The Mayan Bible: The Movie (2025) | The Maya Story Of Creation

In the beginning, there was only sky and water. Then, powerful beings, including the Heart of Sky and the Sovereign Plumed Serpent, decided to create the world. They formed the land, animals, and tried to create humans who could speak their names in praise. However, their first attempts at creating humans failed, as the creatures couldn’t speak their names and the human forms crumbled. They decided to try again, calling upon ancient ones to help create humans who could honor them.
This story tells of the creation of the first forms of mankind, the wooden people, by the Maker and Modeler. However, these beings lacked reverence for their creators and were destroyed by a flood and other calamities. Amidst the chaos, a being named Seven Macaw declared himself as the guiding light for survivors, but his arrogance drew the attention of divine brothers, Hunapu and Xbalanca. Recognizing the danger of his false divinity, the brothers resolved to end his reign, setting the stage for a battle against Seven Macaw and his equally arrogant sons, Zipakna and Earthquake.
Two brothers, Hunapu and Xbalanque, are challenged by the lords of the underworld, Xibalba, to a series of deadly games and trials. Despite the lords’ attempts to trick and kill them, the brothers cleverly survive each challenge, even turning the tables on their opponents. They manage to steal the lords’ prized flowers, survive houses filled with deadly blades, frost, fire, jaguars, and bats, and even trick the lords into using their own ball in a game. The brothers’ bravery, cunning, and defiance leave the lords of Xibalba in disbelief and fear, as they continue to defy death and outsmart their opponents.
In a mythical game, Hunapu’s head is cut off and used as a ball, but his brother, Xbalanc, uses a squash to trick their enemies, the rulers of Xibalba. Xbalanc and Hunapu outsmart the rulers, even after being thrown into a fire and turned into catfish. They return in disguise, performing incredible feats that amaze Xibalba’s rulers. Their cunning and resilience lead to their victory over the underworld.
Two performers, Hunapu and Xbalanque, amazed everyone with their ability to seemingly bring the dead back to life. Their fame reached the lords of Xibalba, who invited them to perform. The twins, however, used their performance to trick the lords into sacrificing themselves, expecting to be revived. But the twins didn’t bring them back, leading to the downfall of Xibalba and the rise of the twins as the new rulers.
A woman named her plants in honor of her grandsons’ victory over a dark place called Xibalba, where their fathers had died. The grandsons not only defeated Xibalba but also brought their father’s spirit back to life, promising him eternal remembrance. After their victory, the brothers transformed into the sun and the moon, becoming eternal lights in the sky. The boys who had been killed by Zipagna also rose to become stars, ensuring they would never be forgotten.
In a battle of trickery and power, two brothers, Hunapu and Xbalanc, defeat the arrogant Seven Macaw by disguising themselves and using an elderly couple to trick him into removing his powerful, jewel-encrusted teeth and eyes. This causes Seven Macaw to lose his power and die, allowing Hunapu to reclaim his stolen arm. The brothers then take Seven Macaw’s riches, fulfilling their mission. The story continues with the introduction of Zipakna, Seven Macaw’s son, who encounters 400 boys struggling to lift a tree.
Zipakna, a strong and cunning character, was feared and plotted against by the 400 boys who tried to kill him. However, Zipakna outsmarted them, faked his death, and killed them instead. Later, two brothers, Hunapu and Xbalanque, tricked Zipakna into his death using a fake crab. The story then shifts to Earthquake, another powerful character, who is set to be challenged by the same brothers.
The twins, Hunapu and X Balancq, tricked the powerful Earthquake into eating a bird coated in gypsum, which drained his strength and allowed them to bind and bury him. This marked another victory for the twins, who were known for their many deeds. The story then shifts to the tale of their birth and their divine origins, involving their father, 1 Hunapu, and their mother, Ygritte Woman. The narrative also includes their involvement in a sacred ball game, which angers the rulers of the underworld, leading to a summons for the twins to descend into the underworld.
Two heroes, 1 and 7 Hunapu, journeyed into the underworld, Xibalba, facing numerous trials and challenges set by the underworld lords. Despite their bravery, they failed the tests and were killed, with 1 Hunapu’s head placed on a tree which then bore fruit. A maiden, intrigued by the tree, interacted with the head, receiving a drop of saliva in her hand which disappeared. The head told her that she would carry on its legacy, hinting at her future pregnancy.
A maiden, impregnated by divine forces, is accused of bearing a bastard child and is sentenced to death. However, she convinces her executioners to spare her life by offering a substitute for her heart, a sap from a tree. She escapes to the surface world and seeks refuge with the mother of the divine beings who impregnated her. Despite initial disbelief, the old woman accepts her after the maiden miraculously fills a net with corn from a single stalk, proving her divine connection.
Blood Moon gives birth to twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanc, who are treated poorly by their jealous elder brothers. Despite this, the twins endure and eventually trick their elder brothers into becoming monkeys. The grandmother is saddened by this transformation, but the twins assure her that they will remember their brothers’ names. The twins then set off on their own journey, ready to face their destiny.
Hunapu and Xbalanque, pretending to work in the fields, trick their grandmother into believing they are hardworking. However, their deception is revealed when the animals restore the land they supposedly cleared. The brothers capture a rat, who tells them their true destiny lies in a hidden legacy left by their fathers. They trick their grandmother again to retrieve their fathers’ gaming equipment, and start playing a game that angers the underworld lords. The lords summon the boys to a game in seven days, and their grandmother, filled with dread, sends a louse to deliver the message to the boys.
A louse carrying a message for two brothers, Hunapu and Xbalanca, is swallowed by a toad, then a snake, and finally a falcon, which delivers the message. The message is a summons from the lords of Xibalba, the underworld, for a game. The brothers leave a sign for their grandmother – two ears of corn that will wither if they die, but sprout if they live. They journey to Xibalba, outsmarting traps and deceptions, and stand their ground against the lords, passing the first trial by tricking the lords into thinking they’ve burnt a torch and cigars when they haven’t. The lords of Xibalba, realizing they’ve been deceived, begin to fear the brothers.

In the beginning, there were no people, no animals to roam the land. No birds soared through the heavens, no fish swam the depths. No trees stretched toward the light. There were no mountains, no valleys, no forests to shelter life. The face of the earth had not yet taken form. Only the sky stretched wide above. And below it, an endless expanse of water lay still and silent, gathered beneath the heavens. Nothing stirred. Nothing had yet been called into being. The world was at rest, waiting. There was no shape, no structure, only the murmuring waves in the darkness, only the endless night.

But within the depths of the water, something shimmered. A presence of wisdom, of Creation itself. There, wrapped in brilliant feathers of quetzal and blue green jade, stood the great beings who would bring forth the world. Sovereign Plumed Serpent, the bearers, the begetters. They were the great thinkers, the great knowers. And they alone existed within the silent void. Above them, the sky loomed, vast and unknowable. And within it, a force stirred. The Heart of Sky, the mighty God of the heavens. And then, in that darkness, before dawn, a voice arose. The Heart of Sky called out and descended into the abyss, speaking to the Sovereign Plumed Serpent.

They spoke, pondered, questioned and worried, their thoughts intertwining like threads in a great tapestry. They sought clarity in the blackness, searching for a way to bring life into the void. And at last, their vision became clear. They would shape the world, bringing forth the land, the trees, the rivers, and in time, humankind itself. The Heart of Sky was not alone in this task. It bore three mighty aspects. Thunderbolt, Hurricane, who came first, Newborn Thunderbolt, who followed. And Sudden Thunderbolt, who completed the triad. These three together as one, came to stand beside Sovereign Plumed Serpent in the great act of Creation.

How shall the world begin? How will the land rise? Who will provide? Who will nurture? The voices asked. They agree that it must be done this way. The waters must be drawn back, emptied away, allowing solid earth to take its place. The land must be shaped and the sky must be raised above it. Yet their work remains incomplete, its true purpose unfulfilled, until humankind rises to give it meaning. And so, at their command, the earth was born. By the mere utterance of their words, it came into being. They spoke Earth, and at once the land emerged, rising like a mist, unfolding as if from a dream.

The mountains surged upward, lifting their mighty peaks from the receding waters. By their wisdom alone, by their power alone, they sculpted the great plains and towering ranges, covering them in groves of cypress and pine. Sovereign Plumed Serpent beheld the creation and was pleased. It Is good that you have come. Heart of Sky. Thunderbolt. Hurricane. Newborn Thunderbolt. Sudden Thunderbolt. Our work, our vision. This world will take its rightful form, they declared. Thus the Earth was shaped. First the mountains and plains rose. Then the rivers and waters wove their winding paths. Among them, the great seas were set apart, and the sky was lifted.

High above the Heart of Sky and the Heart of Earth, those first great thinkers, the architects of existence, had set the foundations of the world. And so they turned their thoughts to the beasts of the land, the guardians of the forests, the creatures of the mountains, the deer, the birds, the mighty pumas and jaguars, the slithering serpents, the rattling rattlesnakes and the deadly fer de lances. These were to be the keepers of the wild, the watchers of the Earth’s hidden places. Then a voice rang out from among the bearers and begetters. The world is quiet. Too quiet.

The leaves rustle. The trees whisper. Yet no voices rise in praise. Something is missing. This is not how it should be. There must be guardians. With this realization, life takes form. Deer emerge, their bodies shaped by unseen hands. They are given their domain. The rivers, the canyons, the meadows and the forests. They will move upon four legs, multiplying and spreading far across the land. Then birds take flight, filling the empty skies. Their homes are placed among the trees and bushes, their purpose clear. To fill the air with life, to scatter far and wide. The silence is no more.

Thus the creatures of the land and sky found their places. Each was granted shelter. Each was given a domain, as decreed by the bearers and begetters. The arrangement was made, the order set. The animals had their homes upon the earth. Then the maker, the modeler, the bearers, the begetters turned to them once more and spoke. Now speak. Let your voices ring out. Do not wail or whimper. Speak with meaning. Call out in reverence. Praise the ones who brought you forth. Speak our names. Honor us, for we are your mother and father. Say our names. Hurricane. Newborn Thunderbolt.

Sudden Thunderbolt. Heart of Sky. Heart of Earth. Maker. Modeler. Bearer. Begetter. Speak and give thanks. Keep our days. Remember our names. But it was not as they had hoped. The creatures did not speak in words. Instead, the birds chirped and squawked. The jaguars roared. The serpents hissed. Each creature cried out in its own way. But none spoke the sacred names. Hearing this, the maker and Modeler frowned. Disappointment settles among them. This is not how it was meant to be. The creatures they shaped have not spoken as expected. No praise has been sung. No Names honored. This cannot stand.

They are the Makers, the Sculptors. This outcome is unacceptable. So they turn to their creations once more. The creatures will remain as they are, but their purpose will change. They will roam the forests, the canyons and the rivers. Yet they will not be the keepers of time. Nor will they offer prayers. That role belongs to another, one yet to be formed. Instead, their fate is sealed. They shall be food, their flesh to sustain those who will come after. This is their place in the order of things. And so it was decreed. The creatures of the land, great and small, became prey and predator, destined to serve, to be hunted, to be consumed.

Their voices had not carried the names of their creators. And so their fate was sealed. But the Maker, the modeler, the bearers and begetters, were not yet finished. The first attempt had failed. They had given life, but not devotion. Now they will try again. We must continue, they said. The time is near for the dawning of life, for the planting of those who will remember us. We must create a being who will invoke our names, who will keep our days sacred. We must make a provider, a nurturer, one who will give praise. So they shaped a form from the earth, molding it, carefully crafting it with their hands.

But as they looked upon their creation, they saw that it was flawed. The body was weak, its form unstable. It crumbled, loosened, softened and fell apart. Its head would not turn. Its face was twisted and lopsided. It could speak, but its words were meaningless, senseless babbling. When placed in water, it dissolved, unable to hold its shape. The Makers watch in silence. This creation is weak. It crumbles before their eyes. It cannot walk, nor can it multiply. It is fleeting, fragile, a form that cannot endure. This will not do. It must return to the dust from which it came.

And so the first attempt at humankind is undone, erased, as though it had never been. Yet they do not despair. They gather once more, voices, low thoughts turning to what must come next. What can they shape that will endure? What form will finally honor them? What will succeed where the others have failed? They called forth those who knew the secrets of fate, those who could see beyond the present moment. Let us summon Ix Biokok. Ix Mukane. Hunahpu Possum Hunahpu Kayote. Let them divine the days. Let them count the lots. They will guide our hands in the making of the true Keepers of Time.

And so the Makers prepared to try once more to bring forth the ones who would finally speak their names. Then came the calling of those who dwell at the heart of vision, those who see beyond the veil of the world. They were invoked with reverence, the Grandmother of Day, Grandmother of Light, so named by the Maker and the Modeler. These were the sacred names of xpiacoc and Exmukhan. Hurricane. The Stormbarer stands beside the Sovereign Plumed Serpent, their presence heavy with purpose. Together they summon the keepers of time, the seers of fate. Their voices roll across the heavens like distant thunder, carrying a command that cannot be ignored.

The way must be found. The ones who will walk the earth must be shaped, sculpted with care. They must provide, they must nurture. They must speak the names of their creators with reverence, calling upon them so that their voices may rise like an unending tribute. Their gaze turns to the ancient ones, the Midwife and the Matchmaker, our grandmother and grandfather, xpia Kok and Xmu Khan. Let it begin. Let the first light of dawn break upon the world. The crafting of hands, the molding of faces. These are the tasks at hand. The figures of their design must rise, must walk, must take their place in the Grand Order.

