Ice Shock

by M. G. Harris

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “John Lloyd Stephens came to Ek Naab? And kept it a secret?”

  “It’s a long and fascinating story,” Montoyo says. “Remind me to tell you one day. Being economical, it is enough to say that from him, the members of the Executive learned enough English to deduce that the codices were written in English.”

  “But how is that possible?” I’ve been thinking it over for days and it just doesn’t make sense. “I mean, I don’t know much about British history, but I’m pretty sure that when the codices were written, Britain was part of the Roman Empire. Did English even exist then, as a language?”

  Montoyo says drily, “You know even less British history than you imagine. Roman Britain dates from after 50 BC. The Books of Itzamna were written around 350 BC.”

  “But did anyone speak English then?”

  Montoyo sighs. “What do they teach you at school? Of course not. In 350 BC, you’d find little trace of anything you’d recognize as English.”

  “So the codices are fakes?”

  “Fakes … meaning what?”

  “They weren’t really written in 350 BC.”

  “As I just told you, they were.”

  “But how? If no one spoke English at the time?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  I hesitate. “Are you saying you don’t know why they’re in English?”

  “I’m saying that in over fifteen hundred years, with all the resources at our disposal, we have no conclusive answer to that question.”

  “But you have a theory.”

  “A theory, of course. We have several theories.”

  I pause, expectant. But he says nothing.

  “… And?”

  “Well, Josh, let me ask you: what do you think is the answer?”

  I think about it again.

  “Itzamna definitely wrote them?”

  “So it is claimed.”

  “Who claims it?”

  “Itzamna himself. He claims to have copied them from the walls of a temple he found. Where—as you’ll know from reading the beginning of the Ix Codex—they were first written by the Erinsi.”

  “Right,” I say. “Ollie mentioned that. The Erinsi—she knows all about them. So could you tell me: who are the Erinsi?”

  Montoyo gives a tiny smile. “You don’t by any chance know any ancient Sumerian, do you?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “I was just wondering if, maybe, you learned it when you weren’t learning British history.”

  “No, I learn modern stuff, you know, that is actually useful for modern life,” I say, impatient. “What’s Sumerian?”

  “Sumerian was an ancient language of Mesopotamia—what you now call Iraq. In old Akkadian, a dialect of Sumerian, Erinsi translates as ‘people remember’—or perhaps ‘people of the memory.’

  “It took us a while to work that out. We came to recognize that our own poor linguistic skills proved something of an impediment. Since then we’ve started training a group of linguists and epigraphers. There are few ancient languages we don’t know here—we’ve even cracked Linear A.”

  “And that’s good?”

  “It’s remarkable. No one else on earth can read Linear A.”

  “So the Erinsi wrote in English?”

  Montoyo sighs. “Be logical, Josh. If their own name for themselves uses words from ancient Sumerian, why would they speak English?”

  “So … the Erinsi wrote the stuff in the codices … and Itzamna just copied it and translated it into English?”

  “We believe so. With no evidence of the original inscriptions, we can’t be sure.”

  “The original inscriptions on the temple walls—they’re gone?”

  “As far as we know, destroyed by a lava flow,” Montoyo says.

  “Where was the temple?”

  “At Izapa. It’s here in Mexico, near the volcano Tacana.”

  I think of the thrilling flight with Benicio, when we were chased by the NRO in their Mark I Muwans. “I’ve been there,” I say.

  Montoyo bows his head and actually smiles. “I know.”

  “So you’re saying … there were some ancient inscriptions in a Mayan temple … written in Sumerian?”

  “That’s pure speculation. We’ve yet to find the remains of this temple of inscriptions. We believe it to be buried. Believe me, we’ve searched.”

  “So what are the Erinsi? ‘People of Memory’? What do they remember? And they’re the ones with all this technology—the Muwans, the poisonous gas on the Ix Codex, the genes that protect the Bakabs?”

