by Laura Quimby
The battered horns appeared first, rising up out of the trapdoor. And then the enormous creature with the body of a man and the head of a bull climbed out of the pit. The beast circled Jabber, snorted and growled, but he never looked up into the trees. The beast was huge compared to Jabber. There was no way Jabber could put up a fight. The Death Wrangler stared into Jabber’s face, his black eyes pitiless. Jabber stood his ground, not moving a muscle, never once flinching or recoiling from the beast. Finally, the Death Wrangler spoke with a deep, gruff voice.
“You invaded our territory, charge of Mussini.”
“Yes, I did. But it was for a good reason.”
“For your sake, it better be.”
Jabber walked over behind the tree and picked up the mask of the Death Wrangler that Boxer had worn to scare Jack. Jabber held up the likeness to the beast and bowed, going down on one knee, presenting the mask as an offering. “I offer you this gift in thanks.”
Jack didn’t think that a huge papier-mâché likeness of the Death Wrangler’s head was that great a gift, but Jabber treated the crude craft project like a sculpture that had been dipped in bronze.
The beast snorted and walked around Jabber, wary of the prize. “Is this a trick?”
“No trick.” Jabber set the mask at the Death Wrangler’s feet. “An offering of thanks for letting us pass through the wall two nights ago.”
“It is good to bring us gifts.” The Death Wrangler picked up the mask and held it gently out in front of his huge body. “I will take this back to the others. But beware, charge of Mussini, you are not free to enter the labyrinth ever again. Gift or no gift, we will punish you severely.”
“Yes, sir. I will remember.” Jabber bowed his head until the Death Wrangler climbed back down into the pit and closed the hatch behind him. No one moved until the rumbling beneath the earth stilled.
Runt slid down his tree. “You’re a hero, Jabber.”
Boxer crawled out of the pile of leaves. “You saved me. He never knew I was here.”
“No problem.” Jabber brushed his palms together cheerfully, as if the entire incident was nothing.
“Weren’t you scared? One swipe and the Death Wrangler could have wiped you out.” Runt made wild swinging motions with his arms.
Jack listened to them chat from up in the tree, and then finally climbed down, ashamed that he had been weak and cowardly—frozen in the treetops while Boxer struggled on the ground. Jabber was the strong one, facing the Death Wrangler, saving them all.
He offered Jabber his hand. “That was really smart. I owe you. I should have listened when you said not to go into the labyrinth,” Jack said, struggling to admit his mistake out loud.
“You don’t owe me. It wasn’t you I was saving.” Jabber brushed the dirt off of his top hat and secured it back on his head without shaking Jack’s hand. “Now let’s go home.”
When they got back to camp, it was fully light and Violet was stirring a big bubbling pot of oatmeal over the campfire. She looked up as Jack passed by.
“I suppose you want your breakfast now that you’re back.”
“Sure. Did you kill that oatmeal all by yourself?” he tried to joke, but he was too tired; his arms and legs felt like limp rubber bands.
Violet’s eyes went wide. She reached out and touched a scratch on Jack’s cheek that he didn’t even know he had. “What happened? Boxer didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No, it was my fault. I screwed up and put us in danger. And what’s worse, I knew I was doing it and did it anyway.”
“This place is dangerous. It’s not like back there. Your old home.”
Runt ran up and squeezed between Jack and Violet. “Violet, I’m going back to bed. Wake me for lunch, please.” Runt went into the tent, and Jack tried to follow before Jabber stopped him.
“I’ll take this.” Jabber took Jack’s duffel bag. “Mussini wants to have a word with you, and I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Jabber walked Jack to the Amazing Mussini’s tent. Through the flap Jack could see the inside of the tent was much more luxurious than their humble hammocks. Persian carpets covered the ground, and jewel-toned lanterns cast a colorful glow. Silky pillows littered a round futon on the floor. It looked like the Arabian Nights had exploded all over the place.
Jabber pushed Jack inside the tent and nodded to a stool for Jack to sit on. Mussini didn’t face him, but whirled a thick bristle brush in a bowl, working up a lather of shaving foam.