And so they call upon the ones who bear the names of creation. Hunapoo. Possum. Hunapu. Coyote bearer. Twice over. Begetter. Twice over. Great Peccary, Great Coati, craftsman of the sacred lapidary, jeweler, sawyer, carpenter, shaper of plates and bowls, incense maker, master of all things, formed, Grandmother of Day, Grandmother of Light. The moment has arrived. Their hands must move over the sacred kernels of corn, over the seeds of the coral tree. Now is the time. The shaping must begin. The carving must commence. The ones who will walk beneath the sky must be brought into being. And thus began the sacred counting, the numbering of the days.

Over the corn, over the coral seeds, they ran, their hands feeling the whispers of time within them. And then they spoke at last, one the grandmother, the other the grandfather. He was Ixpeacok, master of coral seeds. She was Ixmucane, the Seer who stands behind all others, the Keeper of Days. They set forth the path of time and declared, let it be found, let it be revealed. Speak, for our ears are open. Let the wood be carved. Let the forms take shape in the hands of the sculptor. Shall these be the ones? Shall they be the givers and sustainers of life? Will they know the dawn? Will they honor the planting? O corn, O sacred seeds, O days and lots of fate.

May you flourish, may you be true. And to the heavens they lifted their voices. Have shame, O heart of sky. Let there be no falsehood in the sight of the Sovereign plumed serpent. Then they turned to the task before them. So be it. Let them be shaped. Let them be sculpted. And thus the first forms of mankind were made. The mannequins, the wooden ones, the facsimiles of life. They walked. They spoke. They spread across the land. Daughters and sons were born from them. But something was missing. Their hearts were empty. Their minds were barren. They had no memory of their makers, no reverence for the forces that had given them shape.

They wandered thoughtless, careless, with no devotion to the Heart of Sky. So their fate was sealed. They were but an attempt, an experiment, a shadow of what was meant to be. Their forms were brittle, their limbs weak. Their bodies lacked blood, lacked marrow, lacked the sacred sweat of life. Their skin was parched, their flesh hollow. They staggered upon the earth, their movements ungainly, their voices dry. The Maker and Modeler beheld them and saw that they had failed. They had not become what was needed. And so a reckoning was decreed. The flood was summoned. The sky darkened.

The storm descended. The waters rose and swallowed them whole, crashing upon them with the fury of the gods. But it was not only water that fell upon them. A rain of burning resin poured from the heavens. The gouger of faces descended, tearing the sight from their eyes. Sudden bloodletter came forth, striking their heads from their bodies, Crunching jaguar and tearing. Jaguar feasted upon their flesh, rending them apart limb by limb. Bones shattered, flesh turned to dust. The air was thick with the cries of the unworthy. The earth itself bore witness. And the very things they had once used turned against them.

Their homes, their tools, their hearths all rebelled. The water jars, the tortilla griddles, the cooking pots and the stones of their hearths cried out in rage. You scorched us. You beat us. You used us without gratitude. Now you shall know our pain. And even the creatures who had once suffered under them rose in vengeance. The dogs they had kicked, the turkeys they had caged turned upon their former masters and declared. You starved us. You struck us. You devoured us. Now it is you who shall be devoured. And so it was. The wooden people were crushed, their faces broken, their voices silenced.

They ran, but no refuge would take them. They tried to climb their houses, but the walls crumbled beneath them. They fled to the trees, but the branches cast them down. They sought shelter in caves, but the rocks closed their mouths against them. Scattered, broken, erased from the world. The work of the Maker, the Modeler, was undone. And yet a sign remained. Deep within the forests, their shadows still linger. The monkeys, the dwellers of the Trees are all that is left of them. Their twisted forms, their grasping hands, their empty chatter. A memory of the first attempt.

A ghost of the wooden ones who failed to know the gods. The world lay shrouded in darkness, for the dawn had barely begun to etch its presence upon the earth. There was no sun to illuminate the sky, no moon to cast its silver glow. Yet amid this shadowed expanse, one being dared to rise above all. His name was Seven Macaw. In the absence of true celestial light, he declared himself as the guiding brilliance of the heavens. His radiance was a beacon to those who had survived the Great Flood. And his presence loomed large, as if he alone could command the fate of all who dwelled upon the land.

He carried himself with the confidence of a deity, adorned in splendor and crowned with arrogance. I am great. He proclaimed, his voice echoing through the vast emptiness. My place soars above the works of men, beyond the reach of their feeble creations. I am their sun, their guiding light, the very essence of time itself. Their days, their months. They are measured by my brilliance. His eyes gleamed like molten metal. His teeth glistened with embedded jewels. And the turquoise shimmered in his maw, reflecting the very essence of the sky’s depths. Even his nose, a beacon of pale luminescence, stretched forth into the vast distance, mirroring the ghostly light of the moon.

He speaks with unwavering pride, his voice carrying the weight of his own grandeur. His nest is not woven from twigs or bound by earth. It is forged of metal, gleaming with an otherworldly brilliance. Its glow spills across the land, casting light upon the face of the earth, an imitation of the heavens themselves. When he emerges from his sanctuary, he does not merely step into the world he radiates. His presence mirrors both the sun and moon, a celestial beacon that demands recognition. Those born of light, conceived in the glow of divine brilliance, will see him for what he is, a guide, a force beyond the reach of mere mortals.

It is not arrogance, but truth his existence transcends. It must. Yet, despite his boasts, Seven Macaw was no true son. His splendor was an illusion, his brilliance confined to the perch where he preened and magnified himself. He sought to surpass the natural order, to be greater than the unseen luminaries that had yet to grace the sky. His hunger for dominion knew no bounds. This was the time of the Great Flood, when the mannequins, the wooden figures of men, were undone, swept away by forces greater than themselves. And so the fate of Seven Macaw was set into Motion for his arrogance had drawn the gaze of the gods.

His reign of false grandeur would not last, for his end was woven into the designs of those who shaped the heavens and the earth. Thus began the downfall of Seven Macaw. For two divine brothers, Hunapu and Xbalanque, had seen the corruption in his self proclaimed divinity. They knew that his vanity was an affront to the heart of sky. And they resolved to put an end to his deception. It is wrong for the world to remain lifeless, empty of true people, said Hunapu, his voice steady with purpose. Xbalanc’s grip tightens around his blowgun, his resolve as unyielding as stone.

There is no hesitation, no doubt, only the weight of necessity. The moment has come. Their enemy feasts in his own arrogance, blind to the reckoning that approaches. He will not be struck down in strength, but in weakness. His wealth, his jade, his metals, his shimmering hoard of jewels will crumble before him. Let him revel in his treasures. Let him believe they make him mighty. But if the people look to him and mistake glitter for greatness, if they come to believe that worth is measured in ornaments and gold, then all will be lost. That fate cannot be allowed.

It must not come to pass. Armed with their weapons, the brothers set forth on their task. Seven Macaw had two sons, each as formidable as their father. The first, Zipakna, was the master of mountains, a force that shaped the very land. It was he who raised the great peaks, fireplace, Hunapu Cave by the water X canal, Makamob, Halisnab, all birthed in a single night by his mighty hands. The second sun, Earthquake, wielded power over the land itself, shaking mountains both great and small, reducing them to rubble with his touch. These sons, like their father, reveled in their self made grandeur.

I am the sun, declared Seven Macaw. I am the maker of the earth, boasted Zipakna. I bring down the sky. I tear the land asunder, proclaimed Earthquake. Their arrogance was boundless, for they had inherited their father’s lust for dominion. But the brothers Hunapu and Xbalanca knew that such false gods could not be allowed to persist. The world had yet to receive its true mother and father, and as long as these pretenders held sway, creation could not be completed. Thus they laid their plans, weaving death and ruin for those who sought to elevate themselves above the natural order.

The brothers had watched 7 Macaw closely, and they knew of his favorite tree, the great Nantes, heavy with golden fruit. Every day he perched atop its branches, indulging in its sweet offerings, unaware of the fate that awaited him. And so they hid among the leaves, their forms concealed in the dense foliage. When Seven Macaw arrived, his eyes gleaming with hunger, they were ready. As he reached for his meal, Hunapu took his shot. The blowgun sent its deadly missile hurtling through the air, striking Seven Macaw with unerring precision. The pellet shattered his jaw, sending shards of his gleaming teeth scattering like fallen stars.

With a cry of agony, he tumbled from his perch, his once mighty form crashing to the earth below. Hunapu rushed forward, intent on seizing the fallen tyrant. But Seven Macaw, even in his wounded state, was not yet defeated. With a surge of strength, he lashed out, his talons closing around Hunapu’s arm. A sickening crack echoed through the trees as he wrenched it free, tearing it from the young God’s body. Yet this was not the end. Though Hunapu had suffered, the battle was not lost. Seven Macaw, clutching his stolen prize, stumbled back to his home, cradling his shattered jaw.

His wife, Chimalmat, looked upon him with horror as he arrived, his once glorious form now marred by suffering. What has happened to you? She cried, her voice thick with concern. Those wretched tricksters, he snarled. They struck me down, shattered my teeth, stole my splendor. The pain, it sears through me. But let them come. I have something they desire. Let them come and claim it if they dare. With that, he hung Hunapu’s severed arm above the fire, believing he had gained the upper hand. But the gods had already set his fate in motion, and soon the deception of Seven Macaw would crumble entirely.

His brilliance would fade, his. His power would wane, and his false dominion over the world would come to an end. Hunapu and Xbalanc pondered their next move, their minds sharp with strategy. They needed a plan, a deception so perfect that even the mighty Seven Macaw would fall into their grasp. So they called upon the wisdom of age, summoning an elderly couple, wrinkled, frail and bent with the weight of time. The grandfather, his hair white as moonlight, was known as Great White Peccary. Beside him stood the grandmother, meek and humble, known as Great White Coaty. The brothers, their resolve unshaken, spoke in hushed urgency, ensuring every word carried the weight of their plan.

Their task required deception, and for that, they needed a guide, someone to walk ahead while they followed in silent pursuit. The message was simple, yet calculated. Their companion would plead for understanding, painting the two as nothing more than wandering orphans trailing behind their elders with nowhere else to go. Grandchildren left adrift after their Parents passing, clinging to those who now spent their days tending to the ailments of others, pulling worms from aching teeth, a task as mundane as their existence should appear. Seven Macaw, blinded by arrogance, must see only frailty, not warriors. He must believe them unworthy of suspicion.

Only then would he lower his guard. Only then would they strike. The elderly couple nodded solemnly. We understand, they replied. With that, they set out towards Seven Macaw’s dwelling. The old man and woman led the way, shuffling forward with slow, deliberate steps, while behind them, the two brothers played and tumbled like carefree children. When they neared Seven Macaw’s grand home, the air was thick with his suffering. His cries of agony echoed through the space, raw and desperate. His once magnificent teeth had become the source of unbearable torment, throbbing with pain beyond endurance. From his perch, Seven Macaw caught sight of the passing figures.

His weary, pain ridden voice called out, his pride still clinging to him despite his suffering. Where are you headed, old man? The old man, careful with his words, spoke in a measured tone, his voice respectful but unwavering. He explained that they were nothing more than humble workers scraping by to survive. Seven Macaw’s sharp eyes studied them with growing suspicion. Making a living, that much he could accept. But the children trailing behind them, what of them? Were they not their own? The old woman, her face etched with sorrow, gently shook her head. No, she explained. They were not their children, but their orphaned grandchildren.

Their parents were long gone, leaving the little ones with no one to care for them. So she and her husband had taken them in, offering what little they could, even as age weighed heavily upon them. Seven Macaw groaned, clutching his mouth as another wave of pain wracked his body. The once mighty Lord, adorned in the riches of his own vanity, now trembled beneath the weight of his suffering. With great effort, he forced out a plea. I beg you. Have mercy on me. Tell me, what healing arts do you possess? What ailments can you cure? The old man and woman exchanged knowing glances before answering with quiet humility.

We do little, my lord. We extract worms from aching teeth. We mend weary eyes. We set broken bones. That is all. Seven Macaw’s once fearless gaze was now clouded with desperation. His pride was crumbling under the weight of his suffering. He pleaded for relief. His voice strained with agony. His teeth, once symbols of his power, now tormented him day and night, denying him rest, denying him peace. Ever since those cursed twins had wounded him, he had neither eaten nor slept. His strength was slipping away. And worse still, his teeth felt as if they were loosening. The old man stroked his Chin feigning deep thought.

He spoke of worms, unseen but relentless, gnawing away at the very bones of the Great Lord. But there was no need for despair. He and his wife could extract them, remove the failing teeth and restore what had been lost. Seven Macaw hesitated. Doubt flickered in his weary eyes. His teeth were not mere ornaments. They were his power, His Majesty. Without them, what would remain of his greatness? His radiance came from his gleaming jewels. His shining eyes. If they were taken, would he not be nothing? The old woman offered a gentle nod, her voice soothing, certain there was no need for fear.

