by M. G. Harris
We stare at each other. A stranded time traveller from the future? Sounds a lot like Itzamna. . .
I sigh deeply. What’s the use in sitting around an empty apartment, discussing the identity of Itzamna? It’s not going to help anyone. Even now the superwave is on its way through space, the end of civilization in 2012 and everything. But compared to the fact that in just a few hours my mother or Ixchel might be killed, it might as well be happening in 2112. It doesn’t seem relevant at all.
I stare despondently at the blank wall next to the kitchen. That’s when I remember my phone, and the text from Camila Call Me.
I take the phone out, show it to Tyler again.
“This is from your sister’s moby, yeah? What happened to it?”
I never found out. It was with Camila when the car went into the swamp next to Highway 186. “Maybe the police found it?”
“They could have dried it out. Someone else has it now.”
I scowl. “Someone in Mexico . . . is sending me texts in English? About visiting a grave?”
Tyler raises an eyebrow, smiles wryly. “What are you like?”
“Huh?”
“Your life is madness, man. Here’s you thinking you’ve got a text from a dead person . . . you don’t think that’s insane?”
“It would be typical of Camila to mess with my head like this. She finds a way to get a message to me from the spirit world, and all she does is make a dig about how I visit Dad but not her. It’s not like she’s telling me something useful like I know where the kidnappers have your mum. . .”
The instant the words are out I stop talking. My mouth freezes, open.
“It’s not like she’s telling you that. . .” Tyler says slowly. I can see that he’s on the same train of thought.
“But . . . what if she could?”
I leap to my feet. Why didn’t I think of this before?
Camila. The buzzing phone . . . was she trying to contact me back in Brazil, even before the kidnappers struck?
Was Camila trying to warn me?
Tyler smirks. “Someone is trying to get in touch with you.” He waggles his fingers mysteriously in front of his eyes. “Woooo! From the spirit world, maybe. . .?”
This is all a joke to him.
Trust your instincts, Blanco Vigores told me. Ignore nothing. I was so busy getting wrapped up in the fixing of the Bracelet, the secrets of the Ix Codex and even Arcadio’s book cipher, I totally ignored the chance that this Camila thing might be real, not some weird hoax or coincidence.
Tyler thinks I believe everything and anything, but the truth is – I’m not sure that I do. Even now I wonder: was it really the ghosts of those teenage lovers from Ek Naab, Chan and Albita, that saved Ixchel and me when we were lost in the labyrinth under Becan? The subconscious mind can do amazing things with information you think you’ve completely forgotten. Just as Vigores said. So it feeds back the information through a dream – what’s the difference?
But, what if? What if Camila really could contact me from beyond?
It’s got to be worth a try.
“We’ve got to get hold of Montoyo,” I say. “I need to get out of Ek Naab, go visit my sister’s grave.”
From my left jeans pocket I take my Ek Naab mobile phone and call Montoyo. It rings only once.
“Josh! It seems I can’t leave you alone for a minute. Lorena called to say you have something for me, yes?”
Looking at the cardboard box of objects that Lorena gave us for Montoyo, I say, “We just wanted to make ourselves useful.”
“Good work. We’re about to take a break in the planning here. I’ll come over and meet you boys for lunch.”
I take a deep breath. Then I ask Montoyo for something I can hardly believe he’ll allow – an escort out of Ek Naab and down to Chetumal. As I expect, he’s not happy.
“Please,” I insist. “We’ll be gone less than two hours.”
“I can’t spare the Muwans,” Montoyo explains. “We need them all on standby in case we get a chance to make an early rescue.”
“Have you found out where the kidnappers are?”
There’s a momentary silence. “Not yet.”
“Then get me a driver! There must be a way out of Ek Naab from the surface.”
Montoyo pauses again. “There is. It’s a tiny private road, mostly. Takes over three hours to Chetumal.”
“Forget lunch,” I say angrily. “I want to visit my sister’s grave. Is that too much to ask?”
His voice grows cold. “Right now, yes. I’d expect you of all people to understand that. Josh, I’m going to send Benicio. This is tough for all of us. I’m doing everything I can.”
Without another word the phone goes dead. I’m left staring at it in my hand. I’ve heard Montoyo speak to people like this – his minions. Now I’ve been given the same treatment. Surprisingly, it really hurts.
Benicio turns up within twenty minutes. His face is drawn, pinched. He can hardly meet my eyes.
He’s really angry.
“OK, Josh, babysitter’s here,” he says sardonically. “What would you like to do?”
“You can get lost with that attitude, mate,” Tyler tells him. “We didn’t ask for you.”
“I want to go to Chetumal,” I tell him. “To visit my sister’s grave.”
Benicio shakes his head. “Why?”
What can I possibly tell him? That I’ve had another crazy hunch? But, what else?
