by M. G. Harris
And now I know for sure just how bad it is that Madison and his people have this information.
It’s worse than bad – it’s a disaster.
And it’s all my fault. By trusting Ollie – and Tyler too, maybe – I’ve fed Madison with all the juicy clues he needed to find the last few remaining scraps of the Ix Codex.
The first page, I can’t translate. It’s in another language, or there’s a different reading order for the syllables – either way I can’t figure it out. I get as far as reading the date (which uses the Mayan Long Count) and a fancy-looking glyph called the Initial Series Introductory Glyph – the ISIG – which tells me that the document is dedicated to Itzamna. Which comes as no big surprise, since the Ix Codex is one of the so-called Books of Itzamna.
On page one, after the ISIG come fifteen glyphs. Some are the same – I count only ten different glyphs. I try to translate the first two – get gobbledegook.
First glyph: aj-la-ni-ne.
Second glyph: li-si-ne.
The third one looks as though it isn’t going to make any sense either. So I give up with page one, move on to the next page.
Where I have much more luck. Using my system of reading the Mayan syllables in each glyph to make a word which more or less sounds like an English word, I manage to get a pretty reasonable-looking translation.
The Fourth Book of Erinsi Inscriptions
To preserve technology under electromagnetic pulse from periodic galactic energy wave. Dates of galactic energy waves calculated.
Essential instructions on use of Revival Chambers. Three elements required. Key, Adaptor and Container. All protected by bio-defence.
First step shows how to make Key. In liquid form Key unstable. Use within sixty minutes. Crystal Key can be. . . (And that’s the end of the third page.)
All a bit mysterious . . . and it seems to be about the galactic superwave of 2012.
“To preserve technology under electromagnetic pulse. . .”
I’m guessing that these pages are saying that the Ix Codex is all about a way to preserve computer technology from being wiped out by the gigantic electromagnetic pulse that’s coming with the superwave in 2012.
From what I can tell, they need three things – the “Adaptor”, “Container” and the “Key”.
The “Key”, it seems, can be made. It looks like one of the missing pages gives some kind of formula – a recipe for the “Key”.
So what about the “Adaptor” and the “Container”? Are they more ancient artefacts? Do the Mayans of Ek Naab have them – or know where they are? And what about these “Revival Chambers”?
If those pages from the document wallet have found their way to Madison, he might be able to figure out as much as I have. Will he be able to figure out how to make the Key?
Then from a forgotten little part of my memory, a tiny thought pops up. Madison stole an ancient artefact – from that collector in Lebanon.
Was it the Adaptor? Was it the Container?
What else do his people have; what else do they know?
We’re in a race to get hold of and use this ancient technology – and now I have some idea of what to do next. But it won’t be easy.
BLOG ENTRY: DEAR MUM
If you’re reading this, it’s because something happened to me; it’s because I haven’t come back. It means that you’ve been through my locker at school and found my letter, found the Web address of this blog and the password clue.
I’ve thought long and hard about this, and here’s what I think.
I owe you an explanation. It’s been really hard not to tell you what’s been going on. At first, it was because I knew you wouldn’t believe me. And then I began to worry about you.
I mean, people have died searching for this secret. They’ve been killed. Dad, and my sister, Camila. If I’d told you, I might have put you in danger. I couldn’t handle that.
So why tell you now?
Well . . . if I haven’t come back, it’s because I’m in big, major trouble.
If I’m in major trouble, that could be the end for me.
If it is, well, that changes everything. This is what I’ve decided: it’s not fair to keep you in the dark any more. If I’m done for, you deserve to know why. I can’t have you wondering what happened and why for the rest of your life. I’ve seen what that’s done to you with Dad. I can’t have that on my conscience.
To cut a very long story short – I haven’t told you the complete truth about what happened in Mexico. Because when I met my sister, Camila, she died because of what she knew. I almost died too. The Ix Codex that Dad was searching for – it’s real. I found it. I met the people Dad came from – his real family in Mexico. They live in a hidden city called Ek Naab and they’re descendents of the ancient Mayans. They protect an ancient secret – a secret older than the Mayan civilization itself.
And, Mum, I’m one of them. There’s some kind of genetic factor which is passed only through boys. It protects you from this mega-ancient technology that the Mayans have been guarding since, like, for ever. Their books of ancient knowledge can kill with a touch. Unless you have the genetic factor.
Which means they need me. Dad could have done the job too but he disappeared – captured by the NRO, a US agency that stole some of the ancient technology. Well, to be fair, the NRO found it when one of the Mayan aircraft crashed. But now they’ve had a taste of what that technology can do, the NRO wants more.
And then there’s this guy called Simon Madison. Or Martineau – who knows what his real name is. I thought he worked with the NRO but they say he doesn’t. Do I believe them? I dunno. Madison is the one who killed my sister. And maybe Dad, too.
