by Laura Quimby
“Sounds formidable. You say your ninja guardian angel’s name is Mildred?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And she doesn’t take crap from anyone,” Jack said. “Being dead won’t save you from her wrath. Once, I did something to get her girdle in a twist, and she pinched my ear so hard that I still have the scar.” Jack pulled his hair back and showed Jabber his ear. “Since you haven’t hurt me, I can ask her to look the other way. Just tell me how to get out of here, back to the professor’s house, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
“You can’t leave. The professor traded you to the Land of the Dead, and now you are the property of the Amazing Mussini. You will work for him for one hundred years, and then you can choose to move on—if you are ready to leave the forest.”
“One hundred years! No way, I’ll be a hundred and twelve years old by then. I’ll be, be—” But the sentence broke off in his mouth. He couldn’t say it, so Jabber did.
“You’ll be dead.”
“This can’t be happening. The professor didn’t own me. You can’t just go around selling people’s souls. It isn’t right.” Jack was used to being forced into strange places, but this was ridiculous.
Jabber’s hand suddenly snaked out and grabbed Jack’s wrist. “Listen to me. You have entered the Land of the Dead—the underworld. Your soul has been traded, and it was a fair trade. Now do what you are told. Stay out of trouble and stay out of my way.”
Jack looked down and saw the mark on Jabber’s wrist. Mussini had marked him, too. “So, is everyone lucky enough to get one of these?” Jack pulled away from Jabber and finally examined his new ink. He gently rubbed his finger over the spidery lines of the fresh tattoo on his wrist. The pain was gone, but the brand looked pretty permanent.
Jabber looked away smugly. “When the professor tricked you into taking over his contract, you inherited his mark. And yes, we all have the mark of Mussini. But I’m the only one in the group who has ever figured out how the magic works.”
“Magic?”
“The tattoo is a powerful illusion. It is a magical compass.” Jabber pulled the horses to a stop and rolled up his sleeve to show Jack how the device worked. He squinted down at his wrist and said, “North Wall.” The ink on his wrist began to bubble and twist as the lines warped to life. The dial spun and the arrow pointed behind them. “Last night we passed through the wall to the north. It’s heavily guarded.” Jabber pointed to the large N and a small image of a wall appeared to hover above his skin. “To the east and west is the Never-Ending Forest—masses of trees that are constantly growing outward. They are a maze, impossible to navigate. We are headed south to Mussini’s base camp. From there all the towns are south until the Black River, and that is as far as the forest goes.”
“Impressive.” Jack ran his finger over the flat inked surface of his own tattoo.
“Impossible is more like it.” Jabber snapped the reins. “Figuring out the magic made me Mussini’s right-hand man. He trusts me and only me.”
Jack didn’t care about bonding with the Amazing Mussini. All he cared about was getting out of there, and figuring out the compass might help him do it. The image of the strange beast that Jack saw last night standing at the North Wall came back in an instant. He would have to bide his time until he could figure a way out of the underworld.
Compass or no compass, Jack didn’t have a clue where he was. But he knew one thing, and that was there was always a way out. Even this forest had a trapdoor. He just had to find it. Jack looked on the bright side; at least he wasn’t dead.
Yet.
From his many foster homes, Jack knew the drill when it came to being thrown into new surroundings. He needed to blend in, stay out of trouble, and keep his head down while he plotted his escape. He was concentrating on an escape plan when the wagon groaned to a halt. Jack heard movement coming from inside.
Jabber nodded toward the wagon and said, “The others.”
The others. These must be Mussini’s minions. How was Jack supposed to blend into a group of minions? Jack took a deep breath and jumped down to the ground. A tiny hand slid the curtain open. He braced himself for whatever terrible creatures might suddenly appear from inside the wagon.
Jack expected a good freak show. Minions should have slithery tentacles for arms, bulging, bloodshot eyeballs, and rows of sharp tiny teeth to gnaw on bones. He was seriously hoping at least one of them would have horns, so when they appeared from behind the curtain and began climbing down, Jack almost felt cheated. Talk about getting shortchanged in the weird department. They didn’t look like minions: They looked like regular kids.
