Cross heaved against the sheer mass of the imposing iron aviary door, his muscles straining to slide the latch in place as it groaned under its weight.
An angry chorus of screeching and raging echoed around him as he fought the force of the frenzied squals attempting to burst through the doorway.
Cross plunged the bone dagger into their hands, wrists, and forearms.
Black ichor oozed from the punctures, splattering Cross’s face and hands and staining his shirt.
The screams abated as they wrenched their arms away from the aperture of the door.
And with a desperate shove, Cross pushed the door shut and latched it in place, securing the entrance with finality.
Taking a shaky breath, he stepped back, knowing that these creatures would never give up on their vengeful pursuit, but at least he had bought himself some time.
A precarious wooden bridge jutted from the mouth of the aviary, snaking through an expanse of petrified boughs and a thicket of ravaged vines, shrouding the enormous cage in darkness.
The wispy jungle hung above Cross’s head, frayed and worn. Its warped branches were gnarled and fragile, like a petrified arboreal graveyard, their finger-like twigs clawing for the edges of the aviary’s dome-shaped fencing before succumbing and dropping away in defeated stillness. Remnants of leaves lingered on, auburn, wilting, and contorting, seeming to be suspended within eternity amongst long tendrils of pallid vines.
Cross peered over the edge—bloated gray boulders and strange frothing pools of various colors dotted the landscape here and there. With his nephesh beating in his chest, he beheld a ramshackle shelter at the far end of the bridge, deep within the aviary’s bowels.
He had never ventured into this domain before or glimpsed that haunting cabin. Hope fluttered tentatively within him as he suspected there must be an exit on the other side. Most houses on Xibalbá featured multiple entrances.
The iron door crashed behind Cross, shaking the rickety wooden bridge beneath his feet. The thick metal of the door could not contain the piercing screeches and snarls of the squals on the other side as they threw their bodies against it with unbridled zeal. Slaps and scratches rang out along with the struggling clicks of hinges and the handle being violently yanked, yet all to no avail.
An eerie, shrill chorus descended from the seething branches above as the leaves rustled and whipped against each other in a flurry of wild and chaotic movement. The desiccated canopy shook like a swarm of locusts, with haggard brown and gray branches thrashing in the air. Withered leaves trembled with an ominous crackle like a terrible beast rampaging through the forest. The air filled with crunching sounds as fragile stems and withered husks snapped and shattered with each tremor. Twigs and dried-out foliage rained down, signaling a nightmarish terror yet to come.
A thousand shrieks and flapping noises shattered the air like a tornado. Trees shook to their very roots. The aviary’s cage rattled. The reverberations jolted Cross to his core as he felt the piercing eyes of unseen predators who did not seek his memories but only the essence of his nephesh.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward through the entrance of the prison-like aviary. His nephesh raced with anticipation but also a heavy sense of trepidation—he had taken a colossal gamble in going there, and there was no guarantee that it would pay off. A daunting unknown lay behind those old wrought-iron gates, and there were far too many potential pitfalls to be aware of. The squals were the devils he knew, and he had traded their familiarity for uncharted territory. Thoughts of doubt and apprehension crowded his head as he backed away from the entryway—his fate now inextricably linked to the secrets of this strange place. There was no turning back now.
Abruptly, a chorus of high-pitched squeaks and fluttering wings descended from the shadows, heralding the emergence of giant hissing bats pouring out of their roosts in an overwhelming, dark cloud.
The giant bats filled the aviary with chaotic patterns as their silhouettes darted between shadows and firelight like nightmarish gargoyles. They created an eerie whistle amidst the darkness, screeching and calling out to one another. Their leathery wings beat against petrified boughs and thickets of ravaged vines with a thwack, punctuated only by the harder thuds of the squals who were still beating their bodies against the iron door now far behind Cross.
An inky pall blanketed Cross as he high-tailed it across the ramshackle bridge. Its timeworn planks protested, almost breaking under his weight, emitting an agonized creak and a defiant groan with each step as if they feared what would come.
The bats fluttered and soared around him like a flock of spectral wraiths, some half his size, their fangs snapping and their razor-sharp talons snatching for a hold. He weaved between them as they lurched at him from all directions, racing towards the cover of the dilapidated shack in the center of the aviary.
Halfway across the bridge, a bat flew ahead, perching itself on the wooden planks before him. The bat hissed and brandished its fangs.
Cross punched the creature.
