by M. G. Harris
“The information in the Ix Codex will lead to a powerful technology. Perhaps the most powerful yet – the technology to counteract the electromagnetic pulse of the superwave. That power mustn’t fall into the wrong hands, Josh.”
“But how will it do that?”
“Well,” he says with a bashful grin, “we haven’t read the codex yet. We need to transcribe, then decipher it. Now,” he says, tapping the space beside us with his white stick, “seal the case again. The sea air is highly damaging to parchment.”
I take a final glance at the parchment pages. It’s incredible to think they can hold such a secret. And to anyone but the people in Ek Naab, the writing is total gobbledygook. Written in a code, using Mayan glyphs. Then I close the codex case and return it to the sisal backpack, safely at the other end of the bench.
“But this amazing power . . . it’s safe in your hands?”
“We’re not interested in world domination, Josh. We’re guardians of an ancient secret, something that will preserve civilization on the planet. Every member of Ek Naab’s community is dedicated to that end.”
“And what happens after 2012?”
Vigores sighs. “Well, that’s another matter.”
“So it could be that everything Itzamna did was to save civilization from the 2012 thing?”
“Yes.”
“And after 2012, you’re free. Ek Naab will have this amazing technology. What will they do with it?”
Vigores looks thoughtful. “By then you’ll be part of the Executive. You can shape the destiny of Ek Naab. In fact, young Josh, I’m sure that you will. As for the technology being safe in our hands, the alternative is rather more dangerous. Josh, if we don’t develop this technology, at the end of 2012, the world will be propelled back into the nineteenth century. With the population problems of the twenty-first. Oh, without computers there won’t be any machinery of war. But as we’ve seen, if people want to kill each other badly enough, they’ll use knives, axes, clubs. And millions can die.”
I struggle to grasp the implications of the vast responsibility they’ve suddenly loaded on to me. If I choose to help them, to follow the destiny that’s been laid out for me, I might save civilization, sure: whilst equipping Ek Naab with the kind of power that would corrupt anyone. If I don’t, then I can take a ticket for the line of “people who destroyed civilization”.
“You hesitate only because you don’t believe in your heart that a civilization can end,” Vigores remarks. “You’ve lived your whole life in a thriving civilization that can see its direct, unbroken origins in the Middle Ages. But remember for one minute what you’ve seen of fallen empires – the ancient Greeks, Romans. Of us, here in Mexico. Just as you’ve walked in the ruined streets of our Mayan cities, don’t imagine that one day people won’t stroll through the ruins of Manhattan, of Trafalgar Square. This has happened to every other civilization on the planet so far. It will happen again. We all exist in the shadow of tomorrow.”
“What will you do with the codex now?”
“I’ll take it back to Ek Naab and we’ll begin the transcription. A pilot will pick me up shortly.”
“Not Benicio?”
“Benicio has other orders. You should go to him now. Say your goodbyes.”
I stare at Vigores again. I feel as though I’m missing something here. Like there’s something between us, something unsaid. He seems sad and resigned and I don’t understand why.
All I can manage to say is, “So, you and me. Think we’ll ever meet again?”
He nods. “I’m sure of it. But not for a while. I suspect you’ll grow up a great deal before we do.”
“Well . . . yeah, of course. I’m not a little kid any more.”
Almost wistfully, he replies, “That’s true. I wish it didn’t have to happen so quickly. But there it is, things are what they are.”
His manner suddenly changes. “Now, go. Benicio will be waiting for you.”
“Don’t forget the gas mask,” I say. Vigores nods absentmindedly. I’m worried that he hasn’t heard me, so I push the gas mask into his hands. I picture the codex being received in Ek Naab. By a bunch of Mayans wearing full-on protective clothing, I’d guess.
Still staring into the water, Vigores tells me, “Josh, you’ve made us prouder than you can know.”
I don’t know what to say other than, “Thanks!”
“Goodbye, young Josh.”
“Goodbye,” I tell him, standing up, trying to think of something else to say. “I’ll keep in touch.”
And then his face turns up, looks in my direction. “One more thing, Josh. The storm.”
“Yeah, it hit, big time,” I say. “In Catemaco.”
Vigores shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “It’s yet to come.”
“Uh . . . OK,” I tell him. Why is he telling me about a storm? “I’ll warn Benicio. . .”
Vigores just looks right past me as I walk away. Well, I guess he is blind. I leave him sitting on the riverbank and catch up with Benicio in front of Hotel Delfin.
Benicio turns to me, arms outstretched. “Give me a hug, cousin. This is goodbye.”
“So you’re not going back to Ek Naab?”
“Not me, not right now. I’ve got something else to do.”
I hover, curious. “Yeah, Vigores said. What’s up?”
When he answers, Benicio seems almost reluctant to speak. “Well, it’s about Ixchel. She didn’t come back yet, which is kind of strange. We’ve lost touch with her.”
“She’s done this before?”
Benicio looks glum. “Uh huh.”
“She keeps running away from home?”
“Well . . . she is kinda angry with the decision of the atanzahab.”
“The matchmaker?”
