by Laura Quimby
“What’s OK?” Jack sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. His fingertips were pruned from being in the water for so long.
T-Ray sat down on a trunk and stared at the ground. “It’s OK if you want to take off without us. I don’t want to hold you back and ruin your chance of getting out of here.”
“Why would I want to do that? I told you that we’ll get out of this place together.” Jack grabbed his pillow and threw it at T-Ray, who caught it with a relieved smile.
“Yeah, I know you did, but you’ve always been on your own.” T-Ray’s brow wrinkled. “It would be easier for you.”
“Easy isn’t my style. Plus, the plan will work. It has to,” Jack said, putting his hands behind his head.
“I guess so.” He paused. “You know, I’m glad were friends. ‘Cause we won’t make it by ourselves. We’re not like you, Jack. We need you really bad.” T-Ray threw the pillow back at Jack and climbed up into his hammock. T-Ray thought for a minute and said, “But you could really drown. And then what are we gonna do?”
“Great, you’re gonna give me nightmares now.” Jack closed his eyes and rolled over in his hammock. It was strange being needed. He had spent so much time in his life not needing anyone; it never occurred to him that others might need him. It made him feel warm and suffocated at the same time.
“Hey, have you packed up your stuff? We have to be ready to go. Halloween is our only shot.”
“Funny how the night of the dead is my last chance to escape alive.”
“It’ll be fine.” Though Jack was not entirely convinced.
“I’m not worried for me. Seriously. I’m worried about you,” T-Ray said.
“You’re not the only one.”
Jack barely remembered going to bed. He fell into a deep sleep as if floating on the ocean surface, the waves rocking him to sleep until he sunk deeply to the sandy bottom of his dreams.
From backstage, Jack peered through the curtain. Flaming torches burned through the darkness, sending glowing phantom trails into the sky and illuminating the theater with an eerie glow. He shivered. The dead were packed in like sardines; it was a full house. It was the most important show yet, Jack thought—his life depended on it. Literally.
Everyone was in position: Violet’s cool arm brushed against his, T-Ray waited with the gear, and Boxer gripped his ax so hard, his knuckles turned white. Jack hoped that Jabber lived up to his end of the bargain. If not, there was no way he would make it out alive.
With his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, Jabber glided out onto the stage, his black hat askew on his head. He stopped dead center, head bowed, and waited. A hush fell over the audience.
“I must warn all of you that what you will see tonight is highly dangerous. The show could be a nightmare realized, or it could be a magnificent triumph. Anything could happen. But then again it is Halloween, a dangerous night. Not for the faint of heart, now, is it?”
The audience snickered and bobbed their masked heads while Jabber continued with his speech.
“Tomorrow may be All Saints’ Day, but there are only sinners here tonight. And tonight is our night. This is the finale you’ve all been waiting for.” The crowd cheered madly. “The one time we can return to the land of the living, if we dare. It will not be easy. See there!”
Jabber leaped to the edge of the stage, pointed to the back of the theater, and everyone in the audience turned around, adjusting their masks to get a good view.
“A Death Wrangler has joined us! They will be out in full force tonight to make sure there is fair play if anyone wants to make a run for the wall.”
The crowd gasped and clapped. Jack’s stomach dropped. Jabber and Mussini failed to mention that a Death Wrangler would be at the show, a minor detail but a major blow. The hulking bull head rose above the crowd as the creature stood and snorted an acknowledgment. The mythical beast was twice the size of Boxer, with massive spiral horns curving out of his black furry head. A thick gold ring dangled from his round snout, and his eyes were pitiless black orbs. The audience gave the creature a wide berth.
The crowd turned its attention back to Jabber, who glanced at the curtain as if he could feel Jack’s burning glare on his back.
“There are no warm-up acts tonight. We begin with the best. The Kid will perform his most dangerous trick. In mere moments you will see why we don’t bother with life insurance in the Forest of the Dead.” Jabber paused, the audience captivated. “Jack just might be one of us when it’s over.”