The bat tumbled into the shadows of the forest beneath him and disappeared into the depths of a nearby pond with a single splash.
Gratefully, only a single menacing bat had launched its bold attack against Cross. Should a swarm target him, it would be an overwhelming calamity. Courageously trying to stay composed amidst a haze of dread that swelled from within his very soul, Cross could not help but consider the benefit of having the squals break through the iron door—so that any potential onslaught of bat attacks were aimed away from him and toward them.
A loud boom erupted at the bridge’s far end as the squals tore through the rusty iron door, shattering its hinges.
A teeming swarm of bats flapped out of the doorway, escaping their prison. A flurry joined the fray in a frenzied attack on the squals, providing Cross much-needed relief.
Did the Great Goddess answer his prayers? Perhaps not.
Bat talons clawed down his forearm, digging deep into his wrist.
Another bat flew into his back. Its claws punctured the cloth of his shirt and pierced through his astral layers.
The force knocked him forward, and he tumbled into the depths of the abandoned shack with a raucous of splintering planks.
The floorboards creaked and groaned as he rolled across them, splinters of wood catching on his astral surface and clothing as he moved.
He twisted and convulsed but could not rid himself of the beast’s relentless grip. He screamed out in agony as the minute razors dug deep.
“Away from him!” The squal descended from the darkness with blistering speed, its powerful claws tearing through the bat.
A piercing pain erupted throughout Cross’s back; he was sure that a shred of his astral layers had torn off, clinging to the paws of the bat.
As he gasped for air, his insides seething with indignity, two squals jousted against the gargantuan bat, one on each side of the flying rodent, grappling for supremacy.
The lower jaw of one of the squals hung limp, clinging to its mangled face, flapping with dismal frailty because of Cross’s boot, which shattered it in the act of desperate brutality.
The massive bat clenched its paws onto the fleshy chin, viciously yanking it off the squal’s face in a burst of darkened ichor.
The squal collapsed on itself and thrashed, its broken neck spewing black ichor all around, before succumbing to its wounds with a piteous hiss.
But Slackjaw refused to burn to second death. Thus, it still posed an imminent risk. And Cross had lost his bone dagger when the bat tackled him moments ago.
Cross sprang to his feet and scanned the murky depths of the shack, his nephesh racing as he searched for a means of escape. His gaze halted upon a door across the room, just beyond the grasp of the tiny squal and its sparring match with the bat.
Cross had singed that squal’s flesh beyond recognition through a sinful concoction of devilish elixir and diabolical candle flame.
Its lanky limbs repeatedly slammed the bat against the hard floor until the wretched animal stopped twitching and screeching.
Melty-Face proved a far more formidable opponent than Slackjaw, likely compensating for its relative lack of physicality. Exceptional combat skills complemented its wiry build. Slackjaw’s reliance on sheer size and lack of finesse had become its downfall. Cross realized his costly miscalculation in prioritizing the largest squal first, as the smaller creature was every bit as persistent and demonstrated greater ferocity.
Now that the bat had been subdued, Melty-Face carelessly stepped over the still form of his mate, Slackjaw, lying on the ground and extended a bloody hand in what seemed an almost tender gesture towards Cross.
“Have they caus-sss-ed you harm?” The squal said with a menacing rasp.
Cross tore across the decrepit old floorboards, splinters piercing his boots as he fled from the vicious squal on his trail.
He blasted out the exit and slammed shut the soft, rotting wood. He pushed himself against it, trying to hold it together as long as possible.
The bridge connected the backside of the shack to the other side of the aviary, revealing a hidden passage.
Oddly enough, the squal had yet to attempt to tear down the withering wooden barrier as they did with the iron door at the front entrance.
Cross peered through a tiny slit in the door.
Slackjaw still lay motionless on the ground, ichor spilling from the gaping hole in its neck. Melty-Face was nowhere to be seen inside the shack.
The squal must have circled around the premises, planning to ambush him in the depths of the aviary. There were still two squals left standing, and one remained unscathed and vibrant until the venomous effusions of the calabash seeped into his nephesh.
Cross’s nephesh pounded against his chest as he imagined one of those ruthless creatures waiting for him beyond either side of the aviary. He had no choice but to take a daring and unpredictable chance.