They would not leave him broken. The teeth would be replaced. Stronger, pure, purer than before. Bone ground fine and reforged anew. And so, consumed by his agony and desperate for relief, Seven Macaw surrendered to their care. He tilted his head back, opening his bejeweled mouth. With swift precision, the old man worked, pulling free each dazzling tooth one by one. But where there had once been brilliant jewels, only white coins. Horn was placed, a simple, humble substitute. As the final jewel fell from his mouth, his radiance dimmed. His power waned. His reflection, once a vision of divine grandeur, now bore the face of an ordinary being.

The arrogance, the false majesty, it was all stripped away. The Great Lord had been undone. His eyes, too, were tended to. The final remnants of his metallic splendor were plucked away, leaving nothing but the hollow remnants of what once had been. And then, as if the weight of his own illusion had crushed him, Seven Macaw fell. His life flickered and died. At last, Hunapu reclaimed his stolen arm. The deception had succeeded. Seven Macaw’s wife, Chimalmat, followed him into death. And with them, their legacy of arrogance crumbled. And as for the riches of Seven Macaw, they did not pass into the hands of another ruler.

No, the very healers who had undone him took the gems and jewels he had once flaunted so proudly. The will of Hunapu and Xbalanc had been fulfilled. The will of the Heart of Sky had been realized. But their journey was no longer, not yet over. Their path stretched forward. And fate had more trials in store. Now begins the tale of Zipakna, the first son of Seven Macaw. I am the maker of mountains. His voice rang out, a declaration of his own might. And there on the riverbank, the towering figure of Zipakna bathed in the flowing waters.

It was then that the 400 boys arrived. Their bodies aching from their labor. They struggled, dragging behind them an enormous tree, a massive post for their hut. Their faces were strained Their muscles taut with the effort. Zipakna’s gaze flicked toward them. He stepped forward, curiosity gleaming in his sharp eyes. What are you doing, boys? One of the 400 wiped his brow, breathing heavily. This tree, its weight is too great. We cannot lift it. A slow, knowing smile spread across Zipakna’s face. He looked at the boys with a calm certainty, his voice smooth and steady as he asked, is that all? I can carry it.

Just tell me where it needs to go. His words were filled with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen it all before. Unbothered by the task at hand, the boys exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of how to present their request. One of them spoke, his voice trembling slightly as he explained that it was simply a lintel for their hut. Zipakna’s response was calm and final, a nod of understanding signaling that he would handle it without question. Without hesitation, he strode toward the fallen log. With a single movement, he hoisted it effortlessly onto his shoulders, carrying it as if it weighed nothing at all.

The boys watched, eyes wide with astonishment. One of the 400 asked if Zipakna had parents, urging him to stay with them. His voice carried a mix of curiosity and authority. Zipakna, with a shadow passing over his face, simply replied that he had no parents. One of the 400 grinned, suggesting Zipakna stay and help, offering him a place among them. They needed his strength for tomorrow’s work. Zipakna nodded in agreement. That night, the 400 whispered among themselves, their awe turning to fear. They decided Zipakna was unnatural and too dangerous to live. They would trap him in a deep pit.

Pit. And crush him beneath logs. By morning, they were ready, calling for Zipakna to help them dig deeper. Without hesitation, he obeyed, stepping into the pit. But as he worked, his sharp mind sensed their intent. He did not dig his own grave. No. He carved a secret path, a passage to salvation. And when they thought him buried, he simply waited, his vengeance simmering beneath the earth. As the treacherous Zipakna retreated into the depths of his own burrow, his voice echoed from the abyss, laced with cunning. Come forth. Take the earth. Clear the debris. The hole has been dug, and I have burrowed deeper than ever.

Can you not hear my voice? Your words reach me only as faint murmurs, as if you speak from a realm distant, perhaps two levels above. He taunted from within the pit, his form concealed beneath the soil’s embrace. Above, the 400 boys strained under the weight of a massive log, dragging it toward the gaping hole. With a final heave, they cast it down into the darkness, Their Breaths held in anxious anticipation. Is he there? One whispered. Why does he not cry out? Wait. Listen closely. He should scream when death takes him, another murmured. Their voices hushed as they concealed themselves in the shadows.

And then, at last, a sound, a lone cry, erupted from the depths. As the log struck its target, one of the 400 exclaimed triumphantly that it was done. Another, filled with joy, declared that they had vanquished him, that he was no more. One more added, filled with pride, that had they not stopped him, Zipakna would have risen above them, claiming their place and ruling over them. But now they remained the 400 boys. Their spirits soared, their joy uncontained with elation. They proclaimed their next steps, eager to prepare their sweet drink. Three days would pass, and then they would celebrate.

They would drink in honor of their victory. And when the day came, they would watch, waiting to see if the earth betrayed him, if the ants would feast on the remains of their vanquished foe. Only then would they find peace. Yet concealed in the cavernous dark, Zipakna listened. He heard every word, every plan, every expectation of his demise. And on the second day, the earth seemed to confirm the boy’s victory. The ants scurried forth, their tiny jaws filled with offerings, locks of hair, fragments of nails. The sight delighted the 400 boys. Look. That deceiver is no more.

One exclaimed the ants. Strip him bare. His hair. His nails. He is gone. Another cheered. But Zipakna lived, still hidden. He severed his own own hair, gnawed at his nails, offering them to the creatures of the earth, so that his illusion of death would be complete. And so the 400 boys believed, their work finished, their drink was ready, their revelry prepared. On the third day, they drank deep, one and all, succumbing to the drunken embrace of their victory. But as intoxication clouded their minds, their world came crashing. Down from the shadows, Zipakna rose. With a force as terrible as the heaven’s wrath, he brought the hut down upon them, crushed beneath its weight.

Not one among them survived. Thus perished the 400 boys. Their laughter silenced, their triumph undone by their own arrogance. Some say they ascended, their souls transformed into stars, an eternal constellation, a whispered legend. Yet this was not the end of Zipakna’s tale. For there were two who would not let his crimes go unpunished. Hunapu and Xbalanc, their hearts heavy with grief for the fallen, sought justice. By days, Epac wandered, scouring the rivers for fish and crabs to quell his endless hunger. By night, his strength was unmatched, lifting mountains as Though they were nothing more than pebbles.

But his doom had been set in motion. With careful hands, the brothers crafted a deception. A great crab formed from the petals of bromeliads, its claws poised in silent menace. A stone slab became its back. Heavy and unyielding, they placed their creation at the foot of a mighty mountain, Mewan, where the final battle would take place. When they found Zipakna by the water, they spoke, their voices steady, their eyes glinting with cunning. Where do you travel, boy? They inquired. Nowhere, zipakna replied, his voice weary. I seek only my food. But fortune has forsaken me. For two days I have not eaten.

Hunger gnaws at my very bones. A shame, unapu mused. A great crab they had seen lurking in the canyon. It was a monstrous creature, one that had eluded them when they tried to capture it. He suggested that Zipakna might have better luck, as they had been driven away by the crab’s fury. If the creature hadn’t vanished by now, it was there for the taking. At this, Zipakna’s eyes gleamed with desperate hope. Have mercy. Show me, he pleaded. They assured him they would not accomplish accompany him. But the path was simple. They told Zipakna to follow the river, where beneath the mountain’s shadow, the crab waited.

He would hear her claws clattering in the deep. Zipakna hesitated, asking, what if the crab wasn’t there? He then offered a deal. If they helped him, he would show them where the birds gathered, an easy hunt for them. Reluctantly, the brothers agreed. But beware, they warned. She is cunning. We approached her face first, and she nearly had us. Enter on your back, or you will share our fate. Zipakna agreed, his hunger blinding him to their ruse. And so he followed their words, descending into the canyon. There, gleaming red, lay the crab, a feast fit for a starving man.

Joy surged through him. His salvation lay before him. He lunged, but the crab shifted, forcing him back. You did not reach her. The brothers feigned surprise. No. She moved, evading me. I will try again, he vowed. This time he followed their advice. He entered on his back. Deeper and deeper he went, until only his kneecaps remained visible. Then the mountain trembled. With a deafening crash, the weight of the earth came down upon him. A final breath escaped his lips, then silence. His body turned to stone. His hunger finally stilled. And thus Zipakna met his end, defeated not by might, but by the cunning of the two brothers who avenged the fallen.

Thus, in turn, fell Zipakna, brought low by the cunning of the twin heroes Hunahpu and Xbalanque. He, the self proclaimed maker of mountains, the firstborn of the mighty Seven Macaw, boasted of his power to shape the land itself. Yet his arrogance met its end beneath the towering peak of Miaouan, crushed not by brute force, but by sheer brilliance. He was the second to exalt himself beyond his place, place in the world. And now the tale must turn to another. For the third to rise in arrogance was none other than the second son of Seven Macaw, the one known as Earthquake.

I am the Breaker of mountains, he declared, his voice rumbling like the shifting earth itself. Yet even such a proclamation was not enough to spare him from the fates woven by Hunapu and Xbalanc. Before long, the voice of Hurricane, the great lord of sky and storm, echoed through the heavens alongside him. Newborn Thunderbolt and sudden thunderbolt bore witness, their command ringing clear. The second son of Seven Macaw rises as yet another menace, one who must be undone. This is my decree, for what he and his kin have wrought upon the face of the earth is no good.

They seek to surpass even the sun in stature and weight, an imbalance that cannot be allowed to persist. Draw him out, lead him eastward, and see that he meets his end. Hunapu and Xbalanque bowed before the will of the skyborn lord. As you say, your Eminence. Heart of sky, there is work yet to be done. What we have seen upon the land is indeed an affront. Meanwhile, Earthquake moved forward, unrelenting. With the mere press of his foot, mountains crumbled, towering peaks brought to ruin in an instant. As he strode across the land, he came upon the twin brothers who stood before him, unshaken.

The twins asked Earthquake where he was traveling, their voices calm and steady. Earthquake scoffed, answering that he wasn’t traveling anywhere. His purpose was simple. He scattered mountains, shattered peaks, and laid waste to the earth with time and light. A slow smile crept across the faces of the twins. Hunapu, with a thoughtful tone, remarked that they had seen a mountain that defied Earthquake’s claims. It was still growing, rising higher than all others, and, strangely, no birds circled above it. He questioned how Earthquake could boast of breaking all mountains when this one stood untamed. Earthquake, his pride stung, growled that such a mountain was impossible.

He demanded to be shown where it was so he could crush it beneath his step. X Balancq replied smoothly that the mountain lay in the east. Earthquake, eager to prove his strength, demanded they lead the way. But the brothers exchanged a knowing glance and refused. They stated that Earthquake would walk between them, one at his left, one at his right. Because they carried blowguns, if any birds appeared, they would shoot them down. So the path was set. The twins led Earthquake forward, their steps light, their minds sharp with intent. As they walked, they put their skill to use their blowguns, loosing shots that struck true, though not in the way Earthquake expected.

They needed no pellets, no stones. With only a breath, their aim felled the birds, leaving him in awe of their craft. With fire kindled from flint and wood, they roasted the birds, their flesh browning, their aroma thick in the air. Yet from the bounty they prepared, they took one bird and coated it in gypsum. Its skin hardened beneath the pale dust. This shall be his undoing, Hunapu whispered. For as the heart of man is swayed by hunger, so too shall the heart of Earthquake falter at the scent of meat. Let the earth that swallows the flame be the same that swallows him.

The scent of roasted meat filled the air, rich and intoxicating. Earthquake, mighty as he was, could not resist the call of hunger. His mouth watered, saliva pooling as he gazed at the feast before him. At last he spoke. The scent of their meal was unlike anything ever experienced, a curiosity that could not be ignored. With hunger and fascination, they asked what it was longing for. Just a small taste. The twins exchanged a glance, their eyes gleaming with triumph. They handed over the bird laced with earth, offering it with a simple command. Here, take this. He devoured it greedily, and with that bite, his fate was sealed.

They traveled further east. But with each step, Earthquake faltered. His limbs grew heavy, his strength drained away, sapped by the very substance he had consumed. The power that once shook mountains now failed him utterly. He could no longer move forward. It was then that Hunapu and Xbalanc struck. With deft hands, they bound him, his wrists drawn behind his back, his ankles fastened to his hands. Powerless, he could do nothing as they cast him down, burying him beneath the very earth he once claimed to rule. And so Earthquake was undone. His defeat, like that of Zipakna before him, marked another triumph for the twins, whose deeds upon the land were beyond count.

But their story does not end here. No. Now must be told the tale of their own birth, a story woven in the echoes of the past, rising like the dawn to light the world anew. And now let the name be spoken. The name of the father of Hunahpu and Xbalanc. Let us raise our voices in tribute. Let us drink to his memory. And let us drink to the tale of their divine origins. But heed this well. We shall Speak but half of it. A mere fragment of the great account of their father. And so the telling begins.

These are the names etched into time itself. 1 Hunapu and 7 Hunapu. Thus were they called. And these are the names of those who gave them life. Xpiakok and Ex Mukhane. In the eternal darkness, before the dawn of time. One Hunahpu and seven Hunahpu came forth into existence. Their souls bound to the vast unknown. One Hunapu, in turn, fathered two sons. Two children of fate. The firstborn bore the name One Monkey. And the second was called One Artisan. Their mother, the woman of grace and sorrow. Was Ygritte Woman, the beloved wife of one Hunapu. But seven Hunapu, he walked alone.