Suddenly it all makes sense. The arranged marriages for the Bakabs. The sudden appearance in her life of the last guy in the world she wanted to see.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” I say slowly. “She’s supposed to marry me. And she doesn’t want to.”
Benicio says nothing, flashing me a look that’s somewhere between sympathy and annoyance.
It’s nothing personal, Ixchel had said. A matter of principle.
Now it’s pretty clear – those words were really intended for me. I don’t want an arranged marriage either. Well, of course not. But I don’t much like the feeling I’m getting right now.
“She ‘usually comes back’,” I say. “But now that she’s actually met me, she’s gone for good?”
“It’s not personal,” murmurs Benicio.
“Why are you going? Shouldn’t it be me?”
“You?” Benicio laughs. “You’re a kid! You don’t know your way around Mexico.”
Angrily, I say, “I did OK. Found the codex, didn’t I?”
“Hey, you already knew where it was. Montoyo told us about your dream. That’s why I let you go.”
I’m stunned. “You . . . let me go?”
“I saw what happened on the beach with Madison, saw your friends rescue you.”
I stare at him, dumbstruck.
Benicio continues. “I saw you leave your friends at the service station. So I called to Carlos. And he ordered me not to pick you up. To let you wander. You had a journey to complete, Josh. You carried the location of the codex in your subconscious.”
“You let me go. . .?” I repeat, reeling.
“I lost you in Acayucan,” he comments. “Looked for you in the bus station. Guess you didn’t get off the bus.”
“You were tailing me?”
“On a motorbike. We carry one in the belly of the Muwan.”
“A Harley?”
“Yeah.”
I stare at him. “I saw you,” I tell him.
“When I lost you,” Benicio says, “I went back to the Muwan, back to Ek Naab.”
“Good thing for me I got that mobile phone working.”
“They can survive almost anything, those phones.”
I’m silent, chewing my l
ip. It’s tough to deal with the fact that the Mayans were prepared to leave me in situations of potential violence, of real danger.
Benicio touches my arm. “We didn’t hang you out to dry, Josh.”
He looks uncomfortable, though. Like he’s itching to leave. He pats my back again. “We’ll see each other again, I’m sure.”
Will we? But when? Now that they’ve got their precious codex, seems to me that the Mayans of Ek Naab are only too keen to get back to business.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Benicio says, “Carlos sent you something.” He hands me a pen-sized syringe. “For when the NRO talk to you. Which they will want to do, and soon. This will make it possible not to give away the secrets of Ek Naab.”
“The amnesia juice? Oh . . . now I get it. You want me to forget everything?”
“Don’t worry!” laughs Benicio. “This just works to suppress your nervous system. A tranquillizer. You’ll be as cool as a cucumber for several hours. Even a polygraph test won’t crack this.”
I look at the syringe. “The NRO. . .? What should I tell them?”
“Just tell them what they want to hear.”
“Which is. . .?”
Benicio shrugs. “Hey, who better than you to invent something, Blog Boy? Just tell them what they already believe.”
“Have you been drinking, son?” asks the first agent, the one who calls himself Jack.
It’s the first time I truly appreciate that evil doesn’t have to dress in black, wear gothic clothes, have fangs, horns or red eyes, doesn’t have to burn incense. Evil wears a suit and tie, a friendly smile, smells of after-shave. Makes deadly decisions. Kills people who get in the way of its plans as if they were ants. And then calls you son.
With bleary eyes, I look up at this cold-blooded murderer. And try to hide my hatred.
“I’m just tired,” I admit. “Been awake for almost two days. Least, it feels like that.”
“It’s just that . . . this story . . . it’s kind of incredible.”
“You’ve heard stuff like this before,” I say. “You must have.”
“I’m not saying it’s unprecedented,” he acknowledges. “But this thing about the aliens having a base under the volcano. . .”
“They have more than one,” I say. “There are bases under other volcanoes.”
“You went to other bases?”
“I did. We flew in through one and came out through another.”
“Son . . . most of the volcanoes around here are still active.”
I just shrug.
“What did the aliens look like?”
“I already told you. Standard Greys.”
“Like in The X-Files?” he asks, making no attempt to hide his scepticism.
I nod. “Like the Greys in X-Files.”
“Why were you in Catemaco?”
“I don’t remember why. They gave me mind-control drugs. Everything that happened there is hazy.”
“How did our agents die?”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe a poisonous gas?”
“And then this ship that picked you up . . . that was them again?”
“Yes. And then others chased us. Three other ships. Dunno who they were. Didn’t understand what they were saying.”
“How do they talk?”
“It’s sort of clicky.”
“Jack” and his colleague “Steve”. They say they’re both with the NRO, but the badges they show me are CIA. They keep staring at the polygraph trace, which is as clean as a whistle. They look pretty nonplussed. After taking my statement for over two hours, they put their heads together.
“Let’s talk about this guy, the one you called ‘Blue Nissan’.”
“That was back then.”
“What?”
“That’s what I called him. Back then when those things were happening to me. Before I was abducted for the first time.”
“You’re referring to your abduction in the jungle, on the way to Becan?”