He stared at the top of the aviary, knowing that he could scale it, but his feet were heavy with dread. Everything in Xibalbá was ancient and crumbling. He could slip through and escape unnoticed if he found a weak spot in the fence. But as he examined it closer, he noticed how sturdy it appeared, like it had withstood centuries of wear and tear. If he used too much force, it could alert the squals, but if he didn’t use enough, he wouldn’t be able to get out. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he was unsure what his next move should be. There was no simple escape.
He swung onto the bridge railing and lunged fearlessly over to a decaying tree, straining under his weight. He ascended the deciduous sentry until he oversaw the entire aviary below.
Stillness filled the air; not a single squal was in sight, and only a few bats remained cowering from the commotion that had sent their brethren into flight.
Melty-Face slunk into the aviary through the back entrance as Cross had expected. As it stopped at the bridge’s junction with the shack, its head swung from side to side like a pendulum, inspecting every inch of its surroundings. Slackjaw emerged from the other end of the shed, equally vigilant.
Cross clasped at the wired fencing overhead, bullying it to discover a point of vulnerability.
Every inch was tightly entwined with verdant vines, lending it impressive stability. Despite Cross’s efforts, it wouldn’t budge.
The branch he had been perched upon cracked beneath him, and he tumbled downward. His chest slammed into one of the lower limbs, and he gripped it, saving himself from plummeting further.
“Come down from there!” Melty-Face implored, his fingers unfurling into desperate claws of plea. “You will damage that beautiful mind.” The squal scampered up the tree.
If Cross had a pistol, he might have been able to use it to threaten to put a bullet through his skull if they advanced any further. And if the scoundrels were willing to believe him, he could shoot them instead. But alas, here he was, with no means of protection.
He hefted himself atop the branch, finding balance in the swaying foliage.
The squal’s snarls ricocheted through the dead air as it ascended ever closer toward him.
A vine swung across his face with a sharp slap, dangling from the roof of the aviary, where he had been tinkering with its fencing.
Though it was unclear if his meddling had loosened it or if this was some kind of divine intervention, Cross took fate into his own hands.
Clutching onto the vine, he tested its strength and found it might be capable of supporting him.
Cross bowed in reverence of the Great Goddess and kissed the vine as a token of gratitude. He coiled it around his arm and launched himself away from Melty-Face’s vicious claws, soaring up into the air like a barbot.
The wind whistled past his ears above the skywalk before he glided back towards Melty-Face, straining its tiny arms outwards as if trying to protect Cross from any harm.
Cross kicked his legs high out of range of Melty-Face’s flailing talons and swung over the squal with millimeters to spare, then soared across the shack’s roof.
He couldn’t just swing back and forth forever. But high above the ground, he had few options left—his arms trembled as he reached heights that would have been far too dangerous to jump down from, even if he’d wanted to. He was just a naked pendulum with nowhere to land safely, and his clock was ticking. His momentum was ebbing away. The only viable option was to ascend further and try again to break free of the fencing that barred the top of the roof. His fate now hinged on his agility and bravado.
He carefully scaled the wiry tendril, but as soon as he had put his weight on it, it jolted with a sudden ferocity that suggested it would snap.
The mesh wiring of the roof that fastened the vine quavered.
If he yanked forcefully enough, he might break the stubborn meshing and create an opening in the domed ceiling to escape out of—or plummet to the forest floor if he yanked too hard.
Fatefully, the slack in the vine had already lowered him to a height where Melty-Face’s talons could snatch him.
Melty-Face loomed atop its perch, waiting patiently for Cross to swing into its embrace.
Cross tucked his knees into his chest and kicked off from Melty-Face’s viscous spirit.
Its claws raked against his legs, tearing through his trousers and leaving deep gashes.
Cross soared over the bridge.
Melty-Face leaped onto his vine. The weight of their combined masses tugged on the delicate vine, stretching it to its limits.
The metal roofing groaned, protesting under the pressure. Their fate lay beyond the grip of that tenuous thread.
The fibers unraveled one after another, straining to keep them suspended in midair. The ceiling gave way with a thunderous crash, and the vine snapped.
They both plummeted.
Branches shattered beneath Cross, cushioning the extent of his fall and sparing him from further injury, save for a bruised rib.
Cross crashed into the bridge on his shoulder with a loud thud and an eruption of wood splinters and metallic shards careening around them from its violent descent.
Dazed from the fall, Melty-Face staggered to rise next to Cross.
Cross unleashed a swift kick to the squal’s head.
The creature crumbled onto its back and came to rest near where Cross had dropped his bone dagger earlier.
