Ice Shock

by M. G. Harris

  44

  The day of Mom’s arrival from England, I’m a bundle of nerves. I know I’m in big trouble with Mom—and I can’t blame her. I’ve made sure not to actually lie to her in any of my texts or phone messages, but I know her well enough to know that she’ll see it as deception.

  She flies into Veracruz after a connecting flight from Mexico City. The doctor on the mountain-rescue team won’t give permission for me to leave, so Montoyo goes to pick her up. He promises to ease her gently into the whole Ek Naab situation.

  “I’ll drive,” he tells me. “We’ll talk about your father, how he came to the city, how you followed in his path. Everything. I’ll tell her the whole history.”

  “She won’t believe you,” I say.

  Montoyo looks impassive. “We’ll see.”

  At that moment I can’t imagine how anyone could accuse Montoyo of making anything up. His face always has this drawn, somber quality. His eyes have a weary gaze, like he’s seen and heard too much, like he knows there’s more to come.

  I don’t know exactly what he tells Mom, but when they arrive, around ten at night, Mom seems not only exhausted but in shock. She says nothing when she first sees me, just hugs me for a long, long time.

  When finally she faces me, her eyes glisten with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should have listened to you.”

  Her apology floors me. A sob threatens to choke me. It’s the most powerful feeling I’ve had for two days.

  Then she starts to cry for real. The way she did when we first thought Dad had died. I put my arms around her. The dead air around me finally crackles with energy. Her grief gets through to me in a way nothing else has. It’s like her heart is breaking.

  Then after just a minute or two, suddenly, she stops. She dries her eyes and wipes her nose. She even forces a smile.

  “They told me all about what you’ve done. I don’t even know what to say. Josh—it’s incredible!”

  I stare in stunned silence. Eventually, I manage to say, “You actually believed what Montoyo told you?”

  “Not at first, no. I asked him to let me out of the car. I refused to go anywhere with him. I was about to call the British Embassy. Then he called your friend Benicio …”

  I interrupt. “He’s my cousin,” I say, trying to be helpful.

  “Yes, thank you,” she says with a grave smile. “I’m still trying to get used to all that. Your cousin Benicio. Who arrived in that flying machine.”

  “The Muwan?”

  “Yes. Difficult to argue after seeing that.”

  “Wait until you see Ek Naab,” I murmur.

  “Some of your blog, I really loved,” she says. “It made me feel close to you, sweetheart. It made me feel I was getting to know a different side of you.”

  I blink rapidly, staring at the blanket. I try to laugh. “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes … ,” Mom says. Her voice trails off.

  “I’m sorry too, Mom. Sorry that I couldn’t tell you what I was doing. That I got involved. That …” My mouth goes dry. The words seem to stick in my throat. “That Dad died because of me.”

  “You mustn’t say that.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “He gave his life to save yours. It was a split-second thing. Things like that happen on mountains.”

  “I shouldn’t have been there.”

  “But you were. And that’s how it goes, you know, Josh? Things happen. If you hadn’t gone to the mountain, your father might still be there, still unable to remember us. And he still might have died in the avalanche.”

  “That’s what Montoyo said.”

  “Well, he’s right. And …” She hesitates for a moment, then adds, “You might want to give a moment’s thought to God’s part in all this. Maybe it’s all part of His plan for you, for your dad, for us.”

  I don’t have the energy to argue with her. And right now, I have to admit that the idea seems tempting. It would be nice to believe that I’m going through all this for a reason.

  Right now, the only reason I can believe in is the Bracelet of Itzamna.

  If it’s a time-travel device, then maybe I can find a way to make it work. Maybe I can go back in time—and change how things turned out.

  Maybe there’s a way to save my dad after all.

  45

  For reasons that he doesn’t explain to me, Montoyo tells Susannah all about Ek Naab.

  It’s getting to be a free-for-all, this Big Secret.

  After three days of it, I’m fed up with lying on a bed while sad-eyed women come and visit me. I drag myself out of the hospital room and join Ixchel in the restaurant.

