Bolon-Hunahpu sent a barbot careening out of the inferno of the sky. At last, with a thunderous crash, the colossal avian landed in the middle of the ball court as they had planned all along. Bolon-Hunahpu’s boney branches raised the giant, leathery bird aloft, allowing Cross to siphon every drop of its ebony ichor before dismantling its bulk into smaller, more manageable chunks.
It was a blessing that the barbots lacked feathers. To pluck such an enormous bird that could devour an entire horse would have taken far too long. To survive another sleep cycle in this wretched place, Cross had to eat hurriedly, locate Gimlet, and flee Xibalbá before the squals caught up to him.
He set his resolve: reach Paradise and summon the Great Goddess, the only one who could save Cottontail. Then, he would finally consume the River Lethe’s waters to erase his memories before any depraved spirits could sever his head and steal them.
Through sheer strength of will, Cross determinedly took multiple sweltering trips as he hauled all the massive avian spiritual parts along the pathways and thoroughfares of Xibalbá, weaving between rows of dilapidated dwellings obscured by dead weed growth and flanked by silent sentinels of stone.
A deathly silence hung in the air as Cross passed the house of darkness. Chilling gusts of wind and tiny hailstones thundered and clattered within the walls of the shivering house. The tinkling of muddled chimes echoed within the blade house where he had discovered the macuahuitl; the knives that hung within clinked together.
He couldn’t peep inside the jaguar house, for the doors were sealed tight, but no sounds of movement disturbed the eerie peace inside. Bolon-Hunahpu had warned him it harbored creatures of pure terror that needed to be caged for their own protection. Legend had it they were the only green jaguars left of their species in the Underworld, as were the giant bats locked within their aviary. The deities would someday return and reclaim them both.
Cross noticed a few of those gargantuan bats flapping around in the lifeless trees through the bars and fencing of the dome-shaped prison housing the nocturnal rodents. Of all the dwellings in this place, there were two he dared not enter—the bat aviary and the jaguar cage. Fear gripped him at even the thought of venturing inside. But he’d searched all other abodes for valuable objects but found nothing.
The Palace of the Lords towered over the kingdom of Xibalbá, its stone walls stretching over a mile and a half. Insidious weeds clung to it with an iron grip, pushing up against its mighty stones like bursting muscles in a shirt that was too small.
Beneath the eerie vines, there were carved depictions he hadn’t noticed before, as if the vines themselves had uncoiled to reveal gruesome visages of skulls and decapitated heads just for him. One particularly exquisite carving depicted a serpent similar to the one adorning the ball court, only it featured faces inscribed into its form, rising alongside the stone staircase leading into a gaping maw of darkness that beckoned him inside the palace.
The air hung heavy and motionless as Cross strained, grunting with effort, as he wrestled the behemothic barbot up the steps, each lined by ever-watchful statutes that seemed to further wither away at their edges with his every step.
Muscles bulging with every step, he trudged through the majestic Palace of the Lords, dragging the last barbot fragments behind him. An oppressive sense of looming dread cloaked every corner of the edifice, almost as if each intricate detail had been placed there intentionally to add to its oppressive nature.
Cross arrived in the smoky cooking area of the decrepit palace, resolute in completing his morbid chore. With an ominous clang, he cast the barbot’s beefy leg onto the hissing griddle he had preheated, filling the kitchen with the savory scent of burning astral layers.
A calabash rolled out of the barbot’s gaping neck, thumping across the stone counter and onto the scalding surface of the sizzling pan.
Cross snatched it up before its venomous nectar could drip into the food.
A searing heat shot up his fingers.
He yanked his hand off the scalding surface of the frying pan.
The pan toppled off the heated stone surface and clattered against the hard floor.
Cross shook his stinging hand in pain, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. He blew on his fingers but failed to soothe the burning sensation.
Bolon-Hunahpu was a devious one—he’d tried to secrete the poisonous fruit within the barbot’s carcass, banking on the notion that Cross would prepare the avian dish without bothering to inspect for any extraneous items stuffed within the bird. It nearly succeeded.
A divine flash of brilliance then struck Cross.
