Ordinarily, when Vucub-Kamé left his palace, he was carried on a golden litter, hoisted upon the shoulders of his most exquisite courtiers. Singers walked ahead of him, proclaiming the beauty and wisdom of their lord, while behind followed his brothers and the rest of his retinue, burning incense or holding up cups filled with zaca. He was vain, Vucub-Kamé, as gods always are, and loved to be exalted.
That day, however, he exited the palace in silence, without alerting any of his servants. He did not wear a headdress, nor fine robes, but was attired in a simple white cloak. Alone he walked the streets of his city until its buildings were behind him, until the black ribbon of a road was nowhere in sight, and he reached a swamp.
Caimans, like the ones found in generous numbers in the swamps of Yucatán, swam there, snapping their jaws in the air. But these caimans were like the ghosts of caimans: their scales were alabaster and gold. He called forth one of these, which was greater in size than all the caimans who float in Middleworld, like a man might call to his dog, and sat on the creature’s back. He rode in this manner across the swamp.
The mangrove trees knitted their roots tightly below the water, glistening eerily. Skeletal birds perched on meager branches and stared at the death lord with their empty eye sockets, while he reached the edge of the swamp and ascended the steps to the House of Jaguars. Sometimes Vucub-Kamé sent men to the house to be torn to shreds by the fierce animals, a punishment and an amusement, since, being dead already, they could not truly die and would be reconstituted in time.
The jaguars were far from tame. But when Vucub-Kamé walked in, the cruel beasts bent their heads and licked his hands as tenderly as kittens.
Vucub-Kamé petted one of the jaguars, his fingers running upon its fur. He admired its yellow eyes. Then, having made his choice, he cut off the great cat’s head. He opened its chest and retrieved its heart. It fell to the ground, the heart, and the jaguar’s blood traced an odd pattern, which the god read, like men may read letters upon paper.
This was Vucub-Kamé’s gift: prophecy. With the bright red seeds of the Coral Tree he could keep track of days and divine what might be, or scry into an obsidian mirror for answers. With such sorcery Vucub-Kamé had foreseen his brother’s escape from his prison, though he had not known when or who would save him. He had known, too, that when he escaped, Hun-Kamé would have necessity of a mortal’s assistance. Like a parasite, he would feed on the life of the mortal until he could recoup his absolute essence, and, since he would be tied to the mortal, he would be able to walk Middleworld with the freedom the Lords of Death were not ordinarily granted. Yet a toll must be paid. The mortal vitality that gave him strength, that allowed him to roam the lands of men, would slowly pollute him. It would turn Hun-Kamé more and more mortal each day, until, if he could not restore his powers, Hun-Kamé would snatch the last heartbeat from the human heart and, with it, the whole of the mortal’s essence. And he would become almost completely a man, no longer a god.
Vucub-Kamé counted on this process to take place. He had built the hotel in Tierra Blanca knowing it would happen, assuring himself victory.
Hun-Kamé’s laughter proved that he was indeed turning human.
It is not as if the gods do not express anger, envy, and desire. But these are like compartments that may be opened and closed with iron keys, and often the gods exist in a state of placid indifference. Their laughter, when it surfaces, is not born in the heart, but the head. Hun-Kamé’s laughter, however, had been cooked in the furnace of his heart. It was bright and vigorous.
This puzzled Vucub-Kamé. He did not expect his brother to become human quite so quickly. Indeed, he was not prepared for this to happen yet. Hun-Kamé needed to reach Tierra Blanca when he was close to his final descent into mortality, at which point he would be weak, a shell of his former self. Yet this laughter did not hint at weakness, its joy indicated unknown strength. What was happening? What had changed?
Vucub-Kamé, concerned, had therefore decided he needed to read the blood of the jaguar—for all the sacred truths are rendered in blood—in order to discern the future, to ensure his plan was secure.
But what Vucub-Kamé read in the blood did not reassure. It made him frown. The jaguars, sensing his irritation, twitched their tails.
Vucub-Kamé pressed his nail against the blood and drew a symbol there, then another. Three times his nail scratched the blood until he straightened up. His gray eyes caught a flicker of light in the jaguars’ chamber, and for a moment they were burnished.
He walked out of the House of Jaguars, climbed down its white steps, and reaching the caiman that had borne him there, he cut off its head with his wicked knife. The caiman’s blood colored the water, and Vucub-Kamé read the crimson signs.
Again he was disappointed.
Finally, the god took the knife and sliced his palm with icy determination, letting his blood fall upon the water. The blood was black as ink, and when it fell, it caused the water to bubble and swirl for a few seconds. Vucub-Kamé peered down at its surface.
“What is this trickery?” he whispered, his voice a hiss.
He could not read the signs properly. Before, he had foreseen Hun-Kamé’s escape, and prepared to meet him in Tierra Blanca. Now he could see this future, but other paths branched off and were hidden to him. When he tried to peer into these rivulets he was confronted by the face of a woman he’d never met, but whom he assumed was Casiopea Tun. Her human essence tainted Hun-Kamé’s own immortal substance, making it difficult to differentiate the future, to extricate her from him.
It was as if Vucub-Kamé had been blinded. No longer could he observe his moment of triumph. This troubled him because, if Hun-Kamé’s escape was ordained by fate, Vucub-Kamé’s dominion of Xibalba had never been sealed in such a way.
The death god stood by the shore of the swamp, his mind festering with the darkest of thoughts, and in the trees the skeletal birds, sensing his anger, hid their heads under their wings.
The god closed his palm into a fist, and when he opened it his hand was healed, as if no knife had cut it. He could not be harmed this way. The burn marks he carried were unusual, just as the beheading of his brother had been an outrageous anomaly born of iron and spiteful magic.
Vucub-Kamé called for two of his owl messengers. He had four and they were all terrifying creatures, feasting on the troubled dreams of men when they were free to roam Middleworld. Chabi-Tucur was the fastest and smallest of the four, and the one who had followed the trail of Hun-Kamé. Huracán-Tucur was the largest, so massive a man might ride atop its back, but too great to hide its magic from Hun-Kamé. Even though his brother was missing an eye and could not see the winged creatures, he might sense Huracán-Tucur’s flapping wings. Vucub-Kamé could not risk this. Therefore, he gave instructions to the small owl that he should return to Middleworld and spy on Hun-Kamé.