BURN IN HADES

by Michael L. Martin Jr.

  The blood had fully drawn from the barbot and now he could cook it for the both of them. Cross sat Cottontail aside gingerly, rose to his feet and chopped off the bird’s head.

  “If I’m going to meet you there,” said Cottontail, “then I think I should tell you my true name so you can find me.”

  “Tell it to me when we see each other again,” said Cross, confident that she would make it to paradise, but a lot less sure about himself. He had a long treacherous journey ahead of him and his bounty hunters always trailed closely behind.

  The garden swished and the barbot’s head rolled away into the crumbling foliage.

  “Ants!” Cottontail whispered as if trying to hold in a frightful scream.

  He thought they would’ve been gone by the time the ants smelled the barbot blood.

  “They don’t want us,” he said. “Just our food.” He snatched up the barbot’s tail and lugged with all his might. It was like hauling a dead horse.

  A forager ant race out of the brush and latched onto the other side of the barbot. The ant was the size of a fat rat and easily lifted its half of the bird in its clamping jaws. In a tug of war Cross pulled his end while the forager ant towed in the opposite direction.

  Cottontail picked up a statue head in both her hands and raised it above the ant.

  Cross released the barbot’s tail and threw up his hands. “Don’t—”

  Before he could finish warning her not to kill the ant, she splattered the overgrown insect with the stone head. The weeping in the shadows stopped in an instant, and the garden itself belted out an angry hiss. It was the sound of an army of ants swarming upon him and Cottontail.

  His thick spirits blood ran cold. “Now they want us,” he said.

  Her trembling fingers touched her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

  “Get to the ball court as fast as you can,” he said, remaining calm for her sake. “The ants never go there. Take this.” He wrapped her jittering hands around the grip of the blade, making sure she was holding it firmly. “I’m right behind you.”

  Without hesitation, she began hacking the brittle weeds, making a path for him to drag the barbot through.

  He threw the barbot’s tail over his shoulder and trudged forward through the dead kudzu in a fury. The sweeping trickles of the ants grew louder, gaining on him. His calves bulged to the point of bursting, but he dragged the bird through Cottontail’s path, past the tiny temple and then tumbled down the stony slope into the ball court.

  The ants halted at the edge of the garden. Cross, out of breath, gasped in laughter. He raised his fingers up to his head and mocked the ants’ wiggling antennae.

  “Too slow,” he said, giggling like a little girl.

  “Don’t tease them,” said Cottontail.

  “They were gonna eat us.”

  “Because of me. I smashed one of them. That was one of their sons or uncles or something. They’re just hungry like we are. I feel like we should share our food with them now.”

  “They weren’t gonna share with us.”

  “They wouldn’t have teased us though. And it’s not like we ever eat the entire bird in one sitting anyway. Even with your pet cornurus, there’s enough for all of us.”

  Her compassion was one of the many things he liked about Cottontail, but that was also the exact attitude he had to break her out of if she was going to survive. He was just too reluctant to destroy something so uncommon.

  He turned to the ants still standing at attention at the edge of the ball court. “You have her to thank for this, fellas. Remember that.”

  The ants waited patiently as he chopped off pieces of raw meat for them. Yanking the giant bird through the garden had strained his lower back, making for a tougher job as he bent over, but the obsidian blade ate through the flesh like a flame to a love letter.

  He thanked the Great Goddess for finally repelling the scorching blue sky that had tortured them all week. It would char the meat before he could even sauté it and it took several periods of sleep to rid his mouth of the sooty taste.

  But even when the smoldering sky dimmed red as it did that day, souls still weren’t immune to its wrath. A river of perspiration rippled down his back and sizzled right on his skin. Even though clouds of smothering smoke swirled above, they offered no relief from the baking heat and only served to bathe the realm of Xibalbá in redundant gloom.

  “I get the breast this time,” said Cottontail, rubbing her palms together and licking her cracked lips.

  “The breast is for Gimlet.” Cross lopped off the wings.

