by J; P Voelkel
“You are so ungrateful!” exclaimed Max. “Your own son nearly died trying to save you and two good men are still trapped in Xibalba, thanks to you!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re living in a fantasy world, Massimo!”
“Where are they then? Lola says no one’s seen Hermanjilio since that day on the Black Pyramid and Lucky’s missing, too. His family is going crazy.”
“Well, I am sorry about that but, wherever they are, I can tell you that they are not in Xibalba. It is a mythical place. It is not real!”
“How can you say that, Mom? I saw you when you came out of Xibalba. You looked really bad … like a homeless person. Your hair was all matted!”
His mother, who never usually had a hair out of place, instinctively patted her shiny black bob. “It is hard to keep up standards in the jungle, with all the rain and the humidity,” she said defensively.
“What about the piece of jade in Dad’s tooth? I’m not imagining that!”
“Just because your father has an active interest in ancient Maya dentistry …”
“You and Dad were prisoners in Xibalba! It happened, you know it did—”
“Massimo! Stop this!”
“But, Mom, I’m in big trouble. We all are.…”
Shaking her head in despair, his mother got up and wrapped her robe tightly around her. “I cannot take this anymore,” she said, heading for the door.
“It’s not about you, Mom. It’s about everyone.”
His mother nodded sadly. “It says in my book that an only child often thinks he is the center of the universe.”
“No, I mean it really is the end of the world.…”
“How many times must I say sorry, Massimo? I am sorry that I went back to work as soon as you were born, I am sorry I did not bake all your birthday cakes myself, I am sorry we did not take violin lessons together, but—”
“Violin lessons? What are you talking about? No, Mom, you don’t understand—”
She held up a finger for silence. “I do understand. You are trying to make me feel guilty. But it is not going to work. I said I was sorry for leaving you behind and going on that dig, and that is the end of it. I am doing everything I can to be a better mother. Perhaps it is time that you tried to be a better son.”
Max was outraged. “A better son? I rescued you from Xibalba! And you’re only out on parole, remember. If I mess up this deal with the Death Lords, they’ll drag you right back there. And this time, you won’t get out.”
His mother gave a little shudder. “As long as we stay away from San Xavier, we are safe,” she whispered.
Max’s ears pricked up. “What did you say?”
“I … er … niente … nothing. I was talking to myself.”
“You said they can’t get us if we stay away from San Xavier, didn’t you? But you’re wrong, Mom. Can’t you feel it? They’re coming here, to Boston.…”
“No, no, you misheard me. I said that we all had strange dreams in San Xavier, but we are safe now.”
“We’re not safe, Mom. No one is. We need to be ready.”
“We need to sleep,” she said firmly.
Max sighed in resignation. “Wait, Mom, one more thing.”
“What?” She sounded weary to her bones.
“It’s a Mayan word, I’m trying to remember it … sounds like cocoon.”
His mother shrugged. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a unit of time, like a century, but it’s about four hundred years?”
“You mean a bak’tun. It is 144,000 days.”
“That’s it! There’s a new bak’tun starting soon, and—”
“Forget it, Massimo! What you are talking about, it is the Long Count calendar. Even the Maya do not follow that anymore.”
“But the new bak’tun will be ruled by Ah Pukuh, the god of violent and unnatural death. He’s in league with the Death Lords and between them, they’re going to bring about a new age of destruction and chaos.…”
His mother massaged her temples, as if she had a headache. “Where do you get this stuff? Maybe it is those video games you like to play?”
“No, Mom, this is real life. They’re coming for me.…”
“Enough! We are in Boston, we are safe; go to sleep.” She switched off the light and stood looking at Max in the dark for a few moments. “Buonanotte, bambino,” she whispered as she left the room.
Lying there in his cozy bed, Max reflected that maybe she was right. Boston was a long way from San Xavier. Maybe he was safe here.
For the first time in two weeks, he allowed himself to relax slightly.
Putting the ancient Maya out of his mind, he closed his eyes and pulled up the blankets.
The blankets resisted him.
There was a weight on them.
Someone was sitting on the end of the bed.
“Mom? Is that you? Are you still there?”
Max snapped on his bedside light.
It was a snake.
A big snake.
Max recognized it immediately as a fer-de-lance—the most dangerous snake in Central America. Lola had told him it was nicknamed the three-step—because if it bit you, that’s how far you got before you dropped stone dead.
The snake shifted its weight and began to make its way up the bed.
It looked at Max.
Max looked at the snake.
In one more second it would strike.
With a bloodcurdling scream, Max threw the blankets on top of his unwelcome guest and leapt out of bed. Then, before the angry reptile could wind its way out, he grabbed the machete off the wall. Grunting and screaming like a demented ninja, he started hacking blindly at the bed until he had reduced it to a pile of shredded bedclothes, pillow stuffing, and mattress springs.
Only when he was sure that the machete had done its job did he calm down enough to notice his parents standing at the door, mouths open, frozen in astonishment.
Max pointed at the remains of the bed.
“It’s in there,” he said. “I killed it.”
His father took the machete from him and, holding it at arm’s length, used it to poke gingerly through the wreckage.
