by Arthur Slade
Several gyroscope-like instruments stuck out of the ship beside him, spinning madly; he imagined they somehow measured airspeed. A bullet struck one and it fell. The soldier was now climbing up the side of the ship for a better shot. Thankfully, the swaying of the Prometheus made it difficult for him to aim while clinging with one hand.
Modo swung around, caught a corner of the partly extended gangplank with his hand, and, with an acrobatic leap that included a great flip through the air, threw himself into the Prometheus.
He landed firmly on his feet, face to face with Miss Hakkandottir. Before he could react, she had her metal hand around his throat and had pushed him down on the floor, against coils of ropes. He tried to pry her fingers away, but they were as strong as the determination in her eyes.
“I was hoping to capture you, Modo,” she said, almost gently. “The Guild Master wants to know what makes you tick.”
The air in his lungs was disappearing. She’d soon crush his windpipe! He’d never break her viselike grip. But Mr. Socrates’ voice came to him: Fear attacks rational thought. He’d said it a thousand times. She was only human. Her hand was strong, perhaps stronger than he was. But the rest of her was flesh.
He booted her in the knee and she spat out a curse, but her metal hand still cut off his airway. He grabbed her hand with both of his and pulled it away with all his strength, hoping he wouldn’t rip out his windpipe in the process. He sucked in a long breath. He flung himself to his feet and stumbled against the side of the car. Bullets cut through his cloak, missing his body.
In a flash he took in the scene: six soldiers with pistols aimed at him were spread out through the car; behind them were a pilot and copilot madly working the controls, and next to them the falconer.
Modo raised his arms in surrender, which momentarily stopped the shooting. If he could get to the pilots he could toss them overboard. That would put an end to the pursuit.
Miss Hakkandottir stood up, holding her knee. She was about to say something, but Modo leapt forward, grabbed her by the hair, and spun her around as a shield between him and the Guild soldiers, pinning her metal hand against her side. He dragged her along so that his back was pressed against the steam engine. The red-hot boiler burned through his clothes, the misty steam and smoke fogging his goggles. He pulled out the pipe wrench and held it high.
“I’ll brain her if any of you makes a move.”
“Dimitri!” Miss Hakkandottir shouted. “You are the best shot. Take it now. Between his eyes.”
One soldier raised his pistol, his hand steady. Modo jerked to the left, dragging his hostage with him, and the bullet pinged off the boiler. Miss Hakkandottir ripped her hand from his grip, screamed in rage, and swung back behind her, so that he had to use the wrench to deflect the metal hand. It struck the boiler, making it ring like a bell.
“Shoot again, you idiot!”
Dimitri’s hand was trembling, the pistol barrel wavering. Modo suddenly realized Miss Hakkandottir didn’t care whether or not the bullet went through her before it hit him, so he shoved her into the soldiers, knocking Dimitri and two others down. Then he turned, grabbed a metal rod on the ceiling, swung to the opposite side of the steam engine, and began smashing at it with the wrench. Dials shattered, hoses broke, spraying out water and steam, but the engine continued to roar. It would take hours to dismantle the machine!
He dropped the wrench and grabbed the bottom of the red-hot boiler, struggling to lift it, ignoring his burning hands. The metal bands that held it to the floor snapped, and to his own surprise and the surprise of his enemies, he lifted the engine. He tried to heft it over the side, but it was too heavy and he fell back, dropping it. Pipes had broken, and they began to smoke and clatter. The whole car lurched to starboard and Modo slipped over the side, reaching out at the last moment to cling to the railing.
He looked down, searching. No sign of the Prince Albert. He glanced up to find Miss Hakkandottir, bleeding from the forehead, shaking a saber at him.
“Die! Just die like the rat you are!” She swung the saber.
