BURN IN HADES (4 page)

The bark receded up the corners of Skullface’s mouth and peeled away from his glowing eye sockets. “I am so pleased that you’ve finally asked this of me!”

Cross waved his hand. “Now hold on. I didn’t ask you anything. I just had a vague curiosity. That’s it.”

“Take a look over at that wall.” Branches reached down like a hundred hands with a thousand fingers and pointed to one of the walls of the court.

Of the many souls carved into the walls, depicting some sort of ancient ball game, a single man stood as the only soul decapitated. Streams of what appeared to be blood sprouted from his neck and formed a serpent.

“That is Hun-Hunahpu,” said the skull. “He was the very first—”

Dog-like cackles echoed from far away in the north. Cross leapt to his feet at the yelping.

The unpleasant barking didn’t come from hellhounds however. The noise wasn’t even the howl of a dog, but something more unsettling. The sound was celebratory laughter from the only kind of creatures that lived in the Metnal Mountains, and they were coming for Cross’s head. If they were still in the mountains and not in the valley, he still had time to eat before he escaped.

Bolon-Hunahpu swished its branches upward at the taunting noises. “Squals!” Each of the eyes, which still bloomed on the branches, scowled. “I despise those miserable creatures with all my bark and bone. I once offered them my calabash, and they attempted to carve me out of the trunk. Can you believe? I barely managed to fend them off, and not without suffering much abuse. I strongly suggest you try some calabash. It may be of some aid to you in case of confrontation. If you so desire the fruit of this tree, you shall speak it unto me.”

The squal laughter grew louder. Cross still couldn’t pinpoint how close his hunters were, but the screeching noises of the squals were definitely coming from the north. They heckled him from their lair in the mountains of Metnal as if they wanted him to know they were on his heels. It could mean they were closer than he anticipated. Or it could mean that they were far away and were just trying to spook him. It worked.

“Is this fruit not delicious in its appearance?” said Skullface.

“Shut up you big, dumb tree! You’re gonna get me burned.”

“I AM NO TREE! I am merely a skull! A round thing placed in the middle of branches.”

“You’re gonna be firewood if you don’t shut your squirrel hole.”

The tree bent upwards with a scraping wisp. “The walls of this court were designed to carry sound at great distances, so I believe it was your yelling earlier that has alerted them to your whereabouts. But if it is I you wish to quiet, I shall grant you an extended silence.” Skullface buried himself back inside the trunk and the tree stood lifeless.

An apology nearly slipped from Cross’s tongue. He didn’t truly mean what he said about burning down the stupid tree. Bolon-Hunahpu was just way too sensitive. Cottontail had thicker skin than all the bark on Skullface’s trunk, but she was gone now and Bolon-Hunahpu was partially responsible.

His stomach began to gurgle and squirm. Religious folk like his old friend Mr. Beckwourth failed to mention that at least one thing never died in the underworld: hunger. But satisfying one’s appetite didn’t exist either, and under the underworld’s tricky, manipulative hand, a spirit never simply starved to second death. That would have been a luxury.

Within his first week as a member of the damned, Cross was lucky enough to have witnessed the monstrous sight of a soul’s insides turning on its spirit and eating its way out. Ever since then, he had eaten religiously. No matter what the predicament he found himself in, he fed his insides before they fed on him. He actually needed Bolon-Hunahpu’s help now more than ever.

He stood and faced the tree. “Skullface—I mean Bolon-Hunahpu? You there? I didn’t mean what I said. Honest.”

The skull emerged from the branches. “I heard the beast in your tummy.”

“If I don’t eat right now, Squals will be my least worry.”

“You refuse my calabash. And you refuse my friendship.”

“I’ll be your friend. I am your friend. From now on, you and me, we’ll be like the Hatter and the Hare.”

“I have come to know that you can be very cordial when you’re not angry. Sometimes you let your rage get the best of you. You have a tendency to allow your anger to dictate your decisions. It really hinders you from progress.”

“Do you want me to burn, Skullface? More help. Less talk.”

The skull rolled itself back into the branches once again.

