Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  * * *

  —

  Casiopea stood by the lake while the wind tugged at her hair. Forward, beyond the water there was only salt, and going around it might take a long time. She was forced to sit by the lake and catch her breath. Her body did not hurt anymore, but she knew this was a sign that the end was approaching. There would be no more time.

  She felt the strength ebbing from her, and around her, like a vibration, she could also feel Martín’s steps upon the Black Road as he walked into the city, as he went past the black houses and black monuments and approached the Jade Palace.

  She was dying. The mirage of her old age had been an illusion, but this was real, this death nibbling her fingers.

  She was too far from the Black Road to ever reach the World Tree on time.

  Casiopea grabbed the knife and sighed, turning it between her hands.

  She remembered Loray’s advice. Cut off the hand, serve Vucub-Kamé. And Vucub-Kamé’s offer. Die and offer herself to him. She’d be invited to dwell in the shadow of the World Tree. Hun-Kamé would perish. But he’d perish anyway, and if she performed this one gesture Vucub-Kamé would look at her kindly.

  He might be merciful.

  Betrayal was in her nature, after all. Her grandfather had been disloyal.

  She had dreamed this moment, the slicing of the wrists. It was the arrow of fate. She had been foolish to think she could win this challenge. Unlucky Casiopea, born under a bad star, could not prevail.

  Casiopea clutched the knife, tight. Desperate, scared, wishing to weep her sorrow, she waded into the lake until the water reached her thighs. The knife was in her hand. The obsidian blade was sharp, unnaturally perfect, it was like a black mirror. She caught her reflection in it.

  * * *

  —

  The Black Road grew more convoluted the farther Martín walked around the city. It led him down alleys with dead ends, it dragged him next to magnificent temples and through a market where men sold jaguar pelts and featherless birds, their bones inked with dozens of colors. Gamblers sat on woven mats and threw dice, moving red and blue pebbles across a board. They laughed, showing Martín their pointed teeth.

  “Damn it,” he cursed.

  But he caught a flash of green in his right eye and, turning, beheld, not so distant, the unmistakable silhouette of the Jade Palace.

  Martín smiled.

  * * *

  —

  She could hear Martín’s steps upon the stones of the Black City. She could hear his breath and she could feel inside her the last shreds of time wilting away.

  Casiopea was scared. The fear was like a cloak lined with lead; it held her stiff in its arms. It would not let her move. She was bound in its coils. Live, live, she wanted to live. She wanted a way out.

  It was as Hun-Kamé had told her: life was not fair. Why should she be fair? Why should she suffer? This was not even her story. This kind of tale, this dubious mythmaking, was for heroes with shields and armor, for divinely born twins, for those anointed by lucky stars.

  She was but a girl from nowhere. Let the heroes save the world, save kings who must regain their crowns. Live, live, she wanted to live, and there was a way.

  Who was to say she couldn’t serve a death lord, as her grandfather had? Vucub-Kamé had promised Casiopea would be his favorite courtier. She might even become like Xtabay, with jewels on her fingers and her ears, much admired and respected.

  Why not?

  “I pledge myself to the Supreme Lord of Xibalba,” she told the blade, her voice wavering.

  She raised her arm. And she could see Hun-Kamé dead, the head separated from the body, the body falling. And she could see the future Vucub-Kamé envisioned: his expanded kingdom, the world tasting of smoke and blood, and darkness blotting the land.

  Then she remembered the long road she’d traveled, the obstacles she’d overcome, and what Hun-Kamé had told her when they stood by the sea. It rang in her ears so clearly: And yet you are. She also recalled the ways his eyes had deepened, the velvet blackness, that third kiss he did not share. He didn’t need to. He loved her, she knew it. She loved him back.

  She could not betray him. She could not betray herself. She could not betray the story.

  Mythmaking. It’s greater than you or I, this tale.

  Maybe she was not a hero with a shield and a divine provenance, but it’s the symbolism that matters. She gripped the knife tight.

  “I pledge myself to the Supreme Lord of Xibalba, the Lord Hun-Kamé,” she said, this time with aplomb. Casiopea slid the knife against her throat.