The excruciating pain in his hand made Modo let go.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to see death coming for him. You’re being stupid, Modo, he thought, and opened them again just as he struck something. He had a moment to realize it was the balloon on the Prince Albert before it burst, hydrogen shooting out of vast rips in its side. He bounced off, flailing his arms and finding nothing to grab. He glimpsed the car, a blurred vision of Octavia’s horrified face, and then the beautiful green of the rain-forest floor.
A Sudden Descent
Mr. Socrates heard the thud as though a huge rock had slammed into the Prince Albert’s outer balloon. The balloon burst with the impact and the airship plummeted toward the ground.
“Lizzie, guide us down!” he shouted.
She grunted as she pulled a lever and tried to steer the ship.
As Mr. Socrates turned to examine the damage, he saw a figure fall through the air, a cloak flapping around him. Modo! Good Lord! Impossible to make the Prince Albert dive fast enough to catch him.
“Was that Modo?” Octavia shrieked. “Was it?”
“Yes,” Mr. Socrates said. He couldn’t bring himself to watch Modo fall. He looked up. The Prometheus was smoking in the sky and going in circles. “He accomplished his goal.”
“But I thought we were going to get closer to him!” she yelled. “We were supposed to rescue him! That’s what you said!”
“We got as close as possible!” Mr. Socrates bellowed. No! Do not let her set you off. He paused to take a deep breath. “Now, get hold of your emotions. We’re descending with some speed and need to lighten our load. Find anything you can that’s not necessary and toss it overboard.”
Octavia stared at him, anger burning in her eyes. He almost gave her a slap to snap her out of it but feared he’d only make things worse. Besides, with all Tharpa had taught her, she might just flatten him.
“Deal with what’s before you,” he said to her calmly, “then respond to what you cannot change.”
She blinked, then said through clenched teeth, “Fine, I will!” She threw the teapot, of all things, over the side.
He bit back a curse.
The darkest of thoughts hit him: Modo is dead. His knees nearly buckled. His stomach lurched and he gritted his teeth. No, it can’t be! That boy, my boy, my agent, can’t be counted out so soon. Modo has more lives than a cat. He would believe the boy was dead only when he saw his lifeless body with his own eyes.
He lifted a sack of flour and cast it over. “Help me with the engine, Tharpa!” The Prince Albert was getting dangerously close to the treetops, Lizzie steering them left and right to avoid the taller trees. They hefted the motor and heaved it over the side. The airship popped up several feet.
The primary balloon was deflating too, but at least they were falling more slowly now.
“My dear Lizzie, I would appreciate it if you’d now find a clearing for us,” he said, as though he were ordering crumpets.
She nodded.
He wished he’d chosen a green balloon rather than this red one, which would stick out in all the foliage. Sometimes he was far too patriotic, he thought, and it would be the death of him.
“There?” Lizzie pointed to a small gorge where a branch of the river ran through a rocky bed. It looked almost peaceful.
“Yes!”
“Hold on to your teacups,” Lizzie warned. The wind bashed them around, but she was able to steer them closer and closer to the ground, the wicker car cracking and buckling as it snapped off treetops and branches. They dove into the clearing, bounced twice across the water, hit a pile of rocks, and came to a stop so abrupt that Mr. Socrates flew across the car and smashed his head on the hydrogen machine, burning his scalp.
He stood up groggily and felt around until he found the emergency valve’s rope. He gave it a good tug and the valve on top of the balloon opened, releasing the hydrogen into the air before it could blow
them to bits. He shoved the balloon skin out of his way and looked up. No sign of Hakkandottir. Yet.
Tharpa had been tossed from the car but was splashing through the water toward them. Octavia and Lizzie were both in the car holding their heads but seemed unharmed otherwise. “Any broken bones?” Mr. Socrates asked, barely giving time for a reply. “Good! Quick! Drag everything into the forest before they spot us!”
They each grabbed hold of a section and wrestled with it, pulling desperately until the balloon and the car were well hidden under the ferns and palm trees. All the while Mr. Socrates glanced up at the bits of sky he could see. No noise or sign of their enemy.
