Ice Shock

by M. G. Harris

  I consider this. “So what became of Kan’ek and Mariana?”

  “What else—they married, had children. Normality resumed. Not only did Kan’ek change his smell, but he forgot about poetry, started working hard, like everyone else. Under the pressure of all that rock in the tunnels, the poems had seeped out of him, he claimed. Like apple juice pressed from the fruit. All that remained was the scent of gardenias. It continued to seep out of him for a few more years, and then that was that. He was ordinary again. No different from the rest of us.”

  Listening to Vigores, I recall the smell of gardenias—hot and sickly, how drowsy it makes you feel. His voice is almost hypnotic. It takes me back to the gardenia petals in the pool at the Hotel Delfin when I first met my sister, Camila. Tears well up in my eyes. I brush them away quickly, hoping that Vigores won’t notice the change in my breathing.

  So quietly that I can barely make it out, Vigores murmurs, “It gets easier, Josh.”

  I’m still wondering that he means when I notice Benicio out of the corner of my eye, hovering.

  “It’s all right, Benicio,” Vigores murmurs. “You can take him back to Montoyo now. I just wanted to talk to the boy, before …”

  And his voice trails off. We wait politely, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything else.

  Before what?

  Benicio asks, “Do you need help getting back to your apartments, Blanco?”

  “No thank you, Benicio,” Vigores says, clearing his throat. “I have other plans today.”

  As we walk away, Benicio mutters to me, “He’s the weirdest guy. But brilliant! I haven’t seen him once since you were last here, you know that? He’s sure taken a special interest in you. What did you talk about?”

  “He told me some story about a guy named Kan’ek, who was lost in the Depths …”

  Benicio frowns. “Oh yeah. Everyone knows that story. Those Depths are pretty strange. Some crazy stuff happens down there.”

  “So that’s not the only bizarre thing?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No way! Believe me, man, there is a lot more.”

  BLOG ENTRY: EK NAAB … SO WEIRD

  Did I mention yet how weird Ek Naab is? Well, it’s the oddest. For a start, there’s the way it looks.

  Imagine you’re in a room furnished by IKEA. Plain, minimalist furniture. A simple, modern kitchen. Sure, there are Mexican touches—sisal-weave bags, hammocks, colorful paintings on the walls. These are bits of flavor, though—no more.

  You stick your head out of a window. You’re still indoors. The apartment block across from yours is just several feet from your window. You look down the alleyway and it’s like being in an old medieval city, if medieval cities were built from concrete, glass, and ceramic tiles. Buildings are packed tightly, teeming around narrow, winding lanes. Every now and then you come across a small plaza. There might be a little café, and at least a park bench or two. Flowers hang from baskets; trees sprout from pots that line the alleys and plazas. Then you might come to a little canal, or a fountain.

  Because there’s lots of water. Someone once told me that Ek Naab is the “city of a thousand wells.” There’s a great big cenote—like a wide, deep well—in the center. The famous “dark water” for which Ek Naab is named.

  Think Seville mixed with Venice mixed with—what’s a really snazzy modern city? Like the part of London that everyone talks about with all the new skyscrapers and sleek buildings—if half the buildings were inspired by Mayan temples. Like that.

  And it’s underground—did I mention that? Apart from the surface part of the city, which isn’t—the “public” face of Ek Naab. That part looks like a fancy jungle eco-resort. Swimming pools, cafés with thatched-roof palapas, all the fruit trees you can imagine.

  The way it looks isn’t the strangest part, though. It’s what goes on. There’s a busy, purposeful look on everyone’s face. It’s a town where everyone’s on a mission. And then … and then.

  Then, without blinking, someone will tell you the strangest story. Hibiscus flowers that bloom overnight, in the dark. Mysterious underground tunnels with pools of glowing pink water. A boy who goes missing and reappears weeks later, smelling so amazing that all the girls fall for him.

  I don’t know what to make of it. Part of me wants to stay and find out everything about this place. And part of me is just a bit freaked out.

  Because it’s a world of bizarre dreams and spirits and miracles, things I don’t understand. They aren’t outside of me, I sense it; they’re in me. I don’t know if Ek Naab put them there, or where they came from.