Despite his pain and fatigue, Cross crawled towards the weapon, snatching it from the ground with quivering hands. He summoned strength from within himself and plunged the bone dagger deep into the flailing creature’s chest.
The wretched spirit emitted a plaintive wail as it withered, like the howl of a banshee—loud and piercing in its sorrowful intensity. The sour smell of sulfur and smoke drifted through the air, stinging Cross’s nostrils with each labored breath.
The creature writhed about, its limbs curling and contorting into the rigid postmortem rigor mortis position set in the very pose it had burned. With a faint crackle, its brittle, charred husk clumped into a black, ash-like state of second death. Fissures formed in its hardened shell with a loud snap, like shattering glass. An ooze of molten ichor trickled through the cracks like tears down a bereaved face, accompanied by a faint, crackling noise reminiscent of frying bacon. Splattering and popping noises filled the air—the liquid sizzling and seething like molten rock as it hit the wooden bridge with puffs of steam. It carried a sickly sweet aroma similar to burned sugar and scorched copper mixed with a cloying odor akin to a rotting corpse burning in the sun for days near blooming flowers in a cemetery. The fumes lingered long after, reminiscent of the stench of an opened crypt.
Cross shuddered at this disturbing portrait of death. This macabre display wasn’t uncommon, but it still gave Cross shivers of disgust.
Cross’s old friend Sinuhe was the first to impart to him that there were various stages of death.
Second death involved the obliteration of all three parts of a ruach—the severing of Conscience, Fellowship, and Intuition from their deity caused the spirit to burn to second death, becoming a blight on the Underworld.
Cross had just delivered this fatal blow to the squal; it had now become a blighted spirit, its ruach reduced to an empty husk. It subsisted, and yet it expired simultaneously. Neither one nor the other wholly. Conscious in the nephesh but departed from any intelligent afterlife and vulnerable to the perversion of third death, it would be subjected to complete corruption of its Mind, Emotion, and Will, allowing its energy to be siphoned for evil purposes for eternity. That was precisely what their clan intended for Cross—to behead him and pilfer his memories.
After suffering third death, souls could face further stages of death based on whatever malignant intent was being inflicted upon them.
Cross was acutely aware that he had stepped into the actions of a man forsaken as he released the bone dagger and crossed himself in solemn reverence of the Great Goddess—The Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone.
His silent prayer and sign of the cross were instinctual, born from the many years he had trained as a soldier of his faith under Prior Sinuhe. But too late did he realize that Cottontail, lost somewhere in the depths of the Underworld, may have been able to feel his plea, and, even worse, she could sense his wrongdoings through her intrinsic connection with her goddess powers.
The weight of his sins crushed him, but it wasn’t the first time he had burned a spirit, and it would not be the last. If he were to endure the trek on his quest to Paradise and aid Magna Mater in rescuing her daughter Cottontail, then countless souls would surely meet their fate at his hands.
Cross shook his hands, flinging the squal’s ebony ichor onto its cold remains. He wiped the remaining inky substgance off his hands and onto his shirt with a slow, deliberate motion, letting its crimson stain stretch outward like an ominous warning. He could still feel the creature’s warmth on his ruach, but it was gradually replaced by the familiar coldness he now embraced.
Burning squals may not have been as simple as stamping out an insect, but as with squashing a bug, the second death of an individual squal meant nothing in the grand scheme. They bred like cockroaches, and no matter how many were eradicated from the Underworld’s seemingly endless swarm of them, more would unceasingly plague Cross for eternity if he maintained custody of their precious commodity—his memories.
This truth dawned on Cross as he had been inexplicably left alone in the aviary. Slackjaw had vanished. He wished the squal had succumbed to his wounds and burned up into ashes. But if that weren’t the case, Cross once again found himself in the same predicament, with two vigorous squals poised at either end of the aviary’s entrances, ready to attack.
Cross leaped to his feet, a quick sprint from the front door, where he expected the third squal to lurk unless the poison calabash had already felled it; in this case, he would have one less adversary to contend with. Not willing to gamble, he spun towards the back exit instead. He’d rather chance upon Slackjaw—a severely injured squal that could barely stand to fight.
Cross burst through the rear iron door and found himself faced with a sinewy figure matching his height and build in every regard except vitality.
It was not Slackjaw but the squal that had devoured the calabash in the palace dining hall.
