Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments)

by Arthur Slade

  Lime laughed. “No, only cursed with an abundance of ugliness.”

  The woman did not smile back. Instead, she crossed herself again. Lime glimpsed a man with reddish-gray hair at the table, his back to them. Then the door closed.

  “Thank you,” Lime said to the door. Another dead end.

  He turned and walked down the edge of the road. The leaves in a tree rustled, a bird chirped. The frost would take care of them soon enough. A moment later he realized that Typhon was missing. The beast’s brain was useless gray sludge. He turned to see Typhon standing in the same spot as before. “Follow me, you mud-headed dunderbuss!” he shouted. It had been one of his father’s favorite curses. The beast didn’t move. “Follow me, Typhon.” The monster trudged behind him. Such a literal creature.

  They returned to the inn and he asked for three roast hens to be delivered to his room. Once inside, he laid his greatcoat on the wooden chair, knives clicking together, and sat on the bed to gather his thoughts. “Sit beside the hearth, Typhon,” he said, and the man sat on the floor and stared straight ahead, shoulders against the wall, legs stretching halfway across the room, his feet bumping a bowl that Lime had been using to water the beast. Lime was impressed by his size. Even his hands were thrice the length and width of a normal man’s, except for the tiny pink finger on his right hand. It was so different from the rest of his grayish-green flesh.

  Ah, the science that had brought the creature to life, that made it walk and grunt, he did not understand. Dr. Hyde did, of course, and perhaps the Guild Master did too. Lime didn’t care how it had been created as long as it obeyed orders.

  He was becoming convinced that Modo’s parents were not in this town. It had been fifteen years; they could easily have moved anywhere. How many potters could there be in France? He was at a loss as to where to look next. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed that priest. After all, Mauger may have had other documents. Or the midwife. She might have been able to recognize Modo’s parents. He’d been too quick to kill. Again. But what was done was done.

  There was a tentative knock on the door. Lime unlocked it, letting in a pale, dark-haired chamber boy who carried a large brass platter with three cooked hens surrounded by roasted vegetables. “Set them there.” He pointed to the table. The boy did so and left without a word. Lime began eating, meticulously cutting the flesh from the birds with one of his own knives. The birds were still pleasantly steaming. The carrots and potatoes were delicious. At least the French knew how to cook.

  He heard a thump behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Had Typhon moved? The monster was in the same place. Lime finished the first bird, then set the plate of scraps next to the creature. It stared at the food. “Eat, Typhon,” he commanded, and Typhon leaned over and began to devour the remains of the hen, bones cracking and crunching between his large teeth. He left the vegetables.

  Lime returned to the table and the remaining hens. So where were the Héberts? Had they died? Emigrated? That wasn’t beyond possibility. The French were as adventurous as the English. Perhaps they’d moved to India, to Africa, even to America. He banished the thought; he didn’t want to spend months sorting through passenger lists.

  “More meat,” a voice rumbled.

  Lime shuddered and looked up from his meal. The monster had spoken and was looking directly at him with those horrible eyes.

  “Did you say something?” Lime tried to keep his voice steady.

  The monster lifted a foot and stamped once, the floorboards shaking. “More meat,” he growled.

  So it could speak! Could it think? If so, he couldn’t just let it order him around. It needed to know who was in charge.

  “Ask nicely,” he said.

  “More meat …” The thing paused, struggling to find the right word. “Please.”

  Lime carried the last hen over and watched it disappear into the maw of the creature. Then it downed the bowl of water, splashing half of it across its chest, and closed its eyes.

  “Yes, you sleep, my pretty one,” Lime said quietly, staring at the creature from several feet away.

  In time, too much time, he too fell asleep, clutching his gun under his pillow.

