Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Then he spoke to the larger owl. He instructed it to fly to Middleworld and find the mortal man, Martín. The owl would transport the man to Mexico City, where Martín could await the arrival of his cousin. There was no doubt this was the trajectory Hun-Kamé was following, attempting to reconstruct himself as quickly as possible.

  If Martín succeeded in intercepting Casiopea, Vucub-Kamé would be able to enjoy an undeniable victory. Should she evade him or, worse, refuse to meet with Vucub-Kamé…well, the death god had left little to chance. Even if chance had somehow infiltrated his plans, even if the future concealed itself from the god’s gaze, he would achieve his goal.

  Seven heartbeats had separated the brothers. Hun-Kamé, the firstborn, claimed the crown, the throne, the realm of Xibalba, because of the span of those heartbeats. Afterward there emerged Vucub-Kamé, trailing after his siblings, holding the long black cloak that covered Hun-Kamé’s shoulders. For a while their kingdom had expanded, growing in beauty and power, their other brothers appearing to complete their court, siblings born from charred bones and nightmares. Then there had come the phantasmagoric buildings of the Black City, the monsters in the plains made of ashes, the ever-increasing sighs and prayers and thoughts of mortals giving their world its colors.

  And then, silence, decay. The prayers dwindled. Hun-Kamé, as if to match the indifferent times in Middleworld, had become an indifferent master, both selfish and spoiled. Vucub-Kamé had urged his brother to travel with him to Middleworld, not because he cherished mortals and their cities, but because he worried about the changes occurring on the peninsula. He worried about Xibalba. Hun-Kamé ventured up through the centuries, but even as sorcerers from across the sea disembarked near T’hó, bringing with them demons and spell books and even a ghost or two pressed against their backs, the Lord of Xibalba shrugged.

  Vucub-Kamé had taken the kingdom because he must. He, as the superior brother, had been constantly cast as the inferior, and yet he would be the savior of Xibalba. He was the son Xibalba required, its future and its one chance.

  Hun-Kamé had been given the mastery of illusions, but wasn’t Vucub-Kamé a great sorcerer in his own right? Was he not more cunning than his brother? Was he not worthier of the black throne?

  Yes, the god assured himself. All of this was true. All of this was known. One day mortals would make songs about his victory, narrating how death killed death and carved himself a magnificent new kingdom. An impossible task. A thousand years they’d sing and a thousand more.

  Vucub-Kamé let a smile graze his lips. It was a terrible smile, and his very white teeth threatened to grind bones to dust. But then, one must not expect tenderness of death.

  The god summoned another caiman and rode it back toward his palace, while the body of the creature he had decapitated sank slowly into the muck.

  Long after the god had abandoned the swamp did the birds in the trees dare to lift their heads and emitted their shrill cries, but haltingly, afraid of their lord’s anger.

  Mexico City has never inspired much love. “At least it’s not Mexico City!” spills from the lips of anyone who resides outside the capital, a shake of the head accompanying the phrase. Everyone agrees that Mexico City is a vile cesspool, filled with tenements, criminals, and the most indecent lowbrow entertainment available. Paradoxically, everyone also agrees Mexico City exudes a peculiar allure, due to its wide avenues and shiny cars, its department stores filled to the brim with fine goods, its movie theaters showing the latest talkies. Heaven and hell both manifest in Mexico City, coexisting side by side.

  Until 1925 Mexico City had been relatively free of the foreign influence of the flapper. Then, all of a sudden, the streets were inundated with bataclanesco imagery, courtesy of a troupe of dancers who’d come to perform at the most expensive clubs in the city. The slender, languid, androgynous female dominated the capital’s billboards. Though some capitalinos, attached to their delicate morals, shook their head at these “painted women,” many embraced the new ideal eagerly, glancing with distrust at the lowly “Indians” who came from other parts of the country and did not make any effort to hide their tanned skins under face powder, nor don the stylish dresses of the Jazz Age.

