Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Power,” the raven said.

  Loray raised his hand. The raven flew across the room to rest upon his wrist and the demon stroked its feathers.

  “Through a series of unfortunate events I’ve found myself chained to this city and wish to escape it. If I can descend into Xibalba, I could transcend the bonds that hold me here…tunnel my way out, so to speak. But I can’t walk around Xibalba without permission.”

  “Which Hun-Kamé will grant you,” she said.

  “It is a gamble, of course. Hun-Kamé may fail, and if he does, I will find myself in trouble. His brother is harsh.”

  Again here was a detail Casiopea had not considered, what it might mean to defy a god. She had followed Hun-Kamé because she thought it necessary, but a desire for freedom—even a “peasant” who has never owned a pair of garters can sense the call for adventure—had also pushed her forward, making her ignore the dangers she might face. Now that Loray spoke, it was obvious there was much to worry about. It was not only the words the demon said, but the way he said them, quietly, and she noticed that at no point had he spoken the name of Hun-Kamé’s rival.

  Vucub-Kamé, she thought, and held the name in her mouth.

  “I want insurance. That same insurance would prove beneficial to you,” Loray said.

  “I don’t understand,” she replied.

  “Inside you there is a strange thing, is there not? A piece of him, the seal of the underworld upon you.”

  “A bone shard.”

  She opened her hand and looked at her fingers. Whether Hun-Kamé had volunteered this information or Loray had found out by some other means she could not know.

  “The Lords of the Underworld cannot walk Middleworld freely. They must use messengers to speak with mortals or else manifest during the nights, and then only for the briefest of periods. A single hour.”

  “But we traveled in the daytime.”

  “Because Hun-Kamé is not entirely a god. Because your human blood mixes with his immortal essence, cloaking him from the sun. It nourishes him too. Without it he would be lost, weakened as he is.”

  She closed her hand into a fist and felt the shard there. It was like a living thing, hidden beneath the murmur of her blood.

  “He said it would kill me, the bone shard.”

  “It will. If it is not removed. But of course he cannot remove it, nor would he wish to in his state. And yet he must. The more life he absorbs from you, the more human he must become. It is a bad bargain for both of you, but there is no other way,” Loray said, his face serious.

  The raven nodded his head, as if emphasizing this point.

  “Yet this bargain may also be our salvation, if the tide turns and Hun-Kamé fails in his quest.” A smile formed on his lips.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Should he be unable to recover his missing elements, should his brother catch up with you and the situation be dire, cut your hand,” Loray said simply.

  “What?”

  He made a motion, as if he were holding a machete and slicing off his own arm.

  “Cut it. It will sever the link to Hun-Kamé.”

  “How will that solve anything?”

  “It will help us. He will be thoroughly weakened.”

  How easily he said “us,” as if they were old acquaintances. Any mortal would have been dazzled by the demon’s voice, the smile, his looks. Casiopea had enough common sense to be wary. Life had taught her to be untrusting. Dreamers and romantics like her father did not fare well, and though she had dreamed in Uukumil, she’d done so quietly, in secret. If someone chanced by, she closed the book she was looking at. She hid desires inside an old tin can. She never told anyone what she hoped for.

  “The reigning Lord of Xibalba will look kindly at the woman who helped defeat his brother,” Loray said.

  “And I will be without a hand,” she replied.

  “Sacrifices have to be made at times. If it comes to it, cut your hand, not a big deal.”

  “And injure him.”

  “That is the point.”

  “Why aren’t you trying to cut my hand?” she asked.

  Bold, the question. She grew brazen, and quickly.

  “Dear girl, if I pressed a blade against your skin, it would accomplish nothing. You’d be right as rain in a heartbeat,” he said, brushing past her, brushing her arm for a second, as if to emphasize his point. “No enemy can wound you, nor coerce you into wounding yourself, not when a Lord of Xibalba walks beside you. Not even one who has lost his throne. It must be by your hand and your hand alone. Free will.”

  “Nothing of this makes sense.”

