by M. G. Harris
I close the phone, slip it back into my pocket and look back at Ixchel. For the first time since I rescued her, she smiles at me.
“Is he coming for us, Josh? That’s so great – we did it!”
I nod, try to smile and say, “He’s coming, all right. But not for a while. We have to keep moving.”
Behind us the paddle steamer has well and truly blocked the river under the road bridge. It’s too far away to see what’s going on, but I imagine there’s probably something of a row with Gaspar and his men. The people on that steamer seemed pretty irate at our stunt . . . looked like they were keen to hand out a mighty telling-off.
Under a milky sky, our boat cuts a deep white V into the clear green depths of the lake. Forested mountains on either side of us create a dark, brooding atmosphere. In the distance to the right is a spectacular expanse of high, snowcapped peaks. There’s a suggestion of mist on the lake, thickest near the bank to our left. Past the beach I can see a small town: a few stylish old buildings nestled amongst a cluster of log-cabin chalets.
Brienz.
Looking around, Ixchel says, “Josh, this place is beautiful!” She beams at me.
“Stick with me, babe,” I tell her. “I’ll take you to all the best places.”
Wow. I can’t believe I actually said that. But it’s too late to take it back. I try to look like I’m concentrating on something else, but secretly watch Ixchel for a reaction. She just smiles a bit and says nothing for a while.
“Well, life sure is a lot more interesting when you’re around,” she eventually says.
I turn away to hide my grin.
She likes me.
Behind us, the paddle steamer has finally cleared enough space to let Gaspar’s speedboat through. I brace myself to watch them bursting free and ramping up the chase. But they’re nowhere to be seen. I search the lake and river behind the steamer for any sign of them – but they really seem to have gone.
“Have they given up?” Ixchel asks. I guess she can sense that I’m puzzled.
“Can’t believe it. . .” I say. “But where are they?”
For now, it looks like smooth sailing all the way to Brienz. Anxiously, I eye the lakeside road, where a steady line of traffic zooms by.
Out here in the middle of the lake, we’re not exactly hard to spot. The sooner we get to Brienz, the better.
“Josh,” Ixchel begins, “how did you get free?”
I’ve been wondering when she’d ask that. . . I’ve realized that there’s a limit to how much I want to tell Ixchel about the Bracelet – for now.
“The Bracelet,” I say. “I fixed it, went back in time by ten minutes and freed myself.”
She fixes me with an even look. “You did what?”
“I fixed the Bracelet. The Crystal Key – the Sect have it! They made it – it’s in their labs. I woke up in the bed after the experiment . . . I’d been untied. I picked up the Bracelet, sneaked into the cold room nearby . . . and found the Crystal Key. Then I put the crystal into the Bracelet . . . I went back in time by ten minutes. I freed myself – ten minutes in the past.” I pause, realizing that I’m breathless with excitement. “That’s when I came to find you.”
Ixchel stares at me in wonder. “You worked out how to use the Bracelet?”
I grin. For several seconds Ixchel says nothing, staring out over the water, seeming to concentrate on getting the most out of the speedboat’s engine. I’m surprised that she isn’t more delighted, but for some reason the news seems to have put Ixchel into a deep think.
“How did you work out how to use it?”
I need to be careful – I’m not ready to talk about what happened in Area 51 with my dad. I don’t want Ixchel knowing that I might be Arcadio . . . that’s way too complicated. I mean, Arcadio gets together with the young Susannah St John . . . which is too weird for even me to get my head around just now, let alone remind Ixchel about.
But it’s tough to keep something this important from her.
Cautiously I say, “I didn’t work out anything. I just pressed the crystal into place and . . . bam! There I was.”
“There you were,” she echoes doubtfully, “ten minutes in the past?” Ixchel lifts her eyes to mine for a long moment and then turns the boat to avoid another boat coming the opposite way. The sudden movement sends a fine drizzle of spray into my face, but I don’t wipe it away.
“Well, that’s amazing. . .” She stares up at me again. “You travelled in time?”
“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” I say. At least that part is true. . . “I just wanted to see if the Bracelet could be fixed. But it must have some sort of default mechanism. . .”
“A what?”
“A fail-safe,” I suggest. “Maybe to use in emergencies. I guess if you’re in danger . . . it’s always safe to take you back ten minutes. . .”
“I guess,” Ixchel says, but she doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
Of course, even safer is to take you to where and when the Bracelet was last used. I can’t imagine how the Bracelet knows where it is – I can only guess that it has some kind of GPS, like a satellite navigation system. Only – with the added power to bend time.
Is there some ancient Erinsi satellite in orbit around the planet? Have I just activated a mechanism that hasn’t been used for centuries? Did my dad activate it when he used the bracelet? Or is Itzamna, the original time traveller, still wandering around the space-time continuum, getting up to who knows what?
