“I was scared, but I had to tell him what had happened. I thought he’d hit me with the cane, but instead he sighed and he turned to you and he said, ‘Why couldn’t you be a boy?’ And I knew then exactly what he thought of me.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Casiopea said.
“It was. It doesn’t matter if you intended it or not, we were meant to be enemies from then on.”
Casiopea now, with her hair cropped so short and a sharp yellow dress, seemed ages away from the big-eyed girl in the chair, but something of the child remained, hurt at one of his taunts.
“I wanted you to be my friend,” she admitted.
“I’m sorry about that,” he told her, and it was the most honest thing he’d ever said to her, likely the kindest too. Although…if he had stretched his mind far back, there had been an afternoon, shortly after her arrival in Uukumil, when they had gone hunting for bugs behind the house. Digging with sticks and getting dirt under their nails. Until his mother came out and pulled him inside with a few sharp words.
Poor relations. Didn’t make sense to mix with them, especially when that relation bore a resemblance to the maids. Look at her, his mother said, might be a full Indian girl if one did not know any better. Shameful. Martín could only nod at his mother.
“So now…now I’m supposed to do what? Bend the knee before Vucub-Kamé because you are sorry?” Casiopea asked, her voice sharp, making him raise his head.
“Because it’s the smart thing to do, all right?” he shot back.
“You won’t even tell me what Vucub-Kamé has planned.”
“They won’t tell me. They are evasive. It’s not surprising. Grandfather told me nothing growing up, not a single word about Xibalba or the Black Road.”
“But you do know there will be a contest.”
“Something of the sort. Casiopea, neither one of us should be in the Land of the Dead. Take whatever he offers, all right? What’s the matter, don’t you want to go home? Think of your mother if you’ll think of nothing else.”
Martín patted his jacket and lit his cigarette. Gestures like this helped him feel more secure; they reminded him he was alive, which was a great worry to him lately, having seen Xibalba. No man can remain quite the same after observing the Place of Fright.
“I want to get out of this without any more trouble,” he told her. “I want to go home.”
It was he who slipped back this time, becoming the child in Grandfather’s room, sniveling and afraid of the wrath of his elders, twisting the cuffs of his shirt. As he twisted his cuffs, his fingers slid upon the ring of the Death Lord and a change came upon him. He dropped the cigarette.
He felt a voice course through his body without warning. He did not hear it, it was merely there, inside him, as though he were an instrument and someone else was playing him. Ice rushed through his veins, made his eyes shine as bright as polished stones.
“When he no longer needs you, Hun-Kamé will abandon you on the side of the road,” Martín said, and this voice was not his own. It was much too intense, much too bitter. It was not Martín at all, even if it sounded like him. Somehow, it was Vucub-Kamé. “He will give you ashes and vinegar, for he is not generous. You’ll have faced foes and trials, and be left with nothing.”
“I’m not helping him in order to obtain a reward,” she replied.
“But it isn’t fair, is it? Your family will lose everything they have, and you will return home empty-handed. If you can even find the way back. If you even live through it. All he does is take. Take and take some more, doesn’t he?”
He raised a finger, pressed it against his lips, and smirked. “Don’t deny it. He takes your life, your blood. Why can’t you take something for a change?”
She must have noticed the change in him, the glimmer in his eyes.
“Vucub-Kamé…he’s here, isn’t he?” she whispered.
“Yes, he’s here,” Martín muttered.
Casiopea spun around, as if trying to find the Death Lord, but of course Vucub-Kamé wasn’t standing anywhere in sight. Martín bowed his head and placed his hands on Casiopea’s temples.
A fog enveloped him. It blotted his eyesight, it filled his brain. He was there and he wasn’t. When he touched Casiopea the fog lifted for a moment and a thousand colors danced in his eyes. Blue and crimson and yellow and white. In that moment, in that swirl of colors, he saw her dead by a lake. Then a different sight, but no less gruesome: a monster with bat wings ripping off her head. Other grisly deaths followed. The final sight was of Martín plunging a knife into her side. Through all these visions Vucub-Kamé sat on his obsidian throne, unblinking, superimposed, a shadow at the edge of his vision. There. Triumphant. Always.
