by Laura Quimby
Up ahead, at a bend in the river, Jack saw a hodgepodge of old wooden buildings propped on high pilings. All the houses were connected to one another, either by wall or bridge. Some just leaned their old, tired walls against the building standing next door, and like gracious neighbors, the buildings held each other up. Smoke trailed out of rickety chimneys. Laughter and music floated down the river. Jack stopped and listened to the happy sounds.
“What is it?” Jack asked, walking up alongside Jabber.
“The River People.”
“River People? I thought the dead didn’t like water.”
“Normally they don’t, but when the dead realize that their time in the forest is ending, they are instinctively drawn here to the river. When the final boat comes for them, they take it gladly.”
Jabber motioned to the water’s edge. Rows of boats crowded the shoreline, resting against the docks like men sleeping on their backs, one against the other in their wooden beds. Jack followed Jabber up onto an old wooden pier. A maze of docks wove in between the rickety buildings like a dilapidated Venice with inky, reed-choked canals. The buildings balanced above the watery depths, and it was impossible to tell which came first, the city or the river.
Jabber quickly snaked between the buildings along the dock, and Jack tried to keep up while marveling at his surroundings. Laundry dangled from lines that hung from window to window. A boy walked along a wooden board that stretched across a thin arm of the river. He balanced fearlessly as if he were completely unaware of the dark water beneath him. Jabber stopped and adjusted his hat.
“This way,” he said. Jack admired the way Jabber expertly navigated the tangle of docks. He couldn’t tell which way he was going. To Jack, all the docks looked alike. They stopped at a food stand that was serving up sizzling-hot battered fish right out of the oil. Jabber placed his order and then turned to Jack.
“You want to follow this dock here around the bend and take a right. Then keep going until it smells like bread. Take a left, then keep going until you almost think you are lost and you see a sausage shop. Take a right. If you see an exceptionally round man with a tiny dog on his shoulder, stop, turn around, and run the other way. Whatever you do, don’t engage him in conversation. Then follow the dock until you hear a horrible banging like a hammer to the forge. The shop will be right in front of you.”
“Sounds easy enough.” Jack rolled his eyes. If he couldn’t find the place, at least he might end up getting a sausage sandwich.
Jabber took a grease-stained paper from the vendor. Jack eyed the crispy fish longingly.
“Run on now. We’ll meet back here when you’re done,” Jabber said, crunching down on a mouthful of fish.
Jack made his way through the city past the scent of bread and the sizzle of sausages, and the bang of the hammer, until he found his way to a shop with windows filled with all sorts of metal: jewelry, cutlery, knives, swords, even a suit of armor and shields. Inside, a girl with stringy brown hair and huge brown eyes stood behind the counter. She jumped when Jack opened the door. The glass cases were filled with gold and silver bangles and bracelets. Jack stared down at some silver rings and ropy gold necklaces.
“Do you have any hair combs?” he asked the girl, who was nibbling on her fingernails. She pointed nervously to a glass cabinet in the front of the store. Jack wondered why she was so jittery.
“Can I see that one?” Jack pointed to a pretty silver comb with a cluster of silver stars. He wanted to get Violet a metal comb so there was no chance it would accidentally break, but there were so many choices. Jack kept looking until he saw one that would look perfect in her dark hair.
“They come in a set.” The girl pulled the two combs out and handed them to Jack. He held them up, letting the metal catch and reflect the light.
“I’ll take them. Oh, um. How do I pay?” Jack winced. He had completely forgotten about the minor detail of money.
“New in the Forest of the Dead, are you? It’s easy. You just have to prove employment in the forest or neighboring towns and then Shepard, my boss, barters a service from your boss. Like a trade.”
“Cool. I work for the Amazing Mussini.”
The girl made a little yelp sound, and her brown eyes went wide.
“Do you know him?”
Her head bobbed up and down, and she scurried behind the counter to wrap up the combs. A loud clank echoed from the back room. The girl jumped again as her tiny fingers nimbly wrapped the combs and tied a bow around the package. Nice touch, Jack thought, but he couldn’t help wondering what made the girl so jumpy, especially when he mentioned Mussini. But then, just knowing Mussini was enough to make anyone a little nervous.