  “Try the tortilla soup,” she says. “It’s not bad. The spaghetti’s okay too. And those pink-frosted doughnuts are the best.”

  “Is this all you’ve been doing?” I say. “You’ll get fat.”

  Ixchel sticks out her tongue. “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

  I actually laugh. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For being normal. My mom’s being all sensitive. Montoyo even. They’re all on eggshells around me. It’s good to be with someone who isn’t. Makes me feel like I might be normal too.”

  “Oh, what’s so great about normal? I wanted to try being a normal Mexican girl—look how that turned out.”

  “Well, that’s ‘cause you’re such a weirdo,” I say with a faint grin.

  “Listen to who’s talking.”

  “Yeah, about that, it’s ‘look who’s talking.’”

  “Really? You’re sure?”

  “I think I know my own language.”

  She laughs, probably at my expense. Then we stop smiling and she gets a serious look in her eye again.

  “You’ve got the Bracelet of Itzamna, haven’t you? It’s okay—you don’t have to tell me. It’s just that I’ve been thinking it through. Putting it all together. Arcadio had some kind of gift of prophecy—he could predict the future. How? Your dad escaped from those U.S. agents who captured him—and he used the Bracelet.”

  We stare at each other. I say nothing.

  She continues. “Those agents haven’t found your father to this day. But they’ll get to hear about it. They can’t be complete idiots. They know that the Bracelet has some strange energy and power. They want it. If they find out that your father has died here … they’ll come looking for you.”

  She’s right. Ixchel must notice the anxiety on my face, because she adds quickly, “It might be okay. Susannah and I told them that your name is Josh Gonzalez, and that your father’s name was Pedro. It’s going to be in all the local papers. No foreigners were killed, so hopefully no one outside Mexico will be interested in the story.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. Don’t those intelligence bureaus sweep all the news?”

  “Even so, they’d be looking for the name ‘Josh Garcia’ or ‘Andres Garcia.’”

  Doubtfully, I say, “I guess.”

  “And there’s been no sign of Madison. If he survived, he made it off the mountain without anyone noticing him.”

  “No one noticing the guy who started the avalanche? I doubt that.” I pause. “Or he could be dead.”

  “We can hope. But at least now, the Sect can’t find us. Not so easily, anyway. Because I found their tracer.”

  I’m astounded.

  “When Madison found us in Tlacotalpan, I really couldn’t figure it out. I guessed he’d been following in a car. But when he tracked us to the mountain … it had to be something more. And then I remembered—your fight with those girls in the caves.”

  I’m open-mouthed. “They planted something … ?”

  Ixchel nods. “At first I thought—our clothes. But we changed out of them for the climb. It had to be something we’d carried since we met them.”

  At the same time, we both say, “The Ziploc bag …”

  “I took it off you in the ambulance,” she says. “It was a tiny micro-transmitter, stuck to the outs
ide of the bag. I threw it away. It’s somewhere on the road now. Near Orizaba.”

  I take a few seconds to absorb this.

  “So … you have the Bracelet.” It’s not a question, but a statement. I try to return Ixchel’s steady gaze, but I can’t.

  Eventually, I cave in. “Yeah.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s why we were there. Isn’t it? Arcadio predicted that you would find the Bracelet. ‘You must suspect that your fate is intertwined with the Mayan prophecy of 2012.’”

  I look away for a second, then back, to find her eyes burrowing into mine. I can see we’re on the same page now. She’s reached the same conclusion as I have—Arcadio must be a time traveler. I say quietly, “You’re pretty smart.”

  “You too, Josh. I know you’re planning something. Whatever it is, you need me to help you.”

  “I can’t. It’s probably dangerous. It may be my fate; doesn’t have to be yours, though.”

  “Hey, don’t forget we’re promised to each other,” she says, attempting a grin.

  “Don’t. Don’t talk about that.”

  She swallows. “I know. It’s all a little … what’s the word … ?”