“I summoned you here to discuss your act in the show.”
“You’re not angry at me for trying to escape?”
“Your escape was anticipated, Jack. I don’t waste my time on unnecessary emotions. When I’m angry with you, you will know it, and I won’t send a bunch of kids in masks to get you back. I’ll send the real Death Wranglers, and they’re twice the size of Boxer.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack reddened. Mussini had seen right through him. “Listen—can I just go home? I miss Mildred.” It was a futile attempt, but Jack had to ask. He sighed and sunk down into a cushion, too sweaty and exhausted to think of a clever argument.
“Never mind about the other side. We are your family now. This is your home.” With his face half-covered in shaving cream, Mussini stared at himself in a mirror.
“I don’t think he’s convinced, Mussini,” Jabber said. “Seems recklessness is in his blood.”
Mussini dragged a razor down each of his rough cheeks and wiped what was left of the foam from his face. Then he lifted a thin oilcloth blanket from his dresser, exposing a collection of long, sharp throwing knives. “Lovely, aren’t they? My first act onstage was throwing knives at a pretty girl who shook like a scared lamb. I was very good back then, never even nicked her delicate skin. Knives relax me.” His hands wavered over the deadly instruments like a surgeon selecting a scalpel. Snatching one up, without a second’s hesitation, Mussini spun the blade in the air, and it pierced the wooden support beam of the tent above Jack’s head as if spearing an invisible apple. Jack flinched and eyed the wobbling blade handle, mere millimeters from his scalp.
“Illusion is half skill, half lie. These beauties demand real talent.” Mussini picked up another knife and inspected the blade, pointing it at Jack. Then he suddenly rushed toward him, his face so close Jack got a good whiff of shaving cream and a good look at Mussini’s eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like to be dead. I can never go back to the real world as the man I was and breathe fresh air into my lungs.” Mussini pulled away, circling the tent. “Circumstances change. Magic was my life back then, but here, in the Land of the Dead, I have made it my destiny.”
Mussini removed his outer shirt and stood in front of Jack in a white undershirt. He leaned one of his biceps toward Jack so that he could get a good look at the huge tattoos that covered both arms. Each tattoo was of a woman. One was a wicked redhead with a stunning face and devilish grin, and the other was a pale, angelic woman with a cascade of blond hair around her shoulders. Jack swallowed, mesmerized by Mussini and the beautiful women inked into his skin forever.
“I am in the middle of two beautiful women. One is my heaven; one is my hell. I can never leave the forest, Jack. All I have is the show. Nothing will stop it. Do I have your word you won’t try and escape again?”
“I’m not making any promises. Especially ones I can’t keep.” Jack stood his ground, wanting to see just how much chain Mussini was going to give him before yanking him back. Foolish, perhaps, especially standing face-to-face with a man whose relaxing hobby was throwing knives at people, but Jack knew that to show a sign of weakness was worse than a sign of insolence. And he was sick of being afraid.
Mussini grabbed the knife out of the splintered wood above Jack’s head and set it back on the dresser. Turning around, he pulled the neck of his shirt down. Jack expected to see another tattoo on Mussini’s chest, but what he saw caused his stomach to drop to his shoes. He reeled away from the man, stumbled backward over the stool, and fell onto the carpet.
It was grotesque and wondrous at the same time. Beneath his shirt, a huge patch of skin over Mussini’s chest was clear, almost translucent, like a sheet of plastic wrap. Under the thin surface of clear skin, his bloody heart was still beating, thumping in his body; pumping blood through a dead man. It couldn’t be real.
“What are you?” Jack gasped.
“A magician!” Mussini glowered at Jack. He adjusted his shirt and grinned.
“But you’re dead,” Jack said.
“Technically, yes, I am dead, but my heart refuses to die. A man is nothing without heart, Jack. Illusion is everything, even if it isn’t real.”
Jack stumbled to his feet. Now he knew why Mussini wasn’t afraid of anything. He had already conquered death. Jabber pulled the handcuffs out of Jack’s bag and set them on the table in front of the Amazing Mussini.