She gasped. He knew she saw it too. And he knew they were being shown things that might be.
“Name your price, it will be granted. Should you want glory or gold, the Lord of Xibalba can give it to you. But do not consider only the benefits of your abeyance, but pause to think about the dangers of your defiance.”
He released Casiopea and she stumbled back. Her eyes were watery and dark.
“Kiss the lord’s ring and you shall be his favorite courtier,” Martín said with that voice that was not his own. He raised his hand, offering the ring for her to see.
Casiopea looked at him in fright, like when they’d been small and he was cruel to her, and Martín did not know why he felt ashamed then. Of who he had been, who he was. But there was no time to think about this, because she was shaking her head.
“No,” she said, also with that childhood stubbornness.
A terrible pain seized him; it went from the bottom of his spine to his skull, and he grimaced, gnashing his teeth. Vucub-Kamé could not speak more than a few words through this intermediary, and poor Martín shivered as the overwhelming presence that had invaded him departed.
“Martín?” she said.
“It has passed,” he mumbled.
“Do you want to sit down?”
There was a stone bench nearby. She tried to get him to go to it, but he could not. His legs felt weak, and a sob lodged in his throat. “No, no…Casiopea, can we simply get out of here? Can we simply leave?” he begged her. “Can you take me home?”
That is what he desired more than anything. Home, without monsters or gods or journeys.
“Oh, Martín,” she said.
Casiopea set a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he thought she was going to accept he was in the right, that she’d do the bidding of Vucub-Kamé, but then he noticed that her sympathy was not a sign of soft weakness.
“No,” she said, but kindly this time.
“God. Stop being pigheaded!” he yelled, shoving her arm away, more furious at her warmth than her refusal. “It’s exactly like I said, you do something stupid! You never do as I say!”
Casiopea took a step away from him, but she did not seem too worried about his fury.
“I am a man,” he said, jabbing a thumb against his chest. “I am your elder. I am going to be the leader of the family. What are you? Who do you think you are?”
“I’ve never been anyone,” she replied.
“He’ll kill you!” he yelled. “Maybe he’ll kill us both! Is that what you want?”
She did not answer him. He watched her rush back inside the building and did not follow her. Martín sat by the fountain, listening to the stone frog gurgle. He tried to convince himself that Casiopea was a stupid girl, that if they were to compete she would lose. That he had the upper hand, having seen Xibalba and walked through its road. That Vucub-Kamé would necessarily win this contest, and then Martín would be returned home, rewarded like a prince. He tried to count the gems and the gold he’d obtain. He tried and he did a good job of it, even if his hands shook.
You could not, they’d told them, enter the main ballroom without a tuxedo and an evenin
g gown. There was a strict dress code. And so Casiopea and Hun-Kamé set about making themselves presentable, courtesy of the owner of Tierra Blanca, who had ordered they be treated with the utmost care.
She settled on a dress of pale cream, sheer chiffon with a floral design, rhinestones and silver beading splayed down the front of the bodice. The back of the gown was scandalously low, the kind of dress society ladies and movie stars wore when they were photographed for the papers. Not that she’d ever thought they’d want to take her picture and caption it. But now! Now she twirled in front of a mirror and watched the beading of her outfit sparkle like tiny twinkling stars.
They washed and combed her short locks and rouged her cheeks. When she met Hun-Kamé, her hair like lacquer and her eyes lined dark with kohl, she looked as elegant as any of the celebrities who crowded the casino. He looked very fine too, the tuxedo and bow tie giving him a severe yet appealing air, and she fancied that he was a bit like this when he sat in his throne room. A jewel, cut and polished to perfection.
He nodded at her, seemingly pleased, and gave her his arm.
