by M. G. Harris
He runs into the yard and then stops.
I’ve lost him—so long as he doesn’t figure out that I’m in the water.
I clamp my mouth shut to stop my teeth from chattering. My energy seeps away with every second.
Now that I’ve stopped moving and I’m up to my neck in icy water, I’m going into shock. My arms and legs begin to shake.
I have to keep going.
I take a deep breath and swim underwater. I move out from the jetty and into the river. When I come up for air, I can see trees and the nearby bank.
I drag myself out near the trees on the little island. And then my muscles won’t respond. I drop behind a tree, catch my breath, get the shakes. Downstream on the other side of the river, Madison is pacing around. There was a nearby yard with a house—maybe he thinks I’ve gone that way?
Then I hear him jump into the river. My heart sinks—he’s figured it out. I stagger to my feet, keep moving through the trees. Farther down, I reach the other side of the island—the river again. I hear the road and see lights up ahead.
I keep going, guided by the street lights. By the time I reach the road, I’m shattered. Madison must have bet on me hiding on the island because I hear him thrashing around in the interior. I stagger into the road. Maybe a car will pass by and stop? I must look terrible—soaked from head to foot, wearing just a bloody vest on top. I make myself keep jogging, barely moving faster than a walk.
I turn around and peek through a gap in the hedge. I’m just in time to see Madison climbing out of the water, onto the road. He could catch up with me in two seconds.
I pull off the road and into the dark of the meadow. If I remember correctly from our family walks, there are some ruins close by—an old convent. If I can get behind the walls, I can hide for hours, always staying on the opposite side from Madison. The somber silhouettes of the ruined walls stand out against the sky up ahead. I jog a little faster across the footpath and into the ruins. I lean against the wall, breathing deeply to recover.
I’m so weak, I seriously don’t know whether I can keep going. But it’s that or he catches me. I cross the grass to the opposite side of the ruins. I find what I’m looking for—the ruined chapel. There’s just one entrance. Inside, I climb onto the ledge of an east window.
I keep very still, listening for Madison. After two or three minutes, I hear footsteps on the path. I duck back inside the chapel ruin, press myself tightly into the shadows. I hear someone take a running jump onto the window ledge and a head pokes through the bars on the window. I hold my breath. He almost certainly can’t see me, but he hesitates. He knows I’m here—I sense it.
The only way into the chapel is the long way around, the way I came. After a minute on the ledge, he jumps down. I hear his footsteps recede, carrying on around the outer wall of the ruin.
I move to the chapel entrance, waiting.
This will be my only chance. I’m going to have to land a staggering blow the first time. I doubt I’d last five seconds in a fight by now. I bounce lightly on my toes, waiting, shivering. My arms and chest are prickly with goosebumps.
I hear Madison’s breathing as he approaches. I try to visualize his hand holding the gun, to picture him walking into the chapel.
His gun will be in his right hand, about a foot in front of his body. He’ll be stepping cautiously.
I don’t even have to think about which move to use. This is it; time to prove myself worthy of my capoeira nickname— Mariposa—the butterfly twist.
I bounce into ginga, preparing—full concentration.
As Madison crosses the threshold, I lunge into the run-up, dip, and flip myself into mariposa—a flying double scissor kick with a twist. As my torso whips through the air, my legs connect with his right arm, catch it between my ankles in a violent, rapid twisting movement.
Almost perfect.
Madison drops the gun, falls to his knees, yelling in agony. While he’s on the ground, I aim a low kick to the back of his head. But he’s too quick; he’s already getting up. My kick lands in his back instead, knocks his head forward against the chapel wall. He slumps to the ground, grunting.
I struggle to hold my position, exhausted, wondering how long he’ll be out of action. Probably not long—he’s still moving groggily and moaning. I crawl on all fours, scrabbling in the damp grass for the gun. When I find it, I think seriously about shooting him in the leg.
But I’ve never used a gun. I’m pretty shaky—what if my aim wobbles and I kill him? Holding the gun already feels horrible, scary. Madison’s right there, helpless. I could kill him, maim him—if I wanted to.