No use worrying about it now, though, because unless we manage to get to Lake Lucerne before Gaspar and his goons catch up with us . . . we’ll end up right back with the Sect.
This time, I imagine they’ll be quite forceful about getting information regarding the Bracelet.
I peer towards the distance at the cars streaming along the lakeside road. Gaspar’s in one of those cars. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.
The town of Brienz rises up ahead, dwarfed beneath a rocky mountain face that drops sheer into the blue-green waters of the lake. Dark-timbered chalets and yellow-and-cream-painted buildings cling to the mountainside, their balconies decorated with baskets of red flowers. A red railcar chugs along a steep slope. There’s a promenade at the edge of the lake and beside that a little harbour of water that’s crystal clear to the rocky bottom.
“So I’ve been meaning to ask,” Ixchel begins. “What’s that writing on your arm?”
I blush. “Nothing.”
Ixchel gives me a curious glance. “It’s not nothing. In fact, I’ve seen it . . . I just asked to know why. Why did you write your name on your arm, Josh?”
I sigh. There’s no easy way out of this. “Because when you use the Bracelet . . . you can lose your memory. Like my dad when we found him on Mount Orizaba. Remember?”
She’s silent for a bit. “You really used the Bracelet, then,” she muses.
“Said I did, didn’t I?”
To that, Ixchel says nothing. As we get closer to the town, a high rustle of tinkling bells carries across the water towards us. It doesn’t seem to be coming from the red-roofed church spire . . . this sounds like lots of little bells ringing at random.
Ixchel stands up for a better view. “Now what?”
I take a deep breath. “Well, now, we have to steal a car.”
“Steal a car,” she says casually. “Is that all?”
I eye Ixchel closely to see if she’s kidding – she’s good at keeping a straight face.
Ixchel switches off the engine as the boat floats into the harbour. She looks up at me and for a moment, we share an uneasy smile. I try not to think about the stress of what is about to come. Just twenty minutes or so . . . and we’ll be meeting Benicio on the banks of Lake Lucerne.
If we manage to steal a car.
If the Swiss cops don’t jump on us.
If Gaspar and his men don’t catch up.
The way I see it, that’s three big ifs. I’m starting to get a really bad feeling . . . tw
enty minutes is stretching into a painful length of time.
The side of the boat clunks against the pier. A few bystanders throw us suspicious looks. Two young teenagers on their own in a speedboat may not be your everyday sight for the people of Brienz. Then there’s the fact that we don’t look very Swiss. Nervously, I help Ixchel tie the rope to the mooring. The bell-tinkling noise is much louder now. I keep looking around to see its source, but so far there’s no sign.
An elderly woman pauses as she walks by. She fixes first Ixchel and then me with a glare. Then comes a garble of sharp-tongued German. I don’t understand a single word.
“Französisch?” Ixchel replies hopefully. If it’s possible, the old biddy eyes us even more beadily.
“Que vous faites?” she says in a guttural accent.
Ixchel answers her with a stream of perfect-sounding French. I just gape. “How many languages do you speak?” I mutter.
“Languages . . . are what I do. . .” she replies under her breath, still gazing sweetly at the Swiss lady. “You didn’t notice?”
Whatever she said to the woman – it worked. She carries on her way and we climb out on to the pier.
“I told her I was parking the boat for my father,” Ixchel explains as we scurry towards the main street.
Finally I can see the source of the bell-tinkling. The streets are filled with cattle. Huge, long-haired beasts coated in toffee-coloured fur, with their little cream-skinned calves. Brass bells hang around their necks, swishing back and forth as they walk, led by young cowherds.
I have to catch my breath. All the traffic is stalled – cars paused where they stand as the cattle navigate around them. Pedestrians and drivers look on admiringly at the animals. Some people stop to take photos. The town is at a standstill.
How are we going to get out of here?
Ixchel turns to me. Outwardly she looks calm, but I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t something else: resignation.
In a flat voice, she says, “OK, what now?”
“Don’t give up on me, Ixchel,” I say softly. “We are going back to Ek Naab.”
With a tiny shrug, Ixchel turns away. I can sense that she doesn’t believe me. My heart sinks. How can I blame her? This is the third time I’ve tried to rescue Ixchel. The idea that we’ll get caught again is an almost choking fear.
I look once more down the cattle-filled street. The cows are processing through the main part of the town and then up a side street. Firmly, I grab Ixchel’s hand.
“Let’s go.”
I probably look a fair bit more confident than I actually feel, striding along the narrow lanes of the lakeside town. Yet it’s looking like we might be trapped in Brienz . . . and that’s hitting Ixchel pretty hard. I have to do something to cheer her up; something to make escape seem possible.
A moment later we’re in one of the side roads and away from the cattle procession. As carefully as possible, we start trying the doors of the parked cars.
All locked.
