by M. G. Harris
I settle for the offer of a walk around the city. The air is warm, the light muted as it filters through the lattice of the surface. Everything in Ek Naab is just as I remember. Just as calm, orderly, the trees clipped, the flowers groomed. People go about their business dressed in their linen trousers and overshirts. I notice the way people look at me, just like last time. A few of the kids even whisper and stare. Benicio smiles at everyone, says a polite hello.
And never introduces me to anyone. Montoyo’s instructions?
We stop at a café and take a table on the mezzanine, overlooking the fenced underground cenote. Benicio buys drinks – ice-cold agua frescas made from dried hibiscus flowers. I sip mine and stare into the shiny black of the cenote. Like a perfect mirror, it reflects the overcast white of the sky, overlaid with a black criss-cross pattern: the silhouette of the artificial ceiling.
And then I chuckle. It’s the first time I’ve felt my spirits lift for hours. “Hey, know what Ek Naab means in English?”
“‘Dark Water’?”
“Yeah,” I say, “. . . or . . . ‘Black Pool’.”
For some reason, this really makes me laugh.
“So?” Benicio shrugs. Guess he’s never heard of sunny Blackpool or the Pleasure Beach.
I stop chuckling. “It’s nothing. Look, why aren’t I allowed to meet people?”
He looks uncomfortable. “I’m not supposed to say anything. There are some tensions in the city. Montoyo and the Executive need to be sure that you aren’t approached.”
“Tensions . . . what do you mean? Who’s gonna be approaching me?”
Benicio grimaces and shrugs. He picks his next words with precision.
“There are people in Ek Naab who aren’t happy with the way the Executive is running things. Who question the decision to keep what we know a secret.”
“What you know . . . about 2012?”
“2012, yeah . . . what we call here the ‘Baktun Problem’.”
“Baktun, as in the final date of the Long Count Calendar?”
Patiently, Benicio says, “Baktun, yes, as in the twenty-second of December 2012, the date that the galactic superwave hits. The Baktun Problem is what we’re calling the whole solution to that. Beginning with the contents of your codex, Josh, the Book of Ix.”
I frown. “And some people aren’t happy about what the Executive is doing . . . why?”
“There are a few people who think that we should be working with the top scientists in the world to solve this problem.”
“What do you think?” I ask him.
“Well, I’m with Montoyo,” Benicio says, facing me with a smile. “Of course! Montoyo – and the majority of the Executive – feel that unless we need help from outside, we should solve the Baktun Problem within Ek Naab. After all, that’s what we have lived to do. From the beginning. That’s the reason for the foundation of Ek Naab.”
“The majority of the Executive . . . but not all six of them?”
He hestitates. “Not all.”
I shake my head in wonder. Politics isn’t something that really interests me. But I can see that if some people in Ek Naab are starting to question the whole basis of the secrecy, it could be a big problem.
“And that’s not the only tension.”
“What else?”
Benicio sips his drink and seems to think long and hard before he speaks again. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” His eyes almost glaze over as he stares into his glass, trying to hide the fact that his cheeks have gone red. “In fact,” he adds with an embarrassed laugh, “this is more or less the kind of conversation that Montoyo wants to prevent. So, guess I’d better stop. . .”
“Wow,” I say. “It’s like a police state here!”
“These are difficult times,” he admits.
“Is that why Ixchel left? Or was it just to avoid me?”
I notice that Benicio is tense too – he cracks a grin that seems almost forced. “Ixchel? Nah . . . it was pretty much the thought of having an arranged marriage to you.”
I hardly know Ixchel – we only spent a couple of hours together walking through the jungle as she guided me to Becan. And I wasn’t exactly at my best. In fact, I was in a state – it was just hours after Camila died. But hearing Benicio say those words actually stings. Especially since I know he’s her good pal. Jokes aside, that must be what she feels.
It’s not nice to feel you’ve been judged and found wanting. But like Benicio, I force myself to smirk, like it’s hilarious. “Thanks, pal. So . . . did you find her?” When I met Benicio in Oxford, I was so excited by the whole flying over Oxford thing that I forgot to ask that question. But now I remember that Benicio had been leaving to search for Ixchel, my last time in Ek Naab.
“Yeah, I did. I tracked her down to Veracruz.”
Veracruz! My ears prick up. I try to sound casual.
“Which town?”
“I mean, the city of Veracruz itself.”
The postcards. . . All posted in Veracruz state.
Things are starting to make sense.
Ixchel must have sent them – she’s the only person I know in that state. What the heck is she playing at?
Benicio tells me that Ixchel is “working, would you believe it? All her life she’s been this excellent student; now she wants to work tables for tourists in Veracruz.”
“Why Veracruz? It’s not exactly the ritziest part of Mexico.”
“That’s why,” he replies. “She hates Cancun and all the Riviera Maya.”