Except that I can’t. I know in that instant—it’s not who I am.
Instinct tells me to get out of there, and fast. So I’m moving again, this time carrying the gun. Back through the looming shadows of the convent, across the footpath, deeper into Port Meadow, now with the river on my left.
I’m hoping that Madison will assume I’d head back to the road and the safety of Godstow Village, or the restaurant. But I need to find a place to hide until Benicio arrives from Ek Naab.
If he arrives from Ek Naab. With my Ek Naab phone lying in pieces back at Ollie’s place, he can’t trace me. Port Meadow is big; the river is long.
I stagger past a river lock. The warm lights of a brick cottage beckon. I find an old woodshed near the cottage. It’s about the same height as me. There’s a door on a latch, and I crawl inside. There are some rotting scraps of old carpet piled over the wood. I pull the chunks of carpet over me. They smell of mold, but they’re mostly dry. I hold the gun between my knees, keep it pointed at the door.
I’m freezing cold, exhausted, terrified—but relieved. I can’t risk letting anyone know I’m here. I can’t go home or be seen. What if I’m turned in to the police and they call Mom?
Without my Ek Naab phone, my best bet is to stay near the river in Port Meadow until four in the morning. And hope Benicio has a way to find me.
The fight with Madison has drained all my strength. I have to make myself stay awake for the next few hours. But I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. I’m shaking violently, on and off. Even my thoughts slow down. It’s as though getting into the shed was the last thing my brain could force my body to do.
And now everything … everything is shutting down.
16
At some point I become aware of a familiar yet eerily displaced sound; it takes me a few minutes to work out that it’s the sound of a Muwan landing. I blink, push open the door, lurch away from the woodshed. Beyond the house, the meadow is thick with early-morning mist. Dawn is still hours away. I can still hear the Muwan. But inside that mist, I can’t see anything.
I walk unsteadily to the riverbank, still wrapped in pieces of carpet, holding the gun. Visibility is no better than ten yards. I shuffle along the bank for several minutes.
A hand grabs my shoulder, spins me around.
“It’s me, Benicio. What happened—where’s your cell phone?”
I don’t answer, trembling with cold.
Benicio’s eyes zero in on the gun in my hand. Alarmed, he wrests it from my numbed fingers. “No manches! When it’s a real gun, don’t even pretend! Where’d this come from?”
I still can’t talk. Benicio looks carefully at the gun before he pockets it.
“I had to use the infrared scanner to find you. You’re freezing! Hardly even a blip.”
Benicio leads me toward the Muwan. He switches the lights on by remote as we approach it somewhere in the middle of the meadow. Then Benicio pushes me up the Muwan’s ladder. I drop heavily into the passenger seat. My hands are too numb to get into the seat properly. In the interior lights of the Muwan, Benicio removes the rotten carpet and gets his first real look at me. He inhales sharply. “Man … you’re a mess.”
I can’t reply. My cracked lips move, but I can’t make a sound. Benicio disappears briefly, reappears with blankets and a bottle of water. He throws the blankets around me and tucks me int
o one of the backseats. I begin to shake again. He tips water into my mouth and I drink the whole bottle, slowly. He follows up with a metal thermos. The liquid is so hot it almost scalds my tongue. Then I manage to taste it—hot chocolate.
Benicio chuckles. “Take it easy, buddy. Don’t hurt yourself.”
The heat goes straight into my chest. It’s like a warm glow spreading through me—something I thought I’d never feel again.
Benicio takes off soon after. The craft flies straight up into the sky for almost twenty seconds, then moves forward smoothly. Benicio must have hit autopilot because he twists around in the forward seat, looking at me.
“Man, you’re beat up pretty bad,” he says.
I nod, once.
“You think you can make it back to Ek Naab? I’m pretty sure there’s blood on your shirt. And you’re freezing, absolutely freezing.”
I can barely answer without almost biting off my tongue.
Benicio sounds doubtful. “I don’t know, Josh. It’s gonna be around two hours. Maybe I should take you to a hospital.”