Jabber took his position. The curtain rose, revealing the torture cell standing alone on the stage. Silence filled the theater as if the dead had just sucked in their last breath. Jabber pulled a stopwatch from his pocket. Jack hesitated. It was all up to him.
He dropped his towel and walked out onto the stage barefoot and dressed in his swimming shorts. The crowd stared at him from behind their most elaborate feathered masks and bejeweled costumes. The dead were no longer people, but the dream of people who had shed their old selves and slipped into new glittery skins. And there was Jack in the flesh, just a boy, alone in this strangely beautiful, lifeless world.
He didn’t need to say a word as the trick began. Violet followed him onto the stage, her cold hands giving him goose bumps as she attached the shackles around his ankles and closed the cuffs around his wrists. Jack lay down on the hard wooden stage as the floodlights danced around him. Boxer turned a crank, and the sound of the chain grinding against metal joined with the excited humming of the crowd. Jack’s feet and legs lifted into the air. His body hovered above the tank. He swayed back and forth like a pendulum hypnotizing the audience. Boxer lifted him higher and higher, momentarily hiding him in the curtain above the stage. Jack grabbed the velvet in his hands, hoping the plan would work.
The blood oozed down from his legs to his brain. As he dangled like a worm on a hook, Jack thought about the pathetic choices he had made in life, and how those choices had led him right to his current predicament. He wished that he had made some nicer friends, or done better in school, or not just drifted through life like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t matter. He had stopped caring about his life in the real world—Mildred called it being apathetic. But really, he had given up.
Life was a blur, it was happening so fast. Maybe he was in the middle, too—no longer a kid, definitely not an adult. He still had a chance, and he didn’t want to blow it anymore. His whole life, he’d been waiting for someone to believe in him. But fate didn’t care that his dad was a selfish jerk who didn’t stick around. Destiny had no pity that his mom wasn’t there to wipe his nose and bake him cookies. Sometimes there was only one person who was going to believe in a kid, and that person was himself.
The rope was lowering now. He could do this. After all, he was the Handcuff Kid.
Jabber paced around the tank and asked the audience, “Would anyone like to hold their breath to see if they can match the Kid? Just raise your hand and hold your breath if you want to take a crack at it.”
A half-dozen hands shot into the air from volunteers in the audience. Boxer took his position on the stage next to the tank; he grasped the ax in his hands, holding it out in front of him, so everyone could see it. The stopwatch dangled from a long silver chain, clasped in Jabber’s hand. Tension rose, the audience fidgeting and shifting in their seats as the seconds ticked by. Finally, a person rose from his seat.
“How long has it been? How long has the boy been under?”
Jabber checked the stopwatch and yelled out, “Thirty seconds!”
“That’s a long time. A very long time for a young boy,” a woman, dressed as a fairy, called up to the stage as she fluttered her wings. A little girl, seated next to her, pulled on her mother’s costume. “Mommy, is the boy OK?”
“I don’t know, baby,” she said, picking up the little girl.
“Let us see him!” another man yelled.
A man from the back of the theater jeered, followed by hoots and cackles, “He’s one of
us now!”
A long-beaked birdman stood on his seat. “He could be drowning and no one would know.” The crowd grew restless. They shivered and recoiled at the water that entombed him in the glass case; they felt the chains that bound him tighten on their own cold wrists.
“Pull the curtain off!”
“Yes! Let us see the boy!”
“One minute!” Jabber yelled. Boxer wrung his huge hands around the handle of the ax—it was all that could save Jack now.
A woman staggered in the aisle, clutching her chest. “Does anyone else feel it? I can feel him dying.”
Boxer’s head jerked toward Jabber. He motioned toward the tank. He gripped and regripped the ax, his palms slick with sweat. Jabber strolled around on the stage, swinging the silver watch, waiting and waiting, the second hand ticking and ticking. The audience was on its feet.
“He’s drowning!”
“He’s just a boy. For pity’s sake, help him.”
