The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel

by Laura Quimby

  “Let me help you,” Jack said, taking the pig by the rope. He was stunned. Her eyes were a shockingly bright violet color. He gawked and sputtered, trying to think of something to say as the pig squealed.

  “Bring it then, and stop staring. What? Are you a half-wit?”

  “No, I just don’t have a lot of experience with pigs.” Could he have said anything more stupid? Who has experience with pigs, beside pig farmers?

  “It won’t come with you willingly. It knows where it’s headed. You’ll have to carry it.” Violet rolled her eyes. Jack struggled to pick up the squirming pig in his arms and followed her.

  “I suppose you want me to butcher it for you?” she asked.

  “Oh. Um. I’ve never killed an animal before.” He hadn’t realized that the pig he was carrying was going to be their dinner, and his stomach rolled over.

  “Can you?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

  Jack never actually thought about it before. “I guess if I had to.” As Jack set the pig down, Violet’s hair comb fell out of his pocket and onto the ground at his feet, broken in two. He forgot that he had picked her comb up earlier. The comb must have snapped when he was chasing the pig. Jack panicked and tried to grab it before she saw it.

  “What’s that?” Violet asked, staring down at the comb and then reaching up and touching her hair. Her eyes opened wide as she realized her comb was missing.

  “I’m sorry.” Jack held the beautiful and broken hair comb in his hand.

  “You stole my comb!” Violet bunched up her fists.

  “No. It wasn’t like that. I was going to give it back. I swear.” Jack tried to hand her the pieces, but she wouldn’t take them.

  “You are a thief and a liar.” She raised her voice, and the other minions looked over at them.

  “It’s made of shell, and it must have broken when I fell to the ground. I should have given it back right away.”

  “Beautiful things tend to break easily,” she said.

  “I’ll get you a new one. I swear.”

  “Look around.” Violet reached her arms out and let them flop to her sides in frustration. “There aren’t any pretty things here.”

  “It’s still nice.” Not knowing what else to do with the pieces of the comb, Jack handed them to her again. Violet snatched up one of the pieces and threw it into the woods.

  “No one wants something once it’s broken.”

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  “T-Ray, take the pig to the block,” Violet yelled, anger and sadness in her voice.

  T-Ray ran over and grabbed the squealing pig and carried it behind the wagon.

  “I’ll kill it. Our new friend Jack’s had a long first day.” Violet spun around and grabbed a long knife and headed for the block. Jack was glad he wasn’t that pig.

  All the kids gathered around the fire to roast the pig until it was crisp and juicy. Jack had never tasted anything so delicious and tender in his entire life. Grease rolled down his chin. With his stomach full, he rested his back against a tree and relaxed. The fire warmed Jack’s face, and he felt comfortable with his new friends for the first time since arriving in the forest. Violet completely ignored him, but T-Ray assured him that she would forgive him, maybe in like twenty or thirty years. After dinner they roasted marshmallows on long thin sticks, dipping them into the flames. Jack toasted his marshmallow until it was golden crispy brown, and the hot gooey center almost burned his tongue.

  “Mine’s on fire!” T-Ray yelled, leaping to his feet. Waving his stick in the air, T-Ray tried to extinguish his marshmallow, which had erupted into flames. Mussini, hearing the commotion, threw the flap back and barreled out of his tent. He grabbed T-Ray’s stick and waved the burning glob high in the air. With a showman’s dramatic flair, he threw his head back and slowly lowered the burning marshmallow toward his open mouth. The fiery glob inched its way painfully closer until the marshmallow extinguished with a scorching sizzle in his mouth. Mussini stuck out his big pink tongue, completely unharmed, and took his bow. The kids cheered and talked amongst themselves.

  No one was paying attention to him, so Jack took the opportunity to slip away. He hurried over to his tent and ducked inside, grabbing his duffel.

  “Going somewhere?” Jabber asked, waiting outside of the tent for him.

  Jack threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and tried to maneuver past Jabber. “I’m getting out of here.”

  “No you’re not.” Jabber crossed his arms and blocked Jack’s path.

