Burn In Hades: Chapter 1 – Cottontail

1 – Starving to Second Death

Rest in peace, my ass.

The afterlife proved to be far from dull. It contained moments of tedium and futility but also offered boundless opportunities for adventure and discovery.

Cross found himself in an unusual situation. He teamed up with an inexperienced goddess, a stubborn monster, and a sentient tree to rain food from the sky.

It was like the setup of a joke, with the punchline looming ahead.

Cross surveyed the blazing sky from his vantage point atop the palace’s observation tower.

As usual, a spectacular display of firestorms swirled in the sky. Lightning explosions forked down with a burst of smoke and cinders. And a sustained roar reverberated through the firmament as thunder boomed.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Cross squinted, peering through the clouds of smoke. His eyes strained to make out any faint shape soaring in the flames as hunger gnawed at his insides, threatening to devour his nephesh from the inside out.

When he was alive, Cross worked as a lowly servant for a wealthy family of three on their vast ranch estate. However, in death, his insatiable hunger enslaved him with a hollow emptiness that could never be filled.

However, he held onto hope that once he reached Paradise, things would change for the better. Sadly, Paradise seemed impossibly distant at the moment.

Cross scoured the maelstrom of flames in a desperate search for the only provenance to appease his insatiable hunger. A creature known as a barbot was famed throughout the Underworld for its succulent astral layers.

Then he saw it, soaring through the chaotic blaze and the treacherous clouds of toxic fumes.

The giant featherless bird steered with acute precision through the shroud of smoke and embers, impervious to the scorching heat and unperturbed by its violent ferocity.

From that distance, it appeared no larger than the tip of Cross’s thumb. However, any average adult barbot was at least the size of a stallion.

Cross’s mouth watered, anticipating an overdue meal. He and his companions hadn’t eaten in several sleep cycles.

He gazed at the ball court one final time. Down below, Cottontail remained hidden under the sprawling branches of the rambling tree, as Cross had instructed her.

Cross had been protecting and training the tiny goddess for several sleep cycles. He appreciated her eagerness to help, but she was still learning the ways of the Underworld and often hindered his efforts with her naïveté. It was best she just stayed out of the way.

Once Cross gave the signal, Bolon-Hunahpu, the mystical talking tree, would hurl a bushel of calabash from its branches and knock the bird down to the ancient ball court, where they could easily procure it before another spirit stole it.

If Cross had access to a rifle, he could have shot it out of the fiery heavens in one shot. But he had to rely on the aim of a dimwitted talking tree, fixed in the abandoned ball court, who had already failed him too many times along with Cottontail.

The closer to the ball court the bird landed, the better. However, Cross’s monstrous pet, Gimlet, was prepared to hunt down the carcass, no matter where it landed.

Once obtained, Cross would use his obsidian blade from the knife house to cut and divide the fowl among them so they might savor a decent meal for once.

Simple enough. But nothing was ever simple in the Underworld.

Satisfied that everyone was in position, Cross turned his attention back to the barbot in the fiery skies above.

He raised his hand, silently conveying to the tree that it was time to aim and await the prearranged cue.

Bolon-Hunahpu stood erect; his branches pulled back above Cottontail’s head. Its skeletal limbs were barren of all foliage; its bark flaked off like cinders from a fire.

Every breath of wind was potent enough to alter the shot’s trajectory, so Cross had to be precise lest the plan dissolved in a cloud of smoke and his efforts be rendered moot.

A searing pain plunged through his midsection like an iron hook had been driven into his belly and twisted with vicious intent. His legs buckled beneath him as a wave of hunger-induced agony swelled in his stomach like a storm at sea.

He clamped his hands together and drove his fists into his abdomen in a desperate plea for relief. The blow stole the air from his lungs, and the unseen pests writhing around in his depths ceased their thrashing, though their growling remained unchanged.

Starvation would never kill him because he was already dead. Still, his inner agonies would persistently torment his three energy bodies: Conscience, Fellowship, and Intuition, culminating in endless sickness, eternal debility, and everlasting madness.

With a sudden snap, a bushel of calabash hurtled skyward toward the giant bird.

Cross hadn’t signaled the tree to launch the fruit, but it was too late.

The calabash collided with the barbot, and the creature spiraled out of control, plummeting from the fiery depths above like a blazing comet. It crashed through twisted branches and vanished into the thick brush of the haunted garden.

Cross bellowed to the ancient winding tree with all his might, his words rumbling throughout the palace grounds like a thunderous clap of a god’s wrath. “I’ve got two words for you! Royal hearth!”

The tree curled its branches as if to shrug off its clumsiness, almost defiant despite Cross’s reprimand.

The tree must have understood by now that Cross wouldn’t follow through with his empty threat because Cross relied on the tree far more than the other way around. Being a tree, its survival didn’t require any support from him, while Cross required its aid for his sustenance.

Gimlet raced across the ball court, Cottontail firmly astride, bouncing on the saddle uncontrollably.

She was not supposed to be riding Gimlet.

The beast’s hooves created dust clouds as it disappeared into the cursed garden.

“Nobody can follow basic instructions today!” Cross said.

His nephesh plunged into a fearful abyss. If any harm befell her, he could never enter Paradise.

2 – The Garden of One Death and Seven Death

The dusty air swirled around Cross as he staggered to his feet, his obsidian blade locked in his grasp.

He descended the jagged stairs of the long-forgotten tower. His footsteps echoed through the shadowy halls of the temple of skulls as he carved an unobstructed path toward the front door. He stomped into the drab courtyard, where dull gray clouds threatened to rain blood at any moment.

The inferno that had taken the sky by storm seared his surroundings, swathing him in the oppressive heat. The palace grounds glowed as if imbued with a thousand flaming furnaces, radiating withering intensity and scorching his ruach like an expanse of dry prairie land in midsummer. Humidity cloaked him as if the air had just been relieved of the burden of a fierce summer thunderstorm.

