Gods of Jade and Shadow

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Welcome to Tierra Blanca. I am Aníbal Zavala,” the man said, rising from behind his desk and approaching Martín, who was trying to take the whole trip, the building, the room, in.

  “I’m Martín Leyva,” he muttered, shaking the man’s hand.

  “You’ve had a chance to clean up somewhat, I assume?”

  “Yes. I have a room.”

  “Good.”

  Aníbal reached toward a wooden box on his desk and took out a fat cigar, carefully clipping it and lighting it with a wide, warm smile. He did not offer Martín a smoke, and Martín stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling offended and unable to complain.

  “Do you know why you are here?” Aníbal asked.

  “Vucub-Kamé said I should meet with you.”

  “And more than that?”

  “He said I need to learn the shadow roads.”

  “Do you understand what that means?”

  Martín shook his head as Aníbal’s cigar began to glow a dull orange and he took a puff.

  “Do you understand the mechanics of the realm of Xibalba?” Aníbal asked.

  Martín was reminded of the headmaster at his school, whom he had loathed for his strictures, and did not bother shaking his head this time, merely stared at the man, hating the conversation already, as he did when any situation made him uncomfortable. His tactic would have normally been to strike back, but he forced himself to bite his tongue.

  “I see,” Aníbal said. “Well, I suppose we should go over the basics.”

  The older man ran a hand against a bookshelf, plucking a book and placing it on his desk. Martín looked at the tome, which was rather large and old. On the page there lay several concentric circles.

  “Xibalba is made of nine levels. Through these levels descends the Black Road, which reaches a wall made from the thorns of the ceiba tree. Beyond this wall begins a causeway that leads to the gates of the Black City and allows access to the Jade Palace. By the palace is a lake where the World Tree quenches some of its thirst, and at the bottom of the lake dwells the First Caiman, which swam in the primordial seas and whose head was severed when the world was newly born.”

  Aníbal turned a page, tapping his finger on a two-page illustration depicting a lake with a tree, and beneath the tree, a caiman. The perspective was all off, it was not tri-dimensional, lacking in depth, and Martín had trouble understanding it.

  “Few living mortals have made the journey down the Black Road. It is a dangerous and long path. It may take years to reach the gates of the Black City. Of course, the Supreme Lord does not expect you to walk the road for years. We must expedite your path.”

  “How would you do that?” Martín asked.

  Aníbal turned another page, and now came a drawing that resembled the labyrinth Vucub-Kamé had shown him, an arrangement of black lines branching wildly, turning back and forward.

  “Certain sorcerers and priests, and sometimes certain ordinary mortals—though these only in their dreams—have found their way to the Black City with more haste. They’ve done so by slipping through the shadows.”

  “What?”

  “If you look at the road, carefully, there are spots where you can sense gaps. You can jump from gap to gap, walking the road with more ease. But you must be careful. The Black Road is treacherous. It is changing, rearranging itself. It does not lie still. It hungers.”

  “For what?”

  “Destruction, pain. Keep your thoughts and your feet on the road, do not go astray. The Land of the Dead is vast. It’s easy to get lost.”

  Martín looked at the page, but as he did, a curious sensation came upon him, as if the lines he was observing were not really fixed. The ink was running on the page. A path that he could have sworn snaked to the left in reality bent to the right.

  “What madness,” he whispered.

  “If you look carefully, Martín, and if you focus your will on it, the road will take you to the heart of Xibalba, to the palace.”

  “Easier said than done, I’d wager.”

  “You’d wager correctly. I’ll help you familiarize yourself with it.”

  Martín was not brave. His reticence kicked in and he raised both hands, bidding Aníbal to halt. A futile gesture, but one born of instinct.

  “Wait. I’m not even sure why I’m here. Vucub-Kamé spoke of a contest and Casiopea—”

  “A race. If it comes to it,” Aníbal replied. He was put off by Martín’s words.

