The soil in Yucatán is black and red, and rests upon a limestone bed. No rivers slice the surface in the north of the peninsula. Caves and sinkholes pucker the ground, and the rainwater forms cenotes and gathers in haltunes. What rivers there are run underground, secretive in their courses. The marshes come and go at their whim during the dry season. Brackish waters are common, giving a habitat to curious, blind fish in the depths of the cave systems, and where limestone meets the ocean, the shore turns jagged.
Some cenotes are famous and were once sacred places of worship where the priests tossed jewels and victims into the water. One near Mayapán was said to be guarded by a feathered serpent that gobbled children. Others were supposed to connect with the Underworld, Xibalba, and finally there were those that were suhuy ha, the place where virgin water might be gathered.
There were several cenotes near Casiopea’s town, but one farther away, an hour’s ride on a mule-drawn carriage, was reckoned to possess special healing properties. Once a month Grandfather had them make the trek there so that he could soak himself in its waters, hoping to prolong his life. A mattress was dragged onto the cart to ensure that Grandfather would be comfortable, and food was packed for them to eat by the cenote after Grandfather’s soak. Grandfather would then take his midday nap, and they would head back when the sun had gone down a bit and the air was cooler.
The monthly trip was one of the few occasions when Casiopea had a chance to enjoy the company of her family members and a deserved respite from her chores. A day of merriment. She looked forward to it like a child anticipates Epiphany.
Grandfather spent most of his days in bed in his nightshirt, but on the occasion of the trip to the cenote, as with any visit to church, he would pick a suit and a hat to wear. Casiopea was in charge of Grandfather’s clothes, of washing and brushing them, of starching his shirts and ironing them. Since they left the house early, this meant a day or two of preparations were necessary for the trip to the cenote.
The day before their departure, Casiopea had almost finished with her list of chores. She sat in the middle of the interior patio of the house, a joyful patch of greenery with its potted plants and fountain. She listened to the canaries chirping in their cages and the random, loud screeches of the parrot. It was a cruel animal, this parrot. As a child, Casiopea had tried to feed it a peanut, and it had bitten her finger. It spoke naughty words, which it had learned from the servants and her cousin, but for now it was quiet, preening itself.
Casiopea hummed as she shined Grandfather’s boots. It was the last task she needed to accomplish. Everyone else was napping, escaping the midday heat, but she wanted to get this done so she could read for the rest of the day. Her grandfather had no interest in books and much preferred the newspaper, but for the sake of appearances he had purchased several bookcases and filled them with thick leather tomes. Casiopea had convinced him to buy a few more, mostly astronomy books, but she had also sneaked in a few volumes of poetry. He never even looked at the spines, anyway. On good days, such as this one, Casiopea could sit for several hours in her room and lazily flip the pages, run her hands down the rivers of the old atlas.
The parrot yelled, startling her. She looked up.
Martín strode across the courtyard, heading in her direction, and Casiopea immediately felt irritated—he was intruding upon her silence—though she tried not to show it, her fingers twisting on the rag she was using to apply the polish. He ought to have been sleeping, like everyone else.
“I was going to go to your room and wake you up, but you’ve saved me the trip,” he said.
“What did you need?” she asked, her voice curt despite her attempt at keeping a neutral tone.
“The old man wants you to remind the barber he needs to come and clip his hair this evening.”
“I reminded him this morning already.”
Her cousin was smoking, and he paused to grin at her and let the smoke out of his mouth in a puff. His skin was pale, showing some of the European heritage the family valued so highly, and his hair curled a little, the reddish-brown tone he owed to his mother. They said he was good-looking, but Casiopea could not find any beauty in his sour face.
“My, aren’t you being industrious today? Say, why don’t you clean my boots too, since you have the time. Fetch them from my room.”
Casiopea cleaned floors when it was necessary, but the bulk of her obligations were to her grandfather. She was not Martín’s servant. They employed maids and an errand boy who could shine his shoes, if the oaf couldn’t figure out how to do it himself. She knew he was asking in order to encroach on her personal time and to irritate her. She should not have taken the bait, but she could not help her fury, which stretched from the pit of her stomach up to her throat.
He had been at her for several days now, starting with the moment she’d had the audacity to tell him she wanted to change her clothes to run the errands. It was a tactic of his, to wear her down and get her in trouble.