  “Creepy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Neither of us speaks again for a long while. I tear Ixchel’s pink doughnut in two and chew my half slowly.

  “Montoyo wants us all to go live in Ek Naab,” she says.

  “Good for him. Still telling everyone what to do.”

  “Your mother says she won’t allow it. Not until you’re sixteen.”

  “‘Course she won’t. That’s just asking too much.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “We’ll be okay. I’ll get stronger, train harder. I’ll take care of her.”

  Softly, Ixchel says, “But, Josh … the Sect wants to hurt you. Remember what that ‘Professor’ woman said. They want you for their experiments on the Bakab gene.”

  “They’ll have to catch me first.”

  “But … you’re all alone.”

  Hearing Ixchel say this, I feel a sudden rush of fear. I sense my argument collapsing.

  “You could ask Montoyo to send someone to you.”

  “What … ?”

  “To protect you. Someone from the city, to be, like, your bodyguard.”

  “You’re right,” I say, seriously impressed by the suggestion. “That could work.”

  “I’m glad you like the idea. So, actually, Benicio already asked Montoyo to send him. He’s gonna send Benicio to be a student at Oxford.”

  I smile to myself. I guess our flyby of the dreaming spires of Oxford really impressed him.

  Ixchel continues. “Maybe so you can investigate the Sect?”

  “Maybe,” I agree. But I can’t help wondering, would Montoyo do that? Actually let me do something risky?

  “But Montoyo and Benicio—they don’t know you have the Bracelet.” Ixchel gives me a wary look. “Do they?”

  I stare back. “No.”

  There’s a long pause before her next words. Like she’s really not sure whether to speak up or not. “Have you thought about what your father said … about burned out?”

  Actually, I have. But I don’t respond, instead watching Ixchel closely. “I’ve had a lot of things on my mind … ,” I say evasively. “But obviously you have.”

  Ixchel’s eyes gaze almost imploringly into mine. “Burned out! Not the whole Bracelet … but some part of it, maybe?”

  “Some part of the Bracelet,” I say slowly. “Like what?”

  “Like a crystal. A control circuit, perhaps?”

  “Why a crystal?”

  Ixchel cocks her head to one side. “Come on now, Josh. This is me.”

  Tight-lipped, I stare back into that challenging gaze. Eventually I say, “There’s a little hole in the Bracelet. It’s empty. I wondered … what with all that talk of a Crystal Key … if maybe it needed some kind of crystal.”

  Ixchel smiles, and then through closed lips, she laughs. Quietly she says, “You got it.”

  Truth is, I was just guessing. It couldn’t be the same crystal, could it? But the fact that Ixchel’s had the same thought makes my pulse race.

  “Josh, let me help fix the Bracelet. I don’t want you just blinking out of existence. Like Arcadio.”

  “You think that’s what happened to him?”

  “That’s what Susannah says. Isn’t it? One day, he just didn’t turn up. Poor Susannah; I think she’s been waiting for him ever since.”

  “That’s pretty rough.”

  Ixchel murmurs, “It sure is.”

  “So, what about you? What will you do?”

  Ixchel sighs and licks pink frosting off her thumb. “Back to Ek Naab, I guess. So much for my freedom! To the Tech, to study ancient languages.”

  “Start with Sumerian,” I suggest.

  “That was my plan … ,” she says with a slow grin. “So you’ll let me help?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  Ixchel grins and nudges my elbow with her knuckle. “Nope.”

  I go up to the food counter, get a plate of spaghetti in a sticky tomato sauce and a can of Sunkist. Ixchel watches me eat. I try to avoid thinking about tomorrow. Montoyo is driving us all back to the outskirts of the surface part of Ek Naab. We’ll be going in through the orange groves, to the cemetery on the hill.

  And we’ll bury my father. I don’t know how Montoyo persuaded my mother, but she’s agreed to it. It’s vital that we cover up the whole thing about how my dad didn’t really die in that plane crash. We have to keep his actual death and burial a secret. Anything to stop word getting out that Professor Andres Garcia finally turned up somewhere on Planet Earth.

