Ice Shock

by M. G. Harris

  Itzamna was a time traveler … ?

  It sounds too ludicrous. But then I ask myself—what is the Revival Chamber? Is it the time-travel device?

  Is Itzamna still floating around somewhere in time?

  Ixchel’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You know what I’m thinking about?” she says.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m wondering about Chan and Albita. Why do you think they appeared to us in our dream?”

  “How should I know? I don’t even really know if that’s what happened.”

  “What? You know it did.”

  “If they did, then it must have been to show us the way out of there.”

  “So we didn’t end up trapped down there, like Albita?”

  I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

  “And you don’t think there’s maybe another reason?”

  I shrug, clueless. What’s she getting at?

  Ixchel yawns, begins to speak in a dreamy, faraway voice. “I’ve never been in a haunted place before, you know. We bury the dead of Ek Naab far from the city, in a cemetery on a hill surrounded by an orange grove. They don’t come anywhere near us. We visit them on the Day of the Dead, and that’s it. It seems to keep them happy. They spend all their time in the sun, after all.”

  I don’t really know what to say to that. Somehow, telling her that I don’t believe in ghosts seems like a dumb thing to say.

  “Are your parents still alive?”

  “My father is.”

  “But not your mom?”

  Ixchel lowers her eyes for a second, and with a tiny movement, shakes her head.

  “Oh,” I say, struggling for words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Is … is that why you ran away? You don’t get along with your dad?”

  “It’s more complicated. My mother died years ago. My father has a new wife and we don’t get along so well.”

  I think about my own mother. I hadn’t ever really considered that she might marry again.

  “I think I’d like it if my mom got married again,” I say. “She gets pretty sad sometimes. It would be good if there was someone else around for her.”

  “Sure. That’s how it seems. Until it actually happens to you. Until they marry an evil witch.”

  “You think your stepmother is an evil witch?”

  “Yup.”

  “Like in fairy tales?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “‘Snow White’ … stuff like that.”

  “I haven’t read it.”

  “Well, neither have I, not actually read it. But you’ve seen the Disney movie, right?”

  “What’s ‘Disney’?”

  “Unreal.”

  “What is?”

  “That you’ve never heard of Disney. What did you do for fun growing up?”

  “Play, swim, learn to cook, and read and study … play piano, and … I don’t know, the usual things. What’s ‘Disney’?”

  I shake my head in wonder. “Man! We really don’t have much in common, do we?”

  She gives me a sad smile. “That’s right. You see my problem with this whole arranged-marriage thing?”

  “Can I ask you … is there a boy you like in Ek Naab?”

  “You think I’d leave Ek Naab if there was some boy I liked?”

  “I don’t know. If you weren’t allowed to go out with him, maybe.”

  “I don’t like having my life controlled, okay? That’s it. This Disney movie, for example. Maybe I’d have liked to see it, you know? Maybe it’s good, maybe not. But I’d like the choice. I’d like to live in the real world. Not locked away—like in a convent.”

  “You know what a convent is, though?”

  “Of course! They made me learn all about the history of Mexico. Didn’t they think that one day I’d want to see all these places for myself? It’s a crazy way to live.”

  “You should definitely see a Disney movie,” I tell her. “At least, you’ve got to see Toy Story 2.”

  “Toy Story 2,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I’ll add that to my list.”

  I turn away and look through the bus window. The road is narrow, with sugarcane growing right to the edge of the asphalt. A faint morning mist floats above the surface of the road, barely a yard thick. The sky is gray, but the clouds look wispy, as if the sun could burn them away by lunchtime. I watch as a falcon—or some other bird of prey—hovers high above the reeds for a moment and then plummets into the cane field.

  Ixchel may be pretty different from me, but we have at least one thing in common.

  We’ve both lost a parent.

  Like me, Ixchel goes quiet. She finishes off the crumbs from her Gansito, licks melted chocolate from her fingers.