  18

  Eyes That Are Blind

  Modo turned his back to Octavia and Colette and let his natural form return. At this stage of his transformation there was little pain; this was where his body was meant to be. When Modo was a child, Mr. Socrates had once given him a hand mirror and let him take his first real look at his own face. He had stared in horror. Mr. Socrates then said, “You are deformed. You are ugly. But 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.” Modo had been five years old.

  He was no longer troubled by people underestimating him, nor did he fear the horrified glances of strangers. Who cared about them! No. But the fact that Octavia and Colette couldn’t stand to look at him. Ah, that seared.

  He had grown more comfortable in his hunchbacked body. Any time he changed into one of his many personae, his skin was itchy. When he had been training, Mrs. Finchley used to slap him lightly with a wooden ruler if he scratched. Habits such as scratching drew attention; spies should not have noticeable habits.

  He slipped on his mask so he wouldn’t frighten the two women if he rolled over in his sleep. Not that there would be much slumber. They were certainly in a tricky situation. No matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t figure out how they would find his parents. By now Lime and his companion would be well ahead of them.

  Finally, he stood and slowly wandered around.

  “Are you leaving us?” Octavia whispered.

  “No,” Modo said, “I need to walk out my aches. If I’m not back in half an hour, look for me.”

  “I’ll send the hound,” Octavia said, gesturing toward Colette, who seemed to be asleep.

  Modo found he could see quite clearly in the dim light. He passed through an open door and into what appeared to be a storage room. There were old pews up here; imagine hauling them up all the stairs. He sat for a few minutes, rubbing his head, then spied an open doorway on the other side of the room.

  The next chamber was strangely warm. Modo stood in the center of the small room. It slowly dawned on him just what he was seeing, and he grew numb with shock. He had assumed the shadows along the walls were rectangular crates, but now he could see they were cradles. Wooden rattles sat along the ledge beside each one. He stepped over to the nearest cradle and gasped when he saw eyes peering back.

  In a moment he recognized that they were the glass eyes of a ceramic doll. Good Lord, it was a nursery! Way up here? A hearth had been bricked into the exterior wall. This was a place where abandoned infants had been raised.

  He touched the blanket, so carefully tucked around the doll. Each cradle held a ceramic child, all neatly tucked in.

  Was I once here? thought Modo. Here, up high, away from the eyes of the parishioners.

  “Who walks my halls?” a voice whispered in French. “A ghost?”

  Modo stood perfectly still. Someone else—a man—was in the room, but he couldn’t tell where the voice had come from. “Speak,” the man said softly. “Please speak.”

  His pleading loosened Modo’s tongue. “It is no one,” he replied in French.

  “There are no no ones,” the man said.

  “A traveler, that is all. I do not want to bother you.”

  “No bother. No sight. Father is here.”

  Modo pinpointed the voice. The man was seated in a large chair that faced the hearth. The shadowy figure stood and slowly came around the chair. “This is my home. My hearth. You are welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Modo said.

  “I know your voice,” the man said.

  Was he mad? “You do?”

  “Yes. I don’t forget a voice. A tone.” The man began to hum softly, a very pleasant sound. “One does not hea
r the bells every day without learning the tones. Please come closer.”

  Modo could see no harm in doing so. In getting closer Modo could see that the man’s eyes glowed eerily white. Cataracts caught the moonlight.

  “I hear your small gasp,” the man said. “Yes, I am blind. For decades now. I have forgotten what it is to see. Tones! Tones are my eyes, the identity of a person, the expression on a face. Do you hear the children crying?”

  Modo had no idea what he meant. “No.”

  “Come closer, young man. Please.”

  Modo did so. Before he could react, the old priest had reached out his hands and touched Modo’s face. His fingers looked to be knobbed with rheumatism, but they were quick.

  “You wear a mask?”

  “Yes. To hide a disfigurement.”

  “Many are afflicted. Some deaf. Some poor. Some rich. God is mysterious.”

  “Most certainly so.”

  “May I?” the man asked, and before Modo understood his intention the man had peeled back Modo’s mask and let out a sigh as he traced Modo’s cheek.

