The River of No Return

by Jon Voelkel

  And they wanted Max to join them.

  In chilling breaths, the wind urged Max to accept his fate like the plague victims in the bone pile. Like him, they, too, had once had lives and loves and families; but in the end, it all came down to bones and ashes.…

  Ashes and bones, sighed the wind.

  Already, Max’s toes were sinking down into the bones, where the fingers of heartsick mothers pulled at his feet and hungry maggots waited to feast off his flesh.

  He stumbled down the hill, pulling out his feet with every step, flicking away maggots, pushing away bits of finger that tried to hold on to him.

  On the shore—of course—the boat was gone.

  Stay, stay, moaned the wind, pulling at him with invisible arms.

  He paused to consider what to do next, but the bones still crunched as if invisible feet walked all around him.

  He knew he was not alone.

  But instead of being frightened, he remembered for some reason a chili farmer named Eusebio who had once explained to him about the web of life in the jungle and how everyone was connected.

  He turned to face the hill.

  “I’m sorry,” he called, above the wind. “I’m sorry for how you were treated. I’m sorry for how you were dumped here and left to die of a horrible disease. I’m sorry for all the mothers and fathers of the children who died in the sea. But you know who isn’t sorry? The Maya Lords of Death. You might not have heard of them because Europe probably didn’t find out about them until after you were dead. But take my word for it, they laughed the day you died. And they’re laughing at me now. They just don’t get it, how we humans look after each other, even people we don’t know. But if you keep me here, and grind down my bones, they will have won again. So please, I beg you, let me go. Please send me home to my parents.”

  There was a moment of stillness, like the calm before the storm, and then the wind screamed louder, and the waves crashed furiously onto the shore.

  Great, thought Max. I’ve made the island even angrier.

  But then he noticed a light coming toward him, across the churning sea.

  It floated closer and closer until he saw that it was one of the coffin candles.

  And it was sitting on the dashboard of a water taxi.

  Expertly steered by the raging waves, the boat was swept up onto the shore in front of him. Max noticed Lord Kuy’s discarded masquerade costume on the floor and knew it was the same boat that had brought him here. More importantly, he also noticed the key in the ignition.

  “Thank you!” he said, saluting the island.

  The ground underneath his feet was vibrating with little pulses, as if the chips of bone were impatiently urging him on. As soon as he climbed aboard, the shingle formed itself into a moving slipway, and launched him into the open sea.

  Max turned the ignition key and pressed the starter button. The motor whined and wheezed, but the engine refused to catch. He tried again and again, but nothing—not even a splutter.

  He sensed the disappointment of the bones, who’d evidently expected him to zoom away like the action hero he’d pretended to be.

  Even the wind died down, and the island seemed to be holding its breath, watching him in disbelief.

  Feeling decidedly unheroic, he looked under the seat, found a small oar, and began to paddle.

  Venice was impossibly far away, and getting farther all the time as the current washed him farther out to sea.

  Not a single other boat was visible in the vast expanse of moonlit water.

  Now the water lapping the shore sounded like sighs of exasperation.

  “Hey, I can do this,” he called to the island. “This is nothing.”

  Max searched his memory for examples of his seamanship. “I’ve shot the rapids in an underground river. I’ve ridden a shark to Xibalba. I’ve … I’ve … I’ve escaped across the ocean in a Zodiac inflatable.…”

  Yeah. That time when Uncle Ted had helped him flee from Landa’s yacht. He hadn’t been able to start the boat then either.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw Uncle Ted on the deck of the yacht, yelling instructions.

  He saw Uncle Ted’s lips moving.

  But what was he saying?

  Pull, moaned the wind.

  Choke, crunched the bones.

  That was it! Pull the choke!

  Max found the choke, pulled it out, turned the key, and tried again to start the engine.

  It roared into life.

  It was a beautiful moment, a good guys’ moment.

