Empire of Ruins

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UEENSLAND RAIN FOREST
, over ten thousand miles from London, Modo leaned his humped back against a strangler fig tree. He bound his handkerchief tightly around the stump of the little finger on his left hand. The saber cut had been clean, and he was surprised there hadn’t been much blood. The pain threatened to cloud his every thought. But he’d been trained to ignore pain, and so, with several deep breaths, he cleared his mind. He had other tasks to perform.

The first was to test for broken bones. There were scratches and bruises, of course—one would expect that after falling from such a great height—but he systematically checked his bones and found all of them intact. The goggles had prevented his misshapen eyes from being poked out, and his thin wooden African mask had saved the rest of his face from any deep gouges. His hands had been burned to blisters from lifting the boiler, but they would heal.

He did find a large thorn in his shoulder, and he
grimaced as he pulled it out and tossed it aside. He’d been convinced as he fell from the airship and plummeted earthward that death was waiting for him on the rain-forest floor. But Fate had been kind. He couldn’t even attribute his survival to his acrobatic skills, because he had been screaming and flapping his arms all the way down like a frightened gosling.

The sky, the sun, and the airship battle above were blocked by the canopy of branches, vines, and leaves. Even the rumbling of steam-powered engines had disappeared. He panicked a little when he thought of his companions. Was his fellow agent Octavia still alive? His master, Mr. Socrates? Were they even now dodging the gunfire of the enemy? He pictured Octavia wounded, and nearly burst out with a sob of fear.

Snap to!
he told himself.
Keep the mind steady. Be in the present
. Those were the words Tharpa, his weapons master, had drilled into him.
Think about what needs to be done, not what you cannot change
. Those words belonged to Mr. Socrates.

Modo took stock of his surroundings—shrubs, woody vines, knee-high palm trees, larger palms, massive roots for massive trees—all completely unfamiliar. The forest was quiet, as though holding its breath. He imagined that his screaming, crashing arrival had surprised the wildlife. Here and there was the peep of a bird, or the hissing of a snake, as the jungle came back to life.

He turned to the task of listing his useful possessions. He searched his pockets and belt pouch and came up with a knife, a packet of matches, a pocket watch, and a compass. He took the goggles off and saw that one glass lens
had been shattered. His khaki clothing was adequate for now, though he had no idea how cold it would become at night. He guessed it would be warmer than sleeping in the drafty balloon car. At least the compass would allow him to discern his direction. In a front pocket he discovered a graham wafer. He munched a quarter of it.

Modo knew very little about Australia—only that there were many poisonous creatures that could bite you and then you’d die within the hour. “Just avoid them,” he whispered. “You can get through this, old pal.”

The insect and animal noises were growing louder. Bolder. Some of the hisses seemed to be coming closer. He felt as though a thousand eyes were watching his every move.

At least they won’t recoil in horror from my face
, he thought. Animals and insects couldn’t perceive ugliness. And still, he couldn’t take off the mask. He required its protection.

As the minutes passed he became more aware of his many aches and of the rumbling in his stomach. He’d need to eat more than a cracker in the next few hours. He could break off a stick and tie his knife to it with strips of clothing to make a crude spear. He wouldn’t want to take on a wild boar, but a rabbit would do just fine. Or a kangaroo.

That thought gave him pause. He wouldn’t eat a kangaroo, would he? It would feel wrong to kill anything that stood on two legs and could stare you in the eyes. He didn’t even know if there were any kangaroos in this part of the country.

Then he noticed that the forest was quiet again. He instinctively held his breath, let his heart slow so that he became only ears and eyes. An owl hooted. An odd sound in
the daylight. The noise had come from many yards behind him. A screech rattled the branches fifty yards to his right. Could it be a monkey? Oh, he should have studied what animals lived here! Surely Darwin or some other naturalist had written about the flora and fauna. Another hoot. There was a quality to the tone of it that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. At first he thought it was just a natural reaction: fear making his heart speed up. Then another hoot, even closer.

They were humans masquerading as animals! He was certain of it! They were sending messages—probably surrounding him.

As he pulled his knife from its sheath he heard a hiss race past him, and a small thud. He turned to see a quivering spear sticking out of the fig tree. He jumped forward as three more spears missed him by inches. His attackers were on his left, so he ran, pell-mell, to his right, breaking through overhanging branches.

Savages!
Mr. Socrates had spoken of such tribes on the journey. On Caribbean islands, in Africa, and here in Australia. According to the penny dreadfuls they killed for pleasure and ate the flesh of fellow humans.
Cannibals!

It was important not to panic; panicking would only lead to poor decisions. He tried to hear over his own crashing and panting. No footsteps behind him. Another hoot ahead of him made his heart go cold.