“I’ll get to it later,” she said, spitting the words out. “Now let me be.”
She ought to have simply said “yes,” and kept her voice down, but instead she’d delivered the answer with all the aplomb of an empress. Martín, a fool but not entirely stupid, noticed this, took in the way she held her head up high, and immediately smelled blood.
Martín crouched down, stretched out a hand. He clutched her chin, holding it firmly.
“You talk to me with too much sass, eh? Proud cousin.”
He released her and stood up, wiped his hands, as if he was wiping himself clean of her, as if that brief contact was enough to dirty him. And she was dirty, polish on her hands, it might have gotten on her face, who knew, but she was aware it was not about the dirt under her fingers or the black streaks of grease.
“As if you had anything to be proud of,” her cousin continued. “Your mother was the old man’s favorite, but then she had to run off with your father and ruin her life. Yet you walk around the house as if you were a princess. Why? Because he told you a story about how you secretly are Mayan royalty, descended from kings? Because he named you after a stupid star?”
“A constellation,” she said. She didn’t add “you dunce,” but she might as well have. Her tone was defiant.
She ought to have left it at that. Already Martín’s face was growing flushed with anger. He hated being interrupted. But she could not stop. He was like a boy pulling a girl’s pigtail and she ought to have ignored him, but a prank is not any less irritating because it is childish.
“My father may have told tall tales, and maybe he did not have much money, but he was a man worthy of respect. And when I leave this place I will be someone worthy of respect, just like him. And you will never be that, Martín, no matter how many coats of polish you apply to yourself.”
Martín yanked her to her feet, and instead of trying to evade the blow he would surely deliver, she stared at him without blinking. She’d learned that cowering did no good.
He did not hit her and this scared her. His rage, when it was physical, could be endured.
“You think you are going to go anywhere, huh? What, to the capital, maybe? With what money? Or maybe you are thinking the old man will leave you the one thousand pesos he is so fond of mentioning? I’ve seen the will, and there is nothing there for you.”
“You are lying,” she replied.
“I don’t have to lie. Ask him. You’ll see.”
Casiopea knew it was true, it was written on his face. Besides, he didn’t have the imagination to lie about such a thing. The knowledge hit her harder than a blow. She stepped back. She clutched her can of shoe polish like a talisman. Her throat felt dry.
She did not believe in fairy tales, but she had convinced herself she’d have a happy ending. She’d placed those pictures under her pillow—an ad showing an automobile and another one with pretty dresses, a view of a beach, photos of a movie star—in a childish, mute effort at sympathetic magic.
He grinned and spoke again. “When the old man passes away you’ll be under my care. Don’t shine my shoes today, you’ll have plenty of chances to polish them every day, for the rest of your life.”
He left and Casiopea sat down again, numbly rubbing the cloth against the shoes, her fingers streaked black. On the floor next to her lay his cigarette, slowly extinguishing itself.
The consequences were swiftly felt. Mother informed her of the punishment while they were getting ready for bed. Casiopea slipped her hands into the washbasin upon the commode.
“Your grandfather has asked that you stay behind tomorrow,” her mother said. “You are to mend a couple of his shirts while we are out.”
“It’s because of Martín, isn’t it? He’s punishing me because of him.”
“Yes.”
Casiopea raised her hands, sprinkling water on the floor.
“I wish you’d stand up for me! Sometimes I feel like you have no pride, the way you let them walk all over us!”
Her mother was holding the hairbrush, ready to brush Casiopea’s hair as she did every night, but she froze in place. Casiopea saw her mother’s face reflected in their mirror set by the washbasin, the hard lines bracketing her mouth, the lines upon her forehead. She wasn’t old, not really, but right that instant she seemed worn.
“Perhaps someday you’ll learn what it is to make sacrifices,” her mother said.
Casiopea recalled the months after her father died. Mother tried to make a living with her macramé, but more money was necessary. First Mother sold the few valuables they owned, but by the time the summer came, most of their furniture and clothes were gone. Even her wedding ring was pawned. Casiopea felt ashamed of herself then, realizing how difficult it must have been for Mother to go back to Uukumil, to her harsh father.
“Mother,” Casiopea said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s a difficult situation for me too, Casiopea.”
“I know it’s hard for you. But Martín is so mean! Sometimes I wish he’d fall down a well and break his back,” Casiopea replied.
