by M. G. Harris
“We were watching Camila Pastor. And he was watching her too.”
“Why were you watching Camila?”
“Because she talks to the police—she knows what they know, or at least what they think they know. We have to investigate this from all possible angles, Josh. We must find out what happened to your father.”
I haven’t realized until this moment just how badly I’ve been hoping that Montoyo knows something—anything that might help. But he doesn’t. It’s a nasty shock, stops me in my tracks.
“You … don’t know?”
He gives a deep sigh. “Your father came to Ek Naab—that much you’ve probably guessed. But shortly after he left we lost track of him. There was a plane crash.”
“Yeah … I know.”
“No, you don’t understand. He left here in one of our flying craft. Like the one we followed you in when you ran into the jungle.”
“What …? You mean you weren’t in a helicopter?”
“No, my boy. We have something much better than helicopters. As you will see. Your father needed to go on a mission for us, to Veracruz. He used one of our aircraft—which we call ‘Muwan.’ Shortly after leaving here, we tracked five other craft in the vicinity. They chased your father. And then—he just disappeared from our radar.”
“What?” I’m stunned. “Aircraft …?”
“That story about the Cessna crash is just as much of a mystery to us as to you.”
“Maybe he was forced to land and got into his other plane?”
“No, Josh. Listen to what I’m saying. One aircraft, the Muwan—your father. Then five others appeared. Six craft.”
Slowly, unbelievably, it dawns on me.
“The UFOs …?”
Montoyo nods, starts walking again.
“What did you call them? ‘Muwan’? The UFOs over Campeche?” I repeat, incredulous.
“Pay attention, Josh. I said your father was in one craft. The other five were a total surprise to us also.”
“Extraterrestials?”
Montoyo snorts with disdain.
“Then what?”
“Simple—someone has stolen our technology. We’ve suspected it for a long time. These same people probably murdered your father.”
“This Simon Madison guy and the NRO?”
“Possibly.”
“The NRO must have organized the burglary …,” I mutter, almost to myself. “That’s when they started following me … they must have tracked me to Hotel Delfin.”
“Hmm.”
“Why didn’t you reply to my e-mail?”
“I promised your father not to involve you. It was a solemn promise, Josh. If I’d answered that e-mail, I would have had to lie.”
“But I did get involved.”
“True, but not because of me.” Then gently he says, “Look, we’ll talk about this later. I realize you have many questions. But I need you to listen first.”
We walk again, making our way along the tunnel, then up stairs. I make a huge effort to shut my mouth. Tough, when my worldview, not to say family history, is being turned on its head.
“The first thing you need to know is that the Mayan inscription your father found originally belonged to your real grandfather, Aureliano.”
I nod. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“And your grandfather, he was one of us. He was born in Ek Naab.”
That’s not as surprising to hear now as it would have been outside Ek Naab. It certainly solved my grandmother’s big mystery over where Dad’s father came from—and where he went.
“Where is he now?”
Montoyo catches his breath. “He’s dead.”
“I know,” I agree. “But where?”
“That’s the big question. Because we believe he had something with him when he died.”
Suddenly it’s obvious. My grandfather had owned the Calakmul letter before my dad. He was searching for the codex too. And his search hadn’t been in vain.
Breathlessly, I say, “The Ix Codex?”
Montoyo nods, apparently impressed. “Good boy. It’s the only explanation. He was in charge of the search. For hundreds of years, one from your family has sought the codex. Then, miraculously, finally we found its trail. Your grandfather, he set off to find it. Our information told us it was in England …”
“England?!”
“In a place called Saffron Walden. In the house of the renowned Mayan archaeologist J. Eric Thompson.”
I stop walking. Each new bit of information seems more incredible than the last. “Thompson?! Thompson had the Ix Codex?”
I’ve heard about J. Eric Thompson all my life. He was probably the most famous British guy ever to study the Maya. My father had all his books. Until he died in 1975, he was the Big Cheese of all Mayanists.
