by M. G. Harris
The last thing I remember is like a hallucination. There’s a loud crunch in the undergrowth. Something rushes toward me. There’s another sharp pain as something new bites into my leg. The pain around the snakebite becomes intense, like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my skin. I see a flash of movement above me.
Someone’s here.
All I catch is the golden yellow of a shirt. My vision becomes blurry and my breath starts to come in shallow gulps. A hand grabs my leg and I feel a sudden burst of ice against my skin. The pain of the snakebite eases at once.
There’s a soft voice, a girl’s voice.
“Take it easy, keep still.”
I try to move around to see her, but I can’t move … and then I fade out, fall into blackness.
Chapter 18
I wake up to find myself next to a roaring fire. A girl not much older than twelve throws a handful of something on the flames. The air fills with a sweet, lemony smell that takes me back to evenings on verandas of vacation homes with my parents, listening to crickets and Stan Getz’s saxophone, watching Dad smoke Cuban cigars while Mom drinks gin and tonics.
I sit up, look at the girl. She’s looking at me too.
“You were bitten by a snake,” she tells me bluntly, speaking in Spanish.
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. Obviously not the ten-step variety, though—I seem pretty much alive.
This seems like enough conversation for the girl. From a shoulder bag made of woven sisal cactus fibers, she takes out a bottle of water and offers it to me. “Muchas gracias,” I say, taking a long drink.
She doesn’t answer—there’s no “You’re most welcome” or “It’s nothing.”
We stare at each other again. There’s something odd about the way she looks me over. It actually makes me feel pretty uncomfortable.
So—I check her out too. She’s taller and fairer-skinned than you’d expect for a local Maya girl. Her eyes are rounder and her shoulder-length hair looks like it’s been conditioned and styled. She’s dressed in blue jeans, scuffed old Nikes, and a soccer top—the golden yellow shirt of the Mexico City Pumas.
The more I look at her, the more suspicious I become. She’s no typical village girl.
Who is she?
“You saved me?”
Without looking up, she nods.
“You had antivenom?” I ask incredulously. For a second she flashes me a contemptuous grin, as if to say, Sure, bozo; what kind of idiot goes into the jungle without antivenom?
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Ixchel.”
“Ixchel,” I repeat carefully, pronouncing it something like Eeshell.
“Is that Mayan?”
She nods.
“I’m Josh.”
Again she nods.
“You like the Pumas?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” she replies, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
“I prefer Chivas,” I tell her. Her only reply is a shrug that seems to say whatever. “I even prefer their uniform. Y’know, stripes. They’re cool.”
“My clothes are secondhand,” says Ixchel, cutting across my attempts to make conversation.
I have sudden visions of charity collection bags and I’m embarrassed. I’m silent for a few minutes, trying to find another way in.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“From a place nearby.”
“There’s a village close by?”
“It’s not too far.”
“Wow.” For a second I’m brought back down to earth. Looks like my terrified ravings about being miles from anywhere were way off.
“How did you find me?”
Ixchel doesn’t answer this, but rummages in her bag. She takes a Snickers bar from it, passes it to me.
She watches me tear the wrapper, then says, “You were in a car accident?”
I give her a confused look. “How did you know?”
“I heard it.”
“Well, yeah. A car ran us off the road. A guy driving a blue Nissan.”
She mulls this over for about ten seconds. “You and who else?”
And I literally can’t answer—the words stick in my throat, right under the chocolate. Ixchel just gives me a little nod, then goes back to looking all self-contained and impassive.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen?
Are you sure?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. One look at her reaction tells me it was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“It’s just that fourteen …,” I mumble, “seems pretty young to be out here all alone.”
Blandly, without a trace of irony or resentment, she comments, “I’m doing better at it than you.”
I’m about to reply when she cuts in with, “How’s your ankle? Can you walk yet?”
I stand up, test the foot. “I think I can, yeah.”
I’m lying. My ankle is burning like crazy; walking on it will be torture.
“We should get going, then,” she says. “It’ll be light in two hours.”
She gathers up all the litter into her bag, carefully stamps out the fire, and picks up my flashlight.
I ask, “Where are we going?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Your village?”
“Is that where you were going?”
“No.”
“Then where were you trying to get to?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Can she be trusted? The dressing on my snake-bitten leg seems to say yes.
“Becan,” I reply. It’s the only thing I can think of doing—to keep going, to find what my dad found, to discover whatever it is that Blue Nissan and his pals are so eager to stop me doing.
“Okay,” she says, apparently quite uninterested.
“You’ll take me?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says vaguely. Her mind is already elsewhere.
“Is it close?”
“Maybe two hours.”
“I hope it’s not out of your way.”
“No.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“No.”
I follow Ixchel through a maze of trees. I’m mystified as to how she’s keeping us walking straight until I notice that she keeps shining the flashlight on her wristwatch.
“You’ve got a compass there?”
There’s silence, which I take to be another of her famous nods.
“You’re pretty well set up for this wilderness stuff,” I comment.
“Yep.”
“What were you doing out here, all alone, at night?”