He sprinted across the expansive palace grounds, his feet pounding the soil beneath him.

The imposing edifice dominated Xibalbá’s sprawling domain, and its surrounding buildings sprawled out majestically. The infamous temple of skulls stood as an ominous divider between the ball court and the twisted garden where unspeakable horrors lurked in every shadow.

Cross headed toward the garden of brittle weeds and tangled foliage, his grip tightening around the hilt of his obsidian blade.

Bolon-Hunahpu had once referred to the weapon as a macuahuitl. Its name held little relevance to Cross. All that mattered was its potency and danger, which the sentient tree assured were formidable indeed; it lauded the destructive power of the macuahuitl, proclaiming the blade’s obsidian edges could severe three energy bodies of the ruach in one clean swipe.

But not with Cross at the helm; he did not excel at swordsmanship. He was a much better shot with guns and preferred the distance they placed between him and his enemies.

The macuahuitl was not a sword, fashioned neither of metal nor curved into a traditional blade—the weapon itself was a narrow handle with a wider rectangular club at the top, embedded with a row of obsidian blades along the length of both sides of the thick wooden paddle. But one knife had gone missing, having fallen out of the grooves the last time Cross wielded it against giant ants that stole a barbot from them. Across the club’s flat surface were serpentine designs on one side and a Jaguar on the other, images that belied its power to tear down even an immortal being immune to life or death. It could cut through the spirits in the shadows but never send them back to the Master in the Underworld.

The last time Cross wielded the weapon, it had caused immense harm to the ruach, though it had failed to penetrate its nephesh. If trouble arose, his only recourse would be to cut through those lingering shadows of death and flee for his very afterlife.

Cross ascended the stone ramp, each step echoing through the garden of One Death and Seven Death. An unnatural chill filled the air, starkly contrasting the relentless heat from the sky above.

The withered weeds, somehow thriving in the atmosphere of death and decay, swayed around Cross—three times as tall as him. None possessed the slightest trace of green—only shades of ghostly pale and deathly dark, arranged together like an unruly mob encircling a runaway slave. Gnarled vines snaked around the headless statues of long-forgotten deities, shielding them from most of the scorching heat of the sky. They formed a canvas of shadow that lingered throughout the garden, wrapping Cross in the tranquil shade.

Though the temperature was a small mercy, providing some respite from the blistering sky overhead, he could not savor it. He had to find Gimlet and Cottontail, retrieve their food, and escape from the cursed garden as quickly as possible.

But before he ventured any deeper, Cross whistled for Cottontail, though his call came back unanswered.

The weeping of unseen spirits rose from the shadows, making it almost impossible to detect if Cottontail attempted to call forth a response.

The weeping of the spirits was like a funeral march, somber and sorrowful. Each sob resounded in the dark abyss with boundless misery, reverberating until it faded into a low and melancholic tune. They wept for their beloved departed and cursed fate, their voices quivering from the depths of their souls. It was an eerie sound, the symphony of the damned, and its oppressive presence hung heavy over the garden.

Cross swung the mighty macuahuitl and cleaved through the weeds with a fury. With each thrust, the dried stalks broke apart like brittle kindling sticks, dispersing fibers on the ground in an ashen mist. Statuesque weeds that once stood upright were now relegated to nothing more than flattened grass and decapitated stems, ready to be carried away on a gust of wind. Fine dust clouded the air and clung to the sweat on his face, and he trampled the crushed plants underfoot, churning them into mushy slime that sloshed beneath his boots.

The further Cross journeyed into the garden, the cries of the weepers grew increasingly louder, like a plea to the Great Goddess to take pity on their sorrowful state.

It was a fruitless effort. Magna Mater only favored those who persevered with courage and resilience, like Cross. Lingering in sadness accomplished nothing. He had no idea why these poor souls were stuck in this forsaken place, but every soul chose its circumstances, knowingly or unknowingly.

Cross halted at the sight of a stagnant pond, glistening with pestilence. Some archaic god must have soaked their deified feet in its murky waters ages ago.

A stone sculpture of a head lay next to the putrid pool, its gaping jaws painting a wicked smirk. The rest of the statue was missing.

Cross trilled for Cottontail again, but the weepers’ anguished cries filled the dreary terrain, muffling whatever answer he might receive from the girl.

Cross hoisted the statue’s decapitated head. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” He hurled the head into the abyss of darkness, aiming in the general direction of the plaintive spirits.

The granite head erupted out of the black, and Cross found himself sprawled on the ground before he could register the blunt force it inflicted upon his skull.

The world spun around him as he attempted to comprehend the situation.

The boulder had pulverized his skull in the softest part of his forehead. He massaged the area, and a sorrowful gaze met him beneath the murky pond water beside him.

He scarcely knew the form that stared back. He had become a shade of his former self—pale, haggard, and phantom-like. A menacing void pierced through his forehead where the fatal blow had been dealt. After all these centuries in the Underworld, he still could not shake off the reminder of his thirty-eight years of life that had so alarmingly ended.

He slammed his fist into the pond’s surface, shattering his image.

It was then that Cross noticed another reflection. A figure loomed behind him, a twisted expression etched into her face.

He turned slowly to find Cottontail leering back, her skeletal frame illuminated by an unknown light. As a goddess, she appeared far more alive than any of the damned. And despite her heavenly origin, Cross treated her like a nine-year-old child because of her physical appearance.

However, Cottontail delighted in telling him she was much older than he and could regale him with ancient tongues of epochs long forgotten, cataclysmic events that shook the foundations of the universe, and various stages of maturity she had endured throughout her existence as if she were thousands of years old. But as Cross often noted, it was all just gibberish of an inexperienced child.

He attempted to rise from the dirt, but his unsteady feet betrayed him, still reeling from the vicious jolt to his skull.