“Your grandfather believed so. He tracked the codex to Thompson. Not easy, because Thompson didn’t know what he had. Or at least if he did, he kept it very, very quiet. For understandable reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Later, Josh. We’ll come to that. Your grandfather went to see Thompson in Saffron Walden. We received word that he’d found the codex. You can’t begin to imagine the importance to Ek Naab, to the destiny of the whole world. And then, somewhere over Mexico, we lost track of your grandfather. He simply vanished.”
“He died near water,” I murmur. “In a hut.”
Montoyo stops suddenly. We’re almost at the end of the stairs. My legs are cramping with fatigue.
“Why do you say that?”
“I dreamed it,” I say, rubbing my thighs. “One of two huts, on water. The ocean or a lake. A misty, watery place. He died, choking. And someone saw it.”
Montoyo looks at me with a mixture of respect and wonder.
“Amazing. That’s just what your father said.”
He turns to the opening of the tunnel, a few yards away. Beyond, I catch a glimpse of buildings and the glow of natural light.
“Beyond this tunnel lies the city of Ek Naab, a city of a thousand wells. The city of a hundred fables. A city that exists for most only as a rumor, a whisper, a hope. It’s the city to which you belong, Josh, as much as you belong anywhere. Ek Naab holds the only hope of survival for civilizations throughout the world.”
Chapter 22
We emerge from the subway tunnel onto a high platform overlooking a deep underground pool. Montoyo says, “This is the cenote, the fathomless ‘black water,’ a black hole of sacrifice for which Ek Naab became notorious.”
I stare into the depths. The surface of the water is about twenty feet below the opening of the sinkhole. A nasty drop and a pretty impossible climb to safety for the poor human sacrifice. A metal fence and guarded walkway ring the entire body of water, which is roughly the size of the penalty area of a soccer field. At intervals around the walkway, tall lamps with five globes of yellow light illuminate the nearby shore of the lake. The smooth surface of the pool gleams, mirrorlike.
Beyond the water, I glimpse the wide expanse of the underground cavern. I can see buildings that appear to be as much as two soccer fields distant. All kinds of buildings—everything from what look like gleaming office blocks to somber, stone-faced Mayan temples. There are plazas and alleyways and canals of water, all bundled together. Like a weird fusion of Mexico, ancient and modern, with Venice.
And all underground! I can’t get my head around it at first—why is it so light?
Then I look up. Over the central part of the city, instead of the rock ceiling, there’s a meshlike fabric. Sunlight pours through the tiny holes. It’s unnerving, confusing. There’s a sense of vast space … then you look up and see that ceiling.
I stare back into the city. Colorful murals display the Mayan heritage. The five-globed lamps are dotted around the city. There’s one spacious plaza covered with tables and chairs: open-air cafés. They’re empty, so I guess it’s too early for them to be open.
There are even trees. Exactly the kind I’ve seen in the central t
own zocalos of small Mexican towns, canopies neatly clipped. Warm light leaks from windows in the buildings. A background hum carries the faint suggestion of voices and music.
And everywhere I look, flowers. Potted, in hanging baskets or trailing over walls, crawling their way through the narrow alleyways between brick, glass, and stone; the entire city blooms with violent pinks, regal purples, jubilant reds.
Montoyo watches me with a hint of a smile. “What do you think?”
I spin around, trying to take it all in, my head in my hands. “Amazing! I mean … where did this all come from? And how?”
Montoyo’s enjoying watching my reaction, I can tell.
“Centuries ago, Ek Naab was just a shrine, dedicated to Itzamna. He brought us agriculture, writing, and timekeeping. The Maya worshipped Itzamna as a god, you know. They came to Ek Naab to placate him with regular sacrifices of the city’s young people, thrown into the cenote to drown.”
He gives me a loaded stare.
“But that’s all in the past, right?”
Or am I about to hear that the Maya of Ek Naab were sticklers for tradition, and I’m about to become the latest sacrificial victim?