  Maybe Mom finally understands just what the NRO—and the Sect—are prepared to do to get their hands on the secrets of Ek Naab.

  46

  Mom and I waited six months to say good-bye to my father. When we finally did, it was for the third time. There’d been the first funeral in Chetumal, alongside the one for Camila. Goodness knows whose ashes we sent off that time. The second time was the memorial service at his Oxford college. I sat through the whole thing in a daze.

  And now here we are again. This time with a coffin, on a cool December morning, two days before Christmas. By a pristine white church surrounded by orange trees.

  All members of the ruling Executive of Ek Naab are there with their families, except one—Blanco Vigores. Everyone lines up in the church to give the pesame—condolences—to Mom and me. I look along the line but can’t see Vigores. It doesn’t seem like a polite question to ask right now, but still I wonder, and not for the first time:

  Where is Blanco Vigores? Where does a blind old man disappear to on all these important occasions?

  In case anyone is spying on us via satellite, everyone dresses like regular Mexicans. As far as the outside world is concerned, this is supposed to be a private chapel on the huge ranch of some rich Mexican family. The men wear black suits; the women dress in smart black skirts and dresses, their heads covered with black lace mantillas. I’m always amazed at how many people can get their hands on a nice-looking black suit at the shortest notice.

  They even find something to fit me.

  “You look really nice,” Ixchel whispers to me as her turn comes to kiss my cheek.

  “So do you,” I mumble. She does, too. Sleek black hair pouring over her shoulders, her eyes and lips lightly made up, she looks elegant. Talk about cleaning up well.

  It’s the craziest scene, straight out of a Mexican soap opera. Everybody dressed to the nines and wearing fancy cologne. I can hardly believe that these are the same people who lined the underground streets of Ek Naab a few months ago in their traditional dress and watched me go to be installed as the Bakab Ix.

  My mom looks amazing. She’s getting good at being the grieving widow. She and Susannah really stand out with their fair hair under the black mantillas. In front of
all these strangers from Ek Naab, Mom is elegant and charming. Not a tear in sight.

  Susannah is calm the whole time. I don’t expect her to be moved—she didn’t know my dad, after all. What’s a bit odd is that she also seems perfectly at home in these surroundings. I’ve never met anyone who could take so much weirdness in stride. Nothing fazes her.

  The priest—a woman—even wears robes of liturgical purple. All a little bizarre. My mom doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure I notice her pursing her lips.

  Inside, the church is crammed with hibiscus flowers. Pride of place in the church goes to a statue of the Virgin Mary. Statues of saints line the pews. Candles burn in hanging chandeliers. Dad’s coffin, draped in white, stands in front of the altar.

  The service is in Latin, sung by the priest and two robed attendants, who stand with their backs to the congregation for most of the time. A choir chimes in with music that sounds just like the kind of thing you hear in the chapel of an Oxford college. I have to watch everyone else to know when to stand, sit, or kneel. It’s obvious to me that at least half the people there are as clueless as I am. Carlos Montoyo stands on the other side of my mother. I’m between Mom and Ixchel. I find myself wondering about Montoyo. Does he have a family? Does he do anything, apart from quietly run Ek Naab?

  I’m strangely disoriented. The whole experience is so odd, it’s hard to believe this is actually happening. I seem to go through everything on automatic pilot. Sit, stand, kneel, listen to prayers; what is it all for? How can the guy in the coffin really be my dad? How can the choir be singing a mass straight out of sixteenth-century Spain? I feel like I’m existing in the past and in the present; in Mexico, Spain, and Oxford, all at the same time.

  The priest talks about redemption. Whatever my father ever did wrong in his life, she says, his sacrifice at the end will redeem everything. He’s a hero in everyone’s eyes. I wonder why no one blames me, but they don’t.

  As we process out of the church, the members of the choir, high in their stalls, throw hibiscus petals over the coffin. Falling on the simple white coffin drapings, they look like drops of blood against snow.