  He felt the current reversing, the water buoying up his boat, and the wind stroking his back. He sat for a moment, bobbing on the water, listening to the melodious thrum of the engine. Then he pushed the throttle lever forward and sped toward the shimmering lights of Venice.

  His mother had been right about one thing.

  It had been a night he would always remember.

  The wailing began, as it always did, in the deepest, darkest night. Max lay in his tent, wide awake, listening to the ghostly cacophony. From the booming roars and unearthly cackles, it sounded like the legions of hell were gathered outside his tent flap.

  It’s just the howler monkeys, he told himself. But their racket was so loud and so close, he knew that nothing on Earth would persuade him to venture outside his tent until morning.

  His thoughts wandered to Lord 6-Dog and Lady Coco, the ancient Maya king and his mother who were currently subletting the bodies of two howler monkeys. Were they howling now in their cells at San Xavier airport? They’d been impounded on their way back from Spain with Zia, the Murphy family’s housekeeper, and so far nothing, not even bribery (Uncle Ted’s idea), had got them released.

  Max hadn’t even been allowed to visit them as he passed through the airport.

  In fact, coming back to San Xavier had been disappointing all round.

  Even Lola, supposedly his best friend, had not been there to welcome him back. Uncle Ted said she’d left in a hurry the day before Max arrived.

  No note, no card, no explanation.

  Half of him was pretty sure she was arranging some kind of surprise for him. The other half was pretty sure she’d forgotten all about him.

  He tried to act as if he didn’t care either way.

  So with Lola gone and the monkeys languishing in quarantine, that left just Uncle Ted and his butler, Raul, to form Max’s official welcome committee at the Villa Isabella.

  They’d both been pleased to see him, but it was hardly the wild party he’d expected. Of the two prisoners Max had rescued from Xibalba, Hermanjilio was working at the university and Lucky Jim, Uncle Ted’s former bodyguard and foreman of his banana business, was studying to become a teacher.

  It seemed like everyone had moved on.

  Disappointed by this lukewarm reception, Max had decided not to be there when Lola got back. After all, he wouldn’t want her to think that he’d looked forward to seeing her every single moment of every single day since he’d got home from Venice, or anything like that.

  “Will you have a chef on this dig?” he’d asked his parents.

  “We will have a cook,” replied his mother. “Why?”

  “Because I think I’ll come with you, just for a few days.”

  “To the Black Pyramid?” His father looked at him with surprise. “I didn’t think you’d want to go near that place after what happened last time.”

  “I’ll hang out on the beach. It’s pretty nice from what I remember.”

  His mother was grinning from ear to ear. “It will be so much fun! We can sit by the campfire and tell stories—”

  “Or,” Max interrupted her, “I could pitch my tent on the beach.”

  “Absolutely not,” said his father. “It’s too dangerous. There could be jaguars and who knows what else roaming around.”

  “Jaguars on the beach?”

  “Jaguars hunt on land, in water, in trees, and, most probably, on beaches, too. You’re sleeping at the site with us.”

&
nbsp; Afterward, Max wondered if the Death Lords had controlled his brain in some way to make him agree to this arrangement. Because now here he was, zipped into a little tent in a clearing and way too close for comfort to the Black Pyramid.

  Like a skunk gives off a stink cloud, the pyramid’s malignant presence radiated evil. With the howler monkeys roaring outside, and his recent encounter with a Death Lord on his mind, Max realized that coming here might have been a big mistake.

  In the morning he would see about getting out.

  He just had to survive the night.

  He imagined looking down on himself from the top of the pyramid. He saw his tent, so fragile and crushable, like a little brown moth.

  He knew he wouldn’t sleep.

  He looked around for a book and saw only one of his mother’s, a history of Maya glyphs. With a heavy heart, he reached for it and began to read.

  It felt like only five minutes later when he awoke to sunshine and the reassuringly normal smell of frying bacon.