  K’up kaal. The cutting of the throat. The proper way to die. Vucub-Kamé’s suggestion of the slashing of the wrists would have been inadequate.

  Proper or no, the pain was raw; it roared through her body and she opened her eyes wide. The blood welled. It soaked her shirt and she trembled. She let go of the knife, she did not attempt to press her hands against her throat, did not attempt to stop the flow of blood.

  Instead, she remembered what she’d told Hun-Kamé at the hotel: that she wanted everything to live. And her lips, they repeated this request, not life for herself but for all others.

  Casiopea sank to her knees, slid into the water, the lake swallowing her whole.

  The lake was perfectly still. She might never have been there at all.

  K’up kaal.

  * * *

  —

  In the deserts of Xibalba men walked and cried for mercy. In the swamps skeleton birds shrieked. In caves like honeycombs mortals tore their hair out, having forgotten who they were. In the Black City the noble dead who had made proper preparations for the Underworld, decking themselves in serpentine and jade and placing the correct offerings, sat on their couches and drank a black liqueur.

  Xibalba was as it always had been.

  Then the snakes and the jaguar and the bats turned their heads, because the land held its breath. The men in the deserts paused in their cries, the skeleton birds ceased their shrieking, and the lost mortals stopped their gnashing and their tearing, the noble dead held on to their cups tightly.

  Martín, approaching the main entrance to the Jade Palace, stumbled and stood motionless. He did not understand why, only that he must pause, that a force greater than himself demanded he be anchored and he dare not even turn his head.

  In Middleworld, in the casino by the sea, the ground shook. The chandeliers clinked. Huge cracks spread across many mirrors and windows in the hotel. The guests who were watching the roll of the dice and the employees working their shifts let out a gasp, thinking an earthquake was assaulting the peninsula.

  The two Lords of Death, who had been sitting in their wooden chairs, stood up and held their breath, just like the land did. Aníbal Zavala watched as the map of ash that showed the Land of the Dead trembled like a leaf, and though he ordinarily would have coaxed it to regain its shape with his sorcery, he could not.

  Vucub-Kamé stumbled, as if he echoed Martín’s stumble, and Hun-Kamé pressed a hand against his throat.

  On its pedestal, the iron axe that had lopped off Hun-Kamé’s head, and which hungered to cut it again, trembled too. It twisted, as if it were made of paper, and it was shredded into pieces, minuscule bits of iron dashing against the walls of the chamber.

  At the same time the map of ash collapsed upon the floor.

  It was as if the land opened its lips and breathed again, and was made anew.

  They emerged under the shadow of the World Tree. Vucub-Kamé and Hun-Kamé, Zavala and Martín. Even if they had wanted to keep away, they could not have stayed behind. Xibalba drew them in and demanded their presence by the lake.

  At first, there was nothing to see; it was like stepping into an austere, silent chamber. The World Tree rose, majestic, impossibly high, like no natural tree could rise. Without any warning a ripple cu
t across the water and from the lake emerged a monstrous being. It was very old, its body shone slick, like the starry night, a whirl of galaxies and the dust of dead suns coating its scales. It was the Great Caiman, blind creature of the depths.

  A long time ago the caiman had been dismembered, sacrificed. But it had risen again.

  Destruction brings renewal.

  Casiopea had flung herself into the water, and the sacrifice had been noted, echoing through Xibalba. She had woken the caiman, which seldom stirred from its dark abode, massive and roughly carved and so awe-inspiring that upon seeing the creature, Zavala fell to his knees. Martín followed suit. Vucub-Kamé did not move an inch.

  “It cannot be,” whispered the god.

  Vucub-Kamé had foreseen many futures, but he could never have foreseen this. He knew himself already defeated, but the extent of the defeat burned like the fury of the whip. It was as if the universe decided to humble him by conjuring this vision, this being. Vucub-Kamé looked at the palms of his hands, burned by the axe he’d wielded. Burned for no reason. Such a joke! He had achieved nothing.

