The Mostly True Story of Jack (10 page)

Can anyone really
steal
a soul?
Jack wondered. It seemed ludicrous, but really, everything in the book was ludicrous.

“
When a person’s soul is destroyed
,” Jack read out loud, “
the memory of that person is also destroyed. Or so the theory goes. But what if there is a deeper memory? What of the soul then? I am heartened by the case of the old school and its eventual abandonment. The exact number of children ensnared at that particular eruption point can never be known. Still, the fact that eventually the town built a new school in a safer location demonstrates that there truly is a deeper memory. The town, without knowing why, acted to protect its children. Which means that, perhaps, the souls of those lost children are not entirely lost. Perhaps the memory is not lost but blocked. Perhaps it is possible that they could one day be found and set free
.”

Jack closed the book with a slap. “This is crazy,” he said. Still. There was something weird about the town, and if the book had answers, then he’d rather get them there than have to actually talk to his aunt and uncle. After all, Clive was liable to just say something weird or vaguely creepy; at least with a book, Jack could slam the covers shut. He had not brought up his attempt at running away, nor did he mention the dedication and photograph in the book to Clive, and since Clive hadn’t either, Jack was hoping that the conversation might be indefinitely avoided. Why Clive had thought to keep a picture of Jack when his parents hadn’t even done so was a mystery to Jack, but for the time being,
not
knowing was
preferable to
knowing
. For now. Because sometimes, Jack knew, knowledge can hurt. A lot.

And, anyway, there were other questions to answer first. Jack opened the book at random to a page taken from the Reverend’s journal.

Jack shook his head and opened his notebook.
It’s obvious the Reverend believes what he’s writing
, Jack wrote,
but does Clive believe it? Does Mabel? And if they do, why do they want me to know about it? What does any of this have to do with me?
Jack didn’t know. He slid the book and his notebook into his backpack and headed down to breakfast.

To Jack’s great relief, his aunt and uncle left him mostly alone. Mabel handed him a plate of eggs on toast, insisted on kissing his cheek, and left for work. Clive, just before hoisting up the biggest pile of books that Jack had ever seen in his life, handed Jack a hand-drawn map of town.

“I should have given you this earlier, my dear boy. Here: so you won’t get lost. Your aunt’s shop is marked. She’ll be expecting you at lunchtime.”

“Oh,” Jack said, “I had thought that I would—”

“Be that as it may,” Clive said, balancing the books in his arms. “It’s best, in my experience, not to disappoint familial females. The ramifications are never pleasant. In the meantime, several other points of interest are marked on the map and should keep you marginally entertained until then.” Clive kept talking as he walked up the stairs. “And while we’re always fond of the youth of today taking it upon themselves to explore and thumb their noses at their well-meaning elders, mind you note the restrictions. There are certain things that I would rather not have to explain to your aunt.” And with that he rounded the corner and disappeared.

Outside, Jack sat on his skateboard, tilting back and forth as he studied the map. It was detailed—so detailed that not only was nearly every landmark named, but Clive had chosen to give alternative names to many of them as well. For example, Clive’s own house had been marked
Our house (your house) (Tertiary Eruption Point)
.
And the large forested area had been marked
Henderson’s Gully (Original Eruption Point) (Don’t go here!)
.

“You really
are
crazy, aren’t you?” As if to answer his question, Clive opened the front door with Lancelot on his shoulder.

“Now, now, Lancelot, there’s nothing to worry about. No wicked spirits about today. Oh, hello again, Jack.” He waved jauntily at Jack, who gave a nervous little shake of the hand in response. Clive offered a small leather envelope to Lancelot, who took it in his mouth. “Now, don’t worry, it’s not that far.” The parrot squawked anxiously before gliding away.

“Remember,” Clive called after him, “you have to go the long way. Just to be safe.” The bird took a left and disappeared from sight. Clive waved at Jack once again. “Cheers, Jack,” he said, and closed the door.

Jack stared at the map, particularly the words
Don’t go here
. If there were
really
erupting volcanoes in the middle of Iowa, then Jack, for one, wanted to see them. Keeping the map in his hand for reference, he turned toward where the gully was supposed to be, shouldered his bag, and kicked the skateboard to a start.

