The Lost City

by J

  “Is that so impossible?”

  “Dream on.”

  “Why are you being so mean to me? I’ve just survived the most terrifying night of my life. While you were slurping won ton soup, I was battling the entire Maya Book of Monsters.”

  “Is that what this is about, Max? Are you jealous because I’ve got a new life?”

  He noticed she was wearing makeup. In her skinny jeans and flip-flops, she looked less like a Maya princess and more like a high school kid from Boston. He also noticed that she’d called him Max. The old Lola, the one who used to be his best friend, had called him Hoop. It was short for chan hiri’ich hoop, which was Mayan for “little matchstick”—a reference to his thin white body and reddish hair. In return, he’d called her Monkey Girl for her habit of talking to howler monkeys.

  “Why don’t you call me Hoop anymore?”

  “People change.”

  “You’ll always be Monkey Girl to me.”

  “Good to know,” she said coldly.

  “That came out wrong.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. I have to go. I have stuff to do. You better get this room cleaned up before my parents get back.”

  “Where are they?”

  “At the furniture store, replacing all the stuff you chopped up for firewood. If I was them, I’d never forgive you.”

  “I told you, it wasn’t my fault—” Max protested, but she was gone.

  In the old days, she would have stayed and listened to his story. She would have pored over every detail with him, wondering what it all meant. She would have told him that possessions don’t matter as long as all the people and monkeys and ancient Maya royals were okay. She would, he thought ruefully as he reached for the mop, have helped him clean up.

  He surveyed Uncle Ted’s sitting room. She was right. It was demolished.

  The wild party had ended as quickly as it had begun.

  When Max had returned from Xibalba, nearly all the monsters were gone. Only Tzelek and the snakes that bound Lord 6-Dog had remained. Tzelek still leaned over his brother, frozen in time, brandishing his knife.

  “Good night, Lord Tzelek,” Lord Kuy had said pointedly.

  Tzelek’s mouth had regained motion. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Kuy. Just let me finish off my brother and I’ll be out of your hair—I mean, feathers.”

  “No, Lord Tzelek. This is neither the time nor the place.”

  “But—”

  “Your time is up. You are due back in Xibalba,” Lord Kuy had insisted.

  “You’ll have to catch me first.” Then Tzelek, still wearing his enormous headdress, had taken off through the hole in Uncle Ted’s wall and out into the rainforest.

  The snakes had slithered out after him.

  “Why can no one around here stick to a plan?” Lord Kuy had muttered to himself.

  “You’re an owl. Can’t you hunt him down?” Max had had several run-ins with Tzelek and really did not like the idea of his evil spirit running wild out there, even if it was easy to spot in its Maya king costume.

  “That body is temporary. He must surrender it soon,” Lord Kuy had said, almost to himself. Then he’d swiveled his owl head around to Max. “Do not forget your promise, Max Murphy.” And with that, he’d flown away.

  Max had still been dazed when Uncle Ted, Zia, and Lola had arrived home soon after, clutching boxes of leftover Chinese food. (Weirdly, they’d used the front door, even though there was a gaping hole in the side of the house.) He hadn’t even had time to tell the others about his trip to Xibalba, let alone begin cleaning up.

  Max knew that as long as he lived, he would never forget the expression on his uncle’s face as he took in the sight of his devastated sitting room by the light of the moon shining through the hole in his roof.

  “I … we … can explain,” Max had said, looking around at his fellow survivors for moral support. But none of them spoke up. Hermanjilio sat with his head in his hands, speechless with shock. The injured Lady Coco slept on Uncle Ted’s last pillow. Lord 6-Dog had headed into the night to look for Tzelek. Raul was nowhere to be seen.

  So it had been left to Max to explain what had happened.

  “The power went out,” he began. It sounded like a lame explanation for a room so totally smashed up, empty, and plastered in bat guano.

  “But the wall? That hole …?” Uncle Ted sounded stunned.

  “Ogres. They had a battering ram.”

  “And the roof?”

  “I think that was the bird with knives for feathers.”

  “My furniture …?”

  “We burned it. For firewood.”

