Gods of Jade and Shadow - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,115

walked through the gaps. Sometimes she had to duck her head, and her progress was slow. But otherwise all was fine. Until the vultures yelled suddenly and flew off. Casiopea raised her head. She could see nothing from where she was, the bones as thick as the canopy in the jungle.

She kept going. But then she heard it: a loud scraping noise and a rumble that almost made her lose her footing. The bones were moving. The gaps between them were disappearing.

Casiopea scrambled forward, hurrying to escape this trap. The bones clacked against each other, and she pushed at one protrusion, which resembled a gigantic rib, managing to make it rock a little to the left, allowing her to squeeze through. The bones clacked louder, closing in like a mouth. There was a gap, small enough that she might scrabble out if she got on her knees, and this she did. The ground was harsh against her knees, scratching them, but Casiopea hurried. The bones descended, ready to crush her whole, and she rolled out of the maw. Her shawl tangled with the bones, but she tore it off her shoulders and left it behind, landing on her back and peering up at the sky.

The wall of bones showed no gaps anymore. It stood white and silent, the clacking having ceased. Her shawl, trapped between two bones, moved with the wind, like a flag, before the bones seemed to pull it in, swallowing the cloth whole.

Better it than me, she thought.

Casiopea stood up, rubbing her palms against her skirt, and walked away from the wall of bones. She had lost her bracelet, her gourd, and her shawl, retaining only her knife. She thought this did not bode well, but she was no soothsayer, and had neither a divining stone nor eighteen kernels of corn to peer into the future.

A black vulture flew down to land on the road next to her and stared at Casiopea curiously.

“I’m headed to the Jade Palace,” she told the bird and knew she must move on. There was nothing more to do. One foot before another, and the Black Road like fresh tar.

* * *

—

The gods sat each in his chair. On the floor the ashes kept changing and reshaping the scene the twins observed, showing both travelers. Martín, aided by his previous experiences on the Black Road, was moving in an efficient fashion through the shadows, increasing his speed.

The ashes on the floor rose and traced the image of Casiopea. She’d had a harder time at it, but she’d evaded the monstrous Kamazotz and the maw of bones. If Vucub-Kamé had been a betting man, he would have bet against this outcome.

Vucub-Kamé sank his nails into the wood of his chair, making it groan. Quickly he turned his head and stared at his dark-haired brother, who in turn was utterly concerned with the movement of the ash-girl across the land.

“Who is she?” Vucub-Kamé demanded, standing up, furious, but with the cold fury of a Lord of Death, the words ice.

“What do you mean?”

“How is she doing it?”

“There is no trick, if that is what you are implying. I have not cheated,” Hun-Kamé said.

Of course he had not. He could not have. The girl had moved slowly, clumsily, at the beginning, but she had now gained speed and might soon be overtaking Martín. It was her own doing, the firmness of her resolve, and Vucub-Kamé again thought about the meaning of symbols. The maiden, a bracketed promise.

“You must be cheating in some way,” Vucub-Kamé said, offended. “She is a weak thing to manage on her own.”

“You are a poor judge of others,” Hun-Kamé replied and looked at his brother, his one eye inky black.

Bah! And yet, had they not all failed Vucub-Kamé? Old Cirilo, the cunning Xtabay, the Zavala twins with their midnight sorceries. It came down to Martín now. The young man was not the fine blade a god might have wanted to wield, but a coarser weapon, a heavy mace. Who cared?

“I’ll see her dead,” Vucub-Kamé told the ash, and his cold anger froze into an invisible arrow of ice, and when he breathed out, the arrow slid from his lips and into the mind of Martín, who sat on the stump of a tree, which had fallen by the road.

The man was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, exhausted by the trip, feeling rather depressed by the landscape of Xibalba. He wet the piece of cloth and dabbed his cheek