  Following the call of breakfast, he walked groggily across the plaza to the mess tent. Straight in front of him was the Black Pyramid. He stole a glance and was relieved to see that, in the morning light, it didn’t seem as menacing as it had the night before. In fact, now that he took in the dig set up around it—the thatched shelters, the rope markers, the wheelbarrows, the shovels, the buckets, the survey equipment—he saw it for what it was: an overgrown pile of old stones.

  His fears from the night melted away. It was a beautiful day, and he was looking forward to lazing on the beach.

  Breakfast was served on long tables under an open tarp. While not up to Raul’s standards, the camp cook had laid on an appetizing spread of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, black beans, freshly made tortillas, and slices of pineapple.

  His parents were slumped at one of the tables. As Max piled up his plate and went to join them, he felt the eyes of the workers following his every move.

  “Why are they staring at me?” he asked as he sat down.

  “I think they might have heard about your encounter with Ah Pukuh on your last visit,” replied his father. “Don’t ask me how, but word gets around.”

  His mother yawned. She had dark shadows under her eyes.

  “Did you hear the howlers last night?” Max asked, stuffing an egg-filled tortilla into his mouth. Both his parents nodded wearily.

  “It’s a sound I never get used to,” mused his father. “You’d think it was a herd of angry dinosaurs, not a few hairy primates. They’re the loudest land animals, you know, on account of—”

  Max tried to head off the lesson. “How’s the dig going?” he asked his mother, spraying crumbs as he spoke.

  She looked like she was going to object to his table manners, then evidently realized that she was too tired and they were in a jungle anyway and decided to let it pass. “It’s going well,” she said, standing up and brushing herself off. “In fact, I must drag myself to work right now. My glyphs won’t read themselves. I will see you both at dinner. Have a good day, bambino—and don’t forget your sunscreen!”

  When she’d gone, his father told him more. “We’ve made excellent progress, Max. It’s a fascinating site.” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I’ve applied for the permits to go inside. I keep thinking about that army you told me about.”

  “The Undead Army?”

  “That’s the one. Generations of Maya warriors going back to the earliest times. I’d give anything to see it.”

  “Forget it, Dad. It’s too dangerous.”

  “But the armor, the weaponry … it would tell us so much about Maya warfare. It would be the find of the century. It would make our fortune!”

  “We wouldn’t live to spend it, Dad. Why do you think they’re called the Undead Army? They’re zombies.”

  “Zombies?” His father laughed. “You’ve been playing too many video games.”

  “Exactly. Which means I know a zombie when I see one.”

  A wind blew through the plaza, making the corners of the roof tarp flap like giant wings.

  “Looks like the locals might be right.” His father peered anxiously at the sky. “They say there’s a hurricane coming in the next few days.”

  Max looked around the mess tent. The eyes of every worker were still fixed on him. “What else do they say, Dad?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all superstition. They’re always spooked about something.”

  “Maybe you should listen to them.” Max wrapped up a little picnic of crispy bacon, tortillas, and pineapple for his lunch.

  “So what’s on your agenda today, Max?”

  “A snooze on the beach, followed by some lying around, and maybe a little light sunbathing. How about you?”

  “I have a big survey project to finish.”

  “Well, have fun, Dad. Just promise me you’ll stay away from the Undead Army. Remember, they’re called that because they’re not dead, they’re only sleeping. And trust me, you really don’t want to be the one who wakes them up.”

  It was windy on the beach and not quite as pleasant as Max had imagined, but he found a sheltered spot behind some rocks, slathered himself with sunscreen, sprayed himself with bug repellent, and lay down on his towel. Eventually he managed to tune out the wind-lashed rustling of the palm trees and the constant buzzing of mosquitoes enough to relax.

  A smell of rotting fish assailed his nostrils.

  At least the sun felt good.

  “This is nice, isn’t it, Hoop?” said Lola’s voice.

  Max leapt to his feet.

  “Monkey Girl! What are you—”

  “Gotcha!” said Ah Pukuh.

  Well, that explained the bad smell.

  The god of violent and unnatural death winked at Max from behind his sunglasses. He was sitting on top of the rocks, under a palm-leaf parasol. His belly bulged over his floral Bermuda shorts and, as he laughed, it quivered like blotchy milk pudding.