  “And the rug …?”

  “Shredded. That bird again …”

  “I can’t believe it. We should call the police.”

  “Good luck explaining what happened,” said Zia.

  “But we were only gone a couple of hours.” Uncle Ted’s voice was barely louder than a whimper.

  “Forget about the house, Ted, we should call a doctor.” Zia crouched by Lady Coco and gently stroked her fur. “And a good vet.”

  Lola had stood there, arms folded, looking at Max with contempt.

  “It wasn’t my fault—” he had begun again, but was interrupted by a clanking sound behind him. He turned to see a suit of armor making its way into the great hall, holding a can opener.

  “Can someone help me?” came a muffled voice. “My visor is jammed shut.”

  “Raul?” Uncle Ted sounded like he might cry.

  “I can’t handle this,” said Lola. “I’m going to bed.”

  And she’d stomped off, leaving Max to try to extricate Raul and somehow make peace with his shocked uncle.

  Now it was morning.

  And Lola still blamed Max for all of it.

  Meanwhile, in the halls of Xibalba, Ah Pukuh’s servants lifted off his headdress of shrunken heads and tied a white bandanna in its place.

  He clicked his fingers, and the shadowy figures behind the screens came out and sat in rows at his feet. Mostly they were skeletons, although some were more recent corpses with a little flesh still hanging from their bones. They all jabbered into small conch shells clamped to their ears like cell phones.

  An efficient-looking skeleton in a headset took center stage. “And now,” he said, “those of you who have hands, please put them together to welcome our new Head of Marketing.”

  Polite applause rippled through the chamber as two smaller skeletons carried in a female head on a bamboo litter and set it down on a bench facing the audience. She was recently deceased from the looks of things. Her black hair was drawn back into a bun, and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles balanced on her nose.

  Ah Pukuh roared with laughter. “Good one! She is literally the head of marketing!”

  The Head cleared her throat. “Good evening. Let us get straight down to business. As most of you know, I have been tasked with rebranding Xibalba for the thirteenth bak’tun—or the twenty-first century as this era is now called by the youth market.”

  A skeletal hand went up.

  “Yes?”

  “Why do we need rebranding? Xibalba has been the leading name in underworld intimidation since time began. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

  A murmur of assent went around the room.

  “Even classic brands like Xibalba need refreshing from time to time,” the Head explained to the dissenter. “For example, let me ask how you would define our core values?”

  The skeleton thought for a moment. “Evil, obviously. Death. Disease. Pain. Misery. Affliction. Our values are the same as they always were. We exist to cause maximum suffering to the citizens of Middleworld.”

  “Exactly.” The Head of Marketing paused and looked around the room. “And those values are still alive and well in Middleworld. But if mortals no longer believe in our existence, how can we take credit for our work? And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we need to rebrand Xibalba. We will launch a new age of suffering. We will make mortals quake in their b
oots again, before we destroy them, once and for all.”

  The audience cheered, and clapped, and whistled.

  “So let me now move on to the nuts and bolts of our rebranding campaign, otherwise known”—her lips pursed in distaste—“as Operation Fluffy Kittens.”

  “O-purr-ation,” Ah Pukuh corrected her. He smirked proudly. “I named it,” he told the audience.

  The Head of Marketing ignored him and continued. “Since the aim of the operation—”

  “O-purr-ation. Say it properly,” interjected Ah Pukuh.

  “—since our aim is to mount a charm offensive, perhaps Ah Pukuh could debrief us on last night’s opening event?”

  “All in good time,” replied Ah Pukuh. “First I demand to know which bright spark let Tzelek slip through the door between worlds? He could have wrecked everything! Here I am, working on a plan to destroy the world, and there’s Tzelek using my snakes to tie down his monkey brother.” Ah Pukuh tossed his head. “It’s not okay.”

  There was much shaking of heads and pointing of fingers as row after row of executives denied responsibility for Tzelek. Eventually, a hapless-looking skeleton holding a jaguar-skin briefcase was pushed to the front. “I am s-s-sorry, Lord Ah Pukuh,” he stammered. “Tzelek told me he had your permission to accompany the monster party. He said he was your ambassador to Middleworld.”