He set the calabash on a wooden tray without thinking of discarding it; though he had no intention of consuming it, he kept it in reserve as an insidious weapon against the Raven. If Cross could get her to imbibe from it, she’d burn, and he could steal all her divine chattel.
Cross sizzled the remaining chunks of barbot meat in the pan. The mouthwatering aroma almost masked the palace’s old, musty smell that had lingered for centuries.
Despite everyone referring to spiritual flesh as meat, it differed from the living’s skin, muscle, and tissue in many aspects. Ruachs—the formal term for spirits—were composed of an intricate weave of astral layers (spiritual “flesh”) that encompassed their Conscience and ichor (spiritual “blood”) that contained their Fellowship, all stitched around the ‘bones’ of an aetheric structure that housed their Intuition. At the core of the ruach resided the soul, referred to in formal terminology as the nephesh, where the faculties of Mind, Emotion, and Will were situated.
Fancy mumbo-jumbo aside, barbot meat eerily resembled the taste of chicken.
The irony was not lost on Cross—the only thing remotely approximating nourishment in the Underworld bore a striking imitation of one of life’s most beloved delicacies yet held drastically different implications for survival. In life, chicken brought joy and comfort, but in this cursed realm, its delicious flavors could only be savored as faint whispers on the tongue. It was a fleeting sensation, just barely grazing their taste buds and never fully satisfying.
Imagination and expertly blended spices were vital to Cross’s enjoyment of such meals. The looming threat of metastasis, if he failed to eat, forced him never to let a single morsel go to waste, regardless of his level of satisfaction.
Cross carried the cooked meat and calabash on the wooden tray, and on his way into the dining hall, he tossed a fried barbot leg to the mysterious critters that lurked in the shadows and kept his pet Gimlet company when he was not around. Cottontail had given Cross the idea to feed the draggles. And he’d continue to do that out of his respect for her.
The enigmatic creatures clunked and scraped against the hard surface, their jaws munching away in the darkness, but their presence was much more tolerable than those incessant weepers out in the garden of One Death and Seven Death, so he didn’t mind lending a kind favor to the draggles.
He didn’t know how many draggles there were; he could only hope that the generous ration of barbot legs was enough for all. He had never encountered the draggles up close and in the light and preferred they remain out of sight and far away.
He was unafraid of these creatures, sensing an odd friendship between them as they’d behave like timid little rodents more terrified of him than vice versa, who existed only in his peripherals. It was better to keep everyone and everything at a distance.
Even so, the draggles appeared friendly enough. Had they wished to devour him, they would have long ago launched their attack. He’d named them draggles because it signified their seeming unwavering loyalty, akin to devoted apostles tracing his steps from realm to realm. The thought was striking as he envisioned Cottontail’s share of barbot wings as his last supper.
Unfortunately, the draggles presented a significant threat to his survival. They might have been why other spirits, such as squals, could always sniff out his hideouts despite his greatest efforts to evade capture. He never suspected the draggles were two-faced spies; however, their skill in staying hidden only extended so far, and anyone privy to their shadowed tailing could assume he was somewhere nearby. They served as unwitting guides, leading his pursuers right to him. And he lacked either the courage or skill to elude the draggles. The idea of abandoning them somehow felt cruel and unachievable; his ability to stay one step ahead without their aid was clearly limited. But even if he was aware of this risk—even if others knew too—it didn’t change the fact that these supposed draggles had stood by him faithfully for countless years.
In the dimly lit dining hall, muted shafts of light lanced through the moth-eaten animal hide draped over the gaping windows in the turret. An indigo slab of titanic stone in the hall’s center, weathered and aged from centuries of hardship, stretched like a pew in a morbid church.
Cross lingered over the jagged table, lost in the memories of how Cottontail had meticulously cleansed the grime and purged the webs of corrosion that had engulfed the pottery. She had also scoured away all traces of dust from the ancient ceramic bowls, remnants left behind by the deities who had once banqueted at this same table. Cottontail knew how to transform old, broken objects into something novel again.