Unwed and untethered. Forever the shadow beside his brother. A companion, yet never a father. A warrior, yet never a husband. He remained as he was, ever a boy, ever the second. Great were they, these brothers. Wise beyond measure. Seers of the world and its unspoken truths. There was no malice in their hearts. No shadow in their legacy. They were the bearers of knowledge, the instructors of art. And to one monkey and one artisan they passed their gifts. The sons of one Hunap flourished under their teaching. Mastering the melodies of the flute, the rhythms of song. They became weavers of stories, sculptors of stone, artisans of jade and metal.

Creators of beauty in a world still young. But for one and seven Hunapu. Their days were consumed by a singular pursuit. The game. The clash of skill and spirit. Day after day, they threw dice and played the sacred ball game. A test of fate itself. Together they battled, partners in sport. Locked in contests that echoed through the ages. And when they played, the heavens watched. A falcon, swift and silent. Descended from the skies. The messenger of mighty hurricane. Of newborn thunderbolt. Of sudden thunderbolt. To this falcon, no distance was too great. The heavens, the earth, even Xibalba itself.

All were within his reach. Yet their joy in the game did not go unheard. The lords of Xibalba, rulers of the underworld. Felt the tremors of their play. The echoes of their laughter. And their hearts burned with fury. What is this chaos upon the earth? One death and seven death. The great and terrible rulers of Xibalba thundered. Who dares defy us? They stomp and cry out as if they are kings. Let them be summoned. Let them come and play. Here in our court. We shall break them. They show no reverence, no fear. Do they think themselves above us? We shall teach them humility.

Thus spoke the rulers of Xibalba and their Decree was absolute. And among them sat the lords of suffering. Those who carried out the will of 1 and 7 death. Each held dominion over a realm of pain. Each bore a cruel commission. Scab, stripper and blood gatherer. The lords who drew forth the very lifeblood of men feeding upon their agony. Demon of pus and demon of jaundice. Lords of sickness and decay who swelled the flesh and turned the skin yellow, spreading death like a creeping plague. Bone scepter and skull scepter. Grim judges wielding staffs of bone, stripping flesh until only skeletons remained, until bodies withered to dust.

Demon of filth and demon of woe. Twisted spirits of horror lurking in the filth of doorsteps, striking fear into the hearts of those who dared pass, crushing them beneath unseen hands until they crumpled, breathless and broken. Wing and pack strap. Masters of the sudden end of death upon the road. With but a whisper, they seized their victims, stole the breath from their lungs, left them to perish, spitting blood upon the earth. Travelers, warriors. It mattered not. All would fall beneath their unseen grasp. Such were the lords who listened, their pride wounded, their patience spent. But what they truly desired, what they truly sought were not merely the souls of 1 and 7 Hunapu.

No. They hungered for the sacred relics of the game. The kilts, the yokes, the arm guards, the. The crowns, the very garments of the ball players. They coveted the symbols of power, the vestments of their destined foes. And so the command was given. 1 and 7 Hunapu must descend into Xibalba. The messengers of the underworld, the winged harbingers of doom, were summoned. Shooting Owl. One Legged Owl. Macaw Owl. Scott. Skull Owl. These were their names. Each bore the rank of Military Keeper of the Mat. The Envoys of Darkness. They took flight, swift as the coming storm, soaring across the world until they reached the sacred ball court where 1 and 7 Hunapu played their eternal game.

The lords summon you, the owls declared, their voices cold as the grave. Come to Xibalba. They wish to witness your game. To test your skill. Bring your yokes. Your arm. Guards. Your sacred ball. Let the contest begin. 1 and 7 Hunapu listened. Their fates now sealed. They turned to their mother. Their voices steady. They told her they must leave. Again. Even though they had only just returned, the lords of Xibalba demanded their presence. As they spoke, they removed their rubber ball, tying it beneath the roof of their home as a symbolic gesture. They promised they would return.

And when they did, they would set the ball in play once more. To one monkey and one artisan, they gave final instructions. Play. Sing. Carve. Bring warmth to our house. Ease the sorrow of our grandmother’s heart. But Exmoocaine. Their grandmother could not be comforted. She wept, her tears falling like rain upon the earth. My sons. My beloved sons. 1 and 7 Hunapu, with calm assurance, told their mother not to mourn them. They were not dead. Yet with those final words, they left. Their journey set before them. Guided by the messengers of the underworld, they descended, leaving behind the world they knew.

Downward they went, stepping over the edge of the abyss, plunging into the depths of Xibalba. They passed through the canyon where the rustling winds whispered secrets of the fallen. They crossed the rapids where scorpions swarmed, yet not one dared sting them. Thus began their journey into darkness. Into the depths where the lords of Xibalba awaited. Where fate itself would be tested. And where legends would be forged in blood and shadow. And so they reached the river once more. But this was no ordinary river. It was a river of blood. Blood river. They crossed its crimson depths, yet they did not drift.

Drink. Then another river loomed before them. But this one churned with rot and decay, its waters thick with pus. Even then, they did not fall. They pressed on, unwavering. But at last they reached the place where all paths converged. The crossroads. And there their fate was sealed. The crossroads brought defeat. Four roads stretched before them. The red road led one way, the black road another. The white road beckoned in one direction, while the yellow road whispered of another path. But it was the black road that spoke. You will walk upon me. I am the Lord’s road, it declared.

And so they were vanquished at the very threshold of their journey. This was the road of Xibalba. They arrived at the council chamber of the lords of Xibalba. And here too, they met their downfall. The figures seated before them, clad in the illusion of authority, were nothing more than lifeless wooden carvings dressed up by the masters of this realm. They addressed them with solemn reverence. Good morning, One Death. They greeted one figure. Good morning, Seven Death. They addressed another. But their words were folly, for these were not true rulers. The real lords of Xibalba erupted into fits of laughter, their mirth echoing like the wails of lost souls.

They had triumphed. The ones called 1 and 7 Hunapu had been made fools. And the lords of the underworld reveled in their humiliation. At last One and Seven Deaths spoke. It is well that you have arrived. Tomorrow you will prove yourselves. You will take up the yoke and arm guards in the game. They gestured towards a bench and bade them Sit. But the seat they were offered was no ordinary perch. It was a searing rock, ablaze with unbearable heat. Agony tore through them as they sat, their skin burning, their bodies twisting in pain. They leapt up at once, their flesh scorched.

At this, the Gibalbans roared with laughter again, a sound that coiled and slithered like a serpent through the very marrow of their bones. They howled with wicked delight, a chorus of cruelty that filled the chamber. Then, with feigned hospitality, they were instructed, go now to your resting place. Your torch and cigars will be delivered to you in your quarters. And so they arrived at the first test of Xibalba, the Dark House, A house where light did not exist, where shadows were not cast because there was no flicker of flame to birth them. Meanwhile, the Xibalbans whispered among themselves, tomorrow we shall sacrifice them.

It will not take long. Our weapons will make quick work of them. They will not last. For the ball they would play with was no mere toy. It was a blade disguised as sport. White dagger. They called it the Ball of Xibalba. Its surface was no simple leather. It had been ground smooth with bone, its edges honed for slaughter. 1 and 7 Hunapu entered the Dark House, and soon their trial began. A single torch was brought to them, its flame already dancing. A cigar for each of them also burning. These were sent by the lords of Xibalba.

But they were no gifts, only another test. When the messenger handed them over, he delivered the terms. You must return these in the morning. Unburned, untouched. They must be exactly as they are now. This is the will of the lords. But the night stretched long and the darkness pressed in. They could not resist. They let the torch burn. They let the cigars smoulder. And by dawn, they had been consumed. And Xibalba was not finished with them. The trials had only just begun. This was but the first Dark House, where shadows devoured all. The second was Rattling House, a place of ice and howling winds, where hail clattered like teeth in the night.

Then came Jaguar House, where great beasts prowled and bared their fangs, their claws scraping against stone. Next was Bat House, where creatures shrieked and dove through the air, their wings slicing through the silence like blades. The last was Razor House, where knives hung in the air, moving ceaselessly, slashing through flesh and bone alike. 1 and 7 Hunapu had already faced their greatest trial, the one that had shattered them long before. The trials that followed seemed insignificant in comparison. When they stood Once more before 1 and 7 death, the question came sharp and accusing. They were asked where the cigars were.

And what had happened to the torch which had been given to them the night before? They responded steadily, though a sense of resignation filled their voices. They explained that the cigars and the torch had been consumed, offering no excuses for their actions. A dark grin spread across the faces of 1 and 7 death. Their satisfaction clear, they declared that the fate of 1 and 7 Hunapu was now sealed. They would perish, erased from the world, their names broken like shattered stone. They were to be sacrificed. And so the deed was done. They were led to the place of ball game sacrifice.

There, one Hunapu’s head was severed from his body. The rest of him was buried alongside his younger brother, their fates entwined even in death. Place his head in the fork of the tree. Tree that stands by the road, the lords commanded. And when it was done, the tree changed. It bore fruit where before it had none. Had it not been for the head of one Hunapu, no fruit would have ever grown there. This was the calabash tree, the tree that held the skull of Wanhunapu, though none could say where it was, for the fruit and the skull were now one and the same.

The lords of Xibalba marveled at this strange transformation. No one shall touch this fruit. No one shall even stand beneath its branches, they decreed. Fear gripped them, for they sensed that something greater was at work. But whispers of the tree spread beyond Xibalba. Word reached the ears of a young maiden, the daughter of a lord. Her father, Bloodguard Gatherer, recounted the tale, and she listened with awe. I have never seen this tree that they speak of, she mused, but they say its fruit is sweet. Its taste is unlike any other. And so her journey began, a path that would defy the very gods of the underworld and rewrite destiny itself.

Alone she ventured forth, her steps careful yet unwavering, until she arrived at the sacred place where the tree stood. It loomed before her, its branches reaching skyward as though whispering secrets to the heavens. This was the place of ball game sacrifice, a place steeped in mystery, its very air thick with the weight of destiny. The maiden gazed at the tree, her voice laced with curiosity and wonder. She questioned aloud whether the tree bore fruit, for such a grand tree surely should hold sweetness within its branches. She wondered if the fruits should simply be left to wither and perish without purpose, or if she should take one herself.

Then, from the depths of the tree, a voice echoed forth, a voice neither of the living nor the dead, but of something caught between. A bone nestled within the fork of the great tree spoke why do you seek a mere bone, a lifeless fragment clinging to the branches? It asked. The voice belonged to the head of one Hunapu, its hollow tone carrying an eerie weight. You do not need it, the maiden replied with determination, expressing her resolve in her desire. The bone, after a moment of silence, finally agreed. It asked her to stretch out her right hand so it could see it clearly.

Without hesitation, the maiden lifted her hand toward the skull that had once belonged to a mighty being. And then, from between the skeletal lips, something unexpected occurred. The bone released its essence, its very being. A single drop of saliva fell, landing squarely in the maiden’s palm. She stared at her hand, searching. But the substance had vanished, absorbed into her flesh as though it had never existed. The head spoke with a solemn tone, explaining that what it offered was merely a sign, a token, and nothing more. It described itself as a relic, a mere bone stripped of the flesh that once made it whole.

Even in death, however, it claimed that its legacy endured. It explained that a great lord is not defined by his body alone, and his presence is not erased. Upon his death, his bloodline continues, and his essence lives on through his descendants, regardless of whether they are rulers, craftsmen, or warriors. The head declared that it too would pass on through her. It urged her to go forth, to walk upon the earth, for she would not perish. The head asked her to keep its word, for it would come to pass as promised. The voice of one Hunapu and that of his twin seven Hunapu, spoke in unison, bound by the same purpose the decree had been given, one ordained by the very forces of hurricane, newborn thunderbolt, and sudden thunderbolt themselves.

And when the maiden returned home, she carried with her more than just knowledge. She bore within her a spark, a life conceived not of man, but of fate itself. By the will of the gods and the essence of one Hunapu. The twins, Hunapu and Ex Balanc, had begun their journey into existence. Time passed, and six moons later, the truth could no longer remain hidden. Her father, Blood Gatherer, noticed his daughter, untouched by any man, now bore life within her. Horror and outrage consumed him, and he turned to the lords. One Death and seven Death, his voice trembling with fury.

My daughter is with child, Lords. And yet there is no husband, no union to account for. Is a disgrace, an abomination, a bastard child. The lords conferred their journey, judgment swift and merciless. She must be made to confess, they decreed. If she remains silent, then there is only one course of action. Take her far from here and sacrifice her. Blood Gatherer nodded solemnly, his face Hardening as he turned to his daughter, Burdened by the weight of duty, he demanded to know who the father of the life within her was. The maiden, standing tall and unyielding, responded with steady assurance, declaring that no man had ever touched her and she had not known any face.

Blood Gatherer, infuriated, spat out the accusation that she was lying. He called her a bastard and declared that she would be taken away and sacrificed at his command. The military keepers of the mat, four ominous figures draped in the seriousness of their duty, were summoned. The command they received was clear. They were to take her heart and present it to the lords, who would hold it in their hands before the day’s end. Bound by the decree, the messengers took her by the arm, the white dagger of sacrifice gleaming ominously in their grasp. The maiden walked beside them, her heart pounding, but she did not beg for mercy.

It is not right that you take my life, she implored, her voice carrying an undeniable certainty. For the child I bear is no bastard. It was conceived not by man, but by fate itself, by the power of one Hunapo’s head, which rests in the place of ball game sacrifice. Please, do not do this. You will bring ruin upon yourselves. The messengers hesitated, their faces marked by uncertainty. Their orders were clear, yet doubt gnawed at them from within. One of them whispered, asking what they were to do. They had been commanded to return with the maiden’s heart, to place it before the lords as proof of her fate.

