by M. G. Harris
“But . . . I could get hurt.”
It’s strange, being around an adult who actually lets me take responsibility, to make my own choices. It takes some getting used to.
Susannah wrinkles her nose. “No, sir. You’re gonna live a long life.”
“You know that, yeah?”
Susannah nods, and to my astonishment, tears spring to her eyes. A look of deep melancholy crosses her features. Her lips tremble, her chin shakes. She holds out her arms to me in a sudden gesture of yearning.
“Hug me, Josh. Give me a hug for the girl I used to be.”
Mystified, I put my arms around Susannah, until a few moments later, she releases me. She’s been so great to two kids she barely knows. After our hug, Susannah won’t look me in the eye. She stands up, walks briskly to the window, where she stares at the massive volcano, a perfect cone of granite and snow in a green meadow, under a flawless blue sky.
“You’d better go pack your climbing gear,” she tells me, still looking away. “It’s best to get an early start. There’s a jeep leaving for the first hut in an hour or so. An early night and you can be up and about by five tomorrow morning.”
We wave Susannah goodbye and board the four-wheel-drive jeep that leaves for the first mountain hut. The sun has just set; a heavy layer of clouds rolls in from the Orizaba mountain range, smothering the roads with a film of mist. As we arrive at the hut, the sky is a gloomy, charcoal grey. The plan is to get a decent night’s sleep, but it turns out that the hut has been taken over by a group of high-school kids from Mexico City, a bunch of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. They want to party until the small hours, by the sounds of it.
Ixchel’s in the bunk next to mine, both lower bunks. I roll over and look at her. Like me, she’s still awake.
“I wish they’d shut up,” I whisper.
Ixchel grins. “Yeah,” she hisses back. There’s a long pause. After a while it feels awkward. But Ixchel is still gazing back at me. “How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Crummy,” I say with a dramatic frown. We both laugh. “The last thing I want to do tomorrow is to climb.”
“I’m really excited,” she says. “And scared. Josh . . . are you scared?”
I reply slowly, “You’re kidding, aren’t you? I’m petrified.”
“We don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, “I do.”
There’s so much at stake, I can hardly bear to think about it. All my questions answered. . .
But what if I don’t like the answers?
Before we go to sleep, we dose up on Diamox, to prevent altitude sickness. I eventually fall asleep, but it’s not a good night. I’m woken several times by the sound of the older boys talking, laughing. By five the next morning, I’m only vaguely rested. At least the gunshot wound feels better than it has up until now.
Ixchel sits up on her bunk, looking across at me. Like me, she’s slept in her longjohns and a T-shirt. In silence, we both pull jeans over our leggings, then dress in the walking socks, hiking boots and the ski jackets that Susannah bought for us.
As we walk out of the dorm, twelve alarms go off. The hut fills with the sounds of teenagers cursing, kicking in their sleeping bags. Their racket does nothing but make me miserable. Everyone else is here for fun. Well, not me.
I’m on the brink of something, I sense it.
Our guide, Xocotli (he pronounces it Shock-ott-lee), is waiting for us outside, tying up his horse. He’s a slight, wiry guy in his fifties, with a deeply lined face that’s straight from the Aztecs and narrow brown eyes which bore into ours. He wears a woollen poncho and a knitted hat. He hands out still-warm tamales – steamed cornmeal spiced with green tomato chilli sauce and wrapped in corn husks. Ixchel and I eat them straight out of the husks. Our hot breath billows like fine powder into the air around us.
Xocotli’s brown features break into a huge grin. “You enjoy the tamales, yes?” he asks, speaking Spanish in a reedy, sing-song voice.
We answer with enthusiastic nods. Xocotli stares closely at Ixchel. “You have Mayan blood, yes?”
She nods, mouth stuffed with cornmeal.
He turns to me. “And you’re a norteamericano?”
“English,” I tell him. “Not a gringo.”
Xocotli looks us both up and down, sizing us up. He inspects our crampons, ropes and ice-axes. Are we worthy of the mountain? I can’t imagine that we look as though we’d make the summit.
“Ever climbed on ice?”
We shake our heads.
“Then it’s just to the second hut, agreed? No summit! Well, let’s get going. The mountain . . . she can be a dangerous lady.”
His words hang in the dry morning air. We make a start on the scree path, carrying chocolate, water and the painkillers for my leg in our climbers’ backpacks. I’ve safely stashed the Adaptor in mine. I’m about to plug in the earphones of my dad’s iPod when Xocotli notices and wags his finger at me.
“No. You need to listen, yes?” He gestures at his ears, then points to his mouth. “Listen to every word.”
We walk in silence for long while, avoiding occasional patches of frozen snow as we follow Xocotli. He steps as lightly as the goats we pass on the way.
Ixchel asks, “Does the volcano ever rumble?”
“Hardly ever. But she’s no innocent,” Xocotli warns. “One of these days, she could awaken, just like Popocateptl. Then we’d see.”