  If the Porfiriato had been all about imitating French customs, Mexico City in the 1920s was all about the United States, reproducing its women, its dances, its fast pace. Charleston! The bob cut! Ford cars! English was sprinkled on posters, on ads, it slipped from the lips of the young just as French phrases had once been poorly repeated by the city folk. A bad imitation of Rudolph Valentino, hair slicked back, remained in vogue, and the women were trying to emulate that Mexican wildcat, Lupe Vélez, who was starring in Hollywood films.

  As Casiopea and Hun-Kamé left the train station, hailed a cab, and journeyed downtown, she observed this prismatic, contrasting city. If she’d thought in Mérida people moved quickly, the pace was absolutely insane in Mexico City. Everyone rushed to and fro, savage motorists banged the Klaxon looking for a fight, the streetcars drifted down the avenues packed with sweaty commuters, newspaper vendors cried out the headlines of the day at street corners, and billboards declared that you should smoke El Buen Tono cigarettes. Kodak film and toothpaste were available for sale in the stores, and, near an intersection, a poor woman with a baby begged for coins, untouched by the reign of progress and modernity.

  There were many places where someone with money could stay. Hun-Kamé decided on the Hotel Mancera, with rooms starting at five pesos a night, a price that Casiopea found terribly high. It had been the baroque home of aristocrats before it was vastly remodeled and turned into a venue that now boasted about its beds with box springs and Simmons steel furniture. High ceilings, chandeliers, wood paneling, and a handsome bar completed the ensemble. It was, in one word, luxurious, and had been purchased by the leader of a union, the Confederación Regional Obrera Mexicana. They said he’d paid for it in gold, that he organized numerous orgies, and that he’d gone through a million pesos meant for disaster relief. This was all likely true.

  So far, their trip had been scarce on grand accommodations, and Casiopea felt intimidated as they walked into the lobby, having no idea even how she was supposed to greet the person behind the front desk. Hun-Kamé, however, knew what he was doing, or at the very least had no problem commanding attention.

  He secured for them two rooms, though they did not have a chance to unpack, because Hun-Kamé immediately set out to conduct errands with her. Or so he told the hotel staff as he instructed them to take their bags to the rooms without them.

  They did indeed go outside, and it was not hard to find the things Hun-Kamé wanted: matches and scissors. Curious, Casiopea inquired about this purchase, and Hun-Kamé said he would explain back at the hotel. Since she was hungry and wanted to get a bite, she let it go.

  “I must summon a ghost,” Hun-Kamé told her when they were back in her room, as he closed the heavy curtains.

  “You need scissors for that?” she asked.

  “Yes. To cut your hair. A good chunk of it will have to go,” he said and touched her hair, indicating how much of her long mane he needed: he meant to cut it below her chin.

  She thought she hadn’t heard him right. “My hair,” she said carefully.

  “Yes.”

  She did not even know what to tell him. All she wanted to do was yell a loud, emphatic no, and yet she was not even able to open her mouth, too outraged to phrase her objections.

  “Let me explain,” he offered, his voice very calm. “I am in need of information regarding the whereabouts of my missing elements, and I will employ ghosts for this purpose. The summoning of ghosts can be done using human hair, bones, or teeth.”

  “But…but you called that other thing in Veracruz and you didn’t need my hair,” she protested.

  “That was a psychopomp, a creature of Xibalba over which I have some power, by virtue of my birth.
If we were in my realm I would indeed be able to summon the dead without offerings. But, since I am in your world and since I am not…quite myself at this moment, I must find another solution.”

  He was being serious. She had hoped it was a jest, even if she didn’t think him capable of jesting.

  “You cannot use me as…as…a stupid puppet,” Casiopea said. “You can’t take whatever you want and—”

  “If you calm down, you will realize this is the most rational way to proceed.”

  “Can’t we…what if we pay a barber for some hair? They sweep it away into the garbage, anyway,” she insisted.

  “Symbolism is important. It should be offered willingly,” he said, speaking low.

