by M. G. Harris
I look doubtfully at the instructions. Is he really going to go ahead with this?
“So, Josh . . . will you help me?”
“You need my help?”
“I need a witness. Someone to explain everything to in case . . . to your mother, you know, should things not turn out for the best.”
We look at each other. I can see he means it; he really does care about my mother. Meanwhile I’m more relieved by the second that Montoyo isn’t asking me to do this.
Ancient Calakmul – that is several steps too far for me. I’d be way, way out of my depth.
“OK,” I say, nodding. “I’ll help. Where’s the Bracelet?”
“It’s at my apartment.”
I stand up. “All right. Let’s go.”
Montoyo seems hesitant; unusual for him. He casts around a bit, as if he’s looking for something or someone. After a moment, his attention rests back on me. “I have some matters to take care of,” he says. “It’s not a trivial thing, to venture forth into the seventh century. . .” He almost forces a chuckle and then eyes me sharply. “What would you do?”
The question throws me. I’m not used to Montoyo asking for my advice. Part of me wonders if this isn’t some ploy to bond with me as a stepfather type. He’s been doing things like that lately, inviting me to listen to music with him, showing an interest in my hobbies.
I hate it. I don’t want to be reminded that he’s my mum’s boyfriend.
“I’d load myself up with some weaponry. Seventh-century Mayans were pretty hardcore.”
“Really?” He seems bemused. “I thought you didn’t like to shoot people.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but . . . you, you’re OK with it. Aren’t you?”
Montoyo’s smile is totally mirthless. In a low voice he says, “Is that what you think of me, Josh?” His eyes are clouded, his expression heavy.
I’ve no idea how to respond.
He claps me on the back. “Go home, eat something, and see your mother, your friends. I’ll meet you in my apartment in two hours.”
Without another glance, Montoyo leaves.
Montoyo’s instructions leave me feeling disoriented. Plus, I’m tired and hungry, not to mention annoyed. It’s all too much to think about. I just want my bed and a big juicy sandwich.
In our cosy second floor apartment, Mum’s cooking chicken tacos. The smell of frying tortillas drenches my senses as I walk through the door: maize dough crisping up in sizzling corn oil. I can’t sit down fast enough – I heap shredded chicken, refried beans, green tomato salsa, sour cream and crumbly white cheese on to a couple of hot, crunchy tortillas. Mum watches me shovel down the first taco, a smile on her face. She pours me a glass of iced agua de limón – limeade.
“Carlos won’t be coming round tonight,” she tells me softly. “He just called. So it’s just you and me.”
I swallow a huge mouthful of taco and watch my mother closely. She gives no sign of knowing what Montoyo’s up to. I feel guilty then, because I know that Mum loves Montoyo. It’s obvious – I don’t know when I’ve seen her so happy. All day long she walks around in a blissful daze. It’s like she’s drugged. When they’re together . . . yuck, I don’t want to think about it. So gross. That’s not even the worst part. What drives me really crazy is watching them build this new domestic routine together when he’s over at our house. Sometimes he even cooks us all breakfast and I have to sit and eat it, looking grateful, as if I should be happy to watch some bloke take my dad’s place.
Still . . . as grim as it is to watch, I can’t say it hasn’t made her happy. No wonder they say people who take drugs look “loved-up” – my mum looks like she’s been drugged.
She’s lucky.
But now Montoyo’s about to risk all of that. He’s about to put himself in terrible danger. Walking into ancient Calakmul with no plan except to stop whoever interfered with the Ix Codex in the past? Even I’m not mental enough to do something like that.
I eat my second taco in silence, thinking. Is there any other way around this? Why does this Ix Codex business keep falling on to my family and the people I care about?
“Ixchel popped round, by the way.”
Before I can stop myself, I’m perking up. “She did?”
Mum covers a smile with her hand. “Yes, Josh. She sounded rather mournful. Have you two sweethearts had a tiff?”
Hotly I say, “We’re not ‘sweethearts’. Who said we were?”
She pauses. “You’ve looked like . . . well, forgive me, but like a lovelorn teenager, ever since she turned up in Brazil.”
Mum’s words almost physically sting. Furious, I take a long drink of cold limeade, unable to answer. Maybe something will come to me. It’s pointless, though. If I deny it I just know I’m going to go red.
In fact, as my mother watches me, I realize that I’m blushing anyway.
“Rather not talk about it,” I say without expression. I push myself away from the table. “I’m going to bed.”
I flop down on to my bed without turning on the lights, and think over what Ixchel said today. I replay every single thing over and over, remembering her expression as she said it.
She never said she didn’t like me.
She never actually said anything that might mean she didn’t fancy me. Obviously she’s worked out that I like her . . . but then all of Ek Naab seems to be on to that one. From what I saw, she doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe she even enjoys it?
When she saidI don’t want to be the girl you forgot, she was actually sobbing.