The first to climb down was a pretty girl. She wore a long dress and black button-up boots. Her clothes and manner gave Jack the feeling she was from another time, born long before he was, though she looked the same age as him. She jumped down the last foot from the back of the wagon and landed softly on the ground. Her long mahogany hair tumbled down her back as a hair comb came loose and dropped into the leaves. Jack picked up the comb. When he tugged on her sleeve to give it back, she just ignored him, so he slipped it into his pocket to give to her later.
A boy jumped down into the leaves and grabbed on to Jack as he stumbled forward. “T-Ray,” the boy said with a salute. T-Ray looked about eleven, maybe twelve, but his clothes looked modern enough. He wore army-green pants and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. His black hair was buzzed short on his head, accentuating his dark skin.
“Come on and give us a hand,” T-Ray said to Jack. “I won’t bite, but Runt might, so you better take these.”
T-Ray shoved two quilted bundles into Jack’s arms.
“Who’s Runt?” Jack asked, but the question seemed to answer itself as a boy’s head popped out of the wagon’s curtain.
“I am!”
They all laughed at the younger boy with a tiny scowl on his face and blond hair poking up wildly all over his head. “And I was sleepin’ till you all woke me up.”
“No time for sleeping. It’s time to get to work, my little Runt.” The girl ran her fingers through the boy’s hair and helped him out of the wagon.
After helping Runt, she started unloading the gear. The entire gut of the wooden cart was crammed with stuff. Even the ceiling had things attached to it to take advantage of every available space. Jack tried to help them, hoping someone would give him a little direction. It was better than just standing around dumbly, not knowing what to do. But beside T-Ray’s salute, the kids pretty much ignored him and went about the business of making camp.
This was pretty typical behavior that Jack liked to call new kid syndrome. It was the norm when entering a new group of kids. No one wanted to get up close and personal on his first day. In the first phase, they ignored and acknowledged only when absolutely necessary. As a way of dealing with the cold shoulders, Jack peppered them with questions. T-Ray seemed the most eager to break down first.
“So, you a foster kid, too?” Jack asked.
“No. Better grab a bundle,” T-Ray said, handing Jack a folded-up tarp.
“How’d you guys get here?” Jack asked the group, but the girl just added another tarp to his burden. “Have you been here long?” he continued, and his answer was a pile of bedding placed on top of the tarps. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Jack said, and the girl balanced a small crate on top of the growing heap in Jack’s arms. For every question he asked, he received another thing to carry. She wasn’t fooling around.
“He’s a chatty one,” Runt said to the girl as Jack stumbled over to the clearing where they were piling up the gear. He knew they wouldn’t be able to hold out for long, so he just kept going back for more stuff and more completely ignored questions. The girl didn’t even look at his face. She was good. He dumped his third load to the ground and rested for a minute.
An enormous boy heaved a trunk out of the wagon and carried it over to the clearing that was starting to fill with gear. T-Ray elbowed Jack and whispered, “That’s Boxer. He’s the strongest kid ali
ve.”
Boxer wore a white tank top that showed off his massive biceps and shoulders. With a plaid flannel shirt tied around his waist, Boxer looked like he had been carved from stone. He was a plow horse of a kid, probably raised on a farm.
Jack leaned against the back of the wagon and realized his hand was resting on the girl’s shoe. “Oh, sorry,” he said, jerking his hand away so quickly that he elbowed Boxer in the ribs. “Sorry.” Real smooth, Jack thought. He doubted that he was making any headway getting on anyone’s good side.
Boxer unloaded the heavy steamer trunks while Jack and T-Ray unrolled long bolts of crimson and burned-orange canvas. The three of them drove tall wooden poles deep into the ground. They attached a rope to the poles and threaded it through the canvas. They pulled the ends of the rope, raised the cloth, and suddenly, colorful tents sprouted up, giving a burst of life to the dreary surroundings. A light sweat beaded on Jack’s brow. The cool air felt good in his lungs. Being with other kids made the forest seem less intimidating.
Jack held a wedge of folded canvas in his arms. Runt, who was lying across a row of bedding in the wagon, looked up and said, “That’s a hammock. Take it inside the tent and hang it up.” Runt seemed content barking orders while relaxing from a hard day of riding in the wagon.
After they made camp, T-Ray made a circle of large stones for the fire pit. Jack hadn’t seen Jabber or Mussini all day.
