Out on the gray streets, the fallen leaves were crispy under their feet and they kicked them as they walked along. Lord 6-Dog skated ahead. They were barely halfway to the T station when Lord 6-Dog let out a howl that set all the dogs of Boston barking.
“Death Lords approaching! Take cover,” he shouted, diving over a low garden wall in his roller skates. The other three followed him without thinking and found themselves crouched behind some scraggly bushes in someone’s front yard.
A trio of skeletons walked past them, chattering excitedly.
Max noticed how small they were.
And how they carried orange plastic pumpkins.
“It’s Halloween!” he said. “The kids are wearing their costumes to school!”
A witch and a dead bride skipped happily by on the other side of the street.
Max, Lola, and Lucky waited until the coast was clear, then stood up, gave Lord 6-Dog a hand up on his skates, and brushed themselves off.
“Now I understand why Ah Pukuh chose tomorrow for the game,” said Max. “Halloween is the only time that ghouls and ghosts can come in to town unnoticed, since all the kids are in costumes.”
“And tomorrow, on the Day of the Dead,” added Lucky, “the doors on the graves are opened and the dear departed return to visit their loved ones. It’s a spooky time of year.”
Max’s phone pinged. “It’s Nasty,” he said, reading the message. “She says: Hey Mac! Hey Lola! I’ll put word out. Everyone talking about game. Posters everywhere. Line about sacrifice putting off players. See you there.”
“Why does she call you Mac?” asked Lucky.
“It’s a private joke,” said Max. To be honest, Nasty Smith-Jones had gotten his name wrong so many times that he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.
“So, is she on our team?” asked Lola.
“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Max put his phone away. “But if everyone’s freaking out about the sacrifice, that explains why none of my friends have called back.”
“Thy friends are cowards,” opined Lord 6-Dog as he skated around a confused squirrel on the sidewalk.
“You can hardly blame them,” said Max. “No one wants to get sacrificed after a game. Anyway, it’s a school night.”
Nasty was right. Ah Pukuh’s posters were up everywhere. On lampposts, in shop windows, on bus sides, on subway walls. When they emerged from the green line to Kenmore Square, they felt sure that no one in Boston could be unaware of the event.
“Looks like Ah Pukuh has publicity covered,” said Lucky.
“He’s been studying PR,” said Max. “He’s convinced it’s the way forward for the villains of the world.”
On Yawkey Way, outside the stadium, a large group of people milled around.
“Who is that?” asked Lord 6-Dog, eyeing a bronze statue. “Is it one of your kings?”
“Yes,” said Max. “It’s Ted Williams. They call him the greatest hitter who ever lived.”
“I wish he was on our team,” said Lola.
“He’s dead,” said Max.
“Like us,” wailed Lola.
“Next tour departs in two minutes!” called a guide. They bought tickets and mingled with the rest of the tourists.
“Did you see that poster for tomorrow’s game?” one woman asked another. “Hero Twins versus Death Lords. I haven’t heard of those teams. Have you?”
“They let all sorts of riffraff play here in the off-season,” said her friend.
“I heard that tickets are free,” said the first woman.
“In that case, we’ll definitely be there. The whole of Boston will probably be there!”
Max and Lola exchanged a look of terror.
For the next hour they tried to forget their fears as they listened to their tour guide telling stories from the history of the Red Sox. They posed for photographs in the stands. They sat on the Green Monster, the high scoreboard wall at left field that routinely turned home runs into doubles. They inspected the red-painted seat that marks the landing spot of the longest ball ever hit at Fenway, shot by Ted Williams of statue fame.
But whatever part of the ground they were being shown or whatever piece of local pride was being pointed out, their eyes kept straying back to the home plate.
Max’s stomach did a double-flip every time he imagined standing there in the footsteps of all the great Red Sox players, waiting for a pitch from a cheating Death Lord. Even the mighty Ted Williams would have trouble hitting under those circumstances. Max felt a lump in his throat. Once news of his brave self-sacrifice got out, maybe the Red Sox would erect a statue to him next to Ted Williams on Yawkey Way.
“Hoop!” Lola interrupted his thoughts. “Come on! The tour’s over.”
“So what did you think?” asked Max.
“It’s smaller than I expected,” said Lola, “not quite as intimidating.”
“Those stories were really neat,” said Lucky.
“I sensed the history in every brick and every blade of grass,” said Lord 6-Dog.
Max asked, “Any ideas for getting a team together?”
“Leave it to me, young lord,” said Lord 6-Dog. “This ball court has inspired me. I would be honored to form a team to play on this hallowed ground.”
“You?” Max stared at the little Stormtrooper. “But you don’t know anyone in Boston.”
“Dost thou not trust me, young lord? When have I ever let thee down?”
Max remembered all the tight spots they’d been in, all the narrow escapes they’d survived, all the times that the monkey king’s wisdom had saved his life.
“Of course I trust you,” he said. “But—”
“But nothing. I will be your manager. Lucky will be your coach. My mother will be your nutritionist. By sunset tomorrow, I will have found seven players, plus reserves, to join you and Lady Lola on the Hero Twins’ team. I have a most excellent plan. Do not give it another thought.”