But her words had shaken them. She spoke with such certainty, if they took her life, what terrible consequence might await them? The maiden, sensing their hesitation, offered them an alternative. She suggested that if her heart must be taken, it should not be hers that they present. Instead, she proposed a substitute, one that would deceive the lord’s senses. She instructed them to use the SAP of the croton tree, for its blood was as red as any mortals. Let that be the heart they would place before the lords. Moved by her words and fearing the consequences of her death, the messengers did as she instructed.

They cut into the tree, gathering the thick crimson SAP that welled forth as it congealed. It took the form of a heart, its surface smooth and glistening, indistinguishable from that of flesh and blood. With this, they turned to the maiden. You have been spared. Walk forth upon the land, for the gods have blessed your path. They returned to the underworld, presenting the offering before the lords of Xibalba. Has it been done? One Death demanded. It has, your lordships. Her heart is here. One Death reached forth, his fingers grasping the organ, its surface slick with what appeared to be fresh blood.

He lifted it high, his expression one of satisfaction. Good, he said, nodding approvingly. Place it over the fire. The false heart was set above the flames, its scent rising into the air. The gathered lords leaned in, inhaling deeply. To their delight, the aroma was rich, intoxicating, so sweet, so satisfying. They did not question it. They did not suspect deception. And so, as the rulers of Xibalba stood basking in their triumph, the maiden walked free, untouched by death, carrying within her the fate of heroes yet to be born. As the maiden remained in the underworld, the owls, acting as her silent guides, led her toward the path of escape.

They ushered her through a hidden passage, a narrow opening that led to the surface of the earth. And once their task was complete, the faithful guides descended once more into the shadows, vanishing into the depths below. Thus the mighty lords of Xibalba were undone not by warriors, not by sorcery, but by a single maiden whose courage had blinded them, rendering their dominion powerless. Far above, in a quiet place where the mother of one monkey and one artisan made her home, the maiden named Blood Moon arrived. She carried within her a secret, a promise yet to be fulfilled.

The children she bore remained in her womb, but their birth was imminent. Hunahpu and Xblanca, the ones destined to shape the world. Bloodmoon arrived at the grandmother’s dwelling. Standing before the old woman, she felt the weight of her journey, but kept her voice steady. She spoke with a calm sense of purpose, explaining that she had come to her. She introduced herself, asserting that she was both her daughter in law and her child. The grandmother’s face twisted with disbelief, her eyes sharp and unyielding. Where do you come from? She demanded. My sons. They perished in Sibalba. The only ones left as proof of their existence are my grandsons, one monkey and one artisan.

If you have come to seek them, you will find no welcome here. Leave at once. Blood Moon remained unwavering despite the weight of the situation. She emphasized once more that she was indeed the daughter in law of the Old World woman. She belonged to one Hunapu. Carrying a part of him within her. She clarified that 1 Hunapu and 7 Hunapu were not dead. They had merely paved a way for light to pierce through the darkness. Blood Moon assured the old woman that once she saw the faces of those she carried, everything would become clear. Meanwhile, one monkey and one artisan spent their days delighting their grandmother.

Their world revolved around song and play. Their hands Forever busy with carvings and writing. Their laughter filled the air, lifting the old woman’s spirits, making her believe that nothing in the world could change their perfect existence. But the grandmother was unmoved by Bloodmoon’s words. She scoffed at her claims. You are nothing more than a deceiver, a trickster carrying a bastard child. My sons are gone, and no words you utter will bring them back. Blood Moon did not waver. What I say is true. The grandmother studied Bloodmoon intently, her gaze sharp, before letting out a heavy sigh.

She agreed to Bloodmoon’s claim, but set a challenge to test her worth. She instructed her to bring a net full of ripe corn ears for her grandsons. Blood Moon, without hesitation, agreed to take on the task. Determined to prove her place, she followed the path to the garden where one monkey and one artisan grew their crops. But as she arrived, her heart clenched in despair. There was only a single clump of corn. No second, no third. Just one lonely stalk bearing what little fruit it could. A wave of panic swept over Blood Moon. She felt the weight of failure press down on her as doubt crept into her mind.

How could she accomplish something that seemed impossible? The thought that she might be exposed as a fraud filled her with dread. She whispered to herself, questioning her ability to fulfill the task set before her. Desperation drove her to call upon the ancient guardians of the fields. Rise. Reveal yourselves, spirits of the harvest. Thunder Woman. Yellow Woman. Cacao Woman. Cornmeal Woman. Keepers of this sacred bounty, hear me now. With reverence, she reached for the silk of the corn, the delicate strands atop the ear. She did not pluck the ear itself. Instead, she pulled the silk straight from its core.

And in that instant, the ear multiplied, filling the net until it overflowed. When she returned, animals carried her burden, the net brimming with golden corn. She set it down in the house, where the grandmother’s skeptical gaze fell upon the impossible bounty. The old woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. Where did you steal this from? She accused. You must have destroyed the garden. I will see for myself. She stormed toward the field, her heart set on catching Blood Moon in a lie. But when she arrived, the single clump of corn still stood untouched, a silent testament to the maiden’s truth.

And there, at its base, the imprint of the net remained, marking the place where the harvest had been gathered without harm. The grandmother hurried back, her breath unsteady, her mind reeling. She stared at Blood Moon, her doubt beginning to crack. The sign is there, she murmured. You truly are my daughter in law. But I Will not let my guard down just yet. These children you carry, they already defy expectations. I will watch you closely. And so the time of birth drew near. The day arrived at last. And in the solitude of the mountains, away from the prying eyes of the old woman, Blood Moon gave birth to twin suns.

Their cries rang out into the night. But the grandmother was not there to witness their arrival. Hunahpu and Ex Balanque had entered the world suddenly, as if destiny itself had called them forth. When they were brought into the house, the grandmother recoiled at their cries. Throw them out. These loudmouth brats have no place here. So the infants were placed upon an ant hill, where, to everyone’s astonishment, they slept soundly. But when they were moved, they were laid in a bed of brambles. One monkey and one artisan, filled with jealousy, hoped the thorns would silence them forever.

They did not recognize their own kin, nor did they welcome them. Instead, they sought to drive them away, fearing the power these newborns might wield. Yet despite the cruelty of their elder brothers, Hunahpu and Ex Balanc thrived. They did not resent the scorn. They did not rage against the injustice. They simply endured, knowing that their time would come. Meanwhile, one monkey and one artisan basked in their own gifts. They were musicians, sculptors, writers, masters of their craft. But their talents had not come without suffering. They had bled for their knowledge, endured hardships to achieve greatness. And yet, for all their wisdom, jealousy still clouded their hearts.

They saw the birth of their younger brothers as a threat, though they dared not voice their fears aloud. The old woman, blinded by her affection for them, gave them all her love. She fed them, clothed them, praised them, while Hunapu and Xbalanc were left with nothing. When they returned from their hunts, carrying birds as offerings, their elder brothers devoured the feast before they could eat a single bite. But Hunapu and X balunk did not rise in anger. They did not lash out or demand what was rightfully theirs. Instead, they watched. They waited. They understood their place in the world as clearly as one sees the sun in the sky.

And so they played their part, biding their time, knowing that the balance of fate would soon shift in their favor. For the lords of Xibalba had not won. The world was already changing, and the sons of one Hunapu were ready to claim their destiny. And once more, Hunapu and X Balanc returned, stepping into the house with an air of careful intent. But this time they arrived empty handed, the usual birds absent from their grasp. At this sight, their grandmother’s face flushed with disbelief and frustration. Why have you come back without bringing the birds? She demanded, her voice edged with concern.

Hunapu spoke with solemnity, addressing his grandmother’s challenge. He explained that while there were indeed birds, they were trapped high up in the branches of a massive tree. The climb was dangerous, and they couldn’t reach them on their own. He suggested that perhaps their elder brothers, one monkey and one artisan who were stronger, could help retrieve the birds. Hunapu exchanged a knowing glance with with X Balanc, signaling the trap that was slowly being set. The elder brothers, unaware of the trick, agreed without hesitation. They nodded and promised to accompany the others at dawn to help, thinking it was just another simple task to complete.

Victory was already at hand for Hunapu and Xbalanc. Their minds burned with the certainty of their plan, their thoughts swirling like an approaching storm. The elder brothers had sown the seeds of cruelty, of envy, of oppression. Now the time has come for justice to bloom. We shall reshape their very essence, they whispered to each other. They sought to break us, to reduce us to nothing more than slaves under their rule. But as they wished us to fall, so shall we make them fall instead. This will be their reckoning. And so, when morning came, they led their elder brothers deep into the forest, stopping beneath the mighty yellow tree where the birds chattered wildly above.

Hunahpu and Xbalanque raised their weapons and loosed their shots, but not a single bird fell to the earth. Our birds do not fall so easily, hunapu said, his voice laced with hidden amusement. You must climb up and throw them down. Without hesitation, one monkey and one artisan began their ascent. Higher and higher they climbed, unaware that the tree itself was shifting beneath them. Its trunk thickened, stretching ever upward, until suddenly the realization struck them. They could not descend. Trapped, stranded among the branches, panic set in. From above, their desperate voices rang out. How do we get down? You, our younger brothers, have mercy.

This tree, this cursed tree has become monstrous before our eyes. Unappu and Xbalanque exchanged an almost imperceptible smile before responding, their words coated in deceptive reassurance. There is a way, they called up. Undo your garments and tie them around your waists. Let the cloth trail behind you like a tail. It will steady you as you move. Clinging to this fragile hope, the elder brothers obeyed. But the moment the fabric fluttered behind them, a terrible transformation began. Their bodies twisted, their limbs contorted, and in the blink of an eye, they were no longer men. They were mere monkeys, stripped of their former selves no longer speaking, only howling, they fled into the depths of the forest, vanishing into the canopy, swinging wildly from branch to branch.

They were lost to the world of men, claimed instead by the wilderness. When Hunapu and Xbalanque returned home, their grandmother, clearly anxious, immediately asked where their elder brothers were. Looking intently for an answer in their faces. Hunapu began with a solemn tone, his words heavy with the weight of the truth, he explained that something had changed in their brothers. They were no longer human, transformed into creatures of the trees, no longer walking as men. The grandmother’s heart ached at the news, grief washing over her as she trembled with sorrow. She cried out, devastated, asking what they had done and feeling her spirit shatter with the realization, she begged them not to have harmed their elder brothers.

Understanding her distress, Hunapu placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, offering reassurance. He urged her not to despair, telling her that they would see their brothers again. However, it would be a test for her, and he asked one thing. No matter how strange or absurd the situation might be, she must not laugh. This, he explained, was the trial they had to face. And so they began their trickery. They played a tune, an enchanting melody known as Hunapu Monkey. With drums and flutes, they filled the air with song. And at last, one monkey and one artisan returned, no longer as brothers, but as grotesque mockeries of their former selves, dancing and cavorting before their grandmother.

She gasped at the sight of them. Twisted faces, ridiculous movements, the remnants of humanity still clinging to their awkward frames. And though she fought it, the laughter bubbled up within her, escaping her lips. Before she could stop it at once, the monkeys fled back into the trees, vanishing as before. Why, dear grandmother, why do you laugh? Hunapu asked with a sigh. We had only four chances. Now three remain. Again they played, and again the monkeys danced back into view. Again the grandmother could not resist her laughter, betraying her once more, they fled into the forest. A second time.

A third time, the trial was set, and though she struggled, the grandmother succumbed once again to laughter. After their fourth attempt, the monkeys never returned. The brothers, their faces heavy with sorrow, turned to their grandmother. With a soft voice, they explained that they had tried, but their elder brothers were now lost to the forest. They urged her not to mourn any longer, assuring her that they, her grandchildren, were still there. They reminded her to love their mother and honor the names of their brothers, one monkey and one artisan, for they would never be forgotten. And so, through time, the flautists and singers of old sang their praises, the artisans, the storytellers, the sculptors, they all remembered them, invoking their names in their craft.

But their fate had been been sealed. They had risen too high, blinded by arrogance, and so they had been cast down, forever transformed. Even so, they had been artists, musicians, creators of great beauty before their fall. But Hunapu and Ex Balanc had revealed them for what they truly were, ensuring that balance was restored. Then the brothers turned to their grandmother once more. Now we begin our own path. And so, with the tools of the earth in their hands and determination in their hearts, they set forth into their next chapter, the weight of destiny pressing upon them yet embraced with unshaken resolve.

With only a single axe and one mattock, the dense earth was torn asunder, thick masses of undergrowth and countless brambles falling beneath each strike. One lone mattock worked tirelessly, breaking apart the wilderness, felling mountains both great and small with every determined blow. Seated atop a massive stump, Hunapu and Xbalanque conspired with a creature of sorrowful song, the mourning dove. They turned to it, their voices steady with purpose. Watch carefully for our grandmother when she comes bearing our meal. The moment you see her, call out to us, and we will seize the axe and mattock before she can suspect a thing.