Montoyo chuckles. “Of course. We’re over all that.”
I’m silent for a long time. “I … really don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t you want to know about us?”
“Well, yeah …”
But where to start? I’m not in the mood for a history lesson. The damp of my clothes has cooled in the underground chill. I begin to shiver. Or maybe it’s the thrill of discovery? I have this sudden urge to call Ollie and Tyler. Then I remember that my cell phone wouldn’t work underground, even if it wasn’t soaked.
The thought that my father was here gives me a warm feeling. I’m sharing in his final secret. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind that I would? I’d like to think he’d be proud of me. I guess now I’ll never know.
Montoyo finally snaps me out of my trancelike state. “You look exhausted,” he notes. He’s right; my legs are turning to jelly, and my eyelids keep drooping. “We’re gonna get you to a bed,” he says. “And we’ll talk more in a few hours.”
I nod and follow him around the path, past the cenote, through a narrow passageway into a small patio crammed with bright red potted hibiscus flowers. We cross the patio and take one of four doors, climb stone stairs to a third floor.
We enter a small apartment, minimally furnished, like a room in the IKEA catalog. Montoyo leads me to a bedroom. There’s a hammock, a reading light suspended from the ceiling, and a thick mat of woven sisal on the floor. An indigo-colored curtain is drawn across a small window. It doesn’t quite blot out the dimmed daylight that floods the city. The sun must be up outside, high above the jungle.
From behind a cupboard door, Montoyo removes a fleece blanket.
I hold it for a minute, just looking at the label.
“This comes from Sears,” I say, noticing the label of the department store.
Montoyo nods. “Most things we use come from outside the city.”
“And nobody knows about you?”
“They don’t know about Ek Naab. Part of the city is above-ground. Doesn’t look like the rest of Ek Naab, that’s for sure. And it’s all private land.”
“Can I see?”
“Tomorrow, my boy.”
I can’t stop myself yawning. “Okay. But … can I ask one more thing? When you said you had unfinished business with my dad, what did you mean?”
Montoyo’s eyes take on a flinty look. “He took something of ours—or rather, something that once belonged to Itzamna.”
Hearing this jolts me awake. “Itzamna really existed?”
“Of course.”
“Not just a myth?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And the Bakabs?”
“His four sons. And their sons.”
“The guys who hold up the four corners of the sky, you mean those Bakabs? Bakabs are real?”
Montoyo gives me a stern look. “You’re as bad as your father, you know that?”
“How do you mean?”
“A lifetime of education told your father that everything he studied about the Mayan religion was mythology and superstition. Even with the evidence before him, he could hardly believe it.”
“Maybe that’s why he took this thing of Itzamna’s. To test it.”
Montoyo laughs. “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“The Bracelet of Itzamna is not exactly the sort of archaeological artifact your dad is used to handling.”
“The Bracelet of Itzamna?”
“That’s what he took.”
“Where is it now?”
“A good question.”
“And … what is the Bracelet of Itzamna?”
Montoyo smiles thinly. “Ah! Now that really is the question.”
For a second, I’m hopeful. Then I notice Montoyo’s lips pressed tightly together.
“Oh …,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I get it. You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
This time Montoyo gives a wry grin. He pats my shoulder. “Get some sleep, Josh.”
I climb into the hammock, wrap the blanket around me, and snuggle up, trying to find a comfortable position. My mind buzzes with everything I’ve seen and heard. I hear Montoyo moving around in the living room. Piano music plays faintly in the background—it sounds like Bach.
This is all too bizarre. I still haven’t quite recovered from finding myself sliding into a pyramid. I’d been expecting a cubbyhole, something I could stick my hand into and find a hidden manuscript in.
The city of Ek Naab is about a billion light-years from anything I’d ever imagined.