  “You said earlier that you were going to give me my favorite piece.”

  “Lesson one. Everybody lies.” He had to be tough on her. The underworld wouldn’t go easy on her just because she was a little girl. Something as simple as a meal could be her end. “Gimlet always gets the biggest piece because she’s the biggest.”

  “Well, I want the wings then.”

  “No, I get the wings because I killed the damn thing. That’s lesson two. When you kill it, you can have whatever piece you want.” He chopped the raining pieces off the bird. “Legs, thighs or tail? Take your pick.”

  Cottontail huffed. “Legs then,” she grumbled.

  “And your ugly little friends can have the rest.”

  Curiously, the ants had climbed on each other’s backs forming a totem. The tower of ants wobbled and leaned into the ball court, nearly toppling over. Cross scooped Cottontail off her feet and dashed her out of the way of danger before the ants could crush her. The ants dangled over the barbot breast and snatched it up in their jaws.

  “That’s not for you,” said Cross, grabbing for the breast, but merely swiping the air.

  The tower of ants sprang backward into the garden and collapsed like a waterfall. They scurried away, carrying the breast with them, leaving behind the legs, thighs, wings and tail.

  “Let them have it,” said Cottontail. “Gimlet can have my pieces. I’ll eat the thighs or tail. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Nobody steals from me.” Cross darted into the garden. His eyes locked onto the barbot breast bouncing through the jungle as he chased. Suddenly, the breast rolled to a stop, but the ants continued scurrying into the garden and vanished into the darkness.

  “That’s right,” said Cross. “Run! You know you can’t beat me.”

  He reached for the barbot meat. The weepers halted their cries leaving only the wispy sound of dead grass swaying. He paused and surveyed the shadows.

  The ground rippled and buckled, throwing him off his feet. An enormous green worm leapt out of the ground like a fish breaking the surface of water. It sailed over him, gaping its tunnel of a mouth and plunged back into the ground with a slimy splash as if diving back into the sea.

  The worm was big enough to have swallowed Cross whole. He was lucky that it barely missed him. He searched for the barbot breast, but it was gone. Son of a bitch. The goddamn worm had devoured it.

  The ground raked up again, and snaked toward the ball court where Cottontail stood with the rest of the meat. The weepers wailed like he had never heard them cry before.

  Cross sprinted back to the court, rushing against the worm as it swam under the earth, but it was winning the race.

  He spotted Cottontail and waved frantically for her to move away from the meat, which he no longer cared about. The worm could have the meat.

  His efforts to warn her went unnoticed. She probably couldn’t see him as he was still draped in the shade of the garden, and the weepers seemed to be quelling his screams. He pushed his already exhausted legs harder, barreling through the jungle and finally tumbled down the stone ramp into the ball court shouting, “Get away from the meat!”

  “What’s happening?” She stood there as if frozen in fear.

  The ground exploded beneath her, sending her upward with a violent jolt, and then tumbling back into the worm’s mouth with barely enough time to scream. The worm sank straight down into the hole it came from.


  Cross dove for the worm, but dirt had already filled its hole. The beast had vanished into the ground with his food and his friend. He dug the loose soil desperately with his hands and nails, scooping and tossing dirt, calling out for Cottontail.

  “You stupid, dumb kid! Why didn’t you get out of the way?” He slammed his fist into the ground.

  It never made sense that she would be in the underworld anyway. What could a sweet little girl like her ever do that was so bad in her life that she would end up in such a hopeless place?

  A sudden burst of inspiration hit him. If she was truly gone, he’d know it. When someone close to him burned he always received a special sign. He checked his palm. Nothing. He shook his hand, slapped it, pinched it and squeezed his fist. Still no sign.

  No sign meant something good, like Goddess willing, she hadn’t burned yet. She could still be in that he worm’s stomach, which meant she could be rescued. But he had no tools to dig with, and there was no telling how deep that worm had traveled by now. If Cottontail hadn’t burned yet, she would soon.