They had donned themselves as King and Princess of Xibalbá’s forsaken kingdom as an innocent game to amuse themselves—much to Cross’s reluctance. This proclamation had been born out of Cottontail’s juvenile fancy. Her ability to elicit childish behavior in him was unique, and he always found solace in those whimsical moments she created for them. He had even become reliant on Cottontail’s affectionate manner to distract him from his ever-present darkness, yet such occasions were now a distant memory.
The candlestick Cottontail had plucked from the rubbish and shined to a brilliant luster glistened regally on the table.
Cross lifted it reverently, cradling the candle’s wick within the fiercest rays of the scintillating sky until the wick ignited in a dazzling display.
He settled down at the head of the table and raised a chalice of devil’s water to the hosts of unseeable dignitaries, whom he imagined ensconced around him.
“To Cottontail.” His weary voice reverberated like a lone bell in an abandoned cathedral, each sorrowful note echoing off the walls and lingering in the air like a ghostly mantra. “May the Great Goddess have mercy on her soul.”
His mournful melody, a blend of piety and gloom, wafted through the air like a phantom haunting an abandoned mansion: thick and hollow, its echoes evoking painful memories that he had buried deep within himself. The oppressive sadness was stifling, drawing out despair.
He rested his elbows on the table, folded his fingers, and hoped his prayers could reach Cottontail as far as she had ventured. He vowed to her he would journey through unimaginable dangers and that he would overcome every insurmountable challenge to breach the Paradise gates so he could beseech the Great Goddess to return Cottontail from the Underworld’s captivity and bring her back home in serenity.
The forlorn monarch then lifted the cursed chalice to his lips and drained the devil’s water, solemnly swearing to himself that he would never again succumb to the enticement of companionship. His nephesh was heavy, and Cross cursed himself for ever considering it.
He tucked a tattered old rag into his shirtfront as a makeshift bib, and the draggles had finished gorging their bones and stilled themselves to rest. Only the raging lake of fire that was the sky crackled outside.
Arousal tingled in his tongue as he beheld the succulent barbot wing, its size larger than his head. He had sought this moment for what seemed an eternity, and now it had finally arrived.
With both hands, he raised the morsel to his lips.
The claws of the draggles scratched against the floor’s surface with a high-pitched, metallic sound, as if shards of metal were being dragged across the floor. A frenzied scuttling followed, as if the draggles were trying to flee from something.
An icy shiver ran through Cross’s ruach as a distinct dread emanated from the draggles, an aura of terror that usurped the hall.
Cross narrowed his stare and squinted hard into the oppressive darkness that shrouded the hallway before him.
Three sinister figures emerged from the abysmal corridor, their lupine forms appearing gradually as if summoned by an ancient spell. They slinked into the somber dining hall, sniffing and collecting information with every step.
No, not now! Cross’s deathly hallowed stomach seized with dread and outrage. Couldn’t they have just waited a few minutes until I had finished eating?
A frenzied pulsing thundered in Cross’s ruach as the three squals slunk around the chamber, their adamantine claws imparting a discordant harmony of scraping rasps onto the flagstones.
Three deformed abominations with no eyes or noses, only maws filled with serrated teeth, and a lolling tongue dripping with slime. Their gelatinous bodies glistened in the faint, aureate light emanating from the windows.
Cross surveyed the daunting trio before him, quickly devising a plan to take out the biggest menace first and methodically eliminate the other two with calculated precision.
The larger of the three squals towered over the others with an ungodly monumental form, walking on two bent legs that seemed almost broken.
The second stood close to Cross’s stature and build but was still very much transformed; his knees pointed backward distortedly.
The last was minuscule compared to its brethren, slithering on four limbs and having a forked tail that twitched with razor-sharp stingers.
The creatures scoured every corner and crevice, searching for him.
Had it not been for the telltale screeches of the draggles scurrying away, providing an early warning of the squals’ approach, Cross would have been caught unaware of the imminent danger. But if those same draggles were his friends, why had they abandoned him in this moment of great peril? Now he was left to question whether his devoted apostles had betrayed him or if their retreat had been a strategic move to give him time to escape. Either way, he was alone, and finding salvation was up to him.
