The enigmatic woman’s icy, electric sorcery faded away into a placid warmth, liberating Cross’s ruach from its unrelenting bondage. A lingering vibration in the atmosphere rippled like a gentle breeze, imparting a feeling of reprieve and freedom. The constriction in Cross’s muscles was replaced by a buoyancy that allowed him to move spryly once again.
The Underworld was a relentless adversary, never affording respite or solace but reaping all that could be taken from a soul. And it could take away anything a soul possessed.
Cross was all too familiar with this nefarious practice and expected it, yet his fury burned undiminished. Despite its predictability, his powerlessness still left an inescapable truth—he was alone again.
Cross strode across the lifeless grass that blanketed the scorched, parched terrain of the ball court, his steps echoing in the fading black flames in the sky. He marched toward the looming tree at the court’s heart; its arid limbs entwined and spun together like two hands clasped for prayer, then unfurled into an impenetrable canopy overhead that protected its trunk from the crackling eruptions above.
“This is your fault!” Cross’s voice reverberated off the two walls that confined either side of the ball court, an impenetrable chorus of many voices, boisterous and resounding, soaring into the air like a flock of arrows. His wrath echoed through the ether, an elemental growl that shook every skeletal branch of the ancient tree.
Its gnarled, creaking bark shuddered and moaned in response, like a spectral choir of unheard melodies echoing in concert with his own.
“Wake up!” Cross pummeled the tree trunk with a flurry of kicks.
The trunk buckled, and its hardened bark shattered. Cross’s angry blows thundered across the barren landscape, shaking dust and dry leaves from nearby shrubs. His onslaught would have ripped the leaves off the branches if the weakened twigs had produced any.
The bark groaned and creaked as the ancient tree stirred from its slumber. Its mangled limbs split abruptly, and wood splintered, booming like thunderclaps throughout the ball court.
The sinister visage of a skull emerged from the knotty texture of the blackened bark and tangled branches.
“I’m searching!” Bolon-Hunahpu’s voice thundered up from the lowest depths of the Underworld, a deep, ethereal, rumbling mixture of wind and gravel. It sliced through the environment like an ankou’s scythe, filling the dead air with its ageless wisdom.
“I told you to wait for my signal,” Cross said.
“It would not have changed the events.” The skull’s jawbones clunked like two stones rubbing, dissonant and unnerving. The sound lingered in the air like the memories of a long-forgotten friend. “Verily, your utterances disrupt my concentration, scattering Cottontail’s reflections asunder.”
The skull sank back into the trunk with a bone-chilling grace as if returning to its rightful resting place. Its empty eye sockets melted away in the shroud of darkness held within, blending into the trunk’s crevices, leaving no trace that it had even been there.
Cross fell into silence, allowing Bolon-Hunahpu to trace Cottontail through the complex labyrinth of her underground root systems. He was reluctant to disrupt again, knowing this could be his only chance to locate her. His spirits lifted as he clung to his last hope that the tree could flush her out. As he held vigil, desperate for more news, his impatience spiraled into overpowering agitation, and the fire in his soul could no longer be contained.
“Anything?” he asked.
The bony branches swished together in a languid yet steady rhythm, creating a gentle hissing that carried an air of irritation with it. “Shhhh!” they said.
“Don’t shush me!” Cross held his breath, his palms dripping with sweat. With every passing second, anticipation clawed at the edges of his sanity while doubt clouded his mind; no news could be eerily interpreted positively or negatively.
The skull re-surfaced from the trunk; its empty sockets were now ablaze as intense white light beamed from within them. The skull’s jaw gaped as if it were about to reveal a haunted story or caution of some dark and ancient wisdom. Its penetrating stare was like a lantern of wisdom, calling Cross to use its power.
“Talk!” Cross said.
“Whispers from the ever-roiling chaos beneath,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “My sensing organ is aflame with the resonance of the Inferno’s impending eruption. Be aware, for a great upheaval is upon you. It shall arrive in precisely one hundred and nineteen cycles of slumber.”
“I don’t care about your weather forecasts. What about Cottontail?”