  Not long afterward, we arrive in Tlacotalpan. I’ve been trying to avoid Ixchel’s question, but she has a point.

  We’ve followed the instructions in the postcard message.

  So—what now?

  33

  The dozen or so passengers empty out at the bus station, Ixchel and I among them. Everyone else seems to know where they’re going, with their chickens in cages, but Ixchel and I just mill around.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Give me a few minutes,” I say, staring hard at a street map on the wall of the bus station. The truth is that I’ve got no idea.

  I squint as I gaze around, use my hand to shade my eyes against the sharp white light. I’ve never seen a Mexican town that looks quite like this. Wide, potholed avenues, no cars; neat grass lawns and old buildings with colonnades. The walls are brightly colored—ice-cream pink, butter yellow, peppermint green, candy-apple red.

  But where are the shops, the traffic, the bustling tourists, the townsfolk? It’s only noon, yet it feels like everyone’s gone home for a siesta. It’s like a ghost town—if ghosts lived in ramshackle, quaint-old-town splendor.

  We turn in to the fanciest town plaza I’ve ever seen. Apart from us, there are a couple of backpackers taking photos of the Asian-looking gazebo in the middle of tall palms, hibiscus bushes, and smaller trees. Behind the central garden is a church, painted in gleaming white and gray, with a picture-postcard bell tower. A Dominican priest wearing sunglasses and a white habit with a black cloak makes his way, head bowed, toward the church.

  A middle-aged guy in an apron opens up a café on one corner of the square. He drags white plastic tables onto the marble tiles outside. He must have turned on some music, because out of the blue, the square echoes with the tinny noise of an old-fashioned bolero: a romantic singer crooning over woodwinds, scratchy brass, and bongo drums. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time—I don’t even know how long—fifty years?

  “So … ,” Ixchel says, turning to me.

  I keep my eyes on the café, trying to ignore her. She’s dying to hear me admit that I don’t have a clue what to do. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

  “Any smart ideas?”

  “Let’s ask at the café.”

  “Yes, but … ask what?”

  “I don’t know … let’s ask about the postcards. See if they know someone who’s interested in Mayan sites.”

  Ixchel ponders. “I guess it’s a place to start.”

  It’s obvious she’s not impressed.

  “Look,” I say, “whoever sent those postcards wanted me to come here. They are watching—which means it may not be safe to come up to us.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “The NRO,” I reply, a bit surprised.

  “Really? Not the Sect?”

  “Outside of Ek Naab, only the NRO has Muwans. My dad was captured by people flying Muwans—the NRO.”

  “And you’re sure the Sect doesn’t have them?”

  I’m exasperated. “Why would Madison bother chasing me in a car if he had a Muwan?”

  Ixchel shrugs. “Hey, I’m just asking. You seem to make many assumptions …”

  As we’re walking over to the tiny café, a fair-haired, older lady emerges from around the corner. She’s heading fo
r the café too and beats us to it. She takes a seat at one of the two outside tables under the arches and calls out in Spanish, “Some Manzanilla tea with my quesadilla, could you, Victor?”

  We sit at the opposite table. I can’t help glancing at the lady. From her accent, I’d guess that she’s not Mexican—probably American. I think she’s in her sixties. She’s about the same height as my mom, with very short blond hair that’s obviously been colored. She’s dressed in a light floral dress with a knitted shawl. Her skin is very pale, arms slightly freckled, her face soft, with peachy cheeks. She wears just a hint of makeup, and lipstick. After staring out at the plaza for a minute, she takes a paperback book from her shoulder bag and starts to read.

  Victor the waiter comes out with his notepad and pencil stub, asking for our order. We order sincronizados—grilled ham and cheese in tortillas—and bottles of apple soda. I count my money. I have enough for one more round of restaurant snacks, bus tickets, and that’s it. When Victor’s gone, I look across at the woman.

