by J; P Voelkel
He just hoped she didn’t blow everything.
He stepped forward.
“Before we go any further, Lord Kuy, I need proof that the real Hermanjilio and Lucky Jim are still alive.”
“But of course,” said Lord Kuy. “Please step this way.…”
That was easy.
The owl man led them back into the farthest reaches of the cavern, to a misty, rocky riverbank where lanterns glowed on bamboo poles and vague sounds floated in from unseen places: muffled screams, breaking pots, drums, cheers, curses, and groans. It was like waiting to board the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. There was even a buccaneer manning the landing stage from his little cave, but this one was a skeleton, a jaguar-patterned scarf tied jauntily around his skull, his pelvic bones draped in a skirt of roosting bats.
As they approached, the skeleton buccaneer picked up a conch shell and blew into it—a low, mournful sound that woke up the bats. They flew in lazy circles before settling back down at his waist.
“He is summoning the boat,” said Lord Kuy, casually picking a bat off the buccaneer’s belt and biting off its head.
“How can there be a boat,” asked Lola, “when there’s no water?”
It was true. Now that Max looked into the misty chasm, he saw there was nothing but a dried-up riverbed between the rocks.
“It’s called technology,” said Lord Kuy. “We’re rather proud of it.” He swallowed the rest of the bat.
A stink of disease and putrefaction filled the air as an enormous canoe rolled into view, swept along on its own river of pulsating pink slime. As the canoe drew closer, Max saw that the slime was actually a multitude of giant bloodsucking centipedes, carrying the boat on their backs. The centipedes were translucent, and Max could clearly see their digestive tracts engorged with fresh red blood, as if they’d been filled up at a ghoulish gas station before their voyage. Two boatmen, one at the stern and one at the prow, both corpses, directed the river of invertebrates with long paddles.
In the front half of the canoe, the Death Lords were engrossed in a dice game. Dice rattled, curses were spat, and skeleton fists flew as they played, bad sportsmen all.
On a platform at the back of the canoe stood Hermanjilio and Lucky Jim.
They wore the same white shifts that Scab Stripper and Jaundice had worn, but these two men were, without doubt, the real thing. They looked so haggard and weak and exhausted, so breakably, painfully human.
When the canoe drew level, the two corpse boatmen tied up at the landing stage and let down the gangplank. Then they poked and prodded the two prisoners with their paddles to encourage them to disembark.
Lucky Jim remonstrated and tried to defend himself, but Hermanjilio cowered under the blows like a stray dog beaten into submission. Moving gracefully even with bound wrists, Lucky swung for the boatman who was taunting his friend and landed a punch on his waxy corpse face, knocking him right off the canoe. He landed soundlessly on the river of centipedes and was quickly consumed—dry blood, dead flesh, and all.
Seeing this, the other boatman backed off and allowed the prisoners to walk down the gangplank at their own pace.
Lucky Jim nodded to Max and Lola, but Hermanjilio didn’t see them. He looked only at the calabash gourd that he cradled like a baby and whispered sweet nothings to it.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lola asked Lucky Jim.
He took a moment before answering, looking at Lola with such an intense expression that it was hard to tell if he was sad or happy. “You must be Ix Sak Lol. Hermanjilio talks about you sometimes. I’m sorry to tell you this, but when Tzelek took over his body, his mind was permanently damaged. He has never recovered. He just sits around all day whittling gourds. That one’s his favorite.”
“Go to sleep,” cooed Hermanjilio to the gourd.
“He thinks it’s his child,” explained Lucky Jim. “He calls it Lola.”
Max watched Hermanjilio, appalled.
This day was going horribly wrong.
If Hermanjilio had lost his mind, then nothing could ever be as it was. It didn’t matter what Max did or didn’t do next; he was powerless to make things right. He felt rage boiling up inside him like a volcano about to blow.
He turned angrily to Lord Kuy. “You said he was alive and well.”
“It was fifty percent true. He’s alive, isn’t he?” He waved a wing at the buccaneer. “Gag the prisoners. They should not be conversing with the other side.”
