by M. G. Harris
I hesitate. “Why should I trust you?”
Bosch pulls back. His hard blue eyes stare into mine. “I can’t think of one good reason. Josh – you gotta go with your gut. I’ll make you a promise: help me and I promise that I won’t take your Bracelet. I’ll take his.”
Thoughtfully, I nod and mouth, “OK. What next?”
“I’m going to go for Martineau. Be prepared, that’s all. Leave all the books by the hole.”
Then he leaves. I stay behind, starting my count to one thousand. Martineau forces Bosch and Ixchel out of the cave and into the escape tunnel. When I’ve finished my count I pick up two of the codex boxes. I can just about wrap both under one arm. Then I crawl through the tunnel and climb up the cenote wall. Bosch is right; it’s exhausting to climb up those stakes with only one hand. I reach the top already breathless. My climbing arm tingles with pins and needles.
At the top, Martineau is guarding Ixchel, leaning against a tree with a gun pointed against her head. They’re about ten metres away, a safe distance from the effects of the biodefence toxin. Bosch is trying to make a fire under another tree, also about ten metres from Martineau’s position. I drop the two volumes on the ground and risk a look at Ixchel. She shrugs and tries to smile, but even at this distance I can see that she’s nervous.
The air is thick with the sulphurous smell of the volcano. There’s another rumble from the mountain. The tremor buzzes through my feet. Above the treeline there’s a steady plume of smoke rising from the peak. Bosch said it gets much worse than this before an explosion. Well, maybe. To me, though, that volcano looks like it might go off at any minute.
With a heavy heart, I crawl back into the cenote, climbing down. Is Bosch right? Will Martineau kill us all? If he burns the four books and leaves their author alive, he’s risking the chance that Bosch will write them all over again. As for me, I’d already made up my mind that Martineau would probably try to kill me eventually. He’s only ever let me live because I was useful to him.
Bosch is a slippery customer, no doubt about it. But Martineau and the Sect are pretty much my sworn enemies.
I have to trust Bosch. Whatever he’s got planned, it’s our only way out.
The earth starts shaking again. I freeze, hanging tight to the wooden stakes, spreading my weight. It occurs to me that if I get hit with a tremor like that when I’m climbing with the books, I’ll have to drop them, or fall. I gaze into the stinking black water at the bottom of the cenote. It looks pretty nasty. And it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s me they’d send.
When the tremor stops I climb down, return to the cave and fetch the last two books. The climb back up takes much longer, with minor earth tremors every few seconds to rattle my nerves. I reach the top drenched with sweat and exhausted.
The two first codices are still where I left them, next to the opening of the cenote. Bosch and Martineau seem to be fussing over the fire, arguing in loud voices. Bosch is saying that Martineau is an idiot; if he hadn’t interfered the fire would have got going ages ago. Martineau is accusing Bosch of being an incompetent who can’t make a decent fire. The entire time, Martineau has his gun pointed right at Ixchel’s chest. I add the last two codices to the pile and climb out, sitting by the hole and rubbing my arms to get rid of the pins and needles.
When Martineau sees me he stands up. He switches the gun from Ixchel to me. “All right, boy. Now, on my mark you’re going to open up those boxes and throw the books inside on to this fire.”
He grabs Ixchel’s upper arm and starts to move away from the fire, all the time keeping a safe distance from me.
In that instant I understand Bosch’s plan.
For a second or two, Martineau’s attention is wholly focused on me and the books. In that time Bosch slips silently behind him, and as quick as lightning he whacks Martineau’s arm hard, forcing it upwards with some kind of karate blow. The gun goes off, shattering the quiet of the forest. As if in reply the mountain rumbles in the distance. While Martineau is distracted, Ixchel darts into the forest, disappears into the trees.
But Martineau doesn’t drop the gun. Roaring with anger, he swivels, trying to find Bosch. Bosch is fast – he’s already manoeuvred around to Martineau’s opposite flank and just as Martineau fires again, he ducks, hooks his legs around Martineau’s and topples him.