  “Only know this final option is available to you. It might save you, and me,” he said.

  There was amusement in the demon’s face, as if he enjoyed speaking these words. Under his politeness she detected a quiet malice.

  “Vucub-Kamé would forgive you if you tell him you advised me to do this?”

  She said the name to test his boundaries, since Loray was afraid of uttering it. And when she said it the demon did not seem amused.

  “Perhaps,” he muttered.

  “What if I cut my hand right this instant?”

  “Too soon. Hun-Kamé might win his throne back.” He stood before the white liquor cabinet, throwing it open, and looked over his shoulder at her. “Besides, you have an unfortunately brave and kind heart.”

  “How do you know what heart I have?”

  “You’d make a poor card player, dear. Can’t hide yourself.”

  She did not understand what he meant; it was her cousin who played games of chance, not her, although here now she’d stepped into a rather intricate game.

  Loray poured himself a drink, and as he raised it to his lips Hun-Kamé walked into the living room in a white linen suit, a smart straw hat in his hands and a black handkerchief knotted around his neck. Again it was difficult to perceive the lack of an eye, the ear. Yet it was not as if he concealed himself. He was much too striking. Preternatural beauty; it made Casiopea dip her head and look down for a heartbeat.

  “Good day,” Loray said, his voice cheerful. His raven had migrated again to his shoulder.

  “Good day,” the raven said, echoing the greeting.

  “I trust you obtained passage for us, Marquess,” Hun-Kamé said. “I do not wish to dally.”

  Businesslike and to the point, but polite. Grandfather yelled, stamped his cane against the floor to make himself heard. Martín threatened her into obedience. This type of authority was alien to Casiopea.

  “Would I fail you in this matter?” Loray said, sounding a tad annoyed. “There is a vessel departing from Progreso this evening. It is fast. You’ll reach Veracruz in a couple of days.”

  “My tracks must remain hidden.”

  “I will do what I can, but your brother has his ways. He may already be looking for you,” Loray warned him.

  “I wove an illusion. It will conceal my escape, for a while.”

  There was gravity to their exchange, but the demon punctured it by holding up his glass.

  “Good! Drink with me. I won’t have you say I am not hospitable. We must toast. Our fortunes will soon change, and let’s hope for the better.”

  “I will drink with you once I have recouped my throne.”

  The answer was not what the demon had expected, but the god softened it somewhat. “The clothing you’ve provided is a thoughtful detail,” Hun-Kamé added. An oblique way of saying thanks.

  “I thought you might like it. New fashions. The top hat is gone and not a moment too soon. You might find the music amusing. The dances are livelier. The old century was too prim.”

  “What do I care which dances the mortals dance?” Hun-Kamé said.

  “Don’t be dull. You’ll scare the lady away,” Loray told
him.

  Again there was that slight glint of malice in the demon’s face. He filled a second glass and handed it to her, leaning down and whispering so lightly she might have imagined his voice in her ear.

  “Remember what I told you,” he said. “If you should be on the losing side, there may be a chance to side with the victor. Whoever that may be.”

  Then he clinked his glass against hers, a smile across his face. Casiopea took a sip.

  Nine levels separate Xibalba from Middleworld. Although the roots of the World Tree extend from the depths of the Underworld up to the heavens, connecting all planes of existence, Xibalba’s location means news does not travel fast in this kingdom. It is therefore hardly surprising that Vucub-Kamé, sitting on his fearsome obsidian throne, set upon a carpet of bones, was not immediately aware of his brother’s escape from his prison.

  And yet, even at such distance, a warning echoed in Vucub-Kamé’s chamber. He thought he heard a note, muffled, like a flute being blown; it sounded once and he dismissed it, but the second time he could not.

  “Who speaks my name?” he said. He felt it, like a volute of smoke brushing against his ear, a white flower in the dark.

  The god raised his head.

