The young man had the good sense to nod, but he did not speak.
“Fail and I will shatter you like pottery against the pavement,” the god concluded.
Again, the young man nodded.
Vucub-Kamé then descended back to his realm quick as the wind, having said all the words he wished to say. Middleworld had chafed Vucub-Kamé that night, the mockery of the empty chest, the missing bones, rubbing the god raw.
Alone, in his chambers, the god drew a magic symbol upon a wall and the wall opened, allowing him to enter a secret room. It was pitch-black in the room, but Vucub-Kamé said a word and torches on the walls sputtered into life.
Upon a stone slab there lay a bundle of black cloth, fringed with yellow geometric patterns. Vucub-Kamé slowly extended a hand and pulled away the cloth to reveal the iron axe he had swung years before, severing his brother’s head. Symbols of power adorned the blade and the handle. He had entrusted a mortal sorcerer, Aníbal Zavala, to have it forged, because no artisan of Xibalba could produce such a thing. Their weapons were of obsidian and jadeite. Iron came from far away: it was the metal of the foreigners. And it could pierce the body of a god like the strong jadeite blade could not.
Wielding such a weapon, made of noxious iron and tattooed with powerful magic, had burnt Vucub-Kamé’s palms, left him with scars, but it was a small price to pay for a kingdom. Now he contemplated the weapon, which he’d not seen in many years, and bent down, passing his hand over it without touching it. He felt the threads of power embedded in it, like static electricity, and pulled his fingers back.
Yes, its magic and its blade were sharp. It would allow him to succeed a second time.
Vucub-Kamé had been smart, he had scattered his brother’s organs across the land. He’d also built something. Far in the north, in Baja California, there awaited a tomb fit for a god.
Gods may not be killed, but Vucub-Kamé had found a way, just as he had found a way to imprison his brother in the first place, a feat that few would have ever dared to contemplate.
Progreso’s lofty name did not initially match the nature of the port city, north of Mérida. It had started as a quiet town with houses made of mud and stone, and roofs of palm tree fronds. But then the government sketched a railroad between Mérida and Progreso, a telegraph line was installed, and a new pier was built. It became the chief point through which henequen moved out of the peninsula. The new Progreso sported a municipal building with marble stairs, and all kinds of ships streamed in and out, full of cargo. This meant there were plenty of ships willing to take two passengers who found themselves in need of transportation, and plenty of captains who did not care to ask why they needed such speedy service.
Loray had obtained for them passage on a fast, reliable vessel that was headed to Veracruz, carrying mostly bales of henequen. Casiopea and Hun-Kamé were to share a stateroom with two berths. The beds had clean, crisp sheets, but aside from a washstand, a chair, and a mirror, there was nothing more to say about their accommodation. The ship had no smoking room, no lounge. It was a bare-bones operation.
“We’ll be rather crammed in here,” she mused.
“We will look for proper lodging in Veracruz,” he replied, sliding his suitcase under one of the beds, strapping it in place.
“But you and I…a man and a woman,” she said, a reflex. The teachings of the priest, her mother, grandfather, repeated without thought. Bad, bad, bad. Immoral, really, to be alone with him behind closed doors.
“I’m not a man,” he said simply and sat in the one chair. It had a wicker back and seemed rather comfortable. He set his hands upon its arms in a kingly gesture that was as reflexive as her own. He was used to sitting in a throne.
She looked at him and thought it was easy enough to say the words, but helookedlike a man. And should anyone ask, what should she say? No, he is agod,you see. No sin there, despite how beautiful he may be.
If sins were about to be tallied, Casiopea realized she might be in trouble. At this point she’d probably have to pray about five hundred rosaries. Running away from home, talking to a demon, seeing a man naked…best not to dwell too much on this.
Casiopea set down her suitcase and placed it next to his own.
To keep herself from recalling the town priest’s angry face, she sat on the bed and began peeling an orange. She’d bought a bag of them when they were walking around the port as a precaution. She did not know what kind of meals they’d be served or at what time of the day.
“Do you want one?” she asked Hun-Kamé. “Or do you not eat?”
“I don’t need to eat this kind of food in Xibalba, but I am not quite my old self at this moment,” he replied.
“Well, you can have one.”
She held up the orange for him. He extended a hand slowly and grabbed the fruit. At first he simply palmed it and did not attempt to peel it, but then, watching her fingers upon her orange, he began to strip the peel away.
“How’d you end up in that chest, anyway?” she asked, orange juice dripping down her chin. She wiped it off with the back of her hand.
“Treachery.”
“What kind? And how was my grandfather involved?”
“Mortals prayed to us and gave us sacrifices, they composed hymns and burned incense. They don’t anymore. When your grandfather lanced his skin and drew blood, and begged me to pay him a visit, reciting the proper words, I was curious. I went. The greatest sacrifices are always in blood and from a mortal’s own volition. Unfortunately, it was a trap. He was working for my brother.”
Outside of their room the air crackled with the shouts of the captain, ordering the men to finish loading the cargo so they might sail away. To and fro the sailors went. They’d be off any minute now. Travel by water did not alarm Casiopea; in fact, it was soothing for her nerves. She could understand water. She’d slipped into the cenotes since she was a toddler. Had travel by train been necessary she might have been more reluctant or more excitable.
“How long did you spend in that chest?” she asked.
