by M. G. Harris
“We will hear your message, boy,” calls the king. “Speak!”
“The book is cursed,” I shout, echoing their own words. “The Bracelets – they are cursed! The Jaguar Priest is. . .” I hesitate, no idea how to say “an imposter”. “The Jaguar Priest is not your friend. I must take the Bracelets, the book and the Jaguar Priest. They are cursed!”
The guards look up at us, then glance expectantly at the king.
“The Jaguar Priest is wise beyond any other priest,” Lord Yuknoom admits. “And yet it is true . . . there is something strange about him.” The king raises his eyes to Martineau, a long, thoughtful look. “A Jaguar Priest who dares to command his king. We have never seen such a man.”
“He is . . . not of . . . the Snake Kingdom,” I say, stumbling over the Mayan words.
“The demon clouds your thoughts,” Martineau urges, almost hysterical. “Seize him! Now!”
They want to obey him, I sense it. The whole crowd moves closer. I bring the codex round to my chest, clutch it in front of me to ward them off. They stop moving. Some of them make a noise like a child crying with frustration. They’re fidgeting, rocking back and forth, confused. They want to surge forward. But they can’t take their eyes off me with the codex.
The hypnosis drug . . . it can’t make them do something they think will kill them.
Martineau freezes. He dips his head towards me. He chuckles, then smiles. He reaches inside his garments, to a red pouch hanging from his belt. From it he pulls a Bracelet. In front of everyone he pushes it on to his wrist. I watch, mesmerized. Words catch in my throat.
His hand remains hovering at the Bracelet. All he has to do is push the Crystal Key and he’ll vanish. Along with any hope I have of escaping, of rescuing Ixchel.
Finally, he speaks. “The codex . . . for your Bracelet, Josh. The best deal you’ll ever get from me.”
Martineau reaches out with his right hand. He takes two steps forward.
“Wait.”
He halts; his nostrils flare in disbelief.
“This purification ritual for the human sacrifice,” I say. “Where do they do it?”
Martineau begins to laugh. “You surely don’t think. . .”
“Tell me where she is. . .” I interrupt. “Or no deal.”
“Your better nature will be the death of you, Mr Garcia. Mark my words.” He gives a dramatic sigh. “The steam house is part of the new building, at the summit of the great pyramid. That’s where they’ll have taken the sacrificial victims.”
That’s it, then. Game over for the codex – he’s beaten me hands down. I step forward, reach out with my left hand open, palm facing up. “Give me the Bracelet.”
Martineau reaches into a second pouch, on the other side of his belt buckle. His fingers pull out another Bracelet. “You mean this?” he says, nonchalant. “Put the codex down. And I’ll drop the Bracelet. We pick up on three.”
I do as he says, not taking my eyes off his hands. Beneath the pyramid the king watches with his guards. I can sense their tension. They’re holding their breath.
We start the count. On three I lunge forward and grab the Bracelet. Martineau gives a cry of delight as he holds the codex. Before I can react, his left hand slams on to the Bracelet on his wrist. His eyes glint with satisfaction as he watches the Bracelet activate the countdown.
“Farewell, young Garcia. I doubt we’ll meet again.”
There is a faint sound, like a crackle of electricity. For a fraction of a second his whole body is engulfed with white light. It wraps him up, eats him out of the air.
There’s a tiny moment of stilled shock. Below, the Mayans gasp. Then the guards drop to their knees, moaning and wailing in panic. I’ve never seen people fall apart like this. Only the king doesn’t react. He gazes right into my eyes as I fasten the Bracelet of Itzamna on my left wrist. There’s no fear in his eyes, only menace. I start to back away. Then I turn and run.
I reach the end of the pyramid in just over a second, leap high and land on grass-cleared ground. Somewhere behind me I can hear the king urging his guards to get up. I don’t stop to listen to what he’s saying, just get my head down and run – as fast and as far away from the guards as I can, and towards the central plaza.
All the guards must be on the other side of the royal palace with the king, because the plaza is empty. I sprint across the main causeway, heading straight for the great pyramid. My trainers fly across the hard, dry ground. My heart pounds, once, twice. From behind me, I hear the charge.
The guards. They’re coming.
I reach the main pyramid in another second. Its many staircases stretch across the end of the plaza. One wide staircase all the way across the base of the pyramid, to the first tier, where they auctioned off Ixchel yesterday. Then one main staircase in the centre, flanked by two narrower staircases, crossing as many as five more tiers. I swerve around the stone columns at the base, bound on to the lowest staircase, land four steps up. I start climbing, two steps at a time.
The first guards are less than fifteen metres behind. They’ve found their voices now, and courage too – they hurl abuse at me. I keep climbing, diagonally, heading for the main staircase that runs up the centre of the pyramid. The guards reach the base of the pyramid. They swarm up the steps. Out of the corner of my eye I notice one guard breaking away. He’s approaching me fast. He scrambles across the first-tier staircase, leaps on to the lowest platform and bounds across to the main staircase.
No more than ten stairs behind me.
