“I am Hun-Kamé,” the god said.
“And what would the lord want of me?” Candida asked.
“You would know the other witches and warlocks nearby.”
“Yes, but which one do you seek?”
“The Uay Chivo.”
The old woman made a face and smacked her lips, as if she’d tasted an unpleasant dish.
“Him. You should buy a bouquet instead. Much prettier than that old goat and also smells nicer.”
“I must insist. I’m afraid I don’t need flowers.”
“Does your friend not like them? Girl, are you allergic to them? Say that isn’t so.”
Casiopea shook her head. Hun-Kamé did not bother speaking. Realizing that her jests were not amusing them, the woman let out a loud hmpf.
“Well, then, if that is your wish…Seven drops of blood is the price. Will you pay?”
“I…I will,” Casiopea said.
Casiopea had been standing behind Hun-Kamé, his second shadow. Now Candida beckoned Casiopea closer. She hesitated, took a few steps, brushing by vases stuffed with flowers.
“Let me see. A daisy by the side of the road. Closer, closer. And who are you?”
“It hardly matters who I am,” Casiopea replied, irritated by the woman’s grandmotherly tone. Besides, it was true. She was the token he used to pay for his passage.
“Modest too. Sit, sit right next to me.”
The woman patted a chair behind the counter. Casiopea did not sit there, instead leaning against the counter, raising her head, a small act of defiance.
“You’re too thin, girl. Why, you’re almost all bones,” Candida said. “Oh, look at those dark circles under your eyes. Are you not sleeping well?”
“Don’t play with me. Have your blood,” Casiopea replied, extending her hand, wrist up, like she’d done with Hun-Kamé.
“You’ll lose your sweetness if you keep like this,” the woman said, clicking her tongue, disapproving. “Come here, lamb.”
Realizing there was no point in refusing, Casiopea went behind the counter and carefully sat down on the empty chair. The old woman caught her chin with one hand and squeezed it a little, like she imagined a fussing aunt might do, though Casiopea would not know—her aunts had paid scant attention to her.
The old woman released her and leaned back.
“Seven drops is no small thing. Seven hours and the dreams youth dream, then. I can tell there are lots of dreams in that head of yours. Will you give me the seven drops?”
“I…suppose.”
“You must be certain. We can’t have halves here,” the witch said, sounding serious.
“I’m sure,” Casiopea said.
The woman smiled. She grabbed her pincushion and procured a white porcelain dish from somewhere under the counter, setting them side by side. She gestured to Casiopea.
“You want me to prick myself with that?”
“Well, darling, some people prefer thorns and it can be arranged, but isn’t this much more efficient? Mmm?”
Casiopea frowned, but she grabbed the pincushion and pulled out a long silver pin. She held it carefully and pressed it against her little finger. Blood welled. She let a drop fall on the dish. Another fell. The rest she had to squeeze. When she was done she handed the witch the dish with the blood.
“Here,” Casiopea said. “It’s yours.”
“Thank you, dear,” the witch said, setting the dish aside. “You are a tiny, darling thing. Come, I’ll give you something too, for your troubles. How about a lavender rose?”
The woman reached toward a shelf where bunches of flowers were kept and grabbed a single rose, handing it to Casiopea.
“For your sweetheart, eh?” Candida said, smiling. “And now, you rest, and I hope those dreams are sweet too.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Casiopea said, grabbing the rose. She had no sweetheart and no use for flowers.
The old woman kept smiling at her. Casiopea felt exhausted. She sat back, and as she did she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The road to Xibalba was a ribbon of black ink, staining the land. The land itself was a gray desert, and when Casiopea turned her head to look at the heavens she realized there were no stars, no moon. Yet the land was bathed in a soft, hazy light and here and there, by the road, she saw plants that looked more like glowing anemones than any ordinary vegetation, shining and shifting as she passed them.
Above her something huge flew, flapping its wings and stirring a wicked breeze. When Casiopea noticed this, she grew afraid and hurried down the road. There were stone pillars at certain intervals, and she crouched next to one of them, scanning the sky. But the flying creature had vanished.
Casiopea, realizing she was alone, began walking the road once more. It had no end. At length she came upon a lake that glowed an eerie blue, as if all the stars had fallen into the water and nestled in its bottom. She stretched out a hand and touched the surface of the lake, its luminescence rising, as if to meet her hand. She looked at her fingers, bathed in the blue glow, and smiled.
It was then she noticed a drop of blood falling into the blue pool of water, creating ripples upon its surface. Casiopea held up her wrists, realizing the blood emanated from there, two slashes like bracelets decorating her arms. The blood welled thicker, faster, and as it fell the lake turned red.
She stepped away from the pool of water, hurrying back to the black road, but the black road had disappeared. Instead, a path of the deepest crimson branded the land, like a hot iron. When she stepped on it, she began to sink, as if she’d stepped in quicksand. Down she went, and even though she tried to crawl her way out, she could find no purchase, and as the road closed above her head she tasted the copper flavor of blood in her mouth. There was nothing but the beating of her heart, fear clawing at it, in the depths of Xibalba. And high above in the land of men, a king sat on an obsidian throne upon a pile of bones as tall as a mountain, and his eyes were gray as smoke and she knew him as Vucub-Kamé.