  His court was as it always was, busy and loud. His brothers—there were ten of them, five sets of twins—reclined on cushions and ocelot pelts. They were not alone. The noble dead who went to their graves with treasures and proper offerings, who were buried in their finery and jewels, were allowed safe passage down the Black Road and a place in the Black City of Xibalba (sometimes, for their amusement, the Lords of Xibalba had turned back or tricked these noblemen, instead picking a common peasant to join them, but not often). Thus, courtiers milled about, their bodies painted with black, blue, or red patterns. Women wearing dresses with so many jade incrustations it was difficult for them to walk whispered to one another while their servants fanned them. Priestesses and priests in their long robes talked to scholars, while warriors watched the jesters cavort.

  Xibalba can be a frightful place, with its House of Knives and its House of Bats and many strange sights, but the court of the Lords of Death also possessed the allure of shadows and the glimmer of obsidian, for there is as much beauty as there is terror in the night. Mortals have always been frightened of the night’s velvet embrace and the creatures that walk in it, and yet they find themselves mesmerized by it. Since all gods are born from the kernel of mortal hearts, it is no wonder Xibalba reflected this duality.

  Duality, of course, was the trademark of the kingdom. Vucub-Kamé’s brothers were twins: they complemented each other. Xiquiripat and Cuchumaquic caused men to shed their blood and dressed in crimson, Chamiabac and Chamiaholom carried bone staffs that forced people to waste away. And so on and so forth.

  Vucub-Kamé and Hun-Kamé had walked side by side, like the other gods did, both of them ruling together, even if, unfairly, Hun-Kamé was the most senior of all the Lords of Xibalba and ultimately Vucub-Kamé did his will.

  They were alike and yet they were not, and this is what had driven Vucub-Kamé into bitterness and strife. Spiritually, he was a selfish creature, prone to nursing grievances. Physically, he was tall and slim and his skin was a deep shade of brown. His eyelids were heavy, his nose hooked. He was beautiful, as was his twin brother. But while Hun-Kamé’s hair was black as ink, Vucub-Kamé’s hair was the color of corn silk, so pale it was almost white. He wore headdresses made from the green feathers of the quetzal and lavish cloaks made from the pelts of jaguars or other, more fabulous animals. His tunic was white, a red sash decorated with white seashells around his waist. On his chest and wrists there hung many pieces of jade, and on his feet were soft sandals. On occasion he wore a jade mask, but now his face lay bare.

  When he rose from his throne, as he did that day, and raised his hand, the bracelets on his wrist clinked together making a sharp sound. His brothers turned their heads toward him, and so did his other courtiers. The Supreme Lord of Xibalba was suddenly displeased.

  “All of you, be silent,” he said, and the courtiers were obediently silent.

  Vucub-Kamé summoned one of his four owls.

  It was a great winged thing, made of smoke and shadows, and it landed by Vucub-Kamé’s throne, where the lord whispered a word to it. Then it flew away and, flapping its fierce wings, it soared through the many layers of the Underworld until it reached the house of Cirilo Leyva. It flew into Cirilo’s room and stared at the black chest sitting in his room. The owl could see through stone and wood. As it cocked its head it confirmed that the bones of Hun-Kamé rested inside the chest; then it flew back to its master’s side to inform him of this.

  Vucub-Kamé was therefore assuaged. Yet his peace of mind did not last. He played the game of bul, with its dice painted black on one side and yellow on the other, but this sport did not bring him joy. He drank from a jeweled cup, but the balché tasted sour. He listened to his courtiers as they played the rattles and the drums, but the rhythm was wrong.

  Vucub-Kamé decided he must look at the chest himself. It was night in the land of mortals, and he was able to ascend to the home of Cirilo Leyva. Cirilo, who had been in bed, asleep already, woke up, the chill of the death god making him snap his eyes open.

  “Lord,” the old man said.

  “You’ll welcome me properly, I hope,” Vucub-Kamé said.

  “Yes, yes. Most gracious Lord, I am humbled by this visit,” the man said, his throat dry. “I’ll burn a candle for you—no, two. I’ll do it.”

