Invisible City

by M. G. Harris

  BLOG ENTRY: DECIPHERMENT!

  There are a couple of reasons for today’s blog entry. It’s a secret record that I dare not leave on paper, or on the hard drive of any computer I’m known to access.

  But no one knows about the blog. I haven’t even told TopShopPrincess/Ollie that I’ve started the blog again. I’m kind of embarrassed about what I might write about her.

  Jeez. Ollie! What a turnaround. I stopped being angry with her about ten seconds after she apologized. Thing is, I’d always kind of thought of her as a slightly weird, kooky type of girl. She’s anything but that. She looks like a goddess, with the brain of an uber-geek.

  Ollie and I couldn’t work together at Summertown Library—we were getting too many angry looks and warnings to be quiet. Tyler, an old friend from capoeira, owed me a favor. I turned up on his doorstep with Ollie and told him, “Debt collection time. I need you to let me use your computer for the rest of the night.”

  I didn’t have to say anything. With Ollie in tow, he’d have given his living room over to us, even if there was a big game on TV. When he offered to help out with the decipherment, we accepted. I figured there was safety in numbers: the more of us who knew, the harder it would be for Them to silence us.

  Them. Now I’m really talking like a conspiracy buff.

  We cracked open the drinks and the Pringles and put Batman Begins on the DVD player as a decoy for Tyler’s parents. Then we started on the inscription.

  I quickly showed the other two what I knew about reading Mayan hieroglyphs. Mayan inscriptions were written in a grid format. According to the how-to book, the first glyphs give the date of the document. Then the writing proceeded in a two-column grid that could be labeled in reading order: A2, B2, A3, B3, A4, B4, etc. until the end of the page. Then it continued in the next two columns: C2, D2, C3, D3, etc.

  We started with the easiest part—the date. My dad taught me how to read Mayan dates years ago, to stop me from whining with boredom. I still remember how, but I can’t do it without a dictionary.

  In Mayan, the date was 9.11.0.4.8 16 Pax 9 Lamat.

  In English, that translates to Jan 8, 653 AD.

  This letter was written in the seventh century!

  Then we got started on the main part of the letter. We each took one glyph apart at a time. First we’d look up the whole glyph in case we got lucky. Sometimes a whole glyph can mean something—like the name of a place.

  When we’d solved as many of those as possible, our eyes were getting blurry from looking at all the different glyphs. We took a little break.

  By then we knew the inscription included the words Cancuén, Yuknoom Ch’een, Calakmul, Bakab, Itzamna, servant, sacred, book, Ix, and the phrase “it will occur.”

  Then came the really tough part. We crunched through the rest of the glyphs syllable by syllable. When we thought we had a possible solution, we’d search for the word on the Web and find out all we could about it. That’s how we made sense of the translation.

  Six hours later we were still at it. We ordered pizza, kept going. It was like each one of us was daring the others to be the ones to wimp out. I kept asking, “Shall we stop now, go to bed?” but they’d go, “No way, we’re almost there!”

  And as the dawn light filtered through the blinds, we had the whole thing deciphered.

  K’inich K’ane Ajk of Cancuén writes to Lord Yuknoom Ch’een of Calakmul

  I am your servant

  From Chechan Naab he emerged, from the Great Temple of the Cross

  The Bakab was defeated

  This sacred Book of Ix speaks of the end of days

  13.0.0.0.0 it is written in the Sacred Books of Itzamna

  It will occur

  Chapter 10

  I stare at the inscription for a few seconds and let out a slow “Wow.”

  Tyler asks, “What does it mean—‘end of days’? Is that like …?”

  “… the end of the world?” I say. “Yeah. My dad told me about all that years ago. The Mayan calendar ends on the date 13.0.0.0.0—Thirteen Baktun.”

  Tyler stares, expectant. “Um … when’s that, then? In our calendar, I mean.”

  I try to sound calm. “Well … it’s pretty soon, actually.”

  “When?”

  “December twenty-second, 2012.”

  Tyler’s mouth opens, as if he’s trying to think of something funny to say. But nothing comes out.