“And would that make your life any happier if he did? Would it make your chores shorter and lighter?”
Casiopea shook her head and sat down on the chair where she sat every night. Her mother parted her hair, gently brushing it.
“It’s unfair. Martín has everything and we get nothing,” Casiopea said.
“What does he have?” her mother asked.
“Well…money, and good clothes…and he gets to do anything he wants.”
“You shouldn’t do everything you want just because you can,” her mother said. “That is precisely why Martín is such a terrible man.”
“If I had grown up with his money, I promise I wouldn’t be terrible.”
“But you’d be an entirely different person.”
Casiopea did not argue. She was bone-tired and Mother was constantly serving her a meal of platitudes instead of any significant answers or action. But there was nothing else to do but to accept this, to accept the punishment and carry on day after weary day. Casiopea went to sleep with her head full of quiet resentment, as she must.
When her family left the next morning, Casiopea went to her grandfather’s room and sat on the edge of the bed. He’d piled his shirts on a chair. Casiopea had brought her sewing kit but upon the sight of the stupid shirts she tossed the sewing kit against the mirror atop the vanity. She would not ordinarily have allowed herself such a visible demonstration of her rage, but this time the anger was too overwhelming and she thought she’d catch on fire. She must cool down. Afterward, she would be able to take a deep breath and push the thread through the eye of the needle, stitching new buttons in place.
Something metallic rattled and slid off the vanity. With a sigh she rose and picked it up. It was grandfather’s key, which he normally wore around his neck. Since he’d gone to the waterhole he’d left it behind. Casiopea stared at the key resting on her palm and then at the chest.
She’d never opened it, never dared to attempt such a thing. Whatever lay in there, whether it was gold or money, it must be valuable. And she recalled that the old man was going to leave her nothing. She had not stolen from Grandfather; it would have been idiotic since he would notice it. But the chest…if it was gold coins, would he truly notice the absence of a couple of them? Or better yet, should she take all of them, would he be able to stop her from running off with his treasure?
Casiopea endured, patiently, like her mother asked her to, but the girl was no saint, and every mean remark she swallowed had accumulated like a bloated tumor. If the day had not been so warm, with a heat that scrambles the senses, the kind of heat that makes a tame dog bite the leg of its owner in an act of sudden betrayal, she might have eluded temptation. But she was feverish with her quiet anger.
She slashed at the cycle of her pitiful existence and decided that she’d look inside the chest, and if there was indeed gold inside, damn it all to hell, she’d take off and leave this rotten place behind. If there was nothing—and most likely there was nothing and this was but a quiet act of rebellion, which, like the tossing of the sewing kit, would serve as a tepid balm to her wounds—then she would at least satisfy her curiosity.
Casiopea knelt in front of the chest. It was very simple, with carrying handles on each end. No decorations except for the one image painted in red, the decapitated man. When she ran her hand along its surface, she discovered shapes that had been carved and painted over. She could not tell what they were, but she could feel them. She gave the chest a push.
It was heavy.
Casiopea rested both hands on the chest and for a moment considered leaving well enough alone. But she was angry and, more than that, curious. What if indeed there was money locked away in there? The old man owed her something for her suffering.
Everyone owed her.
Casiopea inserted the key, turned the lock, and flipped the lid open.
She sat there, confused at the sight of what lay inside the chest. Not gold but bones. Very white bones. Might it be a ruse? Could the prize be hidden beneath? Casiopea placed a hand inside the chest, shoving the bones around as she tried to uncover a hidden panel.
Nothing. She felt nothing but the cold smoothness of the bones.
This was her luck, of course. Black.
With a sigh she decided enough was enough.
Pain shot through her left arm. She pulled out her hand from the chest and looked at her thumb only to see a white shard, a tiny piece of bone, had embedded itself in her skin. She tried to pull it out but it sank deeper in. A few drops of blood welled from the place where the bone had splintered her.
“Oh, what foolishness,” she whispered, standing up.
Blacker than black her luck. The daykeepers would have laughed predicting her life, yet as she rose, the chest…it groaned, a low, powerful sound. But surely not. Surely the noise had come from outside.
Casiopea turned her head, ready to look out the window.
With a furious clacking the bones jumped in the air and began assembling themselves into a human skeleton. Casiopea did not move. The pain in her hand and the wave of fear that struck her held the girl tight to her spot.