His mother put her hands on Max’s shoulders. “You’re shaking, bambino. Was it a mouse?”
Max closed his eyes and he saw again the deadly snake, poised to strike. “You’ll see,” he whispered.
“Surely not a rat?” she asked, appalled. “Did you find it, Frank?”
“I think so,” said Max’s father. He skewered something with the tip of the machete and held it up. “Was this it?”
Max opened his eyes.
On the end of the blade was a dismembered teddy bear.
“No!” spluttered Max. “That’s not it. It was a snake. A big snake.”
His father rolled his eyes. “A snake? In Boston? You had another dream, Max,” he said wearily.
“But, Dad, it was a fer-de-lance. Look under the bed, look everywhere! It must have got away.”
His parents exchanged glances.
“You’d better sleep on the sofa tonight,” said his mother sadly.
Chapter One
THE INVASION BEGINS
Dad,” said Max, “Don’t you think it’s odd that it rains on our house every day, when the rest of Boston is in a drought?”
He watched the torrents of rain streaming down the kitchen windows, reducing the outside world to a watery blur. The ferocity of the downpour reminded him of the rain in San Xavier, the kind that could soak you through to your underwear in a matter of minutes.
His father was sitting across the breakfast table, reading the morning paper. DRIEST SUMMER ON RECORD, read the headline on the front page.
“What I think is odd,” said his father, from behind the newspaper, “is the fact that my fourteen-year-old son attacked his old teddy bear with a machete last night.”
“I keep telling you,” said Max, “there was a snake. A fer-de-lance.”
Max couldn’t see his fa
ther’s face, but he guessed, from the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the paper, that he had not forgiven his son for last night’s drama.
It was extraordinary to Max that his parents thought he’d chopped up his bed as some kind of plea for attention.
“I did see a snake, Dad,” he insisted as he loaded a piece of toast with peanut butter and embedded it with banana slices and fresh blueberries. “It must be still in the house. Don’t you think we should look for it?”
His father sighed and put down the newspaper. “Your mother and I are very worried about you.”
“Me, too,” agreed Max.
“Well, that’s a start. At least you admit you need help.”
Max nodded enthusiastically. “I need all the help I can get. Any day now, the Death Lords will be coming for me and—”
“That’s not what I meant—” began his father before he was interrupted by an earsplitting scream. He jumped up to investigate, and Max ran after him into the hallway. They found Carla Murphy standing halfway up the stairs, pointing down in horror.
At first, Max thought she must have found the snake.
Then he saw what she was looking at. A posse of large, fat beetles was swaggering in under the front door.
“Assassin beetles!” gasped Frank Murphy, and immediately started stamping on the intruders. Their hard shells crunched beneath his feet on the wooden floor. “These guys are lethal—they carry an incurable disease. Quick, Max, squash as many as you can, then run and get the salad dressing!”
“You’re not going to eat them, are you?” asked Max.
“Of course not!” snapped his father. “I’m going to leave bowls of oil and vinegar around to catch the ones that get away. They’re attracted by the smell of the vinegar, so they crawl in and the oil suffocates them.”
His mother was shaking her head in puzzlement. “I’ve seen assassin beetles in San Xavier,” she said, “but I’ve never heard of them this far north.”
“That’s global warming for you,” said his father, piling up beetle corpses with his foot.
“It is certainly warm in here,” agreed his mother, picking her way downstairs. “Hotter than Mount Etna in August.” Something low on the wall caught her eye. “Frank! Look at this! There’s fungus on the new wallpaper … you can almost see it spreading!”
“Calm down, Carla,” said his father. “You often get mold in these old houses when it rains. Tell Zia to wipe it down with bleach.”
“Zia is busy,” said his mother pointedly, “cleaning up your son’s room.”
“He’s your son, too. Why do you always call him my son when you’re mad at him?”
Carla Murphy pursed her lips. “It’s not him that I am mad at,” she said quickly, making sure that Max was listening. “It is just his behavior.”
“I really don’t see the difference, Carla,” said his father. “I say he needs to be punished.”
“No, Frank,” said Max’s mother. “We must not play the blame game.”
“So what does your book advise us to do when our son chops up his bed with a machete?”
“I will take him to buy a new bed this morning.”
“He should pay for it out of his allowance,” muttered his father. He looked at his watch. “Will you be gracing us with your presence at the college today, Carla? The fellows want a debriefing on our latest findings in San Xavier.”
“Are you going to tell them about your stay in Xibalba?” asked Max.
“We will be discussing the decorative frieze on the north wall at the Temple of Ixchel,” replied his father. “I will try to fend them off until you arrive, Carla.”
When his father had left for work, Max helped his mother clear the table.
“About the new bed, Mom …,” he began.
“I won’t make you pay for it, bambino.”
“But could I have a hammock instead?”
“A hammock? In your bedroom?”
“I’d feel safer. There’s nowhere for a snake to hide.”
His mother wagged a finger at him. “I am warning you, do not start that game again. There was no snake.” She paused, evidently reviewing her words in her mind. “I hear that you would like to sleep in a hammock,” she continued, “but I feel we must establish clear boundaries on this issue.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you will sleep in a bed like a civilized person. You are not in the jungle now.”