Jabber slipped the watch back into his pocket and finally snatched the curtain from the tank. The audience could see that Jack had twisted himself around so that he was upright in the tank. Something was wrong. The locks were still locked. The chains hung heavy around his limbs. Jack pounded on the glass with a weak fist. A cascade of air bubbles flowed from his blue lips. His skin was as pale as a fish belly. Jack’s eyes rolled back in his head. His limbs sunk to his sides. The shackles pulled him down, and he sunk to the bottom of the tank. His head rested on the glass. His eyes opened in a lifeless stare. Screams erupted throughout the theater. Jabber had waited too long.
“Save him!” the crowd yelled.
“The ax! Use the ax!”
Boxer stood motionless, staring at Jack’s lifeless body and then at Jabber. Dread flashed across his face. He held the ax out in front of him, suddenly unaware of what to do. He took a tentative swing at the tank but hesitated. A flood of fear and panic poured out of him. “You said the trick would work,” he said to Jabber. “You said I wouldn’t have to use it. And now look. He’s dead.” Boxer swung the ax down by his side, rushed the tank, and slapped the glass with his open palm. “Wake up, Jack! Wake up!”
Jabber raced over to Boxer’s side and tried to wrestle the ax out of his hand. “Give it to me. He still has a chance to live. We can save him.”
“Look at him! It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late. Give me the ax.”
“This is your fault. You waited on purpose. You wanted him dead. Loyal to the Amazing Mussini to the end.” Boxer glared at Jabber and then spun toward the audience. Looking out into the crowd, he locked eyes with Mussini. He pointed the ax. “I hope you’re happy now. Jack’s dead because of you and your show.” Boxer lifted the heavy ax and hurled it over the masks of the audience and right at Mussini. The heavy blade struck a pillar above Mussini’s head, but he didn’t even flinch, and then he rose slowly to his feet.
Jabber pushed Boxer toward the curtain. “Get off the stage now.”
Runt rushed up to the tank and pressed his face to the glass, staring into Jack’s lifeless eyes. “My new brother is dead!”
Trying to salvage the show and soak in the moment, Jabber returned to the tank and the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, have no fear. Jack will be fine. The show will go on.” He motioned to the tank. “Stand back, Runt.”
“Hurry, Jabber! We need to get him out of the tank.”
“Since the strongest kid alive has taken a break, may I have a volunteer from the audience?”
The audience hummed with whispers and gasps. No one moved; no one volunteered. Mussini scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes.
“He looks awfully dead.” Runt inspected Jack’s face through the glass.
Jabber sighed. “Well, if no one wants to help, I guess I will have to empty the tank myself.” Jabber walked back to the tank and pulled the drain plug. Water gushed from the drainage hole, which had been positioned to face the audience. Gallons of icy water poured out of a drain, gushing over the edge of the stage and into the crowd. Screams rose up from the struggling masses as they tried to get away from the water. Panic spread through the shoving and clawing crowd. Masks and feathers flew from shredded costumes up into the air. The dead ran for the aisles, charging the doors.
Mussini tried to push his way past the fleeing crowds to the front of the stage. “I want to see the boy! Get him out of the tank, Jabber. Bring him to me.”
The Death Wrangler thrust his weight forward to block the crowd, but he was trampled in a stampede of terrified audience members. Finally, the creature shoved the dead aside like dried corn husks and barreled toward the stage. Mussini followed in his wake.
If Jack had learned one thing in the Forest of the Dead, it was that death was all about perspective. Magic was all about tricking the eye. Jack knew the trick was too hard for him and that if he attempted to do it, Mussini’s plan of killing him would definitely work. So he and Jabber decided it was best to give Mussini what he wanted, and let Jack die in the tank.
Or so everyone thought.
When Boxer raised Jack above the stage, he was momentarily hidden by the curtain. That’s when the switch was made, and Skimmer was lowered into the tank in his place, though he charged Jabber extra for submerging him in water. Seeing as Skimmer was already dead, it didn’t matter how long he was under, and Jabber took his sweet time building suspense. Once the trick began, Jack climbed down the side of the curtain and waited backstage for his dead alter ego to be revealed. Mussini wasn’t dumb. He would soon discover that he had been duped, but in the minutes meantime, they would make their getaway.