“There lies the truth of my prophecy. Despite the great expanse of my roots, somehow, the woman has stolen Cottontail away from my gaze. It’s as though they have ascended to a realm far beyond the Underworld.”
“I thought all the gates were destroyed,” Cross said.
“Rumors,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “It is said that the grandest deception the Master has ever enacted was to convince the inhabitants of the Underworld that there is no Master at all. But lo, everyone knows he lurks in the shadows. It would be the worst-kept secret if there were an attempt to conceal it. The Master’s true aptitude lay in his deceitful ways, weaving tales of unmitigated truth with such falsehoods and diversions as to confuse those who seek what is real. With this clever ruse, the Master has obscured many truths, sowing chaos and mistrust among beings who ought to be allied in solidarity. He tricks spirits into battling one another for their subjective truth instead of seeking the objective truth—only to further enable the Master’s schemes. As each group thinks its rival to be its archenemy, the Master cloisters secret knowledge right before our eyes, and none are the wiser. Even those privileged enough to serve beneath him remain unaware of the layers of truth hidden from them, as he does not entrust them with all of his secrets but only selected elements of reality. Thus, by cleverly concealing his actions, the Master has intentionally destroyed some gates at his discretion while keeping others secreted away.”
“You seem to know a lot about the Master’s inner workings.”
“I find myself with naught else to do but listen in on the musings and machinations of others, for knowledge is power.”
“Then you must know where the remaining gates are located.”
“I wish,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “Yet they lie beyond my grasp, for the Master is ever attuned to my incessant prying. I am not discreet in my investigations, and he sees my ambition to uncover his hellish secrets, and he knows the depths of my yearning to unveil his mysteries.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t just burn you down.”
“His deception is more artful. His machinations cut through my tendrils buried beneath the deep soil that once connected me to eternity. Few pathways lead to deliverance, and many lead to deceits and snares. Every gate may have a hundred traps crafted by the Master’s heinous handiwork so that no being may trespass without careful consideration.”
“We can narrow it down,” Cross said. “Check each location one by one to find a gate.”
“Know that even if one were to discover a doorway, remember that the Master holds all the keys. Nary a spirit may pass beyond this realm without the Master’s consent. To receive such an absolution demands surrendering your soul and unwavering loyalty to the Master’s inescapable will, thus forever trapping you in his perpetual grasp and this cursed realm.”
“Unless there’s a way to break out,” Cross said.
“Unlikely,” Bolon-Hunahpu said.
“Then point me in the direction the women took, Cottontail. I can pick up their trail myself.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The woman warned you to remain on your path, her words carrying the gravity of fate, an omen of what the Master foresees in you. If I guide your steps towards Cottontail, it would be a step in the Master’s grand design.”
“So?”
“I refuse to grant the Master’s request. Abide not by his will, for it only brings suffering and servitude. Fear not; I know of a wiser course for you to locate and save Cottontail.”
“Then quit your rambling and tell me!”
“Cottontail has revealed her true name to you. I know not the name, yet if you should speak it, I can perceive her precise whereabouts, for such is the potency of enchantment bound within a true name.”
Bolon-Hunahpu’s suggestion, though viable, threatened to expose Cottontail to further spiritual peril by uttering her true name. Even though Bolon-Hunahpu had been an ally in his journey, Cross still didn’t trust the tree; he trusted no one. He had faced major betrayals at the hands of people he had once depended on, notably the person he had once trusted most in life; hence, he was unwilling to risk Cottontail in the same fashion. Even if he used her true name to rescue her, he refused to open her up to more harm or make himself vulnerable to new breaches of trust; her safety depended on him, and he would not divulge her name to anyone.
“And when I find her,” Cross said, “then what? We’re still in the Underworld and under the rule of the Master. We can’t run or hide. He’ll send his vassals. And you saw how that woman froze us. I’m not some powerful deity. Even if I were, the Master once defeated the Great Goddess herself in battle. And you told me the Master turned you into a tree.”
“I am no tree! I am a vessel of knowledge, a skull resting atop the ancient branches of life. Hear my words and remember them.”