  Jack pushed against him, but Jabber didn’t budge. “Get out of my way.”

  “Keep your voice down. Do you want to get yourself killed?” Jabber raised his voice and yelled out, “Hey, Amazing Mussini! I think the gang would like to hear a bedtime story.”

  “Do they?” Mussini called back. “And what kind of story is that?”

  “A scary story. One to keep them in line and hopefully alive.” Jabber took the duffel off of Jack’s shoulder and tossed it back inside the tent. Mussini raised his arms in the air and waved the kids closer.

  “Gather round the fire, and I’ll tell the tale of the Death Wranglers and why you will never escape the Forest of the Dead.”

  Jack didn’t appreciate being dragged by the collar back to the campfire by Jabber. He got the hint. No need for Jabber to get pushy. He plopped down on a log and hung his hands between his knees. Darkness crept up around them. The glowing fire cracked and popped as the flames licked the black night sky.

  The Amazing Mussini rubbed his massive hands together and waved them in the air over the fire. The flames danced under his fingers as if he commanded them. Mussini dipped his hand into the blaze, held a ball of fire in his palm, and threw it up into the sky, where it broke into a thousand single sparks that showered down on the gang.

  “The Land of the Dead is a dangerous place. And a dangerous place needs a guard who is fearless, heartless, brutal, and unkind.”

  Runt gulped, and a collective shudder rolled over the group. Mussini had them right where he wanted them.

  “The Death Wranglers are neither men nor animals. They have the massive head of a bull with cruel spiraling horns and the Herculean body of a man. They are creatures bound to the earth. They are beasts of burden with only one task: to keep anyone from leaving.” Mussini glared at Jack as he emphasized the last phrase and then repeated the word: Anyone.

  “Patrolling the woods endlessly, they do not sleep. It is said they are the children of the Minotaur, beasts of myth. Burdened as the gatekeepers, they do not rest.” With blazing eyes, Mussini rose up above the fire.

  “You cannot escape them once they pick up your scent. They will hunt you through the Never-Ending Forest.” In the light of the fire Mussini looked like a man ripped from the pages of myth himself, larger than a mortal man. Jack swallowed hard. Runt shuddered and clutched on to Violet; even T-Ray had a wide-eyed look on his face.

  But Jack realized something and felt a small hope: If there were gatekeepers, then there was a gate—a way out of this place. It was as if someone had slipped him a note or whispered a secret into his ear. The gatekeepers guarded the wall. But they were just another obstacle, that was all. Jack leaned back and propped his feet up on a log, trying to shake out the nervous tension that had crept into his body.

  “The Death Wranglers guard the only way out of the forest.”

  “The wall,” Runt mumbled, his voice quivering.

  “That’s right. The wall is the only way out, and it’s heavily patrolled. No one gets through the wall alive.”

  Jack remembered the night he arrived in the forest and how Mussini passed right through. He must be in tight with the Death Wranglers. If Mussini could travel back and forth, then so could he.

  “But you cross through the wall,” Jack said, deciding to give the bear a poke.

  “You are correct. I made a deal with the Death Wranglers to pass through the gate.” Mussini brushed his palms together, and when he did, Jack saw that
they were blackened from the fire.

  “What kind of deal? What did you trade them?” Jack asked.

  “I traded them a magical gift. A special something just for them.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s enough,” Jabber said, kicking the log that Jack was sitting on.

  “A smart boy like you should know when to be very careful, Jack. The Death Wranglers don’t show mercy,” Mussini said.

  “No mercy,” Runt whispered.

  “But don’t fear the forest, my children. You are always safe with me around,” Mussini said.

  Jabber stood and corralled the kids toward their tents. “Time for bed.”

  Safe like a fly in a spider’s web, Jack thought as he made his way to the tent with the other boys. Jack slept in the tent with Boxer, Runt, and T-Ray. Jabber and Violet each slept in their own tents, and Mussini had his own tent, though the canvas walls did little to muffle the volcanic snores. After hearing the story, everyone was a bit jumpy. Boxer took the lantern and inspected the grounds.