In the blink of an eye all the bones clicked into place, like pieces in a puzzle. In another instant the bones became muscle, grew sinews. In a third blink of the eye they were covered in smooth skin. Faster than Casiopea could take a breath or a step back, there stood a tall, naked man before her. His hair was the blue-black of a sleek bird, reaching his shoulders, his skin bronzed, the nose prominent, the face proud. He seemed a warrior-king, the sort of man who could exist only in myth.
Unnaturally beautiful the stranger was—this was beauty sketched from smoke and dreams, translated into fallible flesh—but his dark gaze was made of flint. It sliced her to the core, sliced with such force she pressed a hand against her chest, fearing he’d cut through bone and marrow, to the very center of her heart. There was a song the girls of her town sometimes sang; it went “Now there, mother, I’ve found a man, now there, mother, I’ll dance along the road with him, now there I’ll kiss his lips.” Casiopea did not sing it because, unlike the girls who smiled knowingly, who smiled thinking of a specific young man they’d like to kiss or whom they’d kissed already, Casiopea knew few names of boys. She thought of that song then, like a pious person might have thought of a prayer when caught in a moment of turmoil.
Casiopea stared at the man.
“You stand before the Supreme Lord of Xibalba,” the stranger said. His voice had the chill of the night. “Long have I been kept a prisoner, and you are responsible for my freedom.”
Casiopea could not string words together. He had said he was a Lord of Xibalba. A god of death in the room. Impossible and yet, undeniably, true. She did not pause to question her sanity, to think she might be hallucinating. She accepted him as real and solid. She could see him, and she knew she was not mad or prone to flights of fancy, so she trusted her eyes. Her preoccupation was, then, very simple. She had no idea how to address a divine creature and bowed her head clumsily. Should she speak a greeting? But how to make her tongue produce the right sounds, to pull a breath of air into her lungs?
“It was my treacherous brother, Vucub-Kamé, who tricked and imprisoned me,” he said, and she was grateful for his voice, since she’d lost her own. “From me he took my left eye, ear, and index finger, as well as my jade necklace.”
As he spoke and raised his hand, she realized he was indeed missing the body parts he had mentioned. His appearance was so striking one could not notice the absence at first. Only when it was highlighted did it become obvious.
“The owner of this abode assisted my brother, enabling his plan,” he said.
“My grandfather? I doubt—”
He stared at her. Casiopea did not utter another word. It appeared she was meant to listen. So much for thinking of proper greetings or feeling poorly about her clumsy silence. Her teeth clacked together as she closed her mouth.
“I find it fitting that you have opened the chest, then. A proper circle. Fetch me clothes; we will journey to the White City,” he said. It was a tone she was accustomed to, the tone of a man directing his servant. The familiarity of such a command managed to rouse her from her confusion, and this time she delivered a whole sentence, however stilted.
“Mérida? We, meaning the two of us…you want both of us to go to Mérida.”
“I dislike repeating myself.”
“Pardon me, I do not see why I should go,” she said.
The retort came unbidden. This was how she got in trouble with Martín or her grandfather. A scowl here, an angry gesture there. She could control herself most of the time, but after a while dissatisfaction would boil in her belly and escape, like steam from a kettle. It never failed. However, she had not talked back to a god. She wondered if she might be struck by lightning, devoured by maggots, turned to dust.
The god approached her and caught her wrist with his hand, raising it and making her hold her palm up, outstretched.
“I shall explain something to you,” he said as he touched her thumb. She winced when he did, a nerve plucked. “Here lodges a shard of bone, a tiny part of me. Your blood awoke and reconstituted me. Even now it provides nourishment. Every moment that passes, that nourishment, that life, flows out of you and into me. You will be drained entirely, it shall kill you, unless I pull the bone out.”
“Then you should remove it,” she said, immediately alarmed, and forgot to add a proper “please” to the sentence. This was probably the minimum expected of a mortal.
The god shook his head majestically. You’d have thought he was decked in malachite and gold, not naked in the middle of the room. “I cannot, for I am not whole. My left eye, ear, and index finger, and the jade necklace. These I must have in order to be myself again. Until then, this shard remains in you, and you must remain at my side, or perish.”
He released her hand. Casiopea looked at the hand, rubbing the thumb, then back up at him.
“Fetch me clothes,” he said. “Be swift about it.”