  “You fool! Tzelek has his own agenda. All he cares about is settling scores with 6-Dog!” Ah Pukuh shouted so loudly that several major bones fell off the executive’s skeleton. “You’re fired!”

  None of his coworkers moved to help as the executive gathered himself up, bundled bits of himself into his own briefcase, and left the room.

  The Head of Marketing tried to regain control of the meeting. “Although Tzelek’s appearance was regrettable, it did not impact our effectiveness, and I would like to commend everyone involved. All the monsters, especially Kamasootz’ and Eek’ Chapaat, played their parts masterfully.”

  Ah Pukuh coughed pointedly.

  The Head got the hint. “Of course, our most fervent praise should be reserved for Lord Ah Pukuh. Last night, he did an excellent job of hoodwinking Max Murphy and exacting a promise from the boy that will serve us well in our campaign. So, without further ado, let us all show Lord Ah Pukuh how much we value and appreciate him.”

  Lacking any hands herself, she stared expectantly at the audience.

  No one clapped.

  The Head raised an eyebrow. “Anyone who is unhappy in Marketing will be transferred to Transportation. The rivers of pus and blood have immediate vacancies for ferryboat operatives. Say good-bye to your expense accounts, ladies and gentlemen, and hello to your ticket punches.”

  Faced with this alternative, the assembled executives applauded so enthusiastically that several hands and arms clattered to the floor.

  Ah Pukuh nodded sulkily in acknowledgment. “Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy. Pretending that I wanted to be friends with that brat made me want to vomit.”

  “Your sacrifice is appreciated, Lord Ah Pukuh.” The Head waited for the attendant to finish sweeping up the fallen bones.

  “I don’t understand why we couldn’t just threaten him with violence like last time,” grumbled Ah Pukuh.

  The Head of Marketing nodded knowingly. “I hear you. Bullying always feels like the right way to go. But, shocking as it may seem to us, our latest research indicates that mortals respond better to positive encouragement.”

  The audience sat in baffled silence for a moment and then, deciding that the Head was joking, it began to laugh.

  “I’m serious,” boomed the Head. “We will not conquer Middleworld until we win hearts and minds.”

  “I’d settle just for hearts,” cackled a skeleton. “And I’d rip them out with my finger bones.”

  The Head sighed. “You will all be retrained in courtesy and kindness.”

  The audience let out a collective groan.

  “Or should I say,” the Head corrected herself, “how to fake courtesy and kindness. Our most needy trainees, the Death Lords, have been shipped off to charm school already. You will all join them there.”

  A desiccated arm shot up. “But I thought,” said its owner, “that once we had all five Jaguar Stones, Middleworld was ours for the taking.”

  “As did we all,” agreed the Head. “But it turns out, it’s not that simple. There are over seven billion mortals alive today, and we are horribly outnumbered. We cannot begin to destroy them all without winning at least a semblance of cooperation. Starting right now with our old adversaries Max and Lola.”

  “I hate those Murphy brats!” called a voice from the back of the room.

  “Like it or not,” said the Head, “our end-of-the-world strategy depends on gaining their trust. We cannot move to the next stage without them. And apparently, they are more likely to do our bidding if they believe that Ah Pukuh has joined the good guys.”

  Ah Pukuh retched.

  “It’s a revolting thought, I know,” sympathized the Head. “But I promise it will be worth it. And now, for a little more market background, let me pass you over to Brand Development.”

  A perky-sounding skeleton took the floor. “I’m not going to chocolate-coat this, guys. Competition within the end-of-the-world sector is tough. A breakaway group has appeared with its own set of Jaguar Stones. We highly doubt that they’re the real thing, but the mortals are buying into them, hook, line, and sinker.”

  A gnarly old skeleton waved his femur. “What’s the new group doing that we’re not?”

  “That’s a good question. I think it comes down to visibility. They’ve put themselves on the map with a strong social media presence, and a bricks-and-mortar tourist attraction.”

  “You said the Grand Hotel Xibalba was going to put us on the map,” said the gnarly skeleton accusingly.