“Same as you,” replies Ixchel.
“Hmm. I don’t think so. I was running away …” From a guy who killed my sister, I’m about to say, but I remember just in time that despite the way she talks, she’s still a kid, like me.
“Yeah, you said—from the blue Nissan guy. Well, me too. Not from the same guy, but running away.”
“From where?”
“From home.”
“I get it,” I say. “Why are you running away?”
“It’s long and complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
“No … you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Try me.”
“It’s really none of your business,” she says, with such an air of finality that I shut up.
And it’s like that all the way. Ixchel won’t talk about herself or her village no matter what. She has this world-weariness about her that seems practically oblivious to my presence. I get the definite impression that to her I’m just a huge chore, something standing between her and fun.
I keep wanting to say, Hey, what’s your problem?
We walk in silence for a long time. I think about Tyler and Ollie being interrogated by the NRO. Even though I try hard not to, I think about Camila, drowned in the lagoon.
I can’t bear to think about what will happen to Camila. Reduced to being a body in a bag. At that moment I wish with all
my heart that I were safely at home.
But that wasn’t really much better. Watching my mom break down, forever trying to make sense of my dad’s pointless death in Mexico.
My breathing must give me away because Ixchel stops to look at me.
“You’re crying,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“Why bother to lie? I can hear you. What’s wrong?”
Blood rushes to my cheeks and I realize that I’m in danger of serious blubbering.
“I don’t want to talk about it, all right?” I shout. “Just lead the way!”
For a moment I sense a crack in Ixchel’s expressionless mask. Her eyes grow wide, soften. It’s a disaster. The more sympathetically she looks at me, the worse I feel.
“Come on!” I insist. “Who asked you, anyway?”
Tears roll down my cheeks and I wipe them away quickly. Ixchel stretches out a hand to touch my arm, stops when she notices me flinching.
I work hard on concentrating on the mission, to solve the mystery of Dad and the codex. I have to—it’s all I have left.
As we walk, I feel for the Calakmul letter in my money belt. It’s still there. Probably soaked and ruined, but by now I have the whole inscription memorized. Looks like I finally obeyed Dad’s instruction to destroy the document.
After my outburst, Ixchel stays quiet but keeps glancing at me. She asks me just one more question as we walk.
“Why are you going to Becan?”
“I’m looking for something,” I tell her. “A lost Mayan codex.”
Her reaction is almost the last thing I expect. With a resigned sigh, she says, “Not you also.”
“You know other people who’ve been looking for a lost codex?” I ask, astonished.
Ixchel stops again. Her clear eyes stare straight into mine. “Some things are just lost, you know. People, things, causes. Sometimes all that counts is knowing when to give up.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit slowly. “But that’s the way I am about lost things. Even the word lost. Doesn’t that make you want to … find? When I lose something, I can’t stop looking for it. It’s as though there’s a thread that connects me to everything I’ve ever cared about. Every now and then I’ll feel this tug from an invisible source. I can’t explain it any better. And I can’t give up, not now.”
“You’re looking for something else, aren’t you?” she says. “Not just this codex.” Ixchel stares at me with an air of sadness. “Just look where it’s got you.”
I shrug, keep walking. I concentrate on the future. Me with the codex in my hands. Me handing it over to a museum, the police, the NRO, whoever it takes—so long as they let my friends and Camila’s husband go free.
I’m curious about Pumas Girl and why she seems so out of place, like a city girl who’s completely at home in the jungle. She isn’t an obvious hottie or anything, but there’s something about her. She’s light and graceful on her feet. She bounces around roots and skips over fallen trees as easily as a deer. I find myself wondering how she’d be at capoeira, and decide that she’d probably be superb. If I weren’t so afraid of falling apart in front of her, I might feel more talkative. But I’m just not in the mood.
For some reason, though, walking along with Ixchel, I feel a tiny shift inside me. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about her. It’s like a kind of recognition—the way I felt with Camila, but different.
Different. But just as strong.
Chapter 19
Two hours and twenty minutes into our walk, the sky begins to light up behind us. Ixchel turns off the flashlight. Our eyes adjust to the bluish gray light. We cross a small opening in the trees, wade through a light mist, and pass a huge iguana sleeping on the stump of a tree. We stumble into a ravine and then climb up the steep bank on the other side. Then we’re lost again in a thick maze of trees. Frustrated, tired, and thirsty, I call out, “How much farther?”
Ixchel pulls up sharply, spins around, and grins. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile and I’m momentarily disarmed.
“We’re here.”
“Becan? I don’t think so. Where are the restaurants, souvenir stalls, visitor center?”
“That part of Becan?” Ixchel shakes her head. “I thought you meant the ruins.”
“The ruins? No. They won’t be open yet. I need to get some food and a drink, find a place to stay.”
“You should have said,” she mutters. “You said Becan, so here we are. As for the ruins being open or not … you don’t need to worry.”
And she pushes back a hefty branch. I’m so stunned that I almost trip. We’re right up against a huge stone pyramid that rises almost a hundred feet into the air. She’s led me right to the middle of the ruins of Becan—Chechan Naab—the last place my dad went before he disappeared.