“Please, let’s start searching for Modo,” Octavia said.
“No,” Mr. Socrates replied forcefully. He’d already thought this through. “He’s a clever young man and I trained him well. If he’s alive he’ll find us.”
“And how will he do that?”
“Because, Octavia, he will go to the temple. That’s his mission and our greatest hope. If we’re going to find him anywhere, it will be there.”
Looking Death in the Eye
For Modo, the fall from the sky and the events that followed had all happened with astonishing speed. He’d smashed through the pine and palm trees and landed on his back on the rain-forest floor. A missing finger, his pinky, was his only major injury. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t suffered worse.
Moments later, before he’d even had a chance to gather his wits, he was fleeing from a gang of tribesmen.
And here he was falling again, this time into a deep pit. Time had slowed, as though the grains of sand in an hourglass were dropping one by one. He counted the stakes. Sixteen. Sharpened bamboo.
He pictured the first time he’d seen Octavia in her green dress; the way she had looked as he clung to her arm, about to fall from the Hugo; her horrified face as he dropped past the Prince Albert.
He concentrated. Unfortunately, his weight and speed would ensure that the stakes would pierce him through. Unless, he thought, I twist myself. He’d seen cats fly through the air. They were always able to turn and land on their feet. If he landed on his side there was a chance he’d fall into the gap between the stakes.
He twisted his body, only to find he was now falling back-first. He glimpsed the natives at the edge of the hole, angry faces glaring down as they waited for his death. Desperate, he twisted again. He’d die with his murderers as his final sight. At the last moment he rotated—and fell between the stakes. One glanced off his mask, knocking it askew; then he thudded against the ground on his right shoulder.
He lay there for several seconds, gasping for breath. His attackers let out a disappointed groan. Objects poked into his flesh. He couldn’t see, so he pulled his mask down to his neck. He shuffled around, creating a clatter. He was lying on a bed of bones! Human? Or animals? Beetles ran here and there and a green scaly lizard scampered away, its tail zagging wildly.
One native shouted, and Modo expected to feel a spear puncture his vital organs. Look death in the eye, he decided. He turned over onto his back, bones aching, and stared up at his soon-to-be murderers.
The tribesmen let out a cry of terror. One began wailing and pulling at his dark, curly hair. Another flung away his spear, covered his eyes, and fell to the ground.
What is it? Modo looked over his shoulder, expecting some tiger or monstrous creature to be standing there. He turned back just as the remaining tribesmen dropped to their knees and then, he assumed, to the ground. He could no longer see any of them over the edge of the pit.
After a moment’s pause, he stood, legs shaking. The pit was at least twelve feet deep, and the natives appeared to be gone. Maybe they’d backed away. Or it was a trap! They might spring on him.
Sturdy vines hung down at one corner of the pit, over the reddish-brown soil. They must have been used by the natives to descend and butcher their kills. He yanked two of the stakes from the ground, tucked them in his belt for weapons, and climbed the vines, his mask swinging on his neck. Near the top he held the sharpened bamboo in front of him, then poked his head out warily.
He was stunned to find the tribesmen still on the ground, some shivering and kneeling, their dark skin painted with white lines and handprints. Others were prostrate, flaps of leather clothing covering their backsides. One looked up, his face marked with a series of white leopardlike spots. He muttered a cry of alarm and lowered his head again.
Modo pulled himself out of the hole and dropped the stakes. Only moments ago they had been hunting him like a wild beast, and now they were bowing before him. What had changed?
He wiped the sweat from his eyes, and his hands felt his fallen-in nose, the mangled chin, the bumps across his cheeks. They were seeing his face for the first time.
He stood absolutely stupefied, and it was all he could do not to fall over: they’d actually been brought to their knees by his ugliness. To their knees! He wanted to pull out his hair. He felt a scream building deep inside him, a scream that had been waiting in his soul, in his heart, since birth.
Instead, he let out a sudden hiccup of a laugh tinged with madness. Several warriors shivered visibly and covered their ears.