Max knew he would think about nothing else.
Lola pointed to the team shop. “We should get some stuff to practice with—bats and balls.”
“And Red Sox gear,” said Max, “so people will know we’re the home team.”
Loaded up with their shopping, they walked to the nearest park and tried out their skills with their new bats and balls. It didn’t go well. Then they sat down and ate the lunch that Lady Coco had packed for them, and watched little monsters trot by on the candy trail.
“Feels like it’s getting dark already,” said Lola. “The days are short here.”
“This time tomorrow,” said Max, “we’ll be warming up for the game.” He shivered. “Let’s go home and practice some more.”
“What’s the point?” said Lola. “It’s not going to make any difference. I’d rather forget about baseball and be a tourist for my last night on Earth. I’ve never been a tourist before.”
“I guess it will be too dark to practice by the time we get home. But you have to promise to watch baseball with me on TV tonight.” Everyone nodded. “So what do you want to see?”
“What is there?” asked Lola.
Max shrugged. “There’s the aquarium. Or a duck boat down the river. Or the swan boats.”
“No fish, no boats, and no water,” demanded Lord 6-Dog, skating backward past them. He’d tied his red blanket over his costume for warmth. “And somewhere indoors, it’s getting cold.”
“I have a suggestion,” said Lucky. “How about the Peabody Museum? Their Maya collection is famous.”
“That would be of great interest to me,” agreed Lord 6-Dog.
“I’m down with that,” said Lola. “Isn’t that where your parents work, Hoop?”
“Yeah, it’s just across the river. At Harvard.”
“Harvard?” Lola’s eyes were shining.
Lucky smiled at her. “Thinking about applying?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah right, like Harvard would admit someone who grew up barefoot in a hut with no electricity.”
“You’re as smart as any Harvard student,” Lucky said. “We need to believe in ourselves if we’re going to stand a chance tomorrow.”
“Hear, hear!” cheered Lord 6-Dog, executing a perfect double axel, his red blanket streaming out behind him like a cape.
He looks like a monkey superhero, thought Max.
Which, in many ways, he was.
It was twilight by the time they reached Harvard Square. Students dressed as vampires and werewolves flitted through the shadows.
“This place is beautiful,” said Lola.
“Then you’d fit right in here,” said Lucky.
Max thought he saw her blush.
They crossed the road to a big redbrick building and ran up the steps.
“Welcome to the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology,” said the lady at the desk. “You’re my only guests this afternoon. But I must warn you that we close in one hour. No roller skates inside the building.”
“We’ll be quick,” Max promised her.
He led them up the stairs to the third floor, home of the Americas exhibits. After so many rainy weekends being dragged around this museum by his parents, he knew it like the back of his hand.
Lucky pointed out a display of Maya fabrics and backstrap looms to Lola. “Look at the craftsmanship. See how the strength of our people comes out in every stitch.”
She nodded. “They look like the patterns the women weave in my village. I wish I could tell them that their shawls and tablecloths are on display in a fancy museum in Boston, Massachusetts.”
“You can tell them when you go back. After we win.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” she said.
“I had hoped that coming to the Peabody would inspire you,” Lucky said. “At this moment, you are surrounded by the achievements of your people. Try to draw strength from it. With our pyramids, our writing system, and our calendar, we Maya have always defied people’s expectations. I would add to that list the fact that we have endured so much and lived to tell the tale. The impossible is what we do. And tomorrow we will continue that tradition.”
“I just wish,” said Lola, “that we had a tradition of playing baseball. All this old stuff is not going to help us.”
She caught up to Max at the Day of the Dead exhibit, where an altar decorated with skulls and paper flowers dominated a room full of tributes to the dead. Skeletons in hats and party dresses hung from the ceiling, dancing in the breeze from a ceiling vent. On a table, sugar skulls and coloring pages awaited the next day’s school visits.
Lord 6-Dog swooped into the room. “I sense danger!” he whispered. “Be on thy guard.”
Before they could ask him to explain, he ran to the far end of the Americas floor and disappeared behind a large screen bearing the notice:
“Better follow him,” said Max. “He’s not supposed to be back there.”
On the other side of the screen, workmen assembled stands and display cases. A museum director bustled around giving instructions.
She glared at Max over her spectacles. “Can’t you read, boy? This section is closed to visitors. Off you go now. Shoo. We’re very busy.”
Playing for time while he looked around for Lord 6-Dog, Max said: “I’m … I’m Max Murphy, Frank and Carla Murphy’s son.”
The museum director examined him more closely. “Ah, red hair like your father, I see the family resemblance. But that still gives you no right to come back here. I suppose they told you to come and check up on the new Maya pottery exhibition?”
Trying to keep her talking, Max decided to wing it: “Yes. That’s right. How’s it going?”
“Nothing broken so far, thank goodness. There were so many pieces in storage that have never been shown before. And of course, your parents’ shipment arrived in the nick of time. Do thank them for us—what we’ve glimpsed so far is spectacular!”
“Thank them for … um … what exactly”—Max peered at her badge—“Dr. Delgado?”