Cross’s neck constricted as a wave of abject despair washed over him. “Son of a bitch!” He thrust his head back with the urgency of his ire, and the surrounding atmosphere swelled with indignation and distress.
The squal looked healthier than when he had last come across it. Its slumped posture now held a fierce, defiant stance. The curvature of its spine had straightened, its knees pointed forward instead of backward, and its skin had wizened as if the wickedness itself had been drained from it. Perhaps a sign that the poisonous effects were already taking their toll on the creature’s ruach and nephesh.
The squal’s fish-toothed grin gnarled, its razor-sharp incisors regarding him contemptuously from its perch at the threshold of freedom.
What had once seemed so close was now slipping into its perverse grasp. An all-encompassing sensation of defeat enveloped Cross’s very being. His shoulders sagged under the burden of potential surrender as he exhaled his fatigue.
He was woefully unequipped to take on the mighty squal in its prime. Starved with exhaustion, his muscles were sore from countless battles and tumbles. He had weathered every strike and slash smoldered from the beasts’ talons, and though his options were limited to a pitifully inadequate bone dagger compared to the beast he confronted, he refused to yield. His only option was to stand and fight or end up like the squal he had burned.
His teeth gnashed against each other, and the surrounding sweat dripped down the contours of his face as he clenched his jaw in vexation.
Cross raced through the darkness of the lane, sprinting towards the sinister Shivering House, planning to surprise the unsuspecting squal with an icy slipperiness that lay in wait beyond the precipice. It would be a gamble, but he had no other choice if he was to emerge victorious.
He threw open the door and realized he had been misguided. A green jaguar reclining languidly inside raised its head, its emerald eyes blazing with malice as it bellowed a menacing growl.
“Shit!” Cross flung the door shut and whirled around to make his escape.
Only then did he notice the pathway of statuesque jaguars leading up to the house. He had been careless—a mistake he would have to avoid repeating.
Cross barely had enough time to react as the squal thundered up the alley towards him. He dove out of its path just in time to avoid being tackled.
The squal crashed through the door and into the habitat.
Snarling and yowling erupted from inside the house.
Cross crab-walked backward, desperate to escape, when the squal expelled from the house like a cannonball.
It flipped end over end before skidding to a halt near Cross’s feet. Its sides heaved with heavy breaths, and it bared its teeth at the approaching hoard of jaguars.
Cross arose from his crouch, stepping away from the jaguar enclosure, accompanied by the squal. With every inch of retreat, his nephesh thumped harder, almost matching the pulse of the burning sky.
“Look what you’ve done,” the squal said, creeping backward at his side.
“Me?” Cross said.
“Had you only come with us-sss, you could have contributed your memories-sss to the community of the damned. You would have ass-sss-is-sss-ted all the fors-sss-aken in a bid for liberty from their calamitous-sss afterlives-sss. We may have had a chanc-sss-e at es-sss-caping this-sss wretched exis-sss-tenc-sss-e together. You’d have been hailed as-sss a hero—The Man Who Remembers-sss would be commemorated as-sss the sss-savior of us-sss all. But now we both will be cons-sss-umed.”
“You should hold them off while I escape,” Cross said.
“Why would I do that?” the squal asked.
“As long as I survive, someone from your stupid community can still get my memories. And when they do, I’ll tell everyone all about your sacrifice. Before they lop off my head, that is. We’ll both be heroes.”
The squal rose to its full height, its eyeless skull held high in regal pride, basking in the glow of the fiery skies. “I sss-shall be remembered.”
“I’ll never forget you.” Cross shoved the squal forward.
The squal launched it into the gaping jaws of the slavering jaguars.
A guttural chorus of snarls bellowed out of the beasts’ throats, punctuated by sickening crunching as they clamped down on the squal’s vulnerable spirit.
“Yes!” Cross cried out with a manic ecstasy, spurring the jaguars on with an unhinged and savage glee that burst forth from him like a murder of crows. “Eat him! Chew ‘em up!” He cackled, his voice quivering up and down, shrill with exhilaration, as if the jaguars were acting on his bidding. He was just desperate for success, just as much as they needed to fill their stomachs.
Cross should have run away, but he watched with morbid fascination as the jaguars tore into the squal, rending its flesh with claws and teeth.
Surprisingly, the squal held its own against the jaguars. His cunning and intuitiveness provided a formidable adversary for the feral felines. The ferocity of the fight shook the charged, balmy air with a commotion of gnashing and rending flesh. It was unclear who was winning within the chaotic storm until the squal launched two jaguars into the air, hurling them out of the dust brawl.