She crumpled beside him, her petite fingers trembling as she brushed his muddied cheeks. Her warmth radiated through his ruach as she cradled his face in her tiny hands.

Despite his averted gaze, she held fast to his face, undeterred. The warmth of her caress seeped into his weary soul, stirring a spark of hope.

But he’d already steeled himself against it, pushing her away with a violent brush of his arm. “Ain’t the first time I butted heads with anyone.”

“That’s because you haven’t figured out what ‘heaping coals of fire’ really means.”

“Have you ever heard the word precocious?” Cross asked.

“My mother said I invented the concept when I came into being.” She clenched his arm and lent her aid to heave him upright.

Cross bore the brunt of the strain, relying on his sinews while her slight frame and meager muscles could only offer nominal support.

As he shakily rose to stand, the garden seethed with animosity, a feral hiss like a mob of furious assailants advancing to avenge their comrade’s demise.

“The weepers don’t want you here,” Cottontail said.

Cross attempted to rein in his amusement, yet the absurdity of the circumstance was overwhelming, and he could not restrain himself. A deep chortle emanated from his chest, bouncing off the icy atmosphere of the garden and shattering the rancor of moments before. It was an incongruous sound that brought comfort in a time of tribulation.

“A realm where I’m not wanted?” he said. “That’s a first.” His laughter ebbed, the air in the garden growing heavy as he assumed a more paternalistic stance towards Cottontail. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be here. I told you to wait at the ball court. Why the hell were you riding Gimlet?”

“She was afraid to enter the garden,” Cottontail said.

“She ain’t afraid of nothin‘.”

“She puts on a brave face for you. But she only came here because I promised to come with her.”

“And where is she now?”

Cottontail’s slender shoulders rose and fell, her slight frame illuminated by the soft motion. “I fell, and she ran off.”

Cottontail’s gaze wandered around the garnde with apprehension, sadness, and sheer disappointment. Her lips were downturned at their edges, and her shoulders slumped in submission. Despair pooled in her once vibrant eyes, revealing the ineffable anguish that her beloved pet fled from this desolate place, leaving her alone.

“Are you hurt?” Cross asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing?”

Cross laid his hand on his stomach as he felt a growing sensation of tormenting hunger overcome him. A rumbling rocked his inner being as if it came from the depths of his nephesh and filled the surrounding space. It was like a distant roar of thunder carried on the wind in the darkest hours of the night.

“I’ll be much better,” he said, “when we find that damn bird.”

“It’s over here.” Cottontail led Cross further along, their trek marked by the scattered remains of calabashes.

The sleek emerald shells had been ripped apart and ruptured, and the putrid nectar within them poured out onto the ground like blood from a sacrificial offering.

Then, far in the bowels of the garden, they stumbled upon the barbot. It stood half-hidden by ragged vines, entangled in the clutches of weeds, rustling in a flurry of movement. Its beady, dark red eyes flared, scanning its surroundings. It might’ve seen them coming long before they saw it.

Cross marveled at the glossy sheen of the featherless brown hide of the barbot. The wrinkled texture was a typical feature of one of these species, but this specimen seemed to have been spared that trait. Its astral surface appeared less calloused and almost smooth.

“Hey there, beauty,” Cross said.

“Looks like a big ol’ saddle bag to me,” Cottontail said. “Like all the others.”

Cross had seen uglier barbots, and if Cottontail were fortunate enough to make it to Paradise with him, she would bear witness to them along the way.

The Underworld teemed with these scaly avians, which reminded Cross of what dragons might look like—only in miniature, without their imposing horns or deadly capability of spewing fire. Barbots were gentle creatures in comparison.

And had it not been for his gnawing hunger, Cross would have vaulted onto the barbot’s powerful back with Cottontail to soar straight to Paradise. But then again, each time he had ever gone aloft, some rapacious spirit or another had invariably shot him out of the skies, leaving them to squabble over the meat. And such was how things were even before the accursed wars broke out. Spiritual warfare was a perpetual state these days, and the dangers of being brought down by courageous soldiers only intensified it all. Yet, even if such risks did not exist, despite flight being a much faster form of transportation, he refused to forsake his dear Gimlet on their harrowing journey.

“We need Gimlet,” Cross said. “This barbot is too heavy to carry back to the palace.”

Cottontail cupped her hands around her mouth, and her calls for her pet rang out, her voice echoing through the garden, cheerful yet determined. The words “Gimlet! Here, girl!” rippled as if from one end of the Underworld to the other. It was like a songbird’s chirp but amplified a million times over—a deep and powerful yell that pierced the air, reverberating off the trees and into eternity. Her eyes were bright and alert, darting from side to side in desperate search of her beloved pet.

“Shhh!” Cross surveyed the darkness, the cruel embrace of the skeletal trees imprisoning him in an impenetrable shroud of gloom.

His eyes traced the splintering trunks to the shriveled shrubs and tangle of vines, hunting for any telltale signs of movement or distress. His anxious nephesh ached with dread as he beheld the ominous shadows among the withered weeds. He stood vigilant, every astral layer tensed with anticipation and fear, straining his ears to catch any sound that may offer clues to the whereabouts of his beloved pet.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Gimlet would’ve found the barbot by now.”

“You think she’s okay?” Cottontail asked.

“Don’t worry. Gimlet can take care of herself. I’m more concerned about our current situation. We’ll have to chop the barbot up here.”

“You mean you.”

“I’ll get it started,” he said. “But once I draw ichor, the ants will come. And since Gimlet’s not around to defend us, I’ll have to hold them off while you chop up the bird with the macuahuitl.”

“There’s too many ants!” she said. “You can’t handle them all.”

“Then you’ll have to cut fast before they steal our food again.”

“I don’t want to. It’s disgusting.”

“You sound like someone who doesn’t want to go to Paradise.”

