by Arthur Slade
Mrs. Finchley’s calling her beautiful without the slightest hesitation made Octavia glow.
They returned with a steamer trunk of material, and, as each day passed, Mrs. Finchley sewed for Octavia. Corsets, petticoats, gloves—all fitted perfectly.
“It’s late afternoon, Octavia,” Mrs. Finchley said one day. “Time to switch to a dinner dress. Which will it be? Green? Red? Violet?”
“Violet!” Octavia said, and Mrs. Finchley began helping her change into a dinner dress with an impressive bustle.
The number of dresses that had been brought on board for her astonished Octavia: she had dresses for afternoon, dinner, evening, and balls. She even had a special green and black dress for Sunday service. Church was a foreign experience, but Mrs. Finchley had coached her, so she lowered herself to her knees and rose again at the right times and could recite the Lord’s Prayer.
Octavia also attended many of the evening sing-alongs, each time wearing her best feathered hat. The first-class passengers gathered on the poop deck and sang for the second-class passengers, a gift for those below them. Mrs. Finchley had trained Octavia until her voice was as clear as a bell. Two lieutenants and even the captain had commented on her pleasant tone. She loved the song “Dream-Pedlary” because of the lines “If there were dreams to sell, merry and sad to tell, and the crier rang the bell, what would you buy?” She liked to imagine what she would buy. More dresses! No. She returned to her favorite fantasy: she would buy an island and wear trousers all the time. She could run so much faster in them.
Though she had to admit that while wearing dresses, she did enjoy the looks she got from some of the officers.
She was surprised that Modo sang in a pleasant and rather beguiling baritone. It must be his barrel-like chest that gave it such a rumble. She didn’t completely understand why she was spending so little time with him. Yes, she saw him at breakfast and dinner, but their conversations were about the weather or whatever landmark they were passing at the time. This was their third assignment together, and she felt quite suddenly as if she didn’t know him at all. She often thought of the trick he and Mr. Socrates had played on her, having Modo pretend he was a doctor. It made her angry that she hadn’t recognized him. Whom did she know better than Modo? And yet he could sit across a table from her and be someone else. But his face was so different from the only other one she’d seen, which had also been handsome! How many faces did he have?
She longed to see his real face, whatever it was!
“Did you really raise Modo?” Octavia asked Mrs. Finchley.
Her tutor smiled again, but this time there was sadness in it. “Yes. I’ve known Modo since he was an infant.”
“What … what …” She wanted to ask what he really looked like. Instead, she asked, “Where does he come from?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that. Mr. Socrates guards such secrets well.”
“But who were his parents?”
Mrs. Finchley shrugged. “I believe they gave him up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have the answer to that question,” she said. “I only wish that they could see him now and know that he is the most exceptional young man I have known.”
Octavia nodded. “He is indeed,” she whispered.
There was a knock at the cabin door. They had been speaking of Modo—would he appear just like that? Suddenly Octavia felt that she wanted to beg his forgiveness for ignoring him.
But when Mrs. Finchley opened the door, Tharpa stood there, his face impassive as stone.
“Octavia, please come to Mr. Socrates’ cabin at once. He has called a meeting.”
Octavia paused to check her hair, then followed Tharpa.
Her master was seated at an oak table, papers spread out in front of him, a cup of tea in his hand. Modo hadn’t yet arrived.
She took in the room, amazed at how much larger his cabin was than the one she shared with Mrs. Finchley; his porthole was twice as large. The lower half of the walls was paneled and the top half wallpapered with images of intertwined dragons. His bed was perfectly made, not a wrinkle to be seen. Octavia wondered if Tharpa made his bed—or did Mr. Socrates do it himself? There were stewards, of course, but she guessed that it was Mr. Socrates. He had a military background, after all, and that lot was always fussy about neatness.
She noted a painting of a woman on the dresser. Had Mr. Socrates been married? Was he still?
Tharpa pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, her bustle bumping up against the back of it. The damnable things looked nice but were far too awkward for her liking.
Modo knocked at the door and entered. She was still a little surprised every time she saw his newest face. She realized her heart was beating faster. It didn’t seem to matter which face he had on—he still affected her.
“You’re late again,” Mr. Socrates observed for the benefit of everyone.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Modo answered.
“You may call me Mr. Socrates during the course of this meeting.”
“I understand, sir, and I do apologize. I had to prepare myself. Though you have trained me well, I still need more than a few minutes to complete my adaptive transformation.” He nodded to Octavia. “A pleasure to see you, Miss Milkweed.”
She wasn’t certain how to interpret his formality. “And a pleasure to see you, Modo.”
“Where’s Mrs. Finchley?” he asked.
“It isn’t necessary for her to be here,” Mr. Socrates answered. “Now, to begin, I hope you’ve enjoyed these weeks of rest. And I’m pleased with the progress both of you have made in your studies. We have a mission ahead of us that will test your talents, and perhaps change the course of Britain’s history.”