The dove bobbed its small head in agreement. I shall do as you ask. For in truth, Hunapu and Xbalanc had not been toiling the fields. Their hands knew no true labor, only the art of deception. And so, at the first cry of the dove, they sprang into action. One clutched the mattock, the other the hoe, and both swiftly arranged their disguises. One smeared his hands and face with dirt, transforming himself into the image of a weary gardener. The other let wood chips reign over his head, taking on the guise of a humble woodcutter. When their grandmother arrived and beheld them, she was none the wiser.

She set their food before them, believing in their labor, yet they had done nothing to deserve it. And when they returned home, they feigned exhaustion. We are ready for sleep, dear Grandmother, they sighed, stretching their limbs before her eyes, rubbing their arms and legs as if sore from a hard day’s work. But when the next dawn arrived and they returned to the field, their efforts, or lack thereof, had been undone. Before them stood the same thickets, the same groves, risen anew as though no blade had ever touched them. Who dares undo our work? They cried in unison, their frustration mounting.

And the culprits, the creatures of the wild, pumas and jaguars, deer and rabbits, foxes and coyotes, peccaries and coatis birds, small and great. In the dead of night, they had restored the land to its former chaos. Hunapu and Xbalanc, undeterred by the past, began their work again, cutting and clearing the land. But this time they were determined to uncover the truth. They decided to stand guard, ready to face whatever force might be conspiring against against them. That night they returned to the field and concealed themselves beneath the darkness. The air was thick with silence until suddenly the rustling began.

One by one, the creatures arrived, gathering in the clearing, their eyes glinting in the moonlight. Then, in eerie unison, they spoke. Rise, return, mighty trees. Rise, return, steadfast bushes. A tremor ran through the land as the plants obeyed, their roots knitting together, their branches stretching skyward. At once, Hunapu and Xbalanc sprang from their hiding place, their hands reaching for the nearest beasts. The puma and jaguar were swift, vanishing before they could be caught. The deer and rabbit barely escaped, but not without consequence. The boy’s fingers closed around their tails, tearing them short. Ever since, their kind have borne the mark of that struggle.

Still, the fox, the coyote, the peccary and the coati all slipped away, leaving the brothers empty handed. Rage burned within them. But then, at last, one creature was snared in their net. A rat. Its small body quivering, Hunapu and Xbalanc seized the rat, gripping it firmly by the head and forcing it to the ground. In their desperation, they scorched its tail in the fire, leaving it permanently marked. The rat, feeling the heat and pressure, begged for mercy. It told them that farming was not their true calling and that their real destiny lay elsewhere. Exchanging a look, the brothers demanded to know what they their fate was.

They were determined to find the truth. The rat hesitated, then asked if they would release it once it revealed the answer. Hunapu and Xbalanque agreed, promising to set it free and share their food with it if it told them what they needed to know. The rat, now certain of its freedom, shared its secret. It revealed that there was something left behind by their friends, fathers, one Hunapu and seven Hunapu who had perished in Sibalba. The brothers legacy was hidden, untouched and kept away from their knowledge. The rat spoke of their gaming equipment, kilts, wrist guards, and most importantly, a rubber ball that was concealed above the rafters of their home.

It also explained that their grandmother had hidden these items, fearing that if the brothers found them, the same tragic fate that had claimed their fathers would befall them as well. At these words, the hearts of Hunahpu and Ex Balanc surged With newfound purpose, the brothers, eyes filled with resolve, acknowledged the rat’s truth. They had heard enough and were now determined to follow through on their quest. True to their word, they granted the rat its reward. Kernels of corn, seeds of squash and chili beans, pataxter and cacao. With a firm tone, they told the rat that whenever food was hidden or left to waste, it could take what it needed.

The rat, however, was cautious and asked what would happen if their grandmother saw it. The brothers reassured it, saying there was no need for concern. They would handle their grandmother themselves. The rat would remain hidden, tucked away beneath the corner of the roof, and when the time came, it would retrieve what was rightfully theirs. Thus, the plan was set. At noon the following day, they returned home. Feigning innocence, one brother stepped into the house while the other covertly positioned the rat. Then, with the utmost nonchalance, they addressed their grandmother. We crave a meal, dear grandmother. Please prepare a simple stew for us.

Obliging them, she ground chili for their sauce and set a bowl before them. But their hunger was an illusion. They merely needed to distract her. Feigning thirst, they emptied the water jar. We are parched beyond measure. Please fetch us water, they implored. The moment she turned away, they continued their ruse. And then, in the depths of the red chili sauce, they saw it. A reflection, a shadow moving above them, shifting in the rafters. It was the rat loosening the sacred ball, the heirloom of their forefathers. But their trickery did not end there. As their grandmother made her way to fetch water, they sent a tiny messenger.

A mosquito, no larger than a speck of dust. It flew to the water jar and pierced its side. Water gushed forth in a torrent. The grandmother gasped, scrambling to stem the flow. But her efforts were in vain. Our poor grandmother. What will we do? They called out in mock despair. Without water, our throats will dry, and we shall perish. Panicked, she hurried away. And in her absence, Hunahpu and Xbalanc prepared for the next step of their journey, one that would lead them ever closer to their destiny. With swift precision, the rat severed the bindings, and the ball plummeted from the rafters, bringing with it the yokes, wristguards and kilts.

The sacred equipment was swiftly gathered and hidden along the path leading to the bullcourt. Having concealed the artifacts, the two boys made their way to the water’s edge, where their grandmother and mother struggled in vain to seal a crack in the side of a large clay jar. No matter how they tried, the fissure remained open. Water seeping through their trembling fingers. Just then, the boys arrived, each gripping a blowgun. They looked upon their distressed elders and spoke. What has happened? We felt unease in our hearts and came at once. Their grandmother’s voice wavered with sorrow. Look upon my jar.

The crack will not close no matter what we do. Without hesitation, the boys set to work, and with effortless skill, they sealed the breach. Relieved, they turned back, leading the way for their grandmother. Thus the fate of the rubber ball was decided, and joy ignited within their hearts as they ventured to the court, sweeping it clean in honor of their forebears. Alone, yet undeterred, they played, their laughter echoing in the vast emptiness. But their game did not go unnoticed. The underworld lords of Xibalba, seated upon their dark thrones, stirred with anger and disdain. Their voices, thick with contempt, reverberated through the void like whispers from the depths.

They demanded to know who dared to challenge them. Did the boys know no shame? Had they forgotten the fate of 1 and 7 Hunapu who had perished before the lords? In their arrogance with dark authority, one death of and seven death commanded the messengers to summon the boys. They ordered them to deliver a message. In seven days, the game would begin, and the boys would face them in the ball court. The messengers, their forms shrouded in the darkness of their masters, traveled swiftly along the winding path. Their destination was the grandmother’s home, for the boys were far away, engrossed in their game.

Upon reaching the grandmother, the messengers delivered the grim decree. By the command of the lords of Xibalba, the boys are summoned. The atmosphere grew tense as the messengers spoke their final words. In seven days, the game shall be played. The grandmother’s heart broke, filled with dread as memories of the past resurfaced. She questioned how she could summon her grandchildren, knowing the dangers of Xibalba as it had claimed their fathers before. Tears slipped down her cheeks. A louse appeared before her, and with trembling hands, she asked it to carry her message to the boys at the ball court, telling them that in seven days they must go, for the lords of Xibalba had summoned them.

The louse began its journey. Journey. But it moved slowly. A toad, noticing the louse’s struggle, asked where it was going. The louse explained its mission, and the toad offered to swallow it and carry the message faster in his belly. Trusting the toad, the louse agreed, and with a single gulp, it vanished into the toad’s mouth. The toad moved forward at a slow pace, not rushing despite the urgency. Soon it encountered a great snake named Zakuicaz. Who blocked its path. The snake, with a hissing voice, asked where the toad was headed. The toad replied that it was carrying a message, its words within it.

The snake, observing the toad’s slow progress, suggested it should carry the message instead, offering to move forward faster. Without hesitation, the toad surrendered to the serpent’s gaping jaws, and zakuishas slithered forward, its body a streak of shadow against the earth. Then, from above, a falcon’s sharp cry split the air. The great bird swooped, its talons closing around the serpent, and with a powerful beat of its wings, it soared toward the heavens. And so the first falcon, clutching the snake in its grasp, arrived at the ball court. Hunapu and Xbalanca were mid game when the sky darkened with its shadow.

Waaako, waa ko. The falcon screeched. The boys halted, gripping their blowguns. What is that sound? They murmured. Prepare to strike. In a single breath, they fired, their shot, piercing the falcon’s eye. Spiraling downward, the mighty bird crashed to the ground. Without hesitation, the brothers approached the falcon. Hunahpu knelt beside it, his voice stern, demanding to know its purpose. The falcon, struggling to speak, replied that it carried a message, but asked for its injured eye to be healed first. Moved by the creature’s pain, the brothers tore a piece of rubber from their ball and pressed it against the falcon’s wound.

As the sacred material fused with the falcon’s flesh, its sight was restored. Once the falcon regained its vision, it heaved and expelled the serpent. Turning to the snake, Xbalanc, with authority, commanded it to speak. Zakikaz twisted and writhed before surrendering the toad, which flopped onto the ground. The brothers turned upon the toad. Speak your errand. But the toad, a trickster by nature, stalled, merely drooling as it attempted to regurgitate the louse. You deceiver. The brothers cried, and with a swift kick, they sent the toad tumbling. Bones cracked, leaving the toad forever bent and broken. At last, they pried open the snake’s mouth, and there, trapped between its teeth, was the louse.

With authority, they demanded that it speak. The louse, trembling, relayed the message it carried. It told them that their grandmother wept and called for them. The messengers from Xibalba had arrived, bearing news that in seven days the brothers must go. The lords of the underworld demanded their presence for a game, and there would be a reckoning. The brothers exchanged a silent glance, their faces unreadable. Before leaving the court, they headed straight for their grandmother, but not to comfort her fears. We are leaving, dear grandmother, they informed her, their tone firm but we leave you a sign.

Here, in the heart of our home, we will plant two ears of green corn. They instructed her that if the corn withered and died, it would mean they had perished. However, if the corn sprouted, it would signal that they were alive, a message for her to find solace in. Descending into the depths of Xibalba, they moved swiftly, scaling the sheer cliffside with ease. Shadows stretched long, long as they traversed the labyrinthine canyons, slipping through the flurry of shrieking throngbirds without hesitation. The rivers of puss and blood lay before them, vile, writhing traps set by the lords of Xibalba.

Yet undeterred, they did not wade into the foul waters, but instead glided across on their blowguns, untouched by the horrors beneath. Their path led them them to the dreaded crossroads, where choices meant deception and doom. But these were no ordinary travelers. They knew well the treachery of Xibalba’s roadsthe Black Road, the White Road, the Red Road, the Green Road, each whispering its own deceit. And so, with cunning and foresight, they called forth a tiny but formidable ally. The mosquito, a creature of stealth and mischief. Go ahead, they instructed. Seek out each figure before us. Bite them one by one, beginning with the first who sits in waiting.

Draw their blood, and in return, let this road be yours to roam forevermore. The mosquito, eager for its task, flitted down the black road, pausing before the first two figures. Elaborate wood carvings, mannequins, dress draped in regal finery. It bit once, then again, yet no cry escaped their lifeless forms. Moving onward, it reached the true lords of Xibalba. A sharp sting pierced the flesh of One Death, causing him to jerk upright and let out a loud yelp in surprise and pain. Seven Death, hearing the commotion, whispered in confusion, wondering what had caused the sting. Before One Death could recover, another sharp bite struck, sending another jolt of pain through his body.

He groaned, complaining about the bite. Seven Death, now also feeling the sharp sting, snapped irritably and rubbed his arm, realizing he too had been bitten. The sensations spread like wildfire through their group, affecting everyone. Scab, Stripper, feeling the pain as well, let out a sudden cry of discomfort. Seven Death, now visibly frustrated, demanded to know what was going on, sharply turning to look at the others. Blood Gatherer, clearly fed up, hissed in pain and slapped at his skin, revealing that the mysterious bites were affecting all of them. The cries spread in a grim symphony of pain.

Demon of pus. Demon of jaundice. Bone scepter. Skull scepter. Each lord in turn, fell victim to the relentless mosquito, their True names spilling forth in gasps and growls. None were spared. None were hidden. It was not merely a mosquito that had invaded their domain, but the very will of Hunapu and Ex Balanca, un unraveling their secrecy with every well placed bite. Armed with this knowledge, the twins pressed forward, arriving at last before the lords of Xibalba. Greet the lords, a voice commanded. But Hunapu and Ex Balanque were not so easily deceived. Their sharp eyes swept the chamber, falling upon the false figures posed in mock authority.

These are no lords, they declared. They are but mannequins carved from wood. And with that, they turned their gaze upon the true rulers of Xibalba. With perfect confidence, they offered their greetings, each name spoken without hesitation. Mourning one Death. Mourning seven Death. Mourning Scab. Stripper. Mourning Blood Gatherer. Mourning Demon of Pus. Mourning Demon of Jaundice. Morning Bone Scepter. Morning Skull. Scepter. Mourning Wing. Morning Pack Strap. Mourning Bloody Teeth. Mourning Bloody Claws. A tense silence filled the room as the twins names were revealed, leaving no room for mystery. The deception was exposed, and the lords of Xibalba shifted uncomfortably on their thrones.