  “People have been trying to work out what that date—Thirteen Baktun—means for ever. No one knows.”

  Tyler stabs a finger at our translation. “This ‘Book of Ix’ seems to know!”

  “Book of Ix—that must mean the Ix Codex,” Ollie says thoughtfully.

  “I can’t see any mention of Ek Naab here …,” I mutter.

  “Can we talk about this end-of-the-world thing a bit more?” Tyler says, his voice rising.

  “It’s not literal,” I say. “Not literally the end of the world. More like the end of an era. That’s what my dad told me.”

  “Good thing you’re so sure about that!” Tyler says. “I’ve never heard of it until now, but it seems pretty worrying to me! I mean—I’ve got plans, you know!”

  I say, “This is about a rare Mayan book—some book that maybe finally explains just what the Mayans meant by ending their calendar in 2012.”

  “Yeah,” Tyler says, emphatically. “And what if it really is about the end of the world?”

  Could it really be? The idea is so far from what I’ve been brought up to believe about the Maya that I can hardly take it in.

  I can’t answer Tyler’s question, so I look again at the Calakmul letter.

  The manuscript consists of two sets of two columns. The final sentence is incomplete.

  Not only are we missing part of the letter, we can’t make sense of the final sentence. The final glyph is a verb, the beginning of a sentence: utom—“it will occur.”

  Everything to the right of that is ripped away. Without the second half, we can’t even make sense of the first. Without it, we have no hope of picking up the trail of the codex. And without that second half, my dad wouldn’t either. So if he thought he’d found the codex—he must have hidden the second half of the Calakmul letter somewhere else. But where?

  “There’s that word again,” Ollie says. “Bakab. Wasn’t that in your dream? The one you blogged?”

  “I dreamed Bakabix.”

  “That’s right,” says Tyler. “Bakab, Ix. They’re both in this inscription.”

  The possibility that my dream might have some connection to the inscription hits me like a kick to the stomach. It’s all too weird. For a second, I imagine myself back in the leaf storm of my dream. There’s a flash of memory, a curtain of fragrant smoke behind which a stranger chokes to death.

  I suddenly need to be alone, to think. I manage to say, “I really need to get back now.”

  I drag myself back to Jackie’s just as the paper-route kids are hitting the street. The dream is still with me. It isn’t so much what I actually witnessed in the dream but the feeling of utter foreignness. Nothing about it felt familiar.

  The dream of the misty lakeside straw hut with its cold, unmoving death scene—like nothing I’ve ever seen. It feels otherworldly. Disturbing.

  That date turning up in the Calakmul letter—December 22, 2012—and the mention of the “end of days.” Written about in the Book of Ix—the Ix Codex.

  And those words together. Bakab. Ix.

  Summon the Bakab Ix.

  What—or who—is the Bakab Ix?

  Could it really be the guy in my dad’s photo? I’m feeling more and more like I’ve stepped out of reality.

  Later that morning I’m at school for a computer class. But this close to the end of term, it’s pretty freestyle. Most of us just surf the Web. I Google “Bakab.” The Bakab is a figure from Mayan mythology—one of four sons of the Mayan deity Itzamna. Itzamna is one of the top gods as far as Mayan deities go—the bringer of writing and agriculture to the M
aya people. Only the Creator Gods are above Itzamna. In Mayan mythlogy, Itzamna married a goddess named Ixchel. They had four sons, who were named Ix, Cauac, Muluc, and Kan. The Bakab Ix must be one of these guys.

  Why would someone want to summon a Mayan god? Is it some weird occult thing?

  After school I take the bus up to the hospital. I’m hoping to hear that Mom’s coming home this weekend. The attendant tells me how much better she is; they’ve changed her medication; it’s very light now and she’s “more herself again.” He lets me into her room, but she’s asleep. Fine—I’m pretty zoned myself. I lie down for a little nap in the second bed. And I’m out in seconds.

  Sometime later I’m vaguely aware of someone fumbling through my schoolbag. I’m still half asleep, and in that state all I’m thinking is that it’s fine; Mom’s always searching for neglected letters from school. Then there’s a long silence. Mom remains quite still.