“You say that every time I don’t want to do something.”

“I wish I could be a dumb, snot-nosed little kid again,” he said. “You ain’t gotta do nothing but eat and sleep while somebody else takes care of you. If you make yourself useful, you won’t be so useless!”

Cottontail kept her gaze trained on the ground, and a softly stifled sob escaped her.

Guilt churned in Cross’s belly. Perhaps he had been too harsh on her. Though she was an ancient immortal being who had existed for epochs longer than him, she still had a human child’s fragility and mental acuity. Yet if she were to survive any other encounter with the spirits in this Underworld full of darkness and danger, she needed to become hardened and learn from every experience, no matter how hurtful or severe. His curt attitude was a small taste of what awaited her if she could not stomach his words.

“Useless souls don’t make it to paradise.” His hushed voice trickled through the air, each syllable like a drop of honey, sweet, warm, and empathetic, promising healing for her battered ruach. The words embraced every hurt and pain as if they were his own, so she felt understood and comforted, and all troubles were mere dreams. It was his way of embracing another soul and showing her that neither of them was alone. “I’m gonna see to it you make it.”

Cottontail slowly drew her head back up, and then, with a sudden burst of energy, she flung herself into him, clinging to his waist with her bony arms.

“When you’re done,” he said. “Pick any piece you want. It’s yours. Except for the breast. Save that for Gimlet. She has a bigger belly to fill. And she deserves it.”

“I like the wings anyway,” Cottontail said.

Cross unwound her arms from around him.

The lamentations of the spirits in the shadows grew louder, a frost-inducing and woeful hymn that settled into the atmosphere like a mist.

Cross cringed at their unbearable crying and sniveling. Their chorus of anguish swelled, pushing against his eardrums with a deafening force. If he could’ve reached them, he would’ve given them all a good slap.

“Oh, shut the hell up, you big cry babies!” he said.

His plea fell on deaf ears. Their cries echoed in the inky blackness as Cross crept through the mushy grass, his eyes fixed on the scrawny bald bird, careful not to startle it. 

He cooed in a low lullaby, coaxing it with the tender melody of one of his favorite spiritual songs: “Ride up in the Chariot.” The lyrics had always warmed his ruach and emboldened his nephesh, while at times, the song could soothe other spirits around him with assurance, compassion, and peace. Unfortunately, not the weepers.

Cross drew near the barbot.

The barbot’s wings thrashed against its binds of bramble, its shrill cries echoing through the air. Its beak gaped open, and it wailed as it jostled its body. But despite its frenzied attempts, none of its efforts proved successful, and it remained tethered to the weeds that held it captive.

Cross cautiously reached out and ran his fingers along the bird’s soft, featherless brown astral surface.

A pang of guilt washed over him because he had to butcher such a beautiful creature, yet his taste buds danced in expectation of filling the emptiness in his stomach.

Cross launched himself onto the beast’s leathery back. A series of piercing squawks ruptured the air, assaulting Cross’s ears.

The barbot fought against him with all its might, twitching and flailing about as it beat its wings in a noisy frenzy, stirring up dust clouds. Poignant desperation filled its cries as it shook savagely, begging for release.

Cross wrapped around its sturdy neck, unwilling to let go. “Easy,” he whispered to the barbot. “It’s alright.”

Cross’s moved his hand along the warm surface of the barbot’s head. His motions were unhurried yet relentless in their consistency, providing the beast with an aura of security and assurance.

The warmth radiating from his touch brought a peaceful reprieve to the barbot, allowing it to break free from its incessant uncertainty and constricting fear. His strokes were rhythmic and assuasive, kneading out the tension in its neck until it finally drooped its head.

Cross had always struggled to comprehend how he could form a spiritual bond with animals through physical contact; he had possessed this uncanny ability to connect with creatures since childhood. And it had saved his ass countless times. He could tame even the most vicious monsters in the deeper depths of the Underworld.

Gimlet, the ancestor of all monsters, was no exception. A long time ago, she fell under the president’s reign and cruel measures of subjugation until Cross stepped in and brought forth his mysterious power of domesticating monstrosities with a single caress. And if not for his vassalage under the president, he might be burning in the pits of Hell right now instead of roaming freely and scrounging for food.

Under his touch, the bird relaxed in his grasp, its stress dissolving into a trusting calm.

“Good,” he said. “That a girl.” Cross’s calloused fingers grasped the underside of the bird’s beak and drew it up.

The bird, though trusting, quaked with fear beneath Cross’s touch. Each sinewy astral layer fought against Cross, its body tensed.

Cross held firm, entrapping it in a vice-like embrace. “I know,” he said. “It’s scary. But soon, you’ll start to feel sleepy. Just close your eyes, relax, and everything will be all right.”

Despite the darkness of the garden and the shadows within himself, Cross saw a tenderness in the creature’s eyes that could not be extinguished.

“I hate it when you do this part,” Cottontail said. Fear and trepidation gripped every inch of her face; her lips downturned, and her forehead creased.

“Don’t turn away!” Cross’s tone cut with icy authority, demanding obedience as he swept the macuahuitl through the air and angled toward Cottontail. His arm outstretched in a steady yet trembling gesture, his grip assured and unyielding upon its wooden grip.

The rectangular blades of his weapon refracted the fiery light, and sparkles of red danced off their obsidian sheen, glimmering like diamonds. Their ebony gloss entombed them both within an invisible arc of oppressive grandeur.

Cottontail’s slight frame quivered as her chin dipped, her dark brown tresses cascading down her delicate shoulders. Crimson-tinged exhaustion encircled her puffy gaze, which slanted downward in a sign of profound sorrow.

“I can’t look,” she said.

