by M. G. Harris
Mom just blanches. A few months ago I’d have gotten yelled at for talking to her like that. Somehow, not now. What’s changed? Is it Mom, or me?
I can see this argument coming back to haunt me one of these days.
In the meantime, Mom tries again to get me interested in “culture.” Culture! I’m still trying to get a grip on what happened in Ek Naab and all this Mayan heritage it turns out I have—now Mom wants me to go to museums and concerts. She’s terrified of going anywhere alone, that’s what it is. How can I refuse?
Today, however, Mom hits upon a winning strategy, a way to ensure I’m not just dragged along in a sulk. She invites Ollie to join us.
Mom’s put her finger right on my weak spot.
Ollie had to go away with her family for a few weeks after we returned from Mexico. And I didn’t see too much of Tyler either. So I’ve been hanging out with a girl from school named Emmy. We have one of those on-again-off-again friendships. Good friends in elementary school, then her folks split up. She moved away from Oxford to live with her dad, but now this semester she’s back. Guess things didn’t work out so well with her father. She’s one of those girls who like to watch boys at the skate park. And like all girls, she talks a lot. Which suits me fine—saves me the trouble.
Tyler, though—that’s a tricky issue. We were never what you’d call close friends; we only really met at capoeira. Mexico didn’t help. Tyler is still mad at me for the fact that he and Ollie wound up being interrogated by those NRO guys. He’s even angrier that weeks and even months later, I’m still tight as a clam on the subject of what really happened.
I stick with the UFO abduction story, even though I think he sees right through that.
I need Tyler, though, that’s the thing. He’s the best capoeira player in our age range, and I need the practice. We’ve even had our official “baptisms” now: ceremonies where you get a corda and an apelido—a color-coded belt and a capoeira nickname.
Tyler’s apelido is “Eddy G,” after the capoeira fighter from the video game Tekken. And I’m “Mariposa”—butterfly, after my favorite capoeira move, mariposa, the “butterfly twist.” I’m always practicing. It’s pretty darn tricky.
I’d never have guessed that capoeira could get me out of so much trouble. Even better, I’m beginning to see a real potential for learning to protect myself. For that, I have to practice it as a contact sport and not just acrobatics. At my capoeira school, they’ll never allow that.
So, Tyler and I get together once in a while, and we agree—for a few minutes only—to really go for it.
That’s how I can tell he’s mad at me; I have the bruises to prove it.
Mom called Ollie about this concert Mom’s excited about. Of course, Ollie said yes.
I haven’t gone out of my way to avoid Tyler, but Ollie? I’ve been avoiding her.
She’s a girl, so she doesn’t like having her questions ignored or dodged. And the girl is gorgeous. Obviously, if she wants me to talk, then I’m going to have a hard time resisting. The only solution I’ve come up with is to seem very, very busy.
It was working, too, until Mom booked us all to go to this concert.
The performer, a Chilean tenor named Rodrigo del Pozo, is an old friend of Dad’s from college or something. I remember him from when I was a little kid. His daughter and I used to play together before they moved back to Chile. I never heard his singing, though, which Mom and Dad always said was really special. Mom insists that we go to his concert. He’s a friend of Dad’s, so I guess that’s fair.
We meet in Turl Street outside the college. People in scarves scamper between the music, art, and gift shops, getting in some Christmas shopping. Hefty, wrought-iron streetlights cast an orange glow. The sandstone college buildings look even more golden by night. I love Oxford like this.
Ollie wears the North Oxford preppy fashion. Don’t ask me where they find out the rules, but somehow these girls all dress the same. Ruffled short skirts, cute little tops, tailored velveteen jackets, and pashminas—that sort of thing.
She gives me a big haven’t-seen-you-in-forever-and-I’ve-missed-you hug.
Inside the college chapel, burning candles give the room a solemn, wintry feel. Ollie and I sit a little way behind Mom. The band—there’s only three of them—play old instruments: lutes and those cellolike things. I guess I was about ten years old last time Rodrigo was here. Now I realize that he’s only a few inches taller than me. There are a few flecks of gray in his hair; apart from that he doesn’t seem much older, but then he’s got a sort of youthful face.