Yes – I know. You think I’m making this up. But how could I? It’s completely mad!
This blog starts the day you leave for your retreat at Worth Abbey. I said I was going to stay with Emmy, remember?
Well, I might, but I haven’t quite got around to asking her. And anyway, I have something important to do.
I’ve messed up, see. Made a big mistake which allowed a certain document – part of the Ix Codex – to fall into Simon Madison’s hands.
I don’t know who Madison works for. I do know that he doesn’t work alone. He’s had an accomplice for months. You know her as “Ollie”.
Who knows what her real name is.
You know how everyone comments on how grown-up she looks for a sixteen-year-old? Camila reckoned that she was at least twenty. I’d guess Camila is probably right.
Luckily, I haven’t told Ollie everything. I didn’t tell her about my secret blog. I didn’t tell her what really happened in Mexico. What she already knows has already got me into trouble. Not just me, but the Mayans of Ek Naab.
What it comes down to is this: I let those pages of the Ix Codex fall into enemy hands, so it’s down to me to get them back.
I’m going to do that. I’m the only one who can. Ollie doesn’t know that I know. She won’t suspect. The hunter will become the hunted.
I know it’s dangerous – I’m not a complete idiot. Which is why you’re reading this – the only record of this Web address is on the letter I left for you. I’ll keep blogging here when I can. Right until the last minute, I promise.
Mum, I really hope you never read this.
It’s the last day of term, so we finish school at midday. I pick a random school computer on which to post the “Dear Mum” entry to my new ultra-secret blog. I know it’s going against what I promised to Montoyo.
But this is for my mum. I mean, there’s a line even I won’t cross. She deserves to know the truth about what’s happened to me, if anything goes wrong.
I write the Only To Be Opened If Something Bad Happens letter to my mum and tuck it away at the back of my locker. I walk to the bus stop. My plan is almost ready to hatch. I’ve written the messages to Mum; all that’s left is to say goodbye. And to make one very difficult phone call to Ek Naab.
When I arrive home, Mum’s already pac
ked for her retreat; her coat is on and she’s standing by her case, ready to go.
“You’re sure you won’t come?”
“Thanks, but no.”
Mum looks sad, yet resigned. “I spoke to Tyler’s mother. Everything’s fine. She’s expecting you for supper tonight.”
I pull a disappointed look. “Oh . . . sorry, I should have said. Tyler and I aren’t getting on too well. That’s why I was kind of hoping to stay with Emmy. . .”
“Honestly, Josh.” Mum makes an irritated clucking sound. “I haven’t time to change things. Really not sure about you staying with a girl. . .”
“Couldn’t you please just tell Tyler’s mum for me?”
She pauses. “What about Emmy’s mum?”
“I’ll sort that.”
I’m not sure whether Mum is going to agree, and I’m starting to get pretty worried. I can’t just scooch off to Ek Naab if mothers all over Oxford are waiting for me with soup. Luckily, Mum seems in too much of a hurry to argue.
“OK, fine,” she says reluctantly. “I’ll take my mobile, but it’s better if you don’t call unless it’s very urgent.”
“OK.”
“And send me a text first. That way I can arrange to take your call where I won’t disturb anyone else.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll be back for Christmas Eve. And we’ll go to that hotel you like.”
I manage a weak smile. “Great!”
With a last regretful look, Mum hugs me tightly, whispering, “I love you, Josh” into my ear. She marks a cross on my forehead and kisses me. For a couple of seconds I feel a gaping hole open up somewhere deep inside me, and it fills with fear and guilt. I hug her back, trying to ignore it.
“You won’t do anything daft?”
I can’t speak, so just shake my head and swallow. I watch her get into her car and drive away.
And then I’m alone.
I go upstairs, take a few deep breaths; then on my Ek Naab phone, I call Montoyo.
“Josh! It’s great to hear from you!”
Montoyo’s voice sounds warm and confident. He tells me that the transcription and translation of the Ix Codex is all finished. Blanco Vigores has worked solidly for months. “He’s been looking very old lately,” Montoyo admits. “And he seems lonely, like never before. Can’t remember seeing so much of him.”
“I have a bit of a confession to make,” I begin. Then I explain about discovering that Dad might have been in Saffron Walden on 16 June, and about our escapade to the archaeologist’s house the other night. When I come to the part where Simon Madison saw us, I sense Montoyo growing wary. When I admit that the pages of the Ix Codex were taken from my bedroom (I don’t mention the kissing), there’s a long silence that crackles with tension.
Finally, in a dry whisper, he says, “You’re telling me that you let Madison get his hands on pages from the Ix Codex?”
I can’t help cringing. “I tried to stop it. . .”
His voice sounds hollow with dismay. “Josh – how do you think he came to be at the Thompson house the same night as you? He must be having you observed. He could only know about it because of you.”