“But all that is really nice!”
“She prefers ‘real Mexico’. Which is strange for a girl who never lived in ‘real Mexico’, but that’s Ixchel.”
“Great,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “‘Excellent student’ . . . the type of girl who prefers ‘real Mexico’ to posh hotels and powdery beaches. And this is the girl you all want me to marry? She sounds ideal.”
Benicio bursts out laughing. “Yeah, you’re the ideal couple. . .”
There’s something about his tone I don’t like. It’s as if he thinks she’s too good for me. But I shrug it off. “Well, it’s the twenty-first century; she can do what she likes.”
“That’s Ixchel all the way,” Benicio says, with an emphatic nod. “She’s gonna do whatever she likes.”
Sourly, I ask, “I suppose she has a university degree already at fourteen?”
“No, she doesn’t have a ‘degree’. She finished high school, though. She was gonna study ancient writing.”
I don’t say anything else. No wonder she doesn’t want anything to do with me – in educational terms, I’m years behind Ixchel.
“Would you like to go see her?”
“In Veracruz?”
“Sure, why not? You’ve told Montoyo everything you know and he’s not so happy for you to chat to people here. Blanco Vigores had a chance to catch up with you. . . Montoyo seems kind of surprised that Vigores already knew you were here, by the way. Montoyo surprised by something – that’s always nice to see. . .”
I interrupt, “Montoyo didn’t set that up?”
“Nope. Blanco just turned up! Imagine that. He even behaved like it was all arranged with Carlos Montoyo.”
“Why would it be?”
“Didn’t Carlos tell you? Vigores left instructions that whenever you are in Ek Naab, he wants to know about it.”
I reflect on that for a bit. “No, he didn’t tell me. Wonder why not?”
“That’s Carlos. Always likes to be in control.” Benicio sighs contentedly. He seems to be relishing the chance to get out of Ek Naab. “Yup, I’d say you’re all done in Ek Naab for now. And with a very good excuse for a little trip.”
I think about the postcards. This is my chance to find out if Ixchel has been sending them . . . and if so, why.
“All right, you’re on. Let’s go to Veracruz.”
Benicio parks the Muwan on an isolated spot on the beach a few miles north of the city. They call it the Emerald Coast of Mexico, maybe
because the sea is green, not blue. The beaches at Veracruz aren’t very crowded. On a clear day you can see the oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. Approaching Veracruz, we walk along the beach, sniffing the air, picking up a petrochemical stink from the sand.
I’m surprised when Benicio tells me that Montoyo not only gave permission for us to visit Ixchel, he thought it was a good idea.
Still trying to matchmake us, obviously. What a waste of time. Even if I was keen, Ixchel never would be. She’s made that pretty clear.
In Veracruz, Benicio takes me to the central plaza, the zocalo. Colonnades line the square on two sides, in front of what I’m guessing is a town hall. There are tall, dense palm trees with thick, drooping fronds providing plenty of shade from the pale afternoon sun. A vendor calls: “Ices, ices, I’ve got mango, guanabana, coconut.” On the shiny marble tiles of the square, old couples are dancing to piped music. We stop and watch for a moment. They dance slowly, with tiny yet stately movements. It’s not a dance I’ve seen before. Benicio tells me it’s called danzon.
At one corner, behind an arched colonnade, is the old-fashioned café where Ixchel works. Inside it’s spacious, lots of old wood stained deep and dark, round wooden tables and a long wooden counter. Behind that there’s some antique-looking coffee-making equipment, all polished copper and brass.
Benicio orders coffee at the bar and Ixchel brings us two glasses containing a couple of centimetres of dark-brown syrupy liquid. When she sees him she immediately grins, throws her arms around his neck and hugs him. With me, she looks suddenly frosty. Sullenly, we kiss each other on the cheek, saying hello.
In her waitress uniform, Ixchel looks older and prettier than when we met in the jungle that time. She’s wearing a black miniskirt with a little white apron, a tight white blouse and flat black shoes. Her hair is longer and pinned back with a couple of chopsticks. She looks tired and flustered, but there’s a bit of colour in her cheeks.
Benicio clinks his glass with a spoon. A waiter in a white jacket arrives with a huge silver pot of hot milk. He pours milk into our coffee from a height, frothing the milk as it falls. Benicio smacks his lips when he tastes the coffee. “Worth the trip just for the coffee!” Ixchel brings us club sandwiches, bottles of Orange Crush and glasses crammed with ice. She asks permission to take her afternoon break at our table.
Benicio’s in a good mood, which I really don’t understand. I feel miserable every time I think about Montoyo’s face when he saw the symbol of the Sect of Huracan. I guess Benicio doesn’t have any idea how bad it is that I let Madison’s group get hold of pages of the codex.
