This, in turn, made him the spider.
Martín clutched the handkerchief.
Trees, so close together at times they formed a lattice, bordered Casiopea’s path. Yet the trees were invariably shrunken, dead, and their branches stood ghostly white against the gray sky.
The road was steep; it led up a hill, and she had trouble managing it. At last she reached a clearing. A clump of trees lay to her right, but she could see below, far away, the Black City.
A monumental causeway cut through a ring of thorns that rose around the city, like a defensive stone wall might have shielded mortal towns, though this metropolis need not shield itself from any foes. All the buildings were made of black stone, honoring the city’s name, but of a glossy black that shifted and shimmered. Pillars and stelae rose in the plazas, long staircases decorated with pale glyphs led to multiple platforms. Serene, sober, monochromatic, that was the city. Except for the Jade Palace at its center, aflame with color and unlike any of the structures Casiopea knew back home.
The palace had four levels, each level receding slightly from the previous one, their façades decorated with elaborate geometrical patterns that created a palpable rhythm, like the beating of a drum. These terraces were connected by an imposing central staircase. Impossibly, the whole structure was made of a pale green jade, like a giant jewel, as Hun-Kamé had said. It looked like the palace she had imagined when they stood by the sea.
She looked at this strange city, sculpted from the stray dreams of restless mortals, and took a deep breath.
A rustle came from the clump of dead trees, and Casiopea turned her head, expecting to find a snake or another animal, and instead stared at her cousin. Martín was grim and tired as he stopped and also looked in the direction of the city. He took a sip from the gourd dangling from his neck and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He offered her a sip. She took it, cautiously.
“God. I feel like I’ve been walking forever,” he said. “Do you feel the same way?”
“A little,” she replied, handing him the gourd back.
Martín drank more, but there was no more to be had. Irritated, he took off the gourd from around his neck and tossed it away. It rolled down the side of the hill.
“Casiopea, you shouldn’t go any farther,” he told her.
“It’s a competition. We are competing to see who gets there first. I can’t stay here,” she replied, guessing he meant to fill her with doubt.
“Yes, you can, if you know what’s good for you. Vucub-Kamé does not want you moving any closer to the city.”
“I don’t care what he wants. We have a deal, and I am not going to give up now.”
Martín had not looked at her this whole time. Now he turned his eyes toward her. His face was parched, not a physical thirst but a spiritual one. He looked haunted.
“Casiopea, I can’t let you go on. So…sit down here and wait,” he said, running a hand through his hair. It was slick with sweat. He had a scratch on his cheek, he was dirty, and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been walking for days on end. The journey must have taxed him. She was tired, too, and would have loved to sit down and rest.
“And what? Let you win?” she asked.
“Vucub-Kamé needs to retain the throne, the whole family depends…God, they depend on that. Your loss…it would be the best for everyone.”
“For you and him, maybe.”
“Trust me. You don’t want this. And I’ll talk to Vucub-Kamé,” he promised. “He’s not going to kill you; you are a Leyva, after all.”
“Don’t try that again. I’ve never been a Leyva. You made sure I knew that.”
“I’m sorry! All right? I’m sorry! But for God’s sake don’t take it out on me, on us, now. Casiopea, tell me you won’t go on.”
She thought he’d keep his word, he’d do as he’d promised when they spoke in Mexico City: call her “cousin,” let her walk beside him. Even buy her dresses and trinkets, take her to dances in Mérida like he did with his sisters on occasion. He was desperate, after all.
Although she would have liked this, once upon a time, she would not relent.
“I’m headed to the palace,” she said, as much to him as to herself.
“God. You never quit, do you?” he yelled, and there was a dangerous anger in him.
Casiopea attempted to run, but he was very quick and rushed at her. She did not know how to fight and could barely gasp as he cleaved her against the ground. She raised her arms, trying to push him back, and their limbs thrashed as they struggled.
He meant to beat her, she thought. Teach her a lesson, like their grandfather with the cane; like Martín himself had done before. A slap or two. But then he raised his knife and she raised her hands, trying to shield her face; she kept the knife at bay, trapping his wrists with her fingers and holding him in place. And she couldn’t even yell at him: he was heavy, he crushed her. It was as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. She thought she’d die in this strange place, by the shrunken trees, their white branches whispering to the wind.
With his hair in his eyes and with his fury, her cousin was unrecognizable. He was a monster from the myth, more terrifying than Kamazotz because she’d feared Martín for a long time, because she’d dreamed it might end like this somehow, that he’d commit himself to violence, long before she ever initiated this quest.