“They scout out the area and make sure it’s safe.” T-Ray kicked one of the rocks closer to the circle.
“Safe from what?” Jack asked, pushing a stone into place.
“From the dead mostly. But there are other creatures, too, like wild beasts, tortured souls, and demons.”
“I saw a demon once, lurking through the woods.” Runt leaned up on his elbows from inside the wagon.
“That’s just forest legend,” Boxer said, tying down a tent flap. “How’d you know it was a demon?”
“‘Cause of the long black chains dragging across the ground,” Runt said, his eyes darting around the camp.
Jack felt sick to his stomach. He tried not to think about exactly where he was. He wondered what the professor and Concheta were up to. Probably cooking dinner. Oh man, it was Italian night, too. Concheta was going to teach him how to make lasagna with meat sauce. They probably ate bark here in the forest—if the demons didn’t eat them first.
“Don’t scare him, T-Ray. We’re going to need his help. Once Jabber gets back, you boys will need to do a little hunting,” the girl said as she carried a bucket of fresh water over to the fire pit.
“I hope they get back soon. My stomach’s already growling,” Runt said.
“All you do is eat and sleep,” Boxer said, tossing a shiny red apple over to Runt, who caught it and sunk his teeth into the fruit. A stream of juice trickled down his chin, and he smiled, satisfied with the snack.
“Come on, Runt. You can help me gather the wood for the fire.”
The girl pulled Runt to his feet, and they walked off into the woods. She picked up little sticks and bundled them in her apron, while Runt followed at her heels, holding on to her skirt and humming a little song.
“That’s Violet,” T-Ray said, noticing Jack watching her.
“Violet,” Jack repeated. He liked it.
“Don’t stare.” T-Ray yanked on his sleeve. “She doesn’t like it when people look at her. She’s … ya know.”
“What?”
“She’s no longer breathing air.” T-Ray grimaced.
“Wait, you mean she’s dead—like Jabber?” Jack dropped the hammock he was carrying.
“Yes. From what I can tell, the living don’t last long, and the dead tend to linger.”
“So I’ve heard.” What rotten luck. The prettiest girl he had ever seen was dead? He was starting to think that this place was closer to hell than it was to heaven.
“Hey, what about you, Boxer, and Runt? You’re not dead, right?” Jack asked.
T-Ray snapped, a little too quickly, “No, I’m fine. Just fine, never felt better.”
Jack paced back and forth, trying to understand what he had just been told. “No way I’m going to die here! We’ve got to find a way out.”
T-Ray just shook his head. “Good luck. But if you ask me, we’re doomed, too.”
Runt ran back toward the camp, dumping an armload of twigs on the ground. “They’re back! They’re back!” he bellowed.
Jabber rode up on one of the horses and quickly dismounted. “Time for some fun,” he said, breathing heavily. He handed Runt the reins to the horse and walked up to Jack. “Are you ready for some excitement? We want to see if you were worth the effort.”
Phase two of new kid syndrome was the test phase. Jack needed to prove himself to the group, and then they would either accept or deny him.
“Your job is to chase the pig,” Jabber said. “Can you handle that?”
All he had to do was chase a pig, which seemed easy enough, but Jack was wary. The easier a test seemed on the surface, the more likely it was to have hidden pitfalls.
“It’s just a pig, right?” Jack asked.
“You could say that, but we should warn you that it has spearlike tusks, razor-sharp claws, and horrific breath,” T-Ray said. Jabber elbowed him, but he continued anyway. “And it’s been rumored the pig’s breath is so bad, it petrifies whoever it breathes on.”
“That means turn to stone,” Runt said.
“Yeah, I got it. I’ll try not to kiss it on the snout,” Jack said. “Are you sure this thing isn’t a wild boar?”
“What do we look like, biologists?” T-Ray said.
“We didn’t happen to have our scientific identification manuals handy,” Boxer chimed in.
“This ain’t a nature hike, boy.” Runt punched his bony little fist into Jack’s thigh. Jack knew the drill, but it was still a little annoying being called boy by a kid whose nose came up to his armpit.
“Can we count on you?” Jabber asked.
“I’m in,” Jack answered. How hard could it be?