  Montoyo smiles again. “Yes, that’s right. Now you know almost as much as we do.”

  “And Itzamna is … what … ?”

  “What do you think … ?”

  I can’t bring myself to say it. It sounds so ridiculous.

  “If he wrote in English … and modern English wasn’t spoken until the fifteenth century … then …”

  “Yes?”

  “Then … he must be a time traveler. From the future.”

  “You got it.”

  “That’s your theory?”

  “That’s our theory.”

  “That’s just crazy.”

  Montoyo shrugs. “You never heard that saying from your Sherlock Holmes? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

  “But time travel is impossible.”

  “Is it? Can you prove that?”

  “No … but … wouldn’t we have seen people from the future?”

  “And you can prove you haven’t?”

  “No … but … isn’t it impossible, I mean, according to the laws of physics?”

  “Depends which physicist you ask.”

  I think about it a little more. “You actually believe this?”

  Montoyo shrugs. “We have no proof. And yet, the theory would appear to explain the facts.”

  “You’ve looked for his time machine?”

  “We have.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing so far. But as you know, the Depths under Ek Naab have mysterious qualities. We’ve never fully explored them. Too many people have disappeared in the attempt. It’s fair to say that within the members of the Executive there’s a belief that somewhere, there exists a time-travel device.”

  “And that’s why you want that thing my father took, isn’t it?”

  Montoyo inhales sharply. “Smart boy.” I guess he thinks I’ve forgotten that he all but accused my dad of stealing the Bracelet of Itzamna when he was in Ek Naab. Or that we made a deal; a personal secret mission to track down any news of what became of the Bracelet. Not a mission I took very seriously, to be honest, once my mysterious leaf-storm dream began to lead me to the Ix Codex.

  “The Bracelet of Itzamna … it’s part of the time machine?”

  “We think so. The Bracelet itself has no function. We’ve run all sorts of tests on it … nothing. We think that the Bracelet is incomplete.”

  “Broken, you mean?”

  Montoyo considers. “No … incomplete; just one part of a more complex machine. We assume that it fits inside another device.”

  “The Container?” I say, remembering the text I translated from the Ix Codex.

  “Could be. We can’t be sure.”

  “And you think Madison’s group has the other artifact—the Adapter?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you know what that does?”

  “Naturally, we know exactly what it does. Abdul-Quddus sent us digital images of the Adapter, before Madison stole it. It matches the diagram from the Ix Codex.”

  I stare at him. “But you’re not going to tell me?”

  “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you insist on going back to your life in Oxford. If so, then I can’t tell you anything else.”

  “But … I don’t get it; you told me all that stuff ab
out the Erinsi and Itzamna.”

  “Actually, I told you very little. You mostly worked it out for yourself. And most importantly, we discussed theories, not facts. The Ix Codex is an instructional document. It contains facts, not theories. In the wrong hands, a fact may prove fatal.”

  “Any mention of time travel?”

  Montoyo hesitates just long enough for me to doubt his answer. “No.”

  “Do any of the other codices mention time travel?”

  “We need to get back to this document you saw in Ollie’s house, Josh. That interests me very much.”

  “Why?” I wonder, not missing the fact that he’s sidestepped my last question.

  “It may be that you saw a membership list. For the organization that employs Madison and Ollie. And those places may be the towns where their bases are located.”

  “Oh …”

  “You’re sure you can’t remember anything else? Even one name?”

  Then it comes to me. “I remember one thing … the logo. It was a Mayan glyph. Looked something like a storm. Like a twister.”

  Montoyo stiffens. “Can you draw it?”

  “I can try.”

  He rises, goes to the desk, grabs a pen, and removes a pad of paper from a drawer. He hands them to me. For the first time, I see something new in his eyes, something which, if I didn’t think he was so much in control, I’d call fear.

  I draw the glyph from memory. It’s not particularly good, but looking at it, Montoyo visibly pales.