She looked at him like he was stupid. “For sending the shipment.”
“Mom and Dad sent a shipment?”
Dr. Delgado’s laughter trilled like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Of course. It’s from the Black Pyramid in San Xavier. It just arrived. Who else would send it?”
Max didn’t know the answer to that question. But he did know that it was not from his parents. They’d been way too busy getting locked up in jail to be shipping any artifacts back to Boston.
“What was in it?” he asked.
“It’s magnificent. A round lidded pot with a lizard handle. Yale would kill for it! Of course, it’s still in its crate and we haven’t had time to translate the glyphs yet, but it’s going to be a real showstopper.”
Lord 6-Dog appeared from behind a screen. He carried his helmet under his arm.
“It’s a monkey!” screamed Dr. Delgado. “A monkey in a space suit! I hate monkeys! Get it out of here!”
Max froze in panic.
“Excuse me, have you seen my little brother?” asked Lola, running in. “I think he came this way.” She saw Lord 6-Dog and grabbed his hand. “There you are, you naughty boy. Don’t you ever run way like that again. Come on, it’s time to go home.”
“Your brother is a monkey?” asked Dr. Delgado in shock.
Lola giggled. “It’s his Halloween costume.
He’s a space monkey.”
Dr. Delgado relaxed. “Silly me. It’s Halloween. I quite forgot.”
“The Peabody Museum is now closing. All visitors are asked to make their way to the exit,” came a voice over the public address system.
“Time to go home, children,” said Dr. Delgado. “But do come back tomorrow for our Day of the Dead party.” She was still looking at Lord 6-Dog suspiciously.
As they left, Max distinctly heard her comment to a workman that the boy in the space suit was the ugliest kid she’d ever seen.
“That was close,” he said to Lord 6-Dog. “Why did you take off your helmet?”
“I thought I detected the smell of evil.”
Max nodded knowledgeably. “That’s probably from the Natural History Department. They have a lot of stuffed animals. Some of them are getting a bit old.”
Lord 6-Dog shuddered. “Let us leave this place.”
“Happy Halloween!” the woman at the desk called after them.
“Seeing all the pumpkins on people’s doorsteps makes me think of Chan Kan,” said Lola as they walked to the subway station. “I know you didn’t like him, Hoop, but he did what he thought was right, and he taught me a lot. He was always saying that one little seed of good can change the world. So every time we ate pumpkin, I’d make him a necklace from the seeds.”
“Nice,” said Max. “But he was your grandfather and he paid Landa to kidnap you from your own parents. I don’t see the seed of good in that.”
“I don’t either. But I know he regretted it. And he gave his own life to save you and me at the White Pyramid. We should buy some pumpkins. It’s Halloween.”
“Okay,” said Max. “We can carve them while we watch old baseball games on TV.”
It was rush hour and the train was crowded.
They squashed in by the door.
Lord 6-Dog pulled at Lola’s jacket to get her attention. He pointed to one of Ah Pukuh’s posters pasted on the car’s window. Someone had scrawled Maya glyphs on it in red marker, like ancient Maya graffiti.
“What does it say?” asked Max.
“Too advanced for me,” said Lola.
Lord 6-Dog pulled at her again and she crouched down. Unseen by the crush of commuters, he lifted his helmet slightly and whispered the translation into her ear.
“Did he tell you what it says?” Max asked when she stood up.
“The Death Lords reign supreme and the Hero Twins salivate!”
“I don’t get it,” said Max.
“Death Lords rule, Hero Twins drool! It’s what Ah Pukuh said we should write on our tombstones. He’s trying to psych us out.”
Had Ah Pukuh been on this train? Max surveyed the faces of their fellow passengers. A few minutes before they’d looked tired, preoccupied, dazed, uncomfortable. Now they all looked sinister to him.
“You know, Hoop,” whispered Lola. “I bet we’re the only people on this train whose family members are being held prisoner by the Maya Lords of Death.”
“And who are going home to a dinner cooked by a howler monkey,” added Max.
Even with a stop at the store to pick up pumpkins and candy, it didn’t take long to get back. As soon as they piled through the front door of the Murphys’ vine-covered house, Lady Coco ran out to greet them.
“I’m so happy to see you!” she said. “You have no idea! This neighborhood’s got more spirits than Xibalba! The doorbell’s been ringing all afternoon, and every time I peeped out of the window, I saw ghosts and skeletons at the door.”
“It’s just kids dressing up for Halloween,” said Max.
“How do you know it’s not the Death Lords’ supporters come early for the ball game?” demanded Lady Coco.
Max realized that he didn’t know that at all. Which is why, after a quick discussion, he and his teammates decided that they should eat all their Halloween candy themselves and not open the door again until morning.
Back at the Peabody Museum, the workmen had gone home. Down in the basement, a crate sat waiting to be unpacked. Inside was the showstopping lidded pot with the lizard handle that had recently arrived from San Xavier. And inside it, something stirred. It was waiting for the Day of the Dead to dawn and the doors between worlds to open.
It wasn’t a person or an animal, more like a seething gas that was the essence of evil.
“Trick or treat,” cackled Tzelek to himself.