Rodrigo and a pretty, raven-haired soprano sing these romantic-sounding songs in Spanish and Italian. Not my scene at all, but after a few songs I’m actually starting to like it.
In fact, I realize that the music is having a strange effect on me. The songs sound medieval, and before long I’m reminded of banquets in castles, horseback quests through forests, and beautiful elves. I steal a glance at Ollie, and I’m more than a little surprised to find her staring straight back. We hold each other’s gaze for a full ten seconds—it feels like eternity. She takes hold of my hand. I freeze; I simply have no idea what to do.
Ollie leans in close and whispers into my ear, “I keep imagining myself as Arwen from Lord of the Rings.” When she pulls back, I see she’s smiling.
She’s set me up, though, hasn’t she?
“So who am I—Aragorn? Legolas? Don’t say Frodo …”
That wins another smile. I squeeze her hand and try to lean back casually into the hard, uncomfortable pew. But inside my chest, there’s thunder. I can’t take my mind off the warm, slender fingers holding mine. Not for a single second.
After the concert, Mom wants to wait for Rodrigo. He’s delighted to see us both and gives Mom a big hug when they first meet. He also hugs me for a long time, saying, “You’re doing a good job, Josh.”
Mom suggests an Indian meal, which seems to excite Rodrigo. His eyes light up. “Fantastic—let’s go!”
Over dinner, we hear about Rodrigo and his family and how they’re settling back into life in Chile after all those years in Oxford.
Mom doesn’t mention my adventure in Mexico. It’s become our embarrassing little secret.
My son ran off to Mexico with a couple of friends when I was in the mental hospital, and then he ran away from them too, went missing for a few days, and claims to have been abducted by UFOs.
It certainly beats the usual story: My son had a raucous house party while I was out of town.
“I was completely amazed to hear about Andres,” Rodrigo says, sipping his Cobra beer, shaking his head in wonder and dismay. “And to think that I actually saw him just before! That gave me a really weird feeling.”
We all stop eating and slowly look up, staring at Rodrigo.
Mom speaks first. “You were in Mexico in March?”
Rodrigo smiles, puzzled. “No, I mean I saw him while he was still in England.”
“Rodrigo,” says Mom, almost whispering, “he was in Mexico for weeks before the plane crash.”
“You’re sure it was him?” I ask. “Not just someone who looked like him?”
Rodrigo shrugs, bemused. “Well, definitely; I spoke to him!”
It’s as though a switch flips inside me. Instinctively I know that Rodrigo’s on to something. “What day?” I insist. “Can you remember the exact date?”
Rodrigo sips his beer again. The sudden tension around our table seems to get to him. “It was June sixteenth. Yes, had to be. Quite early in the morning. I had a concert that evening, and your dad said what a shame it was that he couldn’t be there.”
We almost drop our forks.
“June sixteenth … ?”
Rodrigo nods. “Something wrong?”
“My dad died on June sixteenth,” I say. “Sometime that night, Mexico time.”
And flew away from the secret city of Ek Naab on June 15, the night of the UFO sighting—the six Muwans, one flown by Dad, five from the NRO �
��
Rodrigo stares at me, dumbstruck.
I get my question in before Mom can say anything: “Was he with anyone?”
“Yes,” Rodrigo says, looking at us in turn, now utterly bemused by our reaction. “A couple of guys.”
“What did they look like?”
“Well dressed,” says Rodrigo. “Shirts and ties. Andres introduced them as fellow archaeologists. From the United States.”
“Archaeologists don’t wear ties … ,” Mom says. Her voice sounds hollow.
She’s right. I knew it—Dad was captured by those evil NRO agents. I can hardly sit still.
Ollie hasn’t said a single word so far, but now she speaks up: “Where was this?”