“You will,” Cross said. “Whether you like it or not. Between here and Paradise is hell. Not the Hell… Well, that’s somewhere along the way too. But I mean hell, as in nasty stuff. If you survive the journey to Paradise with me, you’ll see worse things than this. Unthinkable things. What’s out there ain’t got nothing on the ants, the bats, the jaguars, or even the squals. And I’m doing my best to prepare you for it. If you can get through this, I’ll know you can make it through everything else.”

Cottontail’s head lifted. She parted her lids, squinting in the darkness.

The obsidian blades glimmered as Cross positioned them at the bird’s delicate throat. “May the Great Goddess have mercy on your soul.” Cross’s hand was steady as he brought the glistening obsidian blade to the bird’s delicate throat. He gripped the weapon, feeling the intimate power of its presence in his hands. He severed the tender astral layer of the bird’s jugular with one swift, practiced motion and faint resistance. His skill was such that no sound came from the single devastating cut through the meat, save for an eerily silent whisper that ended the incessant and woeful chorus of the shadowy ghosts.

A dense mass of impossibly dark fluid sprung from the gaping wound, absorbing all surrounding light.

The sulfur odor smothered the air and rose from the wilting grass where drops had spattered, a putrid aroma with undertones of cadaverous decay and smoky burning flesh.

Cottontail’s face crumpled in discomfort, yet her unflinching eyes never wavered. Her furrowed brows were two swords of steel, the flint of her spirit undiminished despite her inner struggle, reflecting her resolve despite her duress.

Cross swelled with pride, marveling at how extraordinary and courageous she was.

He understood her reluctance to witness such savagery. This was the only reason he didn’t compel her to execute the bird herself this time, although he desired to put her through that ordeal as his mother had done with him.

The first time he ever slayed a chicken, he was even younger than Cottontail, and the fried eggs he had devoured that morning for breakfast left his insides revolting, and he soiled his only shirt. He had reared that chicken from the sweetest little fluff-ball to maturity. It was his original friend. There weren’t any other Negroes near his age to play with, and that chicken was his sole companion on the plantation. When Mama forced him to murder it, he wept for a day and couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He had come a long way since then.

Life goes on. And so does death.

Icy ichor coated Cross’s hands and arms. With a solemn gesture, Cross raised his bloodied palm to his forehead and crossed himself to acknowledge his duty. He paid homage to the sacred triad: the mother, the maiden, and the crone.

Cottontail recoiled, her expression shifting to uneasy discomfort. Her lips pouted as if she wanted to spit out words of contempt. “Can you please stop praying to my family every time you kill?”

“I thought I was paying respect to the soul I just damaged,” Cross said.

“You are,” she said. “It just makes my chakra feel strange. Maybe it’s because I’m too close. Usually, prayers happen far away.”

“Can you tell how far?”

“If I concentrate.”

“Good,” he said. “Since you like to wander off without following my directions, we’ll likely get separated again for the thousandth time. Now, I can pester you until you return to me.” A playful smirk rippled across his lips, its enigmatic warmth cascading over his face and emanating into the surrounding silence.

“You sound like my mother,” Cottontail said.

Cross jabbed a finger into Cottontail’s stomach, his touch as light as a feather.

Cottontail let out a tinkling laugh as she wriggled around with all the buoyancy of youth.

“Which one are you anyway?” Cross asked. “I think you’re the maiden. I doubt you’re the mother. And you’re definitely not the crone.”

“I don’t know,” Cottontail said. “We’re not the ones who made up that custom. We don’t think of ourselves in that way. But don’t tell anyone I said that. Souls have strange reactions when you reveal the truth about their traditions.”

Cross hoisted the lifeless barbot onto his shoulder, positioning its weight across his back. He carefully laid the broken barbot against a gnarled tree, setting it atop its head to rest upside down for all its ichor to drain.

“Draining the ichor is important,” Cross said. “It prevents the creature from rising again.”

“Rising again?” Cottontail asked.

“This is only its first death,” he said. “It’s now transitioning from Basar, its bodily form, to Ruach, its spiritual form. And ichor is the cohesive fluid that binds all three parts of the ruach. Without it, the Conscience, Fellowship, and Intuition can not remain as one.”

“And when the Ruach loses cohesion,” Cottontail said, “the recently deceased can never become damned.”

“But if you’re already damned like me,” Cross said. “You burn and blight.”

“The second death,” Cottontail said.

“So, we’re doing barbots double favors,” Cross said. “Just make sure you never eat ichor, okay? Under any circumstances. Unless you want to end up like the weepers, a squal, or some other miserable soul.”

Cottontail’s gaze was trusting, as if she knew he would always protect her. They shared a breathless moment of mutual understanding and connection that transcended words.

“I want to go home,” Cottontail said.

“Soon.” Cross settled into the soft dirt and patted his lap, inviting her to sit with him.

Cottontail nestled against him like he had done with his mother when life was simpler and more naïve. Mama’s arms were the only security blanket that made the world feel remotely safe. And that was what Cross despised most about his memories. The good times. And Cottontail reminded him too painfully of his childhood friend Kate and the perplexing events surrounding the ultimate moments leading to his death.

He was the only soul in the Underworld who remembered their past life. So, it was no wonder why spirits hunted for his skull to gain a glimpse of life beyond their realm of existence. They coveted his knowledge so dearly that they would burn Cottontail to get to him.

And if they ever found out that Cottontail was the daughter of Magna Mater—the mighty Great Goddess herself—her head would be worth more than a hundred of his own combined. The mere thought sent chills down Cross’s spine.

He refused to cause another soul’s pain and suffering, especially not Cottontail. Her presence gave him joy—her pure and untouched innocence—a treasure worth preserving, a rarity in the darkness he was all too familiar with. Like a priceless gem, her compassion should remain unknown to everyone. He longed to hold on to her earnestness forever. And he had decided early on that it was best to get her as far away from the sinister existence as he knew in this dark Underworld. But, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it from tainting her, her precious tenderness hardening into something unrecognizable even to him. He wished with all his spirit that he could prolong her sincerity, but it proved impossible.