The jaguars plummeted to the ground in a chaotic cascade of fur and soil, their powerful bodies limp and motionless.
The remaining members of the jaguar pride skittered off into the unknown, their howls of doom echoing in Cross’s ears as he surveyed the carnage before him.
Three expired jaguars lay burned to second death, the quivering victor standing proudly amongst the remains of his foes.
Cross’s nephesh swelled as a flood of anxiety coursed through him. “Shit!”
The squal’s jagged teeth winked in the firelight while its long tail whipped behind it. “It is-sss better to sss-savor the sss-spoils-sss of my heroics-sss than not.”
Cross scanned the desolate terrain before he pelted towards the blade house. His determination was absolute this time—he had found the correct building.
He pushed open the door, and a gust of air whooshed into the house and stirred up the thousands of blades that hung from clotheslines strewn across the walls and ceiling. The wooden paddles and axes clanged, and the obsidian blades swooshed and tinkled.
Cross reached for a flat wooden paddle with rectangular obsidian blades around its edges, similar to the macuahuitl he left in the kitchen. It refused to budge. A clothesline threaded through its handle tethered it to the wall.
He yanked hard at the blade. The rope grew taut and caused another blade to swing down at him.
He leaped back. It almost grazed him as it swung towards the entrance.
The squal stepped inside, dodging just in time, narrowly avoiding being impaled by the razor-sharp pendulum.
Cross closed his fingers around his new macuahuitl’s cold, rough handle in relentless fury. With one sharp tug, he tore it away from the clothesline.
The old rope looping through the handle broke in a cloud of dust, transferring the weapon of war into the hands of a warrior, slivers of string still clinging to the loophole on its handle.
He swiped the obsidian blade at the squal, letting out a fierce battle cry.
The cunning creature ducked and snatched Cross’s shin between its hand-like foot, heaving with all its strength.
Cross launched backward onto the hard ground below, shredding his back; the talons of the giant bat had left painful gashes in its wake.
The macuahuitl clattered just beyond, a tantalizing reach away.
The squal’s hand-like foot encircled Cross’s neck with a frigid grip, the scales, and talons digging deep into his astral layers, pushing against him with an unrelenting pressure that threatened to crush him beneath its might. He was utterly immobilized and could not fathom a single movement, no matter how hard he tried.
He strained out with hope, and his fingertip brushed against the macuahuitl’s handle.
The squal stooped, leaned over Cross, and began inspecting his skull, propelling Cross’s head from side to side with each observation. The creature’s scrutiny crept into Cross’s thoughts, casting an ominous pall as it loomed above him.
“Perhaps-sss, you were right,” the squal said.
“About what?” Cross asked, a flurry of thoughts loitering in his mind.
“Maybe you are not worth the effort. None can be sss-certain if we ab-sss-solutely require all energy bodies-sss of your ruach. It is-sss a mere precau-sss-tion. Unfortunately, the Underworld is-sss chaotic, and tragedies-sss are commonplace.”
The scaly talons of the squal dug into Cross’s neck, brutal and relentless like a vise.
Cross sputtered for air, straining to break free from the squal’s unforgiving grip. He pounded his fists against its legs in desperate fury, scarcely making a dent in its thickness. He thrashed and writhed, yet his writhing was futile; he couldn’t escape the squal’s grasp.
His lungs screamed for the toxic Underworld air as his gaze shifted to the enormous blade suspended from the ceiling.
Its rope cascaded downward, secured with a horn-shaped metal anchor embedded firmly in the flooring.
If he could sever the link, the sharpened steel scythe would come crashing down onto the squal’s head with devastating force. The knot wasn’t within arm’s reach, but he could free it with one swift cut of his macuahuitl.
His fingers brushed against its cold hardwood handle, which lay beyond his reach. If only he could distract the squal long enough to grasp it. With every second, his desperation increased. Fate had given him only this one chance…
“It’s…” Cross’s voice was strained and ragged, scarcely recognizable as he exhaled the word “true” between gasps, his faint whisper becoming increasingly labored.
“What’s-sss true?” The squal’s sharp claws retracted from Cross’s ruach. It scraped against Cross’s neck as it slacked its hold, leaving a stinging sensation in its wake.
