Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “I’ll tell her mother and I’ll tell Grandfather, and I’ll tell everyone,” he promised.

  Their whole town would know Casiopea now walked around Mexico City, shameless, almost bald, disobeying the instructions of the family.

  Disobeying him.

  At this, he paused. No, no, no, he wouldn’t mention she’d disobeyed him.

  He smoked a cigarette and circled the hotel, needing space, needing time, running a hand through his hair.

  In his room, Martín splashed water on his face and admitted that he could dally no longer; the god would be expecting news. He clutched the jade ring Vucub-Kamé had given him, and standing in the middle of his room he uttered the god’s name.

  The lights grew dim as the darkness in the room pooled itself together in a corner, and out of this darkness stepped out Vucub-Kamé. He was clad in white, a cape made of pale seashells falling down his back, and his hair was very light, but he evoked pitch-black darkness nevertheless.

  Vucub-Kamé’s eyes did not fall on Martín; he seemed as if he were more concerned with other matters.

  When Martín first met Vucub-Kamé, he’d had little understanding of the god. Afterward, Cirilo corrected his lack of instruction, muttering his story to his grandson. Cirilo had also explained the character of the Lords of Xibalba and how they should be addressed, including their predisposition for flattery. So, when Vucub-Kamé walked into the room, Martín fell on his knees, head bowed, even if his natural haughtiness made him cringe at such a display.

  “Supreme Lord of the Underworld,” Martín said. “I thank you for coming. I am unworthy of your visit.”

  “You must be since your tongue trembles. Have you failed me?” the god asked, but he did not deign to look at the mortal man.

  “My cousin, she would not speak to you,” Martín admitted, clutching his hands together. “She is a stubborn, ungrateful child. But if my lord would wish it, I will find her and seize her, dragging her by her hair—”

  “Such wasteful violence. And what should that accomplish?”

  Martín blinked. “She’d do as you wanted, whatever you wanted.”

  “You cannot force her hand,” Vucub-Kamé said.

  “I don’t—”

  “Martín Leyva…Martín. When you play chess, do you move your pawns as if they were horses? When you roll the dice do you pretend you tallied four points instead of two? Do you understand?”

  Martín shook his head yes, unable to comprehend what the god was about, but knowing at this point he should simply agree.

  Vucub-Kamé undid a pouch at his waist and held up four dice painted black and yellow on each side, the kind used for playing bul. Martín had not played the game—it was the sort of thing taken up by the Indians—but he understood the objective of it was to “capture” and “kill” the opponent’s pieces.

  “If I thought brute force could grant me what I wish, I would have plucked your cousin from Middleworld already. But since she is a player in this game, I must respect her role. And being a thing not quite human and not quite divine, the girl cannot be dragged by her hair to rest at my feet.”

  “I…Of course not, no.”

  “Neither can I directly address her at this point, which is why I must use an intermediary, and I’m stuck with you,” the god concluded.

  Vucub-Kamé motioned for him to stand, so Martín did.

  “I will give you a new task, to which you might be better suited, seeing as your cousin is a stubborn creature.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he whispered.

  The Lord of Xibalba threw the dice against the floor. They spiraled and fell, all on their yellow side. Around them rose lines like soot, faint. As faint as the silvery thread in a spider’s web, from one angle catching the light and visible, from the other invisible. Martín squinted, trying to find a proper shape to the lines. Was this a board game?

  “I’ll have you head to Baja California, to Tierra Blanca, on the wings of my owl this night. My brother and your cousin will make their way there, eventually, but you will arrive first.”

  “What will I do in Tierra Blanca?” Martín asked.

  “You will learn.”

  “Ah…and what will I learn?”

  “To walk the shadow roads of my kingdom. Aníbal Zavala should be able to instruct you.”

  Martín was not sure what walking the shadow roads meant, but he did know he did not want to be anywhere near Xibalba. It was called the Place of Fear for a reason.

