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“I am Hun-Kamé, Lord of Shadows and rightful ruler of Xibalba,”
money never leaves the grasp of the rich easily.
the cathedral, which had been built using stones from Mayan temples.
Death enters all dwellings.”
There is much magic here. In other parts of the world the ancient gods have gone to sleep, for although gods do not die, they must slumber when their devoted cease in their prayers and offerings.
the court of the Lords of Death also possessed the allure of shadows and the glimmer of obsidian, for there is as much beauty as there is terror in the night.
Mortals have always been frightened of the night’s velvet embrace and the creatures that walk in it, and yet they find themselves mesmerized by it. Since all gods are born from the kernel of mortal hearts, it is no wonder Xibalba reflected this duality.
Vucub-Kamé’s eyes were as pale as his hair, paler, the color of incense as it rises through the air.
Raw like an unpolished gemstone.
“Chu’lel,” he said. “It is the sacred life force that resides around you. In the streams, in the resins of trees, in the stones. It births gods and those gods are shaped by the thoughts of men. Gods belong to the place where the chu’lel emanated and birthed them; they may not travel too far. The god of your church, if he is awake, does not live in these lands.”
Once in a while she sneaked a line of poetry into her heart, or memorized the name of a star.
This time his face wasn’t flint, but basalt, cool and devoid of any menace or emotion, though it was difficult to pinpoint emotions with him. Like the rivers in Yucatán, they existed hidden, under the surface. Now it was as if someone had dragged a stone upon a well, blocking the view. Basalt, unforgiving and dark, that was what the god granted her.
she attempted to clutch the other remains of his memory even more tightly, holding with special reverence a book of poems by Francisco de Quevedo with pages falling out, like a withered daisy, which had rested by her father’s bedside when he passed away.
when Casiopea looked in the mirror and saw her bangs and her short hair grazing her cheek, she thought she looked like the whores they’d warned her about. And yet her hair seemed quite nice. This might mean that the whores were not as bad as they’d said.
He was always changing, a thousand tiny ripples, tiny tessellations and dark reflections. It threw her out of balance, and her breath burned in her mouth.
she saw plants that looked more like glowing anemones than any ordinary vegetation, shining and shifting as she passed them.
she came upon a lake that glowed an eerie blue, as if all the stars had fallen into the water and nestled in its bottom.
Casiopea held up her wrists, realizing the blood emanated from there, two slashes like bracelets decorating her arms.
she realized, the reminder of death, putrefaction, the slim limits of existence, like a mantle over her shoulders.
She’d pressed all her fantasies like dried flowers in books, carefully hidden
“Words are seeds, Casiopea. With words you embroider narratives, and the narratives breed myths, and there’s power in the myth. Yes, the things you name have power,” he said.
The things you name do grow in power, but others that are not ever whispered claw at one’s heart anyway, rip it to shreds even if a syllable does not escape the lips.
“Blood is the oldest coin. Blood remains.”
The night skies like velvet darkness, pierced by the stars, the murals in the palaces, waterholes so blue you’d think them inked with the leaves of the añil, and the devotion of men, like a wave, a sound, this force that made the land quiver.
the ocean with its currents and its tides, that was never ours. The salt will keep our secrets.
the waves struck the land with a stark precision, violent almost.
“It’s all symbols, the stories we tell;
Like they are the air each other breathes.”
The cape was a curious creation, made of bones and owl feathers, stitched with the silk of moths, standing stiff and strong despite its delicate components. When he moved, the bones rattled and laughed.
a ripple cut across the water and from the lake emerged a monstrous being. It was very old, its body shone slick, like the starry night, a whirl of galaxies and the dust of dead suns coating its scales. It was the Great Caiman, blind creature of the depths.
Destruction brings renewal.
A grain of dust may contain a universe inside, and it was the same for him.