Cross lifted his palms, displaying a gesture that signified he could not distinguish between the skull and the tree. “Better you than me,” he said. “My point still stands. I can’t picture a scenario where I can prevail against the Master with no heka.”
“You can obtain it,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “There is a vastness of blessed artifacts touched with divinity.”
“I know,” Cross said. “We stole Supay’s divine chattel.”
“Then it is done.” Bolon-Hunahpu’s voice bellowed like thunder. “The devil’s scepter shall serve you well. Wield it with courage, my friend.”
“The Master stole it from us,” Cross said. “And weapons like that are rare. That was the first I’ve ever encountered in centuries. Only the Great Goddess can help Cottontail now. And Cottontail told me the only way to contact Magna Mater is from inside Paradise because it’s more difficult for the Master to block prayers.”
“Perchance, the Master has decreed this be your path?”
“Why would he want that?”
“As you said, he had bested Magna Mater before but did not vanquish her. My apprehension lingers that he desires to exploit your virtue and that of Cottontail as bait to draw forth the Great Goddess from her sanctuary.”
“So be it,” Cross said. “Let the gods fight among themselves and leave me the hell alone.”
“Mortal,” Bolon-Hunahpu said, his voice resonating with the knowledge of centuries past, “the veil that separates us from Paradise cannot be easily lifted. The luminous gates stand fortified by divine power and are guarded by celestial forces beyond your understanding. Only those who carry the essence of divinity within them and conquer their inner darkness may pass through.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“I am aware of someone who may lend aid to this tragedy.” The skull’s bony maw clattered joyously as it spoke, its eye sockets radiating with their underworldly white-hot shimmer.
“Since when do you have friends other than me and Cottontail?”
“I’ve seen more than my fair share of wraiths pass through this dismal court, although there’s been an alarming decrease in their numbers since the recent wars. I cannot call a single one of them an acquaintance, especially not her—though you might find an ally in her.”
“Who the hell is she?” Cross asked.
“Have you heard of the Raven?” Bolon-Hunahpu said in a wise, gentle tone.
“Yeah,” Cross said. “She’s a bounty hunter whose reputation is almost as infamous as mine.”
“And she collects divine chattel.”
“She’d never share her stash with me. She’ll trade my head for more objects and be on her way. If I was her, that’s what I would do.”
“If you desire entry into the realm of Paradise, you must establish a bond with her.”
“And when her guard is down, I could rob her of all she’s got. Not the worst plan.”
“It is not my proposition. Your mind is ever quick to that of the least profitable avenue. There is no fault in the application of discreetness and delicacy.” A gnarled branch stretched down and patted Cross on the head.
Cross recoiled, flicking the limb aside with a jerk of his hand. “There are two kinds of souls in the underworld,” he said,” those that burn and those that don’t. Souls who are too trusting always burn because the souls they trust turn on them like Judas.”
The limbs of the tree swished from side to side. “What a sorrowful perspective,” intoned Bolon-Hunahpu sagely. “There is no merit in forsaking connection because of fear. Everyone needs a friend. I shall assure you I have never broken my word and have no plans to do so.”
“And that’s why we’re all here,” Cross said. “Because the damned never foresee their damnation. If they did, they wouldn’t be damned.”
“The one reason we’re damned is because the Master feeds off pain and suffering and draws his power from our torment. But know this; on the day of the resurrection of the dead, he will be made to pay for his sins. Justice and righteousness will defeat him, and all shall rejoice in its power!”
“That’s just a bedtime story to help spirits cope with their afterlife. Even if it were some prophecy, the Master would never allow an exodus.“
“It is thus that I must not permit you to do his will. We can unwittingly become a cog in his malicious machine to stop the forthcoming resurrection and downfall of the Master’s dominion.”
“I’ll take the risk. I can’t sit around here doing nothing like you.”
“So be it,” Bolon-Hunahpu said with a resigned sigh. “If you do not heed the words of an old one, then you require sustenance to keep your nephesh and ruach upright. The moment of starvation begins a deathly transformation. And while I’d be content for you to haunt the palace grounds with me forevermore, your presence would always bring me grief, seeing what could’ve been had you kept Cottontail by our side.”
