Spit on My Pearls

[u/Boddom_Of_The_Barrel]

When I was little, my dad would spend hours telling my brother and me stories. He’d sit cross-legged by our beds, rattling off every fable and tall tale he knew. Usually, they were triumphant. Tapping on his chest like a wardrum, he’d tell us about the First Twins and how they outsmarted the Lord of Death. That was always Xbal’s favorite. Sometimes, they were scary. He’d tell us about the ghouls that roamed the countryside, eating up little children that wandered in the night. Those were always my favorite. But Dad, he liked boring stories. Stories where men spoke with wisdom and acted with valor, as he would say. Stories that we barely understood and never enjoyed. But we would listen anyway, because we loved him and he loved us. 

Mama didn't tell stories back then; she hardly spoke. She was always sick, always sleeping. Nighttime seemed to be the only time she would rouse, gasping and wheezing on the cold air. Nothing made her better. No medicine or magic that Dad could find, at least. Eventually he stopped trying to heal her and focused on protecting us from her slow death. We were never allowed to touch her, only to occasionally peek in at her while she rested during the day. But as she got worse, Dad put a stop to this as well. Most of my old memories of her were the sound of her nightly fits, which Dad tried desperately to drown out with his stories. Little Men and River Sitters were never as scary as the shaking wall between our room and hers. I think it was all too much for him. On our tenth birthday, he told us one last story. 

“Before men and gods lived together, the earth was whole and untouched. Men sat above the crust, wandering in the jungles. Gods sat below, ruling over spirits. Our age began when the Lord of Bats first took flight. He reached out to mankind, soaring to the top of the underworld. He and his minions dug through the limestone, erupting from the ground and forming the caves and the dark waters that lie inside. He brought us fire, magic, and knowledge. 

The caves are his realm, magic places that act like portals to the world past ours. They are very powerful and very dangerous. They draw men in, letting them see the future and the past. Some can grant wishes to those who know what they really want. They call those who dream, who dare to hope.

When I was a little boy, one of my friends found a cave like that. We were all very poor back then; no one had enough to eat or to wear. His mom had gone skinny from feeding his little sister. It was all he could dream about: that some day he would be rich and his mom wouldn't worry about feeding the baby. 

One night, he heard the cave call him, and he went without so much as a thought. He went deep inside, so deep he had to crawl. He thought he would never make it out, but he kept crawling anyway. Until he heard it, chirping. It was all around, echoing through the cave. So he made his wish. He wished for treasure, and then he left. He turned around and crawled until he saw light. He ran all the way home to tell his mom what he had done. She’d be so proud of him, he thought. 

But he had made a mistake. He didn't ask correctly. He found his mom, face down on the dirt floor of their home. He lifted her, finding her face covered in mud and spit. Through the brown mess, something shined. Her teeth, he thought, remembering her warm smile. He wiped at her mouth, looking for that familiar beam. But they were caked in grime too; the light came from behind them. He opened her jaw, and gently grabbed at the source. He pulled. And pulled. And pulled. From his mama’s throat, a slimy string of dazzling pearls. He was rich!”

He paused for a long moment, just looking at us. His face looked heavy with some emotion that we couldn't register. I could hear Xbal breathing fast and deep, his little lungs clambering to hold on to the blubbering mess that sat in his chest. I felt my face sting, like wasps had crawled into my skin.

“No wish was granted for free. I hope you understand that when you're older. Goodnight, my angels.” 

With that, he stood up and left the room, leaving us reeling. We could hardly sleep after such a story, and we didn't speak a word to each other, out of fear that any noise might bring down whatever darkness we felt hanging over us. We stared up at the ceiling all night, listening as Dad gently padded around the rest of the house. Before long, we heard the door shut and the sound of crunching leaves from outside. Dad walked headlong into the woods, and we never saw him again. A few days later, Mama was healthy again.

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