He nods twice, slow and deliberate; gazes directly into the path that winds towards the distant peak. “Yup. Then we’d see how it is.”
The boulders of the “Labyrinth” loom on the path ahead, their long shadows trailing like black tongues over the scree. Xocotli glances at us and points at my dragging leg. “Something wrong?”
Flatly, Ixchel replies, “He was shot.”
If Xocotli’s surprised by this, he doesn’t show it. He just nods. “Then I’ll take you up the easiest way. No climbing.”
Xocotli leaps forward a few steps so that he’s ahead of us. Ixchel draws closer to me. “I know you won’t talk about what’s in the Ix Codex. So why don’t you let me guess?”
I give her a quick glance. She doesn’t seem to be joking. “I reckon I can’t stop you.”
“True, you can’t. So . . . if Arcadio is someone from the future – and he’s been getting involved in the affairs of Ek Naab – and the Ix Codex is written in English . . . then my guess would be that someone from the future, someone who speaks English, wrote the Ix Codex. Am I right?”
I don’t answer, but trudge ahead.
“And that means that there’s a time-travel device around somewhere. I think that’s what the ‘Revival Chamber’ is. I bet you get into one of those sarcophagus things and use the Adaptor to start it up. Like a key in a car. Or maybe the Bracelet of Itzamna is the missing part of the puzzle. Maybe the Bracelet acts like the key, turns the Revival Chamber into a time-travel machine.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Interesting idea.”
“I’m close, though, aren’t I?”
Truthfully, I say, “I couldn’t really tell you.”
Ixchel stares directly ahead. In a grim voice she says, “I’m close. And you know it.”
Xocotli bears left, leading us across the slope. I stare ahead in trepidation.
No climbing? Yeah, right!
There’s no way to get up this mountain without scrambling over some of the huge rocks in our way. Just looking at the route makes my leg ache.
Breathless, I stop and lean against a boulder. “Guys. I need a break.”
For the first time, we face down the slope. Beneath us, the gentle incline of scrub and scree falls off towards a far-flung green canopy of pine trees. I turn around and crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the summit. It’s there in the distance: a dazzling sunlit cone behind the alpine landscape of snow, ice and rock. All framed in a sky of purest blue.
My ears tingle from the cold. I roll out my thermal hood and fasten it
around my head. Soon we’ll reach the snow line. It’s hard to believe we’re still in sunny Mexico.
The snow falls all the way to the glacier and beyond. It last snowed two days ago, according to Xocotli. So, not as bad as it could be; fresh powder drains your strength faster. The snow is dry and firm, and where well-trodden, icy. It takes another three hours of slow climbing to navigate the rock field. Every so often we catch a glimpse of what looks like a direct route straight on to the glacier. With hope in our hearts, we point to it. Xocotli always replies with a sad shake of his head. “It looks all right now, but later, you’ll see that there’s a big drop.”
Without Xocotli we’d have had no chance, got hopelessly lost. I reach the point where all I can think about is the agony of my gunshot wound. I don’t even want to think about what I’m doing to the healing process, wrenching my muscles again and again. I’m the one slowing us down with frequent stops, turning away from the other two so they won’t see me wince in pain. Each time, I eat a square of chocolate and sip from one of my water bottles. I wish I could be distracted by some music, but Xocotli’s made it clear that we all need to focus.
I begin to seriously wonder why I insisted on coming up here. Should I have just caved in and called Montoyo, asked them to come and take me home? That way Montoyo would be happy – as happy as the miserable so-and-so ever seems to get – and my mum would stop worrying.
But me, I’d be back to square one. Always wondering what was up here.
Or who.
I can think of only three possibilities. I seem to remember that Montoyo once told me that my grandfather Aureliano’s Muwan crashed somewhere in the Orizaba mountain range. Montoyo reckoned that the wreckage was cleared and taken to the museum of Jalapa. Could some of the wreckage have landed on the slopes of Mount Orizaba itself? That’s one theory. But I can’t guess at how it would tell me anything about my father’s fate.
The second theory is that one of the climbers we’ll meet on the way will be a rogue agent from the NRO who wants me to know the truth.
My third idea is the one which really gets my pulse racing. If Arcadio sent the message . . . what if he’s coming to meet me himself? I can think of quite a few questions I’d have for a time traveller from the future. Especially if he really is descended from me.
By now we’ve been overtaken by four groups of climbers, including the high-school kids from Mexico City. Even they walked in relative silence. It’s fun for the first hour or two, but after that it’s tough going.
I make a point of looking every climber in the eye. Just in case they’re the one I’m looking for.
After what seems like a day of total endurance, we reach the edge of the glacier. I check my watch, amazed to see that it’s only ten a.m. But then, we have been climbing for five hours. Xocotli tells us that we’re now at 16,600 feet.
“You should rest for an hour. We’ve come up slowly, so you’re acclimatizing well. But from now on it’ll get harder. The air gets thin, and you’ll feel it.”