  He cleared his throat. “I will do as you say, but why would I want to…learn such a lesson? And who would Aníbal Zavala be?”

  “My disciple. As for the reason for that lesson, because symmetry in everything is most pleasing, and since it seems Casiopea is poised to be Hun-Kamé’s champion, you will be mine. Cousin against cousin, brother against brother. I hope you can appreciate the symbolism.”

  “Do you mean to pit me against her somehow?” Martín asked.

  “She may still have a chance to show me the proper deference. If she will not oblige me, however, I will be prepared,” Vucub-Kamé declared.

  “And I must know how to walk the shadow roads, if she doesn’t change her mind about you.”

  “You must have an advantage. She won’t know how to navigate the roads.”

  Looking at the spidery lines on the floor, Martín realized it was not a board but a circle, and within this circle an intricate labyrinth branched off in many directions, paths that led to dead ends multiplying. He thought he could make out the shapes of pyramids, statues of great size, causeways, and tall columns. A black drop, like ink, fell upon the labyrinth, and it followed one of the paths, the correct one that led to the center.

  It was like spying the solution to a puzzle in the back of the newspaper. But if it was cheating, Martín was not going to complain. He had never felt bad about having an advantage over anyone.

  “I think I understand,” Martín said.

  The Lord of Xibalba had not looked at him all this time, his pale gray eyes fixed on another point in the room. When Martín spoke, the god turned his eyes toward him.

  “I would hope you do. It is infinitely important that you emerge victorious against your cousin in the coming contest. Fail me and I will grind your bones into dust,” Vucub-Kamé said, his voice impassive. The threat was in his eyes, quicksilver as he fixed them on Martín.

  Martín felt as if an invisible hand gripped his throat and squeezed it, sharp nails digging into his skin. He could not breathe, could not move, could not even blink, there was only the oppressive hand wrapped around his neck. It was the same feeling people sometimes have when they sleep, as if an unseen force is weighing them down. The night hag, the dead man crawling. The nightmare that rides mortals. Except he was wide awake.

  This sensation lasted hardly a minute, but the dread of the touch sent Martín’s heart pounding with terror, and when it subsided he fell to his knees.

  Vucub-Kamé smiled at Martín, and he spoke sweetly, like the worm whispers to a man in his coffin.

  “Do not be too upset, Martín. I favor you, even if you reek of cheap pulque and discontent. We have, after all, much in common, both of us having to deal with the most obnoxious relatives possible. When this is over I believe we will be good friends, like your grandfather and I were friends. Fate has brought us together. Thank her for this nicety.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Martín rasped, rubbing his throat and bowing his head.

  The god held out his hand and the dice jumped back onto his palm. The map dissipated, rising like the smoke of an extinguished candle. Then the god stepped back into the shadows from which he’d emerged, blending with them, his white cape and white clothing and pale hair sinking into darkness.

  Martín continued to rub his neck, and he threw his head back, chuckling, because he could already hear the flapping of wings
announcing the arrival of Vucub-Kamé’s gigantic owl. The god wasted no time. What the hell. It was not as if Martín had anything important to do. He could sleep off his binge drinking in Baja California as efficiently as in Mexico City. Though at this point he had sobered up considerably.

  “Casiopea, if I ever see you again…oh, dear God, I better not see you again,” he muttered.

  All this had started because of her. She had opened the stupid box, she had made a god rise from his prison, and now it was her stubborn refusal that was condemning Martín to sink into the paths of Xibalba. Not fifty times a bitch, a hundred.

  Mortals believe gods to be omnipotent and ever-knowing. The truth is more slippery; their limitations are multiple, kaleidoscopic, and idiosyncratic. Gods cannot rudely move mortals like one moves a piece across a game board. To obtain what they wish gods may utilize messengers, they may threaten, they may flatter, and they may reward. A god may cause storms to wreck the seaside and mortals, in return, may raise their hands and place offerings at the god’s temple in an effort to stop the hurricane that whips the land. They may pray and bleed themselves with maguey thorns. However, they could also feel free to ignore the god’s weather magic, they could blame the rain or lack of it on chance or bad luck, without forging the connection between the deity and the event.