“Okay,” said Cross, sighing. “You’re right. I won’t yell at you again. I promise. And I’ll even consider having one of those calabashes.”

With Bolon-Hunahpu’s help, Cross retrieved a new barbot. He dragged the bird by several of the many weed-covered houses that populated the kingdom of Xibalbá. They were all scattered about and separated by lanes and alleys of statues.

An eerie silence pervaded the house of darkness as he passed; hail thumped and swirled about in the shivering house; and the clatter of wind-chime sounds twinkled inside the blade house. The jaguars must’ve been resting in their house. He couldn’t see inside because they were sealed in tightly. Skullface had mentioned that they were locked in their cage for their own protection. They were the last jaguars of the underworld, just like the giant bats were the last of their kind. The deities would someday return and retrieve them both.

Through the bars and fencing of the dome shaped aviary, Cross spotted a couple of those bats flapping around in the dead trees. The only two houses he had never entered were the bat aviary and the jaguar cage for fear of the creatures that dwelled inside them, but he had explored all the other houses for useful objects. The blade house kept all the weapons.

The Palace of the Lords dominated the kingdom, stretching across at least a mile and a half. Dead weeds attempted to strangle the palace, but its mighty stones burst through them like muscles on brawny man wearing a shirt that was too small.

Beneath the vines were carved depictions he hadn’t noticed before in the couple of weeks he had been hiding out in Xibalbá. It was as if the vines had peeled themselves back to reveal the carvings of skulls and impaled heads to him specifically. They also showed him a carving of an ugly serpent just like the one decorating the ball court, but this one had faces etched into its body. The serpent led up the side of stone staircase and into the dark palace.

In the cooking area of the palace, Cross sliced up the bird using the blade he had retrieved from the blade house. Good thing barbots didn’t have feathers. It would be time-consuming hell plucking a bird so big that it could eat a horse. And if he was going to remain among the damned, he had to eat fast, find Gimlet and shin out. He was determined to reach the River Lethe and wipe his mind before any miserable soul could get their dirty claws on his memories.

A calabash fell out of the barbots neck and sizzled on the cooking pan he was preparing. Sneaky old Skullface must’ve hid it in there. Cross grabbed the fruit before its poisonous juices could empty into the pan. He sat the fruit on the wooden tray with no intention of eating it, but he kept it around just in case he found a use for it.

He fried the rest of the chucks of meat. The warm scent almost covered up the palace’s musty smell of years of neglect. Barbot meat was the closest he had ever come to the taste of chicken in the underworld. How ironic that the only meat the damned could eat tasted the same as one of the best meats enjoyed by the living.

He carried the meat and calabash on the wooden tray, and on his way into the dining hall, he tossed the barbot legs to the mysterious critters that lurked in the shadows. It was Cottontail’s idea to feed them, and out of respect for her, that’s what he did. They clunked and scraped on the hard surface as they munched in the darkness, but they were much quieter than those annoying weepers so he didn’t mind doing something nice for them.

He didn’t know how many there were and could only hope that it was enough food for them all. He had never once seen the draggles up close and he preferred it that way. Not that he was afraid of the creatures. They behaved as if they were more afraid of him than he was of them. It was just better to keep everyone and everything at a distance as much as possible.

The draggles seemed friendly enough. If they wanted to eat him, they would have attacked long ago. He nicknamed them draggles because they followed him from realm to realm as if they were his apostles. The thought seemed fitting in that moment, as barbot might one day be his last supper.

Unfortunately, they posed a potentially huge problem to his survival. They might’ve been the reason others spirits, like the squals, kept finding him in all of his hideouts. He never suspected the draggles were spies, but their stealth didn’t go beyond remaining hidden in the shadows. He always knew of their presence, and if he knew they were following him, then everyone else knew too.

In the dining hall, dull light beams poked through the tattered animal hide that covered the glassless windows in the tower and landed on sections of a long slab of stone that formed the dining table.

He lingered over the roughly carved table for a moment. Cottontail had already blown away the webs of decay that littered the pottery and wiped the dust out of the forgotten ceramic bowls, all left behind by the ancient gods and goddesses who had once feasted at that table. She had made everything almost new again.