  “What do you want?” asked Max, horrified.

  “For starters, I want to borrow your sunscreen. I need to preserve my waxy pallor.”

  Max regarded Ah Pukuh’s pockmarked skin with disgust. “Get your own.”

  “Charming. And after I have ventured into the noonday sun purely to welcome you back to the Black Pyramid, and introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  Max looked up and down the beach. It was empty. “You don’t have any friends,” he said.

  “Au contraire.” Ah Pukuh pointed out to sea.

  Emerging from the waves was the Undead Army—or at least a spectral version of it. Max stared at the ranks of shimmering, translucent, weed-draped Maya warriors. “How did they get out of the crypt? Who woke them? It wasn’t Dad, was it?”

  “Even your father is not fool enough to wake the Undead Army. No, these are but shades, come to warn you. For the moment, all but one of them sleep on.”

  “All … but one?”

  “His name is Eek’ Kitam. I’ll call him. You guys will get along like a house on fire.” Ah Pukuh picked up a large conch shell and blew into it. The wind carried its mournful sound up to the Black Pyramid. “Or do I mean he’ll set your house on fire?”

  “This is stupid,” said Max. “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around, making idle threats? As I explained to One Death—”

  “That’s Lord One Death to you. And our threats are not idle.”

  “As I explained in Venice, I have fulfilled my mission. It’s over. You have no power over me anymore.”

  Ah Pukuh took off his sunglasses and looked Max right in the eyes. “No? Then why are you here? Who lured your parents back to my pyramid?”

  “You brought us here?”

  “It was a masterly subterfuge, was it not?”

  Max groaned. “I should have guessed. But why? What do you want with us?”

  “I want the White Jaguar.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “But you know someone who does know. And you
need to make her give it back.”

  “Do your own dirty work. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you.” He reached his fat fingers over to Max’s bare chest and traced a line, like a surgeon planning an incision. “Your heart is the prize.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s simple. Your girlfriend gives us the White Jaguar, and you keep your heart.” His sharp nails scratched Max’s skin. “But if she keeps the Jaguar Stone, we get your heart. So what do you think she’ll do, eh, Hoop?”

  Max swallowed hard. “She’s not my girlfriend. And she will never give you the White Jaguar.”

  “I thought you might say that. That’s why I’ve awoken Eek’ Kitam. If you can’t persuade her, he will persuade her for you.”

  Max followed Ah Pukuh’s eyes to the cliffs that bounded the beach. A figure was descending the sheer cliff face as easily as a spider scuttling down a wall. “Is that him?” asked Max dully.

  “It is indeed. In life, he was a merciless killing machine. In death, he is literally unstoppable.”

  As Max watched the figure’s progress, he saw movement on the cliff top. It was his father, setting up survey equipment.

  He waved, but his father was looking the other way.

  He shouted, but the wind drowned out his cries.

  Wasn’t there some unwritten law that parents always sensed when their offspring were in danger? How could his father be oblivious to his perilous predicament?

  It reminded Max of a day, long ago, on the school playground, when his father had come to collect him and got so wrapped up in chatting with another parent, he’d missed the fact that his little son was getting roughed up by the class bully, almost in front of his eyes. “Your mother’s not going to be happy about this,” he’d said to Max when he saw his ripped shirt and muddied schoolbooks. “What on earth have you been doing?”

  But the figure that now swaggered across the sand was more intimidating than any school bully.

  Evidently a recent recruit to the Undead Army, he still had some flesh on his bones and patches of crispy brown skin. His headdress was the skull of a snarling peccary—a kind of wild boar—with sharpened tusks, trimmed with feathers. His other adornments were a tattered and ancient jaguar-skin cape, and a deerskin loincloth. A flint battle-ax hung from his belt, a bow and a quiver of arrows were strapped across his back, and he pointed a wooden spear ahead of him as he crossed the beach.