Octavia raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yes, well”—Mr. Socrates laughed—“perhaps I’m exaggerating slightly, but I do confess I’m excited about the potential discoveries that lie ahead of us.” On the table he opened a map, the same one Octavia had been given in Westminster Abbey. “I’ve been receiving telegrams at each port of call, but this is still the most important document we have. The Australian who brought this map to us was named Fred Land. He had sent me a message through—how to put it?—our sources. He had something very important for the Empire, he said. It came at a price, of course. We paid that price and he delivered the map to England. Very uncouth of him to die before explaining exactly why the map is so important.”
“Is it a treasure map?” Octavia asked. She had studied it in the carriage, but it seemed to be nothing but squiggly lines.
“Oh, it’s much more than that, Miss Milkweed. This map will take us to a temple that holds the key to what could become a significant weapon in Britain’s arsenal.”
“A weapon?” Modo asked. “What sort of weapon?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t exactly know what it is.”
“Then what does our mad explorer Alexander King have to do with this?” Modo asked.
It occurred to Octavia that he was looking older, somehow. Not so much his face, since that was always changing, but perhaps his eyes.
“Well, this was King’s map. Or at least at one time it was in his possession. It was also in Dr. Livingstone’s possession, previous to King’s. I have sources in the Adventurers’ Club who have heard rumors for decades of this map’s existence. Now, it’s important to remember that explorers natter like ladies at a tea party, so I take such rumors with a grain of salt. But I wanted to know what had driven King mad, since by all reports he was sane when he embarked on his expedition to Australia.”
“Sane?” Octavia said. “But he murdered two men.”
“That’s not insanity. That is, alas, human nature. Some people can’t take too many days in the jungle. It can drive them mad. But the more interesting story stems from an old legend that the Egyptians were once in Australia and built a city, hoping to create a new Egyptian empire. The theory is that they were trying to escape the Persian empire. Or Alexander the G
reat.”
“Is it possible?” Modo asked.
“Anything is possible. It’s not probable, but we must investigate every lead. There’s a legend among those members of the Adventurers’ Club that an artifact exists called the God Face. It’s said to be an instrument that induces madness. I believed it was just another fabulous tale until Mr. King traveled to Australia, apparently found this Egyptian city, and returned home quite insane.”
“But someone else knows about this,” Octavia said, “or Fred Land wouldn’t have been murdered right in front of me.”
“I agree, which is why I wish you had been able to gather more information.”
“I preferred to stay alive. I do apologize for that.”
“Not to worry. Your description of the mechanical falcons can only mean the Clockwork Guild is at work again. Their failure to secure the map indicates that we have a head start. As you can guess, we’re going to follow this map, find the ruins, and locate the mysterious artifact. Or perhaps we’ll learn there’s nothing there at all. Either way it will be an adventure. Any questions?”
Octavia was incensed when Modo put up his hand as though they were in a classroom. He could be so overly keen at times that she wanted to slap him.
“Yes, Modo?” Mr. Socrates said.
“What are some of the possible dangers? Besides the Guild, of course. Animals? Plants? Are there natives in that part of Australia?”
“The plants and animals will be little bother for us, I promise that. And as for the natives, yes, there are tribes in the rain forest. But my sources tell me that they’ve had limited contact with civilized people and they’ll likely vanish into the forest long before we see any of them.”
“But what if we do see them?” Octavia asked.
“We’ll deal with that if it happens. To put it bluntly, if they are aggressive, we have guns and they have spears. But I would prefer to leave them be. In Africa, my policy was to avoid such contact as much as possible. They are like children. We don’t want to expose them to too much technology, or force change upon them too quickly. As a society, our role is to lead them gently toward progress.”
Modo had his hand up again. Octavia shot him a look, but he didn’t notice.
“Yes, Modo, you have more questions?”
“Just one, sir. Why?”
“I believe I just spent the last several minutes explaining the reason.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I mean, why are you here? I’ve been playing chess against Tharpa this week, and I know you should never sacrifice the king.”
“I appreciate being thought of as a king, Modo, but in reality I’m more of a bishop.” He grinned, wrinkles folding around the edges of his eyes. “I’ve accompanied you on this mission because I want to see this place for myself. I can’t just sit in a musty old room pulling the strings. Besides, Tharpa will protect me from any hazards we may face.”
Tharpa raised his eyebrows. “I will do my best, sahib.”
“Any more questions, Modo?”
He shook his head.
Octavia was about to get up when Mr. Socrates said, “One more thing. Octavia, we have analyzed the spider you found on your person. I was correct about its being magnetized. My sources have informed me that our enemies may have been able to follow you using this device and a similar magnet. If this is so, they may be using another such device to follow us. Please go through all your luggage and clothing. And, of course, it’s likely that an agent or agents have pursued us onto this ship. Please be extra cautious. You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, Uncle Robert Reid,” Octavia said coyly. She rose, waited until Tharpa had pulled her chair back, and walked toward the door. “I shall spend the rest of the evening hunting through my clothes. I’m afraid I rather dislike spiders. ‘Off with their heads,’ I say.” And she giggled to herself, then left the men to exchange quizzical looks.