“Squirrel! Squirrel! Hurry up and give me a hand!” a man yelled from the back room, followed by more loud clanking. Jack figured there must be a workshop in the back.
“Is that your name? Squirrel?” Jack asked.
“Yes, it’s a nickname.”
“It’s cute.” Jack smiled. It definitely suited her.
The distinct hammering of metal chiming against metal echoed from the back room. Jack glanced over to a velvety green curtain, stained with splotches of oil, that separated the front and back of the shop. Another chorus of banging made the curtain tremble. A louder clank of a tool hitting the floor was followed by a litany of curses that made Jack and Squirrel smile.
“Squirrel! Bring me a Band-Aid!” a voice bellowed from the back.
The girl darted behind the curtain. Patience was not one of Jack’s virtues, so he inched his way over and peeked behind the curtain. The back room was dark except for the glow emanating from the soot-coated belly of a stove. A man wearing a welder’s mask was pounding away at a piece of metal. A shower of sparks leaped up every time the hammer slammed down.
Squirrel scurried into the room and spilled a box of Band-Aids all over the workbench. Her eyes practically bugged out of her head when she saw Jack had wandered into the back room. She waved him away, and Jack nodded. He didn’t want to get caught where he didn’t belong, especially with a guy brandishing a hammer, but when he turned around, he saw a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. Behind him, on the wall of the back room, was the most splendid sight. The wall was lined with shelves of every style, manner, and make of handcuffs that Jack had ever seen or read about. Even some he’d never heard of or imagined. A few of the cuffs were blackened or caked with rust, while some were shiny and bright, like freshly minted coins. It was a menagerie of manacles, the end of the rainbow—handcuff heaven.
A deep throat-clearing startled Jack into turning around again. The welder’s mask had been removed, revealing the man behind it. His face was wiry and weathered, his skin gaunt, and his bones close to the surface of his bluish skin. White hair sprung up all over his head, contrasting with his crystal blue eyes, giving him a frosty appearance. In fact, the man’s entire presence made Jack shiver, despite the heat that radiated from the stove. A wire-thin smile spread across the man’s face.
The three of them stood and stared, and it was Squirrel who broke the silence.
“He works for Mussini,” was all she said, and the smile wavered in the tanned folds of skin on the man’s face. His jaw clenched as if he were holding something back, like a bark or a bite. Jack swallowed hard.
“He does, does he?” the man said, forcing a grimace. “Any friend of Mussini is a friend of old Shepard.”
“We’re not actually friends. More like master and servant.”
“Of course. Come on into my office, and we can have a chat.”
Shepard motioned for Jack to come over to his workbench, and Jack wasn’t about to say no. He eased his way behind the tool-strewn worktable and sat up on a stool next to the man.
“Sorry we don’t have any tea and biscuits.”
“I’m not hungry, but thanks.” Jack glanced down at the workbench and caught sight of Shepard’s feet.
The laces had been pulled out of Shepard’s worn black leather shoes. But what
really caught Jack’s attention was above that. The skin was terribly raw. Black and purplish bruises encircled his bony ankles. They looked like they had been beaten on with a hammer. One thing that could cause those bruises was a heavy iron shackle with a short chain. The look of disgust on Jack’s face must have been apparent.
“Are you looking at what the executioner did to me? They had me chained up for weeks.” The man rubbed his ankles. “It’s impossible to find a polite hangman anymore. They just string you up and push you to your death. Mine didn’t even say good-bye.”
“Yeah, no manners,” Jack said, cringing inside. Magicians weren’t the primary occupants of handcuffs—criminals were. And Shepard reeked of bad deeds.
“I had it coming, so I can’t hold a grudge.” His ice-colored eyes shined.
Jack’s gaze drifted away from Shepard, over to the table that was piled with tarnished black keys of every shape and size. The man noticed Jack’s interest.