  She had not been one for tantrums as a child, but when she did pitch a fit, it was a sight to behold, and right then she felt that if she didn’t sit down, calm herself, and close her eyes, she was going to smack the god of the dead across the face. She’d hit Martín one time when she’d been like this. “Devil’s got into her,” her mother said when her temper flared.

  “You and your symbolism! I do not know why I even came with you to this city!” she yelled, because he was being so damn calm and measured, and his voice was but a whisper.

  There was a table by a window and on it a glass ashtray, rather heavy. She clutched it between her hands and wished to pelt him with it, but then, thinking better of it, she sat on the floor and tossed it aside.

  “You came with me because we are linked together, unfortunately, and you need me to remove the shackles that bind us,” he said. “And maybe because it’s greater than you or I, this whole tale.”

  Casiopea stubbornly stared at her shoes. “I don’t care,” she said in a low voice.

  He leaned down, as if to get a better look at her.

  “We could try to do this another way, which would involve having to get a shovel and see if we can find a suitable corpse at the cemetery, but when it comes to necromancy, I am guessing you prefer to keep it simple, especially since time is ticking.”

  He spoke so serenely, so nicely. It made her feel petulant and silly, and it made her want to wail. So she bit her lip hard, because if she didn’t she was going to really, truly, smack him across the face.

  “Why not you? Why is it always me that has to make an offering?” Casiopea asked.

  “Because, my dear, you are mortal and I am a god. Gods make no offerings of this sort,” he said with a tone that was not condescending but had a delicate flatness to it.

  She grew angrier, not exactly at him anymore, but at the whole universe, which, as usual, demanded that she be the lowest rung of the ladder. She had thought her position had changed when she’d left Uukumil, but it had not. She was Casiopea Tun, the stars aligned against her.

  “Give me the scissors,” she said, the cold fury of this thought granting her the strength to go through with the task.

  She planted herself in the bathroom, glaring at the mirror, and at him, since he stood behind her. She made quick work of it. Although Casiopea attempted to maintain a steady hand, she butchered her hair. The dark strands fell to the floor, her long mane savaged by her own hand. For a moment she was fine. Another moment and she had tossed the scissors away and was crying, sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

  She couldn’t help it. The tears rolled down her cheeks even as she tried to blot them out. “It was the one thing…the only thing anyone ever told me was ‘you have pretty hair,’ ” she whispered.

  He looked at her with cool detachment and she felt embarrassed, sitting there with her eyes red, sniffling. She’d learned to keep her tears at bay; Martín teased her so much she had to. It was uncomfortable to behave like a child when she prided herself on her mettle and common sense. Hun-Kamé reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to the girl. She wiped her eyes roughly.

  “You should start your summoning,” she said, handing him back the handkerchief. There was no point in mourning her lost mane.

  He gathered the hair, and they headed back to the bedroom. Hun-Kamé retrieved a metal wastebasket sitting by the desk, deposited the hair in it, then placed the wastebasket in the middle of the bedroom. He struck a match, setting the hair on fire, the sharp smell of it making her eyes watery again. All this occurred in perfect silence.

  “Hold my hand,” he told her. “Do not let go, even if you are frightened. And do not look into their eyes, do you understand?”

  “Why?”

  “Ghosts are hungry,” he said simply. “Repeat with me: I shall hold on to your hand and I will not look into their eyes.”

  Casiopea thought she had no business holding any man’s hand for an extended length of time, but then, she didn’t like the word “hungry” paired with “ghosts.”

  “I’ll hold on to your hand and I will not look into their eyes,” she muttered, and she laced her fingers with his, feeling a little bold, but he did not complain.

  Hun-Kamé spoke a few words. It was the same unknown language he’d spoken at the crossroads, only now she wasn’t even sure it was a language. Just a sound, a hum.

  The temperature plummeted and she felt goose bumps on her arms. It was not the same cold that they’d experienced in Veracruz. That had been like touching hail, while this was the cold of things that are long dead and rot in the sour earth.