“Saffron Walden,” Rodrigo replies, “a little town near Cambridge. We were doing a concert in a church there … music from the latest recording …”
I want to leave the restaurant immediately, go somewhere quiet, and think about this. But Mom’s reaction is so extreme that it takes my mind off everything—for the moment.
Mom faints. She literally fades out, right there at the table. It doesn’t last long, but when the paramedics arrive, they diagnose low blood pressure and shock. Poor Rodrigo can’t believe the effect of his innocent comment.
Mom is driven home in the ambulance. Rodrigo, Ollie, and I take a taxi, stopping to drop off Ollie, who kisses me on the cheek when she says good-bye. Back at our house, Rodrigo sits with my mom, making her tea with a splash of brandy. Maybe I should be more astonished at the whole event, but somehow I’m not. I’ve seen this coming, the wearing away of Mom’s strength. There’s a cloud of worry floating around her these days. I just know it centers on me.
Rodrigo takes me aside. “What’s going on?”
If Mom falls apart again, I have to get help—I can’t do this on my own. I have to tell someone something. It’s like a dam struggling to hold in a flood; something’s got to give.
3
Well, it’s no use. I won’t be sleeping much tonight either. The dream is back. Not just that but I can hear my mom snoring next door. The doctor gave her something to help her sleep and it’s put her into mega-deep napping mode.
I do what I always do when I can’t sleep—Latin homework. Usually works like a charm. But the latest batch isn’t that dull—it’s a history of Julius Caesar’s military campaigns. Apparently he invented a whole new code—a cipher—for communicating with his front line of troops. Since I’m really getting into codes, it actually keeps me awake.
I came close to spilling the beans with Rodrigo del Pozo yesterday. He caught on to how freaked we were with what he said about seeing Dad in Saffron Walden.
“You know something about this, I can tell,” he said just before he left, and gave me a hard stare. “Your mom, she was shocked. Absolutely stunned. But you! You hardly flinched.”
“It’s probably something to do with that Mayan archaeologist who used to live in Saffron Walden,” I said. At least that could be true, so I actually met his eye. “Dad sometimes mentioned him. Maybe he was checking something out?”
Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t. The words just wouldn’t come. Where would I begin? Show off my phone from Ek Naab? It looks strange enough, not much like a normal cell phone. But I didn’t. I can’t even imagine where that would lead.
Sitting at my desk at three in the morning, I wonder if I should call Montoyo.
“Call anytime you feel you need to talk about what happened,” he told me when I called to say I’d arrived back in Oxford, “or that you’re worried about something … or if you change your mind about coming back to us.”
Truth is, though, I want to get a little further into this. Montoyo and the others in Ek Naab would be really impressed if I brought back something more concrete than a rumor.
How hard could it be to do this myself? I found the Ix Codex, after all. And that was miles away from Ek Naab. Saffron Walden is only a couple of bus rides away.
And I wasn’t fibbing about where Dad and those agents from the National Reconnaissance Office went in Saffron Walden. It’s obvious; they went to that archaeologist’s house—J. Eric Thompson. The same place where my grandfather Aureliano went forty years ago.
I think back to the day Montoyo told me the history of my grandfather, the last Bakab Ix in Ek Naab. He was the one who finally tracked down the missing Ix Codex—one of the four ancient Books of Itzamna. It turned up in an archaeologist’s cottage in an English village. If it hadn’t been for Aureliano’s asthma attack on his way back to Ek Naab, they’d have had their precious Ix Codex back years ago. Me, my dad—we’d never have found out that we were both “Bakabs”—protectors of the Books of Itzamna.
My dad would still be alive.
I pick up my dad’s copy of Thompson’s The Rise and Fall of Maya Civilization, open it to the acknowledgments page. Thompson ends with his address: “Yale,” Ashdon, Saffron Walden.
A house named “Yale” in a tiny little village like Ashdon—shouldn’t be hard to find. I return to bed, already putting together a plan.
The next morning is Saturday. Despite the insomnia, I still wake up at seven thirty, same as any other day. I can hear that Mom is already downstairs, washing dishes as though nothing has happened.
