Jack had almost two entire weeks of living in the professor's house under his belt when a strange feeling started to creep in. He'd just returned to McDovall Academy after his brief suspension, and at first he suspected that he was having a heart attack. Either that or a bad case of indigestion. It was spaghetti day in the cafeteria, and he had wolfed down his lunch, including two slices of garlic bread, in, like, five seconds. He considered asking his geometry teacher, Ms. Turner, to call the paramedics, but then he pictured her giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Grooming was an extracurricular activity Ms. Turner didn't participate in, as her she-stache proved. After a minute he reminded himself that he was only twelve, and probably not having a heart attack. He realized he was feeling excitement—a feeling he had never before associated with going home. No wonder he mistook it for a heart attack.
As soon as he got home, Jack ran into the kitchen to help Concheta cook dinner. Concheta was more than a housekeeper; she was the professor's caretaker, who came to the house every day. Jack suspected that the professor liked having other people around, and so Concheta kept coming and cleaning the already clean house. She was such a tiny woman that Jack thought he could pick her up and twirl her in a circle—she was that small.
Donning his apron, the professor joined Jack and Concheta in the kitchen, where he pulled fresh vegetables and meat from the refrigerator. Dinnertime was an event in the Hawthorne household. None of the food came out of a box, not even the mashed potatoes.
More than once in his life, Jack had gone to bed hungry. He used to dream of Chinese takeout in those cool little white fold-up boxes, or steak cooked just right, not too bloody or too burned. And he loved birthday cake with his name written on it in squiggly icing. He never dreamed of neon orange powdery cheese and macaroni, which he had eaten so many times in his life that the instructions on the box were ingrained in his memory. The professor was a risk-taker in the kitchen, giving the recipe a quick glance and shutting the book. Recipes aren't written in stone, he'd say, someone made them up, and the best recipes are created when the chef adds his own signature. Jack liked the idea of adding his own signature to things.
"It is very important that you learn how to cook," the professor said, opening the oven. A wave of hot air drifted over Jack's skin. He closed the oven and placed a hand on Jack's arm. "Fate dealt me a terrible blow, my boy. None of my three stunningly beautiful wives—Matilda, Claudia, or Beatrice—knew how to cook." He shook his head and brandished a stalk of celery in the air. "It was as if their beauty had exhausted any and all domestic skills."
Jack laughed. "At least they were beautiful."
"Ah, the view, my boy. The view was intoxicating."
Jack stirred the milk with scallions floating in it so it didn't scald. Then the hot cubes of cooked potato went in and the whole mess got mixed up with beaters. Jack pulled out the beaters prior to slowing the speed, sending hunks of potatoes splattering all over the stove, his face, and his shirt. Concheta howled with laughter from where she sat at the kitchen island shucking the last of the fresh peas. She hopped down off of her stool, walked over, and wiped a blob of potato from Jack's cheek. Then she licked it right off her finger and said, "Mi chico tastes delicious."
Jack beamed. He was a mess, and he had never been happier. He didn't mind it that much anymore when the professor called him "my boy," and he really liked it when Concheta called him "my boy" in Spanish, "mi chico." It wasn't so much the chico part, but the mi part. No one had ever thought of him as theirs before.
As the professor spooned heaping piles of mashed potatoes onto the plates, Jack saw a flash of dark blue on the professor's wrist. He squinted, focused on the color, and leaned over the professor to get a better look, but the professor's gigantic gold watch blocked his view. Poking the professor with the end of the potato spoon, Jack casually tried to nudge the watch back, causing the platter of steaming potatoes to teeter in the professor's grasp.
"Settle down, my boy. Dinner will be ready in a minute. What's gotten into you?" The professor set the plate down. His arm fell to his side, out of Jack's view.
"Nothing. I just wanted to help." Jack maneuvered to the professor's other side. Looking quickly, he saw a flash again—the midnight blue stain. He knew it! Unable to get a good look by stealth, Jack took the direct approach. "What's that on your wrist, Professor?"
The professor grabbed his watch and pulled his arm close to his body. "Oh, this? It's nothing." He turned his back, creating a wall between himself and Jack while he continued with the dinner preparations.
Jack's eyes lit up. He had seen marks like this before, but never on a teacher, and he never imagined he'd see one on the professor. He grabbed the professor's arm and tried to push his sleeve up. "No way! Let me see."
The professor slipped out of Jack's grasp and shoved a steaming dinner plate in his hands. "Take this to the table."
Jack took the plate grudgingly. Maybe the professor was embarrassed and that was why he didn't want to show him what was concealed beneath his watch.
"Can I see it?" Jack asked, and then whispered, "I won't tell anyone."
The professor moved around the kitchen, tense and quick. "Very observant of you, my boy. You have discovered my little secret." He reached behind his back to untie his apron, yanking at the strings. "A folly from my youth. I wasn't much older than you when I got it."