He’s obviously happy to see Ixchel, and she’s happy to see him.
“You two should try to get to know each other,” Benicio tells us.
I glance at Ixchel. She gives me a defiant stare.
“What do you think. . .?” I begin to ask.
“I think you’re too easily influenced by Montoyo.”
“I am not! And what’s it to you, anyway?”
“You don’t get it, do you? I’ve had it with the traditions of that place. Arranged marriages! As if we were some sort of animal to be bred. Think I want to have one of your little Bakab children? Guess again.”
“Yeah . . . Benicio . . .” I say, “why do they care if any more Bakabs are born? 2012 is just around the corner. We’ve got the four Books of Itzamna, we can just take them out of their boxes and leave it at that.”
Ixchel rolls her eyes. “You’re so clueless!”
“Josh. . .” Benicio says carefully. “All the ancient technology is protected by a similar ‘curse’ – the bio-defence. Only the Bakabs can touch it and not die.”
“Wear gas masks! Use gloves! There are ways around it, aren’t there?”
Benicio nods. “In some cases, yes. But each bio-defence is unpredictable. In other cases, even those protections are not enough. And . . . the Bakabs have other abilities.”
“Like what?”
“Well, it’s not completely understood. My guess is that the answers are in the Ix Codex, but you know, I don’t have the security clearance to know that, so. . .”
I think about what Ollie said: That Bakab gene is just the tip of the iceberg. Have you any idea what you’re capable of, if only we could unlock your potential?
Is this what Ollie was talking about? Do I have other abilities that I’m not even aware of? I’d ask Benicio, but I’m pretty sure he’ll just say he doesn’t “have security clearance”.
I turn to Ixchel, ask her straight out if she sent the postcards. She claims she didn’t. Benicio seems interested.
“What’s this? You never told me someone was sending you coded messages.”
“I don’t know who they’re from. But they seem to be talking about my father’s death.”
Benicio suddenly gets a call on his mobile phone.
“It’s the automatic defence system of the Muwan,” he says after a few seconds. “They’ve detected someone getting nosy. I’d better go check it out.”
He leaves me alone with Ixchel. She watches him go. Then a change comes over her. She leans forward, lowers her voice.
“Josh, there’s something I need to tell you. About that guy in the blue Nissan.”
“His name is Simon Madison,” I tell her, “and he keeps turning up, trying to beat me up. Benicio didn’t say?”
“You think we talk about you all the time?”
I glare at her. “Course not. But this is major!”
“Well . . . Benicio doesn’t tell me everything . . . and I don’t tell him everything.”
“You’re sneaky.”
“I just want to be my own person. Not a trained monkey working for Montoyo.”
I’m silent, but I’m starting to agree with her about Benicio. Why does he just do everything Montoyo says?
Ixchel polishes off her Orange Crush. “I did my last favour for Montoyo back when I rescued you, led you to Ek Naab. That includes marrying you, by the way, which obviously I’m never going to do.”
She doesn’t leave time for me to respond, and I’m actually a bit irritated at the cutting way she says that. I know what she means, but it still isn’t very friendly.
“But later, I saw that blue Nissan in Becan, you know. It was in the car park from about four in the morning. I was waiting until the site opened so that I could take the bus. I watched him. He stayed in the car for about twenty minutes, then walked into the site. He came back about four hours later. He waited until the restaurant nearby opened, ate a plate of eggs, then he went back into the site with a few tourists. The second time, I followed him. Well, as usual, there were hardly any visitors to the site, and one section was completely empty, except for your blue Nissan guy. And, of course, me. When he thought no one was watching, he went into one of the ruined temples. He disappeared for another two hours. I almost fell asleep waiting for him to return. What was he doing in there? After he left, I followed him out and then to the Nissan. He drove away at around ten-thirty in the morning. I went back to take a closer look at that temple, but it looked ordinary. Until I noticed the ground near the back wall. It was really clean and smooth. No grass. Like it had been scraped often by a heavy rock.”
I listen in amazement. “What do you think it is? A hiding place? Another secret passageway?”
Ixchel just shrugs and takes a couple of bites of Benicio’s abandoned club sandwich. For a second, her eyes light up. “These are so good! The chef makes them with the most delicious bacon.”
“Yeah, the bacon’s amazing.” Talking about bacon at a time like this?! “But what about this secret passage?”
“If there is one, then it might lead into the Depths, under the city.”
“Have you told anyone this?”
She shakes her head, chewing. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone in Ek Naab.”
“Why?”
“Something is going on. I don’t know exactly what, because I’
m a ‘child’ – that’s how they see me, at least. And they don’t tell me anything important. But I have eyes and ears.”
“And. . .?”
“People have become secretive about who they talk to. My parents started talking quietly behind closed doors. Saying things like ‘Don’t tell so-and-so that such-and-such was here.’”