I made her cry. Again. Reluctantly, I let myself remember that moment on the beach in Brazil after the capoeira tournament, when I said something mean to Ixchel, and she began to cry.
Why does this keep happening? I don’t mean to upset Ixchel; it’s the last thing on earth I want to do. Is there no way to keep this stuff under control?
Being in love is a nightmare. It’s torture. She said some horrible things to me today and for a while I was angry. Anger felt better than being pathetic and miserable. But now I can’t even stay angry with her for a few hours.
I’m starting to wish that I hadn’t rushed out of the kitchen without eating another taco. They were so great, two wasn’t enough. Lying on my bed isn’t really helping me to straighten anything out in my mind, and my stomach keeps complaining, telling me to go back to the kitchen, mumble something apologetic to Mum and get another couple of tacos.
So, I do. Luckily for me, Mum seems to have worked out that I’m upset and has decided not to press it any harder. She lets me eat the rest of my supper silently while she tidies up. She passes me a bowl of vanilla ice cream with sliced bananas and lemon jelly.
If anything happens to Montoyo, I decide, I’ll take care of Mum. I’ll have to. She’s really hit it off with him, but I can’t see her getting on with any of the other blokes in Ek Naab. Most of them are married, but also, they’re not like Montoyo. He’s lived in the outside world, for one thing, not just Ek Naab. It would just be too different with any of the others. Mum likes Montoyo because he’s so confident – he seems to know about everything and everywhere. My dad was like that too.
I check my watch. Almost time to meet Montoyo.
“I’m going out for a bit, Mum. That all right?”
She turns to me with a smile. “Of course, love. That’s fine. Don’t stay out too late.”
I grin. “I won’t. I’m tired . . . I. . .” I stop myself then, before I let anything slip out to prompt questions that lead to the motorbike race or Benicio.
“I want to get a good night’s sleep,” I say, compromising. At least that much is true.
But Mum isn’t quite ready to stop talking. “You’re a good lad, you know, Josh. I’m always proud of you. Even though God knows, you make me worried sick. . .”
“Don’t worry any more, Mum,” I tell her. “We’re here now. I’m safe.”
Mum rolls her eyes. “Ah well, you will say that. Then you’re off somewhere and I’ve no idea wh
at’s going on.”
I nod once, gulping. “Yeah. I know. Sorry about that.”
“Go on with you,” she says, waving a tea towel. “Go and see that girl of yours. See if you can’t put her straight on a few things.”
For once, I don’t argue.
The night air in Ek Naab is warm and fragrant, mingled smells of cooking and the sweetly fermenting juices of the market’s tropical fruit. I step outside, wondering when – if ever – I’ll feel the cold again, never mind the wind. I wander down the lane of our apartment block, heading away from the zocalo, through the dimly lit labyrinthine network of alleys towards Montoyo’s place.
Two doorways down from our apartment block’s entrance, I almost have a heart attack when Ixchel steps out in front of me.
“Jeez! What are you doing?”
Ixchel fidgets. Amazingly, she seems flustered, embarrassed. “I was waiting . . . waiting until. . .” She looks up then, eyes pleading. “I was trying to get the courage to come and speak to you.” Then, nervously, she touches a hand to mine.
There’s nothing I’d like more than to continue this, but I’m already running late for Montoyo.
“Ixchel . . . I can’t talk right now. . .”
She withdraws her hand, puzzled. “What. . .?”
“I have to be somewhere,” I say. “I’m sorry . . . really am . . . I have to go.”
Ixchel is stunned. “You’re still angry?”
“No, no way, it’s nothing like that. I just . . . have to go.” I give her a final, apologetic look and tear myself away, trying to ignore the astonished look on her face.
Even as I walk away, I wonder if I’m making a huge mistake. But what else could I do? I speed up, jogging. I couldn’t mention Montoyo and his plans, of course, and I couldn’t let her keep talking. There was no way a conversation about Ixchel, me and Benicio was going to be brief.
A few minutes later, I’m climbing the stairs to Montoyo’s apartment. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow. But tomorrow is another day. In fact, if Montoyo gets the job done, tomorrow is another history.
Maybe none of what happened today will ever have happened. Maybe I’ll get that second chance with Ixchel.
The door to Montoyo’s apartment is unlocked, so I step inside. He’s sitting on the black leather and metal sofa in his minimally furnished, white living room. He’s listening to slow, moody piano music that I don’t recognize. A mournful bass line thumps along with the melody. Instead of looking up when I walk in, Montoyo simply points to the CD in his hand. It’s black and white, a photo of a bearded guy at the piano.
“Your father, Josh. Was he an admirer of Jan Johansson? Jazz Pa Ryska, for example?”
“Never heard of him,” I say.
Montoyo seems disappointed. “A pity. I felt sure his music would have formed part of your father’s collection.” He hunches his shoulders and cricks his neck as if to relieve tension. He breathes out slowly and stands up. “I always hoped that you and I would get on better, Josh, partly because of my tremendous regard, my respect, for your father.”