Cross cradled her head in his chest, feeling the divine warmth of their connection rush through his ruach. He ran his fingers through her hair, and his gaze followed his fingers, safeguarding her with an unspoken vow.

She would never reach home without his guidance, experience, and protection. So, despite himself, he trudged on with her by his side, determined to bring her to Paradise, no matter the cost. The intensity of his devotion to her was unfamiliar and unexpected, but it was undeniable. He had devoted himself wholly to watching over her and shielding her from danger.

Besides, her divine light remained his only key to opening the gates of Paradise and revealing its tempting waters. There, he would drink from the river Lethe, knowing its magic would forever wash away every memory he held, leaving only a blank slate.

“You never told me how long you’ve been in this place,” Cottontail said.

“Long enough,” he said.

During his three-hundredth year, he abandoned his attempts to count his sleep cycles—the only way those who dwelled within the depths of the Underworld could calculate the time they lingered in the afterlife. It seemed like an eternity had come and gone since then. He had endured the Underworld’s endless day for countless years. Eternity was a restless bitch.

The barbot’s spirit lay cold, ichor spilling across the forest floor. Every drop hung in the humid air before the foliage consumed it. An eerie silence fell as the leaves shuddered.

“Foragers!” Cross eased Cottontail off his lap and sprung up, a flurry of emotions whirling within him. “It’s not the army yet, so we still have time.”

Cross closed Cottontail’s fingers around the age-worn wooden grip of the macuahuitl.

She ran her delicate fingers along its weathered edges.

“They don’t want us, “Cross said. “They only want the food. But a little fear is good. It means you’re paying attention. And when you’re paying attention, it’s difficult for something to surprise you.” He smiled sadly as he saw the determination in her eyes, realizing this was an ending that neither had wanted but had been thrust upon them.

A beastly ant, the size of a rat, swarmed across the garden’s decayed foliage toward the food.

Cross raised his foot and kicked it aside with all his might. It flew into the ashen shrubs which disintegrated into a small dust cloud.

Behind him, Cottontail dismembered the barbot methodically, hammering away at its carcass with a vicious sort of fervor. The metallic clang of the barbot’s parts echoed throughout the garden as she hacked it into pieces.

Cross writhed in hopeless torment as the searing hunger twisted and pierced his entrails like a thousand blades. Each vicious coil sent a fresh wave of stabbing agony lancing through him, threatening to rip him apart from within.

A primal groan emanated from his throat, his shaking muscles bereft of strength. With one final tortured gasp, he crumpled to his knees, defeated by unbearable pain, his eyes clamped shut against its unrelenting wrath.

He clawed at the muscles of his stomach as if he could rip them away and free himself from the voracious hunger, but the torment refused to dissipate, gaining strength with each sickening lurch inside him.

He had to fight through the affliction. Cottontail’s survival depended on his survival. She was dismantling the barbot for his sake. She needed no such sustenance. And with every painstaking motion, she edged him closer toward a much-needed meal he could practically taste. His will to endure reignited. He shook off the shackles of his suffering, determined to end their struggle.

Cross staggered to his feet, his breath quick and shallow.

The dank garden undulated as the severed head of the barbot tumbled into the overgrown shrubbery. Something sinister lurked within.

Then, a hulking forager ant emerged from the spiny foliage. Its bifurcated mandibles clamped to the barbot’s segmented tail and hauled its prize away.

Another of its kind skittered out of the thicket and sank its tenacious pincers into the barbot’s breast.

“That’s Gimlet’s!” Cross yelled as he lunged forward, snatching up his end of the breast and yanking back with all his might, locked in a titanic struggle against an adversary the size of his boot but as strong as several men.

He scrambled atop the breast, but his efforts were fruitless as the ant effortlessly bore him and the breast mightily with its vise-like mandibles. Its strength was formidable despite its diminutive size.

The muffled sobs of the weeping shadows grew louder, and a head sculpted from stone somersaulted towards Cross.

He caught the statue’s cranium and slammed it down on the unsuspecting ant, obliterating it.

In response, the garden reverberated with an ear-splitting hiss that could only be produced by a swarm of ants charging forward with one goal: conquering their intruders.

Cottontail and Cross watched in horror as an endless sea of bristling bodies engulfed them.

Cross seized the barbot’s breast, shouting to Cottontail, “Get the wings!”

Together, they hefted the bounty in their arms and raced through the dead kudzu in a fury.

“Get to the ball court,” Cross said, remaining calm for Cottontail’s sake. “The ants never go there.”

The frenzied rustling of the ants’ limbs drew closer.

Cross’s calves bulged to bursting, but he dragged the breast behind Cottontail and then tumbled down the stony slope into the crusty ball court of Xibalbá.

It had been abandoned for eons, enduring the test of time in silence. It was as if the gods had decreed that this sacred arena should remain untouched, preserved in its ancient form until the end of time.

The weight of an eternity fell upon Cross’s legs. Famishment and thirst had depleted him, and any passing irritation could drive him insane. Collapsing under the shade of Bolon-Hunahpu’s barren branches with Cottontail, they drank in the momentary peace with relish. The sentient tree, unconcerned about Cross and Cottontail’s fate, appeared at ease in its slumber.

The legion of ants descended upon the periphery of the ancient ball court, stumbling into disarray and stalled at the precipice. A mysterious force repelled their presence like an invisible wall of energy, preventing them from continuing forward and entering the majestic bounds of this sacred space.

Cross, exhausted from the struggle, howled with laughter. He raised one of his weary hands to his messy hair and, in a fit of glee, mimicked the frenzied antennae of the ants with his wiggling digits.

“Too slow,” he said.

“Don’t tease them,” Cottontail said. “They’re just hungry. Maybe we should share some of our food with them.”