  He picked himself off the ground and stormed further into the ball court. He trampled over the brown, flattened grass that covered the court and pounced into the shadow of the umbrella-shaped tree that sprouted out of its center.

  “This is your fault.” He yelled up at the old tree. In a tremendous echo, his voice bounced off the two walls that fenced either side of the ball court. “Wake up, goddammit!” He kicked the tree trunk repeatedly.

  He booted the tree so hard, if the branches had borne any leaves they would have fallen off. Its barren limbs, which linked and weaved like folded fingers, simply rattled. Then they jolted as the tree snapped to life, stretching at length with a crackle and pop. A skull poked its boney face out from amidst the branches, yawning.

  “Rest is a very rare thing,” said the skull in its ancient, windy voice. “I suspect you have only awakened me because you are bearing good news.”

  STUPID TREE. THERE WAS NO SUCH THING AS GOOD NEWS, except maybe for the predictable consistency of the underworld to never giveth and always taketh away. It always found ways to bleed a soul dry, mentally and physically. That was the one thing Cross could always depend on, if anyone could call that good news.

  At least, he had suspected he’d lose Cottontail at some point. Anticipating it while being incapable of preventing it was what always hurt the most. He couldn’t trust most spirits, and losing the ones he could was eternal Hell. Everything that ever went wrong in his life and death flooded into his mind, and rage stroked the fire in his heart.

  “I didn’t ask for your help, Skullface,” he scolded the tree. “I didn’t need your help. You sent me into the garden. And now…”

  “Cottontail should be with you.” The skull’s skeletal jaws clunked happily together as it spoke and its eye sockets bloomed with a white hot glow.

  “You don’t get to say her name!”

  “If I had lips I would smile at the sound of her name. Where is Cotton—?”

  Cross grabbed the bottom of Skullface’s jaw and held his boney mouth open. Unexpected moisture wet his hand. At first he thought it was some kind of sap, but its watery consistency was that of spit.

  Dry bark grew over most of the skull’s bones giving the skull an appearance of having incomplete flesh; there were tribal markings tattooed all over the exposed portions of the skull; and some deep scratches made Skullface look as if he had gotten into a fight with an angry bird, but nothing indicated that the skull produced any saliva.

  Cross released the skull’s jaw and wiped his hand on his shirt.

  “That was very rude of you,” said Skullface. “And dangerous. You must never do this again.”

  A branch whacked Cross over the head. It stung. He massaged his head and then checked his palm again. Still no sign of Cottontail’s second death. There was still a chance he could save her.

  “How deep do those worms go?” he asked.

  “Sometimes they go deeper than I can sense.”

  “How deep is that?”

  “My roots reach so far into the bowels of the underworld that I can feel the vibrations in the Inferno many sleep cycles before it erupts. By the way, expect a rather large eruption soon. If you stick to your sleep schedule, you should expect it to happen in your 119th period of sleep.”

  “Can sense any of those worms around right now?”

  “Currently, there are approximately one hundred eighty-two in this vicinity. But they come and go.”

  Cross needed an object of the dead to rescue Cottontail or a miracle from the Great Goddess herself. Even with digging tools, he’d never be able to find the exact worm that ate her. No way could search the stomachs of one hundred eighty-two worms without getting eaten himself. If he had known her true name he could have tracked her. Now she was lost forever.

  Cross sat down in the dirt, facing the tree and mumbled to himself. “Every time I bring someone with me they don’t last so long.”

  “What is all this about?” The skull’s voice clattered in a panic. “Where’s Cottontail?”

  “She’s on her way to paradise.” Cross chose to spare the skull’s feelings. It seemed happy to hear good news about Cottontail, and he didn’t want to break its heart—if it even had a heart.

  “Gone to paradise?” The bark peeled upward from the skull’s eye sockets and the glow inside them bloomed in surprise. “All by her lonely? I had hoped she would go along with you. I told her all about your scheme to leave her behind, and I promised that I would not allow that to happen. That’s why I lead you into the garden.”

