just another drunkard stabbed for his pocket watch? Or is it a secret agent prevented from accomplishing his task?”
“You think that man was a secret agent?” Modo exclaimed, now on the edge of his seat.
“Perhaps. Organizations exist whose sole purpose is to undermine everything we British are doing to make the world a better place.”
“Organizations?”
“Every country, enemy or ally, has its spies. We must vigilantly guard against them all.”
Modo shot another look at Tharpa, hoping to receive confirmation of what Mr. Socrates had said, but Tharpa continued to gaze out at the blurring fields of green.
“Don’t worry your head about it now,” Mr. Socrates said. “You’ll have your place in the struggle. We shall learn soon enough whether or not your training was worth the investment.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll discuss it later. Let’s just say I have an assignment for you. Now, please carry on with your reading.”
Modo opened the paper again, but he couldn’t read a word. An assignment! His mind was buzzing with possibilities. Over the years Mr. Socrates had hinted that all his instruction was for an important, undisclosed purpose. Now Modo knew. He was to battle these secret organizations. His mouth felt dry with fright.
It was well past sundown when they pulled into London. Gaslights flickered here and there as figures scurried along a platform, cutting through the steam belched by the train.
“Come, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said, getting to his feet. “Paddington Station. We shall disembark here. Bring the luggage.”
As he stepped off the train with Mr. Socrates’ suitcase in hand, Modo couldn’t believe his eyes. There were even more people at this station than the one in Lincoln, and they were bleating, squawking, shouting, all speaking at once. A woman, who must have bathed in perfume, waddled by, her flower scent invading his nostrils. He clutched the suitcase to his chest and hurried to catch up with Mr. Socrates.
Modo glanced up from time to time to see if people were staring at him and his mask, but they were too busy to notice him. It was all Modo could do to keep from dropping the suitcase and running away from the hurly-burly.
They stopped on a street where tall, soot-blackened buildings were obscured by smoke and fog. Mr. Socrates raised his hand and the clomping of hooves echoed off the nearby walls. A large coach charged out of the mist, its driver dressed in a white mackintosh that made him look like a wraith.
“You’ll ride with me now,” Mr. Socrates instructed Modo. Tharpa took the seat beside the driver.
Modo peered out the window while the horses clopped down the street. The spectral forms of Londoners swirled up the alleys.
“You’ve displayed an admirable capacity for tutelage,” Mr. Socrates said. “I’m pleased. Mrs. Finchley would say I’ve been hard on you, but I have my reasons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Modo, there’s an important assignment you must complete. It is my sincere hope that all your training, all your diligent studying will result in a successful mission, for it will be, as they say, a sink or swim situation.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Modo croaked.
“You must survive on the streets of London … on your own.”
It took a few moments for the words to sink in. “On my own?”
“Exactly.” Mr. Socrates thumped the roof with his walking stick. The coach slowed, then stopped. “This assignment is intended to cut the apron strings. You have been an exceptional student, but it is time that you learned to act independently.” Mr. Socrates swung open the door.
“You want me to leave?”
“Please, Modo, don’t belabor the obvious. Prove that my investment in you was well founded. I’ll find you again when you have completed your assignment. Go, at once.”
Modo stepped hesitantly down onto the wet street.
“Wh-when will you come for me? How long will—”
Mr. Socrates closed the door. From his perch next to the driver, Tharpa refused to look at him. The driver cracked his whip and the horses trotted on while Modo shouted from the curb, “But wait! I have no food! No money! Mr. Socrates! I need my clothe
s! Tharpa! Wait!”
Modo watched, stunned, as the coach turned down an alley and was gone. He stared after it for a long time as though at any moment it would reappear and his nightmare would be over. His heart thumped madly. Inside the coach, he’d felt safe, accustomed as he was to having walls around him. Here on the street with the sky open above him and the freedom to choose any direction he liked, Modo became confused and uncertain of what to do.
And then, from behind him, a voice cut through the fog.
“’Ere’s a pritty lad. Come’n let me see yeh.”
Modo spun around and leapt back in fright. A dead horse stared blankly from the back of a knacker’s wagon. From around the other side lurched an old woman, her eyes glazed with madness. A smile twisted across her chapped lips, revealing black, broken teeth. “Come ’ere, laddy,” she rasped, reaching for him with gnarled hands. “Why you wearin’ a mask? Let me ’ave it.”
Modo stumbled, caught himself on a lamppost, then, in a frenzy, ran down one cobblestone street after another, deeper into the city.
6
Secret Life
Six months later a letter arrived at the Langham Hotel. The bellman slid it under the door of Room 443 where it was picked up by a young but slightly calloused hand. The letter was read once, its contents committed to memory, then it was burned. Octavia Milkweed chose a blue bonnet and matching crinoline dress, applied a light dusting of rouge to hide her freckles, and used the hotel pen and ink to write down the name of a man and his address. The ink was a cheap kind and she had to go over her writing twice. She waited for the note to dry before placing it in her purse, then left the room, umbrella in hand. She rode the lift down to the lobby and had the porter hail a hansom cab. When she told the driver their destination, he furrowed his thick brow.