I drop the books and race forward. Bosch is on top of Martineau now, trying to wrestle the pistol from his hand. Martineau twists the pistol and fires again. Bosch’s whole body jerks backwards and he screams. I’m just in time to deliver a hard kick to Martineau’s gun hand. The gun flies into the undergrowth; Martineau roars in dismay.
Desperately I shout, “Ixchel, find the gun!” But I don’t even know if she can hear me by now – if she’s smart, she’s running to the village for help. Meanwhile Bosch is on the ground writhing in agony. The bloodstain at his shoulder is spreading at an alarming rate. I take up a ginga stance at a safe distance from Martineau, bobbing from side to side to block his access to the gun.
Martineau gets on to his feet. Scornfully, he kicks a whimpering Bosch in the ribs. He turns to me, glowering, and reaches for Bosch’s knife, now tucked into his own belt. I sense his hatred of me, pure venomous rage. I’ve just started to pivot, preparing a capoeira attack, when the swift motion of his blade takes me completely by surprise. It flies through the air between us and with a searing thud sinks into my side, just above the hip. The pain rips through me. I collapse, faintly aware of a faraway sound.
It’s the sound my own voice, screaming.
The dagger in my side overrides every impulse in my body. Lengthy seconds go by before I manage to hear what Bosch’s been yelling at me. Get close to the codex.
I squeeze tears out of my eyes to see that he’s crawled back to the hole and is lying with his head near the pile of volumes. Looking around, I catch sight of Martineau, wandering among the nearby trees.
He’s looking for the gun.
In the next few seconds I look around in panic, weighing up my chances. With a knife buried in my hip I can hardly walk. Running isn’t an option. I could pull it out, maybe, try to hurl it at Martineau. But the idea of touching the blade terrifies me. Do you take knives out of wounds? Or does that make you bleed faster?
Bosch is bleeding pretty badly. He’s taken refuge near the codices, groaning. Martineau can’t go within three metres of the books. The Ix Codex will be OK, but the others are lethal. He’ll have to play it safe. But if he finds his gun. . .
Crawling, I edge close to Bosch and grab one of the books. I turn around and hurl it in Martineau’s direction. The movement of throwing is so painful that it makes me retch. Martineau is picking something up off the ground when he sees the volume flying towards him. He leaps away, running in the opposite direction, terrified by the biotoxin that has surely filled the space he’s just left.
I’ve just widened the area that Martineau can’t enter. Bosch stares at me for a second, impressed. I grab a second book with two hands and chuck it at Martineau. He darts away again and this time fires the gun blindly as he’s running. Bullets thud into soft mulchy ground less than fifty centimetres from my head, throwing up earth and leaves.
Now I’m panicked. I lift the third book, aim and throw. Martineau fires again as the book flies through the air. The bullet ricochets off one tree and slams into another. I can’t see Martineau now – he’s disappeared behind some trees.
Then there’s a whooshing sound. A spear zips through the air, strikes the ground only metres away. There’s a yell and then the incredible sight of Martineau hurtling towards us through the trees, spears flying all around him. Just as he comes into view a spear takes him square in the back of the neck. It skewers him. The black spear tip emerges in an eruption of blood and splintered wood just under his throat. He falls to his knees, clutching his throat, eyes bugging out of his head. He gasps almost silently, only managing a desperate wheezing sound. A second later blood gushes out of his mouth.
The
n the effects of the biotoxins begin. Martineau’s skin starts to blister and crisps up as though it’s being cooked. He’s trying to scream, but the only sound that emerges is a gurgling, whining sound.
“Don’t get any closer!” Bosch yells in Mayan. A group of Mayan spear-throwers lurk in the forest behind Ixchel, watching at a distance. Ixchel repeats the instruction, telling the Izapans that the books are cursed. They murmur in appreciation.
I can’t take my eyes off what’s happening to Martineau. It takes him at least three minutes to die, choking, writhing in agony, locked in a silent scream.