A woman driving a small white Peugeot car almost knocks us down as we dive across the road. She gets out in a rush, her face flushed with anger, hardly even looking at us as she dives into a nearby door marked “Arztespraxis” – something to do with a doctor’s surgery, I’d guess, from the green cross.
Ixchel’s eyes follow the woman and then trail back to her car.
“She didn’t lock it.”
Something tells me that this is our only chance. I dash across the road and test the car door – Ixchel’s right, it’s open. If the car is an automatic, I’ve half a mind to insist on driving. One glance dashes that idea. Manual gears – no chance!
But there’s also some very good news – the keys are still in the ignition.
“I guess that lady’s in a hurry,” I say, helping Ixchel into the driver’s seat.
I’m just belting up in the passenger seat when the woman reappears.
Ixchel starts the car and swerves out into the road, speeding towards the main street. Behind us, the owner’s expression turns into outrage and astonishment. I can hardly believe my eyes as we approach the main street. There are still some cows straggling through; the traffic is still stalled. Ixchel drops the car into a lower gear, makes it mount the wide pavement. Even through the windows I can hear the angry shouts from pedestrians as they leap out of the way.
With all the lunatic driving I’ve made people do these past few days, it’s a wonder I haven’t killed anyone. . .
“You’re . . . crazy,” I say, impressed. “How come you drive so well?”
“Never really driven in traffic before,” she replies, eyes fixed to the road. “Only around the ranches above Ek Naab.”
One of the stalled cars we pass suddenly roars into action. I turn around to watch as it turns clumsily in the middle of the road, narrowly missing a couple of huge cattle in the process. Then, like us, it mounts the pavement and heads out of town, against the traffic.
Chasing after us.
“It’s Gaspar,” Ixchel says. I can hear the tension in her voice.
I close my eyes, trying to think. This does not look good. We haven’t even made it out of Brienz and we’ve already got Gaspar and his thugs on our tail. The Swiss police can’t be far behind either.
Once we’ve passed the cattle we join the main road. Luckily there’s not much traffic in the out-of-town direction. Ixchel speeds up to a hundred kilometres an hour. I glance behind to see that Gaspar’s car – a red Mercedes – has also speeded up.
“You need to go faster,” I urge Ixchel.
She hesitates for just a second and then slams her foot down. The engine roars as we approach a hundred and sixty. I have a sudden flashback to being in the car with Camila on Highway 186, just seconds before we crashed. For a brief moment, I can’t breathe.
A signpost zooms up ahead – a fork in the road. Before I can open my mouth, we’ve followed the road round to the right. As we flash by, I notice the word “Luzern” on the sign.
“Erm. . .” I begin, then look over my shoulder. Gaspar’s car is approaching the signpost too. In the distance I can hear a siren.
Ixchel says, “What?”
“I think . . . we should have turned left there. . .”
Turn left after Brienz . . . that’s what Benicio said. I can’t believe I forgot.
In disbelief she says, “Turn left?”
“You didn’t see the road sign. . .?” I say mildly. “To Lucerne?”
Ixchel explodes. “No, Josh, I’m the one driving the car . . . didn’t you notice?”
There’s no way around this. We can’t turn around – not with Gaspar and now maybe the police behind us.
There’s a slow-moving tractor up ahead, pulling neatly stacked bundles of chopped wood. Our car swings out as we overtake. Ahead, an oncoming car squeals noisily, honking its horn – but Ixchel slots the car back into the carriageway just in time.
I murmur, “Nicely done. . .”
We approach a curve in the road. Ahead the sky fills with towering, snow-capped peaks. I check behind us – no sign of Gaspar. I guess it might take some time for them to get around that tractor.
I take out my Ek Naab phone and try Benicio. But there’s no answer.
“Well. . .?”
I swallow. “We may have a problem.”
Ixchel resumes her stony silence. We churn through another few kilometres, zooming through a forest of pines. I stare ahead, feeling pretty useless. I can’t tell if Ixchel is angry with me, too scared to talk, or just concentrating on driving. All I know is that we need to stick together through this. Ixchel needs to know she can count on me – but I’ve already messed up.
Maybe I should be the one driving – if I could actually drive – because it looks like I’m useless at navigating. I need to come up with something new, and fast. We’re racing headlong towards a wall of mountain, cutting off any easy way to escape. Any minute now Gaspar is going to overtake the tractor. In that big Mercedes, it won’t take them long to c
atch up.
There has to be a solution. One glance at Ixchel is enough to tell me that she’s using up everything she has just keeping this car on the crazy mountain roads. It’s going to have to come from me.
I don’t know where this road plans on taking us, because we’re running out of ground. A sign up ahead reads “Sustenpass”.
Softly I say, “A mountain pass.”
“There’s nowhere else to go,” Ixchel says, “except up.”
In the rock face that looms above, I catch glimpses of cars moving sluggishly, zigzagging back and forth. They’re practically in slow motion.