I shrug. What does he expect me to say?
“This mission is risky, very risky,” Montoyo says in a quiet voice, suddenly serious. “I want you to know that I’m aware of that.” He looks me in the eyes. “Also that I understand that this may be the last time we see each other.”
I gulp slightly. “OK. I get it. I think. . .”
There’s a slight smile at the edge of his lips. “What I’m trying to tell you, Josh, is . . . that certain things need to be said.”
“OK,” I say, nodding, not a clue what he’s on about. “Fair enough.”
“All right?” He seems to be checking with me again, seeing if it’s OK to proceed. “So, I’ll go first, if that’s acceptable.”
He seems to want me to nod again, so I do.
“I love your mother,” he says softly, no hint of hesitation. “Of everything that’s happened since you first arrived in Ek Naab, it’s the most incredible and unpredicted thing for me. To be happy again in this way, to find someone like Eleanor. . .” He chuckles, looks at me inquiringly. “You understand, don’t you, what I’m saying?”
“You’re obsessed with my mum,” I reply in a monotone. “I get it.”
“You’re not happy with the development,” he says. “That’s regrettable. Naturally, I understand. However, making you happy isn’t my job. You and I, we are men of action, men of will.”
“Whatever that means,” I mutter.
Montoyo laughs. “You know well enough. What I’m trying to say here is that although I love Eleanor and want to make her happy, there are higher duties that bind me. They always have. Ultimately, I’m a servant of this city and our mission.”
“I’ll look after my mother,” I tell him. “If you don’t come back. I promise.”
He smiles, chuckles. “I believe you. If the situation were reversed, Josh, I’d make you the same promise.”
I nod once. “Good.”
“So.” Montoyo pushes up his black silk shirtsleeve to reveal the Bracelet of Itzamna on his forearm. He picks up the three sheets of handwritten instructions that he found in Vigores’s place. Our eyes rest on the Bracelet. “Shall we begin?
“Wait,” I tell him. “What about the weapons and stuff?”
“Oh yes – guns, ammunition, that sort of thing?”
“Right. You can’t go without anything.”
“What do you think will happen if I’m caught in the Mayan past with such objects?”
I snort. “Nothing, that’s just the point; no one will dare to come near you.”
“All right, let’s imagine for the sake of argument that I’m threatened, so I shoot a number of Mayan warriors, yes?”
“I guess. . .”
“And then what? I keep going until the ammunition is exhausted and I’m surrounded by a pile of dead warriors. Then?”
“I guess that wouldn’t be ideal. . .”
Emphatically, he shakes his head. “Not at all! To a seventh-century Mayan I’d be a highly suspicious, murderous stranger with apparently demonic powers. If they didn’t serve up my still-beating heart to their god Kukulkan by the end of the same day I would be fortunate. And when archaeologists discover Calakmul, what would they make of the discovery of a twenty-first-century weapon?”
“Good point,” I say. “So . . . you’re going as you are?”
“I think so,” he says, nodding. “I think it’s safest. To present no threat. To win their curiosity, then their trust. In a situation such as this, knowledge and cunning should win the day.”
Let’s hope so.
Montoyo picks up a small pair of reading glasses from a leather string around his neck and perches them on his nose. From his right shirt pocket he pulls a folded piece of paper and begins to read.
“K’inich K’ane Ajk of Cancuen writes to Lord Yuknoom Ch’een of Calakmul
I am your servant
From Chechan Naab he emerged, from the Great Temple of the Cross
The Bakab was defeated
This sacred Book of Ix speaks of the end of days
13.0.0.0.0 it is written in the Sacred Books of Itzamna
The Black Road will open the Heart of Sky
It will be destroyed
Healer of Worlds will be born.
In the Moon it walks
In their Holy City of Ek Naab they wait
They are still. They wait.”
He looks up at me then, expectant. “It’s the Calakmul letter,” I say, shrugging.
Montoyo smiles. “You remember.”
“I deciphered it,” I remind him. “At least, I deciphered the first half. My sister, Camila, deciphered the second half. Yeah, I remember it pretty well.”
“The date, too, did you remember that?”
I glance again at the paper between his fingers. It’s a photocopy of the two fragments of the manuscript that my dad left with me and Camila. Under the images of the Mayan glyphs i
s a handwritten translation. Not my writing, but as far as I can remember, it’s the same translation.
Pointing to the top of Montoyo’s paper, where the initial signature glyph, the ISIG, appears, I tell him, “It’s here. January AD 653.”
“To be precise, the eighth of January,” Montoyo says. “The date that the Traitor Bakab – K’inich K’ane Ajk – wrote to Yuknoom Ch’een of the Snake Kingdom – Calakmul – telling him about the Books of Itzamna and the 2012 prophecy.”
