The Joshua Files - a complete box set: Books 1-5 of the young adult sci-fi adventure series plus techno-thriller prequel

by M. G. Harris

  Could Itzamna still be alive, travelling in time? Ever since I found out about Itzamna and Arcadio I’ve wondered: could they be the same person?

  And how does the Sect of Huracan fit in? They want to let the superwave blast the human race into some nightmare apocalypse, so that billions die and the planet can start to recover from whatever having seven billion people living here has done to it.

  That doesn’t make any sense either. I’m pretty sure Planet Earth can take care of itself. It’s been around for way longer than anything that’s ever lived here.

  Benicio told me once that whatever the Sect’s real purpose is, it will be something that makes sense, even to us. It’ll be about power, or money; how the Sect will have lots of power and influence once our technology-based civilization collapses.

  Whatever it is, the Sect must want it pretty badly, to risk twisting the timeline. Or maybe whoever is in charge is a nut job? I can see how having something like the Bracelet of Itzamna can make you insane. I felt a little crazy when I first thought about using it. All that power to change the destinies of billions of people. I just wanted to change things for me and my family by saving my dad. Ixchel and Tyler were shocked, though, I remember that very clearly. They warned me how dangerous it could be, how it might change other things. At the time, though, I really didn’t care.

  When it didn’t work, my plan to save my father, I kind of got the hint. Some things are just meant to be; what happens, happens.

  Which is why this all feels so wrong. Waking up in a world you realize has changed . . . and you’re the only one who remembers how things used to be.

  It’s a kind of madness.

  What have the Sect done with the Ix Codex? Is there really a chance that I could stop them, fix things so that everything goes back to how it was?

  As sleep descends, I become more and more confused. Two Bracelets. The image just won’t go away.

  Just before I finally can’t resist any longer, I remember: I have seen two Bracelets. I think back to when I found my dad in the cell under Area 51 – we’d stood face to face looking at each other through the bars, Dad with his Bracelet, me with mine.

  Yet it was the same Bracelet.

  Dad was wearing the broken Bracelet that he’d been given by Blanco Vigores. After months of wondering how my dad ended up on the slopes of Mount Orizaba, I actually watched Dad zap himself out of the Area 51 cell. He must have landed on the icy volcano. Dad lost his memory and stayed on the mountain, confused and terrified, because all he could remember was that someone was after him.

  Months later, I showed up on Mount Orizaba, led there by Arcadio’s mysterious coded message. Dad died saving my life – and he gave me the broken Bracelet of Itzamna, with its crystal burned out. The Bracelet could transport someone in space but not time. Without the controlling Crystal Key, the Bracelet of Itzamna was nothing more than a teleport device with no control over where you ended up.

  Arcadio – whoever he is – led me to Mount Orizaba, to my dad, to the Bracelet, because somehow, it matters. I thought it was just for me, so that I could fix the Bracelet and save my dad.

  But what if there was another reason? In his letter to me, Arcadio talked about destiny. He quoted that writer, Borges: Our destiny is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad.

  So maybe this is it. My iron-clad destiny is wrapped up with the Bracelet of Itzamna.

  Blanco Vigores found the broken, burnt-out Bracelet of Itzamna in the ruins of Izapa. He gave it to my dad. My dad gave it to me. I found the Crystal Key – I fixed the Bracelet. When Dad and I faced each other in Area 51 it was with the same Bracelet.

  Remember this, I mutter, dimly aware that my breakthrough insight might be lost in the fog of sleep. There can be two Bracelets – but they could be the one and the same. Suddenly it seems incredibly important that I’ve realized this.

  The Sect of Huracan has a Bracelet of Itzamna. But maybe it isn’t another Bracelet. Maybe it’s mine.

  One from the future, one from the past.

  When I wake up in the morning I feel like I’ve been kicked around all night long. Every part of my body feels bruised, every muscle aches. My mouth is completely parched. My stomach cramps with hunger. I move around a bit, groaning. Then the two guards wake up.

  One of them cuts through the binding around my feet. The other starts coughing and spits against the wall. I look on, bemused. There is going to be some grossness in this place. I’m kind of curious to see what form it takes.

  I don’t have to wait much longer. The haul me to my feet and march me out of the sweaty air of the temple into sunlight so dazzling that for a second, it blinds me. The guards don’t fare much better, I notice. They shield their eyes and mutter under their breath until our eyes adjust.

  Under a white morning sun I get my first proper look at the city. Unbelievable. It’s like being shrunk down and walking through one of those models they make in anthropology museums. A stone city cut neatly into the brilliant green jungle of Mexico.

  The buildings that dominate the citadel are not grimy limestone, like every ruin I’ve ever visited. No: this city blazes with colour; temples glisten with deep hues of blood red, blue, ochre, green. They look like giant versions of those museum models, hard lines etched against a clear blue sky.

  The ground has been cleared; no grassy banks between temples. No vegetation anywhere inside the citadel. In places the ground is paved; small limestone blocks in a rough mosaic. Elsewhere the soil has been tamped down and swept.