“Becan, okay?” says Ixchel. “I did what I promised. And now I really, really have to go.”
“Okay,” I say, shrugging. “Thanks.”
She gives a quick nod, turns to leave, and then seems to think better of it. She gives me a strange look from out of the corners of her eyes, like she’s hoping I won’t notice or something.
“We probably won’t meet again,” she says, her voice suddenly very soft. “But whatever you hear …”
There’s a long pause, into which I interject, “What?”
Ixchel breaks off her gaze. Now it’s her turn to look embarrassed. I’m becoming more baffled by the second.
“Nothing,” she says, staring uncomfortably at her hands. “If anyone asks, tell them not to worry. And that my decision … it’s a matter of principle.”
“Principle,” I repeat, nodding. “Got it.”
“It’s not personal. Okay?”
I’m still nodding vaguely as she backs away.
And then she really does leave. I call out after her, “But who’s going to be asking?”
Her answer stuns me more than anything she’s said so far. Because for the first time, she answers me in perfect English.
“The third layer on the western wall, Josh. And good luck!”
By the time I rush after her, she’s disappeared into the ravine. I don’t see her climbing up the other side. She simply vanishes into the undergrowth at the bottom. I now realize that the ravine is the dry moat that runs behind the towering pyramid and surrounds the ruins of Becan. I hear sounds of movement but it’s too late to give chase.
Ixchel knows me. It’s the only explanation. It even explains my strange feeling of recognition. Have we met before, maybe? Could she be one of the local kids I used to play with around the sites of my dad’s archaeology excavations?
She was looking for me. She’s delivered me to the exact place I wanted to be. The question is: Who sent her? Who else wants me here?
It was as though she knew all about my mission. She saved my life in the jungle. She came prepared. That’s why she didn’t seem surprised when I told her I was looking for the codex. Her final shout had to be a clue to its location.
I gaze into the undergrowth where I last saw Ixchel. How do I know whether or not to trust her? She appeared from nowhere!
But what else am I going to do? Dad might have led me to Becan, but he hadn’t been helpful enough to leave a map. Ixchel—whoever she is—obviously knows her way around these ruins.
Did she know my dad?
All sorts of theories run through my head. Maybe she’s another long-lost sister? Maybe she was part of whatever led my dad here?
Maybe she saw my dad climb this very pyramid?
The dawn light is turning the sky salmon red; the gray stones of the ruins glow with a pinkish hue. I push farther through the undergrowth to find myself in a wide clearing. The massive pyramid is part of a city. It towers above a plaza, flanked by smaller buildings, including one with a wide staircase and two towers, each one almost as tall as the pyramid. The ruins stretch to the south and the east. Patches of morning mist hang low over the grass. Some of the ruins are fully excavated
, but others are still partly covered with grass and trees. It’s as though buildings are crawling out from under the hills.
I’m surrounded by ancient history that’s being revived. This city is being rescued from the green of the jungle that choked it for the past few hundred years.
And it’s all for me.
This moment I share only with the beetles, the lizards, and the birds. I can almost hear them now, hopping around in the fresh morning dew. A sweet smell of warm grass and loam rises from the ground. There’s a stillness to the air that makes me catch my breath, a reverential, natural silence. I’m entranced.
And then I begin my climb.
The big pyramid that dominates the northern plaza is composed of five layered tiers, with a single front stairway that goes to the temple at the top. The dawn chorus begins—a huge racket starts up, all from the trees behind the pyramid. When I reach the third tier, I step off the main staircase and follow the ledge toward the western face. In places the stones are loose. I have to watch myself or I’ll slip. The third tier is almost at the top and the view is amazing. With the sun behind me I can see all over the site, right across to the highway.
When I reach the western wall I lean against the stone and groan. This side hasn’t been restored properly. The ledge is narrow and looks treacherous. Worst of all—there’s no sign of any opening in the wall. I guess I was hoping for a convenient little tunnel. Can’t anything be easy?
Standing about halfway along, I notice that my clothes are still damp from the lagoon—swampy water mixed with sweat. It’s pretty grim. No wonder Ixchel kept her distance. I lie flat against the side of the pyramid, pressing my cheek right up to the stones. I reach up with fingers outstretched, grab all the stones in my reach, tugging and pushing to see if they come loose. Nothing.
I begin to scrabble around desperately, moving along the pyramid. I grip hard with my fingers and scramble up the side of the third tier. Not very successfully. I don’t have the footwear for sheer rock-face climbing—plus, I’ve never tried it in my life. Then, as I’ve just about given up hope, something unnerving happens.
My whole body falls against a rocky panel that suddenly lifts out of the side of the pyramid. Within seconds, it’s horizontal, and then it pitches me toward an opening in the wall. I can’t stop myself sliding. I fall straight down into a dark tunnel. The rock panel begins to slide back, upward and out. The opening to the outside is being closed. I just lie there, mesmerized, watching it happen, watching myself being shut in. A moment later, the rock panel seals the opening.