  And then she looks up from her book, straight into my eyes. I’ve never had a complete stranger stare at me that way before. Her gaze bores deep into me. She tilts her head to one side, as if considering.

  “Excuse me,” I say in English, “are you American?”

  She pauses for a long time, pursing her lips. “That I am, young man. And I’m betting that you’re British; am I right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And Mexican too.”

  “Well, congratulations. Lived here most of my life; wish I could say that. But I guess I’ll always be a gringo around here.”

  That gets smiles out of us. The American lady puts down her book and gives Ixchel and me a long, thoughtful glance.

  “Now,” she says, in neatly clipped tones, “if I were to ask you a rather surprising question, you think you could stay calm?”

  I say, “I could try.”

  Ixchel looks from the lady back to me.

  The American seems to think about our responses for a minute, then gives a short nod. “All right, that seems fair enough to me.”

  We watch her expectantly.

  “Now. If I were to ask you,” she says slowly, “if your name were ‘Josh,’ what in heaven’s name would you say to that?”

  Ixchel grows very still next to me. I swallow. “I’d say … that yeah, it is.”

  The lady gives another quick nod, as if mentally ticking something off a checklist. “And if I were to say that your last name is ‘Garcia,’ now, what then?”

  I stare. For a long time. Then I say, “You sent the postcards.”

  Slowly, she closes her eyes, nodding. “That I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he asked me to.”

  I’m completely confused. “Who did?”

  “A certain Mr. Arcadio Garcia, young man. He was most insistent that I wait at this table for you, every day this month, until you arrived. I promised him I would, not that I knew what I was promising, and so I have.”

  “You have … what?”

  “Waited for you,” she says, simply. “Because he asked me to. And here we all are.”

  “Who’s Arcadio Garcia?”

  “I’d guess he was your grandfather,” she says. “Going by age and looks.”

  “My grandfather was Aureliano Garcia. And he’s been dead for forty years.”

  The lady’s face drops. “Forty years? Are you sure?”

  “It’s been about that long.”

  “Forty years ago … well, heavens, that explains most everything.”

  I think for a second, dredging up a faint memory. “Is Arcadio a common name in Mexico?”

  She frowns. “Not really; why?”

  It strikes me as odd that “Arcadio” is the name signed in that book by John Lloyd Stephens, the one Tyler and I found in that Jericho bookshop—the one that Simon Madison stole. But I don’t say any more—things are weird enough as it is.

  I’m feeling more exasperated by the second. I don’t know exactly what I expected to find in Tlacotalpan—something along the lines of a disguised NRO agent who’d decided to go rogue and leak the secret of what really happened to my dad. Definitely not a sweet old American lady ordering tea and discussing my ancestors.

  “You said ‘that explains everything.’ What does it explain?”

  “For that, my darlings, you’ll have to come to my home.”

  34

  After lunch, the lady, who says her name is Susannah St. John, leads us through the deserted streets of Tlacotalpan to her house. We walk at her pace: nice and slow. And she tells us the story of her and Arcadio.

  “I met Arcadio here in Tlacotalpan. Right there in the refresceria where we all met, just now. He ordered a beer. I was with my friend from the hospital, Veronica, another nurse like me. We’d been at a nursing convention near Veracruz and were enjoying a day trip on the last day.” She smiles at the memory. “We were eating ice cream. I couldn’t help looking at him, and so, of course, he looked back at me.”

  I interrupt. “Why couldn’t you help it?”

  A blush appears in her cheeks. “Well, he was a handsome young fella in his thirties, of course. With a definite family resemblance to you. Except that Arcadio had the most compelling blue eyes. And he leaned over to me and said, in the most perfect English, ‘Excuse me, ladies; I’d be delighted to invite you both to a cup of tea.’”