“They weren’t gonna share with us.”

“That’s what separates us from them. At least they wouldn’t have teased us.”

Cottontail’s compassion was one of the many reasons Cross had been drawn to her. Still, if she were to stand any chance of surviving the treacherous voyage to Paradise with the unrelenting bounty hunters on their tail, then her kindness would have to be extinguished. However, Cross was reluctant to strip her of a trait so pure and rare in this forsaken Underworld. So he fed the ants what he could spare.

3 – Bathed In Magma

A hushed murmur echoed around them, traveling on claps of lightning, illuminating the ball court and thundering across the land.

Cross couldn’t comprehend the whispering words, but they were undoubtedly ancient and full of rage and malice. The voice could only belong to one being—the sovereign ruler of the Underworld himself: The Master.

The ants dispersed and marched back into the garden in a precise formation. Their movements were not those of a panic-stricken horde but of soldiers who had heard a commanding declaration and obeyed without question.

The devilish speech ripped through the sentient tree, shaking it from its deep slumber. Its branches sprang in surprise and shivered with terror, and if there had been any leaves left on its limbs, they would have disintegrated in fear.

The air charged with an unseen power—ancient heka coursing through the Underworld’s veins. Orange-red fires in the sky scattered and wove together to form embers of black flame.

The court lurched and frothed, shaking the earth beneath Cross and Cottontail’s feet. The ground split open, and all their hard-earned barbot meat tumbled into the abyss. Molten lava spewed from the depths and advanced in their direction.

Cross attempted to scoop Cottontail into his arms, but an oppressive but weightless force immobilized him as if invisible chains had ensnared his legs. His astral layers tightened. An unknown power clenched around his aetheric structure, freezing him in place. His ruach refused to obey his commands; ethereal energy overrode them. His legs became stony pillars, immovable and unbending despite the tremors of the tumultuous ground. A weight pinned each foot into the soil like a sack of bricks. He struggled to move forward, yet this sorcery rendered him earthbound—akin to a petrified tree with its roots engrained in the land.

“I can’t move,” Cottontail said.

An apparition rose from the depths of a churning, fiery abyss. Burning chunks of lava flew off the spirit like water droplets, slowly revealing the woman underneath. Her figure was framed by rolling tendrils of smoke and ash. Molten embers crackled from her, casting a soft glow against the impenetrable veil of darkness that cloaked her form.

She had to be one of the Master’s minions, a messenger, perhaps even the Master himself, come to drag Cross down into the pits of Hell he was so sure he deserved.

The fabric of her dark cloak billowed out around her, highlighting her voluptuous curves as she strode with grace and power. Her hair cascaded down her back in waves like a river.

She moved with purpose—each step deliberate and intimidating—as if she had mastered the forces of the Underworld itself.

The tail of her cloak trailed majestically behind her, amplifying the ethereal aura surrounding her. With confidence and poise, she approached them, radiating an air of power and strength that could not be denied.

As the enigmatic woman crept nearer, Cottontail clapped her hands over her temples, wailing in agony. Her cries reverberated through the air, piercing Cross’s nephesh.

“What’s wrong?” Cross asked her. He strained to move or come close to her, but his feet were like lead as he remained immobile, preventing any solace he may have offered her.

“My chakra,” she said, panting through the anguish etched on her face. “It’s firing like never before.”

“You told me that’s how your chakra reacted when you met me.”

“But I was specifically looking for you,” Cottontail said. “I don’t know that woman.”

“But we are related,” the woman said. “Distant relatives, for sure.”

“No one in my family would ever work for the Master.”

“Except for your big sister.”

“That’s different,” Cottontail said. “She saved our mother’s life.”

“Thereby establishing the precedent that allows you and I to get properly acquainted. I could have come much sooner. But the Master chose this moment specifically. And I have so much to show you. Just come with me.”

“Don’t touch her!” Cross thrust his arm out, attempting to interpose between Cottontail and the woman. His effort was feeble, but it was all he could muster in that desperate moment.

“Put your arm down,” the woman said.

Cross’s arm dropped against his will, powerless against the woman’s arcane artistry.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Cottontail said to the woman.

“You don’t have a choice.” The woman took Cottontail’s tiny hand and glared at Cross.

The heat of her gaze burned straight through him, and his ruach quaked with dread.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take real good care of her.”

The woman guided Cottontail, gradually leading them toward the baleful chasm of molten rock that had opened up in the abandoned ball court.

A chill coursed through Cross’s nephesh as he watched the billowing smoke and flames curl around them in a caressing embrace, beckoning them ever closer to the abyss. Scarlet-hued rivers of molten stone churned within its depths, an infernal omen that spoke of a dreadful future.

Cross fought against the woman’s powerful enchantments, but he could not break free from the spectral grip encompassing his ruach. He remained hopelessly mired in the sea of her bewitchment, thrashing against the current of a remorseless tide.

“Who are you?” His voice strained as it echoed in the empty air, dull and distant like a pebble thrown into a bottomless well, echoing through the ruins of the abandoned ball court.

“Focus on your journey to Paradise,” the woman said. “And don’t ask me how I know about your intentions or why it matters to me because you won’t find my answers satisfying.”

“Try me,” he said.

“It’ll only lead to us talking in circles,” she said. “And your time is limited. This realm will soon be overrun with squals, so I suggest you start moving.”

“You obviously know more than you’re willing to share,” Cross said. “And if that’s the case, you must also understand that Cottontail is my only way through the A’raf. Without her, I can’t enter Paradise. So, you’ll have to let her stay with me.” Though he shouted with all his strength, his voice was swallowed by the shadows, devoured by the rolling thunder, its potency diminishing into oblivion, and its echoes faded into the ether.

