Gods of Jade and Shadow(4)

“I know,” Casiopea said with a sigh.

“Even if he doesn’t give us all that, I’ve got my savings. A peso here and a peso there, maybe we can figure something out for you. Once you’re a little older, a year or two older, perhaps we might think of Mérida.”

An eternity, Casiopea thought. Maybe never.

“God sees your heart, Casiopea,” her mother said, smiling at her. “It is a good heart.”

Casiopea lowered her gaze and hoped this was not the case, for her heart was bubbling like a volcano and there was a tight knot of resentment in her stomach.

“Here, give me a hug,” her mother said.

Casiopea obeyed, wrapping her arms around her mother like she’d done when she was a child, but the comfort she derived from this contact in her youth could not be replicated. She was upset, a perfect storm inside her body.

“Nothing ever changes,” Casiopea told her mother.

“What would you like to see change?”

Everything, Casiopea thought. She shrugged instead. It was late, and there was no sense in rehashing the whole thing. Tomorrow there would come the same litany of chores, her grandfather’s voice ordering her to read, her cousin’s taunts. The world was all gray, not a hint of color to it.





The soil in Yucatán is black and red, and rests upon a limestone bed. No rivers slice the surface in the north of the peninsula. Caves and sinkholes pucker the ground, and the rainwater forms cenotes and gathers in haltunes. What rivers there are run underground, secretive in their courses. The marshes come and go at their whim during the dry season. Brackish waters are common, giving a habitat to curious, blind fish in the depths of the cave systems, and where limestone meets the ocean, the shore turns jagged.

Some cenotes are famous and were once sacred places of worship where the priests tossed jewels and victims into the water. One near Mayapán was said to be guarded by a feathered serpent that gobbled children. Others were supposed to connect with the Underworld, Xibalba, and finally there were those that were suhuy ha, the place where virgin water might be gathered.

There were several cenotes near Casiopea’s town, but one farther away, an hour’s ride on a mule-drawn carriage, was reckoned to possess special healing properties. Once a month Grandfather had them make the trek there so that he could soak himself in its waters, hoping to prolong his life. A mattress was dragged onto the cart to ensure that Grandfather would be comfortable, and food was packed for them to eat by the cenote after Grandfather’s soak. Grandfather would then take his midday nap, and they would head back when the sun had gone down a bit and the air was cooler.

The monthly trip was one of the few occasions when Casiopea had a chance to enjoy the company of her family members and a deserved respite from her chores. A day of merriment. She looked forward to it like a child anticipates Epiphany.

Grandfather spent most of his days in bed in his nightshirt, but on the occasion of the trip to the cenote, as with any visit to church, he would pick a suit and a hat to wear. Casiopea was in charge of Grandfather’s clothes, of washing and brushing them, of starching his shirts and ironing them. Since they left the house early, this meant a day or two of preparations were necessary for the trip to the cenote.

The day before their departure, Casiopea had almost finished with her list of chores. She sat in the middle of the interior patio of the house, a joyful patch of greenery with its potted plants and fountain. She listened to the canaries chirping in their cages and the random, loud screeches of the parrot. It was a cruel animal, this parrot. As a child, Casiopea had tried to feed it a peanut, and it had bitten her finger. It spoke naughty words, which it had learned from the servants and her cousin, but for now it was quiet, preening itself.

Casiopea hummed as she shined Grandfather’s boots. It was the last task she needed to accomplish. Everyone else was napping, escaping the midday heat, but she wanted to get this done so she could read for the rest of the day. Her grandfather had no interest in books and much preferred the newspaper, but for the sake of appearances he had purchased several bookcases and filled them with thick leather tomes. Casiopea had convinced him to buy a few more, mostly astronomy books, but she had also sneaked in a few volumes of poetry. He never even looked at the spines, anyway. On good days, such as this one, Casiopea could sit for several hours in her room and lazily flip the pages, run her hands down the rivers of the old atlas.

The parrot yelled, startling her. She looked up.

Martín strode across the courtyard, heading in her direction, and Casiopea immediately felt irritated—he was intruding upon her silence—though she tried not to show it, her fingers twisting on the rag she was using to apply the polish. He ought to have been sleeping, like everyone else.

“I was going to go to your room and wake you up, but you’ve saved me the trip,” he said.

“What did you need?” she asked, her voice curt despite her attempt at keeping a neutral tone.

“The old man wants you to remind the barber he needs to come and clip his hair this evening.”

“I reminded him this morning already.”

Her cousin was smoking, and he paused to grin at her and let the smoke out of his mouth in a puff. His skin was pale, showing some of the European heritage the family valued so highly, and his hair curled a little, the reddish-brown tone he owed to his mother. They said he was good-looking, but Casiopea could not find any beauty in his sour face.