The Horn of Africa Ball
A few evenings later Modo discovered an envelope stuck near the back of the brass mailbox outside his cabin. He hadn’t checked for mail in days, assuming no one on the ship would write to him. He opened it to find an invitation for first-class guests to attend the Horn of Africa Ball. He was glad to have this reminder. The captain had announced the ball over a week earlier, and Modo was looking forward to the event.
Seeing the words Horn of Africa in print reminded him just how far they had already traveled. Only two days ago they’d sailed by Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander the Great. Then they had passed through the engineering marvel of the Suez Canal, about which Mr. Socrates said, “The French built it for us British to use. Very kind of them.” Modo had stared westward as hard as he could, hoping to see the pyramids. No such luck. And now they were chugging across the Red Sea, nearing the Horn of Africa. And to think that they were still only halfway to Australia.
With surprise, he read the date on the invitation. It was tonight! He rushed back into the cabin and quickly explained the situation to Tharpa, who helped him dress in a white shirt with a black string tie, a black waistcoat, and a dress coat with tails. He combed his newly grown hair vigorously.
“It will fall out if you continue such ministrations,” Tharpa advised.
Modo gave him a friendly punch. “Don’t tease me! You’ll be catching up on your sleep here in the cabin, so no one will be staring at you, but they will be ogling me. After all, I’m the son of a well-heeled gentleman. I assume I shall one day be inheriting his massive fortune.”
By the time Modo had fancied himself up, pressed on his silk top hat, and made his way to the upper deck, the ten-piece orchestra was already playing on the promenade and some of the passengers were dancing. He stopped dead in his tracks, stunned by the beauty of the scene. The ball had been planned to take place just as they were passing the Horn of Africa, the evening sunlight washing the flat, sandy shores with a red tinge. Even the Indian Ocean caught the warm light, against which were silhouetted gentlemen dressed to the nines and women in their fanciest gowns. It was all so civilized! This was what Britannia was all about!
One of the cabin boys presented to him a dance card that listed the order of the dances, followed by a directive: Gentlemen will remove their sabers and spurs prior to the first waltz.
According to the list, he’d missed the grand march. The orchestra was on to a waltz now. Women in gowns of all colors and styles swayed alongside the men in black suit coats. Modo spotted Octavia on the dance floor, and, of all things, Mr. Socrates was dancing with her! She wore a dark red gown, her locks tightly bound. He wondered if Mrs. Finchley had helped her with her hair; he’d never seen such intricate braids, each held by a red bow. And she carried herself with remarkable poise. She easily passed as an upper-class lady.
When the orchestra began playing a mazurka quadrille, Modo watched helplessly as Octavia accepted a dance with one of the more handsome officers. There was no time to waste.
He ran to the far end of the upper deck and stood breathlessly before Mrs. Finchley, asking, “Will you give me the pleasure of dancing with you?”
“Mr. Anthony Reid,” she said with feigned haughtiness, “pleasure is not the proper word. Honor is.”
“Ah”—he bowed—“will you honor me with your hand for a quadrille?”
She curtsied and offered her hand, and they joined the eleven couples already dancing. Modo had practiced the quadrille years earlier with Mrs. Finchley. He’d had to imagine the other couples and the intricate pattern of the dance. As they began to move, Modo immediately realized that dancing with a real group would be much more difficult. At first he was awkward and sometimes lost the beat, but after several deep breaths and a few kind compliments whispered by Mrs. Finchley, he relaxed and his footing became more confident.
“Be the song,” Mrs. Finchley said quietly. “Feel its rhythm.”
The circular path of the mazurka meant that he occasionally found himself next to Octavia for a few moments. Sometimes he danced close enough to actually say a few pr
ivate words.
“You look absolutely first class,” he said on one of these occasions as he hooked his right arm through hers and they twirled around each other.
“I know,” she replied with a coy smile. “No seasickness on the Indian Ocean, my dear cousin?”
“Not even a smidgen. Bring on the Pacific!”
She spun away, dancing with an officer in a fancy white coat with golden buttons. By the man’s insignia, Modo could see he was a lowly captain’s clerk! But he was a good six inches taller than Modo.
The dance soon brought Modo and Octavia together again. “You’re looking rather handsome, yourself,” she said as she moved away. “Keeping in mind, of course, that you aren’t really yourself at all.”
The mazurka didn’t bring them together again, to his great frustration. The orchestra finished and the dancers all bowed to one another. When he looked up, Octavia was already with another officer, a lieutenant this time. Mrs. Finchley had been asked to dance by the grizzled captain, so Modo found himself standing alone as the orchestra struck up a painfully peppy polka. He was not feeling the least bit peppy.
Modo threw himself down in a lounge chair. What exactly had Octavia meant by her last comment? Had it been a mistake to use the Doctor’s face with her? After all, she really knew him so much better by his Knight face, another from his repertoire. Maybe every time she saw this new face she was reminded of how he could change. She had to get to know him all over again. Was that why she seemed so distant?
But surely she could see it wasn’t his fault. This was how he’d been born.