“Do you truly want to help?”
“Verily, I assure you. You carry a seed of doubt, I sense.”
“Your repeated failures are bordering on blatant sabotage. How do I know you’re not working for the Master?”
“You utter such repugnant words as your eyes take in the trial meted by the Master himself upon this wasted form.”
“Maybe your reward for helping The Master is that he’ll reverse your curse and turn you back into… whoever the hell you used to be.”
“Even if he should vow thus,” Bolon-Hunahpu proclaimed, “never shall I trust the Master to keep his covenant. Especially not without a deceitful maneuver. I would rather be ensnared in a curse and linger forever encased in a bony prison upon the branches of this tree than betray myself by granting my allegiance to the Master of falsehood.”
A verdant bottle-shaped fruit swelled out of the barren branch, its skin supple yet withstanding the desolation of its host branch. It glinted in the patchy firelight poking through the branches. It hung suspended before Cross, swaying enticingly and glimmering like an emerald gemstone, begging him to enjoy its sweet juices. But it would quench his thirst like a bullet to the gut would.
“Drink, young one,” Bolon-Hunahpu intoned. “Let the sweet nectar of the calabash rid you of all this melancholy.”
“Keep your poison,” Cross said.
“Poison?” Bolon-Hunahpu rasped, his voice as dry as the desert sand. The tree bark carved deep crevices between his hollow eyes, like an unspoken language etched onto ancient parchment. “I have not tainted the calabash with anything impure,” he continued, “it is as pristine as the ethereal skies of Paradise—pure and unadulterated, for it contains the elixir of—”
“I spent some time in Vingólf,” Cross said. “And souls would frequently end up in Prior Sinuhe’s care half burned, warning about a talking tree that made them gravely ill. I’m not a healer, so I never saw what happened to them. But when Cottontail and I first arrived at this ball court, you offered us some of your fruit as a welcome gift. I didn’t trust it, so I fed it a hodder to see what would happen. But nothing happened immediately. The results came days later. And your fruit didn’t just burn that poor little creature. I found it with a gaping wound in its chest like something had clawed its way out of it.”
“Gimlet ate him,” Bolon-Hunahpu said.
“She never leaves leftovers,” Cross said. “Especially not hodders. That’s her favorite snack. If she didn’t finish, it’s because your damned fruit tainted the meat. You better not have made her sick.”
“I would never!” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “Had you tasted the fruit, it would have alieved such doubts and offered you a blessing. For no good tree bears bad fruit, nor again does a bad tree bear good fruit; for each tree is known by its own fruit.”
“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Cross said, “You sneaky little bastard.”
“I am no sneak.”
“You’ve admitted to spying on the Master of all people. And you’re pretty vocal about what he did to you because of it.”
“Not just me.” Bolon-Hunahpu’s vast branches stretched forth from his trunk like an ever-reaching wave of a thousand fingers, cresting across the ancient ball court and pointing towards one of the two walls lining the ball court. “Behold.”
A myriad of petrified spirits lined the colossal stone walls; their purpose was unknown but undoubtedly signifying some ghastly game, long-forgotten. One of the deities immortalized in the image was rendered beheaded in a gruesome tableau. Crimson streams from his neck contorted into a haunting serpentine shape that spiraled around the boundary carved in the granite.
“That is Hun-Hunahpu,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “He was the very first of—”
“That’s my point,” Cross said. “You think the Master has similar designs on me.”
“The woman confirmed such with her words.”
“And you think I might unwittingly play into this secret plan.”
“Cautiousness must always be your guide as it pertains to the Master.”
“And that’s why you seek to poison my nephesh, hoping to retaliate against the Master.”
“Would not these fruits beckon you with their beauty?” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “Let this peel nurture your nephesh against the dark schemes of wickedness.”
Howls reverberated through the great stone walls of the old ball court, twisting into every corner of the court until all afterlife had fled. The yowls and caterwauls did not come from the president’s hellhounds this time. Instead, the incoming creatures brayed with the unmistakable laughter of…
“Squals,” Cross whispered grimly beneath his breath.