  The old man, diligent, struck a match to ensure two candles burned bright by his bed. The god could see in the darkness, he could make out each wrinkle wrecking Cirilo’s face; the candles were a formality, a symbol. Besides, Vucub-Kamé, like his brothers, enjoyed the flattery of mortals, their absolute abeyance.

  “Had I known the Great Lord was coming I would have prepared to better receive him, although my hospitality could never be sufficient to satisfy the tastes of such an exalted guest,” Cirilo said. “Should I pierce my tongue and draw blood from it to demonstrate my devotion?”

  “Your blood is sickly and thin,” Vucub-Kamé said, giving Cirilo a dismissive glance. This man had been as strong as an ox before he morphed into this distended bag of bones.

  “Of course. But I can have a rooster killed, a horse. My grandson has a fine stallion—”

  “Hush. I forgot how dull you are,” Vucub-Kamé said.

  He raised his lofty hand, quieting the man, his eyes on the black chest. It looked unchanged, just as the god had left it. He could detect no disturbance.

  “It is not a trivial visit that I perform. I have come to gaze at the bones of my brother,” the god said. “Open the chest.”

  “But Lord, you told me the chest must not be opened.”

  This simple sentence, which truly did not hint at defiance, was enough to make the death lord’s serious face turn indignant. The mortal man noticed the change, and although Cirilo was old and pained by his age, he managed to turn the key to the chest and open it with an amazing alacrity.

  The chest was empty, not a single bone left behind. Vucub-Kamé realized his sorcerous brother had crafted an illusion to make it seem like he was contained inside his prison. He also realized the portent had come to pass.

  Vucub-Kamé, who had the power of foresight, had glimpsed this event, the predetermined disappearance of his brother. It was predetermined because fate had placed its seal upon him, ensuring in one way or another Hun-Kamé would be set free. Fate is a force more powerful than gods, a fact they resent, since mortals are often given more leeway and may be able to navigate its current.

  Fate had therefore decreed Hun-Kamé would be set free one day, although it had not marked the day. Vucub-Kamé had prepared for this. That does not mean he would not have wished for more time to face his troublesome brother. Nor does it mean he was not upset.


  “Oh, Lord, I do not understand,” Cirilo began, meaning to adopt the pose of the supplicant. He was not proud when it came to the matter of keeping his limbs attached to his body.

  “Silence,” Vucub-Kamé said, and the old man shut his mouth and remained still.

  Vucub-Kamé stood in front of the chest and stared at it. It was made of iron and wood; Xibalbans have no love of iron. Like the axe that had cut off Hun-Kamé’s head, this item had been crafted by mortal hands, which would have no problem grasping the metal.

  “Tell me, what happened here?” Vucub-Kamé said, commanding the chest.

  The chest groaned, the wood stretching and rumbling. It vibrated like the skin of a taut drum, and it had a voice. “Lord, a woman, she opened the chest and placed her hand upon the bones. A bone shard went into her thumb, reviving Hun-Kamé, and together they have escaped,” it said in a deep voice.

  “Where to?”

  “T’hó, to the White City.”

  “And who was this woman?”

  “Casiopea Tun, granddaughter to your servant.”

  Vucub-Kamé turned his eyes toward Cirilo, who had begun to shake all over.

  “Your granddaughter,” Vucub-Kamé said.

  “I did not know. I swear, oh, Lord. That silly girl, we thought she ran off with some no-good fool, like her mother did. Good riddance, we thought, the stupid tart and—”

  Vucub-Kamé looked at his hands, at his palms, which were dark, blackened by burn marks. He had suffered and labored for this throne. His brother could not have it.

  “I want her found. Fetch her for me,” he ordered.

  “Lord, I would, but I do not know how. I am feeble. I have grown old,” Cirilo said, grasping the mattress and attempting to lift himself back to his feet, making more of a show of his frailty than he should, for he had no intention of leaving his home to look for anybody.

  The death lord beheld the wrinkled man with disdain. How brief were the life of mortals! Of course the old man could not chase after the girl.