The buccaneer did as he was told.
Max looked at Lola. There were tears in her eyes.
“Okay,” he snapped at Lord Kuy, “what happens next?”
At a signal from Lord Kuy, the skeleton buccaneer blew his conch shell again, and the Death Lords, who were now engaged in a rambunctious game of cards, turned to see what was happening.
“If I could have your attention, Your Majesties,” called Lord Kuy, “it is time to do the deal.”
In a second, the twelve Lords of Death had scrambled to their feet and lined up, bony and ancient and cadaverous, arms slung over one another’s shoulders, laughing and joking and shadowboxing.
They were a hideous sight. But all blood and gore aside, Max realized they reminded him of his father’s all-time favorite rock band, the Rolling Stones.
“Presenting the twelve Lords of Death!” announced Lord Kuy. “Their lordships, One Death and Seven Death …”
A pair of corpses, one slightly taller than the other, their flesh blackened and moldy and crawling with maggots, broke off their scuffling to step forward.
Each wore a tall headdress of black feathers and carried an assortment of bloodstained weapons.
“Are you ready to die, Massimo?” asked the taller one.
“We will harvest his organs one by one and eat them as he watches,” added the other one.
“No,” argued the taller one. “We will liquefy his insides and drink them through a straw in his brain.”
“We’ll see about that,” shouted the smaller one, choosing an obsidian battle-ax from his armory and hacking his colleague’s head off. As he did so, his victim drove a lance through his stomach. For a moment, they both lay wounded, oozing old brown blood. Then their bodies reformed and they went at each other again with another set of weapons.
“Why are they talking about killing me?” Max asked Lord Kuy suspiciously.
“They are Death Lords. It’s force of habit. Now let me introduce Lord Blood Gatherer.…”
A skinless body, looking like one of those anatomy drawings you see in doctors’ offices, took center stage.
“And Lord Wing …”
He was half human, half vulture, with half-eaten body parts dangling from his beak.
“Stop!” called a mummified body with its bones on the outside. “Don’t tell him our names, Kuy. That’s how the Hero Twins got power over us, remember?”
“Good point, Lord Packstrap,” responded Lord Kuy.
Packstrap groaned. “Birdbrained idiot,” he muttered.
But really, even without formal introductions, it wasn’t hard for Max to put names to the rest of the faces.
Demon of Jaundice and Scab Stripper he’d already met a few minutes before. Demon of Pus was covered in yellow pustules; Demon of Filth dragged his diseased purple intestines through the dirt behind him, attracting a cloud of flies; Bone Scepter and Skull Scepter were tufty-haired skeletons, with just the merest hint of old cartilage sticking to their bones; Demon of Woe was morbidly obese, with heavy black shadows under his eyes.
“So what’s the delay, Kuy?” shouted One Death.
“Tell him to hand over the Yellow Jaguar!” demanded Seven Death.
“It’s in the hou-ouse, it’s in the hou-ouse,” sang Skull Scepter, stirring an imaginary pot with two hands and rotating his pelvis.
“I called it first!” said Wing.
“Why don’t we just kill him?” asked Woe.
“Look at them,” whispered Max to Lola. “They’re morons. They�
��ll bring about the end of the world and they won’t even care.”
“I think I can stop them,” said Lola. “I’ve had an idea.”
“What is it?”
“Trust me. Just do what I say.”
“Okay, but you’re not going to pull any funny stuff? We have to give them the Yellow Jaguar, or the deal will be off! They’ll kill Hermanjilio and Lucky Jim and my parents … and me.” Max’s insides felt like melted ice cream, churning around. He just wanted this scene to be over.
“Is there a problem?” asked Lord Kuy.
“No,” said Max. “Ready when you are.”
“Then let’s do this thing,” said Lord Kuy.
Max looked expectantly at Lola. “So may I have the Yellow Jaguar?”
“No,” she said.
“Stop messing around, Lola! Give it to me.”
“No.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Max asked her. “You want to get out of here, don’t you?”