  Nothing else happened at first. Then she noticed that the shadows in the room had grown somewhat…darker. Light was streaming in from outside, beneath the curtains, and yet everything was grayer, the shadows like pools of ink. Then they shivered, the shadows, they stretched down the floor, growing larger, changing their shape. And they rose. They became solid. Yet they were not solid: it was as if someone had punched holes in the room and where something should have been there was darkness.

  The shadows resembled people. They had arms, a torso, a head. They moved, darting across the room, ruffling the curtains, whispering among themselves.

  In the middle of the room, the hair burned very bright, too bright, its glow the remaining source of illumination now because the shadows dominated everything, not a single stray ray of light creeping in from the outside. An endless darkness and the shadow people standing in front of them, very close, the dim fire revealing that they had no features, their faces were smooth as pebbles.

  Hun-Kamé had told her to hold his hand, but instead she squeezed it tight. The room’s expensive furniture, the massive bed, the oil paintings on the walls, they all had faded. What was left was merely darkness. She was not even sure if there was a floor beneath their feet. Hun-Kamé alone anchored her in place.

  “You called for us,” one of the shadow persons said, though none of them had a mouth.

  “I thank you for attending me. I am Hun-Kamé, Lord of Xibalba, who searches for his stolen essence. Somewhere in this city a piece of myself has been hidden. Do you know where it might be?”

  “Answers have a price.”

  “Rest assured, it shall be paid,” Hun-Kamé said and tossed strands of her long hair, which he held in his free hand, at them.

  The shadows gurgled and scrabbled, snatching bits of hair and eating them. They did have mouths, after all, and long, gray tongues, which rolled out onto the floor, and they had eyes that glowed blue-green, slits of color floating in the dark. Casiopea felt her body turn into iron, and now she didn’t only hold the death god’s hand, she shifted very close to him.

  “This is nothing, these are scraps,” one of the shadows said.

  “Careful,” Hun-Kamé said, “mind your words. I am kind now, but I could be harsher and wring the truth from you.”

  “Refuse and filth, bits and pieces and nothing whole,” the shadow said. “Give us fresh meat and bones instead. Give us her.”

  All the blue-green eyes turned toward Casiopea in unison, and they were fearsome, and one of them held her gaze.

&
nbsp; Had she been able to distinguish their faces, even if they looked like rotten corpses, she might not have been so scared. But in the dark the shadows had the outlines of childhood monsters and they held her in their thrall, their blue-green glow making her think of evil dreams. They smelled bad, too, sickly-sweet; the aroma of wilted flowers.

  She raised her hands to cover her mouth, fearing she’d scream, and when her fingers touched her lips she realized she had let go of Hun-Kamé. She looked around, trying to hold on to him, but he was gone. The room was gone. The fire was dying away. There were only the dark pillars that shuffled closer and closer to her, their glowing eyes growing more vivid, their tongues brushing the floor.

  “Oh, her heart, we’ll chew it twice and then spit it and chew it again,” one of the shadows said.

  “And the marrow, the marrow too. We’ll drink from her veins,” replied another.

  A tongue snaked in Casiopea’s direction, brushing her foot, and she gasped and stepped away from it, but the circle of shadows grew tighter, they closed in around her like a noose. North and south and east and west. They were everywhere.

  She pressed her hands against her mouth again, panicked, and for one moment she suspected the god had intended to leave her with these things all along. That it had been a ruse and she was to be their meal. But there was the bone shard in her finger. He wouldn’t.

  The shadows were so close, and their putrescence made her want to gag. They opened their mouths, and their breath curled out, cold and humid and blue-green, making her wince.

  If only she’d held on to his hand!

  “And…and not looked into their eyes,” she whispered.

  But she was looking! She realized then that she had not stopped looking at that one shadow that had caught her gaze. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, and felt her body sway, and there was the grip of hands on her shoulders.