Bosch doesn’t watch. He stumbles unsteadily to his feet and staggers around, picking up the three volumes that I used as weapons. He fetches them and places them back on the pile near the opening of the cenote. He goes to Martineau’s fresh corpse and pulls the Bracelet of Itzamna from his arm. Then he approaches me, helps me to my feet and supports me as we hobble, soaked with blood, white with shock, towards the Mayans.
Two warriors hold me still as another one jerks the blade out of my hip. I almost pass out from the pain. I’m dimly aware of them bandaging the wound with a tourniquet so tight it bites into my flesh. Through the mist of agony, I can see Ixchel standing by, nervous, anxious. The minute the battlefield surgery is over she rushes to me and hugs me. I make a feeble attempt to hug her back but it’s a struggle to stay conscious, to be honest.
The Izapans help us back to the village, take us straight to the medicine hut. They practically force-feed Bosch and me with some potion that tastes fully disgusting, bitter and like partially fermented leaves. Within ten seconds of drinking it I feel as if I’m floating away, off the bed and into the thatched palm of the ceiling.
When I regain consciousness my hip still hurts but the pain is much less severe. My wound is covered with a loose paperbark bandage. Gingerly, I lift it to see an ugly scar, raw and inflamed, but amazingly, also neat stitches, practically invisible.
“Spider silk,” Bosch mumbles. He’s lying in the cot next to mine, his head turned towards me, and smiling, exhausted but relieved. “I brought them opium poppies and taught them how to use spider silk for repairing wounds . . . but to be honest, they do pretty well with what the forest provides. How’re your pain levels?”
“Not too bad,” I say. “I can feel the wound but . . . it doesn’t seem to bother me.”
Bosch chuckles. “That’s the opium. It’ll wear off soon. You’d better get back to the twenty-first century and find some tablets. Get some antibiotic shots too. You were very lucky – the knife didn’t puncture your guts. That would have needed proper surgery, not just a muscle-layer stitch-up. You’d have bled to death pretty quick.”
I stare at him for a moment. “What about you?”
“I’ll be OK. Bullet in my shoulder, they dug it out. Hell, I felt everything, even with the opium!”
“So . . . what are you going to do? You’ve got your time-travel bracelet now – you can leave.”
He looks thoughtful. “Oh, me. . . Well, I’ve been thinking about what you said before. Maybe I’m not finished here yet. Still have to put the final touches on the Ix Codex. And I guess I’d better do that inscription you talked about, the one that led you here, of the Bracelet of Itzamna . . . or else you and Ixchel will probably disappear into thin air. Then there’s the missus. Yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “That one’s going to take some negotiation.”
“Take her with you?”
He guffaws. “A hundred and fifty kilos, remember? We’d both need to lose some weight.”
“Be worth it, though, wouldn’t it? To take a friend.”
Bosch pats my arm. “You’re right, Joshua. Course it would.”
We share a look for a moment. I wonder who Bosch left behind in his own century. Family? Friends? Really, he’s given up his life. I can’t blame him for wanting an escape route.
“Sort of panicked a bit back there,” he admits ruefully. “Hope you and your girl won’t hold it against me.”
“It’s OK,” I tell him. “I understand.”
Bosch nods. “Knew you would.”
“What about the Bakabs? You need four guys to look after the codices. Four guys with the protective genes.”
A grin of delight spreads across Bosch’s face. Then he calls out to the Mayan medicine woman, a middle-aged lady with solemn eyes and a huge long plait. He whispers something into her ear and she nods.
A few minutes later, four young boys, all aged around ten years old, file silently into the medicine hut.
“Joshua, meet the Bakabs,” Bosch says, putting his good arm around one of the boys. “This is my own son, Leaf Storm. He’s the Bakab Ix. And these are Swift Wind, Sky Son, and Fire Light, the Bakabs of Kan, Muluc and Cauac. I gave them the genetic modification treatment when they were born. They’re going to be the guardians of my books.” He ruffles the hair of his own boy. “Aren’t you, tjommie?”
“Your son is the Bakab Ix?” I say, laughing.