“Think about it, Hoop. If I give you the necklet, Lord Kuy will tell you to take it to the Death Lords, as agreed. You’ll notice that the Death Lords are staying on the canoe. How do you know that as soon as your feet are on board, the gangplank won’t be raised and you won’t sail off forever on a sea of bloodsucking centipedes, into the deepest, darkest reaches of Xibalba?”
Max turned to Lord Kuy. “Is she right? Is this a trick?”
Lord Kuy looked as guilty as an owl can look. “Don’t blame me. You took the road. You entered the water. What did you expect?”
“I expected you to keep your word.”
At this, the Death Lords screamed with mirth. Bone Scepter literally cracked up and Skull Scepter laughed his head off. Even the Demon of Woe was holding his corpulent belly and shaking with laughter.
“Tell him, Kuy,” ordered One Death, wiping the tears from his dead eyes. “We lie. We cheat. That’s what we do. It’s our entire raison d’être.”
“Duplicity is their brand platform.” Lord Kuy’s head swiveled slowly back to Max. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust the Lords of Death?”
Only a gazillion times, thought Max.
Lord 6-Dog had told him every single day of their acquaintance.
Lola had tried to tell him, too.
Even his own mother had warned him of the Death Lords’ duplicity.
But, for some reason, he’d thought he knew better.
Max felt sick to his stomach.
He’d been through so much. He’d actually tracked down the Yellow Jaguar that had been lost for centuries and, even more remarkably, he’d found a way to take it to the ancient Maya underworld. Now it was time for the happy ending. But instead, for his reward, the fiends of hell were threatening to drink him through a straw.
“I have a question,” said Lola to the Death Lords.
“Well, keep it to yourself,” sneered Wing.
“I’d be nice if I were you,” said Lola, stroking the yellow beads around her neck. “As long as I am wearing it, this necklet is mine to give—and mine alone.”
“What is your question?” asked Skull Scepter sulkily.
“Why must you kill this boy? He has fulfilled his quest and brought you the Yellow Jaguar. Isn’t that enough?”
“We need a human trophy,” Scab Stripper explained. “It’s been a while since we had a decent sacrifice. We’re wondering if that’s why mortals fear us less. We’re getting back to basics, working out a new core strategy before the new bak’tun.”
“I see,” said Lola. “So all you need is a sacrificial victim?”
Scab Stripper nodded.
“Then take me,” she said. “I will bring you the necklet.”
Before Max could stop her, Lola had raced up the gangplank and jumped into the canoe.
“Nooooooooo!” screamed Max.
“Good-bye!” she called. “Always remember that I loved you!”
But it was too late.
Lucky Jim was making strangulated sounds under his gag.
Even Hermanjilio looked agitated.
But it happened so fast, there was nothing anyone could do.
The Death Lords whooped and cheered, the gangplank was raised, and a brave Maya girl sailed off forever on a sea of bloodsucking centipedes, into the deepest, darkest reaches of Xibalba.
Max watched until he could no longer see the Yellow Jaguar necklet shining through the gloom. “Oh, Monkey Girl,” he whispered. “That was your worst idea ever.”
Lord Kuy flapped his cape. “The matter is settled,” he announced, looking at Max. “The girl gave her life for yours, and you are also freed.” He sounded cold and officious, as if he was ticking off boxes on a clipboard. “Good-bye, Massimo Francis Sylvanus Murphy. And if you still want those half-wits”—he nodded toward Hermanjilio and Lucky Jim—“take them with you. Otherwise, just throw them in the riverbed, and the centipedes will finish them. I speak for all Xibalba when I say good riddance.”
With that, he flew away.
And that was it.
Max Murphy’s noble quest to save the world had ended in disaster. He couldn’t even save his best friend. The Death Lords had all five Jaguar Stones. But even more unthinkable, they had Lola.
After a while, he mustered the presence of mind to untie Hermanjilio and Lucky Jim and take off their gags. But no one said anything.
They just sat on the rocks, staring into the darkness.
Eventually Lucky Jim spoke. “She’s not coming back.”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Max. “What would she want me to do?”