  “Yes, but why some ridiculous race? I don’t—”

  “The games of gods, of course. Do you honestly think Vucub-Kamé and his brother would face each other with shield and mace?”

  “I don’t see why not. It all sounds stupid.”

  Casiopea’s mythology books showed illustrations of men with spears or tridents or another weapon. He had not paid attention to these tomes, but glimpsed their pictures nevertheless. And there were also the bits of Mayan legends he’d heard. Again, he had not paid much attention to these, but he thought the gods fought sometimes. He had, at any rate, the impression of tremendous violence.

  “Your grandfather taught you nothing, I gather.”

  Of course he had not. Damn old mummy of a man slobbering in his room with his aches and complaints. He didn’t say it, but Grandfather liked Casiopea better, which was a slap in the face. Now he felt he was being slapped again, by another old man.

  “My grandfather is guarded,” Martín replied. “Is that my fault? He explained how he assisted Vucub-Kamé, which I think is quite enough.”

  “Hmmm. But not why.”

  Aníbal rested his back against the desk, carefully holding his cigar between his fingers, as if examining the wrapper.

  “Gods move pieces across boards, young man. That is what you are now. Your grandfather was one piece, one move, in a series of moves. It’s your turn now, and it is an honor.”

  “It sounds like bullshit to me,” Martín said acidly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. He had had quite enough for a single evening. His old instinct to bully someone whom he perceived frailer than him, for Aníbal at least looked frailer, an old man, an unpleasant authority figure, was rising.

  “Such language. Besides, you haven’t even asked what you are playing for.”

  “What?” Martín asked.

  Martín noticed that the cigar had now developed a head of ash on the tip and needed to be rolled against an ashtray, but Aníbal did not seem in a hurry.

  “To the world outside I simply built and own this hotel. Do you think me an ordinary businessman?”

  “I guess not.”

  “How am I different?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Martín shot back.

  Aníbal opened his mouth, and out curled the cigar’s smoke, rising as high as the ceiling, twisting, and expanding, acquiring a shape. It danced above Aníbal’s head, alive, vital, its shape that of a four-legged animal.

  “I’m a sorcerer, but more than that, a priest. A loving servant of the Lord of Xibalba.”

  Aníbal flicked his finger against the cigar, and the accumulated ash rose, combining with the smoke, to further define the animal above him. It was a dog, and when Aníbal flicked his finger again, the smoke and ash rained on the old man, settling like a mantle on his shoulders. Aníbal then opened his left hand and ash fell on the floor, the labyrinth that had been contained on the page now reproduced there, its lines spreading and dancing around Martín’s feet. He took two steps back, but the ash rose knee-high and he realized he could not move back or forward.

  “Xibalba, it is here and it is there, the Black Road reaches far and wide. Mortals stand, breathe, walk upon Xibalba and do not even know it, having forgotten their allegiance to the Place of Fright. But we will change that. They will know the name of their Supreme Lord.”

  “All right, I get
the point,” Martín replied. Now his tone was mellowing as he realized the old man was more dangerous than he’d thought.

  “Do you?”

  Beneath his mild-mannered face, Aníbal hid a bleak interior, and his eyes were two prick points of glowing red, as if someone had lit them with a match.

  “You are playing the one game that matters, Martín. It’s the game of creation,” Aníbal said. “Temples will rise for Vucub-Kamé and there will be rejoicing and there will be sacrifice.”

  The ash and smoke came together, forming a dark temple, and then another, until there were dozens of them surrounding Martín. Even someone as obtuse as he could understand the meaning of such an apparition. He bowed his head, afraid, but also aware there was no escaping this fate, that he’d walk the road and he’d somehow ensure Vucub-Kamé’s victory, and with it the world would change.

  The old man carelessly let his cigar fall on a silver ashtray and yawned.

  “Well, we should begin now. Don’t you think? After all, your cousin will be here soon,” Aníbal said.

  Martín shivered. Any living man who will face the Land of the Dead will shiver, but he nodded his head too.