  All heads swiveled toward the perky skeleton.

  He was losing his perk.

  “It turned out that our Central American location was not ideal for optimum exposure,” he conceded. “We’re in a ‘learning on the ground’ situation.”

  “So have you learned why the new Jaguar Stones are attracting so much attention?” continued the gnarly one. “Why is no one interested in our Jaguar Stones? We have the real ones, all five of them. We were supposed to have taken over the world with them by now.”

  Murmurs of rebellion were floating around the room.

  “Chichen Itza was not built in a day,” snapped the now positively un-perky skeleton. “As soon as we reclaim brand share, we’ll be back on track.”

  “Speaking of brand share,” called a female voice, “focus groups suggest that name recognition for Xibalba is at an all-time low. What are we doing to reestablish our fear factor?”

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  The Head of Marketing bellowed for quiet. “Trust me, it is all under control. In a short time from now, we’ll have shut down the new group, stolen their social media platform, attracted the attention of a global audience, sacrificed the Hero Twins, and established ourselves once again as the leading household name in apocalyptic scenarios.”

  “Where do the Hero Twins fit in?” called a voice. “Aren’t they ancient history?”

  “An excellent question. The Hero Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque, are at the center of the Maya creation story. A sentimentalist might even call them the most beloved characters in our mythology. Mortals glorify them for coming down to Xibalba and beating our Death Lords at the ball game. It was the Hero Twins who made Middleworld a safe place for mortals. For that, we will always hate them.”

  The audience began to hiss and jeer and shake their loosely connected fists.

  The Head nodded in agreement. “My feelings exactly. So what better start to the new age of Xibalba than to sacrifice the Hero Twins and rewrite the old myth?”

  A doddery old hand crept shakily up. “When you say ‘sacrifice the Hero Twins,’ do you mean Hunahpu and Xbalanque? Because they became th
e sun and the moon. It’s going to be difficult to tie them down.”

  The Head sighed impatiently. “No, of course, I didn’t mean the original Hero Twins. We will sacrifice the new, photogenic, media-savvy Hero Twins, otherwise known as Max and Lola. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if we could get back to—”

  “One more question,” called a voice from the back. “How will we trick the girl, Lola, into cooperating with us? She’s not as gullible as the boy.”

  “I am sure Lord Ah Pukuh can work his charms on her,” replied the Head of Marketing.

  Ah Pukuh groaned. “Not another one. I won’t do it.”

  “Just once more,” begged the Head. “Win over Lola, like you won over Max.”

  Ah Pukuh’s pasty face turned green. “Pass the sick bag,” he growled. “Those brats turn my stomach.”

  The Head of Marketing nodded in sympathy. “I have an idea,” she said. “We’ll give the job to Lord Kuy instead. Lola is not as tough as she pretends. And I know her weak spot. If asking nicely doesn’t work, we will demolish her.”

  Max lay on his bed. He was feeling tired, hungry, and sorry for himself. Last night he’d ridden down to Xibalba in the talons of an owl, but not one person had listened to his story and helped him understand what had happened. Instead, he’d been cleaning up monster mess all day with no help from anyone. (Lady Coco and Raul were confined to their beds on doctor’s orders. Lord 6-Dog was apparently exempt from helping as Maya kings never did housework. Hermanjilio had a full day of teaching at the university. Uncle Ted and Zia had been meeting with builders.)

  But Lola? What was her excuse?

  She’d been holed up in her room all day.

  Now it was nearly dinnertime.

  How could she be so lazy?

  Max checked his phone. Still no signal.

  He jabbed at the keyboard of his laptop. Dead.

  He switched on his bedside light. Nothing.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on detecting an aroma of dinner.

  Still no good smells.

  “It has not arrived yet,” said Lord Kuy.

  Max sat bolt upright. “What—?”

  “Your dinner. It hasn’t arrived yet. Your aunt and uncle ordered pizza from that new place over by the docks. I think you’re in for a treat. It has wood-fired ovens just like the joint I visited with the Death Lords in Venice. We had the Four Seasons with extra cheese. Molto bene!”