I don’t look back. I push on, panting with the effort of climbing the steep, narrow steps. It’s shattering, this staircase. Endless. With each step the pounding pain in my wounded calf muscle just gets stronger. Somehow, I have to ignore it. I climb one, two, three more tiers of the pyramid. The summit still towers overhead. Above, there are voices. I glance up – at the end of the staircase there are two guards, waiting. My spirits plummet. I’m done for. Behind me, there’s a terse yell. “Hold him. He’s mine.”
That voice. I know it – Rain Son. Again! Won’t the guy ever give up?
I cut across the central staircase, heading for the next tier. It’s one layer below the platform at the top of the staircase, where two guards are waiting. When they see me changing course, one of them crosses to the edge of their platform. It’s a long drop to the level below. Even so, he jumps.
But I’m already there, waiting. I don’t give him time to get up. He gets two punches across the jaw and then a sharp kick to the front of his chest. The second guard loiters on the platform above, still getting the nerve to drop down.
I think I’ve put him off.
I cross the platform, moving to the right of the multilayered pyramid. There’s a series of connected platforms here – no stairs, but the tiers are close together. None are too high to climb. I clamber across the layers, approaching the top.
Now I can see it – right on the summit there’s a whole extra temple. It’s a smaller pyramid, set far enough back that I hadn’t seen it from the front. It’s this extra bit that makes the giant pyramid really tower over every other building in the city. It’s new, too. There are baskets of fine, powdery white lime everywhere, waiting to be applied as stucco to the outside of the temple. Powdered lime – worse than sand in the eyes, much worse. I grab one of those baskets and step carefully, avoiding small heaps of mixed cement that have been abandoned by the builders. The air is strong with the clean, acidic smell of freshly mixed stucco.
There’s another smell too, floating down from somewhere above. Perfume. For a second I stop moving, breathing it in. Steam, scented with fragrant oils.
The ritual steam bath. It’s in the summit temple.
I glance down – to see Rain Son one level below. He yells up, “Believe me, demon, you will die.”
I’m so high up now that I can see across the whole of the citadel, all the way across to the sun rising near the horizon. The red, yellow and green painted friezes of the pyramids begin to glow at
the edges, touched by the pink light of dawn.
The second guard at the top of the temple finds the nerve to jump on to the lower platform. Now he’s only a couple of steps behind Rain Son.
I race across to the base of the summit temple, where the stairs begin. There are about twenty-five steps up to another platform. I can see an opening in the structure above. Rain Son is crossing the final platform now. When he hits my staircase I’m only seven steps ahead. He’s close enough for me to hear his lungs wheezing.
I reach the summit. No more guards here, but dozens on their way, swarming all over the platforms below. I calculate that I have about three seconds to get out of here. I turn to face Rain Son as he reaches the top of the stairs. He runs his tongue over his lips as he draws a knife.
This guy is really getting on my nerves. He’s going to get everything I’ve got. Everything that’s owed to him and more.
I swing the basket around my head and chuck lime powder into his face. His eyes go wide with fright; too late he sees what I’m doing. When the powder hits, he screams, falls to his knees, hands to his eyes. I follow up with a couple of chapa baixa kicks, rapid strikes across his head and shoulders.
Rain Son goes down face first, moaning in agony. His chin hangs over the edge of the top step. His knife clatters to the ground. I reach forward and grab it. Two other guards have just started up the final flight of stairs.
Then I’m round the side of the summit temple. The doorway is open. Steam pours out. I step inside. There’s a narrow corridor. All around me, the sweet smell of exotic flowers and pungent pine resin. A few steps down the narrow corridor, I pass through another doorway. This one is blocked. A heavy wooden panel lies across the opening. I get a shoulder to it and heave. The panel totters; I step aside as it falls across the corridor. Now I’m blocked in too. The steam room is ahead. I take one more step.
I’m inside a room no more than two metres square. There’s a thin stream of light from a narrow slit in the ceiling. Clustered together on the floor are five bodies. Young women, children too. At first glance the women look the same. They’re wearing white linen shifts that cling to their skin. Their hands are bound together. They almost look like they’re praying. Nothing on their feet, nothing on their heads. But on their arms, their wrists – the unmistakable yellow of gold. I move between the bodies of the young women. Looking for Ixchel. They’re all unconscious, their skin flushed and glistening from the steam. I lift one girl’s chin carefully. It isn’t Ixchel. There are two little boys, no older than seven. I can feel my heart breaking with a slow, painful crack.
I can’t save them all. They’re practically on the verge of death right now. I wonder if they’ll even notice it when they’re thrown into the chilly waters of the cenote.
I check a girl in the corner. Her hair is tied up, Mayanstyle. When I touch her cheek, I know it’s Ixchel. I speak her name. She doesn’t respond. I turn her head. It’s her. I put an arm around her waist and shoulders, pull her against me. She droops, no resistance. Not a single response. I stare down at her closed eyes. I wonder at how someone can look so peaceful when they must have been so scared. I lift one of her hands. That’s when I notice the bloodstains on her knuckles. The skin broken and bruised.
Ixchel tried to break the door down. It should have moved easily. Someone must have held that panel against the doorway until she stopped thumping, stopped screaming, crying, begging. Until there was no sound from inside. Until the heat overwhelmed them.