Cross held his breath, still as a statue, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t notice him before he could figure out his next move. These lightless lurkers could cleave his head from his ruach with one swipe of their razor-sharp talons before his insatiable hunger could burn him to second death.
Cottontail had wielded Supay’s divine lightning rod with absolute precision, annihilating the throng of squals that sought to take his head at the president’s palace. The ones confronting him now wouldn’t let him escape their grip again. And his only weapon, now, was an obsidian blade.
He lowered his gaze to the table, a sense of dread settling in as he realized too late that his macuahuitl lay carelessly on the kitchen counter. He fought to stifle his inner turmoil as his thoughts raced back to how he arrived here—to this place, at this time—and his nephesh groaned in agony for the path not taken.
He leaned forward to extinguish the candle and give himself the cover of darkness, and his stomach rumbled.
In a unified instant, the trio of squals shifted their eyeless gazes toward him.
The largest squal spoke, his voice a low rumble. “Your mind is a treasure, my friend, worth far more than nine objects-sss.”
Every squal spoke in a sinuous tongue—a sibilant hiss like a rattlesnake warning its foe, drawing out their words with an ethereal slither like a serpent winding its way through tall grass.
“Do you mind?” Cross swept his hand downward with a flourish, showing the neatly arranged rows of barbot wings and legs he had laid on the table before him. “I know how important I am to you, but—”
“Your head,” the man-sized squal said with a forked tongue. “Or rather, what lies-sss within your mind is-sss of greater import than you yours-sss-self.”
“Fair enough.” Cross shrugged. “The thing is, you interrupted my meal. And if I don’t eat, I’ll burn. My head is no good to you if I burn.”
The trio of squals exchanged disbelieving looks at his careless demeanor, debating how to respond.
Good thing they needed his head to remain intact if they were to pilfer his memories. It was the only thing that had kept him from being devoured like Supay had been. Despite their current efforts to take him captive, he was resolute in making it an unforgettable ordeal for them to obtain his memories.
“A single mors-sss-el will sss-suffice,” the hulking squal rasped, his voice reverberating off the walls of the cavernous chamber.
“Cheers.” Cross hoisted the gargantuan barbot wing to his quivering lips, but he hesitated, struck with inspiration. “Wait. Where are my manners? You three came all this way. You must be starving. Sit down. Dinner’s on me.” He nudged the rotund calabash down the length of the wooden table, bridging the gap between himself and the squals.
He never expected he would need to use this portion of the fruit as a weapon against the squals, but it might just be his only option to overpower the monsters. He had intended to save this portion of calabash for poisoning the Raven, but fate had other plans, and he could always get more of these venomous fruits from Bolon-Hunahpu if he survived.
“Fresh fruit!” The man-sized squal lunged for the calabash, only to be met with a fierce clapping of jaws from the burly squal beside him.
He recoiled away from the fruit.
The calabash plummeted from the table, resting in a distant corner of the room.
The burly squal made no move to hunt down the prize, clearly comprehending Cross’s sinister intentions to poison them.
The beefy squal said, “Eat quickly! Or we’ll feed your pet cornurus-sss to you bit by bit on our way to Mictlān.”
The hulking squal and diminutive squal jeered, baring their jagged fangs in a malicious leer. But the manish squal stared at the calabash in the corner with an unearthly fixation.
Cross’s evil plan appeared to have yielded results on one of the creatures; now, he had to concoct a way to surmount the other two.
Cross sank his teeth into the barbot wing’s tender flesh, unleashing an explosion of juicy chicken flavor that filled his soul with joy. He had masterfully married the seasonings and spices together in a way that even he, in his wildest dreams, could not have imagined. If only Cottontail had been there to enjoy it with him.
As he savored each tender bite, he used these fleeting moments to contemplate his next plan of action—how to best fight his way out and free himself from his relentless pursuers.
The squals barred his only avenue of escape. If he could lure them away from the main corridor, then he may have had some hope of making a getaway. But they would indeed outpace him. And should he dare venture into the tight quarters of the kitchen, they would be quick to ensnare him. Yet that was where he’d left his macuahuitl; if he could recover it, he would be far better equipped to confront them.