  “The only reason I even told you is so you could feed her while I was gone.” Cross sprung from the ground and snapped a branch off the tree.

  A limb grabbed him by the arms and dangled him in front of the skull. Its glowing eye sockets dimmed.

  “Since the wars,” said Skullface, “no one would visit. I’m here all alone. Then you came. And you brought Cottontail.” Skullface’s eye sockets glowed white hot again, and the bark curled up the corners of its mouth. “I cherished every day you both spent here with me. Very much so. The three of us really make great companions. But I knew you couldn’t stay. And sorely, I am unable to move from my spot in this here ball court. This is my onus. But this inability to join you on your quest is what inspired me to do something nice for you. I only wished that you two would partner up at least. My true friends.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “The cruel things you say,” said Skullface.

  “Well, now you know better than to get too attached to anyone.” Cross tried to wiggle himself free from the tree’s grip.

  It dropped him. He plopped to his bottom.

  “You always preach loathsome words like this,” said Skullface. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  Cross cleaned the dirt from one of his fingernails with a twig. “There are two kinds of souls in the underworld: those that burn and those that don’t. I’ll never burn because I’m smart enough to realize that you can’t make friends in this place. The trustworthy ones burn. The others turn on you like Judas.”

  The limbs of the tree swished from side to side. “Such a tragic view,” said Skullface. “Fear is no reason to pass up good things. Everyone could use a friend. And I shall have you know that I have never been a betrayer and do not ever intend to make myself into one.”

  “And that’s why we’re all here. Because the damned never foresee their damnation. If they did, they wouldn’t be damned.”

  “Why don’t you have a refreshing calabash? Hopefully, it will rid you of all your irksome gloom.”

  A single green bottle-shaped fruit ballooned out of a barren limb and dangled. Cross gave the strange fruit the evil eye. It was shiny and juicy looking, but it would quench his thirst the same way a bullet to the gut would.

  “If you want to be my friend so much, why do you keep trying to make me drink poison?”

  “Poison?” The bark over Skullface’s eyes
formed a deep V down the center of his eyes sockets as if the skull were offended by the accusation. “The calabash is not poison!”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know your fruit hurts souls.”

  A pointy limb stabbed toward Cross and stopped just short of his neck. It was like a giant thorn.

  “Watch your tongue,” said Skullface. “It does no such thing.”

  “I guess you never get a chance to see the effects because you’re stuck here in this ugly ball court. But back in Vingólf, the place where I used to live, souls would frequently end up there half burnt, warning us about a talking tree that made them sick. Most were even afraid to admit what exactly happened to them, but I’ve seen their stomachs blow up.”

  The thorn swayed away from Cross, and Skullface’s glowing eyes dimmed nearly black.

  “You are mistaken,” said Skullface. “My one true friend, I would never hurt you. I only wish to replenish your soul. That is all. Do you not trust my words?”

  “Words are just words,” said Cross. “Your intentions might be good, but good intentions can do as much harm as cruel ones. I believe you when you say you don’t want to hurt me. But that doesn’t mean you won’t.” He smacked the fruit with the back of his hand. It sailed across the court and splashed on one of the walls. “The answer is always no, Skullface.”

  “What is this name you insist on saying to me?” said Skullface. “How many times must I tell you that this Skullface name is not what I shall be called? I am Bolon-Hunahpu.”

  “Then it’s your funeral, Bolon. You know it’s not wise to use true names.”

  “I am never frightened of any spirit.”

  “Good. ‘Cuz they’ll come soon. And I have to find Gimlet before I lose her too. I’m going to start tying her ass up from now on.”

  Bolon-Hunahpu pivoted its trunk and twisted its branches. Eyes bloomed on the tip of each twig of the bony branches. The pupils darted every which way, and the branches swayed as though a breeze nudged them, but no such breeze ever swept through the underworld. That would be too comforting for the damned. Cold places existed in the underworld, but they were just as tormenting as the hot ones.