I make myself a stack of toast and jam, a mug of tea, and sit down opposite Mom, watching her bustle.
It’s not a good sign when she bustles this early. Something’s brewing, that’s for sure.
And here it comes …
She turns around, breathes a deep sigh, leans against the sink, and stares at me.
“I can’t take this anymore.”
I try to look clueless.
“You. Me. What’s happened to us. I know you’re hitting your teens now, but honestly …”
“What … ?”
“Is it really necessary to be so uncommunicative? It’s been clear to me since you came back from Mexico that you know something about your father’s death. Something you aren’t sharing with me. Maybe something you’re not even sharing with the police. I’ve gone beyond caring what it does to me. I have to know what you know.”
Whoa. Sounds as if that’s been brewing for a while.
I hang my head for a second, wondering what I can say to get out of it. Nothing. I don’t want to, either. I want to tell her everything.
But slowly. Carefully.
“Sit down.”
She gives me this slightly surprised look and sits.
“When I was questioned by those NRO guys—the agents from the National Reconnaissance Office—I got the impression that they’d seen Dad before he died.”
“Got the impression … ? Josh—just give me facts.”
“They asked me a lot of questions. About Dad, what he was doing, what he was searching for, who he knew. Why ask all that? They didn’t seem interested in the plane crash at all. Why not? Only about things he did in Oxford before leaving and things he’s done in Mexico.”
Mom looks puzzled. “I thought they interrogated you about your abduction.”
“Well, that too.”
“Josh … were you abducted?”
A long pause. “Not exactly. I was in a sort of spaceship thing, but it wasn’t against my will …”
I don’t get any further. Mom just rolls her eyes. “Oh, Josh, you’re not still going on about the spaceships? I don’t believe this.”
So there it is. I could cry with frustration, but instead I feel myself freezing up again. “All right, all right! Maybe it’s best if we don’t talk about that. Just about Dad.”
Mom stops talking, looks at me carefully.
“It wasn’t just me they asked about Dad. They interrogated Tyler and Ollie too.”
“Yes, I know all about that. I had Tyler’s parents complaining to me about it. To me! As if it had anything to do with me. If anything, Ollie’s father should take the blame—he’s the one who bought your tickets to Mexico. I was in no st
ate to make a decision to let you do something like that!”
Of course, Mom was in a psychiatric hospital at the time, and Ollie did persuade her dad that we’d only be gone a week. I see her point, though. Tyler’s folks had been a tad unhappy too. I guess Ollie’s parents didn’t feel like they had a right to complain, since they authorized the trip. I bet they felt angry just the same.
“The NRO weren’t interested in the plane crash, or anything about Dad’s death, because they did it. Don’t you see, Mom? They’re the ones. They wanted something that he was looking for, or maybe something that he had. And when they couldn’t get it from him, they killed him to keep him quiet. They put his body in a plane on the night of June sixteenth, to make it look like an accident. So when I turn up in Mexico, they assume I know something too. That’s what the interrogation was about.”
“But you didn’t know anything?”
Well, I persuaded them I didn’t, but I can’t tell Mom that.
“I couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know, whatever that was.”
Mom slumps into a kitchen chair, pondering. Eventually she says, “I need to get away from this house for a bit. I just don’t know how you’re supposed to cope with bereavement when things like this happen. All the uncertainty.”
“Imagine what it’s like for the families when soldiers go missing in action in a war …”
Mom looks irritated. “I’m sure it’s awful, Josh. It’s good to see you have some compassion for total strangers. I only wish you could show the same to me; I am your mother, after all.”
I can never say the right thing.
Mom takes one of my pieces of toast. She looks thoughtful, tired, sad: a lethal combination. A change is coming, I know it.
4
I never get letters. I don’t get that many e-mails either. Apart from hanging out with Emmy down at the skate park, I seem to have dropped off the social scene. There was a time when I had a few friends, but when my dad disappeared, that seemed to pretty much do it for me. I lost all interest in hanging around doing whatever it was we used to do … Xbox, guitars, and stuff.
