Feathered Serpent, Dark Heart of Sky. David Bowles
they came to a vast crossroads that offered four paths to the Land of the Dead: the Red, the Black, the White, and the Green. The messenger owls indicated the Black Road. “That is the one you should take. It is the King’s Road.”
And here was the beginning of their defeat, for the brothers heeded the Royal Guard, not suspecting that this was the path of the dead. They were led along its gruesome length to the council chambers of the dark lords, where their doom was further sealed. The horrid aristocrats of that fell place were seated in a row, but the first two—the king and queen themselves—were clever statues carved and arrayed by the artisans of the netherworld.
“Greetings, Your Majesty,” they said to the first statue.
“The dawn shine upon you, Your Majesty,” they said to the second.
The chambers erupted with laughter, for the brothers had failed again. Chortling, the dark lords mocked them.
“Foremost seers, indeed! Those are mere manikins, fools!” In their hearts the nobility of the Realm of Fright felt certain they had already won.
The real king and queen entered, smiles on their skeletal faces.
“Perfect. You have arrived. Tomorrow you will show your skill with yokes and guards. For the present, however, take a seat upon the bench we have prepared.”
When the brothers sat down, they realized the bench was a burning hot slab. They squirmed around for a time, trying to save face, but finally they had to leap to their feet or risk real damage. The dark lords once more burst out in howls of laughter. They laughed so hard their innards ached. Even writhing in pain, they could not stop their chuckles and hoots.
Now the Underworld is full of torments of every kind, among them five terrible houses of torture. But as fate would have it, the brothers would only experience one. They were escorted to their supposed sleeping quarters by the rulers of that fearful place, who smiled and said:
“Enter, friends. Get some rest. In a moment you will be brought a torch and two cigars.”
One and Seven Hunahpu went inside, greeted by inky blackness. Unbeknownst to them, the brothers were lodged in Dark House, a place devoid of light.
Meanwhile, the dark lords conferred. “They are certain to lose. Let us sacrifice them tomorrow. It will be quick. We shall use our bone-white blade to kill them both, and then we shall keep their gear.”
The king and queen sent a messenger with a torch of ocote wood and two lit cigars. “Here you go. You are expected to return these in the morning—whole, just as they are now.”
The brothers took the torch and the cigars, and once again they were defeated. They let the torch burn down to ashes. They smoked the cigars down to stubs. In the morning they were led back to the council chambers, fear mounting in their hearts.
“Where are my cigars? Where is the torch that I lent you last night?” demanded the King of Death.
In that moment of terror, a vision winged its way to the brothers from the heavens above. They saw their doom.
Then, in the depths of their despair, they also saw their victory.
So they admitted defeat. “They’re all gone, Your Majesty.”
“Very well. Today your days are ended. You will die here. You will be ripped from the world. Your faces will remain hidden. You will be sacrificed!”
And there and then the brothers were slaughtered. Their bodies were buried together in a single grave near the ball court, except for the head of One Hunahpu, which was removed at the king’s command.
“Take his head,” the god of death instructed, “and set it in the forked branches of that bare tree beside the road to serve as a reminder of our might.”
But as soon as the head was fixed in place, the tree miraculously bore fruit, round and heavy like a skull. It was the calabash, and it hung now from every branch so that it was no longer clear where the head of One Hunahpu had been deposited.
The dark lords gathered round in amazement. It was clear that the sudden appearance of fruit was an ill omen. So the king and queen issued an edict:
“Let no one pick fruit from this tree. Let no one even sit beneath its boughs.”
And all the inhabitants of that dreadful realm obeyed. Except a maiden.
The Victory of their Mother
The dark lord Blood Gatherer had a daughter, a maiden named Lady Blood. He told her of the tree and the prohibition of their king, trusting that she would obey. But Lady Blood was curious. She wondered about the taste of the fruit and pondered its possible origin.
Finally, she could not resist looking on the miracle herself, so she went alone to where the tree stood, near the ball court and the graves of sacrificial victims.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “What sort of fruit is this? It simply has to be sweet. If only I could pick one and not be killed or banished. Just one.”
Then the head of One Hunahpu spoke from the fork in the tree. “Come, you’re not really interested in these round things hanging from the branches. They’re just skulls. You can’t possibly want one.”
“But I do,” answered Lady Blood.
“Alright, then. Stretch out your right hand.”
“Fine.” Lady Blood reached toward the source of the voice, and the head squirted a bit of spit into her palm. Startled, the maiden drew back her hand and stared at it closely, but the saliva was gone.
“The spittle I’ve given you is a sort of symbol,” explained the voice of One and Seven Hunahpu, for they had merged and spoke with a single mind. “You see, my head here has been stripped bare: all that’s left is just the bone. But that’s the way it is even with the head of a great lord. He only looks decent because of the flesh on his skull. Once he’s dead and rotted away, though, people shrink in fear from that naked bone.
“His sons, now…they’re like his saliva, which still contains his essence even after leaving his mouth. Whether they be the sons of a lord or a wise man or an orator, they preserve the basic nature of their father. His face isn’t wholly lost, but passes to the children he leaves behind. That’s what I’m doing through you. Now abandon this land of fright. Go to the surface of the sea-ringed world before they kill you. Find my mother, Ixmukane. Trust in my words.”
The skull gave her many more instructions before she was on her way. By the time she reached her home, the saliva had sparked life in her womb, and she conceived twins, sons of One and Seven Hunahpu both. But instead of leaving the Land of the Dead, she remained in her father’s house.
When six months had passed, Lord Blood Gatherer noticed that his daughter was pregnant. He went to the council chambers and addressed his king and queen:
“That daughter of mine is with child. A bastard.”
“Very well,” said the queen. “Question her. If she refuses to reveal the truth, you must punish her. Have her taken to some distant place and sacrificed.”
So Lord Blood Gatherer confronted Lady Blood. “Whose child is in your belly, girl?”
“There is no child, lord father. I have not known the face of a man.”
“I see. So you have given yourself to the pleasures of the flesh without my leave.” He summoned the Royal Guard, and when those four fearsome owls arrived, he gestured at his daughter. “Take her away for sacrifice. Bring back just her heart, in a gourd, and surrender it to our king and queen this very day.”
The Royal Guard departed, bearing aloft in black talons Lady Blood, a gourd and the council’s bone-white blade, with which they were to sacrifice the maiden. Once they had traveled far from the center of the Underworld, the owls alighted and reluctantly readied themselves to complete the task.
Lady Blood begged them to reconsider. “It is not right