Miserably, I tell Montoyo my theory about Ollie. He doesn’t seem all that surprised. Instead, he breathes a long sigh.
“Dios mio. I was afraid of something like this.”
“You knew someone was watching me?”
Montoyo practically growls. “Of course not, Josh! What I mean is this: it was perhaps inevitable that you’d try to get involved on your own account. As I suggested, we would have been wise to keep you in Ek Naab. The plans for the 2012 problem are well under way. This is the safest place for you. With what you know, you should not be in the outside world, meddling.”
“I wasn’t ‘meddling’. I was trying to find out what happened to my dad!”
Montoyo lets rip with an impatient yell. “We don’t know what happened to him! It’s possible we never will! And look what you’ve done in the process!”
Now I’m angry. After all I did to help them, Montoyo has done nothing to help me find the one truth I really care about.
“I’m going to send someone to pick you up,” he snaps. “Where is a good place?”
“I’m not going to live in Ek Naab.”
“Josh, listen to me. Do you realize what’s in those first three pages? Enough information for Madison’s group to control part of the 2012 technology.”
My heart sinks. It’s true, then . . . Madison’s stolen artefact is one of the things written about in the Ix Codex.
“They have the Adaptor,” Montoyo continues, exasperated. “They can make the Key.”
“The Adaptor is what he stole from that guy in Lebanon?”
Montoyo sighs. “We think so. We were negotiating with a private collector – Abdul-Quddus. He bought it from the Baghdad National Museum after the start of the Iraq War. But as you’ll know from that news story, Madison took it.”
“Damn. . .” I say. “That is not ideal.”
“Not ideal?” Montoyo repeats, annoyed again. “Of course it’s not! Listen, Josh. I’m looking at a map of Oxford. There’s a big meadow near your home. Port Meadow. A river runs through it. Be by the river at four tomorrow morning. OK?”
I hesitate. “Where on the river?”
“Don’t worry. When we get close enough, we can locate the phone. Just make sure it’s on you . . . and switched on!”
“I’m not saying I’ll be there. Let me think about it.”
“Hijo que te pasa . . . what’s wrong with you? I’m giving you an order! You will be there.”
BLOG ENTRY: PLAN A
So, Mum. I’m going to have one last go at sorting things out. I’ve made a right mess of everything, but it’s not too late to fix it.
I’m going to Ollie’s. All lovey-dovey-like. I’ll work out a way to distract her, then I’ll find the pages they stole from me and destroy them.
I know it’s a risk. Ollie may have spied on me, betrayed me. But would she actually harm me? Somehow, I can’t imagine that.
By the way, two more of those postcards arrived this morning. I picked them up on my way to school. One was addressed to you, one to me.
The one to you was a photo of some ruins at Ocosingo. The message was: WHEN.FLYING.
Mine was another photo of Tikal. You’ve had one from Tikal, haven’t you? My message was: KINGDOM’S.LOSS.
Both posted in Veracruz. Again.
If I only had time to sit down and really think about those postcards, I bet I could figure it out.
But there’s no time for that. It’s just a matter of time before Ollie works out that I’m on to her. I need to strike while the iron is hot. . .
“Ollie” lives in a street off the Woodstock Road. I’ve only been there once before, when her father helped us buy the flights to Mexico. I want to catch her off guard, so I don’t call first. I change into a fresh pair of black jeans, an ironed charcoal-grey shirt with black stripes over a vest, and proper shoes, not trainers. I pack my two mobile phones into my front pockets, put twenty quid in the back jeans pocket. I fix my hair with a bit of gel, even splash on a bit of my Dad’s aftershave.
When I arrive, however, the house is dark. There’s no one home. I check my watch – it’s just gone six. Maybe they’ve gone out to eat?
I’m standing there wondering when to come back when it hits me that this is a perfect opportunity. So long as I’m up to another bit of housebreaking.
This is the type of neighbourhood to have burglar alarms, so there’s a good chance I’ll set something off. On the other hand, I think of the number of times I’ve heard alarms going off, no sign of the police, people nearby going about their business as though nothing unusual was happening. No one cares enough to do anything apart from calling the police. Who might get here after an hour or so.
I’ll have enough time to do what’s needed.
I make sure I’m not being watched, then sneak around to the back garden. Mot
ion-sensitive lights flicker alive, lighting the back garden as if for a party. The house backs on to a golf course, so there aren’t even any overlooking neighbours to worry about. I try the downstairs windows – all closed. It’s the same with the back door.
Nothing for it but breaking and entering.
I find a big, flat stone, wrap my sleeve around my hand and smash the rock into a window, near the latch. The sound of breaking glass seems deafening, as does the high-pitched whine of the burglar alarm. I try to shut both out of my mind and climb in, making straight for Ollie’s room.