"Please, I just want to take a look at your wrist." Jack rested his head against the professor's arm and stared at the watch.
"See." The professor held up his palms and wiggled his fingers, finally showing Jack the wrist without the watch.
"The other wrist," Jack said, nodding at the watch.
The professor flitted around the kitchen, collecting hot used pans like an anxious bird. "Oh, yes. This wrist." The gold watch shone in the light of the kitchen as the professor shifted his wrist from side to side. The shiny reflection winked up at Jack, hiding a secret.
Jack latched on to the professor's arm, unable to contain his excitement any longer. "Can you take the watch off, please?" If the professor didn't hurry up and take the watch off, Jack would yank it off for him.
At last, the professor relented, unhooking his wristwatch and slipping it off. Jack wrinkled his nose and pressed his face to the professor's bony arm as he examined the mark closer. An inky, round outline bled into the professor's skin. A thrill cascaded over Jack, because he was right. He stared down at a stunning work of art—a tattoo! The professor had no reason to be embarrassed. An impressively detailed drawing, the tattoo portrayed the face of a clock divided in half by a moon and sun, with stars surrounding the outer circle. There were tiny, swirled graphic symbols for noon, three, six, and nine o'clock, with an hour hand pointing to the symbol for twelve. Solemn expressions on the faces of the sun and moon reminded Jack of the drawings on old maps.
"I never thought you'd have a tattoo," Jack said, wondering what else he didn't know about the professor.
"Sometimes people confound your expectations. I'm not such a boring old goat." A feeble smile drifted across the professor's face.
"This is a good one. I like that you got it on your wrist, too. That's not a typical place for a tattoo." Jack rubbed his finger over the surface of the tattoo to make sure it was real.
"I wanted it on a place my mother wouldn't see. But I think she caught on to my ruse, as from then on I bathed with my watch on."
Jack laughed at the image of a scrawny young Professor Hawthorne sitting in a bathtub, wearing just his wristwatch. "Where did you get it done?"
"It's a long story. I'm sure you have better things to do than listen to me prattle on." The professor leaned wearily against the counter.
"Not really," Jack said, persisting. "Tattoos are never boring."
The professor rubbed at the mark like it irritated him, a deep itch he couldn't scratch. He slipped on his watch, the tattoo vanishing beneath a flash of gold. He slowly rolled his sleeves down as he spoke. "Tattoos are painful, and sometimes so are the stories that brought them about. My story is an unpleasant one. It would be unwise of me to risk telling you."
"Risk what?" Jack pushed.
The professor glanced over at Concheta, who had been silently watching. "I can't." The professor shook his head. "I don't want my old story to give you nightmares."
"I've got to hear it now." Jack crossed his arms and dug his heels in. "We can hang out together after dinner and talk."
"Don't push the professor, mi chico. If he wants to keep his secrets, let him," Concheta said.
Jack frowned at Concheta's rational answer. "Sorry to pry, Professor."
The professor paused, briefly drifting in and out of his own memories. "This story is serious business. I would have to be certain that you realize what you are getting into." Behind the professor's eyes Jack could see his mind working, thinking, hiding something other than a tattoo. And Jack had the suspicious feeling his comment was less of a warning and more of a dare.
"I don't scare easily," Jack said, sticking out his chest.
"Well, you were going to find out about it sooner or later." The professor tapped the face of his watch. "If you insist."
"I insist. I insist," Jack said, beaming at Concheta. Pulling out that win was easy, maybe a little too easy, but he got what he wanted.
"After dinner I'll tell you the tale about the man who gave me this tattoo." The professor turned around and almost whispered, "It's a dangerous story I can never forget."
"Awesome! I love scary stories," Jack said, bounding over to the dinner table. "Can I get a tattoo?"
"No!" Concheta yelled. "Only hoodlums get tattoos. No offense, Professor," Concheta added quickly, smiling at the professor. She handed Jack a pile of silverware. "Now set the table, mi chico. And be careful."
After dinner Jack plunged his hands into the scalding dishwater and scrubbed as fast as he could so that he could hear the tattoo story before bed. The professor informed Jack that sadly, his beautiful wives hadn't done dishes, either. Another lesson to learn.
Jack hurried down the hall and into the office, which had previously been off-limits. The professor's office was creep city. Towering bookshelves, filled with thick, dusty books, lined the walls of the dimly lit room. A huge desk strewn with paper dominated the center of the office, and a collection of weird, yellowed animal skulls hung on the lone empty space on the wall above the desk. Jack grimaced, sickly fascinated by the skulls. It was like their hollow eye sockets were watching his every move. The professor was getting more interesting by the second.
"Concheta, come sit next to me. I'll hold your hand so you don't get scared," Jack said as he plopped down on the Oriental carpet, trying to ignore the skulls.
