Gods of Jade and Shadow(51)
“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.”