  A god can make the volcanos boil and cook alive the villagers who have made their abodes near its cone, but what good is that? If gods destroyed all humans, there would be no adoration and no sacrifice, which is the fresh wood that replenishes a fire.

  Vucub-Kamé had limitations and he had ways to counter them. He could not visit the mortal realm in the daytime and he could only wander it for a limited amount of time at night. But he had his owls, his powers of foretelling, and his alliances. Although he could be rejected, he seldom was.

  Casiopea’s refusal, then, struck him as somewhat novel, even amusing. As he drifted into Xtabay’s room, brushing past the billowing curtains, he was actually in a pleasant state of mind. There would be another chance to address the girl. Twice and even thrice she might turn from him, for three is the number that marks women’s hetzmek. He was not vexed like Martín was vexed. He knew himself in control of the story.

  “You honor me with your presence,” Xtabay said, bowing her head and kneeling before him, bejeweled as always.

  What an entirely lovely and spiteful creature she was, her mortal beginnings forgotten, the imprint of a shell in the sand long erased. Vucub-Kamé held out his hand, indicating she could rise, and Xtabay did, an artful smile across her face.

  “I gather my brother has visited you,” he said, unable to sense the dormant essence of Hun-Kamé, which Xtabay had until now kept locked in a box. In its corner, Xtabay’s green parrot sat in its cage and hid its head under its wing, as if shielding itself from the god.

  “He visited me not long ago,” Xtabay replied with a frown. “Along with his awful handmaiden.”

  Vucub-Kamé walked around the chamber. No trace of his brother remained, yet he had been here, and this made him want to let his steps fall in the place where Hun-Kamé’s steps had fallen. They had not seen each other in decades, and now they were but days from again encountering each other.

  He allowed himself to picture Hun-Kamé as he’d been, long ago, walking through the jungle with a serpent wrapped around his neck, while Vucub-Kamé shadowed him, an owl on his shoulder. For a moment the memory was sweet. How they had enjoyed their excursions to Middleworld! Until mortals ceased in their worship of the gods and Hun-Kamé in turn ceased to care about the world of men. Vucub-Kamé did not lose his taste for it, though, and in time it dominated his thoughts. He longed for the adoration of the priests and suplicants, and when he told his brother as much, Hun-Kamé chided him for not grasping the ephemeral nature of all things. The chiding became quarrels, and Vucub-Kamé drew inward, the worm of anger gnawing at his heart.

  He turned away from the memory, focusing on the now.

  “He did not remain long.”

  “No.”

  “Then your charms proved of no use, no matter how much you may boast of your magic,” Vucub-Kamé concluded.

  There had been the possibility his brother would halt or be injured before he reached Tierra Blanca, easing Vucub-Kamé’s triumph. Then again, there was the warring desire that Hun-Kamé should reach Baja California in a robust state, ear and finger and necklace in his possession, making his final downfall more amusing.

  “He is the Lord of Xibalba,” she said, her voice sharp around the edges, the emphasis on “the,” reminding Vucub-Kamé who was the firstborn child and who was the pretender, the traitor.

  “Watch your pretty tongue,” Vucub-Kamé replied, everything about him sharp, not only his voice. “You wouldn’t want to lose it.”

  “Lord, I serve you with every breath of mine, do not look at me with anger. It was but a slip of the tongue,” Xtabay said. “A tongue that I wish to keep.”

  “A slip. Or you would rather serve my brother?”

  Xtabay turned her head to stare at him.

  “I have done as you said. I left behind the jungle to live in this distant city where my power waned—”

  “Not waned since you were in possession of Hun-Kamé’s finger. Do not dismiss the might of his essence, nor the baubles and diversions I’ve provided you,” Vucub-Kamé said. He enjoyed when his generosity was acknowledged and bristled when it was not appreciated. He had kept Xtabay in splendor, ensuring her watch would be more than bearable.