  “No Death Wranglers or animal tracks. No nothing,” Boxer said as Runt pulled on his sleeve.

  “Check my hammock for spiders, will ya?”

  “All clear,” Boxer said, after scanning Runt’s hammock with the lantern.

  “A kid could get scared here. Not me, but you could,” Runt said to Jack, holding on to Boxer’s arm. “Mussini and Boxer keep us safe.”

  T-Ray climbed up into the hammock above Jack. Runt leaped into his hammock and let one of his legs dangle over the edge.

  “Let’s tell Jack the rules of the top hammock,” Boxer said.

  “No!” Runt squealed.

  Jack had the feeling the rules were made specifically for Runt.

  “Rule number one: No farting in the top hammock,” Boxer said. He had the dubious honor of sleeping in the hammock under Runt.

  “It’s too late. Too late!” Runt yelled as a cacophony of toots erupted from above. Boxer snatched his blanket up over his face and yelled, “Shields up!”

  T-Ray and Jack followed Boxer’s lead and pulled their blankets up over their noses to avoid the stench of Runt’s farts.

  “Rule number two: No monkey swinging,” Boxer said, grabbing ahold of Runt’s leg to still it after he’d gained momentum from swinging it.

  “Rule number three: No peeing from the top hammock. Go outside to pee.”

  “Gross. Runt, tell me you didn’t do it,” Jack said, laughing.

  “I thought I could make it out the flap without climbing down,” Runt said.

  “Earthquake!” Boxer yelled as he lifted his feet and bounced Runt around in a simulated earthquake.

  “Rule number four,” Runt yelled, clutching the edge of his hammock for dear life. “No kicking from the bottom hammock.”

  “Boxer, you should get hazard pay for sleeping under Runt,” T-Ray said as he extinguished the lantern, casting the tent into shadows.

  “It’s not so bad,” Boxer said.

  Jack didn’t sleep. He waited all night while one by one the others drifted off. He was familiar with the sound a person’s breathing made when he fell asleep, probably from sleeping in the group home, with kids all lined up, sleeping in metal bunk beds with skinny mattresses and noisy springs. His mind raced as he planned his escape. The faster he got out of there, the better.

  This wouldn’t be Jack’s first attempt at escape. The first time he ever ran away was when he was seven. After leaving the priest and his wife, he was sent to a new family. One day after lunch, he tied up a shirt and some clothes and stuffed his pockets full of sunflower seeds. It wasn’t that the family was so terrible; he couldn’t even remember them. The family just wasn’t right for him. And so he walked down to the railroad tracks and followed them out of town, leaving a trail of chewed-on sunflower seed shells behind him.

  It was just starting to get dark, the sun sinking into the dirty metal horizon of train cars, when a red light spun on top of a police car in the distance. Jack heard the dogs barking and knew they were coming for him. Two German shepherds, dragging a police officer behind them, sniffed him out. He was afraid, but not of the officers, or the dogs with their wet noses twitching in the air, sniffing him madly as they circled him. Jack was afraid that there was no place in the world where he could hide.

  Sitting in the back of the police truck, the dogs locked up in their cage, Jack pulled a package of bologna from his bundle and tore off a wobbly pink circle. He ripped it into strips and slid the meat through the metal bars of the cage as the dogs devoured the lunch meat in chomps, licking his fingers with their warm tongues.

  No bars could hold Houdini, no cell, no prison. Sometimes a cage was real metal, sometimes a cage was invisible. Mussini had him inside invisible bars, but it was still a prison.

  Sleeping shadows loomed inside the dark tent. His right foot hung over the edge of his hammock and rested on the ground. The earth was cool under his bare foot. Sporadic bursts of snores and breathing filled the tent. Boxer was the loudest, not surprisingly. He looked like a kid who had been punched in the face a lot. Jack waited and then rolled slowly, letting his right arm fall to the ground; he slid from the hammock and onto his stomach. His hammock rocked above him. Boxer let out a loud snort, stopping Jack instantly. His pulse quickened, but he held steady until Boxer rolled over. Inching his way under his hammock, Jack pushed his duffel bag under the bottom edge of the tent and eased his body under the heavy canvas. The coolness of the early morning made him shiver.