Cross drew in a long, ragged breath of relief, the oppressive Underworld fumes filling his lungs with an acrid caress. His throat still ached from where the squal had squeezed him, rasping and raw like it had been sandpapered down to the flesh. Even though he was surrounded by the putrid stench of sulfur, decay, and flame that permeated the Underworld, Cross couldn’t help but feel grateful for the respite from his burning lungs and sore throat.
“Sss-speak!” the squal hissed.
“You need me in one piece,” Cross said uncertainly. He’d weave any falsehood to suit what the squal needed to believe. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. Take me captive instead. I ain’t runnin’ no more. I promise. There’s no need for you to anger your clan. Let them reward you for not burning me. You deserve to be remembered after all this effort. The one who brings results should get all the credit, especially when he did it all himself.”
“I am female,” the squal snarled, her rancid breath billowing from its frothing jaws. Hot saliva drizzled in silky threads from the corners of her fanged maw.
Cross had not perceived the squal’s femininity. Nor could he distinguish what set female squals apart from their male counterparts; however, he didn’t feel even the slightest inclination to care.
“Forgive me.” Cross shuffled his fingers in the general direction of the macuahuitl, his practiced eyes sizing up the contours of the female squal with a subtle nod of approval. “Honest mistake. You all look alike. I mean. I have terrible vision. Too much head trauma. I must say, though, that despite my poor eyesight, your beauty is unmistakable. You’re the most striking squal I’ve ever seen.”
The squal’s pincers clasped around Cross’s throat, cutting off his air supply. Her eyeless gaze fell upon the macuahuitl now in Cross’s clutches.
Cross hacked the anchor’s rope with all his remaining strength. It snapped and recoiled like a whip.
The large scythe descended from above like a vengeful goddess and put to rest its fury upon them both.
They evaded the blade by mere inches, and it staked itself into the floor between them.
It would have skewered them together like some grotesque kabob.
Another blade stabbed into the floor, just inches away from Cross’s ear. Hatchets followed suit, swinging back and forth from the ceiling as if dancing to an unheard melody.
Cross tumbled across the floor, finding purchase on the wall as blades whirled in all directions, whistling around him. He kept his back flat against the masonry as he inched along, slicing more ropes.
Bladed contraptions rained from above in a blizzard of knives, daggers, and swords.
Once, he would have marveled at the oddity of this house and questioned why someone would design something so obviously impractical. Yet, as centuries had passed while wandering the Underworld, he had beheld sights far more bizarre and malevolent, crafted with even less reason. Still, what purpose did the construct serve?
Neither the squal nor Cross paid any heed to one another now. All that mattered was survival as they both leaped and ducked for their afterlives.
A titanic battle axe descended with a thunderous crash, and its edge sheared through the squal’s flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, cleaving the squal’s arm off cleanly at the shoulder.
Thick streams of ebony ichor jetted in a geyser from the gruesome wound as her dismembered appendage crashed to the ground with a resounding thud. She bellowed in anguish before slumping to the ground in agony.
Cross denied himself the perverse indulgence of watching Miss Lefty burn. He had been so foolish to linger in such a grim spectacle too many times already.
He narrowly escaped a barrage of blades; miraculously, the Great Goddess ensured his safety, and he tumbled out of the dwelling unscathed.
But he had barely stepped out of the door when a horrific figure appeared in his path. Slackjaw, with its exposed throat and missing lower jaw.
Cross shrank in horror as it heaved in agony, belching black ichor from its gaping wound and staining the ground beneath it.
Cross sighed, his exhaustion palpable and tinged with an ominous thrill of terror. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Why won’t you burn already?”
A voluminous emerald projectile flew past Cross’s head, colliding with the wall and detonating in a putrid display. Shards of shattered calabash were strewn about the blade houses’ entrance while its viscous contents smeared across the borders, leaving behind a disquieting fragrance.
Cross squinted up the hill and beheld the decrepit talking tree in the ball court.
The skull of Bolon-Hunahpu emitted a burst of cackling laughter that echoed across the palace grounds, its maniacal jaws clacking together with each momentous syllable. Its withered branches creaked as they twisted backward, like an angry serpent about to strike, until they snapped forward.
Slackjaw launched himself at Cross, but before the creature could reach him, a veritable barrage of calabash gourds descended upon the squal’s back like waves against an ocean cliff.
Cross stepped aside casually, and Slackjaw careened face-first into the dirt, its screams echoing off the walls and ricocheting into oblivion until it lay motionless, defeated.