Realizing the truth was out, the lords commanded the twins to sit, motioning toward a grand stone bench, expecting them to obey. But the twins simply smirked and refused. They pointed out that the bench was not a seat of honor, but rather a cooking stone intended for their defeat. With unwavering resolve, they stood their ground. Seeing they wouldn’t comply, the lords of Shadow Cibalba reluctantly conceded and instructed the twins to enter the house that had been prepared for them. With measured steps, Hunapu and Xbalanc crossed the threshold into the first trial dark house. The lords of Xibalba watched, convinced of their impending triumph.

The messenger arrives, presenting a torch and a set of cigars. He declares that by morning both must be returned unburnt and untouched. The demand is clear. Failure is not an option. The weight of the task settles in, an unspoken warning lingering in the air. Understood, the twins replied, accepting the objects with deceptive compliance. But they did not ignite the torch. Instead, they wove an illusion, replacing the flame with the resplendent tail feathers of a macaw, their glow imitating fire in the darkness. As for the cigars, they let fireflies dance upon their tips, flickering like embers in the still night.

Outside, the sentries watched, smug in their belief that the test had been won. We’ve outmatched them, they murmured. The flame burns, the cigars smolder. But come morning, the illusion unraveled. The torch had never been consumed, and the cigars bore no trace of ash. The deception had been turned against the deceivers. A great unease settled upon the lords of Xibalba. One Death’s voice slithered through the air, laced with unease. What was this? Where had they come from? Who had borne them? Who had shaped them? 7 death clenched his jaw, his gaze dark with suspicion. They were unlike any who had come before.

Their ways defied understanding. And so the first trial had been laid before Hunahpu and X balunk. But instead of breaking beneath its weight, they had bent it to their will. The lords of Xibalba, in all their cunning, had begun to taste the bitter edge of fear. When all the lords of Xibalba had gathered, the challenge was declared. Let the game begin, boys, the rulers of the underworld commanded. One Death and Seven Death. Their voices, like the whispers of doom, fixed their gaze upon the young challengers and demanded to know their land of origin. The brothers merely exchanged glances before replying with an air of mystery they did not know.

Murmurs rippled through the court of Xibalba, but the lords only sneered. If answers would not be given, then there was no need to delay. Very well, then, they declared. Let us play good, the boys replied, unfazed. A Xibalban lord stepped forward, brandishing a ball of their own making, declaring that it would be used for the match. But the brothers remained firm, presenting their own instead. The Jibal, their voices like rustling shadows, insisting on their choice. A tense silence gripped the court before Hunapu finally relented, agreeing without hesitation. A wicked smirk curled on the lips of a Xibalban as they boasted about the grandeur of their ball.

But the brothers, their eyes gleaming with defiance, saw through the deception. That was no ordinary ball. It was a skull feigning innocence. The Sibalbans denied it, but Hunapu did not waver. He simply repeated his agreement, his voice betraying no fear. And so, with a cruel flick of the wrist, the Xibalban set the ball into motion. But as soon as it met Hunapu’s yoke, the true horror within was revealed. A wicked white dagger burst forth from its core, its blade clattering and twisting across the floor of the court. A silent gasp ran through the air, heavy with the stench of death.

Hunapu and Xpalanc stood firm, their voices rising with righteous fury. Is this how you play? Is death the only thing you desire for us? Was it not you who summoned us? Did your messenger not call us here? Show us mercy, or we shall leave at once. Fate had already been decided for the boys. Or so the lords of Xibalba believed. By all accounts, they should have perished in that very moment, cut down by the treacherous blade. But the outcome was not as Xibalba had foreseen. Once more, the underworld lords found themselves outmatched by their opponents. A murmur spread through the ranks of the Shibalbans.

Then came the reluctant concession. Do not leave, boys. The game shall continue, and we shall use your ball. The brothers accepted the challenge, their victory evident in their measured words. With their rubber ball thrown into play, the match resumed. Then came the moment of wager. The lords of Xibalba, eager to secure their prize, asked what the stakes would be. The brothers, unfazed, left the decision to them. A chilling grin spread across the lord’s faces as they named their demand. Four bowls of flowers. One of red petals, one of white, one of yellow, and one of whole blossoms.

Without hesitation, the brothers agreed. Very well. The boys agreed. And the game pressed on. Their skill rivaled that of the underworld lords, their movements swift, their plays precise. And yet, in a calculated move, they allowed themselves to be defeated. The Xibalbans rejoiced, believing themselves victorious. The lords of Xibalba whispered among themselves, triumphant at their success. They had bested the twins on the first try. But now a new challenge remained. Where would the boys find their flowers? Before the night had passed, the lords turned to them, their voices laced with satisfaction. The task was set. Before dawn, they must bring the flowers.

Very well, Hunapu and Xbalanque replied, accepting the trial without hesitation. And so they descended into Razor House, the second test of Xibalba, a house of blades where gleaming knives hung suspended in the air, poised to carve them apart in an instant. The trap was set for a swift and brutal demise. But the boys did not yield to death’s embrace. The twins commanded the blades, ensuring they would strike only beasts. The knives obeyed, lowering their points, ceasing their restless hunger for blood. And so Hunapu and Xbalanc remained unscathed throughout the night, untouched by the blades meant to claim them.

Then they summoned the ants. The cunning cutting ants and the tireless conquering ants. Go forth, the boys commanded. Bring us the flowers of Xibalba. The prizes owed to the lords. The ants, Scratch, scurried away, unseen and unstoppable, swarming into the gardens of One Death and Seven Death. The lords had entrusted the guardians of their flowers with strict orders. The lords of Xibalba issued their command. Watch over the blooms. Guard them well. The twins had been defeated, yet their cunning remained surely they would come seeking what had been taken from them. There was no room for failure.

No sleep, no distraction. As you command, the guardians replied. But they did not suspect a thing. Their only concern was the rhythm of their songs, their endless perching from branch to branch, their cries of Whip, poor Will. Whip poor will. Called one. Poor willow. Poor willow. Echoed the other. Little did they realize the ants were already at work. They gnawed and nipped, severing the blossoms, carrying them away in droves, stripping the trees bare. While the guardians remained oblivious. The flowers rained down, falling into the waiting hands of the gathering swarm, filling four bowls with ease. The night belonged to the boys.

At the break of dawn, the messengers of Xibalba descended, their voices sharp. When with authority, the lords had spoken. The twins were to be summoned, the prize delivered without delay. The boys meet their demand without hesitation, their expressions unreadable. With bowls brimming with flowers, they strode forward, presenting their winnings to the lords of Xibalba. A hush fell over the court. The sight of the stolen flowers drained the color from the faces of the Xibalba lords. They were sickened, stricken, overcome. With silent horror, the flower guardians were summoned, their failure laid bare before the lords of Xibalba.

Accusations flew. How had they allowed such a theft? These were the lord’s flowers, their prized possession, now stolen before their very eyes. The hapless guardians trembled, their shame. Evidently they had no answers, only wounds. Tails bitten, wings torn, the unmistakable marks of a struggle. Yet the thieves had slipped past them, leaving only their disgrace behind. And so, as punishment, their mouths were split wide, a gaping mark of disgrace. A trait they would bear for eternity. Once more, Xibalba had been undone. One death and seven death, mighty lords of the underworld had been defeated by Hunapu and Ex Balanc.

But the trials were not yet over. The game resumed and the match ended in a stalemate. At dawn, we play again, the Xibalbans decreed. Very well, the boys agreed, Their battle far from finished. Now they were sent into Coldhouse, the home of frost, where thick hailstones pounded relentlessly. Where breath turned to ice in an instant. Yet the cold could not claim them. The boys shut it out, diminishing its bite, breaking its curse. When morning came, they emerged once more alive, unbeaten and ever closer to victory. Though Xibalba had decreed their demise, the twins defied fate. As dawn painted the sky, they emerged from the darkness unscathed, stepping forward the moment the messengers departed and the guards withdrew.

How can this be? Why do they still live? The rulers of Xibalba demanded. Their voices Laced with disbelief. Once again, Hunapu and Xbalanc had defied expectation, leaving their captors astonished. Thus the twins entered the jaguar house, a dwelling teeming with prowling ravenous beasts. Their golden eyes gleamed in the dim light. Their muscles coiled, ready to strike. The twins pleaded for mercy, offering what rightfully belonged to the lords of Shibalba. Their voices carried no defiance, only the weight of a final bargain. With that, they scattered bones across the floor. At once the jaguars pounced, their hunger, redirecting them toward the offering.

Claws scraped against stone. Fangs snapped. But the twins remained untouched. Outside, the sentries listened, delighted by the sounds of the struggle. They have been devoured, they murmured, their very hearts torn from their bodies. They surrendered, and now they are nothing but bones. Yet when the doors swung open, Hunapu and X Balanc stepped out, whole and unharmed. The murmurs of satisfaction turned to whispers of fear. What kind of beings are they? The Shibalbans muttered, their unease growing. Where do they come from? Next, the twins were cast into the house of fire. Flames roared in every direction, eager to consume them.

The air shimmered with heat. The walls glowed with the relentless blaze. It was meant to be instant death, a fate from which no mortal could escape. Yet as the night waned and the first light of dawn broke, the twins emerged. Not burned, not broken, merely warmed by the embers members, the lords of Xibalba watched in silent dread. Then came the bat house, a cavern filled with monstrous creatures. Snatch bats, their razor sharp snouts glinting like obsidian blades. To be within this place was to meet certain doom. Within the darkness, the twins sought shelter in their blowgun, their bodies curled tightly within the narrow space.

The bats shrieked and clawed, their hunger insatiable, but none could reach them. The twins remained untouched until the moment one of them moved. The stillness of night was broken. As Hunahpu stirred outside, Xbalanc’s whisper carried through the suffocating air. X Balanc called out, asking if dawn was near. Hunapu hesitated before responding, uncertain. Carefully, he inched forward, peering from the muzzle of the blowgun to catch the first glimpse of morning light. A fatal mistake. A snatch bat struck in an instant, its blade like snout slicing through the air. With a single motion, it severed Hunapu’s head. His body remained hidden, unmoving.

Outside. Xbalanc waited. He. He called again, expecting a response, but silence greeted him. No movement, only an eerie stillness that sent dread sinking deep into his bones. He called once more, but the silence remained unbroken. Then realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. Everything was Lost. Meanwhile, Hunapu’s severed head tumbled onto the court, rolling until it came to rest before. Before the rulers of Xibalba. A wicked glee spread across their faces. Their laughter echoed through the underworld, reveling in their victory. But Ex Balonc was not finished. Summoning the creatures of the land, Coates, peccaris, all beasts, great and small, he called upon them for aid.

Bring forth your food, he commanded. Whatever you have, whatever you feast upon, bring it here. One by one, they obeyed. One brought rotting wood, another mere leaves. Others offered stones, dirt, remnants of their meals. And then the last of them arrived, the coati. Pushing forward a single squash. With its snout, Ex Balanc seized it. The crude fruit would become the key to deception. Swiftly he carved eyes into its surface, shaping it into a semblance of a human face. And then the heavens intervened. The heart of Sky Hurricane himself descended into the bat house. With divine hands, he breathed life into the illusion, refining its form until the face mirrored Hunapu’s own.

His strength returned, his voice unchanged. As the sky began to lighten, the colors of dawn streaking the horizon, preparations for the next move began. X Balanc warned Hunapu against stepping onto the field. There was no need. Instead, he was to threaten, to deceive, to keep the lords of Xibalba tangled in their own arrogance. But when the time came to act, X Balanc alone was would take his place in the game. A plan unfolded. He turned to a rabbit perched high above the court among the ball bags. Wait there, he said. When the time comes, flee. When the ball reaches you, vanish into the trees.

It will be the signal. The rabbit nodded. As the sun rose, the twins stepped forward, whole once more. With the first play of the game, the ball was cast onto the court. Yet it was no ordinary ball. It was Hunahpu’s head. The Xibalbans roared in triumph, their victory seemingly absolute. At last, they had won. This was the end. The twins had no choice but to admit defeat. But then, from the court, Hunahpu’s voice cut through the celebration, firm and commanding. The game was not yet over. The ball had to be played. Confusion rippled through the gathered lords, uncertainty creeping into their wicked delight.

Yet unable to resist the temptation, they obeyed. The ball was hurled into play. But X was ready. With a powerful strike, he sent it soaring higher, farther, beyond the court. It bounced once, twice, then disappeared into the trees. And just as planned, the rabbit bolted. The rulers of Xibalba erupted into chaos, their forces scattering, shrieking, chasing after the fleeing creature. While their enemies scrambled the Twins acted quickly. They retrieved Hunahpu’s real head and replaced the false one with the squash. Xbalanque lifted the true head and set it back where it belonged to. Once again, Hunapu stood before him, whole.

By the time the Xibalbans returned, panting and bewildered, the game had already resumed. The ball, once a false illusion, was now a simple sphere once more. Did we imagine it? The Sibalbans murmured among themselves, glancing warily at one another. But there was no time for doubt. The game continued, and this time the twins were ready. And then, with a swift and decisive strike, X Balanc sent the squash hurtling through the air. The poor fruit, battered and weary, could not endure any longer. It crashed onto the court, splitting apart, its pale seeds spilling out in full view of all who stood there.