Concheta hurried in carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, her purse hanging over her arm. "No, I'm leaving you two to your ghost stories and going home," she said, handing Jack his cocoa. Concheta wrinkled her nose and ran her finger over one of the filthy shelves.
The professor walked up behind her, catching her in the act. "Thank you, my dear. See you in the morning."
"I don't see why you don't let me clean in here," Concheta said, setting the professor's drink onto the nest of papers on his desk.
The professor paused, his mouth twisting up, an eyebrow arching in contemplation. "Ah. Um," he continued, "I have highly sensitive academic accoutrements in here. Things that could get you in trouble. I wouldn't want anyone to touch them."
Concheta made a little humph sound and twisted up her mouth. "Well, your accoutrements are covered with dust."
The professor patted Concheta on the shoulder. "I know, I know, my dear. Have a good night."
When she had left the office the professor turned a serious gaze to Jack. "I need you to give me your word, Jack, that you will never touch anything in here. Is that clear?"
"Sure, I get it. I won't touch anything." Jack glanced around at the piles of books and was certain he wouldn't be touching any of those, ever.
"Do I have your word?" The professor leaned down and looked Jack in the eye and extended his hand.
"You have my word," Jack said, shaking the professor's sweaty hand.
"You don't want to face the consequences if you break your word."
"Yes, sir," Jack mumbled. "Consequence" was just another word for "punishment," and the professor was right, because Jack didn't need any more consequences.
The battered leather armchair groaned as the professor eased back into the seat and sipped from his mug. He had slipped on a dark brown jacket that blended in with the surroundings, making his face look pale in contrast. He drummed his long, bony fingers on the armchair. He cleared his throat and a silence settled over the room, which suddenly darkened as Concheta clicked out the lights in the hallway.
"When I was a boy, I spent most of my time roaming around outdoors, building forts and exploring the woods around my home. I didn't have television and video games to entertain me. So you can imagine my excitement when one brisk fall day the carnival rolled into town," the professor said. "The entire town buzzed with anticipation as the carnival tents rose high into the sky. The smell of roasted peanuts and cotton candy floated on the air, and I wandered around all day, riding the Ferris wheel, playing games, and gawking at the attractions." The professor leaned his head back and closed his eyes, recalling the memory.
Jack's eyes drifted around the professor's office, seeking out the forbidden "academic accoutrements." "Mildred won't let me go to carnivals. She said the rides are rusty old death traps run by drunks and lowlifes." Jack smiled. "Sounds really fun to me."
The professor peered at him through half-open eyelids. "Ms. Crosby does have a point. I think some of the rickety rides from my youth are still barely in service today." The professor leaned forward in his chair and wagged one of his pale fingers in the air. "But I was more interested in the strange and macabre acts that filled the side tents: Siamese rattlesnakes, tattooed ladies, sword-swallowers, and the Dog Boy."
"Dog Boys! Cool!" Jack sat up on his heels. "That sounds like the good stuff."
The professor seized on Jack's wide-eyed attention. "But there was one man who was a legend in the strange carnival arts, who loomed and crept behind the scenes. A dark, massive conjurer, he was a jack-of-all-trades: knife-thrower, fire-eater, and magician. He captivated the audience with the grace of a snake charmer. His name was… the Amazing Mussini. In the dark recesses of the carnival, he performed the most magnificent tricks of all."
"What kinds of tricks?" Jack asked.
"Mussini had traveled all over the world and beyond. He knew things no ordinary man knew. That night, his amazing feat was selling secrets." The professor dug his fingers into the soft leather of his chair.
"Secrets? What kind of secrets?" Jack asked, thinking that was as good a trick as fortune-telling, which he didn't buy for a second.
"Mussini claimed to know all. He knew things that you had done even if you'd never told a soul. Secrets big and small. He knew if your best friend was really a foe. He could tell you the secret strategies in school yard battles. Or what your teacher would put on a test. He could tell you anything for a price. Well, my boy, I was instantly hooked. I just had to buy one, but I didn't have any money. And as a foolish boy, I wanted the most expensive secret of them all."
"What's the most expensive secret?" Jack slurped down his hot chocolate, the liquid warming his whole body.
"I don't believe that when we die, we rot into nothingness, food for worms. I knew there was more to learn about the underworld, and I wanted a glimpse into this land. It is the secret of where we go and what becomes of us." The professor reached down and pulled Jack close, just for a second. His mustache twitched against Jack's ear as the professor whispered, "The most expensive secret of all is the secret of the dead, of course."
"The dead! You mean like spirits or ghosts?" A shudder cascaded through Jack, and he pulled himself up from the spell of the story.
