Gods of Jade and Shadow(99)

He kissed her knuckles and closed his eyes for a moment. His hand fell upon her throat. No mark of the wound she’d inflicted remained, but he traced the invisible line nevertheless, before opening his eyes and looking at Casiopea.

Then he pulled out the bone shard that lay deep within her flesh, the last piece in the puzzle of his immortality.

The dark thread that bound them snapped. She stared at him as he placed a hand on his chest and gasped. His heart was grinding to dust beneath the palm of his hand, and it hurt to see this, but she did not look away.

When there was but a gray speck of his heart left, he bent down and kissed her again, briefly, a brush of lips. A grain of dust may contain a universe inside, and it was the same for him. Within that gray speck there lived his love and he gave it to Casiopea, for her to see. He’d fallen in love slowly and quietly, and it was a quiet sort of love, full of phrases left unsaid, laced with dreams. He had imagined himself a man for her, and he allowed her to see the extent of this man, and he gave her this speck of heart, which was a man, to hold for a moment before taking it back the second before it faded.

As he straightened up, his eyes all darkness, a curious thing happened. The speck did not fade, instead turning vermillion, and it lodged behind those dark eyes, unseen. But Xibalba, so intimately connected to its lord, must have seen, must have known. Xibalba sensed the echo of this silent goodbye.

The inhabitants of this realm, who had been startled when the land held its breath, now had a second chance to be surprised. Such a dark place, Xibalba, built of bitter nightmares and fever dreams, with the stones of sorrow; a land where lost souls could never find the proper road. But the Lord Hun-Kamé had dreamed a different dream, and this dream that was now nothing but a speck subtly transformed the land.

There were no flowers in Xibalba. Trees and weeds and the strange orchids that were not orchids dotted the Underworld, wild desert anemones grew upon its white plains, but there were no flowers in its jungles, its swamps, nor its mountains. Yet now flowers bloomed in the most astonishing of places, across the gray desert. Tiny, red flowers, as if demonstrating for Hun-Kamé what he could no longer demonstrate, so that Casiopea, instead of observing the cold face of a stranger as he’d warned her, beheld instead the appearance of the red flowers, like the ink of a love letter. The stars, when traced by the human eye, formed constellations, and the flowers, linked together, spoke to her. They said, “My love.”

Hun-Kamé bowed his head to her, like a commoner instead of a lord.

Then he took Casiopea’s hand again and wrapped her in his cloak for a second. It was like slipping into an absolute blackness, the darkness of the garment blotting out Xibalba, and within another second she had slipped into her hotel room. Alone.





Grief arrived, eager to keep her company, and she clutched her hands together and raised them to her lips, head bowed. Yet as Casiopea stood in the middle of the room she did not consider her heartache for long, because the sound of crying reached her ears, startling her. It was as if someone else gave voice to her unhappiness. Cautious, she approached the doorway of the room Hun-Kamé had occupied and found Martín sitting on the floor. Her cousin wept.

Casiopea leaned down next to him, slowly, like one might when dealing with a scared child.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Grandfather is going to kill me when I get back to Uukumil,” he said, sniffling. “You might as well have asked Hun-Kamé to cut off my head.”

“Grandfather won’t kill you,” she said with a sigh.

“Why didn’t you ask him to murder me?”

“You didn’t kill me either,” she replied.

He hunched his shoulders. His clothes were dirty, his hair a mess. She recalled how much he’d prided himself in his nice clothing, in his freshly polished boots. She had polished those same boots, swallowing her tears when he said cruel things. It was his turn to be miserable. Yet even though she’d pictured a scene like this when he was bad to her, it did not please her to witness it.

“Yeah…well…I’m not a killer,” he muttered.

“Neither am I.”

Casiopea went to the bathroom and fetched a towel. She handed it to Martín and sat down in front of him. He hesitated, but took the towel and cleaned his face.

“I’m horrible to you,” he said when he was done. “I’m a terrible person.”

“Maybe you could stop being so horrible, then.”

Martín bunched up the towel and gripped it tight, blinking back further tears.

“I’m…I’m thankful, you know. For your asking him to send me back here. And I’m sorry. About everything. Will you accept my apology?”

He looked shattered, his voice thick with shame. Casiopea thought he meant it. But it wasn’t that simple. He’d left scars. She did not trust him. She didn’t want to hate him either. It was pointless now.

“I can’t forgive you in an instant,” she said.

“Well…maybe one day, maybe after a while. After we go back to Uukumil. Although I don’t want to go back to Uukumil, but I must. Oh, the old man is going to be so mad at us,” he mumbled.

“If you don’t want to go back, maybe you shouldn’t?”

“Where would I go?” Martín asked, looking rather shocked.