  Aníbal closed his fist, and the ash and the smoke formed a wide circle, onto which he stepped and motioned for Martín to join him. Martín obeyed, watching as the gray ash turned black. Beneath them the floor melted, as if it were made of tar, and Martín closed his eyes. He was afraid, like when he’d been a small child and thought monsters lurked under his bed; only now they did, and he assisted them.

  The outside of the Uay Chivo’s house was unassuming; its pale blue paint had peeled and the potted plants at the windows were wilting. The inside was a different story. First of all, Casiopea was certain the interior was too spacious, as if extra rooms could exist within the limits of this home, breaking all laws of physics. Second, it was filled with peculiar, unsettling items. The studio they wandered into had two large stone statues of goats, fitting considering the name of the sorcerer who owned the place, and creepy since the goats were carved in a very realistic style, their huge blind eyes making Casiopea frown.

  On the shelves there sat multitudes of jars stuffed with herbs and dried plants, others filled with bits of starfish and corals. Some contained whole specimens: fish, snakes, lizards, scorpions, carefully preserved. Bottles glinted with their multicolored liquids and powders, here a green, there a vivid red.

  There was a metal safe, which Hun-Kamé manipulated, revealing a small chest, and inside this chest an even smaller box. The house was dark, nobody was home, but the eyes of the stone goats did not allow her to relax. They’d tricked a god and invited themselves into the abode of a spirit, but they had not stolen from anyone yet. This audacious act seemed to Casiopea more perilous than their previous encounters, even if the house was quiet and empty.

  “Why is it taking you so long?” she asked, watching Hun-Kamé as he worked his magic.

  “All three of these boxes are made of iron, which annoys me, and therefore I proceed more slowly than I’d like,” he replied.

  “Please hurry. I think I heard something.”

  “I am doing what I can. It’s not just the metal. He cast protective spells. There are locks upon locks.”

  With a click, Hun-Kamé finally opened the third box to reveal…nothing. There came thin, malicious laughter, and Casiopea turned around to find two young men, their hair slicked back with too much pomade, and an older gentleman standing at the doorway, looking at them. It was the older man who had laughed, a gray-haired fellow in a long gray coat who leaned on a cane decorated with the silver head of a goat, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Welcome to my home. I suppose proper introductions are not necessary,” the man said.

  “Yet introductions are always proper,” Hun-Kamé replied.

  The old man’s steps proclaimed his identity as loudly as if he had yelled it at the door. For there could be no denying that this was the Uay Chivo. His gait was odd, and there were the eyes too, with a strange spark in them, the tilt of the head, and all about him this…stench: tobacco and ashes, covered up with a cloying cologne.

  “You behave improperly, riffling through my things. I doubt you found anything worth your while.”

  One of the men helped the Uay Chivo out of his coat and placed it on a chair.

  “Maybe you were looking for this?” he asked.

  The old man pointed to the necklace he was wearing, now revealed after the removal of the coat. It looked heavy and was made of jade beads and a spiny oyster shell. “The boxes were for show. I carry it around my neck.”

  Hun-Kamé did not seem perturbed by this revelation. “We are indeed looking for my property,” the god replied simply.

  “And did you think it would be that easy to get your claws on it?”

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t be too complicated.”

  The sorcerer grinned at them, pointing the head of his walking stick at Hun-Kamé, shaking it as he walked slowly toward them.

  “Then you’ll be sorely disappointed,” the Uay Chivo said. “I’ve been expecting you. Only a fool would not have guessed this fact.”

  “A wise man would choose the words he uses with me.”

  “Wisdom! And yet you, dear lord, have been most unwise, or I wouldn’t be wearing the necklace of a Death Lord. I’m afraid I won’t bow to the likes of you.”

  “No, you bow your head low before my brother,” Hun-Kamé replied. “Kiss the dust he steps on, I suspect.”

