Gods of Jade and Shadow(60)

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