I sit on a low boulder. We can see for hundreds of miles across the farms and villages of Veracruz. Ixchel removes her hood and gloves and smiles at me. Her eyes are damp from the stinging air. I watch as she runs a cherry-flavoured lip balm over her lips. She turns and offers it to me. “Don’t worry, it won’t colour your lips. Much.”
“You feeling faint?” I ask, using her lip balm.
“No. I feel amazing, actually. I’ve never seen snow, never climbed a mountain, never been so cold I could see my own breath. . .” She breaks into a huge grin. “I’ve never felt so alive.”
“That’s great.”
“How’s your leg?”
I reply curtly, “It hurts.” I don’t want to say how much, in case I can’t stop complaining.
“Take another painkiller. It’s about time for another dose.”
I don’t argue. My head is starting to pound, probably from the altitude. It’s getting harder to breathe. Altogether, I’m feeling pretty rubbish.
Xocotli instructs us to fasten our crampons and rope up. There are a few crevasses on the glacier, but even a slip can give you a nasty fall – it’s so steep and icy. People have already died this season, he tells us.
The sky is clear, the air still when we begin climbing the glacier. In the next thirty minutes, that all changes. Seemingly from nowhere, an icy wind whips up around us, stinging our faces. I feel sorry for those who are going all the way to the top.
The second hut is just a rescue centre, no more than half an hour’s climb from our position. I can see it in the distance, smoke puffing from its chimney. As we approach, I find it hard to catch my breath. I hate the fact that I’m the one slowing the group down. If it weren’t for the bruised ribs and thigh wound, I know I’d be most of the way up this mountain by now.
We’re about forty metres from the hut when someone comes out, walks to a nearby stack of firewood. I watch in amazement.
This altitude is doing weird things to my eyes.
I pick up my pace, hurrying through the wind towards where the man stands selecting pieces of wood. He’s wearing jeans and a grey woollen sweater with a hat pulled down over his ears. He’s got a thick beard, and maybe that’s what makes me think I’m seeing who I think I see.
“Josh, what’s the matter?” Ixchel can’t help but notice that I’m rushing ahead – we’re roped together. I ignore her and keep moving forward, staring in disbelief at the man.
It can’t be. . .
Ixchel catches up with me. “What’s wrong?”
I turn to her, face flushed, gasping in wonder. “Can you see that bloke there?”
She looks puzzled. “Of course. . . It’s the mountain-rescue guy.”
I look back at the man. He turns to us and we stare at each other, face to face. I’m frozen, slack-jawed, my voice blocked somewhere deep inside my lungs.
Ixchel turns to me, then back to him.
“Josh . . . what’s the matter . . . what’s wrong?”
Dad.
I can barely choke the word out at first. It’s no more than a tiny croak. I say it louder, and louder, until I’m yelling. I begin to rush towards him when I realize that something’s wrong. Something’s horribly, terribly wrong.
The man who looks like my dad just keeps looking at us, but with no sign of any interest. He looks vaguely mystified when I shout, “Dad, Dad, DAD.” There’s no recognition in his eyes. None at all.
I must be hallucinating.
Then he speaks. And I know I’m either dreaming or mad.
It’s his voice, my dad’s, no doubt whatsoever.
“Hey there, pal. Do I know you?”
I stop short, staring at him in disbelief. And yet, I believe him. Only too well. This feels like a waking version of my dream of Dad in the kitchen. Calmly pouring milk as he tells me that he and Mum cooked up a story that he was dead.
“Daddy . . . Dad. I don’t understand . . . how come you’re here?”
He stares at me, his eyes serious, filling with comprehension and sorrow.
“I’m your father?”
I’m numb with shock. “You don’t know me. . .?”
He spreads his hands, palms open, looks helpless. “I’ve been on this mountain for months. Don’t know how I got here. Don’t remember anything or anyone. I always figured, you know, that seeing a familiar face might jolt my memory.”
He gazes at me. “But . . . I’m sorry . . . I don’t know you.”
I try to speak, but no words come. All I can do is lick my lips against the blistering cold. Seeing this, the man who is my father takes hold of my arm. “You’re gonna freeze up. Both of you – get inside.”
Outside the hut, Xocotli exchanges a few words with my father. I don’t catch what they say, but Xocotli keeps shaking his head, won’t budge. Finally, he comes over to Ixchel and me.
“This man says he’ll take care of you now, escort you down the mountain.” Xocotli gives me a questioning look. “That’s not what I agreed with Señ
ora Susannah.”
“He’s my father,” I say.
“That’s something else she didn’t mention.”
“All right, then; wait with us until we leave.”
“We should leave now,” Xocotli says. “Bad weather is coming in. Wind rising. Things change fast up here.”
“They should stay until the wind goes down,” my father says. “I’ll take them.”
Xocotli gives us a hollow stare. “The mountain is unhappy. It’s time to leave.”
He watches as Ixchel and I follow my father into the hut. He doesn’t come in with us. “I’ll wait at the first hut,” we hear him yell.