  And, Mom … truth is … I’m not sure I want this in my life. It’s kind of scary.

  19

  I hear Benicio opening the front door, so quickly I finish typing, click “Send,” and then close the Web browser. By the time he knocks on my door, I’m stretched out on the bed.

  “How’s the invalid?” he asks.

  Every muscle aches, every rib is throbbing, but …

  “I’m fine.”

  “Let’s take a tour of the city,” he says. “We can go to the market, or for a swim.”

  I make a face.

  “You don’t want to swim?”

  “Not really … still pretty sore.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sorry. That’s okay. Would you like to see the Tech?”

  “The ‘Tech’?”

  “The College of Technology. It has libraries, labs, and a museum.”

  I try to sound enthusiastic. It’s hard to get interested in sightseeing when I suspect Montoyo is telling the Executive that mainly thanks to me, the scary guys out there now have a chance of ruining all the work they’re doing to stop the galactic superwave of 2012. Worse still, it looks as though the Mayans of Ek Naab are about to face the rebirth of an ancient enemy—the Sect of Huracan.

  “Sounds okay.”

  Benicio opens his phone. “I just have to get permission from Montoyo.”

  Montoyo won’t give his permission. Benicio looks disappointed. There’s no explanation, and he doesn’t ask for one.

  “I guess he wants to be real careful who you meet” is Benicio’s cautious answer.

  He doesn’t say why, but it’s obvious to me. Montoyo is making it clear that I’m back out of the loop. I might have the right to join the Executive when I’m sixteen, but until then, he’s planning to make me toe the line, like a good little boy.

  I settle for the offer of a walk around the city. The air is warm, the light muted as it filters through the lattice of the surface. Everything in Ek Naab is just as I remember. Just as calm, orderly—the trees clipped, the flowers groomed. People go about their business dressed in their linen pants and overshirts. I notice the way people look at me, just like last time. A few of the kids even whisper and stare. Benicio smiles at everyone, says a polite hello.

  And never introduces me to anyone. Montoyo’s instructions?

  We stop at a café and take a table on the mezzanine, overlooking the fenced underground cenote. Benicio buys drinks—ice-cold agua frescas made from dried hibiscus flowers. I sip mine and stare into the shiny black of the cenote. Like a perfect mirror, it reflects the overcast white of the sky, overlaid with a black crisscross pattern: the silhouette of the artificial ceiling.

  And then I chuckle. It’s the first time I’ve felt my spirits lift for hours. “Hey, know what Ek Naab means in English?”

  “‘Dark Water’?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “… or ‘Black Pool.’”

  For some reason, this really makes me laugh.

  “So?” Benicio shrugs. Guess he’s never heard of sunny Blackpool or the Pleasure Beach Amusement Park.

  I stop chuckling. “It’s nothing. Look, why aren’t I allowed to meet people?”

  He looks uncomfortable. “I’m not supposed to say anything. There are some tensions in the city. Montoyo and the Executive need to be sure that you aren’t approached.”

  “Tensions? What do you mean? Who’s gonna be approachi
ng me?”

  Benicio grimaces and shrugs. He picks his next words with precision.

  “There are people in Ek Naab who aren’t happy with the way the Executive is running things. Who question the decision to keep what we know a secret.”

  “What you know … about 2012?”

  “2012, yeah … what we call here the ‘Baktun Problem.’”

  “Baktun, as in the final date of the Long Count Calendar?”

  Patiently, Benicio says, “Baktun, yes, as in December twenty-second, 2012, the date that the galactic superwave hits. The Baktun Problem is what we’re calling the whole solution to that. Beginning with the contents of your codex, Josh, the Book of Ix.”

  I frown. “And some people aren’t happy about what the Executive is doing—why?”

  “There are a few people who think that we should be working with the top scientists in the world to solve this problem.”

  “What do you think?” I ask him.