“I think Camila’s been trying to contact me.”
I tell him the rest of the story. Benicio rolls his eyes. “This is far-fetched.”
I nod once, slowly. “Yeah.”
He stares at me for a second. Far-fetched it may be, but Benicio’s not a complete sceptic. Living in Ek Naab has taught him that there are places in the world where just about anything can happen.
And then, as if it only just this minute occurred to him, Benicio asks, “What will you do if your sister tells you where they are?”
My answer is every bit as spur of the moment as his. “We’ll go straight there. And I’ll give myself up. They promised us one hostage in return. You can bring back Ixchel.”
The atmosphere intensifies. I can see from his eyes that Benicio doesn’t share Montoyo’s attitude to my safety.
At least not when it’s a matter of my safety versus Ixchel’s.
Benicio starts to breathe quickly, eyes flickering around. Thinking. He places his hands on his hips and stares at me for a long time.
“You’d do that?”
I’m defiant. “Said I would, didn’t I?”
Tyler’s said nothing so far. He puts the box he’s carrying on the floor. Like Benicio, he looks into my eyes.
“You’re mental. You know that?”
I laugh. I’m literally laughing in the face of danger. It feels scarily good – makes my skin buzz, makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Then I’m coming too,” Tyler says. “Benicio can fly the Muwan. And I’ll watch out for you.”
The grin drops from my face. I bite my lip, hesitating, then throw an arm around Tyler. Fiercely, he hugs me back.
“Thanks, Ty,” I mumble. “You’re the best.”
Benicio walks us straight to the aircraft hangar, where blue-suited engineers are making final checks to the entire fleet of Mark I and Mark II Muwans. Benicio goes over to one of the guys and has a few words. Then he comes back to us.
“There’s no way we’re getting out of here without someone noticing. The best thing is just to go for it, nice and calm, no fuss. I’ve told him that your buddy Tyler wants to see the inside of the cockpit. So just climb in like this is no big deal.”
With that he leads the way to one of the Mark IIs. I guess if we’re pursued – either by pilots from the National Reconnaissance Office with the stolen Muwan technology, or even by guys from Ek Naab – the Mark IIs give us the best chance of getting away.
We climb in, strap up. Benicio takes the pilot’s seat, roughly fits a headset
and eyepiece over his face. The anti-gravity engine starts up. From outside I hear a couple of shouts.
“Hold on,” Benicio says grimly. The Muwan rises, hovering only metres above the air. A brilliant streak of sunlight opens in the ceiling above us. The Muwan lifts even higher, hovers just under the opening skylight until it’s wide enough. Another couple of seconds and we’re through.
Then we’re above the canopy of the Campeche jungle, skimming just metres above the trees.
Classic UFO style.
My mobile phone buzzes. I go to answer it immediately – another text.
Hey, hotshot, still waiting for you down by Highway 186.
Reading it, I gasp. “Wait!”
Benicio doesn’t hear me so I yell louder, beating on the back of his chair.
“Not Chetumal! I made a mistake! She wants to meet on Highway 186!”
The place where the car came off the road, shot by Simon Madison. Where Camila and I crashed into the dark swamp; where Camila died.
Benicio seems irritated. “This gets stupider. I can’t believe I listened to you.”
He’s annoying enough to make me spit out what’s been on my mind since he agreed. “Why did you listen to me?”
It bursts out of him. “Because Montoyo is nowhere on this. I’ve never seen him so panicked. Who do you think he’ll let them shoot first, Josh? Not your mum, not Eleanor. Never her.” Benicio pauses and breathes out, shakily. What he’s admitted has shocked even him. “Who knows if your hunch will pay off? But when you are finally convinced that there’s no other way. . .”
Benicio really wants me to give myself up to the kidnappers. He’s expecting it.
He’s doing this to save Ixchel.
Tyler and I stare at Benicio in stunned silence. It takes me several seconds to recover the power of speech. “Just get me to Highway 186!”
“Do you even know where? It’s a long road.”
“About an hour before Becan . . . a big swamp.”
The Muwan changes direction in a long, smooth sweep. Within five minutes I see Highway 186 ahead, a bold asphalt-grey slash in the green forest. As we approach the road Benicio takes us up high, so high that no one could observe us from the ground. He hits a button and the air before me bursts with light – a holographic projection. It’s something I’ve never seen in a Muwan. Tyler breathes out in appreciation.
“Man, that is cool. . .”
It’s an image of the terrain beneath us. “Touch the top right to zoom in . . . the top left to zoom out,” Benicio informs us. But touch what? Experimentally I poke my finger into the air around the top right of the image. Immediately the image narrows its focus on the ground. I keep touching it until we can see a small patch of the road below.
“Find me your swamp,” Benicio says.
The field of vision is too small and changing too quickly for me to focus, so I zoom out until we can sweep enough of the ground at once.