It was easier today. His muscles now had a memory of that snaking balance, that tilt and sway of the hips and spine. His knees had a bit more spring to them, and his legs, though sore, seemed to respond better to the
fluctuations in his feet. He kicked at the ground with his left foot, encouraging a bit more speed and long, smooth glides. It was beautiful, he thought. It was graceful. He was doing it! And more than anything in the world, Jack found himself wishing that Baxter—or really anyone at all—might see him skating cleanly down the empty street.

Clive, after closing the door, did not return to his office. Instead, he remained at the window, peering at the black-haired boy in the street. He smiled at the boy’s efforts to control both his body and the tiny machine at his feet, and swelled with pride as the child skimmed down the pavement. A moment later, a small, bald-headed man in camouflage pants and a flak jacket huffed in pursuit of the small boy. Clive sighed, pressed his forehead to the glass, and brought his hands to his heart.

“Gog,” he called. “Magog.” The two cats snaked into the foyer, looking up at Clive expectantly. “Follow that boy and be quick about it. He’s headed for the gully, and that idiot Reginald is following him.” He cracked the door and the cats slipped out, leaped off the porch, and bounded through the grass. Clive ran his hand through his thinning hair and sighed. “We just have to hope for the best,” he said out loud. “We have to be thankful he’s a smart-enough boy.” But the floor under his feet shivered and quaked, and a low moan blew between the rafters and the roof.

Jack pulled to a stop at the edge of the forest. The trees were large and old, with tangles of underbrush crowding the ground. He couldn’t see a path.

“How could anyone go in there? There’s no place to go.” He reached into his bag and grabbed the map. It showed a network of trails, shaped something like a spiderweb, that spread through the woods, but if they existed at all, Jack certainly couldn’t see them. In truth, it seemed a bit of a shame. The woods looked cool and shady, and the day was already hot. Jack picked up the skateboard and walked along the edge of the forest. The branches of the trees sighed and creaked in the light wind.

He crept up to the crowded edge of the woods, placed his hands on the slim trunks of two pale aspen trees, and scanned the undergrowth for a path. The sunlight dappled and glowed on the greenery, and for a moment Jack had half a mind to tramp through the branches and weeds, just to see what all the fuss was for. And he might have done so, had it not been for the bloodcurdling yowl of two cats and the panicked screech of a terrified young man.

“No,” the man cried as one of the cats batted at the edge of his flak jacket while the other attached itself to his thigh. “Bad kitty. Baaaaad kitty!”

Jack left the skateboard on the ground and ran over.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling one large cat off the man’s leg. It was astonishingly heavy. “They’re my aunt and uncle’s cats. I don’t know why they’re so bad.”

“
Phtt, phtt
,” spat one of the cats indignantly.

The man stared at Jack, openmouthed. He was holding a notebook in one hand, and the other was shoved into his pocket. He stepped backward.

“People in this town sure stare a lot,” Jack said, attempting half a smile. The man said nothing but took another step backward. The cats pressed themselves to each of Jack’s legs. They purred dangerously. Jack stuck out his hand, offering it to the stranger. “I’m Jack. I’m Clive and Mabel’s nephew.” The stranger had a pale, thin face and a bony neck. He opened his mouth as though to say hello, but all that came out was a squeak. He gulped, and took his hand out of his pocket. There was something wound around his knuckles and fingers, some kind of leathery shoelace. Jack raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t even think about it,” the man said, trembling.

Jack pressed his lips into a frown. “Don’t even think about what?”

“It’s not yours to take,” the man said, walking backward and nearly tripping on his own feet.

“What’s not mine to take?” Jack asked, taking a step forward. “I haven’t taken anything. I just wanted to shake your—”

“I know what you are,” the man yelped.

“I already told you who I am. I’m Jack. I’m staying with—”

“Not one step farther. You can’t have it!” He pushed past Jack. In a burst of speed that didn’t seem possible with a physique like his, the man ran to the skateboard and flung it into the gully and, in the same motion, grabbed Jack’s backpack and took off down the street. The cats, with a terrific yowl, followed close at his heels, batting every once in a while at the trailing straps.