The professor took a drink and licked the marshmallow from his mustache. "There is a land for the dead, for the poor souls who have not passed on—the ghostly ones that drift once they leave their cold boxes, roaming into a dark forest that awaits them."
"Like another world?" Jack asked. It sounded kind of like outer space, or time travel, or an undersea city. He could almost believe in a place like that, where stories were real in a made-up way.
"Exactly like another world, my boy." The professor's eyes darted from side to side. His voice deepened. "But a world that is rarely spoken of, a shadow world beyond death. It is the Land of the Dead, and it can be reached by the living."
"If the Land of the Dead is real, then how do you get there?" Jack asked, trying not to get sucked into the story. "I mean, besides dropping dead."
The professor held up his wrist, and the gold watch sparkled in the light. Jack's eyes widened, for while listening to the story, he had completely forgotten about the tattoo.
The professor curled his finger and motioned for Jack to move forward. "This tattoo is the mark of the Amazing Mussini, the magician. It is my passage into the underworld. It guides my steps out of the now and into the dark abyss of the dead."
Jack kneeled at the professor's feet, totally captivated. "How's the tattoo work?"
"Well, here in the land of the living, it appears to be just an ordinary tattoo. See?" He pulled his watch and sleeve up in one motion so that the tattoo faced upward. "But if you look at it differently, the mark points the way."
Jack marveled, because from his viewpoint on the floor the tattoo no longer looked like a clock. The hour hand was really an arrow. "It's not a watch! It's a compass!" Jack exclaimed.
"Exactly!" The professor held up his finger and ran it along the outline of the tattoo. "The mark of Mussini is a compass to the domain of the dead. It is the only way I know of to get into the world of Mussini."
Jack jumped up to his feet and paced around the room. "Wait," Jack said, his brow furrowed. He wanted to believe the story, to believe in a mysterious world of magic, but he didn't want to be a sucker for a spooky story. "If you didn't have money, then what did you pay him with?"
The professor's deep-set eyes and bushy brows made it look as though he were peering out of the depths of a dark cave.
"Mussini's a trader. And to receive the most valuable secret, a person must trade their most valuable possession. You see, Jack, where Mussini comes from, money doesn't mean much."
"What did you trade him?" Jack pushed, needing to know the answer. "Come on, tell me! What did you give him?"
The professor smirked. "I think that's enough for tonight." He stood up, collected his cup, and made his way to the door. "It's getting late."
"Wait, you can't stop now! That's cheating. It's not fair to tell half a story." Jack frowned but didn't move from his position, hoping the professor would come back.
"Then think of it as a puzzle. You're a smart boy. You will probably figure it out anyway. What would I trade to Mussini? What is our most valuable possession? What might a magician want?" And the professor walked out of the office, flipping off the light and leaving Jack in total darkness.
"A puzzle? Sounds more like a trick to me." Jack swallowed the chocolaty dregs of his hot cocoa. It was a good story, but he was still on the fence about whether he believed any of it or not. Either way, he was determined to figure out what a magician could possibly want from a kid.
That night, Jack sat up in bed; panic swept over him. He swatted at the air, the webby shadows of a dream clinging to him. He didn't know where he was. The wind rushed through the eaves, circling the house like an animal trying to get in, sniffing out every crack and crevice. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. A word escaped his mouth before he could stop it: Mom. It caught in his throat as the shadows of the room settled into familiar shapes and he realized where he was. Jack remembered the professor's story, remembered he was in his new bedroom.
Something stirred. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his bare feet rest on the wood floor before standing and walking across the creaky floorboards to the door.
Making his way down the narrow corridors of the old victorian house, Jack crept down the hallway and paused on the landing. A strange noise filtered up from below: a heavy thud, followed by scraping. He inched closer and closer toward the light and peered through the bars of the stairs, down into the hallway.
The professor hunched over a large, dark mass on the floor. He bent down and pushed at it, as if the thing was too heavy to lift. A black canvas covered the top. The light in the hall was dim. The professor grunted, heaving the thing a few feet down the hallway. Stopping to rest for a moment, he sat on the top of the black-covered mass. The professor wiped the sweat from his brow and when he stood up, the drape caught his arm and slid off. Jack gasped. The sides and top of the object—it was the shape of a trunk—were painted with dull red and black diamonds like something from an old-time circus or a carnival. A shiny new padlock dangled from the latch.
The professor pushed the trunk toward his office. Then the dog, Little Miss B., who was walking down the hall behind him, suddenly stopped. She glanced up in Jack's direction and started barking. Great. She was as blind as a bat, but her doggy radar worked just fine. Jack leaped to his feet, ran back to his room, and shut the door. He jumped into bed and pulled the blankets up over his face.
His breathing was loud underneath the covers. He had panicked. The professor had to have heard him. Jack closed his eyes and pretended to go back to sleep, trying not to imagine what was locked inside of that trunk.
