The River of No Return

by Jon Voelkel

  Footsteps echoed in the alleyway behind them, and all three spun round to look, half expecting a phantom doge to emerge from the shadows. But the footsteps grew fainter again, and they were left standing alone by the landing stage.

  Max willed the water taxi to arrive.

  Venice had an ominous air tonight.

  What was cool about attending a masquerade ball in a Venetian palazzo was arriving at the water gate, which was like a private dock in the basement.

  What was not cool was a palazzo full of overexcited grownups in masks and costumes. You’d think they’d never been to a party before.

  While his parents went in search of their benefactors, Max sought out the buffet table. It was unimpressive. Just platters of tiny toasts with fish eggs on them, like piles of frog spawn. He scraped the eggs off a piece of toast and tried to eat, but the fishy residue was overwhelming.

  “No mangia—danza!” An old woman in a cat mask and a golden ball gown grabbed his arm. “No eat—dance!”

  Max tried to escape, but Catlady dug in her painted fingernails.

  He felt like a mouse in her clutches.

  Soon he was caught in a hideous conga line of ancient merrymakers, all of them in grotesque animal masks and musty-smelling costumes, weaving unsteadily through the palace.

  Max looked for his parents in every room.

  He saw many men dressed as plague doctors, and many women in peacock masks, but none of them were Frank and Carla Murphy. (He also saw several Blind Doges and, intriguingly, a Headless one.)

  He gave Catlady the slip and ran for the stairs, barreling straight into yet another plague doctor. This one looked nothing like his father. He wore a tricorn hat, a hooded cowl, and a voluminous waxed black cape to shroud every bit of his skin. His mask was old and yellowing, the eyeholes covered with circles of cloudy glass.

  “Massimo?” he asked, his deep voice muffled by the mask.

  Max nodded. “How do you know my name?”

  “Your parents are looking for you.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They had to go. There is a dinner in their honor.”

  “They left without me?”

  “They could not find you.”

  “And I couldn’t find them. These masks are a stupid idea!”

  The plague doctor bowed. “The Venetian Tourist Board thanks you for your feedback.”

  “Who are you?’

  “I am your guide. Your parents are waiting. You must follow me. Come.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Max followed the guide back down to the water gate, where a water taxi was moored. The guide took the wheel in the prow and gestured for Max to sit in the cabin.

  Max hesitated.

  Something felt wrong here.

  But what else was he supposed to do?

  And dinner, after all, was dinner.

  Soon they were zooming down the Grand Canal, one more craft among all the other water taxis, ferries, gondolas, rowboats, police boats, motorboats, delivery barges, and garbage boats plying Venice’s main waterway.

  He wore a tricorn hat, a hooded cowl, and a voluminous waxed black cape to shroud every bit of his skin.

  Crowds thronged the canal-side restaurants, and Max assumed that at any moment they would pull up at one of them. But the boat kept going and the canal broadened out, and soon Max could see the black spaces of the Venetian lagoon in front of them.

  Where were they going? He tried to open the cabin door, but it was locked.

  He knocked on the door and shouted, but the boatman did not turn round.

  They passed the cemetery island of San Michele, the stucco decorations on its encircling walls gleaming white in the moonlight.

  A light low in the water caught Max’s eye.

  Was it a fishing boat?

  He started banging on the cabin windows and waving like crazy, not to be rescued exactly—he still was not sure that he needed it—but just so that another living creature would know of his whereabouts and could, if necessary, report the sighting.

  Of course, as he later realized, his plan was doomed.

  In his panic, he’d overlooked the fact that he was wearing a mask and a hat. His most distinctive feature, his hair (which he called brown but which he knew, in his heart of hearts, bordered perilously on ginger) was covered. If any hardworking fishermen had seen him, they would have rolled their eyes to see a high-spirited reveler, homeward bound in a wave-making, fish-disturbing water taxi.

  But as it happened, all that was irrelevant.

  Because as they drew nearer, Max saw that the light was not from a fishing boat but from a ring of candles burning on a floating wooden box.

  Max’s blood turned to ice.

  The box was a coffin.

  A coffin the size of a child.

  And then the sea was full of them. Little coffins bobbing on the water, each one lit by candles that even the choppy waves could not snuff out.

  Was it a macabre vision? Or was it an art installation?

  You never knew in Venice.

  As Max looked on in horror, his boat headed out to the open sea.

  The coffins were gone. All around was blackness and swirling mist.

  Max refused to admit that he was in trouble.

  He pictured a map of the Venetian lagoon and told himself there were many islands in it. It was perfectly possible that his parents and their hosts were dining at some trendy trattoria on the farthest one. After all, he reasoned, in a city of living history, the Historical Society would be sure to choose somewhere off the beaten track.

  He watched the tour guide as he steered, trying to anticipate their direction.

  Just then a sea breeze carried off the guide’s hat and blew back his cowl, revealing the back of his head. It was hard to see in the darkness, but he appeared to have rippled brown hair that rose in a little tuft on each side.

  Max was studying this curious coiffure, when a land mass solidified out of the darkness. The guide cut the engine and allowed them to float in to the shore with the waves. Then he unlocked the cabin door and jumped over the side of the boat.