“Am I so ugly?” he asked them.
He picked up one of their spears, saw that its shaft was held by a wooden extension, used to make the throw even stronger. A clever device! They’d been carrying wooden shields, too. He picked one up. It was carved with an image that had been outlined in white lines—a representation of a supremely ugly face. He nearly dropped the shield. The features on it were similar to his own!
“ ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ ” he quoted. “ ‘I knew him; Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.’ ” He paused, then let out another bark of laughter that echoed in the forest. “Don’t you know Shakespeare?”
He tossed the shield aside. For a third time he laughed, then cut it short. Modo, you self-pitying fool! Behaving like a madman won’t help you—you’ll just be dragged off to Bedlam.
He didn’t stop to consider just who would actually take him to Bedlam from here. Once again he looked down in disbelief at the prostrate natives. None even dared to peek at him!
But one pair of eyes didn’t look away. A girl, no more than ten years old, stood about twenty paces from him, mostly hidden in the folds of a fern. She straightened her back, pushed aside the leaves, and walked toward Modo, even though the warriors whispered admonishments and waved her away. The girl’s curly hair was white as snow, her dark skin painted with intricate spiderweb lines. She strode fearlessly between the men, not taking her eyes off Modo. She stopped in front of him.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She replied with several words that made no sense. Seeing that he wasn’t understanding her, she paused and pointed at the canopy of trees with her little finger and said what sounded like “Jiri, jiri.” Then she pointed at him with the same little finger.
“What do you mean?”
She pointed skyward again. “Daray.”
“I fell from the sky, yes, that’s right.” He wondered if that was it. Had they seen the airship battle? They would have heard it, at least. All that strange thunder above them, then a man falls from the sky and lands in the middle of their hunting grounds.
No, not a man. A god! After all, he fell from the sky. He chuckled to himself. Me, a god? Ha!
But the warriors remained prostrate, had been cowering before him for some ten minutes now. It was the way emperors and kings were treated not so long ago, he’d read.
Modo pointed at his chest. “Modo,” he said. “Me, Modo.”
The girl had a brilliant spark of intelligence in her eyes. She pointed at herself with her little finger. “Nulu,” it sounded like. She pointed at him again. “Meh Moh-Doh.”
“Modo,” he repeated.
“Moh-Doh.” She nodded and let out a little huff of satisfaction. “Moh-Doh. Moh-Doh.” She pointed at herself. “Nulu.”
“Nulu,” he said.
The smile that appeared on her face made him want to hug her. She started babbling ever so quickly, gesturing at the sky and then at him and the forest and back at the warriors. Then she made a circle with her hands.
Modo held up his hand and she stopped babbling.
“I have no idea what you are saying.” He spoke slowly, and more loudly than usual. “Tell them to get up,” he said, pointing at the warriors. She stared uncompehendingly at him. Then it dawned on him—she was looking at his face without grimacing. In fact, he would have described her as looking blissful, as though she were staring at something she’d wanted to see for her whole life. Blissful? He really was going out of his mind.
He gestured upward several times, saying, “Get up! Get up!”
Nulu stood beside him, imitating his actions but speaking in her language. One warrior raised his head and looked at Modo and Nulu. He whispered to his companions and they all got warily to their feet. They were taller than Modo, much taller than he’d expected them to be. He’d always thought of these uncivilized tribes as being short and stout, but these men were even taller than Mr. Socrates. White handprints ran along their bodies and faces. A few had clearly dined a little too heartily, but most of them were slim and muscular. They kept their eyes cast down as though chastised.
“What am I to do with you now?” Modo asked.
A Perfectly Fine Trophy
Miss Hakkandottir scanned the sky and the rain forest below the airship with her spyglass. She had been presented with a chance to swoop down from the heavens and scoop up her lifelong enemy and a handful of his key agents. It had all been coming together so perfectly until, in only minutes, that hunchback had shattered her plans.