  People are everywhere, thousands of them. In front of the giant pyramid, they’re assembling a market. Semi-naked workers in loincloths erect stalls of wooden trestle tables and cloth sunshades, whilst richly dressed men and women oversee servants who bring baskets of fruit, caged animals (lizards, monkeys, birds), jewellery, pots. The air carries a powerful mixture of smells: hot chicken fat, beeswax, fresh blood, wood smoke and the acrid smell of quicklime. As we pass near one of the longer temples which flank the main causeway, I notice that part of the surrounding trees have been chopped down. There’s an enormous pile of smouldering logs in the middle, glowing red at the centre. A line of weary-looking workers ferry baskets of broken limestone rocks, taking turns to toss them on to the bonfire.

  The limestone processing plant – they’re turning quarried limestone into powdery quicklime, making the cement and stucco for building and waterproofing the pyramids. The reason why these buildings will last for centuries, and I’m watching it. Now.

  In spite of all my anxiety, I turn my head as we walk, amazed at the sight. My dad used to tell me about this. Now I’m seeing it for real. Incredible.

  If only Dad could have seen this. He should have been the Bakab Ix, the user of the Bracelet of Itzamna. Not me.

  For a minute or two I’m just reeling at the spectacle, watching the ancient city breathing, growing, pulsating with life. The guards push and kick me to keep me moving along. As we pass, every single person stops what they’re doing. Some simply gape in amazement; others whisper excitedly and point. Dozens of eyes home in on me.

  “We should sell his clothes,” one guard says. The second guy just grunts. “You want to die?” he says. “Lord Yuknoom might want his clothes too.”

  We walk past the entire market, making straight for a green thicket behind the main pyramid. Passing by its flank, I notice that on the broad platform of the enormous lowest tier, there’s a crowd of people. It sounds like there’s some kind of argument going on, or a fight. I can’t see what’s at the centre of the crowd, but the people are getting pretty agitated.

  The temple guards notice me staring up at the gathering. One of them grins nastily.

  “Shall we watch?” he suggests to the second guard. They exchange looks of cruel satisfaction, glancing at me, then at the crowd, then at each other. They push me ahead, forcing me to climb the first terrace of the temple. We walk along to where citizens are buzzing around something.
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br />   The guards start pulling people out of the crowd so that we can get through. The citizens catch wind of the guards moving through their midst and start to step aside. Again, mouths fall open when they look at me.

  Silence sweeps through the crowd like an infection. The final layer of bystanders peels away. We can see clearly to the centre of the crowd: the cause of all the tumult.

  In the middle of it all, about three metres away, stands Ixchel. She stares defiantly at the slender Mayan women who come up to her and, with intense curiosity, prod and touch her hair, skin and clothes.

  “What’s the highest bid?” asks the second guard, laughing.

  Next to Ixchel there’s a man dressed in a two-piece outfit made of a purple-dyed cloth. He’s about thirty years old, with pierced ears, nose and lips. His tense smile stretches across wide angular features without an ounce of spare fat. A taut, muscled arm grabs Ixchel by the wrist.

  “No one bids more than Lady Seven Sky,” he says, throwing out the words with triumph.

  Ixchel and I, we look at each other. I mouth, “Are you OK?” She nods in response, just once.

  “You see, Clear-Eyed Demon, no harm will come to your girl.” The second guard tugs at my arm, making me sway back and forth like a drunk. “Look at him! He’s drunk with love for her!”

  The whole crowd erupts with laughter. Now that they can see that Ixchel’s outfit of jeans, T-shirt and trainers isn’t entirely unique, they seem to have relaxed. But still, I’m sensing an edge of uneasiness. No one will look me in the eye.

  “Lady Seven Sky will have to be disappointed today,” another voice drawls. The voice sounds like it should belong to a headmistress. She approaches, followed by an entourage of three young serving girls. All four females frown haughtily at the crowd. They all seem fully aware of their impact, which is electric.

  “Lady Black Shell,” stammers the trader in purple. Whoever Lady Black Shell is, she’s wiped the smile right off his face. “It’s an honour.”

  “Name your price,” snaps Lady Black Shell, cutting him off. She swivels around and takes me in with a glance. “I’ll have this one too.” Then she stops, stares deep into my eyes. She takes a step closer. “What have we here?”

  The crowd murmurs its appreciation. The second guard speaks up. He seems to enjoy the attention. “We call him the Clear-Eyed Demon, milady. The girl claims he’s a demon straight from the underworld. But he bleeds just like the rest of us.”

  Lady Black Shell approaches me until she’s centimetres away, peering into my eyes with her own: shiny, black and narrow. I’m surprised at how young she looks, but she’s probably my mum’s age at least. She’s wearing a red dress, its edges decorated with embroidery, shells and beads. Around her neck is a rope of gold necklace; her arms are covered in bangles, bracelets and arm bands. Pure gold and silver, encrusted with pieces of jade.

  I can’t help staring back at her. Is this the queen of the Snake Kingdom? She seems grand enough.

