Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  He left her with that. He did not consider that his attempt at an apology had been insufficient, nor that Casiopea had a reason to be curt with him. He simply catalogued this conversation as another mark against his cousin’s character and went to bed without regrets. If she wanted to martyr herself while the rest of the household enjoyed a day of merriment, let her be.

  It was T’hó before the Spaniards stumbled upon the city—once glorious, then ruined, as all earthly things must be ruined—and named it Mérida. The vast sisal plantations made the hacendados rich, and great houses rose to mark the size of their owners’ fortunes, replacing mud-splattered streets with macadam and public lighting. The upper-class citizens of Mérida claimed the city was as fine as Paris and patterned Paseo Montejo after the Champs-Élysées. Since Europe was considered the cradle of sophistication, the best clothing stores in Mérida sold French fashions and British boots, and ladies said words like charmant to demonstrate the quality of their imported tutors. Italian architects were hired to erect the abodes of the wealthy. Parisian milliners and dressmakers made the rounds of the city once a year to promote the latest styles.

  Despite the revolution, the “divine caste” endured. Perhaps no more Yaquis were being deported from Sonora, forced to work the sisal fields; perhaps no more Korean workers were lured with promises of fast profits and ended as indentured servants; perhaps the price of henequen had fallen, and perhaps the machinery had gone silent at many plantations, but money never leaves the grasp of the rich easily. Fortunes shifted, and several of the prominent Porfirian families had married into up-and-coming dynasties; others had to make do with slightly less. Mérida was changing, but Mérida was still a city where the moneyed, pale, upper-crust citizens dined on delicacies, and the poor went hungry. At the same time, a country in flux is a country padded with opportunities.

  Casiopea tried to remind herself of this, that here was her chance to see the city of Mérida. Not under the circumstances she had imagined, but a chance nevertheless.

  Mérida was busy, its streets bustling with people. Everyone walked quickly. She had little time to take in the dignified buildings. It was all a blur of color and noise, and sometimes clashing styles, which testified to the tastes of the nouveau riche who had built the city: Moorish, Spanish, quasi-rococo. She wished to grip the god’s hand and ask him to pause to look at the black automobiles parked in a neat row, but did not dare.

  They passed the city hall, with its clock tower. They crossed the town square that served as the beating heart of Mérida. They went around the cathedral, which had been built using stones from Mayan temples. She wondered if Hun-Kamé would be displeased by the sight of the building, but he did not even glance at it, and soon they were walking down side streets, farther from the crowds and the noise, leaving downtown behind.

  Hun-Kamé stopped before a two-story building, painted green, restrained and proper in its appearance. Above its heavy wooden door there was a stone carving, a hunter with a bow aiming at the heavens.

  “Where are we?” she asked, feeling out of breath. Her feet hurt and her forehead was beaded with sweat. They had not eaten nor traded words during their trip. She was more exhausted than alarmed at this point.

  “Loray’s home. He is a foreigner, a demon, and thus may prove useful.”

  “A demon?” she said, adjusting her shawl. It was filthy with the dust from the road. “Is it safe to see him?”

  “As I said, he is a foreigner and so he acts as a neutral party. He will not have any allegiance to my brother,” he replied.

  “Are you certain he is home? Perhaps we ought to return later.”

  Hun-Kamé placed a hand against the door, and it opened. “We enter now.”

  Casiopea did not move. He walked ahead a few paces and, noticing she was not following him, turned his head.

  “Do not sell him your soul and you’ll be fine,” he said laconically.

  “That sounds simple,” she replied, with a tad of a bite to the words.

  “It is,” he said, either not registering the sarcasm in her voice or not caring.

  Casiopea took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  They went down a wide hallway, the floor decorated with orange Ticul stone, the walls painted yellow. It led into a courtyard, a vine-entangled tree rising in a corner and a fountain gurgling at its side. They walked into a vast living room. White couches, black lacquered furniture. Two floor-to-ceiling mirrors with ebony frames. White flowers upon a low table. The only word to describe the room was opulent, though it was not like her grandfather’s home. She thought it bolder, minimalist.