“I see your predicament,” the woman said, her tone sympathetic. “But you have a larger problem. The Master has taken an interest in you, which has attracted the attention of many powerful beings. Eventually, those who seek to harm you will uncover Cottontail’s true identity—a naive and impressionable goddess who can be easily influenced and manipulated. While I know your intentions towards her are honorable, those who hunt you have sinister motives. They can and will enchant her to fit their desires. And unfortunately, you can’t protect her from them. As long as she stays with you, she will never return home safely.”

“And she will with you?”

The woman promised, “I’ll do my best to keep her concealed for as long as possible. But it would be best if you found a way to reach Paradise soon. You can establish the strongest connection with Magna Mater there. Only she possesses the power to summon Cottontail back home.”

“You seem so eager to aid us,” Cross said. “Why not use your abilities to help us break through the seemingly unbreakable wall of Paradise?” His voice rose above the hiss and crackle of the raging inferno, a plaintive cry that cracked through the air like a whip.

The woman spoke calmly, “It’s understandable that you may not appreciate my method of assistance. I acknowledge your reluctance to trust a stranger who suddenly appears and forcefully takes your dear little friend away. But simply asking for your cooperation in borrowing her would not have yielded the result we both need. And I know you well enough to know you won’t let this go without a fight. Even if everything goes smoothly, there will always be a part of you wanting revenge.”

“Maybe so,” he said.

“Hence my method,” she said. “Find solace in the fact that we share a common goal. And if you fail to gain entry into Paradise, then I’m just as fucked as you are. Is that enough to make an agreement?”

“You claim you know me well,” Cross said. “What do you think?”

“You want some assurances.”

“No, you do,” he said. “Rest assured that if any harm comes to Cottontail, I will hunt you down and annihilate you.”

The invisible force emanating from the woman’s heka felt like a thousand tiny needles pricked at Cross’s astral surface, urging his hand to rise and wrap around his neck. It was as if there were strings attached to his fingers, pulling them tight until they were wrapped tightly around his throat. The pressure was intense and unrelenting. Each finger curled inward, squeezing tighter and tighter until he could no longer breathe.

Despite his best efforts to resist, he couldn’t have stopped himself from choking as the woman’s heka held him in its grip. He had no control over his own ruach, a sense of helplessness and loss of control as his hand betrayed him. His desperate gasps for air went unanswered, drowned out by the relentless force of her power.

“If I wanted to harm poor little Cottontail,” the woman said, “I could force you to rip her limb from limb. Then I could make you dive head first into the fires of the Inferno.”

The invisible force enveloped Cross’s legs, its grip firm and unyielding. It was like being caught in an overwhelming and terrifying current. His muscles strained against its hold, but it swept him along, marching him in a circular pattern around Cottontail and the woman.

But as suddenly as it started, the marching came to a halt, and Cross found himself standing before the woman, completely under her control. His mind raced with thoughts of escape and resistance, but they were futile against the sheer strength of her heka. He was a mere pawn in her twisted game of magic and manipulation, stripped of his autonomy and awash in a suffocating wave of helplessness.

“But, alas, I need you both to survive,” the woman said.

The unseen force encircling Cross’s hand and fingers abruptly released him. The tension and pressure dissipated instantly, and the sensation of pins and needles vanished. His fingers relaxed their grip around his throat, and a sudden relief washed over him as he gasped for air. His arm dropped heavily to his side with a resounding thud, still under the hold of the woman’s heka tightly tethered to him like a sturdy rope around his wrist.

Cross struggled to catch his breath before speaking. “You’ve gained the Master’s favor. He gave you the rarest of all permissions, allowing you to perform heka in his domain.”

“It’s not a matter of favor,” the woman said. “It’s just leverage. Being privy to the Master’s true name is the ideal way to earn such a license without becoming another vassal of his empire.”

“What’s his true name?” Cross asked.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with such power. You’d likely squander it. Those who control their tongue protect their life. But those who speak rashly shall have destruction. The real question is, do we have an accord?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Your cooperation is certainly preferred.”

“Then I’ll need a way to contact you.”

“Prayer works,” the woman said.

“Not without your true name.”

“Use Cottontail’s,” she said. “I’ll eavesdrop on the tidings and reach out only when necessary to maintain secrecy. I’ll allow her to confirm her well-being when it’s safe. But you must act with haste. There are forces at work vastly more formidable than me. Despite my arrangements with the Master, or how you may perceive the might of my heka, my assistance is limited and can only extend your timeline for a short while.”

“How much time can you give me?”

“Don’t go on any detours,” she said. “Head directly to Paradise, and all our problems will be solved.”

“Just like that.”

“It’s not an easy objective. But it is simple.”

“What exactly do you get out of helping us?”

“Anu will answer before long,” she said. “Do whatever he tells you.”

That phrase haunted Cross throughout his entire existence, echoing in his mind from the moment his mother uttered it before she was mercilessly killed. It resurfaced once more just before Cross’s own murder. He couldn’t comprehend the phrase’s meaning then, and even now, centuries later, he struggled to grasp its significance. It left him with a sense of deja vu and a deep fear that history was repeating itself. Something was coming, something ominous and inevitable.

“What do you know about that?” Cross shouted after the woman. “Who is Anu?”

His plea bounced off the armor of the mysterious woman’s indifference as she led Cottontail into the lava.

Cross’s ruach burned fervently as he weighed every outcome, knowing full well what he desired but unable to decipher the right course of action. His feelings battled, pushing him to go after Cottontail once he was set free, yet paralyzing him with dread in case his actions caused them both irreparable damage. The harder he tried to devise a solution, the more probable any attempt might cause their second death or annihilation.

The impossible choices tore him apart. He could only watch helplessly as the fissure in the ground swallowed Cottontail and the mysterious woman.

And it wasn’t until the crevice had sealed shut behind them that the magical force that had frozen Cross in place released its grip, leaving him free to follow through on a decision that would impact his afterlife forever. With a broken spirit, he relinquished himself to his fate.