by Jon Voelkel
Max, Nasty, and Fabio screamed as the gondola was pitched upward.
Aware that what goes up must come down, Max braced himself for a splash landing. But the boat just hung in midair. It felt like the moment when a roller coaster pauses at the top of the first hill.
Peering cautiously over the side, Max saw that the whole Grand Canal was watching them.
All the boats below them had stopped in midstream, their crews and passengers frozen in surprise and horror. They seemed to be transfixed by something underneath the gondola, but Max didn’t dare lean out farther to see what it was.
“What’s happening?” he called back to Fabio.
“Non lo so,” cried the terrified boatman—“I don’t know.” Fabio had lost his straw hat and his jaunty little necktie, and his face was as white as mozzarella cheese. But even as he answered, their descent had begun and they plummeted back into the canal. As they hit the water, a small tidal wave washed over the gondola.
“Start bailing!” yelled Max, using his Red Sox cap to scoop out the water. “We’re sinking!”
Nasty and Fabio didn’t move.
“Help me!” he ordered them.
Still they didn’t move. They were just staring ahead, wide-eyed.
Max turned and followed their gaze.
And looked straight into an unblinking black eye as big as a laptop screen, surrounded by a hood of rubbery pinky-orange freckled skin.
“Octo—” was all he could say, before a massive tentacle snaked up behind him and gripped him by the throat, wrapping itself around his neck and mouth.
His nose was filled by a briny, musty smell that made him want to vomit. Clammy blubber blocked his airways. He was suffocating in cephalopod. It was the biggest octopus he’d ever seen, bigger than he even knew existed. And it appeared to have singled him out for dinner.
He tried to pull it off, but as soon as he detached one tentacle, another would take its place. It seemed that there were tentacles everywhere—encircling his arms and legs, squeezing his flesh, freezing his blood—the icy-cold suckers locking tight to his skin.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back, as the monstrous mollusk dragged him overboard, tipping the gondola and plunging Nasty and Fabio into the water.
Through a narrow gap between coils of slimy tentacle, Max caught a glimpse of them swimming toward the life preservers tossed from other boats.
But for him there was no rescue.
The giant octopus dragged him down, down, under the water, no longer shimmering but murky and cold, where hairy mussel shells clung to old boat ropes, and ugly, sharp-toothed fish stopped to stare at the colossal sea creature with its human captive.
Down, down, ever deeper, where Maya carvings were now visible in the stone walls of the canal.
Down, down, deeper even than the wooden pilings that supported the waterlogged city.
Down, down, past rocks and caves, until Max knew they were diving to the place where all waters met, the place of fear, the great icy pool of the Maya underworld.
His lungs were filling with water.
His eyes were closing.
He was losing consciousness.
Then he saw her, swimming toward him out of the darkness.
It was Lola, come to save him.
There was flash of metal, a knife blade, and suddenly the octopus was losing its grip. Max could move his legs, then his arms; then the tentacles around his face fell away.
Lola pointed upward, and his last sight as he kicked to the surface was of the octopus, its skin bright red with anger, its eyes sunk inward, its beak flapping, its inky blue blood leaking into the water.
“Max! Max!”
“Lola? What are you doing here?”
“Are you okay? That was horrible.”
He was lying on hard ground.
Everyone was shouting in Italian.
The world was a blur.
He shut his eyes.
That was a close one.
But Lola had saved him.
She always saved him.
He reached for her hand. “How did you find me?” he asked.
“We were on the gondola. Don’t you remember?”
He opened his eyes.
“Nasty? Where’s Lola?”
“Lola? She’s in San Xavier, isn’t she?”
“No, she was in the canal.…” His voice trailed off as he watched a gang of fishermen haul up the octopus. It didn’t look nearly as big as he remembered it.
“I don’t think so,” said Nasty gently.
“But she saved me.…”
Nasty’s hair dripped on his face. Her black eyeliner was all smeared, making her eyes look even bluer. “Fabio saved you. I saw it all. He dived in and cut you free. The canal’s not deep. It was over in a flash.”
“But I saw …”
Nasty squeezed his hand. “People see all sorts of things when they’re drowning. Some people see their whole life in action replay.”
“But what about …?” his voice tailed off.
“What?” she asked. “What else did you see? Tell me.”
How could he tell her that he was going mad? That five seconds had felt like five minutes. That he’d seen Maya glyphs on the walls of a Venetian canal, and imagined that the warm tide from the summer lagoon had washed over him as cold and deep as the bottomless waters of Xibalba?
He hadn’t realized how badly the whole crazy Jaguar Stones thing had messed up his head.
Nasty passed him a towel and wrapped another one around herself.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “How do you feel?”
How did he feel?
He felt wet, and he felt cold. But most of all, he felt like he wanted to see Lola.
He hugged the towel around him like a blanket.
After a while, as his heart rate returned to normal, he started to feel pretty foolish. He was fairly sure that one of the uncoolest things a guy could do in front of a girl was to get sucked off a gondola in a freak octopus attack.
And it wasn’t like he could pretend it had never happened.