  A man sat on one of the couches. He wore a gray suit and gray tie, with a jade lapel pin for a note of color. His face was finely chiseled and he had a gallant, youthful appearance—one could not guess him more than thirty-two, thirty-three—though the eyes dispelled that impression. His eyes were much older, an impossible shade of green. On his right shoulder there sat a raven, preening itself. She knew the bird and man to be supernatural, similar to the god she traveled with and yet of a different vintage.

  The green-eyed man smirked and threw his head back, staring at the ceiling.

  “How is it that you are here? There are wards on the doors and windows,” the man said.

  “Neither locks, nor wards, can keep a Lord of Xibalba out. Death enters all dwellings.”

  “Death has no manners. I thought your brother banished you.”

  “Imprisoned me,” Hun-Kamé said in a monotone. “It was unpleasant.”

  “Oh, well, you are free now. And dragging a soiled parcel, I see. That girl is more dust and grime than girl.”

  The green-eyed man looked at her, his arm draped over the back of the couch. Casiopea felt her face grow hot with mortification, but she did not reply. She’d heard worse insults.

  “Loray, Marquess of Arrows, I present the Lady Tun,” Hun-Kamé said with a motion of his hand.

  The use of the word “lady” surprised her. Casiopea stared at Hun-Kamé, not knowing why he’d called her that. For a moment she felt like folding against herself, like a fan.

  The demon smiled at this, and then Casiopea straightened herself and looked him in the face. Martín had told her she was haughty. She saw no reason to attempt modesty at this point. She sensed that would have been the wrong choice with Loray.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending a hand to him.

  Loray stood up and shook it, despite her dirty and sweaty palms. “I am delighted to meet the lady. Delighted to see you again, too, Hun-Kamé. Sit, please, both you and your companion.”

  They did. Casiopea was grateful for the respite. She wanted to take off her huaraches and rub her feet: she had a blister on her toe. Her hair, under the shawl, was in disarray.

  “I suppose you aren’t here for wine and a cheese platter, although, should you fancy that, there are always drinks in this household. What do you need from me?” the demon asked, sitting down and stretching his legs.

  “I am missing certain elements of myself and must retrieve them. You know my brother and have traded with him. Perhaps in your dealings he has revealed a secret or two. Or else you’ve dug those secrets out from other parties, as you are wont to do.”

  “Dear Hun-Kamé, you might have forgotten this detail, being absent for as long as you’ve been: I am but a demon and do not trade with your brother,” Loray said, pressing a hand against his heart theatrically.

  “You trade with everyone.”

  “Everyone,” the raven repeated, hopping down to rest at Loray’s side. The demon tipped his head, glancing at the bird.

  “I speak with everyone. It’s not the same at all.”

  “Spare me the intricate definitions you apply to yourself,” Hun-Kamé said. “You survive by selling secrets. Sell me one. Or are you going to disappoint me and tell me you’ve lost your touch?”
/>
  “Lost his touch,” the raven agreed and flew off to the other end of the room, sitting on top of a sleek white liquor cabinet.

  Loray raised an eyebrow at that and chuckled, pausing to give the bird an irritated look. “Well. You might be disappointed to hear I know where only one of your missing body parts lies, Hun-Kamé.”

  Loray rose and poured himself a glass of a dark liquor he took from the white cabinet. Technically Yucatán was one of the few “dry” states in the country, but the application of the law was haphazard, and it was no surprise a fancy house like Loray’s came equipped with plenty of booze.

  “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

  She shook her head no. Hun-Kamé also rejected the drink. The demon shrugged and sat down again, the glass in his left hand.

  “I know where you can find your missing ear, but that is all. The issue, however, is the price of my assistance, and the matter of your brother’s wrath if he hears I have helped you.”