“There’s more where they came from.” Shepard dug around in a box and let a pile of antique keys fall from his fingers like gold coins from a treasure chest. He looked around for the girl. “Squirrel, bring my coat!” he yelled, and chuckled at Jack. “Wait till you see what I’ve got.”
Squirrel hurried into the back room, laboring under the weight of a long black leather coat draped over her skinny arms. Shepard took it from her and slipped it on. He paraded around the room like a convict just sprung from a lifelong sentence. Jack started wondering if Shepard was all there as the old man ran his hands down the front of his lapels.
“Don’t I look nice? Like an upstanding citizen,” Shepard said with a formal air.
“Yeah, you look real good,” Jack said.
“See, nothing here.” Shepard opened one side of his coat and revealed the bare leather interior. “And nothing on this side either.” Again he showed Jack inside his coat. “But wait, with a twist of this hand …”
Jack strained to see what he was doing, following Shepard’s every move, watching him turn a button on the inside of his coat. He smirked coyly at Jack.
“Looky, looky what Santa brought.”
This time when Shepard opened his coat, the inside was lined with hundreds of keys of all shapes and sizes. Jack beamed, as did the old man. One golden key in particular sparkled up through the sea of tarnished and blackened metal.
“What’s that key unlock?” Jack asked, pointing to the gold one.
“That unlocks a very special pair of handcuffs. Custom-made for a fellow. Wait. I’ll show you.”
Shepard pulled a gold pair of handcuffs down from a shelf. They were a beautiful twist of metal that looped around the wrists of the captor. Jack wanted to touch them, but he didn’t dare. They looked like pure gold. Shepard lowered his face to Jack’s.
“I don’t know what the guy plans for these cuffs, but whoever gets trapped in them will never escape. The lock is impossible to cheat. It has a lock within the lock. And I swear on my cold grave these cuffs know what the wearer is thinking. They are made with very sensitive metal. It’s like they have feelings: a tiny lonely soul. No one gets out of them without the key. No one. I call them the devil’s handcuffs, because you would have to be as tricky as him to get out of them.”
Jack marveled at the shiny handcuffs and without thinking said, “I bet Houdini could get out of them.”
“Well, I don’t know any Houdini, but I do know a secret I learned about handcuffs while I studied the trade of making them.”
“What’s that?”
“Everything in the world has a weakness, especially locks. They’re like puzzles. Watch them.” Shepard held up the handcuff like a crown resting in his grubby hands.
Jack traced the woven vines of the golden cuffs with his eyes, searching for a clue to their secret, and then the metal moved all by itself. Jack blinked rapidly, watching the impossible, and stumbled backward. Shepard let out a low chuckle.
“It’s alive. A living maze, a twisting prison of gold. A piece of art, really. I always wanted to be an artist. Attention to detail—that’s what makes an artist great.” Shepard was captivated with his devilish handiwork.
“You said the lock has a weakness. What is it?”
“That’s a secret.”
Jack couldn’t take his eyes off of the handcuffs, but he had to focus. Shepard might have some real information that could help him escape the forest. Criminal types knew things, especially the fastest way out of a jam. Swallowing hard, Jack asked, “Do you know anyone who has escaped the forest?”
“Maybe, but it’s a dangerous way.”
“So it’s possible.” In his excitement, Jack grabbed Shepard’s arm. Finally, he was getting a break. The haggard-looking man eyed Jack.
“The wall surrounds us all the time. Only a handful have even seen it, and those who have crossed it never come back. All but one man, and he trades in the living—stealing small, precious souls. But you already know him.”
“Mussini.” Jack whispered the name as if the man could hear him. He could practically feel his wrist tattoo pulse. Mussini’s mark gave him the map of the underworld. But why? Because he knew that even with a map, Jack was trapped.
“If you go to the wall, be prepared to make a deal with the Death Wranglers.”
“Yeah. I figured that. Thanks anyway. I better get going.”
“Not so fast. If the deal goes south, just remember there is always another way.”
“Another way out?”
“Keep looking, that’s all I’m saying. The Forest of the Dead has rules. The dead don’t always fill you in to all the mysterious ways. The answer might be right in front of you.”