The two of them had even crowned themselves King and Princess of Xibalbá and its abandoned kingdom just for fun. Once again, that came from Cottontail’s imagination. Getting him to act childish was her way of brightening up all the gloom. No matter how hard he resisted the sentiment he always enjoyed those moments.

The candle holder she had found and polished rested on the table. He lifted it up and held the candle wicks within the concentrated beams of light until the candles sparked and lit. He sat at the head of the table and raised a cup of devil’s water to the imagined dignitaries that sat around the table with him.

“To Cottontail,” he said. “May the Great Goddess have mercy on her soul.” The lonely king drank and promised himself that he’d never break his number one rule again. No more companions.

He tucked an old tattered rag into his shirt as a bib, and once the critters had finished chomping on their bone and settled down, he listened for any suspicious sounds. Only the fiery lake that was the sky crackled outside.

His mouth watered at the sight of the barbot wing. It was bigger than his head. He held the wing up to his mouth with both hands. The draggles claws tapped the surface of the floor as if they were scurrying away. Something had spooked them. He squinted his eyes and peered into the dark corridor in front of him.

Three lanky figures skulked into the hall. Each of them was hunched forward due to pronounced curves in their spines and with knees that pointed backwards which forced them to bend even further forward. If they were crouched just a few inches lower they’d be standing on all fours. Squals.

Cross held his breath as the three squals slinked around the room slowly as if they hadn’t seen him yet. The creatures investigated the area the draggles had just evacuated. If the draggles hadn’t signaled him, he wouldn’t have heard the squals enter. But they also could have been the reason he had just been found. If they were true friends, they would have stayed around to help him escape.

Before he could blow out the candles, his stomach barked with hunger. At once, the squals snapped their heads toward him. If only they had showed up five minutes later after he had taken a bite.

The squals stalked him from the other side of the room, drumming their claws on the floor and dripping with a nasty wetness. The light beams that poked through the haze of dust from above shined on the smooth sheen of sweat or slime that covered their hairless bodies and glistened off their leathery skin.

“You have a mind,” said one of the squals, “beautiful enough to be worth nine objects-sss.”

Cross’s mouth dried up. He had burned the last squal that came for his head. The ones standing before him now wouldn’t take any more chances. Seconds passed.

The squals stood at the other end of the hall sizing him up through the layer of skin that grew over the top half of their faces, covering any trace of a nose or eyes. Only their mouths were exposed on their beady heads. Their tiny thorn-like teeth bared.

Good thing they needed to take him prisoner before they chopped off his head. That was the only element fueling his confidence that he had a chance at to survive. If they had planned to kill him on sight, he’d have already met his second death long ago. Even if they caught him this time, he was determined to make it as difficult as possible for them to steal his memories.

His insides squirmed as if worms were burrowing their way to the surface.

“Do you mind?” He said to the squals and gestured down at the food on the table. “I know how important I am to you.”

“Your head,” said the center squal, “or rather what’s-sss in-sss-side it is-sss important. Not you.”

“Same difference.” Cross shrugged. “The thing is, you interrupted my meal, and I’m really hungry. My head is no good to you if I burn.”

The squals turned to each other as if taken aback by his nonchalant attitude.

“One bite is-sss all you need,” said the center squal. It must’ve been the leader of that particular posse since it did the most speaking.

Cross raised the wing to his mouth and paused. “Where’s my manners? You three came all this way. You must be hungry. Sit down. Dinner’s on me.”

“Eat quickly! Or we’ll feed your pet cornurus-sss to you.”

Cross bit into the barbot wing, savoring the juicy chicken flavor. It was delicious. He had outdone himself and wished he could enjoy the rest or even share it with Cottontail. He’d even give her the wings. He chewed the meat slowly, buying time, trying to figure out his next move.

The squals blocked his only exit. If he could draw them away from the main corridor, then he could make a clean escape. The squals would easily catch him if he ran to the compact cooking area. But that’s where he had left his obsidian blade, and if he could get to it, he could make a better stand against them.