  I wake up to find her staring at a photograph in her hand. It’s that photo—the one I found in Dad’s office.

  Mom’s tone is bewildered. “Where did you find this?”

  “Dad gave it to me.”

  Sharply she replies, “No, he didn’t.”

  I pause, surprised. “He did.” It’s a small lie, I decide, a detail.

  “He kept that photo on him. He was never without it.”

  “Why?”

  “If he really gave it to you, he’d have told you what it meant to him.”

  I stay quiet. No doubt about it—she’s sounding much better.

  “So you lied to me.” It isn’t a question. “I found it in his college office. I went there to get some books.”

  “Why?”

  “Just … because I wanted to learn about Mayan hieroglyphs.”

  “Why?”

  I groan, fall back onto the bed.

  “Jeez, Mom. Wow, you really are sounding like your old self! Look, it’s to do with the Mayan codex Dad was after. Okay?”

  Mom looks puzzled.

  “You do remember me telling you about the codex he was searching for?”

  She says yes. But I’m not convinced.

  I snap, “Come on, Mom, we’ve been through this.” Then I remember where we are. And I’m filled with regret.

  Mom stares at me with a searching expression. “You tell me why you’re so interested in that photo and I’ll tell you what it meant to your dad.”

  “Okay. Only …” I hesitate. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Why, are you going to lie to me again?”

  “No, it’s just that … well, you’re going to think it sounds stupid.”

  “Try me.”

  So I tell Mom about the dream. I tell her everything, with every detail I can remember. Relating it, I feel my spine prickle. And when I come to the end of the dream, I say, “Then he looks at me and he says …”

  “‘Summon the Bakab Ix,’” says Mom.

  “How?” I whisper. “How could you know?”

  “Because I’ve heard this before,” Mom says simply. “Your father had the exact same dream. All his life. Since he was a little boy. And he never, never understood it. It obsessed him. Andres researched the myth of the Bakabs. Wrote lots of papers about them. He wasn’t any closer to understanding the dream. Then, about a year ago, his mother wrote to him. The man who raised him, whom he called ‘Papa,’ wasn’t his real father. That kind of family secret—it’s not unusual, especially in a Catholic country like Mexico. Young women who got pregnant out of wedlock didn’t broadcast it then, and they still don’t. She married a close family friend and that was that—they forgot about the real father. You certainly didn’t go telling your children that they were illegitimate.

  “But she’s getting old, so she decided to come clean with Andres, to admit the truth. She told him that his real father was a museum curator, a man she met when she was nineteen. At least he said he was a museum curator. He was the man in this photo. He was looking to buy old manuscripts from local collectors and take them back to his museum. One thing led to another between the two of them. Then one day he just upped and disappeared. Your grandmother—Abuelita—called the museum he said he worked for, but they’d never heard of him. No one had. He arrived as if from nowhere and went back the same way. This photo of him was the only evidence Abuelita ever really had that he’d ever existed. That and your father, of course.”

  I have no idea what to say.

  Mom continues, “Your dad was raised by the man who was kind enough to marry Abuelita. He never knew or suspected. Then, when he was about ten or eleven, he began to dream about the man in the hut. And ‘Summon the Bakab Ix.’ It haunted him. When he discovered that the man in his dream was really his father … well …”

  She pauses, seems wistful at the memory. “He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was as though a missing part of him had been found. But it still didn’t make sense of the dream.”

  Then she turns, stares intently at me for a second, and asks, “Josh, did Dad ever tell you about that dream?”

  I shake my head. Seems like Dad had been pretty close-mouthed about the whole matter.

  “Then,” Mom says quietly, “how can this be happening to you too?”