  Slowly the caiman reached the shore of the lake. Each of its mighty footsteps made the ground tremble. It opened its jaw, and in its mouth it carried a bundle of cloth. The caiman deposited the bundle on the ground, then lumbered back into the water.

  In the silence of its departure stood the gods and the mortals, immobile, until Hun-Kamé stepped forward.

  The bundle of cloth was crimson, the kind of mantle that might be used to wrap a corpse. Hun-Kamé knelt next to the bundle and tugged at one of the corners. There, like a broken flower, lay Casiopea. Her throat bore the cut of the knife, her clothes were caked with blood, her eyes were shut. Her black hair was plastered against her skull.

  “It is trickery,” whispered Vucub-Kamé, and his palms itched as if he’d lacerated them anew. “You have cheated.”

  “It is her victory,” replied Hun-Kamé, with such anger Vucub-Kamé lowered his proud head.

  Hun-Kamé looked again at the girl. Gently he gazed at her and even more gently he touched her, a finger upon her brows, sliding down her cheek, touching her lips, until he pressed a hand against her neck. The gash on her throat became a line of red cinnabar, then he brushed away this line of red dust and the skin was healed.

  Slowly Casiopea opened her eyes, as if she were stirring from a deep and long sleep. He stood up and helped lift her to her feet, and when she rose, her soiled clothing was replaced by a bright crimson dress with black fringes that reached her ankles, a black sash around her waist. In turn, his clothing changed, the jacket and trousers he’d used in Middleworld dissolving. A black loincloth replaced his old outfit, a cape made from the wings of black moths fell upon his shoulders, and on his chest rested his jade green necklace.

  Casiopea blinked, swaying for an instant, and looked at Hun-Kamé attired in his magnificence. When she spoke her voice was low.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “You won the race,” he told her. “You saved me.”

  “I died,” she whispered, her hand splayed against her throat. She glanced at the ground and then back up at him. “I got here first?”

  “It cannot be denied,” Hun-Kamé said, and he turned to his brother.

  Vucub-Kamé stood with his head lowered, but now he extended a hand forward, and on the palm of this hand materialized a black box, decorated with skulls. He offered this box to Hun-Kamé. He did not do so with any joy, but even a god is bound by rules, and Vucub-Kamé could not hold the throne any longer.

  “No, it cannot be denied. She reached the World Tree first, the Great Caiman served as witness to it. Your reign is secure. I offer you that which I took,” he said.

  Hun-Kamé grabbed the box and slid it open. In it sat his missing eye, like a jewel against velvet. He must reintegrate it into his body, complete the process that had begun in Yucatán. Before this, though, he spoke to Casiopea.

  “I owe my kingdom to you and my gratitude,” he told her. “I promised you your heart’s desire, and you may have anything you wish. If you ask for the jewels of the earth, I will grant them. Should you wish to avenge yourself against your treacherous cousin, his blood will be spilled.”

  She glanced at Martín, who was on his knees, his forehead pressed against the dirt. Same as Zavala. She shook her head.

  “I never wanted jewels,” she said. “And I’d like that Martín be allowed to return home.”

  “Very well,” Hun-Kamé said. “As for you, my brother—”

  “I submit to you,” Vucub-Kamé replied, scarred palms up, toward the sky. “Take your vengeance. You’ve earned it.”

  Vucub-Kamé sank to his knees, his head bowed, like a war captive, under the shadow of the World Tree. He offered no resistance, the defiance had been drained from him, and the color had vanished from his eyes. They were as pale as pearls, and his clothes, mimicking his debased state, withered, becoming moth-eaten tatters fit for a beggar.

  Hun-Kamé looked at Vucub-Kamé with a hard face, the face of the blade against the jugular, but when he leaned down it was to clasp his brother’s shoulder.

  “I’ve desired nothing except your death,” he said, “and yet now I do not find the need for it. I was unkind to you and you returned the unkindness, but I cannot perpetuate a cycle of sorrows.”

  At this, Vucub-Kamé did raise his head. He tried to read deceit in his brother’s voice, but could not find it.