“Mussini never saw it coming,” Jack marveled as he watched the magician react to seeing Jack dead in the tank. “He never expected me to fail. He thought I could do it.”
“He may have wanted you to die, but he’s a great magician, and he wants you to be one too. And succeeding at the torture cell would have made you one,” Violet said.
“But I failed by not even trying to do the trick.”
“And your utter failure just saved your life,” Violet reminded him.
“No one was expecting it,” Boxer said, rushing backstage. “Jabber’s a genius.”
“The dead hate water.” Violet wrung her hands and turned away from the screaming masses, now drenched. “They’re going wild to get out of the theater.”
Jack looked up at Boxer and smiled in relief. “Nice throwing. See how Mussini likes having a knife thrown at him.”
“That was a big knife,” Violet said. “Very theatrical.”
“I hate to break this up, but we’ve got to go,” T-Ray said. “Mussini will be after us. We can’t wait any longer.”
“One second.” Peering through the curtain, Jack saw a frantic maze of masks and spotted the Amazing Mussini trying to shove his way through. A dark rage twisted up Mussini’s face—his skin turned scarlet red. Mussini reached for his belt—for the knives—and in a second a blade sliced though the air, barely missing Jabber as the knife bounced off the glass of the tank. He knows! Mussini crashed into an audience member who had foolishly headed right for him.
“Get them! Get out of my way!” Mussini bellowed and pointed toward the stage. “Don’t let those kids escape!”
The kids rushed behind the theater to where the horses were waiting, packed with gear. Jack turned to say good-bye to violet. She brushed his hair out of his face. Jack had to leave her. It was his only choice. Was this how his mother and father felt? Was it possible to love someone so much and still have to leave her?
Violet’s hands were cold in his hands. Her violet eyes were like nothing he had ever seen. He threaded his fingers through hers; it felt like running his fingers through feathery snow. Violet was staying in the forest, and so were Jabber and Runt, but this was not the fate of the others. It was time to ride.
“Thanks, Violet. For everything,” Jack said. “We couldn’t have done it without your help.” Jack’s heart ached. He never could have saved her. “Tell Ja
bber thanks, too.” He wondered if Jabber would end up like Mussini one day, rotting and twisted, caught in the choke hold between life and death. He hoped not—maybe he’d move on to the river one day like he should.
“I will. But please go. Hurry. Mussini will make a last-ditch effort to stop you. Remember, he’s a magician. He’ll try and trick you. Don’t let him win.” Violet gave Jack one last look before turning to help T-Ray and Boxer mount their horses.
Jack positioned his wrist out in front of him and commanded the magic compass to appear. “The North Wall!” The mark of Mussini sprung to life, the arrow spinning on his wrist and then stopping as the North Wall appeared off to the left, directing them where to go. Jack realized in that moment as he stared down at his wrist, this was their last chance. He gave his horse a kick and they took off into the woods.
Jack held on as the horse galloped through the trees. Mussini and more Death Wranglers would be in quick pursuit, but he didn’t care. He was leaving, running away from the best family he had ever known, leaving it all behind and letting go.
A full moon hung overhead, illuminating the trees as impenetrable as prison bars. The horse ran faster and faster, dodging through the trees, toward the wall. A rush of wind blew against Jack’s face. He was so close, but he could feel the urgency of pursuit building all around him. Jack could feel Mussini gaining on him with every second.
And then, up ahead something flashed, bright and burning. The sudden brightness reminded him of his first night in the forest, when they all sat around the campfire and Mussini waved his hands over the fire and held the flame in his palm. A warm wave of air hit Jack right in the face. Flames reached up into the darkness. The North Wall was no longer just a wall. If Jack wanted to get out of the forest, he would have to walk through a wall engulfed in fire.