  Her eyes sparkle. “My, what a charmer he was. He said he was a historian, educated in England and the United States. He was visiting Tlacotalpan as part of his research into the decline in influence of the state of Veracruz.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look around you. Where do you think the money came from to build such a fine town? This place used to receive all the goods from Europe, from Cadiz via Cuba. And from here they’d be taken down the river, to towns in the south of Mexico. It was a thriving port. But that all ended when the railroad came. By the 1960s—when I met Arcadio—it was much as you see now. Not as pretty—they cleaned the town up around ten years ago. No; back then we didn’t even have the daily bus of tourists. It really was little more than a ghost town.

  “Anyhow, Arcadio and I became friends. It’s because of him that I decided to settle here, much later. Because not long after we met, he did something rather extraordinary.”

  She stops talking as we reach the door of her house. It’s about five blocks from the town center, painted powder blue with white pillars at the front. The entire street backs the river.

  Inside, the house is furnished entirely with heavy oak furniture, carved and varnished in the old colonial style. There are plants everywhere—hanging in baskets from the ceiling, on raised metal stands, in chunky glazed pots.

  This is too easy. It doesn’t make sense. How can this sweet old lady be the secret informer behind the postcards?

  On the wall are paintings of fruit, of deserted cobbled streets baking in the afternoon heat, and of the fishing boats at the edge of the River Papaloapan. When Susannah sees Ixchel looking closely at them, she smiles.

  “You like art, my dear?”

  Ixchel turns to face her, expressionless. “You painted these?”

  “Yes, I did. That’s what I do now—I’m a painter.”

  “Did you ever paint him?” I say. “Arcadio?”

  “I tried. He never would let me. He hated to have his photo taken too. I used to laugh at him, tell him that he was just like those Native Americans who believe that the camera captures your spirit. He’d get all grumpy and say that there was a good deal more at stake than his spirit.”

  I touch the cool whitewashed plaster of the walls, thinking.

  What if this has nothing to do with my father? What if it’s a trap?

  Susannah perches on the long sofa in front of a glass coffee table. We do the same. I guess Susannah’s about to launch into her tale of this extraordinary thing that Arcadio did, when Ixchel says, abruptly, “So, why did he tell you to send those postcards?” Sus
annah turns to her in surprise, as if she’s a little disappointed.

  “Well, my dear, I don’t know why. I didn’t even know who Josh and Eleanor Garcia were until I met you both today.”

  “I’m not Eleanor,” Ixchel says. It’s the second time I notice a sharp edge to her voice.

  Susannah raises an eyebrow. “Well, I didn’t want to mention it. But you don’t really look like brother and sister.”

  “Eleanor is my mother,” I say. “And I’ve never heard her mention a relative named Arcadio. My grandfather was Aureliano.”

  “You already said that, dear,” Susannah says mildly. “But Arcadio’s instructions were pretty mysterious from the beginning. To start with, there was just a package. It said To be opened on April fifth, 1968. Now, can you imagine? To be given a package like that, in 1965? I thought it a wonderful joke. Until the day arrived, of course.”

  Her expression becomes solemn. “The date doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  We both shrug, which earns a disappointed sigh from Susannah.

  “It’s the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, of course. So, imagine my astonishment when I opened the package to discover two more envelopes. And a letter.”

  She opens a drawer in the coffee table, takes out a yellowed sheet of paper, and begins to read from it. The letter is covered with scratchy handwriting, barely legible—to me, at least. I can’t help but notice that there’s another sheet of the same paper still in the drawer, also covered in the same handwriting.

  “Dearest Susannah,

  “Yesterday, Dr. Martin Luther King died after being shot on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee.

  “I chose this date because it was necessary for me to prove to you that I have a way of knowing about events in the future. I often cannot use this knowledge to prevent events as terrible as this.

  “But there are a very few in which I am able to intervene. It’s crucial that you believe me. Because I’m going to ask you to do something that could be important to the whole world.

  “I beg you to follow my instructions precisely. In the envelope labeled ‘Postcards,’ you will find eight postcards. Each card is written, addressed, and dated. All you need to do is buy stamps and send the postcards on the dates written on each card.