She could have complained, wailed, resisted, but this would have merely been a waste of time. Besides, there was the bone shard in her hand, and who knew if her fear of death by maggots might have some truth to it. Assist him she must. Casiopea tightened her jaw. She threw the doors of her grandfather’s armoire open and scooped out trousers, a jacket, a striped shirt. Not the latest fashion, though the shirt’s detachable white collar was brand new. Death, thin and lanky, went the refrain, and the god was indeed slim and tall, meaning the clothes would not fit him properly, but it was not as if she could ask a tailor to stop by the house.
She fetched a hat, shoes, underwear, and a handkerchief to complete the ensemble. She’d performed such tasks before, and the familiarity of handing out clothes won over any misgivings.
The god knew how to dress himself, thankfully. She’d had no idea if he had any experience with such garments. It would have been even more mortifying to have to button up the shirt of a god than it already was to watch him get dressed. She’d seen naked men in mythology books, but even Greek heroes had the sense to wear a scrap of cloth upon their private parts.
I shall now go to hell, she thought, because that was what happened when you looked at a naked man who was not your husband and this one was handsome. She’d probably burn for all eternity. However, she amended her thought when she recalled that she was in the presence of a god who had spoken about yet another god, which would imply that the priest had been wrong about the Almighty One in heaven. There was no one god in heaven, bearded and watching her, but multiple ones. This might mean hell did not exist at all. A sacrilegious notion, which she must no doubt explore later on.
“Indicate to me the quickest way to reach the city,” the god told her as he adjusted his tie.
“The tram. It is almost eleven,” Casiopea said, glancing at the clock by the bed and holding up the suit jacket so that he might put it on. “It stops in town twice a week at eleven. We must catch it.”
He agreed with her, and they rushed across the house’s courtyard and out into the street. To reach the tram station they had to cut through the center of the town, which meant parading in front of everyone. Casiopea knew exactly how bad it looked to be marching next to a stranger, but even though the pharmacist’s son turned his head in her direction and several children who were chasing a stray dog paused to giggle at them, she did not slow down.
When they arrived at the pitiful tram station—there was a single bench where people could sit and wait under the unforgiving sun for their transport—she recalled an important point. “I have no money for the fare,” she said.
Maybe their trip would not be. That might be a relief, since she did not understand what they were supposed to do in the city, and oh dear, she wasn’t ready for any of this.
The god, now dressed in her grandfather’s good clothes and looking very much the part of a gentleman, said nothing. He knelt down and grabbed a couple of stones. Under his touch these became coins. Just in time, as the mule came clopping down the narrow track, pulling the old railcar.
They paid the fare and sat on a bench. The railcar had a roof, somewhat of a luxury, since the vehicles that made the rounds of the rural areas could be very basic. There were three others traveling with them that day, and they were uninterested in Casiopea and her companion. This was a good thing, as she would not have been able to make conversation.
Once the railcar left the station, she realized the townspeople would say she had run off with a man, like her mother did, and speak bad things about her. Not that a god who had jumped out of a chest would care about her reputation.
“You’ll give me your name,” he said as the station and the town and everything she’d ever known grew smaller and smaller.
She adjusted her shawl. “Casiopea Tun.”
“I am Hun-Kamé, Lord of Shadows and rightful ruler of Xibalba,” he told her. “I thank you for liberating me and for the gift of your blood. Serve me well, maiden, and I shall see fit to reward you.”
For a fleeting moment she thought she might escape, that it was entirely possible to jump off the tram and run back into town. Maybe he’d turn her into dust, but that might be better than whatever horrid fate awaited her. A horrid fate awaited her, didn’t it? Hadn’t the Lords of Xibalba delighted in tricking and disposing of mortals? But there was the question of the bone shard and the nagging voice in the back of her head that whispered “adventure.”
For surely she would not get another chance to leave this village, and the sights he would show her must be strange and dazzling. The pull of the familiar was strong, but stronger was curiosity and the blind optimism of youth that demanded go now, go quickly. Every child dreams of running away from home at some point, and now she had this impossible opportunity. Greedily she latched on to it.
“Very well,” she said, and with those two words she accepted her fate, horrid or wonderful as it might be.
He said nothing else during their journey to Mérida, and although she was confused and scared, she was also glad to see the town receding in the distance. Casiopea Tun was off into the world, not in the way she had imagined, but off nevertheless.