“What do we have here?” Mussini swung one of the handcuffs around on his finger.
Jack tried to grab the cuffs from Mussini. “Hey, those are mine.”
“He’s good with them, quick, too,” Jabber said. “You should have seen him trap Boxer. I thought maybe he could use them in his act.”
“Our escapist. Our handcuff magician.” Mussini grinned at Jack. “It’s brilliant!”
Mussini turned to Jabber. “Help him. We’ll put him on early to test him out. See how he does. Oh, this is interesting. I might have actually gotten my trouble’s worth for this scrap.”
Jack followed Jabber out of the tent. “What was that all about?”
“We get into the next town tomorrow, and if I were you, I would start worrying about my act.”
Jack stuffed his handcuffs back into his duffel bag. “I don’t have an act.”
“You’re either a magician or you’re deadweight,” Jabber said.
“I guess if those are my choices, I’d rather be a magician than dead.”
“We’ll help you and get you anything you need. Trust me—it’s only utterly terrifying the first dozen or so times. Then it gets slightly terrifying.”
“What does?” Jack asked.
Jabber smiled. “Performing for the dead.”
After leaving Mussini’s tent, Jack wandered over to the campfire, which was now just a mound of smoldering coals. A good stoke and some kindling would set the fire ablaze again, or the coals, if left alone, would cool off and die down to ash. That’s how Jack felt, like he could go either way. Being threatened only made Jack more determined to get out, but after seeing Mussini for the monster he truly was, Jack knew he couldn’t do it alone. He needed allies. He rested his back up against a tree and stared down into the glowing coals. His shoulders relaxed against the bark. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. His head bobbed. His eyes fluttered closed.
A deep guttural moan echoed from the distant woods. The Death Wranglers! Startled, Jack jumped to his feet, but when he stared down at himself, he was wearing Jabber’s black clothes and top hat. Mussini and Jabber tromped through the woods toward him, dragging a long chain between them. Jack couldn’t move, but could only watch them advance. Mussini wrapped the heavy links of chain around and around, cocooning Jack in the heavy metal.
“Stop it! Let me go!” Jack screamed, but Mussini ignored his pleas and continued winding the chains from his feet to his neck. Off in the distance, the wooden doors of dozens of hatches to the labyrinth opened up at once. The huge, armored bodies of Death Wranglers poured out of the underworld with swords in hand. Cries of battle filled the air as they ran toward him faster than he thought beasts that big capable.
“Let’s see how brave you are now.” Jabber shoved Jack, encased in his metal-chain cocoon, to the ground and covered him in a pile of dry leaves. The ground rumbled and shook under the heavy boots of the army headed right for him.
“Fine, bring it on.” Jack squeezed his eyes shut but within seconds felt hands grabbing the chains and shaking him. But when he opened his eyes, it was Professor Hawthorne. “You came for me!” Jack exclaimed. “Hurry, Professor, the Death Wranglers are coming.”
The professor’s clothes were rumpled, his hair a wild mess. He yanked Jack up to a sitting position and looked into his eyes, but he didn’t loosen the chains. “Listen to me. Stay out of the labyrinth, my boy. Don’t go underground. There is another way. Be cunning. Use Mussini’s magic against him.”
“Help me, Professor. You can’t leave me here.”
“I’m sorry, my boy. I can’t save you. They’re coming.” The professor’s image wavered. He drifted backward and melted into the forest. Jack thumped over into a pile of leaves, the chains weighing him down. His head hit the ground that trembled with the force of the approaching Death Wranglers.
“Let me go! Let me go!” Jack yelled, and suddenly the shaking stopped. He was awake, lying on the ground, surrounded by strangely masked faces.
A sharp-beaked bird cocked its head to the side. “You fell asleep.”
“Must have had a bad dream.” A short gray mouse wearing a black jacket inched closer to him. A huge bear-masked kid wearing a T-shirt lifted him to his feet and dusted him off.
“Boxer, is that you?” Jack asked.
Boxer pulled off the bear mask. “Are you OK? You were calling out and shaking on the ground.”