He groaned to think of all the tourist photos and videos that were being uploaded to social networks at that very moment.
He would never live it down.
He buried his head in the towel.
A cheer went up from the canal.
He peeked out.
“It’s the fishermen,” explained Nasty. “They’re celebrating. Fabio said that the whole of Venice will be feasting on your octopus tonight!”
Max grimaced. “Where is Fabio? I should thank him for saving me.”
“He’s back in the water, trying to salvage his gondola. He told me to tell you that he’s never lost a tourist yet.”
“There’s always a first time,” said Max, rubbing his hair with the towel. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
Nasty gaped at him. “What? No! I think you’re really brave. It was totally cool the way you grappled with those tentacles.”
“It was?” Max felt a little glow of pride.
And just like that, he put out of his mind what he’d known all along. That ancient Maya Death Lords were not the kind to forgive and forget. That Ah Pukuh, god of violent and unnatural death, still had a bone to pick with him. And that, as surely as a shark had carried him down to Xibalba on the Spanish Coast of Death, this giant octopus was an infernal messenger sent to drag him to the depths of hell.
“We should call your parents,” said Nasty. “You might have a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Max. “Let’s just sit in the sun and dry out.”
Nasty looked around for a good spot.
“Over there?” She pointed at a café on the canal side.
As Max got to his feet, a ferry revved its engines at a floating dock and sent a wave splashing onto the paving stones. The water lapping at his toes reminded him of foamy fingers pulling him back to Xibalba. “Let’s find somewhere more inland.”
“Easier said than done,”
Nasty pointed out. “Venice is built on water.”
“Tonight, the chef recommends pan-fried octopus, fresh today from the Grand Canal. Molto bene!”
“My son helped to catch it,” Max’s father told the waiter proudly.
“We must order it!” chimed in his mother. “How fun!”
“Please don’t!” Max begged her. “I don’t want to see it.”
His parents and the waiter looked at him with surprise.
“Why ever not?” asked his mother.
Still feeling slightly foolish about the whole episode, Max hadn’t told his parents how close he’d actually come to drowning, nor about the strange Maya visions that had flooded his oxygen-starved brain. “It looked old and tough and rubbery. It won’t taste good,” was all he said.
“If signor prefers something smaller, we also have squid in its own ink,” suggested the waiter.
Carla Murphy looked hopefully at her son.
“Nothing with tentacles,” said Max firmly. “I’ll have pizza Margherita.”
While his parents meekly studied their menus, Max studied the hotel restaurant.
It was an old-fashioned kind of place with crystal chandeliers, wood-paneled walls, thick white tablecloths, upholstered chairs, and red velvet curtains. The waiters, too, were the epitome of elegance, in crisply ironed white shirts, black bow ties, and smart black pants. But their formal attire was somewhat undermined by the addition of thigh-high rubber waders that squelched and squeaked as they walked.
“What’s with the fisherman’s boots?” he asked his mother as they waited for their food. “Is it an Italian fashion thing?”
“They are expecting a high tide.”
“What? Inside the restaurant?”
She nodded sadly. “Venice is sinking, bambino. At high tide, the water sometimes rises up through the floor.”
Max scanned the marble underfoot for signs of leakage. “How could a whole city sink?”
“A better question might be: Why would anyone build a city on marshland?” Max’s father warmed to his topic. “Many people think it’s a wonder that La Serenissima—the Most Serene Republic of Venice—exists at all. It’s really a collection of manmade islands, resting on wooden poles jammed into the mud.”
Max looked alarmed. “Could it sink tonight?”
His father laughed. “It’s lasted fifteen hundred years against the odds. I think we have time for dinner.”
“It would take more than a high tide to close this restaurant,” observed Max’s mother. “We Italians love to eat.”
Venice was Max’s mother’s hometown, and every time she returned, we Italians became her new favorite phrase.
“Grazie,” she said, as a plate of stewed tripe was placed in front of her.
“Prego,” said the waiter.
“Grazie,” said Max’s father, as he received a grilled lobster.
“Prego,” said the waiter.
Max said nothing as his pizza was set down.
Aware that the waiter was hovering, he set about assessing it like a judge on a cooking show.
First, he tapped the crust with his knife.
Good. The center had a nice spring to it, while the edge was charred and flaky.
Next, the melted cheese.
He sniffed. It smelled divine. Best of all, it was still bubbling.
“Grazie,” said Max, nodding.
“Prego,” said the waiter. “Buon appetito.” He looked like his heart would burst with happiness as he headed back to the kitchen.
“I don’t get it,” said Max’s father. “It’s just pizza.”
“This is Italy, Dad. The birthplace of pizza. They recognize an expert when they see one.”
Max’s father rolled his eyes.
“Let’s eat!” said Max’s mother. “Mangia!” She waved her hand expansively, knocking over the pepper mill.
“Steady on, Mom,” said Max.
“Sorry, bambino, I can’t help it. We Italians are famous for our flamboyant gestures.”
We Italians. There it was again.
Max went to rip off a slice of pizza, but his mother stayed his hand.
