by M. G. Harris
“Hnuhhh?”
“Breakfast in an hour!” Tyler says. “Just time for a swim first. . .” He chucks a pair of shorts at my head.
Maybe the ocean will wake me.
When we get down there it’s barely 8 a.m. yet I can already feel my shoulders roasting under the sun’s rays. The beach is nicely empty; just a few guys are selling sunglasses, bags of fresh-roasted cashew nuts, ice lollies. I’m a little surprised to see that Montoyo and Mum are already lounging under a beach parasol. The ocean is blue-metal grey, speckled with foam. Waves are dotted with surfboards, their riders bobbing around the breakers. Once in a while someone catches a long wave and rides it all the way to shore.
Ixchel is in the water, riding a boogie board amongst the surfer dudes. She’s not very good at it. I guess she’s hardly ever been to the beach. I watch her for a minute. She looks happy, laughing every time a wave knocks her off the board.
Mental note – teach Ixchel how to bodysurf.
Tyler and I have a quick dip in the ocean and then hit the beach for another capoeira warm-up session. We go through the routine twice and then do some freestyle. A handful of local people watch us, smiling in appreciation.
With capoeira, when everything is going well, there’s an energy which flows through my entire body. The air, my hands, the ground; it all merges into one. I am a free particle, energized, bursting with axé – an Afro-Brazilian word we use in capoeira. It means something like “life force” but also “cool”.
But today there’s no axé. Today I’m slow, clumsy, rough.
When we finish, Tyler eyes me curiously for a few seconds.
“Something wrong, Josh?”
“Yeah,” I tell him tightly. I want to talk but I don’t. I hate this feeling. Can’t take a step forward for fear of going back. I glance out towards the surf again. Tyler follows my eyes to Ixchel and then back again to me. He raises an eyebrow.
“You like her.”
I snort. It’s probably not very convincing.
“But she likes him, don’t she?” Tyler continues thoughtfully. “She likes Benicio.”
So simple and everyday when Tyler says it. Ice cream is cold; the girl you like wants someone else.
“Hmmm. Change the subject.”
Tyler stares at me curiously. He throws me a towel. “All right, Josh. Try to keep your mind on the capoeira. What was up with those queixadas? Even your ginga looks off.”
Annoyed, I say, “Think I don’t know?”
He’s right, though; I can’t even pull off the basics today. I’m doing the moves but my mind is somewhere else completely.
Even worse – I hardly care. I just want to be alone with Ixchel so that we can sort out this mystery. Instead, I have to go and compete in the capoeira tournament.
Tyler is going to kill me, because he’s right; my heart isn’t in it. Not today.
The championships are being held in a fancy hotel further along the beach to the north. After the morning swim and a quick breakfast of ripe yellow mangoes, pineapple juice and fried eggs, we head out as a group, walking along the sand. Montoyo is even more brazen than last night – he offers my mother his arm as they walk. Benicio strolls along with one arm dangling around Ixchel’s shoulders.
I couldn’t feel more gutted if she actually kicked me in the stomach.
It’s almost like they’re doing it to irritate me. I’m itching to hit someone. That or find some isolated place and vent my rage. Tyler and I walk on ahead. He keeps flashing me these anxious looks.
“Chill, Josh.”
“Shut up.”
“I know what it’s like, man.”
“No,” I scowl. “You don’t.”
“Yeah,” he says calmly. “My mum and her new boyfriend. That’s rubbish, that is. And how do you think I felt about you and Ollie?”
I turn to Tyler in amazement. “Me and Ollie? There is no ‘me and Ollie’, never was.”
“Yeah, I know that now, but she played me too. All part of her plan to spy on you. She used me. Winding me up, going on and on about you.”
I stop walking, staring. “You’re joking. You liked Ollie? You never said.”
Tyler presses his lips together. “I liked her. And course I didn’t say nothin’, muppet.”
My eyes focus lazily on the sand, the horizon, anywhere but Tyler’s flat, bitter gaze.
“So I know what it’s like, man.”
With a throat so dry it almost chokes me to speak, I say, “With Ixchel, I think I might be. . . You know.”
“Blatantly,” he agrees. “She’s nice.”
I sigh with relief that I don’t have to spell it out for Tyler.
“But Ty . . . I mean, how? I thought . . . me and her . . . we’re just mates, right? Then I see her again and it’s . . . like . . . bam. Just hits me.”
Tyler just nods. “It was probably there all along. That stuff is weird.”
I stare at him. “You were supposed to tell me I’m imagining things. . .”
He grins, shaking his head. “Nope. I reckon you’ve got it bad.”
“What am I going to do?”
Tyler laughs, shrugging. “No idea.”
The others have almost caught up with us, so I start walking again. Tyler follows.
“Let it out in the capoeira, Josh.”
That sounds like a great idea. If only I knew how.