I shake my head. “Hospital … will call Mom,” I manage.
“Yeah, we should call her.”
“No! No … can’t.”
“Ah … really … I don’t know.”
Benicio turns away and starts talking quietly into his headset, speaking in Yucatec. After a while, he says to me, “I’m going to land, take your pulse, blood pressure, temperature, and then we’ll see. You have hypothermia, Josh. You can die from this.”
We land ten minutes later, in Ireland. When Benicio tells me this, all I manage to mumble is, “I’ve never been to Ireland.”
He takes all his readings, but I already know what the answer is going to be. I can feel myself warming up from the inside out and from the outside in.
Finally, he gives me a grin. “You’re okay. I think!”
I breathe a long sigh of relief.
“You can tell me all about how this happened to you when we get home. But for now, you should sleep.”
“Can’t … ,” I say. “Tyler … danger.”
“Your friend is in danger?”
I nod. I’ve been thinking about what Ollie will do next, and I have a nightmarish feeling that she and Madison will bring Tyler in.
What have they got to lose now? She’s blown her cover with me. Tyler is their last chance to bargain.
“Have to warn him,” I say.
My phone is soaked, so Benicio takes out his own phone. I dial Tyler’s cell phone number and wait.
“Who’s this?” he answers, sounding sleepy and annoyed.
“It’s me, Josh.” I’m shocked at how much effort it takes to talk, even now. My lips are slow; my tongue feels thick.
“Josh! You know what time it is?”
“There’s danger. Ollie—she’s bad news. One of them. Stay away. Get out of Oxford.”
“What … ?”
“Tyler, I’m serious. Get up. Get out. You could be next.”
“You okay? You sound awful.”
“I will be okay. Can’t talk much now. Keep your cell phone on. Don’t let Ollie know you know. Leave tomorrow. Promise me!”
“Okay, okay! I’ll do it. You gonna tell me why?”
“I will.” I sigh. “But not now. Tired. Hurting.”
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“Who’s with you?”
“A friend.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
“Tyler … one more thing. Listen, okay? Go to my house, soon as you can. Key is with neighbor, Jackie. Get postcards on my desk. There are six … keep them safe. Jackie can’t let Ollie in. For any reason. Got that?”
I make him repeat the instructions and say we’ll talk again tomorrow.
Benicio takes off again. The Muwan floats soundlessly through the sky. Flying west, we’re headed away from the rising sun, backward in time to the depths of night. Through the cockpit dome I can see stars gleaming in a velvety sky. The moon has set, but I can see a faint halo of its glow beyond the horizon. I have the strangest feeling of being wafted out to space, like a leaf caught in a pocket of warm air.
I must be dreaming, because just when I think I’m on the edge of sleep, I hear Stan Getz playing his sax over a chorus of violins. It’s a slow tune with a deep, melancholy vibe.
Well, at least it isn’t the “Blue in Green” dream again.
BLOG ENTRY: MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT
Remember that Stan Getz tune? I was listening to it last night, flying over the Atlantic. Dad left his iPod in the Mayan city when he was there. (My second cousin Benicio dropped that piece of information on me today.) Dad was expecting to go back to Ek Naab. He disappeared while making what he thought was a quick trip to look for the Ix Codex. Dad’s iPod was still in the room where he slept in Ek Naab. Waiting.
I don’t know why, but little things make me saddest of all.
I’ve got the iPod back now, just the way Dad left it. I’m going to keep it with me and I’m not going to change a thing.
About Ollie—Mom, how can you tell who to trust? I wish someone would tell me. Because I don’t seem to be very good at spotting people who are out to deceive me.
I managed to find the stolen documents and destroy them. From what Ollie said later, though, I think it may have been too late. I think they’d already deciphered them. Then Ollie and lover-boy Madison came back and … let’s just say I made it out of there with my life, okay?