He sat, hardening his resolve as he lazily chewed the sliver of barbot wing. As the meat settled in his gut, his muscles relaxed. Barely sated, he licked his fingers before daintily wiping his greasy hands and mouth on the bib tucked in his shirt.
“Enough.” The large squal soared into the air, crashing onto the far end of the table with a thunderous crash.
Ancient pottery overturned and shattered against the floors like glass tombs.
The remaining two squals held their ground, barricading the main entrance to the chamber.
The musclebound beast advanced across the table towards Cross. Its clawed foot sank deep into the barbot’s breast and hurled it aside in one swoop.
The other squals lurched sideways, narrowly avoiding its trajectory.
Cross seized the barbot wing from the tabletop and lurched backward, pushing his throne away with a screech of chair legs reverberating off the walls. He brandished the wing like a club, swinging it in a wide arc.
The brawny squal leaned back, evading its path.
Cross lunged forward again, unfettered by his previous failure, but this time faking a swing.
The squal dodged away from the faux swing.
As it sprang back, Cross used its momentum to strike it hard in the head with the massive wing.
The giant wing broke apart with a loud crack that echoed through the chamber like a gunshot.
The squal twisted in the air amid a sputtering of saliva flying in every direction and splinters of bone scattering all around, and the squal thudded to the ground.
The medium-sized squal loomed like an impassable fortress, obstructing Cross’s retreat as the diminutive squal zigzagged around the table, assailing him.
Fear surged through his ruach, and every fiber of his being tensed in anticipation of what would come. He had no intention of letting them regroup; keeping them separate would make it easier for him to fight them off individually.
The small squal fluttered with haste, its corpulence undulating in a sleek and sinuous motion, gliding around the table with an almost disturbing gracefulness. Its scales glistened as the dim candlelight danced along its edges.
Cross’s mind raced. His arm shot out like a catapult, clasping the ancient chalice in a vice-like grip before heaving it towards the squal.
A cascade of its contents spilled into the air and soaked the creature’s head and shoulders.
Adrenaline coursing through him, Cross snatched the blazing candlestick from atop the table and thrust onto the drenched squal.
The candle’s fire licked the devil’s water, igniting a raging inferno that engulfed the squal’s head with a deafening roar.
A hideous shriek of agony burst from the squal’s fanged maw. “It burn-sss us-sss!” Its mask of skin melted and morphed into a stringy texture that dripped off its chin until nothing remained but two desolate pits of shadow where once eyes had been.
Cross reached down, plucking one of the splintered fragments of bone from the floor. Its length was equal to a dagger’s, and with its frigid edge, it felt almost alive in his hand, though its girth had been reduced in the merciless heat of destruction. Grasping it was an act of destiny.
He leaped atop the table and sprinted along its length toward the final squal.
A claw wrapped around his ankle, stealing his balance. He crashed to the table, knocking over centerpieces and decorations with a clatter.
The squal at the door outstretched its claws. Its limbs quivered as it tensed its body. “Do not damage the head!” The squal’s voice was sharp with the familiar hissing quality as if they were being dragged over hot charcoal.
“The head already has-sss a hole in it.” The shadows of dusk deepened as the hulking squal’s harsh, rasping tones echoed off all four walls with a sinister vitality. With its talons embedded in Cross’s leg, the squal bared its rancorous maw, the razor-sharp incisors gleaming like daggers in the faint light.
Cross stabbed forward with his bone dagger, aiming for the scaly neck of the hulking squal.
The behemoth’s arm shot out and caught Cross’s wrist before he could make contact.
Cross kicked and connected with the squal’s jaw. It cracked like thunder beneath his boot.
The leviathan stumbled back and vainly tried to regain footing but failed.
Cross rolled over to the other side of the table, staggering on his bruised leg as he went.
The final squal stared at him with its eyeless, all-seeing gaze, peering through him and into his nephesh. It would pounce if Cross so much as made one wrong move such as threatening to stab it with the bone dagger.
He searched the corner until he alighted upon the calabash tucked away in the dark. Moving warily, he made his way toward the venomous object. He calmly plucked the lethal fruit from its resting place with shaking hands and chucked it to his pursuer without warning.