The hotel is one of those big fancy ones with lots of marble and a bunch of ritzy swimming pools surrounded by palm trees. As we approach the conference room we hear the pulse of the pandeiro drum and a raw, stringy twang, the buzz notes of the berimbau, the chorus chanting in response to the singer: the music of capoeira.
Tyler perks up the moment he hears the sounds, turns to me with a huge grin. “Mate, we’re here, we’re really here!”
The conference room has been laid out with tiered seating around a wooden roll-out dance floor. By the time we arrive, the early stages of the tournament are almost over. Just five more matches for students with the same belt as me.
I’ve drawn a fifteen-year-old boy from Austria. One look at him stretching is enough to make me worry. He’s about the same height as me, looks skinnier actually, less muscular. But he’s got that long, raggedy, sun-bleached, ski-bum hair. I just know he’s one of those mountain kids who spend six months of the year on a snowboard.
I don’t like snowboarders. Ever since Madison got my dad and a bunch of other climbers killed by starting an avalanche whilst riding a snowboard.
Snowboarders are reckless.
I shake my head in silence, going into my breathing exercises. I can see Tyler having words with the British team coach, Mestre Joandy. I’m expecting a massive pep talk before I get into the roda with the snowboarder.
But all Mestre Joandy says is, “Have fun, Josh. Relax. Enjoy – that’s capoeira.”
I look up, mystified. I guess they’ve really given up on me.
From the second we touch hands, Snowboarder really is wild, totally fearless, throws himself into the match with a quick series of flips ending with a mortal – a somersault. From then, he keeps upping the ante – I do an overhead kick and he’ll do aú sem māo – an aerial cartwheel with no hands. If I miss him by ten centimetres, he’ll skirt my face by five. I go for the mariposa. It’s not the best one I’ve ever done but as I fly past Snowboarder, I catch his delighted grin. This guy is not just good – he lives capoeira. Winning doesn’t matter to him. He just wants to play. His own mariposa follows – faster and sleeker than mine. Then a barrage of rapid variations on meia lua – circular kicks.
The judges don’t even need to discuss it. They pick Snowboarder to go through to the next round. Snowboarder can’t stop beaming. I should be happy for him. A guy like that should win. But none of that helps. I wasn’t as good as I can be and I know it. I never once got into the zone. With all these people watching, too. . .
“There’s still plenty more team display stuff to look forward to,” Tyler says. He pulls on his U
K team shirt, getting ready for the next round – the yellow/blue belts.
I glance up into the audience, where Mum is giving me a “never mind” sort of look.
“I guess,” I mutter.
Ixchel joins me at the side of the dance floor, watching as Tyler and the other yellow/blue belts warm up. I can hardly look at her, so I just give a quick nod.
“You’re not in the mood, are you?” she says, in what for Ixchel is a very kind voice.
Slowly, I say, “Nope . . . seems not.”
She seems to consider her next words. “This whole Bracelet thing . . . it’s taken over you. Hasn’t it?”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Has she only just worked that out?
Ixchel continues, “Because maybe . . . maybe you should be thinking more carefully about what you’ll do . . . if you fix it.”
I’ve never really talked about that in detail, not with anyone.
“You’re going to use it to go back and save your father . . . right?”
“Yes.”
“What if that changes things?”
I gaze at Ixchel in disbelief. “I want it to change things!”
“If your father isn’t there on the volcano when we climb it – how do you know that you won’t die? Or me?”
Exasperated, I say, “No one will die! I’ll bring Dad back in the past. None of that mountain stuff will have happened. Dad can find the Ix Codex. Then everything will go on like before. Except that Dad will be the Bakab and I’ll be back to my normal life.”
Looking right into my eyes with what I’m sure is a hint of a blush, Ixchel says, “So if this works . . . you and me . . . we might never meet?”
I mumble, “I’m sure Dad will introduce us one day . . . he’s the one who agreed to us being fixed up, after all.”
Softly she says, “And you’re so sure that your father will find the Ix Codex?”
“Yeah . . . course . . . he had the same dream as me, the one with the brujo who says Summon the Bakab Ix. . .”
Ixchel shakes her head. “You’re taking a big risk. Your father had that same dream since he was a child. But even so, it never occurred to him to search for a Mayan codex in Catemaco.”
“Me neither.”
“No, Josh – you were led there.”
I laugh. “It was a coincidence. I took a bus. Never planned it. I just wound up in Catemaco.”
Incredulous, Ixchel says, “After everything that’s happened to you – after the ghosts of Chan and Albita saved us in the caves – you still believe that it’s all been a coincidence?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “A coincidence! They happen all the time. My dad could have found the Ix Codex in Catemaco, just the same as me!”
I stop talking. Why is she trying to talk me out of this? It’s not so complicated. This isn’t a Chosen One-type situation. Anyone with the Bakab Ix gene could do what I did.