Lucky thought about it.
“Let’s get Hermanjilio to a doctor,” he said.
They asked the buccaneer how to get back to Middleworld.
“Follow the sun as it exits Xibalba,” he said. “Should be along any minute.”
Whoomph!
A fireball shot out of space like a cannonball and went hurtling down a tunnel in a sizzle of steam.
Max and Lucky Jim each took one of Hermanjilio’s arms and led him into the tunnel behind the rising sun. The fireball was soon out of sight, but it was easy enough to follow its scorched trail.
Who knew where or when they would emerge?
Max didn’t care.
“I smell the forest,” said Lucky Jim when they’d walked in silence for what felt like hours. “We’re in San Xavier.”
After a few more twists and turns, they stepped out into a jungle clearing.
Max looked back at the way they’d come, trying to imprint it on his mind, wondering if it would ever lead him back to Lola. He was surprised to see that the entrance to the tunnel was a manmade building, a derelict temple, its facade carved into a monster face. Even as he looked at it, the mouth filled up with rubble until the door was blocked—like it had been when he first saw it, all those weeks ago.
“I know this place,” he said. “That temple, it’s called Structure Thirteen! This is where I first met Lola.”
He gazed around, remembering the pretty Maya girl who’d snuck up on him in the jungle, who’d introduced him to her howler monkeys, who’d shared her last tortilla, who’d rescued him from the clutches of Antonio de Landa.
But something was different.
Something was very, very wrong.
It was early morning, but the forest was eerily silent. No birds sang. No insects buzzed. No monkeys crashed through the trees.
There were no trees.
The earth was bare and scorched and smoking.
“What’s happened here?” whispered Max.
“Loggers,” said Lucky Jim.
“Will it grow back?”
“No, they’ve cut too much. Once the topsoil’s gone, that’s it.”
Max sat down on a tree stump.
His life had been destroyed like this forest. He felt dead inside.
No trees, no birds, no animals, no Lola.
Lucky Jim sat next to him and put his head in his hands.
“Welcome to the end of th
e world,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-five
A SURPRISE
Another 7 hours or 420 minutes or 25,200 seconds ticked by before Max found out what had happened to Lola. First Max, Lucky Jim, and Hermanjilio had to make their way through what was left of the forest back to Villa Isabella, Uncle Ted’s mansion by the sea at Puerto Muerto. They walked like zombies, heads down, putting one foot in front of the other, each one crushed by the sorrow of what had happened. Even Hermanjilio seemed to understand the situation, and his face was a blur of tears.
No one talked because there was nothing to say.
Lola was gone.
Lola was gone.
Lola was gone.
After the first six hours of silent marching through rain and sun, Max asked Lucky Jim, “When Lola said, ‘Always remember that I loved you,’ do you think she was she talking to Hermanjilio or to me?”
“Maybe to both of you?” Lucky Jim suggested diplomatically.
A bit later, as they walked along the beach toward Villa Isabella, Lucky Jim took deep lungfuls of sea air. “I feel guilty about saying this when Lola’s in that terrible place, but it sure is good to be home.”
“It’s my fault you were in Xibalba,” said Max. “I never had a chance to thank you for saving my life.”
“Anytime. Besides, I learned a lot in Xibalba.”
“Like what?”
“Like what it means to be Maya.”
“So how are we going to get Lola out of there?”
“I don’t know.”
Lucky sighed heavily. “I’m going to be honest with you Max. You see, Hermanjilio and I were kept in a sort halfway house. They beat us a lot, especially Hermanjilio, but I heard it was nothing compared to the tortures of the lower levels. Lola sailed off with the Death Lords, so she must be going straight to Level Nine.”
“Level Nine?”
“It’s the lowest level. It’s like the royal court of Xibalba, the high-security wing. I’m sorry, Max, but I don’t think anyone can escape from Level Nine.”
“Lola can do anything,” insisted Max.
“I wish I’d known her,” said Lucky Jim as he pushed open the door of the villa. “Sounds like she was quite a girl.”