  “You saw this? For sure?”

  “Sure as I can be. What is it?”

  He takes the pad from me and just stares at the glyph, transfixed.

  “The symbol of the Sect of Huracan. They worshipped Huracan, the Mayan storm god—the bringer of the Great Flood.”

  He looks at me.

  “We thought they’d been gone for centuries. They were expelled from Ek Naab in the seventh century …”

  “Who were they?”

  Montoyo answers reluctantly. “A death cult. The most dangerous death cult ever known.”

  He stares at me, his eyes sunken with dread.

  Nervously I say, “So … this is bad.”

  “This is very, very bad. They’re back—the Sect of Huracan. They engineered the collapse of Mayan civilization. If they’re back … they’re probably the only people on the planet who might really enjoy witnessing the collapse of all civilization.”

  BLOG ENTRY: STUCK WITH ME

  Montoyo and I talked. It was pretty heavy. Stuff I could never write down, just in case.

  Afterward he left me with Benicio while he went to meet with the Executive. I managed to soak my phone in the river, so Benicio lent me his phone to call Tyler. And when he went out for bread and milk, I borrowed his computer again to update my blog. I’m not going to try to explain or justify to them that I’m blogging for you, Mom. Whatever I say, I know Montoyo will order me to stop.

  Tyler persuaded his parents to let him go stay with some cousins in London. I asked him to send you a text so that you know I’m okay—hope you got it. Montoyo’s going to get me another cell phone and have it programmed so that I can make ordinary calls too.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen. I think they might increase the pressure on me to move to Ek Naab. That would mean you also.

  To be honest, I can’t see us fitting in here. It’s odd. I’d miss Oxford too. A lot.

  This latest thing has Montoyo pretty anxious. The people we’re up against could be much more dangerous than they’d thought.

  I didn’t understand what Ollie said about wanting to let as many people as possible die after 2012. I couldn’t see what’s in it for anyone.

  Unless, of course, you’ve actually found a way to benefit from the collapse of civilization.

  What if they have? What if they’ve done it before?

  18

  A little while later there’s a knock on the door. When I open it, Montoyo is standing there. For a few seconds, he actually looks quite awkward, like he can’t quite get the words out.

  “Blanco Vigores wants to meet with you,” he says. “He’s waiting.”

  “In the Garden?”

  “No,” he replies curtly. “Not the Garden. In the church. In Our Lady of the Hibiscus.”

  Montoyo escorts me there. Outside, bright sunlight streams through the mesh ceiling of Ek Naab. We meander through the narrow alleyways and across the water channels. I’d forgotten how claustrophobic the city feels. The streets I can handle—it’s the mesh ceiling you see when you look up that freaks me out a bit.

  When we reach the church, I see Vigores sitting on a bench in the tiny plaza outside. He’s alone. The heavy wooden church door is shut.

  Montoyo doesn’t take me all the way to Vigores, but just nods at him.

  “There he is. Just as you remember him, no doubt.”

  I stare at Vigores. He’s wearing a cream-colored linen suit again, not Ek Naab clothes. No hat this time. “Yeah,” I say. “Pretty much the same.”

  “Benicio will pick you up in a little while,” Montoyo says. He seems reluctant to leave, throws a final suspicious glance at Vigores. Then he turns to me one last time. “I hope you remember our deal, Josh. If Vigores says one single word about the Bracelet of Itzamna that your father took, you tell me about it.”

  I nod. “Sure thing,” and then add hesitantly, “but why would he? He didn’t last time. Didn’t mention it once.”

  Montoyo sets his mouth, hard. “He’s either forgotten, doesn’t know, or else …”

  But that sentence, he doesn’t complete.

  Then Montoyo leaves, and I join Vigores on the bench.

  “Hello, sir,” I say quietly, touching his arm.

  His face suddenly beams, and he looks up. “Young Josh! No need to call me ‘sir’!”