I was hurt, but nothing too serious. Some nasty bruises and a few cuts from broken glass. A woman named Lorena here in Ek Naab patched me up. She gave me some pills and let me sleep in a nice comfy bed, not a hammock. I slept for most of the day, woke up, ate some food.
Then I found Benicio’s computer and wrote this blog entry. Gonna have to finish soon … I can hardly keep my eyes open.
Ek Naab is just as bizarre as I remembered. I looked out of Benicio’s window and saw the plaza, the lit-up church, the five-globed street lights, and everywhere, the hibiscus flowers. And then looked up—straight into the mesh ceiling of Ek Naab.
I didn’t dream it. So weird.
17
When I’m done writing the blog, I lie down. I only mean to rest for a few minutes, but the painkillers Lorena gave me are making me woozy, and I sleep the whole night through—my second night in Ek Naab. I hear voices from the room next to the bedroom I’m in. I wander through to find Benicio with Montoyo. They’re sipping coffee, talking quietly. When Montoyo sees me, he stands up, comes over to me, and gives me a typical Mexican man-hug, with a slap on my back.
“Glad to have you with us again,” he says. Montoyo hasn’t changed his appearance at all—black shirt, black pants and boots, gray-flecked ponytail. He’s just as serious as ever; I can’t tell that he’s happy to see me until he says so.
On the table are two plates containing cinnamon buns and molletes—warm crusty rolls spread with refried beans, fresh white cheese, and a tomato salsa. Benicio pours me a tall glass of orange juice. Benicio and Montoyo watch me eat, which can’t be a pretty sight—I’m starving.
“So. Let’s hear about this ill-fated excursion into the lair of the enemy,” says Montoyo with a touch of sarcasm.
I tell them everything I remember, every detail, beginning with how I first met Ollie. They listen and occasionally nod. Montoyo’s expression never changes. He’s heard most of this before, from our last phone call. But when I come to my raid on Ollie’s house, his interest picks up.
“This document you found on her computer,” Montoyo says. “It’s very important that you try to describe everything you remember. Even a detail could be crucial.”
I remember all the town names I saw—Wengen, Andermatt, Morcote, Ticino—but none of the people’s names.
“Hmmm. Switzerland …” Montoyo thinks for a moment, then sighs. “It’s a shame you weren’t able to print this out.”
“He
y, I burned the copied pages of the codex,” I remind him.
“A good plan, but probably a waste of time. As you said, they’d already deciphered it.”
“Yeah … about that …”
And then I ask the single question that’s been troubling me since the minute I cracked the code of the Ix Codex.
“Why is the Ix Codex written in English?”
Montoyo and Benicio stare at me. Benicio’s eyes become round and shiny. Montoyo sighs and turns to Benicio, who stands up.
“It’s okay, I know, I know. I’m going,” Benicio says and leaves the room. I just about hear him sigh as he goes out through the front door.
Montoyo turns a stern eye on me. “You don’t talk about the codex to anyone outside the Executive. Ever!”
“All right!” I say. “I’m sorry!”
“Benicio, as you’ve realized by now, did not know what you have just told us. For the sake of most of the citizens of Ek Naab, the Books of Itzamna are written in code—that’s all they know.”
“All right,” I say. “But Benicio’s okay, isn’t he? I mean, we can tell him.”
Montoyo pauses for a second. “Benicio is okay, yes, but the policy should not be changed.”
I’m starting to feel defensive. “You could have warned me.”
He nods. “Accepted. But from now on, you don’t speak of the codex to anyone outside of the Executive, okay?”
We watch each other for a second. He’s deadly earnest.
I say, “Okay.”
“I don’t have a good answer to your question,” he says. “It has been the subject of speculation for hundreds of years—the reason that we didn’t decipher the codices for so long—but no citizen of Ek Naab knew English. And then in 1842, we had a visitor, the American explorer Mr. John Lloyd Stephens.”
Montoyo and I exchange a long, knowing look.
“John Lloyd Stephens?” I blurt.
“Yes.”
“Who wrote the book … ?”
Montoyo nods, calmly. “Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan … The one Simon Madison took from your house, yes, that one.”