  “I do the will of the Supreme Lord of Xibalba,” said the Uay Chivo, and so confident he must have been in the support of Vucub-Kamé that he stepped forward and pressed the tip of the cane against the god’s chest, a threat and the stamp of his authority.

  He reminded Casiopea of her grandfather.

  “My younger brother is a usurper, gaining his throne with deceit. You do the will of a liar,” Hun-Kamé said.

  “Does it matter? Power is power.”

  Hun-Kamé slid the cane away with one hand, a gentle motion, as if he were removing a piece of lint from his well-tailored suit.

  “I know you, Uay Chivo. You are one of the Zavalas. Carnival magicians with delusions of grandeur,” Hun-Kamé said casually.

  The god was all quiet elegant contempt and his words held no threat. It was as if threats would be beneath him at that moment, as if he would not waste his breath on a creature as humble as the sorcerer. The Uay Chivo must wave his cane and snarl, but Hun-Kamé would not. It was a double humiliation, in words and gesture, the mark of the deepest scorn. And the old man knew it. He stepped back, gripping his cane tightly with one hand, his face red.

  He handed his cane to one of the young men who stood next to him and took a deep drag from his cigarette.

  “Carnival magicians, huh?” the Uay Chivo repeated.

  The sorcerer inspected his cigarette with great care. Flames curled out from his mouth, resting there, hot against his lips, before he spat them out and pushed them away with a wrinkled hand, tossing a fireball against Hun-Kamé. The impact of it sent the god crashing against the floor, toppling a side table and a vase in the process.

  Casiopea leaned over him.

  “Does that seem like the work of a carnival magician?” the sorcerer said triumphantly.

  “Hun-Kamé,” Casiopea whispered urgently, touching his neck, his chest, his brow. The fireball had not ignited his clothes, yet his skin felt feverish to her touch. His eyes were closed. She shook him a little.

  The sorcerer’s assistants were holding knives in their hands, cutting their palms, and the Uay Chivo had started speaking, weaving words and a spell together. Casiopea, not knowing what to do, held Hun-Kamé in her arms and watched as the men pressed their bloodied hands against the floor, tracing a circle around them, the blood bubbling and sizzling, as if water had hit a hot pan.
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br />   Despite her fear, which was real and alive, sharp enough to make her fingers tingle, Casiopea chased away panic. It would do no good to cry or scream. She knew no magic, she realized that she could not undo this spell; therefore she merely drew Hun-Kamé closer to her, as if she might protect him with her touch. She clutched him and stared at the men who circled them not with her face deformed by terror but with a more distant look.

  A wall of fire rose from the spot where the blood had fallen. It was a fire born of a strange flame, blue in its cast. One moment it was solid, the next as flimsy as a spider web, yet it shivered as a flame would. The sorcerer tossed a handful of ash against it, and the fire acquired an almost violet hue.

  The old man and the young ones were pleased with themselves; they chuckled and yelled a few obscenities in their triumph.

  Casiopea, knowing nothing, unable to understand the nature of the spell, extended an arm, intending to touch the wall of fire.

  “Don’t,” Hun-Kamé said, grabbing her arm.

  He had finally opened his dark eye and stared at her. Casiopea felt such stupid joy in this, in the realization that he was not grievously injured—although he couldn’t have died of such an injury, immortal as he was—that she almost spoke an inane term of endearment before she was cut off by the laughter of the sorcerer.

  “You won’t be able to get out, but it will hurt like the devil if you try,” Hun-Kamé whispered in her ear. “Hotter than blazing coals.”

  Casiopea pulled her arm back, nodding.

  “What was that?” the Uay Chivo asked. “Speak up. Or have you been rendered speechless by my magic?”

  Hun-Kamé did not appear aggrieved. His eye was cool, though it was a tad too dark, too flat, a pool of ink directed at the silver-haired sorcerer.

  “Your magic is thin, like watered-down pulque, no bite to it. Do you think your spell will hold? I can already see the strain it causes you,” Hun-Kamé said, and his voice had the same flatness of the eye.