“Hey,” Jack yelled, taking off after him. “Hey! Give that back, you lousy—” but he couldn’t finish his sentence, as he tripped on a small rock and fell, face-first, sprawling across the pavement.

Jack groaned, rolled over, and checked his glasses. One lens had cracked, and one hinge had been pulled far out of alignment. “Oh, great.” He balanced the glasses on the bridge of his nose, trying to push them back into their normal shape. His shirt had torn at the shoulder, and his shorts at the pocket. “Just great.”

“Jack,” a girl’s voice sounded behind him. “Is that you?”

Jack shook his head. “Just keeps getting better and better,” he muttered. He turned and saw Wendy, once again, standing over him. He scrambled to his feet.

“Clive said you went off this way. I thought we were going to show you a… Wow,” she said, looking at his torn clothing and broken glasses. “What on earth happened to you?” She reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out a handkerchief. Jack took it gratefully, wiping
the dirt off of his face. He folded the map and slid it into his back pocket. He had half a mind to stay indoors for the rest of the summer.

“I tripped on a rock,” Jack said, ashamed.

“All this for a rock?”

“No,” Jack said defensively, walking past Wendy to get a view of where the man had gone, but he was out of sight by now. “Some guy jumped me and stole my bag.” Wendy opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first.

Finally: “Who?”

“How should I know? He was kind of bald and skinny and nervous. Bony neck. Camo pants. The cats attacked him.”

Wendy nodded grimly. “Those cats are smart. That guy is Mr. Perkins. He works for old man Avery—you know, his son, Clayton, is the kid who beat you up yesterday.”

Jack puffed up briefly. “He did not. I just—” He wanted to say,
Beating up isn’t exactly what I would call it
, but he couldn’t. After all, Wendy had been there.

“Avery’s awful,
awful
. What was in the bag?”

“Everything. My notebook, my drawings, some art stuff. Oh, and Uncle Clive’s book. He left it in my room, and I thought I’d look through it.
The Secret—”

“
The Secret History of Hazelwood
?” Wendy grabbed the collar of his shirt in her fist. “What were you thinking, taking that book out of the house?”

“Well,” Jack said, “I mean—”

“Don’t you know what’s
in
that book?”

“Isn’t it just—”

“You haven’t
even read it
?” Wendy stood, looked down the empty street. “He hasn’t even read it,” she muttered to herself. “And here you just handed it to
Mr. Avery
, of
all
people. Nice work, buddy.
Nice
.” She slugged him on the shoulder. “That way, right?” She pointed.

“What are you talking about?” Jack said, rubbing his shoulder. Wendy didn’t look that strong, but she punched
hard
. “It’s just a—” But Wendy had already taken off running. Jack pushed his way into the dense undergrowth at the edge of the woods, grabbed the skateboard, and scrambled after her. He could hear the mewling screeches of the cats echoing through the quiet town.

Jack caught up to Wendy, keeping pace with her long-legged lope, though it was difficult, since Jack was shorter. As he ran, the skateboard slid and wobbled in his sweaty hands, and despite his efforts, it slipped from his grip and fell.

“Hang on,” he called to Wendy. “Let me get my—” But he didn’t finish, because the moment the board touched the pavement, it began moving on its own—a straight, sure path down the street. Jack, without even planning to do so, jumped on the deck and grabbed Wendy’s hand to help her on behind him. They gained speed, the wheels purring beneath their feet. Though it wasn’t necessary, Jack leaned out and kicked the
pavement from time to time, if for no other reason than to keep up appearances. Whether or not this seemed strange to Wendy, she didn’t say.

“Oh God, he’s practically there,” Wendy said. Up ahead, a broad limestone building blocked the road, casting an inky shadow in their direction. The bald-headed man—
presumably
, Jack thought,
Mr. Perkins
—made several attempts to scurry up the stairs, only to be buffeted back by two snarling, spitting cats.