  “The king’s sister would have these foreigners for our own daughter,” she purrs, stroking my cheek with one long-fingered nail. “What strange eyes you have,” she adds. The way she stares at me is pretty unnerving. “Strange, yet beautiful. Like water. My daughter will enjoy you.”

  The second guard coughs self-importantly. “The Clear- Eyed Demon is not for sale, milady. We’re taking him to the Jaguar Priest.”

  Lady Black Shell says nothing. But behind her eyes there’s coldness, a vacuum. The first guard’s hand tenses on my shoulder. I sense ice at the base of my spine.

  This woman is dangerous.

  Now she’s about to have Ixchel in her grasp.

  The two temple guards get behind me and start shoving again, this time pushing back through the crowd around Ixchel. I resist for a second, dig in my heels as I stare at Ixchel, trying to find the words.

  “Just let her go, demon,” grumbles the first guard.

  “Ixchel,” I call out. I hesitate. This is nothing like how I imagined I’d be telling her.

  But I promised myself.

  My cheeks burn red. “I’ll be back for you,” is all I manage to say.

  Amazingly, Ixchel smiles. That smile is the last thing I see as the second guard grabs my head, turns it around and shoves me hard in the middle of my back.

  “Stop talking, demon. If we don’t get you out of here, Lady Black Shell and the Jaguar Priest will tear you in two and fight over your bones.”

  After the crowd disperses, the guards scurry down the pyramid steps and back towards the woods behind the citadel. When we’re properly behind the giant pyramid, we veer to the left. Towering behind the trees is another pyramid, one I hadn’t noticed before. It’s some way back inside the jungle, not part of the main citadel but apart – raised slightly on a hill. A pyramid acropolis decorated with squared-off pillars.

  By now the sun is high enough to make the air begin to sizzle. I break into a sweat. The temple guards don’t look at me again; they just keep applying the pressure, pushing and shoving me all the way.

  I’m finally going to meet this Chilam Balam – their Jaguar Priest.

  Better hope I’m right and there really are two Bracelets of Itzamna, or I’m in for some serious grief.

  We climb the steps to the gleaming white stone of the plaza in front of the pyramid. There seems to be some kind of class in progress. Around twenty boys no older than ten are sitting cross-legged listening to a guy dressed in a blue tunic. On the other side of the plaza, there’s a ring of guys around my own age. In the centre of the ring two boys seem to be training to fight with short obsidian knives. The silence descends again as I pass. On one side, solemn-faced little boys with long hair in topknots turn to me; on the other, its sweaty teenagers.

  “You should see this boy fight,” the first guard calls out to the knife-fighters. “He flies around, like a howler monkey!” They perk up immediately. A couple of them nod, painted faces breaking into expectant grins.

  A capoeira demonstration? You’ve got to be kidding. Not now.

  “First the Jaguar Priest,” insists the second guard, grabbing my left arm and pulling me towards the steps of the pyramid. I look back towards the audience of boys, shrugging.

  Relief washes over me for a second, only to be replaced by more tension as we begin to climb the steps.

  This pyramid has only one flight of stairs; they lead to a thatched-roof structure on the summit. The walls of the pyramid are red and decorated with multicoloured friezes of god-masks and other images I don’t recognize. Stone columns – stelae – rise from the staircase at various intervals. They’re also painted red and covered with carved inscriptions.

  We head for the narrow black opening. Inside, flaming torches are placed at intervals. They light up the paint on the walls. We stop in front of a doorway. The second temple guard makes an announcement that I don’t catch. A barrier of woven palm fronds is pulled away from the doorway, from the inside.

  There’s a pause. Then the temple guards shove me, pushing me through the door.

  It’s a small room and he dominates it, the Jaguar Priest. His back is turned to me when I arrive, covered by a long, deep-blue cloak. He’s arranging his headdress or something. There’s a strong, rusty smell of blood in the room, and smoke from the flaming torch.

  The Jaguar Priest turns around. He’s tall – taller than any of the Mayans I’ve seen. It’s not just the headdress, although feathers, shells and bones are arranged in a fearsome creation that sits on his grey, smooth hair. He’s also older than any of the Mayans I’ve seen. In his late fifties, at least. Like all the others his face is painted; swirling black lines and red dots. His lower lip is plugged with a tiny, crescent-shaped stone of deep jade. But there’s something else that’s strange about his face too. Something different.

  He doesn’t look very Mayan. His eyes, his nose and lips are completely European.

  Neither of us speaks for several seconds. The Jaguar Priest eyes me with a strange, sardonic air, looki
ng me over. He breathes loudly through his nose, as if he’s trying to inhale me. I don’t dare to look him in those black-lined eyes, which look even fiercer than Crunching Jaguar’s. I can’t avoid looking at his arms, though.

  On both his arms, just beneath the elbows, is an identical Bracelet of Itzamna.

  He laces his fingers and cracks the knuckles a few times. A slow smile spreads across his face. His teeth gleam white. Not the brown, worn-down stumps I’ve noticed in the older people here – shiny white teeth.

  I look at him; he keeps looking at me. Smiling. He begins to nod. Still not a word has been spoken. The Jaguar Priest speaks first. The moment he opens his mouth, I realize: I know him.