“Welcome to Tierra Blanca. I am Aníbal Zavala,” the man said, rising from behind his desk and approaching Martín, who was trying to take the whole trip, the building, the room, in.
“I’m Martín Leyva,” he muttered, shaking the man’s hand.
“You’ve had a chance to clean up somewhat, I assume?”
“Yes. I have a room.”
“Good.”
Aníbal reached toward a wooden box on his desk and took out a fat cigar, carefully clipping it and lighting it with a wide, warm smile. He did not offer Martín a smoke, and Martín stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling offended and unable to complain.
“Do you know why you are here?” Aníbal asked.
“Vucub-Kamé said I should meet with you.”
“And more than that?”
“He said I need to learn the shadow roads.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
Martín shook his head as Aníbal’s cigar began to glow a dull orange and he took a puff.
“Do you understand the mechanics of the realm of Xibalba?” Aníbal asked.
Martín was reminded of the headmaster at his school, whom he had loathed for his strictures, and did not bother shaking his head this time, merely stared at the man, hating the conversation already, as he did when any situation made him uncomfortable. His tactic would have normally been to strike back, but he forced himself to bite his tongue.
“I see,” Aníbal said. “Well, I suppose we should go over the basics.”
The older man ran a hand against a bookshelf, plucking a book and placing it on his desk. Martín looked at the tome, which was rather large and old. On the page there lay several concentric circles.
“Xibalba is made of nine levels. Through these levels descends the Black Road, which reaches a wall made from the thorns of the ceiba tree. Beyond this wall begins a causeway that leads to the gates of the Black City and allows access to the Jade Palace. By the palace is a lake where the World Tree quenches some of its thirst, and at the bottom of the lake dwells the First Caiman, which swam in the primordial seas and whose head was severed when the world was newly born.”
Aníbal turned a page, tapping his finger on a two-page illustration depicting a lake with a tree, and beneath the tree, a caiman. The perspective was all off, it was not tri-dimensional, lacking in depth, and Martín had trouble understanding it.
“Few living mortals have made the journey down the Black Road. It is a dangerous and long path. It may take years to reach the gates of the Black City. Of course, the Supreme Lord does not expect you to walk the road for years. We must expedite your path.”
“How would you do that?” Martín asked.
Aníbal turned another page, and now came a drawing that resembled the labyrinth Vucub-Kamé had shown him, an arrangement of black lines branching wildly, turning back and forward.
“Certain sorcerers and priests, and sometimes certain ordinary mortals—though these only in their dreams—have found their way to the Black City with more haste. They’ve done so by slipping through the shadows.”
“What?”
“If you look at the road, carefully, there are spots where you can sense gaps. You can jump from gap to gap, walking the road with more ease. But you must be careful. The Black Road is treacherous. It is changing, rearranging itself. It does not lie still. It hungers.”
“For what?”
“Destruction, pain. Keep your thoughts and your feet on the road, do not go astray. The Land of the Dead is vast. It’s easy to get lost.”
Martín looked at the page, but as he did, a curious sensation came upon him, as if the lines he was observing were not really fixed. The ink was running on the page. A path that he could have sworn snaked to the left in reality bent to the right.
“What madness,” he whispered.
“If you look carefully, Martín, and if you focus your will on it, the road will take you to the heart of Xibalba, to the palace.”
“Easier said than done, I’d wager.”
“You’d wager correctly. I’ll help you familiarize yourself with it.”
Martín was not brave. His reticence kicked in and he raised both hands, bidding Aníbal to halt. A futile gesture, but one born of instinct.
“Wait. I’m not even sure why I’m here. Vucub-Kamé spoke of a contest and Casiopea—”
“A race. If it comes to it,” Aníbal replied. He was put off by Martín’s words.
“Yes, but why some ridiculous race? I don’t—”
“The games of gods, of course. Do you honestly think Vucub-Kamé and his brother would face each other with shield and mace?”
“I don’t see why not. It all sounds stupid.”
Casiopea’s mythology books showed illustrations of men with spears or tridents or another weapon. He had not paid attention to these tomes, but glimpsed their pictures nevertheless. And there were also the bits of Mayan legends he’d heard. Again, he had not paid much attention to these, but he thought the gods fought sometimes. He had, at any rate, the impression of tremendous violence.
“Your grandfather taught you nothing, I gather.”
Of course he had not. Damn old mummy of a man slobbering in his room with his aches and complaints. He didn’t say it, but Grandfather liked Casiopea better, which was a slap in the face. Now he felt he was being slapped again, by another old man.
“My grandfather is guarded,” Martín replied. “Is that my fault? He explained how he assisted Vucub-Kamé, which I think is quite enough.”
“Hmmm. But not why.”
Aníbal rested his back against the desk, carefully holding his cigar between his fingers, as if examining the wrapper.
“Gods move pieces across boards, young man. That is what you are now. Your grandfather was one piece, one move, in a series of moves. It’s your turn now, and it is an honor.”
“It sounds like bullshit to me,” Martín said acidly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. He had had quite enough for a single evening. His old instinct to bully someone whom he perceived frailer than him, for Aníbal at least looked frailer, an old man, an unpleasant authority figure, was rising.
“Such language. Besides, you haven’t even asked what you are playing for.”
“What?” Martín asked.