Casiopea gasped, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, and she could hardly see anything. Then came the click of a light.
She turned her head and saw Hun-Kamé sitting by her bed in a chair. Casiopea pushed herself up on her elbows. Her throat was parched and she struggled to find her tongue.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You fell asleep,” he replied simply.
“At the shop?”
“Of course.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Seven hours, as promised. Night has fallen.”
He had tucked her under the covers and Casiopea attempted to shove them away so she could stand and take a look out the window, as if to confirm this fact, but as soon as she pulled the covers and made to move, a shiver went through her body.
“Wait,” he said, stilling her, his hand on her shoulder. “Do you need anything?”
“Water,” she croaked.
He returned with a glass, pressing it into her hands as he sat down on the bed. Casiopea drank it. It hurt going down her throat, but she was very thirsty. She gave him back the glass, and he set it aside on the night table. Casiopea rubbed her wrists, almost expecting to find gashes along them, but the only thing adorning them was her silver bracelet.
“Was your dream unpleasant?” he asked.
“I…I dreamed of Xibalba,” she said. She did not speak of the blood, nor the road that turned red, superstitious fear holding her tongue, as if by describing this incident she might bring misfortune to herself—and her luck, it was black! Somehow she identified the dream as a portent, and her heart knew not to tempt fate by solidifying it with words. He must have sensed this too; instinct made him frown, an uncomfortable silence extending between them
“Did you get what you needed from the witch?” she asked, wishing to diss
ipate the fear that clung to her body.
“Indeed. I have the Uay Chivo’s address and the assurance that he keeps what I seek in his studio, behind a safe with three locks.”
“But you can open the locks.”
“Yes.”
“Do we go now then?” she asked, already squaring her shoulders.
“Why don’t you rest?” he replied.
“I slept for hours,” she protested.
“But you did not rest.”
“I say we go now.”
She made a motion as if to stand up, but he shook his head, his hand bidding her to halt in her efforts.
“He will be there tomorrow, no need to leave tonight,” he told her.
“Tomorrow I might be dead,” she countered, unable to conceal the edge of panic on which she danced. The dream had brought with it the whiff of the grave, the undeniable reminder that the sands of her life were being spent, that she needed to dislodge the bone shard.
“Not tomorrow,” he assured her.
“Would you even tell me if it was tomorrow?” she asked. “Or would you keep quiet?”
“I have not lied to you. Why should I deceive you now?”
“You didn’t tell me all. You didn’t say your brother means to rule and have offerings brought to him and…and all that.”
“I might have said it sooner, but I’ve said it now. You can trust me.”
Casiopea tried to grab the glass again, fumbled the job, and he lifted it instead and pressed it against her hands. There wasn’t much water left, so when she’d taken a couple of sips he dutifully filled it again, ensuring her thirst would be sated. She settled the glass on the night table.
“The Uay Chivo is a man, not a god, but he commands magic. I expect treachery from him and we must be alert; we will be unable to afford any distractions. We shall venture forth tomorrow night. Now, refrain from overexertion. Rest. Do not be afraid, fear will blind you.”
“It is easy to be unafraid if you are immortal,” she said. “Not if you are human.”
“Fear is generous and does not exclusively lodge in the hearts of mortals.”
“And what do gods fear?” she asked.
She’d asked the wrong question. Hun-Kamé had a rigid preciseness about him at all times; in that instant he seemed to become a wooden statue, even the dark eye growing hard. He would not answer, she realized, just as she had not spoken about the road of Xibalba or the blood. Some things are simply not said.
“I’m better now,” she said, picking an innocuous comment to distract them both. “We could fetch ourselves supper.”
“I can ask them to bring us food. What would you fancy?”
“I don’t know. We should phone the front desk.”
Casiopea turned her head; noticing the lavender rose by the phone, her fingers reached for the long stem, the delicate petals.
“My rose.”
“The witch gave it to you, so I thought I’d bring it with us,” he said. “You paid for it, after all.”
“But you didn’t put it in water. It is beginning to wilt,” she replied.
And again, the wrong thing to say, she realized, the reminder of death, putrefaction, the slim limits of existence, like a mantle over her shoulders. She sagged back against the pillows, tossing the rose onto the side table where she’d found it and pressing her hands against her temples, seized with a sudden burst of pain.
“Casiopea?”
“My head is throbbing. My mother used to tell me ‘Everything will look better in the morning,’ ” she said. “Only it didn’t look any better, and I’m afraid it won’t look better tomorrow. It’s much worse…the ache. The ache in my hand and now in my head.”
“That is why I said to rest,” he told her.
“Rest, rest…It’s so annoying. You look…you look quite well. Amazing,” she said.