  “As if you feared the gods or the night, archer,” Hun-Kamé replied. “But name your price.”

  “Archer. How formal we’ve become. Well, as you know, I am restricted in my movements, bound to this city. A ridiculous spell someone set on me,” Loray said.

  “By your own doing. If you didn’t want to be here, you shouldn’t have followed those Frenchmen into their petty war of conquest.”

  “The mistakes of my youth! It takes a century or two to learn better. Give me leave to travel this land. Open the Black Road of Xibalba so that I may walk it.”

  “Open,” the raven repeated, imitating his master.

  Hun-Kamé looked at the demon. His angular face had a fixedness to it that was unpleasant, but then he tipped his head, a slight nod.

  “When I regain my throne, you may walk the roads of Xibalba, beneath the earth, but Middleworld is not my domain,” the god reminded him.

  “That will be sufficient, since from Xibalba I may find my way back to Middleworld easily enough,” the demon replied. “I will tell you who has your ear, but you may not like the answer. It is with the Mamlab, unfortunately, and you know what that entails, gentle rain or hard thunder, who can say. I despise weather gods. They are too moody.”

  Loray downed his drink, his eyes resting on Hun-Kamé. Whether he expected Hun-Kamé to be disappointed or pleased with the answer, she did not know, but she did note that the god’s expression was leaden. He revealed nothing.

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Which one?”

  “The youngest, for it could be none other than him. Speak, then. Where?”

  “You are correct, it is the youngest. And I thought your brother was the diviner!”

  “Marquess, vanish your mirth,” Hun-Kamé said, his voice clipped.

  Loray sighed. “Precisely? It is hard to tell. Again, that is the problem with weather gods. But it is almost time for Carnival and I wager he will be in Veracruz. You’ll have to take a ship from Progreso to get there, but these days there are many vessels moving in and out of that port, so it should not be a problem. I can arrange your passage if you wish,” the demon said, polite as polite could be. “You might even be able to leave by tomorrow. It’ll give you a chance to rest.”

  Rest, yes. Whether it was the trip, the shock of walking next to a god, or the bone shard in her hand, Casiopea felt the desperate need to curl up in bed and sleep.

  “Come. You’ll like the guest rooms,” Loray said, guiding them through his house.

  Loray was right. Her room was large and airy, with plenty of light filtering in. But she did not pause to look around much, instead falling upon the bed and sleeping as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  When Casiopea woke it was to the smell of coffee. Tentatively she opened her eyes and stared at the fine, high ceiling, then lifted herself up, leaning on her elbows.

  “Good morning, miss,” a maid said.

  “Good morning,” Casiopea repeated.

  The maid handed her a tray and cutlery. Casiopea, who until this point was used to serving others, regarded the breakfast with wary eyes.

  “Mr. Loray has asked several employees from the Parisian to stop by this morning.”

  “What is that?” she asked.

  The maid frowned. “It is a shop. They are bringing dresses for you. You’ll have to take a bath.”

  Casiopea ate the breakfast, hardly chewing. The maid hurried her, saying the dressmakers would arrive any minute now. She was essentially shoved into the bathroom. It was very different from the simple shower she was used to. It had a big bathtub with iron-clawed feet and on shelves there sat dozens of bottles with expensive oils and perfumes.

  She filled the tub to the brim and proceeded to pour from a few of the bottles of oils. Roses and lilacs and other sweet-smelling things. At home, she would clean her neck and face in the water basin each morning and was allowed a shower on Sundays, before church. Grandfather said they should not use the hot water, that a good cold shower was what young people needed to keep their heads clear of noxious ideas. Casiopea made sure to leave the hot tap open until the bathroom was clouded with steam. Then she slid into the tub so that the water reached her chin. She had a knack for quiet insurrection.