Seriously? Max sighed. In exaggerated deference to the European gods of etiquette, he picked up his knife and fork and cut off a dainty triangle of pizza.
Frank and Carla Murphy smirked smugly to watch their offspring’s mastery of silverware.
Not for the first time, Max reflected on the warped values of the adult mind. How was it, after everything his family had been through, that his parents could still care about table manners? Then again, there was something reassuringly normal about it.
And normal was something that had been missing in Max’s life lately.
He decided to give his parents a treat.
Slowly and carefully, he unfolded his napkin and dabbed at his mouth.
His mother almost trembled with joy.
Yeah, thought Max, if he ignored the water that was now bubbling through the floor and lapping around his ankles, everything was normal again.
Was it possible that only a few weeks ago he’d been a tourist in Xibalba, the Maya underworld? He’d delivered the Yellow Jaguar to the Death Lords and they’d almost tricked him into staying. It was only thanks to the quick thinking of Princess Inez, the dead wife of one of Max’s ancestors (a conquistador named Rodrigo), that he’d survived to tell the tale. Inez had taken his place on the Death Lords’ ship and sailed away with them on a river of phosphorescent scorpions.
His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts. “How is the pizza?”
“It’s good, really good.” Max took another chewy, cheesy, melty mouthful.
“But save room for dessert, bambino. I have something special planned.”
“Aha,” said Max’s father. “Is that why you disappeared all afternoon, Carla? I knew you were up to something.”
Max’s mother smiled. “No more questions. I want it to be a surprise. I thought we deserved a treat after all that”—she searched for the right word—“drama we had recently.”
“Drama” was a bit of an understatement, thought Max. She was referring to the time when their ordinary little Boston family had got sucked into an ancient Maya nightmare. It all started when Ah Pukuh, god of violent and unnatural death, decided to reassert himself with a little help from the Jaguar Stones, the five sacred stones of the Maya kings. He’d tasked his henchmen, the twelve Lords of Death, to find the stones—and they, in turn, had forced Max and his Maya friend Lola to do their dirty work.
With all five Jaguar Stones sitting in Xibalba, it would have been game, set, and match to the forces of darkness. But—and Max smiled to himself every time he thought about it—in a glorious, last-minute twist of fate, the good guys had managed to smuggle the White Jaguar out of Xibalba right under the Death Lords’ noses.
And that, as far as Max was concerned, was the end of the story.
“I’m just glad all that ‘drama’ ”–he made quote marks with his fingers—“is over.”
His father nodded. “Well, you’re safe enough here. The Death Lords won’t be coming to Venice anytime soon.” He chuckled to himself. “Can you imagine them sailing down the Grand Canal in a gondola?”
Max looked at him in horror. After his encounter with the octopus, he could imagine it all too easily.
“Enough about the Death Lords!” Max’s mother quickly changed the subject. “Did you have a nice afternoon with your friend from Boston?”
“I guess. Apart from the octopus.”
“You should have invited your friend to join us for dinner, bambino.”
“She’s flying back to Boston tonight.”
“She? It’s a she?” Max’s mother’s eyes lit up.
“Who is she?”
“No one you know.”
Max concentrated on wolfing down his pizza.
“That boy can clean a plate faster than a column of army ants,” muttered his father.
Max looked up. “How fast are army ant
s?”
“I’ve heard they can dissolve a wild pig, snout to tail, in a couple of hours.”
“What do you mean, dissolve?”
“They liquidize their food before—”
“Frank! That is not dinner conversation,” complained Max’s mother. “No more jungle talk. We’re on vacation.”
Silence fell on the table.
His mother cast around for another subject. “This hotel is nice, isn’t it?”
His father grunted. “So it should be, for what it charges. I don’t know why we couldn’t stay with your parents as usual, Carla.”
“Their place is so small. I wanted us to have family time, just the three of us.”
Max’s thoughts drifted to his grandparents’ dark little house in a Venetian backstreet. Every inch of it was filled with ornaments and knickknacks. It reminded him of the ramshackle hut of Chan Kan, the village wise man he’d met in San Xavier.
“Besides,” his mother was saying, “we deserve a little luxury. The last few weeks have been very stressful.”
“And the house needs time to recover,” added his father. “It’s still damp from having a rainforest growing inside it.”
“I was thinking,” said Max’s mother, “that we should sell it.”
Max and his father stopped chewing and stared at her.
“Why would we want to do that?” asked his father cautiously.
“So we can make a new start!” She reached across the table and patted Max’s hand. “I have learned my lesson, bambino. I have not been the best mother but I am going to make it up to you. From now on, I am going to devote myself to looking after you. I want to stay home and cook all day.”
Max sighed heavily. “Have you been reading that parenting book again, Mom?”
“This is my own idea. Home cooking binds families together. It is how Italian mothers express their love.”
Max stared at her in disbelief. His mother’s cooking did not express love so much as a desire to kill people by poisoning them. This was the worst plan he’d ever heard.
“But what about your job, Mom? You’re the world’s leading expert on Maya glyphs. You can’t give up. So many archaeologists depend on you. And what about all your students at Harvard? No one else can teach that stuff like you can.”