  BLOG ENTRY: CAPOEIRA O LE LE

  I was desperate for a bit of normality, so I let Tyler persuade me to join the capoeira players in a demonstration for the Summertown Arts Festival. We set up outside the bank on a sunny Saturday morning by the curious Summertown residents. A light breeze blew the last of the loose cherry blossoms from a nearby tree and they drifted over us like snow. Mestre Ricardo took the berimbau, the main musical instrument we use in capoeira; I took the pandeiro drum. The whole group stood in a circle as we drummed up a crowd with a song. Pretty soon supermarket shoppers were crossing the road to watch us launch ourselves in combat. In capoeira, the trick is to just skirt the edges—no contact. It’s a flirtation with violence, a ballet. The beauty of the game lies in the controlled, acrobatic restraint of the players.

  After a few turns I was up against Tyler. We’d rehearsed the cue. As the roda struck up with the song “Capoeira O Le Le,” we began. Ginga, handstand, au malandrau, cocorinha, armada, queixada. I executed my moves perfectly, just as we practiced. Then Tyler left the script and pulled out some style moves—a headspin, a handstand whirl. I could see him grinning at me, thrilled to have caught me off guard. From then on we improvised; we dropped into the music’s groove.

  That Tyler—he’s a show-off. But he knows how to please an audience. The crowd loved it.

  Then Ollie turned up. And the subject turned to the codex …

  Chapter 11

  I glance around the faces, hoping to see Ollie—and then there she is. Luckily, Tyler’s also thrown off balance at the sight of her. With her eyes on us our pace picks up a notch. I can feel my skin warming where her gaze lands.

  “That was coolness,” she says afterward, grinning. Tyler has another bout to prepare for, and he strips off to the T-shirt underneath.

  “He’s in good shape,” she remarks to me as Tyler takes up his position against Mestre Ricardo.

  I sigh. “Yeah. I know. He’ll probably be selected for the British team.”

  “I should hope so,” she says. “He’s terrific!”

  It’s definitely time to change the subject. “So guess what,” I say. “I’ve found out something about the man in my dream.”

  Ollie swivels around, eyes wide. “Go on.”

  “He’s my grandfather,” I tell her. “My secret grandfather. Turns out that Dad was illegitimate. His mother only confessed to Dad about a year ago. She sent him a photo of his father. And that’s how I know. Dad’s father—he’s the guy from my dream.”

  Well, that does it. I have Ollie’s undivided, even fascinated, attention.

  I glance at Tyler, who completes a series of intricate moves, a breathtaking sequence of handstand whirls, headspins, and a clock movement. He’s not improvising against Mestre Ricardo, I notice. Each t
ime the players attack, they plant precisely aimed blows within inches of each other’s bodies. The crowd surrounds us even more densely. They murmur their appreciation.

  Ollie stands next to me, lost in thought. “So in your dream,” she says, speaking very slowly, “you’re seeing the death of your own grandfather?”

  I nod. That’s it exactly—like a premonition. Only it’s already happened.

  “And he is asking for the Bakab Ix?”

  “Right.”

  “Wow.” Her voice drops to a breathless whisper. “So this Mayan thing—it’s been going on in your family for, like, years?”

  Again I nod. “My grandfather found the Calakmul letter—the one we deciphered. That’s how Dad started on his search for the Ix Codex.”

  “But if your grandfather had the Calakmul letter, then maybe he was searching for the Ix Codex too.”

  “That’s the whole point. Grandpa was hunting for the codex. Then Dad. Now me.”

  Ollie punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Way to keep your family legacy going!”

  “Some legacy,” I say. “They’re both dead. And still no codex.”

  “Still,” she replies, “I wonder why your grandpa was looking for it.”

  It seems pretty obvious to me. He was a museum curator, a seeker of rare Mayan objects.

  “What does his museum say?” Ollie asks.

  That was the odd thing. They’d denied all knowledge of him, right from the start.

  “Abuelita—my grandma—she tried. Years back. She doesn’t even know where he really came from.”

  Ollie’s eyes glisten. “Amazing! And you know what else is interesting—the missing half of the Calakmul letter? Your dad must have had it once.”

  “That’s what I think,” I say. “Or else how could he think he’d found the trail of the Ix Codex?”

  Ollie goes quiet for a while, her eyes drifting off as she watches the capoeira players.

  “So,” I tell her, “I’ve decided. I’ve got to find a way to go … to find Dad’s woman in Chetumal.”