The steam house fills with the sound of guards. They’re all around the summit, outside. I hear them approach the temple’s entrance. I hear the wooden panel being moved, the corridor outside unblocked. I see a guard at the opening of the cramped, steamy room, his blade in one hand. My finger is on the Bracelet of Itzamna, on the crystal. He looks at the the bodies, then at me, at Ixchel in my arms. My finger presses hard on the crystal. The royal guard stares at me. He’s paralysed. All the ancient horror of the unknown is reflected in his eyes, aghast at what they’re being forced to witness. I see him disappear, torn from my sight like a page ripped out of a book. I see the sun explode into view, blazing overhead. I see the sky turn blue. I see grass expand under my feet. I’m standing there, all dirty jeans and bloodstained top, holding a girl in my arms, a half-dead girl, and it’s like the most everyday thing. I see sweet turquoise water stretch endlessly in front of me. It laps against a lakeside dotted with lily pads. I see the girl I’m holding open her mouth, just a little. She screws her eyes tightly, reacting to the sun. I see houses around the lake, hardwood trees, fiery orange tree blossoms, coconut palms, the water’s surface dotted with rowing boats, tall reeds swaying with the breeze. In the distance there’s a restaurant with a thatched roof and a mariachi band playing on the waterfront.
I see the future materialize before my eyes; the most dazzling thing I’ve ever seen.
I fall to my knees and gently lower Ixchel to the ground. Her eyes flutter open. I watch her, conscious of my heart beating so hard that it hurts, of the pulse in my ears, of every single beat. I could die from this feeling, I think, but I never want it to go away.
Ixchel’s skin feels hot and clammy, like she’s running a high fever. She’s awake but hardly able to move or speak. I empty a couple of hundred-peso notes and my Ek Naab mobile phone from my jeans pocket, kick off my trainers and then pick up Ixchel and carry her to the water’s edge. I jump in, still holding on to her. The water is warm but still a little cooler than her skin. In the water, Ixchel flops. I have to support her completely. After a few minutes she starts to relax and begins to float. With one hand still under her back, I dip under the water and rub at my head and neck. I swallow a few gulps of the lake water. It’s amazingly refreshing. I keep wading, chest deep in water, until we’re beyond the reeds and lily pads. The water is so clear I can see all the way to the soft, sandy bed of the lake.
After a few minutes in silence, Ixchel wriggles free. She drops her legs and stands in the water with her arms spread out, looking at me. I look back at her, not knowing what to say.
“You’re still dressed,” she begins.
“My clothes got pretty rank,” I say, blushing. “They could do with a rinse. Anyway. There wasn’t time. You were overheating.”
Ixchel doesn’t answer except with a resigned nod. I realize then that she’s close to tears. I want to reach out and hug her but she won’t look at me, just stares out into the middle of the lake with an expression of anguish on her face. It’s also obvious that she doesn’t want to cry, or that she’s trying to stop herself.
More than ever before, I want to kiss her. The urge is so strong that it’s almost overwhelming. But she won’t look at me; there’s obviously something wrong. I start talking fast to take my mind off the idea of just grabbing Ixchel.
“This is Lake Bacalar,” I begin. “At least I think it is. Freshwater lake, all turquoisey blue. Do you think it is? Yeah. It looks like the place I dreamt about, when I dreamt about Camila showing me the Sect’s lake house in Bacalar. See? My dream vision was right – again! Too bad Benicio isn’t here, right. . .?”
Ixchel doesn’t answer.
“So if we’re at Bacalar . . . and the Sect had a place in Bacalar . . . then we must have Martineau’s Bracelet. They must have got mixed up in the confusion! He must have left from the Sect’s place. That’s why we’ve returned. But Martineau, he’s got my Bracelet. So he’s gone back to Ek Naab – to Montoyo’s apartment, where we set out from, but ten minutes earlier. That’s gonna be kind of a shock for Carlos. . .”
Finally, Ixchel manages to speak. “What do you mean . . . ten minutes earlier. . .?”
For a second I want to squeeze her, I’m so happy that she’s starting to come round.
But I just give an enthusiastic nod. “That’s how the safety on the Bracelet of Itzamna works. You go back in time to ten minutes before it was last used. Same place, ten minutes earlier.”
Ixchel thinks this through for a minute. “Omigosh . . .
you’re right!”
“So Martineau has gone back to Ek Naab – with my Bracelet. And we’ve come to the Sect’s place in Bacalar.”
“If we’re at the Sect’s place – where is the actual house?”
I concentrate on the scene before us. The lake, clear and blue, the opposite bank empty of all buildings: a wildlife reserve. The developed side, with the occasional villa, condo and cultivated garden. The restaurant in the distance, where the mariachi band play.
“Maybe Martineau used the Bracelet from a different part of the lake.”
She looks at me. “I’m hungry. Are you? Thirsty too.”
“I’ve got a couple of hundred pesos maybe. We’ll find a shop, as soon as I’ve had a chance to call Ek Naab.”
“I can’t go to the shops like this, Josh. This dress is soaked through.” She lowers her eyes, embarrassed. “It’s going to be practically transparent.”