The truth lay bare before them, undeniable and inescapable, capable. How did you come to possess that? Where did it come from? The lords of Xibalba demanded, their voices laced with disbelief. But it was too late. The masters of the underworld had been outwitted, their dominion overthrown by the cunning and resilience of Hunahpu and Xbalanca. Many perils had been placed in their path, traps, tests, and unspeakable horrors. But none had succeeded in breaking them. They stood victorious, untouched by the grasp of death that Xibalba had so eagerly prepared for them. And yet the moment had come. The tale of their death, their so called final fate, was about to be written.

They had followed every command given to them, endured every hardship laid before them. Xibalba had thrown its worst at them, but they had refused to fall. Even the most fearsome creatures of the underworld had failed to claim them. Then the twins summoned two revered seers, keepers of knowledge. Their names were Zulu and Pakam, wise ones who could read the threads of fate. Hunapu’s voice carried unwavering certainty as he spoke his resolve. Untouched by the fate awaiting them, the lords of Xibalba would not rest until they had broken them, desperate for a final victory. Every trial had been endured, every terror met with defiance.

Yet their survival remained unacceptable. Now the end had been chosen. Death by fire. Within the great stone oven prepared for them, all of Xibalba gathered, convinced that this time destruction was inevitable. But the plan was not yet finished. Shulu and Pakam had their roles to play when the lords sought counsel. When they questioned the fate of the remains, the path had to be set. If they asked whether the bones should be cast into a canyon, the response had to be clear. No, for there was Always the chance of return. If they suggest hanging our bones in a tree, you will answer, that will not do, for our faces would still be seen.

But when they decide to cast our remains into the river, then you will agree. You will tell them that it is the perfect fate that our bones should be ground to dust as maize is ground into flour, each fragment refined separately, and then let them be scattered upon the river’s current, sprinkled upon the rushing waters, lost among the towering mountains and the lowly hills. You will say these words, and you will carry out our will, Hunapu and Xbalanque instructed, their voices unwavering. They knew what awaited them. They had seen the end, and yet they did not tremble.

The Xibalbans wasted no time. They labored to build the oven, a monstrous pit of stone, vast and consuming like the furnaces where sacred drinks were prepared. Its mouth was wide enough to swallow the sky itself. Then messengers were dispatched to summon the twins, sent by One Death and seven Death themselves. The time has come. You must follow us now. The lords have prepared a grand feast for you, the messengers proclaimed with a twisted satisfaction. The twins did not falter, their voices steady as they accepted the challenge without hesitation, without a hint of fear. They approached the roaring flames, where the lords of Xibalba watched with eager anticipation.

Amusement laced One Death’s words as he proposed a final trial, his tone dripping with mockery. Let them leap across the fire, he declared, four times over. Let them prove their skill. But the twins are smiled knowingly. You will not deceive us so easily. Do we not already know how we are meant to die? You need not push us. Watch closely. They faced each other, grasped hands, and with an unshakable resolve, hurled themselves into the flames. The fire roared, engulfing them whole. Their bodies perished together, consumed by the inferno. A great cry and erupted from the depths of Xibalba.

Cheers rang through the underworld, triumphant and exultant. At last we have conquered them. They were formidable, but now they are no more. The lords of Xibalba rejoiced, believing their long struggle had come to an end. True to their word, Zulu and Pakam obeyed the twins final instructions. The remains of Hunak and Xbalanca were gathered and cast into the river. Their bones crushed, their essence dispersed upon the water’s path. But the lords of Xibalba had underestimated them. Once more, their story was not over. The river carried their essence, but it did not erase them. Their forms did not vanish into nothingness.

On the fifth day, they emerged once more. Reborn before, beneath the surface of the waters. At first, they appeared as mere catfish, strange and unassuming. But soon their true forms took shape again. And when they finally rose from the river, they did so as two wandering figures cloaked in rags and shadow. They moved differently now, as if the weight of the world no longer bound them. They were unrecognizable to the eyes of Sibalba, their deception perfect. They danced. Their feet moved with the rhythm of the earth itself. They performed the dance of the poor will, the dance of the weasel, the dance of the armadillo.

They swallowed swords. They balanced upon stilts. They performed feats that defied all reason. And with every step, they wove the strings of fate tighter around the throats of their enemies. Sibam watched in awe. Their admiration grew with each impossible act. The twins would set a house ablaze, reducing it to cinders, and with a single gesture, bring it back whole again. The lords marveled at their power, unaware of the trap being laid before them. Then, in a final spectacle, they enacted the greatest illusion of all. One would fall dead, stretched out as if life had left him completely.

And then, in the blink of an eye, he would rise again, untouched by death’s embrace. Again and again they performed this wonder, embedding themselves deeper into the hearts and minds of all who watched. The news of these miraculous dancers spread like wildfire. One death and seven death, curious and eager for their own amusement, summoned them. The lord’s curiosity could not be ignored. Doubt flickered in their eyes as they questioned the truth behind the rumors. Were these wanderers truly as extraordinary as the stories suggested? Could their movements hold such mesmerizing power? Uncertainty lingered, but intrigue had already taken root.

Messengers were sent, orders delivered. But when they approached the twins, they were met with feigned reluctance. Oh, we couldn’t possibly perform before such esteemed lords. The twins protested. We are but lowly travelers unworthy of such an honor. We would only embarrass ourselves. Surely we would look foolish before them. The messengers pleaded, coaxed, and urged them forward. And so, with great effort, the twins were finally led to the lords of Xibalba. Draped in tattered garments, they arrived in the court, bowing so low they nearly touched the earth. They were asked of their origins, their lineage, their people.

Where do you come from? The lords questioned. The twins gave no more than a simple response, revealing nothing beyond what was asked. They had no mother, no father. Only the distant memory of loss from when they were too small to understand. Their words carried no further explanation. No plea for sympathy. Only the truth. Stripped bare, the lords, uninterested in the past, dismissed the matter with a wave of command. If there were no answers to be given, then let there be entertainment instead. And so the final act began. The stage was set. The fall of Xibalba was at hand.

The music swells and the air vibrates with the rhythmic pounding of feet against the floor of Xibalba. The performers move in perfect harmony, their bodies weaving an intricate dance. The gathered lords and onlookers press in closer, eager to witness the spectacle. Every step, every movement pulses with life. They dance the weasel, swift and sly. They dance the poor will, light as air. They dance the armadillo, sturdy and unyielding. The very walls of the underworld seem to hum with the energy of their performance. Then a voice rises above the clamor. The voice of the ruling lords, their tone laced with amusement and challenge.

A command echoes through the hall. Hall. A demand to sacrifice a dog and restore its life. Without hesitation, the dancers comply. The creature collapses, its breath stolen away by death, only to stir moments later, tail wagging with unshaken joy, as if the grave had been nothing more than a fleeting dream. A murmur spreads through the gathered lords, intrigue flickering in their eyes. But curiosity is not so easily sated. Another order follows. Set the home ablaze. The flames rise without resistance, consuming one death’s dwelling in a furious inferno. Yet when the embers settle, the structure remains untouched, standing as if fire had never kissed its walls.

The lords exchange stunned glances before erupting into cheers, their awe swelling, their hunger for miracles growing ever stronger. One final demand lingers in the air. The ultimate test. Kill a man and let him live. Again. A hush falls over the court, but the dancers do not falter. Very well. They answer. And they seize a sacrifice. A blade flashes, and a human heart is lifted high, its surface glistening under the torchlight. The lords lean in, captivated, their breaths caught in their throats. And then, as if guided by forces beyond comprehension, the heart beats once more. The man stirs, eyes opening, life flooding back into his body.

The chamber erupts with gasps and murmurs of disbelief. One and seven Death are the mighty rulers of the underworld gaze upon the scene with something dangerous flickering in their eyes. Fascination, longing. A desire that overshadows even their authority. Sacrifice yourselves, they declare. Show us the ultimate dance of death. The challenge is met with unwavering resolve. Xbalanc turns to his brother Hunapu, and the performance takes its most shock, shocking turn. Limbs are spread wide. His head rolls away. His heart is torn from his chest and sealed Within a leaf, the crowd erupts, overwhelmed by the raw display of power.

The dance of death has never been more breathtaking. And yet Xbalanx stands alone now, the only one left, moving. The air stills as he speaks. Rise. He commands, and Hunapu obeys. The two brothers stand side by side once more, triumphant, radiant. A great roar of approval surges through the hall. The lords One Death. Seven Death, and their vassals are consumed by awe. Ens. Snared by the spectacle before them, they crave more, desperate to taste the power they have just witnessed. They plead for sacrifice, eager to dance in death as others have before them. Hunapu and Xbalanque exchange a glance, their expressions unreadable.

If this is what the lords desire, then so be it. But if their lives are taken, they must place their trust in the promise of return. With a regal nod, One Death steps forward, the ruler of Xibalba itself, placing his fate in the hands of the twins. And then he falls. His body crumples, breath extinguished. The lords wait, eyes wide, expectant. But the silence stretches, long and unbroken. Seven Death watches, his confidence wavering, his hands trembling. Take pity on me. He cries, his voice cracking with fear. But it is too late. He too is struck down, and neither lord rises again.

The spectators shift uneasily. Their leaders are gone. A ripple of fear spreads among them. Then, as if by some unseen force, the gathered vassals of Xibalba begin moving as one. They flee, rushing toward the great canyon, their numbers countless, their panic absolute. They tumble into the abyss like ants, scattered, shattering, surrendering. And then the twins stand before them all. Their voices cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. X Balanque’s voice rises, commanding the air itself to bear witness. Their names will not be forgotten. They are Hunapu and X Balanc, the sons of those slain in cold blood.

One Hunapu and seven Hunapu. They have endured the torment, survived the trials, and now they bring it all to an end. Xibalba will never know its former glory again. Before them, the once mighty lords crumble, their knees hitting the ground, their pride shattered like brittle stone. Fear clings to them, stripping away the cruelty they once wore. Like armor, they plead their voice, voices desperate and broken. They admit their crimes, confess their sins against those who came before. There is no more arrogance, no more mockery, only trembling hands and begging tongues, hoping for mercy that may never come.

But the twins do not waver. They have come to cleanse this place of its corruption. And no one, no God, no lord, no specter. Of death. Death itself can stand in their way. The decree was spoken, and its weight fell upon all who listened. So be it. This is our command, and we shall name it for you. Listen well, you who dwell in Xibalba. From this moment forth, neither you nor your descendants shall know greatness. The gifts you once received in abundance will withstand to mere fragments of resin, shriveled and worthless. No longer will fresh, sacred blood be spilled in your honor.

Only meager offerings, brittle and broken, shall be laid before you. You shall feast only on creatures of the fields and forests. Never upon those born in the light. Never upon those who walk under the sun’s gaze. The only ones who will fall before you will be the forsaken, the guilty, the wretched, the tormented souls cast aside by the world. You shall not strike at random. You shall only emerge where blame and sin already fester. And you will listen to the cries of those who pour forth the hardened SAP as their desperate pleas. So it was spoken.

And thus began their descent into obscurity. Their worship crumbled, their names faded from reverence and their power waned. The Sibalbans had never been noble. Their days were steeped in conflict, their so called divine names tainted with dread rather than glory. They thrived in shadows, whispering deceit, reveling in cruelty. They were the makers of enemies, the summoners of darkness, the instigators of chaos. They wielded trickery as a weapon, donning false faces to confuse and terrify. They were masters of deception, lords of confusion, the very essence of corruption itself. And so their dominion was shattered, their former brilliance forever extinguished.

It was Hunapu and Xbalanc who ensured their downfall. Far away, their grandmother wept. Her voice trembled as she called out to the ears of green corn they had planted before their departure. At first, the storks grew tall and strong. But then, as if mourning their absence, they withered and crumbled into dust. When the boys were cast into the flames, their grandmother, in her grief, burned incense before the barren husks. But then, miraculously, the corn sprouted once more, reaching toward the heavens. A second chance. A sign of hope. She honored them with names. Middle of the house, Middle of the harvest.

Living ears of green corn and bed of earth. She named them so because they had been planted right in the heart of their home, placed upon the very earth that had nurtured them. And when the stalks regrew, she called them living ears of green corn. For they had returned, just as her grandsons had promised. They had left behind a piece of themselves, not just for remembrance, but as a symbol of life reborn. But long before their victory, there had been loss. Their fathers, one Hunapu and seven Hunapu, had perished in the depths of Xibalba. And yet, when the boys conquered that wretched place, they saw their father father’s face once more.

He spoke to them, his voice carrying the weight of years stolen. They would not let him remain. Lost to the void. They pieced him back together, limb by limb, at the very site where he had been sacrificed in the ball court. Yet when he was asked to name the parts of himself, he faltered. He could recall his mouth, his nose, his eyes. But beyond that, his memories blurred. Still, he had spoken again, and that was enough. His heart, though left behind, was honored. You will be revered here, they told him. You will be the first to whom prayers are offered, the first to be remembered by those born into the light.

Your name will never fade. And with that, they comforted their father’s spirit, assuring him that they had cleared the path of his suffering, wiped away the stain of his pain. The Sibalbans had been defeated. At last. The two brothers had accomplished what their ancestors could not. And so they ascended, rising toward the heavens, leaving the world of men behind. They did not vanish into obscurity. They became light itself. One took his place as the sun, the other as the moon, eternal and radiant. As dawn broke, the sky welcomed them. And in their wake, the 400 boys, the ones slain by Zipagna, rose to meet them.

No longer wandering souls, no longer forgotten. They took their place among the stars, shining forever in the heavens.
[tr:tra].