  “No,” Xtabay admitted. “I will not. But you know well I do not belong here, and it has been an unpleasant chore for me to remain, and yet I’ve done so since you said he would come one day seeking me and you wanted him to follow your route.”

  “He must. And knowing this, I feel you might have thought to curry favor again with the Lord,” he said acridly.

  She had been an esteemed courtier in the Jade Palace, often attending Hun-Kamé. She could spin a good story, and her malicious antics in Middleworld amused the Lords of Xibalba. Sometimes she dragged a poor, helpless man down the Black Road, to the city. Such mortals could not remain long in Xibalba, but the lords laughed as the man was subjected to terrible sights or feasted like a prince before the food turned to ashes in his mouth.

  Vucub-Kamé, of course, suspected Xtabay of treachery even if such treachery was unlikely.

  “I am wounded by your accusations,” she said.

  Xtabay pressed the tips of her fingers against the god’s mouth, then ran a hand over his brow, as if seeking to smooth the creases there, attempting to erase his frown. He would not allow her such intimacy and stepped away, circling her.

  “How did he escape you?” he inquired.

  “As you pointed out, my magic was not sufficient,” Xtabay replied.

  “Yet you told me it would be. That is why I picked you for this task.”

  “I told you I might be able to slow him down, that I might be able to distract him for a while. But he seems distracted enough by the girl he drags around with him.”

  Xtabay sounded displeased but not insincere. She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “I do your will, Vucub-Kamé. When you hatched your scheme, did I not assist you? I could have courted favor with Hun-Kamé back then and revealed your whole sordid trap. Instead I concealed your plans, found the mortal man you needed.”

  “You did,” Vucub-Kamé conceded.

  Vucub-Kamé stood behind Xtabay, letting a hand trail down her hair, the inattentive gesture of a master with an annoying pet rather than a lover, although they had at one point been lovers and he had offered her godhood, a seat by his side, in order to sway her hand and secure her assistance. Gods have appetites, more voracious than those of men, and how quickly they turn from one pursuit to another, like uncorking a wine, taking a sip, then tossing the rest down a drain.

 
There was no measure of affection between Vucub-Kamé and Xtabay at this point. When they had plotted together, he had enjoyed the plotting, but now that it was all done and arranged, he’d grown disenchanted with her and she with him.

  “Did he say anything interesting?” Vucub-Kamé asked, ceasing in his half-hearted caress. He was bored already and yearning to return home. Xibalba called to him; he was tied to the shadow realm. Xtabay was not bound to Xibalba, since she had not been born there, and did not feel that same invisible chain around her waist. Middleworld interested him, yes, but only because it housed within its borders the mortals who might adore him. It was Xibalba he loved, Xibalba and himself and no other.

  “We hardly spoke. My magic was of no use, it could not hold him, and I gave him the box. He asked who held the next piece of him, and I said it is the Uay Chivo.”

  “And he did not inquire any further?”

  “What would he inquire about?” Xtabay asked, sitting on her couch, her bracelets clinking as she pressed a hand against her forehead. “He was rather in a hurry. I could tell he is growing weaker, becoming more human.”

  “I thought my brother would have more stamina,” Vucub-Kamé said.

  Perhaps Hun-Kamé would not make it to Baja California, after all. Who knew. If he was truly diminishing, consumed like a quickly burning candle, his encounter with the Uay Chivo could prove difficult. The uay was much more…forceful than Vucub-Kamé’s other associates.

  “Apparently not. If you should have seen him when he left, you would not have believed it, he moved like someone who has never walked the Black Road. That girl was reflected in his eye.”

  Vucub-Kamé had been serene, but when Xtabay said those simple words a shiver went down his spine. He had a talent for soothsaying. He read fortunes in the blood of myriad creatures, but sometimes an augury would present itself without being requested. The words were unpleasantly close to an omen. They made him pause and stare at Xtabay.