Chapter 23
It takes me a while to fall asleep. I think about Ollie and Tyler, feel a pang of guilt when I think about the trouble I’ve led them into. It’s only the memory of how very eager Ollie was to come on the trip that makes me feel like anything but a total idiot.
Camila is another story. I haven’t dared to really think about her yet. Every time I get close to the memory, I can’t help crying, like when I was with Ixchel. Now, alone in this darkened room, I forget where I am. I could be anywhere in the world. When I close my eyes, all I see is an image of Camila in the car, blood trailing through the water from her head. I force it away, try to think of anything else.
I imagine meeting my father again. Telling him about Ek Naab. Having a nice little chat about it. And that, finally, puts me to sleep.
When I wake up, a narrow line of light around the curtain tells me that it’s still daytime. The music playing next door has changed—now I hear something that sounds like grungy rock music.
I slide out of the hammock. Underneath, someone has laid clothes in a neat pile. There are shorts and a blue shirt, and some canvas slip-on shoes. I change quickly.
In the living room, sitting on a wood-framed sofa is a guy I don’t recognize. He looks around seventeen, eighteen. When he sees me, he smiles broadly, leaps to his feet.
“Hey, Josh! It’s great to finally meet you!”
Another person who speaks terrific English. He shakes my hand vigorously, pats me on the back. Meanwhile I struggle to take in yet another new face.
“Where’s Carlos Montoyo?” I ask.
“He had something to take care of.”
“But … he said he’d be here.”
The guy gives a huge, so-what shrug.
“I’m Benicio,” he explains. “I’m your cousin!”
“Um … that’s pretty random.”
“‘Random’?”
“Wild. Out there. It’s unexpected.”
My “cousin” gives a puzzled smile, then gets back to shaking my hand. He’s slim and lean, only a little taller than I am. He has longish, floppy hair with ragged bangs that look a little greasy. His face is covered in a couple days’ worth of stubble. He wears blue jeans, a plain, crumpled white T-shirt, and green sneakers.
�
�I read your blog, man,” he says with a grin. “Cool! Until you hid it. What a shame!”
“You read my blog,” I repeat. “How come?”
“Montoyo, you know, Montoyo’s been watching out for you ever since your daddy disappeared.”
I think about that in silence. I study Benicio’s features for a second: sallow skin, almond-shaped brown eyes. I’m definitely seeing another mixed Mexican/Hispanic—mestizo—face. It’s a fair bet that Benicio’s ancestors are part Hispanic too, but his eyes and mouth show signs of a Mayan heritage.
I’m beginning to wonder if anyone in this lost Mayan city is actually 100 percent Maya. Looks to me as though the Spanish definitely made their way into Ek Naab.
Benicio notices me checking him out. He folds his arms, saying, “So, Josh, you notice any family resemblance?”
“I dunno,” I tell him. “How are we related, exactly?”
“Your father, Andres, he was my father’s first cousin.”
“So our grandparents were brothers?”
“Brother and sister. She’s alive, you know. Your great-aunt—my grandmother.”
“That’s amazing. How many more relatives have I got here?”
“A few.”
“The girl who found me, Ixchel. Is she one?”
Benicio looks momentarily shocked, then laughs. Emphatically, he says, “No way.”
“Benicio,” I say, “I really need to call my mother and my friends. Is there a way to do that?”
“Yeah. They’ll be pretty worried, I guess. Listen, I can’t call to an outside network from the underground part of the city—only to another Ek Naab phone. But later we’ll be on the surface. Then you can call, okay?”
“How long?” I ask. I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer than I have to.
Benicio checks his watch. “Like one, two hours.”
I sit, anxious. I don’t really want to insist, but that feels like too long.
“Come on, it’s okay,” he says, trying to cheer me up. “We can get to know each other! I’ve been waiting to meet you!”
“How long have you known about me?”
“Just a few months. When your father made contact with Carlos Montoyo. No one knew that your grandfather, Aureliano, had a baby in the outside world. Imagine! It was a big surprise for everyone here.”