He sprinted across the flame-baked court, his nephesh pounding in anticipation of what lay ahead. He flew up to the northern rim of the ball court, staring up at the Mictlān Mountains, majestically rising atop the distant horizon, bathing in flame.
His earshot had confirmed the worst of his fears—the squals had followed them from Ukhu Pacha to Xibalbá with greater relentlessness than before. Cross remembered how he and Cottontail had avoided Supay’s wrath and escaped being devoured by the unforgiving legion of squals, leaving only three behind on the crumbling bridge outside the president’s palace.
He was never foolish enough to believe they could outrun the squals, but he thought he and Cottontail would have long abandoned Xibalbá by now. But the squals were now closing in on him, still hungry for his head.
Cross sprinted back to the ball court’s epicenter and confronted the grim visage of the grinning skull embedded in the ancient tree’s trunk.
“How many and how far away?” Cross asked.
“I spy three,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “You have scarce moments to fill your ruach before the savage beasts intervene. You may choose to flee in the hope of sustenance, or I can provide nourishment to appease your hunger and assist you in combating the squals.”
Bolon-Hunahpu swished its branches upward. Hateful eyes unfurled from the verdant boughs and glowered contemptuously. “It is in my bark and bone that I harbor an utter despise of those miserable creatures. In a moment of mercy, I once offered them a calabash of mine, yet they attempted to carve me out of the sturdy trunk! It is a marvel that I fended them off, though not without suffering terrible abuse. Henceforth, my counsel to you is this—mayhap some calabash shall offer you aid and succor in the event of any confrontation. Come, speak unto me if it is the fruit of this blessed tree you seek, for you may have it.” Bolon-Hunahpu’s bony branches extended towards Cross.
“Choose wisely.” The skull’s ashen face split into a grin that promised salvation and damnation.
Cross stood motionless, contemplating his options as Bolon-Hunahpu’s luminous eyes captivated him. Like a pair of stars that gaze deep into the abyss, they pierced into Cross’s nephesh, leaving him transfixed and still.
The succulent fruit hung in the air, an oppressive force that compressed Cross’s essence.
What was he to do? Chance a daring escape and endure a slow second death, or surrender his fate to the twigs of an underworldly enigma.
His stomach rumbled in bitter haste. And the guttural growls of the squals drew nearer. Time had run out.
Cross swung his arm and struck the calabash off the branch.
It flew and crashed against the stone wall with a violent splatter.
“The answer is always no, Skullface,” he said.
“Pray, what is this title you continue to address me by?” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “Methinks I have clarified that such a moniker is not my appellation. Mayhap is a name best left behind in the dark annals of antiquity. I am Bolon-Hunahpu.”
“Shut your squirrel hole, you big, dumb tree! You’re gonna get me burned.”
“I AM NO TREE—”
Cross clenched the bottom of the skull’s jaw and wrenched it shut. Suddenly, his hand became damp with fluid. It was not sap. The liquid bore the watery consistency of saliva—saliva from a dry husk covered in bark, tattooed with cryptic tribal markings and deep scratches as if it had been caught up in a vicious battle with an avian swarm. Yet nothing indicated this relic could somehow produce saliva.
Cross released his grip from the skull’s jawbone and wiped his clammy hands onto his shirt.
“That hurt!” Bolon-Hunahpu said, adjusting its jawbone.
A branch crashed into Cross’s head with a loud thud. A shockwave of pain pulsed through his skull.
He winced in agony and clutched his head with both hands, unable to suppress the pain as it throttled him.
Cross stretched his arm and plucked a branch from its cradle in the mighty tree. He snapped it in half over his bended knee with one swift movement.
An underworldly glow burst forth from the branches, illuminating the skeletal figure—eye sockets alight with surprise and anger.
Gnarled limbs of bark shot down and wound Cross by both arms. The bark was rough and splintered, its edges jagged, like it was composed of thousands of spindly fingers coiling around Cross’s wrists, trapping him in its grasp. Its grip was firm yet gentle as if it were carefully lifting a delicate china doll rather than a human spirit. The bark was also slightly wet, as if sweating or exuding some sap-like liquid. Its strength was formidable, and its hold was unyielding as it hoisted him before the sinister skull, strong enough to lift him off the ground easily.