The creature’s talons snatched it from the air, and its hideous maw drew open. Its stare transfixed on the poison-laden fruit with an eeriness that filled the room. It then bit through its skin with dizzying speed.
Cross had been so engrossed in his survival that he had temporarily forgotten that the toxin wouldn’t immediately incapacitate his adversary. It would take an unknown amount of time. And the other two squals had not burned. The large one lay still, concussed from the impact of the kick to its head, while the frail one writhed in an anguished howl caused by the searing pain from his scorched face.
Cross had to take advantage of the creatures’ preoccupations and make his escape while there was still time.
He streaked through the grand hall, careening around serpentine passageways before shooting down the posterior of the palace towards where Bolon-Hunahpu had last detected Gimlet.
The razor-sharp talons of a squal scraped down the dingy floor in his wake as he thundered past several palatial chambers, his desperation renewed with every step.
The dismal orange radiance from the flaming sky outside leaked between the small gaps of the hanging animal pelts that adorned the windows flanking the colossal entrance doors.
He had no time to open them and thus needed a faster escape. He aimed for a glassless window, hurling himself through the void and grasping the animal hide on his way through. He swung through the air, and his shoulder crashed into the cold stone wall.
The hide ripped in his grasp, its fibers tearing with an almost musical sound.
Gravity dragged him to the unforgiving earth and the bone dagger tumbled from his grasp. His nephesh raced as he snatched it from the dust-ridden earth and bounded upright, searching the oppressive gloom for the foolishly untethered Gimlet. But she was nowhere to be seen.
“Gimlet!” His desperate voice boomed through the palace grounds, rippling off the cold, ancient stonework and piercing the vast expanse of desolation.
A hint of wind stirred in response, swirling his call around the empty grounds and carrying the whisper of his plea into the distant horizon, never to be heard again.
He chided himself for not having tethered Gimlet and instead granting her the freedom to wander as she pleased. This was the consequence of his naïve kindness—a lesson he would never forget.
Cross then recalled Bolon-Hunahpu’s promise to lure Gimlet to the ball court. Maybe she had already arrived.
A squal careened through the window he had just hurdled, its girth barely allowing it to fit through the narrow breach. Its hulking ruach landed before him with a loud thud, blocking off his only escape route to the ball court.
It had to be the big one. Why not the small one?
Its bottom jaw dangled low from where Cross had shattered the barbot wing across its face.
The creature strode forward.
Cross sprinted down the lane of statues and dashed around the palace like lightning.
The monstrous, slack-jawed squal trailed behind him.
The tiny, melted-faced squal blocked his way ahead. It must’ve maneuvered through the palace to cut him off.
The two squals crept closer, one from his front and one behind him, boxing him in.
Cross spun on his heel, rapidly turning sideways so that they were now both at his sides, where he could keep both within his line of sight.
“Fellas,” he said. “I’m not worth all this effort!” he said as beads of sweat trickled down his face.
But the squals he had wounded were no longer content with banter; their white-hot rage left no further room for discussion.
Cross spied the blade house several dwellings away. It housed a bounty of macuahuitls, among other blades. All he required was to infiltrate and acquire one. But he had to outrun the much swifter squals to get there.
However, the dome-shaped aviary of bats neighbored the palace. If he could somehow evade the squals within the aviary first, perhaps he could then make his way to the blade house.
Heaving heavy breaths, Cross barreled through the alley of stone-carved bats up to the aviary gates.
The squals followed in hot pursuit.
Cross’s sweaty fist grasped the ancient iron door’s handle, its rusted edges grating against his astral surface. He forced it open with a heave and slammed it shut behind him.
But the squals hammered their forms against its massiveness before he could secure its latch.
The door cracked open, leaving a slim gap.
Through it, the squals’ razor-sharp claws reached for Cross and tore into the fabric of his shirt sleeve.
It would be his end if he failed to secure the iron door. No begging, pleading, or penitence would spare his head. They would finally carry out their unholy rite and mercilessly siphon his memories from his nephesh, leaving him helpless and defenseless. Then they would sit his nescient skull on grim display atop a spike, condemned to an irreversible, eternal state of oblivion.