  Once she was done washing away the grime of the road, the water in the tub rendered murky, she splashed out and wrapped herself in a huge towel. She wrung out and combed her hair. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she found an extensive number of boxes were scattered around her room, from which three women were pulling dresses, skirts, and undergarments. The women spoke about Casiopea in a direct, unflattering fashion. They knew her, at a glance, a country girl and judged her for it.

  “You’d think she’d never worn a corselet,” one woman said.

  “Or garters,” another replied.

  “Or even stockings. She has a peasant’s legs, quite bare, but at least that means there’s little to shave,” a third concluded.

  “What is there to shave?” Casiopea asked, but her question was not answered, and instead the women demonstrated the proper wearing of hosiery and kept talking as if she were not there, or worse, as if she were a doll they were dressing.

  The women handed her item after item and asked what she thought. Casiopea, who owned one good dress for church, had a hard time making an assessment, and several times the women chuckled at her stammered answers. She ended up donning an ivory dress with a bright green contrasting sash, so light it frightened her, the hem shorter than anything she’d ever worn. It hit her mid-calf. Grandfather thought the ankle was the proper length for a skirt, but these women insisted this was the fashion.

  It looked like the things girls wore in magazines. Reckless, as was this whole voyage.

  Charmeuse, voile, gingham in bold colors were heaped on the bed as the maid began to fold the items Casiopea had picked, or at least acquiesced to, placing them in a suitcase. Another maid walked in and said Loray wanted to speak to her.

  Casiopea went back to the living room, glad that she did not have to stare at silk brassieres with side laces any longer. The demon smiled as soon as he saw her and, walking toward her, lifted her hand. His raven was not at his shoulder this time; it rested on the back of a chair, cocking its head at them.

  “There you are and looking well.”

  She nodded, unsure of his intent. He held her hand and kissed it, like gentlemen used to do in the old days. He clasped her hand between his.

  “You must forgive me for what I said before. I was rude to you. It is a fault of mine, I can be boorish.”

  “It’s fine. Although I wonder why you’ve bothered giving me nice clothes,” she replied, pulling away from his grasp and lightly tugging at the sash adorning her hips. It felt so odd to be attired like this, and she wondered how much he’d spent on her.

  “I thought you could use a change of outfit, and I wa
s correct,” Loray said, appraising the girl with a smile. “Besides, it might help us become better friends.”

  He was trying to charm her, but Casiopea was not used to being charmed. The village boys scarcely paid attention to her. Had she been a common servant they might have wooed her and stolen kisses, but since she was a member of the Leyva family, however nominally, they did not dare. She had little practice in this arena.

  For this reason, rather than blushing or lowering her lashes, she replied with earnest vehemence.

  “Somehow I don’t think demons and gods have many friends,” she said.

  “You are correct. But I’m willing to make an exception for you, seeing as I have a soft spot for mythmaking. Do you understand the journey you are about to embark on?”

  “I know I have to help Hun-Kamé if I am to help myself.”

  “Of course, but do you understand what is at stake?” he asked.

  She had no idea. A somnambulist, she was placing one foot in front of the other and following whatever path Hun-Kamé traced. It was not a lack of initiative on her behalf: she was utterly confused, unsure any of what was happening was quite real, and reacted based on instinct. She was, however, curious.

  “Tell me,” she said, knowing a story lay ahead, as fine as any of the legends and tall tales her father had spun for her.

  “Thousands upon thousands of years ago a stone fell upon the earth. It cracked the land, left a scar. And when an event of such intensity takes place, something remains,” Loray told her, and seemed pleased in the telling. “Power, embedded in the peninsula, radiating from it. There is much magic here. In other parts of the world the ancient gods have gone to sleep, for although gods do not die, they must slumber when their devoted cease in their prayers and offerings.

  “But here the gods still walk in Yucatán. They can move deep into the jungles, into the isthmus, or they can wander farther north, where the rattlesnakes curl in the desert, though the farther they walk from the place of their birth, the weaker they become. Yucatán is a well of power, and the Supreme Lord of Xibalba can tap into that power.”