They walked into the ballroom, and a few heads turned their way, curious, wondering who these two were. Movie people, come from Mexico City? Fortune hunters made a note of them as they were guided toward Zavala across the vast dining room, which was made to seem vaster thanks to the profusion of floor-to-ceiling gilded mirrors, each one separating the tall windows that opened to one of the gardens.
Great chandeliers illuminated the patrons, and were organic in their look, recalling the branches of trees. The floor was oak, perfect for dancing, and the walls were painted the intense blue Casiopea associated with Yucatán, but the pillars carved with pre-Hispanic–inspired figures that seemed to support the room were all white. It was truly a palace, and she felt like a lady who is to be presented at court for the first time.
Upon a raised platform, shaped like a shell, a band played, the members attired in identical white outfits.
There, not far from the band, was the table where Martín and an older man sat together. The man was idly smoking a cigar, looking bored and decadent, oblivious to the music and the people around them, but seeing them he stood up in greeting. Martín followed suit.
This could only be Zavala. The resemblance to the Uay Chivo was plain enough and it made her uncomfortable, as she recalled the death of the man. Casiopea sat down. A waiter approached them and poured champagne into long-stemmed glasses.
“Hun-Kamé and Casiopea Tun. Thank you, thank you so much for meeting with me. Did you find your rooms adequate?” Zavala asked. “I do hope you are having a grand time. That dress looks lovely, my dear.”
Zavala spoke with the kindness of a doting grandfather, his voice mild, but having spent her childhood next to a tyrannical man, Casiopea could spot the unpleasantness in the warlock, like cigar smoke may cling to a jacket.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Fine things suit her, don’t they, Martín?” Zavala asked, although he did not turn toward her cousin, who had not deigned to utter a word of greeting to her. “And you? How do you like the place, Hun-Kamé?”
“It is gaudy,” Hun-Kamé replied.
“Well, we couldn’t exactly have a pyramid, could we? This is a modern adaptation.”
“Is that what you are calling it?”
“Power flows through this building and even more power will flow through every tile and every wall, spreading across the land, bringing back the might of Xibalba. The name of the Supreme Lord will be on every man’s lips and they will lance their tongues and offer their blood to Vucub-Kamé,” he said, the mask of the kind patriarch yanked away, the magician, the priest, unveiled.
“Not while I remain,” Hun-Kamé said.
“We shall see.”
Hun-Kamé picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. She followed suit, drinking too fast, the sweetness of the champagne alien to her. Martín stared at her, and she almost apologized, the old custom, before remembering that his disapproval did not matter.
“Well, did we come to hear you speak the same inane words you have spoken for decades?” Hun-Kamé asked, setting his glass down.
“If you were wiser you’d have let me assist you and overseen the design of this fabulous palace. But you are stubborn,” Zavala said, again speaking like a kindly father might, chiding a recalcitrant son. It had no effect on Hun-Kamé, whose face was hard.
“And you are nothing but an upstart warlock almost as deluded as my brother. Tell me why we are here.”
Zavala held his cigar between his thumb and his index finger and stared at them, grinning, flashing a row of yellowed teeth. His face, if you looked at it carefully, was slightly jaundiced. They said that when Montejo attempted to conquer Yucatán he had captured Indians and thrown them to his pack of dogs, to be devoured. That’s what Zavala reminded her of. He devoured people.
“We are here to discuss terms,” Zavala said.
“Oh?”
“You don’t expect your brother will sweep in and you will skewer him with a sword, do you? The conflicts of gods don’t often play out that way. At least, not these days, and not with you in this state. You look…diminished.”
Hun-Kamé sat proud and dignified. He did not protest Zavala’s words, perhaps because they were true, or more likely because he thought it beneath him to answer such a charge.
“The Supreme Lord proposes a contest, the girl serving as your proxy and this young man here representing Vucub-Kamé,” Zavala said, slapping Martín’s shoulder. Her cousin was not pleased with the physical contact, grimacing.