  “What is your accent?” the father asked.

  “Canadian,” Modo lied.

  “I know your face.” He ran his fingers across Modo’s ragged cheeks. “You were the sweetest child.”

  “You know me? That’s impossible.”

  “All is possible.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Father Cambolieu.”

  His fingers continued to trace the lines of Modo’s face. They touched his cheeks, caressed his forehead. It was so gentle and so … natural. “You have always had such a strong face. Even stronger now.”

  “Thank you,” Modo said. “Was this the nursery once?”

  “Yes, until Father Mauger closed it down. It was too expensive.”

  “And when was it closed?”

  “In 1860.”

  “Where did all the children go?”

  “I was told they went to proper homes and to other churches.”

  “Wh-who am I?” The father’s hands were still on his face.

  “You are the boy with the blessed face.”

  What could that mean? “Did you meet my parents? What were their names?”

  “Ah, I am good with names. Monsieur and Madame Hébert.” So Modo was indeed an Hébert! The man placed his hands on either side of Modo’s head, as if measuring it. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen,” Modo replied. “You really and truly knew me as a child?”

  “You were here only a short time. Four months. As I recall, you rarely fussed. Then Father Mauger came and took you, said he had found you a home.”

  “A home?” He had been sold to a traveling freak show. Did that constitute a home? “What do you know of my parents?”

  “I wasn’t allowed to meet them. In any case, the parents—or should I say the mothers, for it was often the mothers—rarely showed us their faces. Most of the children were abandoned on our doorstep. But your parents had marked you for the church. They were very close to God. Sometimes one can get too close to God.”

  What did that mean? “I—I am trying to find them. They did not return to Nanterre after leaving me here. Do you know where they were going next?” Modo asked.

  “I wanted to know everything about my children,” Father Cambolieu said. “I would pester Father Mauger incessantly. Sometimes the abandoned babies had names pinned to their shirts. Others had a doll or a soft blanket. I wanted to understand where they had come from. Why God had sent them to me.”

  “Yes, yes, but did you know where my parents went?”

  “I did. I did. Father Mauger did tell me what he knew of your parents. He said they intended to travel to Montreuil-sur-Mer. I remember it clearly. It is the town where I was born.”

  The floor creaked behind him and the father seemed to look over Modo’s shoulder.

  “Ah, we have more visitors. It is a glorious night.”

  Modo knew Colette and Octavia were in the shadows. He adjusted his mask. “They are my friends. It is time for me to depart. But there is so much I must ask you,” Modo said, grasping Father Cambolieu’s hands.

  “I have told you everything I know, except for my nickname for you. It was Bright Eyes.” With that he chuckled. “Bright Eyes. Back then I still had enough vision in my left eye to see that much, at least.”

  “We must go,” Colette said quietly. “The sun is rising.”

  Modo was reluctant to release the priest’s soft hands. He took one and kissed it. “I will return one day and thank you properly.”

  “I look forward to that day, my son. Go with God. Bless you.”

  19

  A Sudden Revelation

  An agitated sleep had left Lime on edge. He awoke to find Typhon sitting in the same spot, like a child who had been scolded by a teacher. He didn’t know if the monster ever really slept or even breathed like a human, and he never got close enough to check for a heartbeat. He did know that the creature didn’t bleed. When that woman had shot Typhon there were holes in his clothes but there was no blood. For all Lime knew, the bullets were sitting in the creature’s chest, rusting to bits.

  Lime ordered breakfast. He had already been to the Saint-Saulve church for the third time that week to look at their records, leaving Typhon on a bench near the town’s wall. There were no Héberts who had arrived in 1858. He was at a dead end. There were no other paths; there was nothing more he could think of. He would telegraph his master and receive his orders. Perhaps the great mind that was the Guild Master would have an answer.