  “Well, I’m with Montoyo,” Benicio says, facing me with a smile. “Of course! Montoyo—and the majority of the Executive—feel that unless we need help from outside, we should solve the Baktun Problem within Ek Naab. After all, that’s what we have lived to do. From the beginning. That’s the reason for the foundation of Ek Naab.”

  “The majority of the Executive … but not all six of them?”

  He hestitates. “Not all.”

  I shake my head in wonder. Politics isn’t something that really interests me. But I can see that if some people in Ek Naab are starting to question the whole basis of the secrecy, it could be a big problem.

  “And that’s not the only tension.”

  “What else?”

  Benicio sips his drink and seems to think long and hard before he speaks again. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” His eyes almost glaze over as he stares into his glass, trying to hide the fact that his cheeks have reddened. “In fact,” he adds with an embarrassed laugh, “this is more or less the kind of conversation that Montoyo wants to prevent. So, guess I’d better stop …”

  “Wow,” I say. “It’s like a police state here!”

  “These are difficult times,” he admits.

  “Is that why Ixchel left? Or was it just to avoid me?”

  I notice that Benicio is tense too; he cracks a grin that seems almost forced. “Ixchel? Nah … it was pretty much the thought of having an arranged marriage to you.”

  I hardly know Ixchel—we only spent a couple of hours together walking through the jungle as she guided me to Becan. And I wasn’t exactly at my best. In fact, I was a mess—it was just hours after Camila died. But hearing Benicio say those words actually stings. Especially since I know he’s her good pal. Jokes aside, that must be what she feels.

  It’s not nice to feel you’ve been judged and found wanting. But like Benicio, I force myself to smirk, like it’s hilarious. “Thanks, pal. So … did you find her?” When I met Benicio in Oxford, I was so excited by the whole flying-over-the-city thing that I forgot to ask that question. But now I remember that Benicio had been leaving to search for Ixchel, my last time in Ek Naab.

  “Yeah, I did. I tracked her down in Veracruz.”

  Veracruz! My ears prick up. I try to sound casual.

  “Which town?”

  “I mean, the city of Veracruz itself.”

  The postcards … All mailed from Veracruz state.

  Things are starting to make sense.

  Ixchel must have sent them—she’s the only person I know in that state. What the heck is she playing at?

  Benicio tells me that Ixchel is “working, would you believe it? All her life she’s been this excellent student; now she wants to wait tables for tourists in Veracruz.”

  “Why Veracruz? It’s not exactly the ritziest part of Mexico.”

  “That’s why,” he replies. “She hates Cancun and all the Riviera Maya.”

  “But all that is really nice!”

  “She prefers ‘real Mexico.’ Which is strange for a girl who never lived in ‘real Mexico,’ but that’s Ixchel.”

  “Great,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “‘Excellent student’ … the type of girl who prefers ‘real Mexico’ to fancy hotels and powdery beaches. And this is the girl you all want me to marry? She sounds ideal.”

  Benicio bursts out laughing. “Yeah, you’re the ideal couple …”

  There’s something about his tone I don’t like. It’s as if he thinks she’s too good for me. But I shrug it off. “Well, it’s the twenty-first century; she can do what she likes.”

  “That’s Ixchel all the way,” Benicio says, with an emphatic nod. “She’s gonna do whatever she likes.”

  Sourly, I ask, “I suppose she has a university degree already at fourteen?”

  “No, she doesn’t have a ‘degree.’ She finished high school, though. She was gonna study ancient writing.”

  I don’t say anything else. No wonder she doesn’t want anything to do with me; in educational terms, I’m years behind Ixchel.

  “Would you like to go see her?”

  “In Veracruz?”

  “Sure, why not? You’ve told Montoyo everything you know and he’s not so happy for you to chat with people here. Blanco Vigores had a chance to catch up with you … Montoyo seems kind of surprised that Vigores already knew you were here, by the way. Montoyo surprised by something—that’s always nice to see …”

  I interrupt, “Montoyo didn’t set that up?”

  “Nope. Blanco just turned up! Imagine that. He even behaved like it had all been arranged with Montoyo.”

  “Why would it be?”

  “Didn’t Carlos tell you? Vigores left instructions that whenever you are in Ek Naab, he wants to know about it.”