  Little coffins bobbing on the water, each one lit by candles that even the choppy waves could not snuff out.

  In a flash, Max had flung open the door and burst out, venting all his questions. “Where are we going? Why did you lock me in? What is this place?”

  “Follow me, if you please,” came the guide’s voice from the shore.

  Max jumped off the boat and splashed through the shallows to catch up.

  In the misty moonlight, there was now no disguising the fact that the messenger’s head was covered not in hair, but in …

  … feathers.

  “I know you,” said Max.

  “Then let us end the masquerade!” The messenger pulled off his costume and tossed it back into the boat. Underneath the beak of the plague doctor, just as Max had suspected, was hidden the beak of an owl.

  He tried to stay calm.

  “Why have you brought me here? Where are my parents?”

  “How should I know?” said Lord Kuy, the owl-headed messenger of the Death Lords. “It is you they wanted to see.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Who do you think?”

  A wind blew off the sea and ruffled the owl-man’s feathers.

  “The Death Lords? You’re lying. They can’t leave Xibalba.”

  “Their touristic options are limited, I grant you. But La Serenissima is always open to them.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What’s the connection between ancient Maya Death Lords and Venice, Italy?”

  “Of all the cities in Middleworld, Venice is the most liminal.”

  “Liminal? You mean criminal?”

  “I mean liminal, on the threshold, between worlds.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Venice is a city built on water like Xibalba—a place of swamps and marshes, mists and fog. Now if you would just follow me up this hill—”

&nb
sp; “Where are we?”

  “They call it l’isola della peste, the plague island. It was used to quarantine victims during a plague epidemic. You are lucky to be here. It is usually off-limits to tourists.”

  “Help!” screamed Max.

  “No one will hear you. And if they did, no one would come. Venetians think this place is haunted. They never dream that the lights and movements they sometimes glimpse from the mainland are the Lords of Death on vacation.”

  Max looked around in desperation. There was nowhere to run.

  “This way,” said Lord Kuy, pushing him forward.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch. The brittle earth broke up beneath his feet.

  “What am I walking on?” asked Max. “Is it seashells?”

  Lord Kuy snickered. “I was hoping you’d notice. It is bones, all bones.”

  “What, like fish bones?”

  “Bones of plague victims. Thousands of them.”

  Max looked around in horror. As far as he could see, the ground shone calcium white.

  “Is that you, Kuy?” boomed a voice from the top of the hill. “It is about time. The rest of the guys have gone to the casino. I was just about to join them. Did you find him?”

  “He is here, Lord One Death.”

  And out of the darkness stepped the fearsome leader of the Death Lords.

  “Bow down!” Lord Kuy instructed Max.

  Max tipped his head slightly, still studying One Death. He looked different from the last time Max had seen him. On that occasion, he’d been riding on the scorpion boat in Xibalba, and had looked like a rotting cadaver in a black feather headdress. Tonight he was dressed up to the nines.

  He wore a black top hat trimmed with black feathers, a tailored black leather suit, and a blood-red silk tie. His bulging yellow eyes were lined in black, and his thin black hair was slicked back into a ponytail. He sported skull rings on his fingers, studs through his nose, and a clutch of black feathers hanging from his ears. The overall effect was like an undertaker to a motorcycle gang, with a hint of psychotic rock star.

  Despite his eccentric outfit—or possibly because of it—One Death exuded menace from every pore.

  “Buonasera, Massimo Francis Sylvanus Murphy,” he said. “Long time no see.”

  “Not long enough,” said Max. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? What kind of a question is that? By the most serendipitous of coincidences, we are both in Venice at the same time. It would have been impolite of me not to engineer an encounter. So how have you been?”

  Max said nothing.

  “That costume suits you,” continued One Death, looking Max up and down. “You look like one of us. I trust you are having a pleasant vacation?”

  “What do you want?” asked Max again.

  “How about a thank-you?”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the honor guard I arranged for you? All those adorable little kiddies floating in the sea.”

  “The coffins? You did that?”

  One Death took a bow. “Spectacular, wasn’t it? It took a lot of effort to dig up every tot who’d ever drowned in these waters, but I think it was worth it. Call me a perfectionist, but I even drowned a few extra to make up the numbers.”

  “You mean those were real coffins? With bodies in them?”

  “What else?”

  Max stared at him in horror, at a loss for words.

  One Death smiled. “You mortals are so sentimental. That is what inspired me to add the candles. They represent the tykes’ families, and the people who loved them.” He pretended to wipe away a tear. “Touching, isn’t it? Can you imagine how much your mother would cry if she was to lose you?”

  “What’s your point?” asked Max.

  “It’s just a bit of fun to remind you of your own mortality.”

  “Look, I get it. You don’t need to remind me. Ah Pukuh and all you Death Lords would like to wipe out humankind, starting with me. But dream on, because that is never going to happen. Lola and I beat you, fair and square. Now leave me alone!”

  “Leave you alone? We will never leave you alone.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “You need to move on.” He spoke slowly, as if he was explaining the situation to a small child. “You have no power over me anymore. I know the rules. It’s like a video game. And I won the last level. End of story.”