The skull’s baleful gaze fell upon Cross, and a pointy branch jutted toward him, stopping mere inches from his throat like a spear of terror jutting out from an ancient warder.
“Beware not to bite the vine that nurtures you,” Bolon-Hunahpu cautioned with a voice as ancient as the stars. “Lest it strikes back in kind.”
The giant thorn withdrew from Cross’s neck, its prongs curling back on themselves and shrinking into the tree’s bark.
The skull’s ghastly eyes dimmed until only a faint glimmer of light remained. Gone was the shock and fury seen earlier, replaced with hollowed-out exhaustion and profound sorrow.
Bolon-Hunahpu’s bluster had been no less hollow than all the occasions Cross had haughtily professed his intention to decimate the venerable tree and use its timber for kindling.
As Cross dangled from the branches, toes only inches from the harsh ball court beneath, his stomach grumbled and squirmed, a reminder of the eternal hunger that plagued the damned.
It was a detail that well-versed religious folk like his old friend, Mr. Beckwourth, had failed to mention in all their sermons about the afterlife. The pleasures of satisfying one’s appetite were as elusive as everlasting peace, and under the Underworld’s manipulative hand, a spirit never simply starved to second death. That would have been a luxury. The various stages of death were a tapestry of horror, each more unthinkably cruel than the last.
In his first week as a member of the damned, Cross witnessed the monstrous sight of a starved soul’s bowels devouring its ruach. Since then, he had eaten religiously. No matter what predicament he found himself in, he fed ruach before it fed on his nephesh.
Now, more than ever, Cross needed Bolon-Hunahpu’s help. The only solace for Cross was that Bolon-Hunahpu had promised him a way out, but at what cost?
“You believed you were Cottontail’s protector,” Bolon-Hunahpu intoned. “Yet all this while, she has protected you from yourself.”
This truth was a mercy Cross wouldn’t admit as if its admission would cast a spell upon him. It was the scent of a forbidden fruit that he dared not pluck. His pride bound him in chains, saddling him with an unfathomable burden of verity too treacherous to bear. The ruthless chill of shame rose like a fog and consumed his soul, forever engraving into his memory a lesson learned in vain. His stubbornness held him captive, strangling the words of acceptance until they were just faint echoes in his mind. Silence hung around him like a millstone on his neck, bowing him down with its heavy encumbrance.
Cross thrashed and squirmed, straining against Bolon-Hunahpu’s relentless grip, his limbs trembling with effort as he vainly attempted to break free. “Let me go.”
The gnarled branches relinquished their grasp of Cross and deposited him in the dusty ball court.
Bolon-Hunahpu swiveled his trunk and contorted his skeletal limbs. Eyes blossomed at the ends of each scrawny branch. The pupils darted back and forth, and the boughs swayed as if a gentle breeze caressed them, but no such comfort ever swept the Underworld. That would be too merciful for the damned. Frigid realms existed in the Underworld, yet they were as punishing as the blistering ones.
“Yonder lies Gimlet, on the far side of the penitentiary of animals,” Bolon-Hunahpu said. “She is at play amongst the draggles. Would you like me to beckon her here?”
“Yeah.” Cross clenched his fist as if gripping the word and determined not to let it go. “And get me a new barbot before those squals show up. Fail me again, and I’ll cut you down, friend. This time, I’m not bluffing.”
Cross’s words tangled in his throat, his jaw clenching like a vise. His voice was weighted, laden with fatigue and despair. Every syllable was precision-crafted and resolute, without mercy; every morsel was saturated with the distress of one who had succumbed to doom too many times and craved success. He had had enough of defeat. His ire filled the air, an invisible pressure smothering the discussion and atmosphere. The fog that shimmered in his eyes was the dust of his mind, the underbelly of a world where only shades of black and white persisted. The hangman lurked discreetly in the shadows of memory, but for Cross, the noose was not just a detached rope as it appeared; instead, it symbolized the clinking irons when he failed to succeed in life and death—shackles he had broken through time and time again.