  I reflect on that for a bit. “No, he didn’t tell me. Wonder why not?”

  “That’s Carlos. Always likes to be in control.” Benicio sighs contentedly. He seems to be relishing the chance to get out of Ek Naab. “Yup, I’d say you’re all done in Ek Naab for now. And with a very good excuse for a little trip.”

  I think about the postcards. This is my chance to find out if Ixchel has been sending them—and if so, why.

  “All right, you’re on. Let’s go to Veracruz.”

  20

  Benicio parks the Muwan on an isolated spot on the beach a few miles north of the city. They call it the Emerald Coast of Mexico, maybe because the sea is green, not blue. The beaches at Veracruz aren’t very crowded. On a clear day you can see the oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. Approaching Veracruz, we walk along the beach, sniffing the air, picking up a petrochemical stink from the sand.

  I’m surprised when Benicio tells me that Montoyo not only gave permission for us to visit Ixchel but thought it was a good idea.

  Still trying to matchmake us, obviously. What a waste of time. Even if I were into it, Ixchel never would be. She’s made that pretty clear.

  In Veracruz, Benicio takes me to the central plaza, the zocalo. Colonnades line the square on two sides, in front of what I’m guessing is a town hall. There are tall, dense palm trees with thick, drooping fronds providing plenty of shade from the pale afternoon sun. A vendor calls, “Ices, ices, I’ve got mango, guanabana, coconut.” On the shiny marble tiles of the square, old couples are dancing to piped music. We stop and watch for a moment. They dance slowly, with tiny yet stately movements. It’s not a dance I’ve seen before. Benicio tells me it’s called danzon.

  At one corner, behind an arched colonnade, is the old-fashioned café where Ixchel works. Inside it’s spacious, lots of old wood stained deep and dark, round wooden tables and a long wooden counter. Behind that there’s some antique-looking coffee-making equipment, all polished copper and brass.

  Benicio orders coffee at the bar and Ixchel brings us two glasses containing about an inch of dark-brown syrupy liquid. When she sees him she immediately grins, throws her arms around his neck, and hugs him. With me, she looks suddenly frosty. Sullenly, we kiss each other on the cheek, saying hello. />
  In her waitress uniform, Ixchel looks older and prettier than when we met in the jungle that time. She’s wearing a black miniskirt with a little white apron, a tight white blouse, and flat black shoes. Her hair is longer and pinned back with a couple of chopsticks. She looks tired and flustered, but there’s a bit of color in her cheeks.

  Benicio clinks his glass with a spoon. A waiter in a white jacket arrives with a huge silver pot of hot milk. He pours milk into our coffee from a height, frothing the milk as it falls. Benicio smacks his lips when he tastes the coffee. “Worth the trip just for the coffee!” Ixchel brings us club sandwiches, bottles of Sunkist, and glasses crammed with ice. She asks permission to take her afternoon break at our table.

  Benicio’s in a good mood, which I really don’t understand. I feel miserable every time I think about Montoyo’s face when he saw the symbol of the Sect of Huracan. I guess Benicio doesn’t have any idea how bad it is that I let Madison’s group get hold of pages of the codex.

  He’s obviously happy to see Ixchel, and she’s happy to see him.

  “You two should try to get to know each other,” Benicio tells us.

  I glance at Ixchel. She gives me a defiant stare.

  “What do you think … ,” I begin to ask.

  “I think you’re too easily influenced by Montoyo.”

  “I am not! And what’s it to you, anyway?”

  “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve had it with the traditions of that place. Arranged marriages! As if we were some sort of animal to be bred. Think I want to have one of your little Bakab children? Guess again.”

  “Yeah … Benicio … ,” I say, “why do they care if any more Bakabs are born? 2012 is just around the corner. We’ve got the four Books of Itzamna; we can just take them out of their boxes and leave it at that.”

  Ixchel rolls her eyes. “You’re so clueless!”

  “Josh … ,” Benicio says carefully. “All the ancient technology is protected by a similar ‘curse’—the bio-defense. Only the Bakabs can touch it and not die.”