“Right, see you around,” Jack said. He already knew that his best chance was to make a deal with the Death Wranglers, and now Shepard was just speaking riddles.
“You ever leave Mussini, you give me a call. I could always use a good apprentice. You’d do well here.”
“Thanks, but I’m not done trying to be alive.”
“That’s what I told the executioner,” Shepard said.
Squirrel placed Jack’s package on the worktable in front of him. It reminded Jack that Jabber was probably tired of waiting for him. Jack ducked out of the shop and disappeared into the tangled docks of the River City. He made his way back to the meeting spot. Jabber grabbed him and pulled Jack back down to the river.
“Come on. We’ve got to get back. Mussini will be missing us.”
“Sorry. I met the weirdest guy.”
Jabber ignored him. “We’re going to keep this visit a secret,” Jabber said, hurrying Jack along.
“Why?”
“Mussini doesn’t like anything that’s not his idea. Got it? So keep it quiet.”
“But I told Shepard I worked for Mussini to barter for the combs.” Jack showed Jabber the package.
“I’ll take care of it. And another thing,” Jabber added. “Don’t trust the dead.”
“Yeah, you said that before.”
“Just remember it.”
Jack had been around long enough to know what Jabber meant, that no one should be trusted on face value. After all, some really nice people did bad things. Jack sort of liked Shepard, but he knew deep down that he was a sinister man, capable of anything. At heart, Shepard was a criminal kind, dead or alive.
The handcuffs at Shepard’s shop reminded Jack that he needed to work on his act so there’d be no more surprises onstage. Jack wanted to prove that he could be a real showman. Mussini let Violet continue doing the wolf act with Jabber, but she didn’t bother with the singing act, so that gave them a lot of time to practice. Each town they traveled to had a performance area for the show, and the current theater even had a roof over the stage. With a few shows now under his belt, Jack was starting to relax. Runt, T-Ray, and Boxer reclined in the stands and watched Jack’s practice. The guys were teaching him the ropes, practicing relentlessly to catch Jack up on the ins and outs of how the tour worked.
Talk about a tough cr
owd. They didn’t let Jack off the hook for any tiny mistake—no stumbling over his words when he made the speech about all the ghastly criminals who’d worn the handcuffs, and definitely no fumbling with the handcuffs.
“Cool as a cucumber,” T-Ray said.
“And no sweating onstage, either. The dead can smell sweat a mile a way.”
“And they can smell fear like a pack of wild dogs.” T-Ray threw his head back and snorted. “A pack of wild, dead dogs.”
“No they can’t,” Jack said, throwing an acorn at T-Ray. For the first time, he felt like people wanted him to succeed, and he wanted to make them proud. Or, at the very least, not embarrass them.
The large black ghost house was the biggest obstacle for Jack onstage. That was what Houdini called his black box. A long time ago, fake séance conjurers used similar tricks to dupe clients to thinking ghosts were real. One side of the box, where Jack entered, was made of a black velvety fabric. A hole was cut in the top of the box for Jack’s head, so that the audience could see he was still inside, with the rest of his body concealed behind the curtain. In a way, it was a relief to be inside the box while trying to get the handcuffs off; while his body was hidden, Jack could use every means possible to get out of the handcuffs without the audience being any the wiser.
Jack concealed keys all over his body. T-Ray let him use his Scotch tape to hide keys under his pants legs and in his armpit—he even made pockets out of flesh-colored fabric and taped them to his thigh or inside bicep. He also used the seam of his pants and the backside of his leather belt to hide keys. Using his clothes and body to their fullest potential to hide the keys was crucial because once onstage, he was subjected to the inspection and cynical eyes of the dead.
The challenge part of the act seemed simple enough. Anyone could bring in a pair of working handcuffs, and Jack would escape from them. Mussini loved getting the dead involved in the show. Jack had the feeling that Mussini didn’t care if he got humiliated onstage or not. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Jack if Mussini secretly wanted him to fail, to flounder in front of the dead, unable to free himself.