Jack ran his hands through his sweat-drenched hair. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t worry. The nightmares go away eventually.” Runt lifted his mouse mask up off his face and gave Jack a light punch on the arm. “The Halloween tour will take your mind off of it.”
“What’s the Halloween tour?” Jack asked, hoping that might explain the masks they were wearing.
“Our show just started our Halloween tour. We travel from town to town all leading up to the finale on October thirty-first,” Boxer explained.
“Halloween’s the best night! It’s the Night of the Dead,” Runt said. “When the living and the dead can hang out. No rules, just scary fun. I can’t wait. There will be magic and costumes and candy and music.”
“And mayhem and ghosts and goblins,” Violet said.
“Time to practice your act. Come on.” Boxer slung Runt over his shoulder and headed toward a clearing in the trees. Runt leaned up and yelled, “Don’t worry, Jack. You still have time to get your act together before Halloween.”
Halloween was weeks away, and Jack didn’t want to think about being stuck in the forest that long. He watched as the others went about their routines, preparing the sets and costumes for the show. The campsite looked like a carnival garage sale. The lids of trunks hung wide open, their contents strewn around the forest floor. Yards of crushed velvet stretched out, and colorful costumes, bicycle wheels, and musical instruments littered the leafy ground. A group of upended crates with a board on top formed a worktable, which was covered with tubs of water and white paste. Gigantic forms, which looked like the skeletons of metal creatures with skinny metal bones, covered the makeshift table.
Jack looked at Violet. “What’s with the masks?”
“You put it on your face and you become something else,” Violet said, raising an eyebrow in his direction.
“I know what masks are, but what are you making them for?” Jack toyed with a thin strip of metal. On closer inspection, the finished masks were remarkably lifelike and decorated with brilliant colors and fabrics, fur and feathers. Wild animal masks and exotic long-beaked bird masks littered the table next to mythical beasts and glittery fairies.
“The masks are for the audience. It makes the dead feel like part of the show,” T-Ray said from his seat near the makeshift table. “Plus, it’s more fun to wear a mask. It’s a relief not to have to be yourself all the time.”
Jack motioned to a box of paper that T-Ray held in his lap. “What are those?”
“They’re part of the show.”
Jack dug his hand into the box and picked out one of the paper birds. The box was filled with frogs and dragonflies, butterflies and bears, all made of paper that looked like it had been torn out of a school notebook.
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��You made these?”
“Yes, and I’ve gotten pretty good. When I first got here, all I could make were paper airplanes. But I practiced really hard, and now I can make anything out of paper.”
Jack tried to imagine how long it would take to learn how to make the beautiful paper creatures. “How’d you get here? Mussini trick you, too?” Jack asked.
T-Ray pulled a worn-out Spider-Man comic book out of his back pocket. “It was all for him.”
Jack smiled. “What did Spidey ever do to you?”
“There was this comic book store near the apartment I lived in with my mom that I went to all the time. It used to be a magic shop before it went out of business, and the guy who owned it decided to sell comics instead. One day I noticed some old boxes in the storeroom, and I snuck back to see if the guy had some old comics that might be worth a lot of money.”
“Did you find any good ones?”
“No, but there were lots of leftover magic tricks and stuff. That’s when I found this really cool jewelry box with an M carved on the lid. My mom’s name is Meesha, and I thought she might like it. The owner of the shop wasn’t using any of that junk in the back. He probably wouldn’t have even missed it. So I took the box home and opened it. Turned out the M stood for Mussini. He came for me that night. I’ve been here ever since.”
“That stinks.” Jack shook his head. “The professor used a trunk to trap me.”
“I miss my mom. Do you really think—”
Jabber kicked through the leaves, cutting T-Ray off. “Jack, Mussini said I should help you out. Show you the ropes.”
Digging into his duffel, Jack pulled out three pairs of regulation handcuffs, the kind that cops use, nothing fancy or vintage, and set them on the table. Not what anyone would call an illustrious collection.
Jabber picked up one of Jack’s handcuffs and then tossed it back on the table, unimpressed. “This is all you’ve got?”