“What kind of contest?” she asked.
“In ancient times we might have had two mortals face with shield and bladed weapons. Or perhaps play the ball game, the loser to be sacrificed upon the sacred court. Alas, I don’t think it would be quite fair, seeing as neither of you are ball players, nor are you warriors.”
Casiopea almost chuckled. Martín could ride a horse, but little more than that. He had no interest in sports, and while the other children in their town might eagerly chase a ball across the street, he did nothing of the sort. At least Casiopea had the strength developed from going to and fro around the house; the constant scrubbing of floors and the carrying of boxes stuffed with fruits and vegetables into the kitchen had developed her muscles—though these days, she felt tired and spent.
“The Supreme Lord suggests a more appropriate game. Whoever walks the Black Road and reaches the World Tree in the heart of Xibalba first wins. It is elegantly simple.”
It did sound simple, and if she had not seen the Black Road in her sleep she might have readily agreed, but the dream of blood and death made her curl her hands in her lap, clutching a bit of the fabric of her dress between her fingers. She recalled her meeting with her cousin, the visions she’d had in the garden. She could not pretend these were mere dreams. She had felt the touch of magic; she’d seen portents.
Vucub-Kamé was warning her. Or threatening her. And though she tried to dismiss it all as tricks, as ridiculous attempts to intimidate her, Casiopea knew there was some truth in the words he’d spoken and the things he’d shown them.
“Now, there are rules,” Zavala said. “First of all, Hun-Kamé’s magic may not protect you in Xibalba. You will be vulnerable to the elements and the piercing kiss of the blade. The same will go for Martín. No assistance can be provided; you will walk the road alone with an obsidian knife to keep you company. We are fair, after all.”
“What happens if I get there first?” Casiopea asked.
“The Lord Vucub-Kamé will kneel before Hun-Kamé and let him lop off his head for his intransigence. But if you should lose, dear girl, then it is Hun-Kamé’s head that will roll, and you will face an unpleasant life and an even more unpleasant afterlife, shackled inside the Razor House.”
She recalled the story of the Hero Twins
and their journey through the houses of Xibalba. The Razor House was filled with knives, which flew through the air and sliced the flesh, but the twins had offered the knives the bodies of animals. As a result, the knives did not cut their skin. But that was a story, likely told to comfort mortals, and Casiopea did not think she’d be granted such a respite.
“You look upset, darling,” Zavala said, his voice full of mock kindness. “Would you like more champagne?”
“I’m fine.”
Zavala ignored her words, instead filling her glass to the brim again. She did not touch it, watching as her cousin finished his drink and fidgeted with a napkin.
“Well, one must always bet to win the game, and this is an important game, Casiopea. Being the champion of a god is no easy task. Now, you two don’t need to accept the proposal right this instant. Vucub-Kamé wishes to speak to you. He has a more magnanimous idea.”
“He has some trap he wishes to spring on us,” Hun-Kamé replied. “A trick of his.”
“Tricks, tricks, what an unkind thing to say. It may be he wishes to make amends, hmmm?” Zavala said. “Whatever he wants, he cannot address you directly unless you allow it, Hun-Kamé. Therefore, will you speak to him? He will visit you, if you agree.”
“As if we have a choice.”
“You have a choice. That is the point,” Zavala said.
“If I said no, what would he do? Place notes under my door?” Hun-Kamé asked. “We are at the end of this journey, after all, and must greet each other at last. He may show his face, if he wishes it.”
“Then it is accepted and arranged. Go back to your rooms. He will be there.”
Though the words were uncomplicated and mundane, Casiopea knew by now that every sentence spoken might carry hidden, magical meanings, and so it was in this case.
Zavala raised a glass, as if toasting them, and smiled at her. “You must know, dear girl, that Vucub-Kamé can be kind. Up to a certain point. But if you two force his hand…then it’s the Black Road. Tell me, honestly, do you fear death?”
Gods of Jade and Shadow Page 25