“Exactly. Like you, Joshua. I bet I’m right.”
I nod, once. “How did you know?”
“Oh yeah! I can tell one of my own. You’re a worthy successor, bru. Now get back to where you came from and don’t come back!”
“What will you do?”
Bosch shrugs. “Time travelling hasn’t really worked out for me. On my first trip I messed up and revived a bunch of Erinsi who weren’t meant to wake up. On my second trip I got stuck here! If I do it again, I think I’ll find a nice spot and retire. Maybe Mexico in the twentieth century. The world was pretty good before the Sect of Huracan took over. Don’t think I want to risk going back to anywhere after 2012.”
Martineau was right, after all. . . Itzamna himself disrupted the ancient Erinsi plan! No wonder he is so obsessed with fixing things for 2012.
“Don’t you want to see if your plan works?”
“I do. . .” He hesitates, then glances at me. “But I’m scared, to tell the truth. What if it doesn’t? Don’t reckon I could handle that, not after everything. No – I’ll leave all that to you and your friends in . . . what did you call it? Ek Naab?”
“And you’re just gonna retire? What about the Bracelet?”
Bosch grins. “Kinda wondered if you’d ask. Thought I’d warned you off the time travel.”
I stall. “Yeah, but . . . it’s not the kind of thing you leave lying around.”
His grin widens. “All right, bru, no need to ask. I’ll leave the Bracelet somewhere for you. You ever hear of a town called San Cristobal de las Casas? If I ever get done here, that’s where I’m headed.”
I don’t hear what he says beyond that because the volcano bursts the silence with an earth-shattering roar and rumble. Seconds later the air fills with a hot smell of rotten eggs mixed with smoke. Bosch frowns, casting a glance through the open door of the hut. Outside, the Izapans are running around, gathering up small children and packing their belongings.
“You have to leave this place,” I tell him. “You have to take the Bakabs and go somewhere safe.”
He nods. “It’s all in hand. We’re going today.” He points to the Bracelet on my arm. “Now let’s fix this up so you can go back.” His eyes become deadly serious. “Just use it once. I didn’t feel too good about trapping you and your girl in the past. Don’t you go doing that to yourselves now, OK?”
BLOG ENTRY: REMEMBER THIS
The first thing I did after they stitched me up in hospital was to look up Zsolt Bosch in San Cristobal de las Casas. Turns out he died in the 1990s at a pretty good age. I was glad to know that after all the stress, he finally got his wish. I hope he finally found some peace. His daughter still lives in the house. I took down the address. Who knows if Bosch left me the Bracelet after all. But you never know. . .
Then I called Tyler. He answered the phone with a low whistle. “Heyyy, Mariposa!”
Right then, my capoeira nickname was the best word I could have heard from Tyler.
He knew me. We’d got back!
&
nbsp; We talked for a bit. Nothing major, just catching up on normal stuff. I didn’t tell Tyler that he’d been my first clue to the fact that the whole of history had been changed. Of course not. You can’t lay stuff like that on a mate. At least, not over the phone.
Then Montoyo and my mum arrived from Ek Naab.
Montoyo denied tricking me into time travel. “You knew what I was doing,” he insisted. “Deep down, you knew only a Bakab could use the Bracelet.”
He came to visit me in hospital in Chetumal, after Ixchel and I time-zapped back to the beach there, about a week after we set out.The surgeon was impressed with the “forest surgery” I’d received but he still wanted to check everything was OK inside.
In Montoyo’s memory, he had found Blanco Vigores’s handwritten instructions about the Bracelet and decided to try a time-travel experiment. But pretty soon he’d realized that it wouldn’t work for him,that a Bakab had to use the Bracelet. “It proved impossible to activate the device,” he admitted. “It needed to be in contact with something on your skin.” Montoyo didn’t remember the “other” timeline, the one where Tyler didn’t remember me. No one remembered, except Ixchel and me. Using the Bracelet of Itzamna had somehow protected our memories of the parallel realities we’d experienced.