Even Madison – and all those other guys in the Sect of Huracan who happen to have the Bakab genes.
I move away from Ixchel, let her see the anger that’s rising within me. “I just want things back the way they’re supposed to be.”
Then I turn and walk away. From behind I hear Ixchel’s firm, quiet voice following me.
“But Josh . . . how can you know what that is?”
I ignore her. To my surprise, the ache I feel when I look at Ixchel is replaced by something colder, something easier to take: resentment.
This is good. This will cure me. Get mad at her! I should have thought of it before.
As I leave the dance floor, a spectator who’s been sitting in the front row stands up. I catch his eye for a second and he gives me a quick nod. Now I think about it, he was watching my game very closely. He’s fair-haired, too. Maybe another one from the Austrian team?
I don’t give him another thought. But I should.
We’re outside and there’s drinks and general festivity beside the moonlit waves. The capoeira tournament is over and Tyler has won not one but two medals – best in his belt class and best all-round under-sixteen. I’m happy for him – really happy. It’s everything Tyler has wanted for months and months. Watching his incredible performance in the finals this afternoon, it struck me that I couldn’t be prouder of my best mate. Which, I realized today, Tyler has become.
The tournament closed with celebratory team displays. Followed by another beach party.
Boy, do the Brazilians know how to party!
With music pumping through my senses, feeling dizzy from drinking lime juice laced with sugar cane brandy, it’s hard to have a care in the world. Of course Mum doesn’t let me have enough cachaça to really forget my troubles. So it’s not long before I’m back to brooding, watching Benicio and Ixchel laughing, chatting and dancing together on the sand.
OK, she asked me to dance first. It was only because she knows I’m going to say no. I can’t dance, Ixchel knows it, and I’m not going to look like an idiot in front of everyone.
Get mad at her.
It’s working. Anger is something I can deal with. If Ixchel’s not going to support me, if she’s going to be all weird about me using the Bracelet, then she’s going to find herself off my friend list. I stare out at the bluish-black beyond the horizon, where a half-moon is on the ascent.
In a beach paradise like this, surrounded by friends and family, I should be happy. I’m not.
Montoyo notices that I’ve broken away from the group. He joins me, our feet submerged in warm surf every time the waves break.
“So Josh,” he begins. “Having a good time?”
“Yeah.” I attempt a smile. “Tyler was amazing. He made up for me being so useless.”
“You weren’t useless. You were . . . distracted.”
I nod, resigned. “True.”
Montoyo eyes me watchfully. “The question is . . . by what?”
The real answer to that would bring me scarily close to mentioning the Bracelet. So I try to be vague. “By wondering why . . . why everything has to be so complicated.”
Montoyo seems perplexed. “What is complicated? Your life?”
“Yeah. Being a Bakab and that. When all I want is. . .”
“What, Josh?” Montoyo’s eyes take on a stern glint.
“What do you want?”
I shrug. “I just want to be happy.”
I don’t know if I’m expecting sympathy or what, but I don’t expect Montoyo to actually laugh.
“Happy?! But what is that?”
It seems pretty obvious to me, so obvious that I start to think he’s making fun of me. “Happiness. . .” I blurt. “Like, having fun and mates and things to look forward to and not be dreading stuff all the time.”
Not feeling jealous, either. Or sick when certain memories flash into your mind. . .
“Is that actually happiness? The pursuit of pleasure, the avoidance of pain? That’s not what Aristotle believed. You know Aristotle, the philosopher? He thought that happiness was about seeking personal excellence.”
I shake my head slightly. “Personal excellence” sounds like a recipe for hard work.
Montoyo continues, “For men like us, Josh; for men of will, men of action, happiness is something else. It’s about always having someone needing you, depending on you. Always having someone to protect. Always having difficult problems to solve. Always having so much work to do that . . . sometimes you don’t have time even to drink a glass of water.”
I stare at Montoyo in silence. He’s actually smiling. He does look happy.
“Maybe it’s time you were really honest with yourself, Josh. What’s really important to you in life?”
Before I’ve even realized, my gaze has wandered over to Benicio and Ixchel. Like Tyler earlier today, Montoyo’s eyes follow mine: he watches me watch Ixchel. Then he breathes a light sigh of discovery.
“Ah. . .!”
I force my stare to become glazed; move my eyes in a controlled fashion so that they appear to sweep the dancing couples, the b
ar, the restaurant; all with the same feigned lack of interest. A last-ditch attempt to make Montoyo doubt what he thinks he saw.
Montoyo shifts his position in the water-furrowed sand. This time, he sighs deeply. “Well, you’ll be happy tomorrow, I guarantee it.”
“Why?”
“We’re gonna take a nice long ride on the dune buggies. Ride down giant sand dunes. Eat barbecued shrimp by a river in the cashew-nut forest. Zip-wire into a freshwater lagoon. And drive right along the sand until we find a beautiful beach that’s just for us.”