“The hunt is on!” Runt yelled. “Catch me a big fat pig, boys!”
The hunt was just what Jack needed to prove himself.
Boxer was not an intellectual genius, nor was he quick on his feet, but he was the strongest kid Jack had ever seen. He lifted fallen logs, moving them like toothpicks, as they all worked to build a small pen to trap the pig.
Jack’s role in the operation would be just what Jabber said—he would hound the pig into the pen. Then T-Ray, who was perched on a tree branch, would toss down a net onto the clueless pig, while Boxer closed off the pen with a gigantic log, trapping the pig inside.
Jabber scouted out the pig’s den in a small thatch of brush. The gang crouched in the bushes. Jabber nodded for Jack to get ready, and then he rushed the nest from behind and flushed out the pig. Through a flurry of leaves, a gigantic pale pink swine bolted out of the bushes. The pig took off like a chubby torpedo, sprinting out of the nest, heading right for Jack. Dodging the initial charge of the animal, Jack tore after the pig. In spite of their stumplike legs, pigs were really quick. Not cheetah fast, but still fast enough to get Jack racing through the trees, his blood pumping. He chased the pig toward the pen, but it took a sharp right turn and headed away from the trap. Pulling up and banking right, Jack tried to corral the pig back in a wide circle.
The plan worked. Jack went right and the pig went left. The pig’s stubby little legs charged toward the pen. Jack had done it. Just a few more yards, and he was home free. Then the pig suddenly stopped running, skidding to a halt right in front of a clump of bushes. Raising its hairy snout into the air, the pig took a few big sniffs. Jack slowed down. He didn’t trust that pig. Something was up. Why was the pig just standing there? If Jack wasn’t mistaken, it seemed to be waiting for him, craning its neck back and peeking over its shoulder. Once Jack was in close range, the pig let out a deafening squeal.
It was a warning cry. The bushes erupted as three other pigs char
ged toward Jack. Nothing was worse than a pig with a plan. Jack skidded in the dry leaves, stumbled, and grappled on his hands and knees as he ran back toward the pen. Four angry, volcanic-breath swine were hot on his heels.
“The pig has friends!” he yelled. “They’re coming! They’re right behind me!”
Jack barreled into the pen and fell to the ground. Two of the pigs followed right behind. He sprang to his feet just in time for T-Ray to drop the net on him and one of the pigs. Jack grabbed at the pig, trying to calm down the animal’s flailing hooves and mad squeals. Closing off the pen, Boxer tossed the log across the opening. Jack lay flat on his back, tangled in the net with the angry pig clutched in his arms. And though technically he had succeeded, he didn’t feel like such a winner. He had fumbled his way to victory, and he knew it. Boxer picked up the other pig and tossed it over and out of the pen while T-Ray and Jabber clapped and cheered.
“Great job!” yelled T-Ray. “You did it, Jack!”
“If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought you had done this before.” Jabber bent down and helped Jack to his feet, untangling the net.
“You knew this pig wasn’t alone, didn’t you?” Jack wrestled to hold on to their catch.
Jabber placed his hat back on his head. “Of course.”
“And you knew it would chase me, not the other way around.”
“You made splendid bait.” Jabber clapped him on the back.
“Pigs have very high IQs, so don’t be ashamed that it got the jump on you,” T-Ray said, picking a twig out of Jack’s hair.
“Don’t worry. You’ve got potential. A man can do great things with potential,” Jabber said.
Boxer walked up. “Want me to carry that pig back for you?” he asked, taking the squirming pig out of Jack’s arms. While he held it, T-Ray tied a rope over the pig’s neck, and they all headed back to camp together.
The final phase of new kid syndrome was complete. They played a trick on Jack and all got a good laugh at his expense. Jack was in.
Back by the fire, Boxer chopped the wood with an ax. Violet stoked the fire, blowing softly on the glowing flames. She still never looked at him. Jack turned away and scratched the chin of the pig that was now tied up behind the wagon, just like he had been. Violet walked over to him and reached her hand out to grab the rope attached to the pig, and as she did, she brushed her hand against the bare skin of his arm. Jack jerked his hand away suddenly, stupidly. He hadn’t meant to, but her skin was snowy cold. She sneered, taking his reaction the wrong way.