  After breakfast Lime took one last walk, with Typhon a footstep behind. They certainly attracted attention, but the meek little townspeople just watched timidly. He wondered what the reaction would be if he commanded Typhon to start tearing them to pieces. Now, that would be a show! Alas, he was not here for such frolicking.

  They walked along the ramparts of the citadel; the stone was falling over in several places. Walls that had been built to keep out the enemy for a thousand years were crumbling to pieces. Lime mulled over what he knew of the Héberts. They had plied their trade at markets in Paris. The father had been relatively unknown in Nanterre.

  The church documents had clearly said that the Héberts had intended to move from Nanterre to Montreuil-sur-Mer, but not a single person in their intended destination remembered the Héberts or any other potters arriving fifteen years ago. It was a puzzle. They’d given birth to an abomination and then had handed that child to Notre Dame de Paris, the most revered of all churches in France. Why not their local parish? Instead, they had traveled a small distance to the cathedral, and had left from there to Montreuil.

  Were they driven out of Nanterre? Superstitious, fearful people often saw the devil in anyone malformed. More to the point, had the Héberts themselves experienced some sort of religious shame? Had they given birth to a demon? Was the infant’s disfigurement a sign of their own great sin? It was possible.

  Religious belief had always been a curiosity to Lime. He worshipped his knives, nothing else. But his mother had been God-fearing and had often talked of spirits and ghosts and demons … the demons inhabiting her only son. It wasn’t hard to imagine a mother who believed the devil had played a role in creating Modo, a monster-baby. Short of suffocating the infant, which would perhaps have been a sin, why not give it to the church? The priests were the experts in exorcism. Then the Héberts would come to Montreuil and change their names to escape the past.

  But he had visited all the potters listed in the Montreuil church records and not one could have been Modo’s parents. Only those who lived outside the walls weren’t in those records.

  That gave him pause.

  What had the woman he’d seen yesterday said when she saw Typhon? Is he an abomination? Cursed by the devil?

  Would a woman who believed such ugliness was a curse of the devil abandon a child? Would she and her husband move to the outskirts of a fortified town to hide from their shame?

  “Ty
phon, you blighted old troll, you’ve given me the answer,” Lime said. The monster said nothing.

  “Typhon, return to the inn with me. We have a telegram to send. Then we’ll get out of this ugly town.”

  20

  In the Village

  Modo watched the French countryside out the window of their private compartment on the train to Calais. After leaving the city in his Doctor form, he had slipped on his netting mask and allowed his shape to return to its natural state. Lately he dreamed of going out with no mask, no shape-shifting to disguise his faults. The Rain People in Australia hadn’t seen his disfigurement as a fault. And blind Father Cambolieu had touched his face and pronounced it strong and blessed. But Modo did not want to upset Octavia and Colette, so he put on the mask. They would be at least four hours on the train, so he couldn’t yet alter his face. He must save his strength for changing into the Knight face just before they arrived.

  He had been born in this land and might have traveled a good part of it in the back of a carriage, so he couldn’t stop himself from searching for something recognizable. How foolish! He’d been so young when Mr. Socrates had rescued him. He had no memory of the months traveling with the freak show, but still, maybe he’d been on these very roads before. Then again, maybe he’d never been allowed off the wagon of curiosities. Despite his doubts, it all felt so familiar. The green land, the thick woods. Perhaps some part of his mind did remember, or some part of his soul, if there was such a thing inside him.

  Octavia had fallen asleep beside him, her head occasionally resting on his shoulder. Colette sat across from him, staring out the same window. The dark circles under her eyes made him wonder about her time in the sanatorium.

  “Please don’t judge me,” she whispered, so low that Modo didn’t know if she’d even spoken. “Don’t. Judge. Me.”

  Modo didn’t move, didn’t even blink. What to say? He considered closing his eyes and pretending he hadn’t heard, but she wouldn’t fall for that. “I don’t,” he whispered. Perhaps she nodded, but if so, it was imperceptible.