  “It is the remaining mortality in your veins that renders you like this,” he said, wary.

  “Perhaps. Or the wisdom to understand the order of duality should not be challenged,” Hun-Kamé said, and then, quietly, “Or the fact that despite my bitterness you are my brother.”

  Hun-Kamé looked down at his brother’s scarred hands, and Vucub-Kamé beheld Hun-Kamé’s face, the empty eye socket.

  The nature of hate is mysterious. It can gnaw at the heart for an eon, then depart when one expected it to remain as immobile as a mountain. But even mountains erode. Hun-Kamé’s hate had been as high as ten mountains and Vucub-Kamé’s spite as deep as ten oceans. Confronted with each other, at this final moment when Hun-Kamé ought to have let hate swallow him, he had decided to thrust it away, and Vucub-Kamé slid off his mantle of spite in response.

  Casiopea had given herself, after all, and Hun-Kamé ought to give too.

  Hun-Kamé handed Vucub-Kamé back the box, and Vucub-Kamé hesitated for a moment before carefully grabbing the missing eye and placing it in his brother’s eye socket. Then Vucub-Kamé lifted his hands, and a crown knit itself between his hands, the royal diadem of onyx and jade, which he placed on Hun-Kamé’s head. Around Hun-Kamé’s waist there was now a leather belt decorated with large incrustations of matching onyx and jade.

  The brothers were both exactly the same height, and when they looked at each other, their eyes were level, dark and light. They were eternal, never changing, and yet they had changed.

  “Welcome to your abode, Supreme Lord of Xibalba,” Vucub-Kamé said.

  The wind, whispering in the branches of the World Tree, repeated these words.

  Crowned anew, Hun-Kamé might have been expected to make his triumphant entrance into the palace, to bask again in the glory of his kingship. Courtiers filled cups brimming with liquor, the incense burners perfumed the air of the throne room. A hundred exaltations waited to be spoken.

  Await they must a little longer.

  He returned to the girl.

  “Come,” he told Casiopea and took her by the hand. His power restored, he did not need the Black Road to walk between shadows, as she’d done, and he simply slipped into that space between spaces and out into a distant corner of his kingdom.

  This was the desert of gray. Nothing grew here. It was the outer edge of Xibalba, where the Black Road begins, even if the borders of Xibalba are ever-changi
ng and no cartographer could ever draw an accurate picture of it. Nevertheless, it was the border of his realm.

  “Soon you must return to Middleworld,” Hun-Kamé told her. “And I must become a god.”

  “Are you not a god yet?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “One last thing remains,” he said, taking her hand between his, and she knew he meant the connective thread of the bone shard, binding death to life. It was there.

  “After this…there is no way for me to stay?” she asked.

  “You live,” he told her soberly.

  “I died, moments ago,” she countered.

  “Yes, and I have returned you to your life. Nothing living can remain for long in the Land of the Dead. It will invariably wither.”

  “And you cannot exist in the land of the living.”

  “No. You forget, besides, my mortality comes to an end. With it, my heart.”

  Casiopea nodded. She understood, and if tears prickled her eyes, she quickly rubbed them away. Hun-Kamé, likely wishing to soothe her, spoke.

  “You’ve asked for nothing, but I wish to place before you these gifts. Let me grant you the power to speak all tongues of the earth, since death knows all languages,” he said. “And let me give you also the gift of conversing with the ghosts that roam Middleworld. Such necromancy may be of value.”

  No show of power accompanied his words, and when the words were said, nothing more remained but to bid each other goodbye.

  He pierced her with his gaze, but his face grew softer as he looked at her, like a man who still lies dreaming. He smiled.

  He cupped her face between his hands and then he pulled her so very close to him. She slid a hand upon his chest, felt there the heart he’d spoken about.

  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, willing him to remember her. It was impossible, like asking the ocean to remain in the palm of one’s hand, but he was somewhat mortal. He was, despite his gleaming garments and the restitution of his power, more mortal than he’d ever been, and he kissed her back with the absolute belief in love only the young can possess.