It was true. He did appear quite sleek and stylish. She remembered reading an ad that said most men look well in a navy double-breasted jacket. Of course he was magnificent; the wide lapels and slightly fitted waist only served to emphasize his strong shoulders and granted him a comfortable swagger. No doubt she looked half dead—which she was, very likely—and silly and panicky, unable to quench the anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Stupid, stupid dream. And she was stupid, too, for making such a fuss. She bit her lip.
“You shouldn’t look that good,” she muttered accusingly.
“I’m not feeling entirely well, either, if you must know.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” she asked.
He shrugged. She felt like pinching his arm. He couldn’t sit there, looking pensive, saying nothing. Her head was going to burst if he did.
“You have to tell me,” she said.
His back was tense, his brow furrowed, and when he spoke it was he who sounded as if he’d just woken from a strange dream. The words were stilted, which was unlike him. When he talked, he did it well. He carved each sentence with a graceful assurance. Each word was a jewel.
“It’s hard to say. Sometimes…when we are talking, it’s as if…I forget,” he mumbled.
“What do you forget?”
Such quiet. The quiet between stars. She thought she could almost hear her blood moving through her veins and her heart was loud as a drum, and when she touched the covers the rustle was like dragging a piece of furniture across the floor.
“Will you say something?” she asked again. “You’re making me nervous. As if I wasn’t nervous already.”
“I forget everything. My brother, my palace, my name,” he said hastily. “Everything.”
That wasn’t exactly the answer she was expecting, and the weight of it was tremendous, this single word, like a stone.
“That sounds awful,” she replied.
“It’s not awful. That’s the problem. There’s a second when I think it would be fine to forget myself, it would be the easiest thing in the world. But if you forget yourself once you’ll do it twice, and thrice, and soon—”
He stopped talking. His face, it was brittle. She’d come to associate him with a steadfast harshness, the strength of obsidian.
“What if my name wasn’t mine?” he asked. “What if my name was an entirely different one?”
Vaguely she recalled he’d mentioned a secret name when they were in Veracruz, but he had not been pleased when he said it.
“I don’t understand,” she replied and would have asked him to elaborate, but he gave her a look like a man who is learning a new language and can’t find the correct word in the dictionary. And with that she grew quiet.
He raised his hand, two fingers in the air, touching her forehead, then running the fingers down her hairline.
Casiopea was used to spending time with Hun-Kamé in close quarters, and he’d clasped her hand during the train ride, but she thought they’d never sat this close. And the touch on her forehead, it wasn’t more personal than the brief touch of his fingers upon her own. Yet it was different. She’d thought he’d held her hand out of sympathy, and now…
“I’d like to count stars with you. I don’t know where I even got this idea, but it’s there,” he said.
The dust speaks louder when the wind stirs it, but she heard him anyway and knew not what to say, and everything she’d said so far had been stupid, so why would a few words help at this point?
She stared at him, mystified, unable to produce a coherent sentence. She stretched out a hand, as if to touch him like he’d touched her, a hand on his brow.
Abruptly Hun-Kamé stood up, took her left hand, and kissed her knuckles, like she’d thought gentlemen might do, the kind of gesture fit for films or poems.
“I’ll let you be, Casiopea Tun,” he said.
She nodded. He was off to his own room. Casiopea kicked off the bedsheets and stared at the hand he’d kissed. S
he thought of one hundred things she might have replied, but of course he’d long left her.
Martín hated feeling out of place. It was the whole reason he’d had himself shipped back to Uukumil rather than follow through with his expensive education. In Baja California he was immediately out of his depth and he knew it.
Tierra Blanca, it turned out, was a vast complex, a hotel and casino by the sea built in a peculiar style, recalling the Mayan elements of Martín’s homeland but also the Art Deco movement. He felt both confused and intimidated as he walked down the hallways of this building, the scale of the project making his home in Yucatán, which he’d thought very elegant, pale in comparison. Besides, there was the basic shock of finding out that he was at a hotel. He had hardly believed his eyes when the owl dropped him off at its perimeter, the night ominous and punctuated by the buzzing of insects. When he’d gone inside and inquired about Aníbal Zavala, they told him he was expected.
Fortunately the hotel employees allowed Martín to check in to a room, comb his hair, and dust his jacket, which would have to satisfy his vanity for now. Martín took great pains to look the part of the gentleman, though he lacked in gentility.
Afterward, an employee came looking for him saying Zavala wanted to speak to him.
The office he was ushered into had very high ceilings carved with gigantic masks, more than six feet tall. The curtains were embroidered with geometrical patterns, and the desk by the window appeared to be a thick tree trunk that had not been properly turned into a desk: too many of its bumps and roots and its original organic quality were visible.
Behind the desk sat an older man, his hair gone gray, dressed in a mustard-colored suit with a dark brown bow tie. He had a tidy mustache, and all about him there was an air of order and mild manners that concealed something else.
Gods of Jade and Shadow Page 19