Then I see it – the biggest swamp we’ve seen so far, but it’s still much smaller than I remember.
“That could be it,” I admit. “It seems small, though. . .”
“You were here in the rainy season,” Benicio says. “It’s the only time of year that you could drown in these swamps. Usually they’re not deep enough to swallow a car.”
I look at the image, feeling a stab of sorrow. So if it had all happened a few months earlier – or later – Camila wouldn’t have died. “Then that’s it.”
Benicio takes us down in a wide spiralling movement, making it difficult for any observer to track our landing. He lands the Muwan in a meadow behind a thick wall of trees.
“Your swamp is around five minutes’ walking – in that direction,” Benicio says, pointing. “I’m gonna stay here and guard the bird. Tyler, go with him and see he doesn’t get into trouble. Hurry, or we’ll have Montoyo’s people to deal with.”
Tyler looks into the box of tricks from Lorena. “We should take something from here, just in case.”
I unbuckle. “In case what?”
Tyler picks up what looks like a tiny, silver-grey handgun. “This one shoots tranquillizer darts, Lorena said. That should be enough, right?”
I don’t answer. It’s actually started to hit me what a crazy escapade this is.
I’m on my way to a meeting with a ghost.
Until now it’s all seemed like a sort of fantasy. Once the reality of what might happen actually sets in, I start to shiver. Uncontrollably.
Tyler notices. “You’re shaking.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod.
“What, Josh . . . you afraid of a ghost?”
Tyler’s lazy attitude actually makes me laugh.
“And you’re not?”
Tyler climbs out of the cockpit. “If only, man! Practically wetting my pants. But you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”
We make our way through the dry, scrubby vegetation, through a tangle of lean trees, and finally emerge near the edge of the swamp, right next to the road. A haze of warm air wobbles above the hot tarmac, like a mirage. In the far distance there’s the whine of an approaching car.
Under the dazzling mid-afternoon sunshine the swamp is utterly unrecognizable. I can hardly believe that I’ve been here before. Behind the reeds the water is as black as treacle, its surface littered with insects, tiny leaves and pollen. Small frogs rustle, hopping in the grass. There’s a background chorus of tiny, high-pitched croaks.
All signs of last summer’s car crash have disappeared. I glance to my right, see the beginning of the thicket into which I plunged, right after the crash. Even by day it looks daunting, dark, impenetrable.
There’s a constant drone as mosquitoes hover around us. Absent-mindedly I slap at an itch on my neck and face. I walk to the road, gaze in both directions. It’s empty and straight as far as the eye can see. Up and over hills; a horizontal line across the state, slicing through the jungle.
We stand fidgeting under the bright glare of the sun. The road surface hums as a vehicle approaches. The engine’s roar shatters the air as the car shoots past. Within seconds we’re back to the crackle and buzz of insects and frogs. A cloud of yellow butterflies hovers around us for a second or two before moving towards the road.
Time passes.
Tyler shuffles closer, looks down for a moment, uncomfortable. When he looks up he seems surprised.
“There’s blood on your face.”
I look down at Tyler’s raised hand. I’m puzzled, then confused, then kind of appalled.
“Stop pointing that gun at me.”
His voice seems to come from far away. “What gun? I’m not holding the gun.”
“That gun, the dart gun,” I say, wiping my brow. I can’t understand why Tyler’s messing around like this, pointing the gun. “Put it away. There’s no one here but us.”
His reply, when it comes, is confused. His speech is slurred. “Mate, I’m not the one with the gun . . .”
I turn back to face the road. It’s empty apart from the yellow butterflies. They float around the edge of the road, like a single creature made of fluttering autumn leaves, dipping in and out of the foliage.
Sweat trickles down my neck. A sense of desperation builds within my chest.
No one’s coming.
This has to be rock bottom. Let’s face it – I’m clutching at straws.
I’m on the point of admitting that it’s all been a waste of time; I’m actually opening my mouth to say the words. Then I look closer at the butterfly cloud. No more gaps between the yellow, only a solid block of colour.
It’s coming closer, purring. Seconds of confusion pass. I realize that I’m no longer staring at the butterflies, but a car.
A yellow car: a VW Beetle. It draws up alongside me. The driver’s window slides down.
“Come on, baby brother, get in the car.”
I have to grip the edge of the car to stop myself from staggering.
“Camila. . .?”
She nods, the woman,
the ghost. I don’t see how she can be a ghost when there’s nothing even slightly ghostly about her. She looks exactly as I remember her that day – the only day I ever saw her. Glossy dark hair falling straight down her back, a sleeveless lime-green top, skinny white jeans. Lots of jewellery and lipstick.
I force myself to tear my gaze away from the all-too-lifelike apparition of my dead sister. Where the heck is Tyler? But he seems to have vanished.