“Yeah. I called him ‘Blue Nissan’ then, but it’s not his name.”
“His name is Simon Madison?”
“That’s what I said.”
They both nod, whisper to each other, then continue. “Can you pick him out? From a few photos?”
“Sure.”
They bring up a collection of photographs on their laptop computer. Madison’s face is the fourth one to appear. “It’s him,” I tell them.
“Now, you say you assumed he was with us?”
“He’d been tailing Camila for ages. I heard one of the NRO guys tell the hotel guy at Delfin that he was NRO. We just assumed.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“So he isn’t?”
They take a long time deciding how to phrase their next statement. Finally they admit, “Simon Madison is wanted by the FBI in connection with several serious charges.”
“What charges?”
“Data theft, identity theft, fraud. Unlicensed weapons: the list goes on.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s the combination that’s dangerous. Highly characteristic of a deeply embedded terrorist cell. And from what you’ve told us, he’s violent too.”
“What’s he up to?”
“Well, lately he’s interested in stealing ancient Mayan artefacts that have tremendous importance to extra-terrestrial visitors, according to you.”
“He threatened to torture and kill me,” I say. “Even shot at me. That part I remember pretty vividly.”
“Why do you think the ‘Greys’ want this Mayan codex?”
“No idea,” I reply.
“Why did they use you to get to it?”
“Because of the dream. The one the brujo planted in my head.”
They look disappointed, consult their interview record. “You already said that.”
It goes on for another four hours. I stick to the truth as much as possible, but say nothing about Ek Naab. Where I don’t have a good answer prepared, I claim amnesia. I tell the NRO that I’d been contacted by Greys – alien visitors here to check up on the civilization they’d helped to start back in 3000 BC. That they had bases on the moon and under several extinct volcanoes. I spin a story so rich in detail, so complex, that it takes six hours to complete. I could have done it in two, but they insist on hearing it over and over.
Without the tranquillizer, I’d probably have broken. It would have been impossible to hide my fury with the NRO about what happened to my dad.
Which one of you bastards killed him? The drug gives me little option other than to be calm, polite and genial throughout. And just a bit spacey.
In the end, they’re the ones who sweat with exasperation. Couldn’t have dreamt up a better result.
“How about this identity theft?” I say. “If he isn’t Simon Madison, then what’s his real name?”
“There’s a long trail of identities,” Jack tells me. He sounds drained. “The earliest one we can find is Simon Martineau.”
Martineau. I know that name. From where?
They release me after that. Waiting outside the police station with Tyler and Ollie is Camila’s husband, Saul. After over a month in jail, he’s lean and gaunt. He says nothing, but when he sees me, he gives me a hug and his eyes fill with tears.
I can hardly bear to look at Saul. He reminds me of my part in Camila’s death. I keep thinking that if only Camila hadn’t got involved, she’d still be alive. She died because she wanted to help. Without Camila, I’d never have made the connection with Ek Naab.
But something tells me that the Mayans would have come for me anyway. Eventually.
BLOG ENTRY: IN THE SHADOW OF TOMORROW
Tomorrow, Mum will arrive and we’ll have the funeral mass. We’ll bury Dad’s ashes and Camila. I’ll be able to visit them both at the same time: very efficient.
I’m dreading it. I’ve never been to a funeral. Pretty worried that I might cry.
Tonight, Camila’s husband, Saul, took me, Tyler and Ollie out for dinner. We were
kind of subdued. Part of me is still amazed at what I’ve achieved. Yet I can’t talk about it to anyone. It’s a nightmare to think I’m going to have to lie to my friends. Even if they did wimp out and try to make me hand myself in.
Ollie mentioned that I seemed different. Older, she said. Tyler said it was understandable. On account of my seeing my sister drown.
They think that I “went off on one”, that Camila’s death, then Madison chasing me, almost drowning me, pushed me over some sort of edge. That’s not quite the whole picture, of course. I reckon deep down, they know it.
Tyler and Ollie must be curious about what happened to me. But they don’t ask – not any more. In the silence of their unasked questions, I sense a distance between us that wasn’t there before. I can’t tell if I caused it, or they did.
Near the restaurant, a group of young musicians congregated; a jazz combo. A tall, dark, very thin girl wearing a sarong with a sleeveless top stepped up to the microphone.
My eyes met Ollie’s over our drinks. There was something new about the way she looked at me – a really searching look. Like she knew I was hiding something. And was curious.
But I’ll never tell her. After what happened to Camila, I’m not telling anyone.
The band struck up their first number. I felt a stab at my heart the minute I heard the first line.
“A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces.”
I thought I felt my UK mobile phone buzzing. I checked – for a second I imagined I’d seen the words “Camila Call Me” flash on to the screen. But that’s all it was; my imagination. I kept pushing buttons until Camila’s number came up on the display. And for seconds, I stared at it.
In the distance I heard the flutter of windblown leaves; a tiny whirlwind. My mind went back to my dream, the leaf storm. I felt a sudden chill. Camila was like one of those leaves. Connected one day, gone the next.
The singer crooned the lines I was waiting to hear.