  “Rules? Games? Levels?” scoffed One Death. “Have you forgotten that I am a Death Lord? Rules mean nothing to me. I cheat at games. The only level that interests me is the level of pain I will inflict on you.”

  “That’s not how it works. I completed my task. It’s over.”

  “But another’s task has just begun. And you are the prize.”

  “You can’t do that! I’m not a goldfish in a bag!”

  “No? Your hair is the same color. And your eyes are bugging out.”

  “Oh, very funny. At least I don’t have worms crawling out of my nose!”

  One Death grabbed the offending worms and ate them in one bite.

  He looked furious. “Where is your respect? Where is your obedience? How dare you question me in any way? Your puny life has always been ours for the taking! The clue is in our name: we are Death Lords!” He stamped his foot. “We want what we want, and we want it now!”

  Lord Kuy gave a raspy cough. “If I may be so bold, your lordship, the tantrum approach did not go down well with focus groups. Today’s mortals respond better to chilling inscrutability. If the ancient Maya Death Lords as a brand are to have relevance to the modern consumer, we need to stay on message.”

  One Death took a deep breath. “And the message is …? Remind me, Kuy.”

  “The message, your lordship, is one of ultimate evil.”

  “Did you hear that, Massimo Francis Sylvanus Murphy? I am the embodiment of ultimate evil. I will stop at nothing to destroy you.” He leaned in so close that Max could smell the half-chewed worms.

  “Why me? What have I done?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done.”

  “Is this about the White Jaguar?”

  “You think?” boomed One Death sarcastically, his voice echoing around the lagoon. The hill of bones seemed to scrunch together in fear and grow smaller. “Of course, this is about the White Jaguar. Why else would I go to all this trouble on my vacation? Come over to our side, Massimo Francis Sylvanus Murphy. And bring the White Jaguar with you.”

  Drawing courage from his mask and his highwayman cape, Max tried to stand up to the Death Lord, but his cracked and shaking voice betrayed his fear. “You’re wasting your time,” he bleated. “You’ll never get it. Never.”

  “Oh, please. Just listen to yourself. The White Jaguar is as good as ours. It will be home in Xibalba before the new moon, you mark my words. And then your precious Middleworld will melt into oblivion and take you and your fellow mortals with it. Thus will the ancient Maya prophecy come true.”

  “You’re not still pushing that end-of-the-world stuff?” Max gained courage. “No one believes it anymore, not even the History Channel. There is no ancient Maya prophecy. We humans are not as stupid as you think.”

  One Death smirked at Kuy. “We’ll see about that.”

  Lord Kuy sank his head into his owlish shoulders. “Why waste your breath, your lordship? Let us join the other Death Lords at the casino. You have given the boy fair warning. He will find out soon enough what you have in store for him.”

  “And my revenge will be all the sweeter.” One Death turned to Max. “Tonight you have signed your own death warrant, mortal. Until we meet again, arrivederci!”

  “Wait!” called Max. “What was that about me being a prize?”

  But with a diabolical laugh and a beating of owl wings, One Death and Lord Kuy had vanished.

  Max’s façade of bravery vanished with them, and his knees buckled beneath him. His body shook violently as he tried to process what had just happened. He’d thought he was free of the Death Lords. He�
�d thought they had no power over him. He’d thought he would never see them again.

  But now it sounded like they had a new plan and he was somehow mixed up in it.

  This was a worrying development.

  But right now, his biggest problem was getting back to the hotel.

  What had he been thinking to follow Lord Kuy?

  More crucially, what was he doing, in the middle of the night, wearing a Halloween costume and stranded on a hill of bones at the far reaches of the Venetian lagoon?

  And then it occurred to him that his situation was so ridiculous, it had to be a dream or an effect of concussion. If he just stopped for a moment and closed his eyes and pinched himself, he would wake up in the hotel room. It would still be afternoon and he would have fallen asleep playing video games, and the whole masked ball would never have happened.

  He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths.

  His heart slowed down a little.

  He pinched himself until it hurt.

  Now everything swam into focus.

  Frog spawn on toast?

  A geriatric conga line?

  Coffins in the sea?

  It was all so obviously the stuff of nightmares.

  Confidently, he opened his eyes.

  On the far-distant horizon, the lights of Venice twinkled.

  It was still the middle of the night. He was still wearing a Halloween costume. He was still stranded all alone on a hill of bones.

  No, not alone. Somewhere close by, a child was weeping.

  Chills ran up Max’s spine. As he peered through the darkness, he was thinking of the little coffins in the sea. “Hello?” he called. “Is anybody there?”

  Hellooooooo, his voice blew back at him, as the wind flicked his hair and rustled his cape.

  Hellooooooo, boomed the waves as they broke on the shore below him.

  He stood completely still and listened.

  The weeping was all around him now. But it wasn’t from a child. It was, Max realized, from the sound of the bones as they shifted and rolled with the wind. On this island of dead souls, in groans and shrieks and whispers, the wind carried the pain of the people who had died here.