  He jumped to his feet and went quickly, not waiting to check that the rest of the troupe was still asleep. Hesitation was deadly. The dawn had broken and it would be light soon. He had to hurry.

  The smell of damp, burned-out campfire filled the air. Guilt swept over him. Except for Mussini and perhaps Jabber, they had been nice people. But this was not his place. Jack’s plan was simple—retrace his steps down the road from where he came. And for the first time, he hoped he would get lucky and hit a wall.

  He ran down the road till the air began to sting his lungs. The forest was a foreign landscape and could be filled with anything—lost souls like Mussini, wild animals, ghostly spirits and their keepers, the Death Wranglers. Jack tried to ignore Mussini’s story, but the man’s voice echoed in his head. This was not a good place to get lost. He rubbed the tattoo on his wrist and realized how helpful the mark of Mussini would be in getting out of the forest. He just didn’t know how to make the magical compass work. He squinted down at his wrist and willed it to come to life, but nothing happened. Jack snorted. Magic wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  Strange sounds surrounded him. He heard a noise behind him, rustling in the trees, snapping twigs underfoot. He was probably just paranoid. A chain rattled. Demon or wild boar? Yeah, that’s what it was, just an animal. He heard it again. Something was out there, following him. In a rush of panic, Jack broke through the trees and ran, pushing the branches aside, swimming through the deep darkness. Shadows raced through the trees alongside him. Jack jumped off the road and into the bushes to hide.

  Running like a scared rat was futile. All he could do was try to defend himself by outsmarting the creature. He pulled his duffel around and reached inside for something to use as a weapon. Pulling a pair of handcuffs out of the bag, he held the two cuffs together, letting the steel rest on the outside of his fist like makeshift brass knuckles. He took a few deep breaths before taking off again, darting from one safe clump of trees to the next, glancing over his shoulder to see if the creature was following him.

  Jack listened, his back pressed stone-still against a tree. Footsteps pounded the ground behind him. He burrowed down behind the tree and peered back. The beast was coming, parting the early mist with his hulking body. Jack’s heart raced. A huge dark form strode through the underbrush right toward him. All Jack could make out in the low light were two huge horns spiraling out of the beast’s enormous bull-shaped head. A Death Wrangler!

  He had to do something. He only had a m
inute or two until the Death Wrangler reached him, and if he ran, the Death Wrangler would see him instantly. Hiding wasn’t an option anymore. The massive bull didn’t look like the type to go out for a leisurely morning stroll. He was on a mission, and that mission was to bring Jack back. Just like the German shepherds, he was hunting Jack down.

  Jack had to think fast. He felt the handcuffs in his hands, and then he got an idea. If he was quick enough it just might work.

  He waited for the hulking half-man, half-bull to get closer and closer. The ground shook. Jack waited one more second. Then, he sprang, closing the handcuffs around one massive wrist. The choking hand of the Death Wrangler wrapped around Jack’s throat, lifting him off his feet. Jack thrust all of his weight to one side, sending the beast spinning off balance. They both fell against a tree, and Jack spun him around, forcing the Death Wrangler’s back against the tree. He pulled his other hand around until both wrists touched, handcuffing the enormous beast to the tree.

  He did it. Jack trapped the Death Wrangler. He slumped to the ground and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Hoots of laughter filled the air. Not exactly what Jack was expecting from a mythological tyrant.

  “Ha-ha! He got you, Boxer!” T-Ray came running out of the trees and grabbed the mask off of the large creature handcuffed to the tree, exposing an exasperated and sweaty boy. Jack hadn’t captured a Death Wrangler at all. The creature stalking him was just Boxer in disguise. T-Ray held up an enormous papier-mâché head of a bull in his hands.

  “What’s going on?” Jack asked.

  Jabber and Runt appeared from behind the trees.