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Vigores. You’re looking well.”

  “I’m looking decrepit, with few years left to me,” he says, brusquely. “A few critical years. Now, more importantly, how are you?”

  I shrug, then remember that the old man can’t see. “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “Family?”

  “Mom—she’s gotten into religion, big time. But yeah, she’s okay.”

  “You? Girlfriends?”

  I’m surprised to have Vigores spring that on me. I thought old geezers like him didn’t even think of stuff like that anymore.

  “Uh, not right now.”

  “But you’ve been in love?”

  “Not really. I’m only fourteen.”

  Vigores smiles sadly. “My memory can be most unreliable. However, I seem to remember that fourteen is quite old enough.”

  “Well, not me,” I say. Lying. “I can’t be bothered much with girls.”

  “That may be for the best,” Vigores says in a grave voice. “And yet, not always possible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that you can’t always choose what happens, in matters of the heart.”

  I look at him, trying to fathom the expression in his watery blue eyes. “Sorry, Mr. Vigores … I still don’t get you.”

  He seems to consider my answer, and then begins to talk. His storytelling voice—I recognize it right away.

  “There was a young man named Kan’ek Balam. A boy, more or less, like you. Destined for life as a Bakab Muluc. Kan’ek would refuse to study; instead he used to just watch the construction of the temples. Or he would disappear into the Depths, alone, and emerge many days later, half starved yet seemingly contented. And always clutching a handful of papers on which he’d written his poems. Meandering, lyrical poetry; words that touched the intellect as surely as the heart. Each poem was dedicated to the same person: Mariana K’awil, his betrothed. A young lady who, alas, was in love with another.”

  “He was betrothed? How old was he?”

  “He was betrothed almost from birth. As are all Bakabs, as are you. You know the trait that protects against the curse of the codex is too pre
cious, too rare, to allow chance to intervene. The atanzahab makes the match and thus the continuation of the Bakab line is ensured.”

  “Yeah,” I say, slowly. I think of Ixchel and how she was so horrified by the idea of being fixed up with me that she took off. “To be honest, that’s a bit of a problem …”

  “Kan’ek was her intended, it’s true. But from early childhood he was a strange one, an outsider. Hard to love, especially for a girl like Mariana. She was from a very practical family. Everyone thought Kan’ek was an odd one. And Mariana … she fell in love with someone else.”

  He stops and looks hard at me. Or more accurately, at a space about two inches to the left of my face. “She paid a high price for falling in love with the wrong boy, believe me.”

  “People here aren’t allowed to fall in love?”

  Vigores answers drily, “Romantic love can be dangerous. It can drive people to do … questionable things. And a good match doesn’t require it.”

  “That is harsh, man!”

  Vigores nods, sadly. There’s a long pause. “It can be, yes.”

  “So what happened to them?”

  “It happened that one day Kan’ek descended into the Depths. This time, he didn’t reappear, even weeks later. Eventually a search party went out for him. They found Kan’ek deep within the labyrinth, sitting beside a phosphorescent pool. The minerals in the water glowed a faint pink—the only light Kan’ek had seen for weeks.”

  “I don’t get it; how had he stayed alive?”

  “No one ‘got it.’ He wasn’t starving, not even thirsty. Nor had he written a single poem. No one had the faintest idea how he’d stayed alive—or sane, for that matter. He returned to the city quite happily, seemed pleased to be reunited with his friends and sisters. Upon his return, the difference was there for everyone to see. Well, to be more accurate, for the women to see.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Not to them. To Kan’ek. There was something about him that was instantly irresistible to women. The men noticed nothing. But the women—apart from his sisters—all swore he smelled different. Like gardenias on a hot summer’s day. Young or old, they couldn’t get enough of him. Mariana was the most affected of all. She was like a woman possessed. They had to be married within the week, despite their youth. And that other young man—the one she thought she loved—she dropped him like a stone.”