Every moment in the bed store was torture. Max found it hard to get interested in the coil count of his new mattress when the fate of the world was at stake.
“Just as long as it doesn’t have snake coils,” he muttered.
“If coils are an issue,” said the baffled salesman, “perhaps you’d like to try memory foam?”
Max shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s just get the cheapest bed and get out of here, Mom. I need to get home. I’ve got stuff to do.”
“We’ll take the memory foam,” Carla told the clerk, “for immediate delivery.” She smiled at Max as she handed over her credit card. “Maybe a comfortable mattress will put a stop to all these nightmares.”
Max pursed his lips. “Can we go now?”
“But this is our quality time, bambino. I thought we might pick out some new clothes for you, whatever you want.”
“I don’t need more clothes.” Max regarded the laden shoppers all around them with disdain. “One of the things I learned in San Xavier was that consumerism is a vicious circle,” he said with an air of superiority.
His mother’s eyes lit up. “Who taught you that? Was it Lola?”
“No. It was a chili farmer called Eusebio. He gave us a lift from Utsal to Itzamna on his boat.”
“And by us, you mean you and Lola?”
Max blushed. “Are we done here?”
His mother pretended to inspect a patchwork comforter. “Lola seems like a nice girl,” she said.
Max said nothing.
“You know, I have always imagined us like this,” continued his mother. “You and me, chatting like friends, sharing confidences. I hope you’ll always feel like you can talk to me about anything.”
“Anything?” asked Max.
His mother nodded encouragingly. This was the moment she’d been waiting for. She had followed all the steps in her parenting manual, she had won the trust of her moody son, and now he was on the verge of telling her all about his new girlfriend in San Xavier. This was the pinnacle of parenthood. She was about to enter the inner circle of mothering achievement. Her teen was about to confide in her.
“So …,” began Max.
“Yes?” said his mother eagerly.
“Can we talk about what happened in San Xavier? When you and Dad activated the White Jaguar? And your camp was attacked and you ended up trapped in Xibalba? What was it like in the Maya underworld, Mom? Did you meet the Death Lords?”
The smile on his mother’s face faded. “I hear you,” she said. “You do not want to talk about Lola. You are asking me to respect your privacy.” She reached for his hand. “But I want you to know, bambino, that when you are ready for an adult-to-adult relationship, I am here for you.”
“Mom!” Max spoke so sharply that several other customers, all female, turned to stare. “The Death Lords are coming. You have to help me!”
His mother smiled nervously at the curious shoppers, then reached up and ruffled Max’s hair. “You and your video games!” she said. The shoppers nodded and rolled their eyes in sympathy. Evidently they had teenage boys at home, too. “So, bambino, how about some pizza? And you can tell me more about that boat ride with Lola.”
“Sorry, Mom, I need to get home.”
Max’s mother studied his face in alarm. “No pizza? Why are you in such a hurry?”
Max thought quickly. He couldn’t tell her the truth, which was that he wanted to get home in time to quiz Zia, the Murphys’ taciturn housekeeper. It was Zia who’d first instructed him to go to San Xavier, who’d implied that his parents
were waiting for him, and who’d handed him the plane ticket. But she’d never explained why she’d done these things, and since he’d come back from San Xavier, she seemed to be avoiding him.
“It’s not fair that Zia’s cleaning my room,” he explained. “I want to get back and help her.”
His mother looked at him suspiciously. “You have changed,” she said. “By the way, I asked Zia to get rid of all those Maya books.”
“What? Why?”
“They are giving you bad dreams, bambino.”
Aware of his mother’s scrutiny, Max tried to look nonchalant. But it was another reason to hurry home. “Whatever,” he said as casually as he could. “Gotta go!”
She blew him a kiss. “Have fun!”
Have fun. The fiends of hell were coming for him, and his mother was telling him to have fun.
He walked home as fast as he could, planning his questions for Zia.
Now, at last, she’d have to face him.
All around him, the good people of Boston went about their business. Little did they know, as they chatted on their cell phones and sipped their skinny lattes, that their comfortable lives were about to be ripped apart by Ah Pukuh, god of violent and unnatural death, and his cohorts, the twelve Death Lords.
A little boy skipped out of a toy store brandishing a plastic space monster, and Max was startled to see that the alien had a look of Ah Pukuh about it.
Maybe his parents were right. Maybe he was going crazy.
It had been a perfect summer day, not a cloud in the sky. But as he neared his house, the weather changed dramatically.
Thunder crashed, lightning flashed, and soon it was pouring rain.
Head down, collar up, Max sprinted to the front door, not even noticing that the outside of their Boston townhouse was now verdant with jungle creepers. Once inside, he gazed around in wonder.
The walls were covered in bright green mold and lichen. Luxuriant vines twined up the stairs, and butterflies played in the Spanish moss that hung from the ceiling. There was a hum of insect life.
No doubt about it, this place was turning into a rainforest.
Let’s see his parents call this a figment of his imagination.