Bolon-Hunahpu swayed his branches gently in a languid farewell embrace before an irrevocable parting.
These might be Cross’s last moments with the mystical talking tree. He wasn’t sure if he felt sorrow or relief at this prospect; an unknown answer dwelled deep inside his nephesh.
“Go bring Cottontail home!” Bolon-Hunahpu said with a roar that shook the entire palace grounds, his voice emanating from everywhere and nowhere like an old god’s reign had been restored. His words were thunderous drums filled with majesty and anguish, like a king whose throne had been stolen yet still commanded armies to reclaim it. The air vibrated with his demand, its force entering Cross’s aetheric structure and filling his three energy bodies with resolve. It lingered until the gloom embraced it with a finality that promised untold secrets and legacies. The last syllable remained in the atmosphere as if Magna Mater herself had declared it, leaving Cross with a sense of purpose and hope.
Cross raised his hand in farewell to Bolon-Hunahpu.
Slackjaw shuddered, and its hulking form lurched to its feet with a graceless effort. The squal stumbled forward, the firelight glinting off its scales.
His nephesh heavy and burning with rage, Cross swept his macuahuitl forward and severed the monstrous head from its ruach.
“Don’t lose your head,” Cross said.
The jawless head rolled down the hill, and the squal’s ruach burned to second death.
Cross crossed himself—The Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone—and finally spotted his pet, one of the few remaining cornurus believed by some to be the ancestors of all monstrosities.
Gimlet loomed more enormous than a horse, her broad shoulders and muscular build belying the strength she possessed.
She cantered toward Cross with a power that was both serene and imposing.
The booming beat of her mighty cloven hooves resounded and reverberated through the ground, announcing her presence with titanic force.
Her wild tail whipped around in a fury, its lethal spikes glinting like daggers of retribution in the firelight. Her strides were playful, yet her gallop was an urgent, graceful expression of strength as if she had been forged from the inexorable will of some unstoppable force. She could effortlessly pulverize a spirit without a moment of consideration. She was a formidable sight, an avatar of impressive might that terrorized all who beheld her.
Cross’s fingertips were gentle yet firm as they explored the contours of her silvery gray hide, decorated with horns of different sizes and shapes. Each jutted out from her body in an intimidating spiky pattern that glinted in the firelight, imbuing her with an almost regal presence.
His calloused fingertips grazed the mordant protrusions, perceiving the keen edges of each one filled with the latent vigor hidden within her muscular neck and shoulders, a glimpse into the immense potential of might beneath her ebullient vivacity.
“Where the hell have you been?” Cross said to her. “I’ve been running around here. I could’ve used your help.”
Unlike a certain tree, his cornurus never spoke. But this did not deter Cross from engaging in contemplative conversations with her. He found solace because she could not respond, no matter what he said. He could pour his heart out to Gimlet; she could never use that against him to deceive or manipulate him. He derived comfort from the loyalty of animals; they were always direct and honest with him, leaving no room for confusion or doubt. Gimlet offered him unwavering companionship as a refuge from the Underworld, where he often felt so out of place.
Gimlet gave a low, reverberating grunt and swiveled her massive, gray body so she could lock eyes with Cross. Her stare was deep and penetrating, subdued yet powerful—a gaze not even the most foolhardy spirit would mistake for cordiality. Her head was almost too large for her neck to bear, and her mouth curled across her face in an ever-present devious crescent moon, an expression most foolish spirits mistook for friendliness. She had only exhibited a pleasant disposition toward those she had grown to trust, such as Cross and Cottontail.
Miss Lefty, the one-armed female squal, limped out of the blade house, her mangled limb releasing a trail of ink-black ichor across the shriveled soil.
Gimlet tensed, honing every astral layer like a viper ready to strike. Her maw opened slightly, her fangs glinting in the dull firelight as she bared them against the intruder. A sharp exhale and a menacing snarl rippled in her throat, each syllable coating the air with a chill of fear. Her heavy tail lashed back and forth, slicing even deeper furrows in the already desolate terrain as she readied herself for battle.
Miss Lefty shuddered, crumpling to the ground in a heap beside the headless, burned ruach of Slackjaw.
Cross swung onto Gimlet’s back, the cornurus giving a mournful grunt. He tapped his heel on her side.
Gravel sprayed up around them as they rode off into the horizon.
