by M. G. Harris
“How come?”
“Aureliano,” says Benicio, “he was spending most of his time outside the city. Searching for the Ix Codex. Your grandpa, I think he was kind of a crazy guy. You know? Living by his own rules. We have our rules here, and when he was here, he lived by them. But outside … outside he was playing another game.”
“Another game? What do you mean?”
“I mean, here, he has his wife. By arranged marriage, of course. But no son. Maybe he’s not so happy, so outside, he hooks up with this other woman …”
“Wait, wait,” I say. “Slow down. Arranged marriage?”
Benicio’s eyes widen. “You don’t know about this?”
“Look, I just got here, okay? This isn’t easy to take in, you know!”
Benicio pats my back. “Hey, man, cool it! That’s why your cousin Benicio is here, okay? To answer all your questions. Sorry—I thought Montoyo told you all about the Bakabs.”
There it was again. That term—the Bakab. It was mentioned in the Calakmul letter, written way back in 653 AD. I dreamed about someone saying, Summon the Bakab Ix.
What on earth are the Bakabs?
“Arranged marriage is normal for the Bakabs,” Benicio explains. “Has always been this way. All the Bakabs must have a marriage arranged by the atanzahab, the matchmaker.”
“So you still have Bakabs in Ek Naab?”
“Yes. Your grandfather was a Bakab. You didn’t know this? He, your father, and you. All Bakabs.”
“Until yesterday, I thought Bakabs were Mayan gods.” Benicio nods gently. “Not ‘gods.’ But descended from Itzamna, yes. That’s why the bloodline must be protected. And so, marriages must be arranged. To guarantee it.”
Piece by piece, things fall into place. I lean back on the sofa, overwhelmed.
I’m a Bakab. Descended from Itzamna. Not a “god”—but a real person.
Benicio stands up. “I’m gonna make some breakfast. You look like you need it.”
He disappears through an archway into a kitchen, from which, after some minutes, delicious smells waft in my direction. I can’t resist and I join him at the stove. Benicio gives me a friendly smile as he scrambles eggs, heats refried beans and tomatoes, and griddles maize tortillas. He indicates a fridge, says, “You want some juice? There’s papaya and pineapple.”
We take our food out on plates and sit on the sofa as we eat. I’m so famished that I stop talking, even though I’m thinking of questions as I wolf down the breakfast.
When the initial pangs of hunger wear off, I ask, “So, Benicio … are you a Bakab?”
“No. Our great-grandfather was a Bakab, but only his son’s sons can be Bakabs. It’s through the male line.”
“Like priests?”
“Not like priests,” Benicio says. “We have a woman priest. Maybe I’m not explaining this very well. The Bakab thing—it’s inherited. On the Y chromosome. You know what the Y chromosome is?
“Of course I do,” I say, a bit annoyed. “I’ve taken biology. So what’s passed along on the Y chromosome? Is it, like, some special ability?”
“Yes—a special ability. The power to resist the curse of the codex.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “You’re kidding me.”
But Benicio’s face is entirely serious. “Look, the Bakabs, they are the guardians of the four codices—known as the Books of Itzamna. Everything we know about technology, it comes from these four codices. Ancient knowledge, which has been copied down every fifty years by the Bakabs, since we received them from Itzamna.”
“And the Book of Ix—is one of these?”
“That’s right. The Bakabs are Muluc, Cauac, Kan, and Ix. Your family carries the blood of the Bakab Ix. The Bakabs in your family, they protected the Ix Codex.”
“‘Summon the Bakab Ix,’” I say wonderingly.
“What?”
“It’s something I once dreamed.”
“Well, the Bakab Ix, that’s you now. You’re the only one.”
“Why do you need a Bakab?”
“To find the Ix Codex,” he says. “It’s why you came here, right? Only a Bakab can do it. The Books of Itzamna are protected by an ancient curse. Anyone but a Bakab—if they touch one codex—they will die.”
They want me to find the codex. Well, fine—me too. But I need that codex for myself. Without it, how will I persuade the police and NRO to leave Camila’s husband and my friends in peace?
Chapter 24
Benicio seems so normal that it kind of freaks me out. I watch as he disappears into the kitchen to return with two cups of tea and a package of cookies. He seems like any Mexican college kid. When I mention this, he says, “Sure, I have to work in the outside, see? So I learned to speak like the Mexican kids, even spend some time living among them. It’s possible to live like this, Josh. But it’s only on the outside. On the inside, believe me”—and he taps his chest close to his heart—“right here, I understand my priorities.”
And he looks at me closely. “Just like you should understand yours.”
Well, I’m beginning to. Everything is beginning to make a strange kind of sense. From the minute I started out on this quest for the Ix Codex, I’ve felt the bond between my father and me grow stronger. Just as he discovered the mysterious bond between himself and his own, secret father. I’m becoming conscious of the link between all the men in my family, those who’ve gone before me. The idea that this all ends with me, that I have to finish what they all began, sends cold shivers down my spine.
Yet I’m not afraid.
“You know what you’re here to do?” Benicio asks quietly.
And somehow, I do know. It’s as though the thought has been buried inside me forever, and I’ve finally uncovered it.
“You want me to find the Ix Codex.”
Benicio nods. “First, you need to be officially installed as the Bakab Ix.”
“I thought you said it was an inherited thing.”
“Yes, of course, you already are the Bakab, but you know, rituals and ceremonies and all those things. Your Prince William, he isn’t just the king one day, is he? They still have to perform the coronation.”
“It’s different. And he’s only second in line to the throne. He can’t be the king just because he’s the prince of Wales.”
“Well, you, you’re the first in line to be the Bakab Ix. So you need to be installed with the ceremony.”
“Or else, what? There’s another potential Bakab Ix wandering around?”
Benicio’s features cloud. And he doesn’t answer.
“The Executive will install you,” he says.
“Who’s the ‘Executive’?”
Benicio says, “It’s, like, the government. The four Bakabs; our mayor, Chief Sky Mountain; and the atanzahab—the matchmaker.”
“The matchmaker? Why?”
“It’s kind of an honorary title,” he says with a grin. “She’s more like our chief scientist. These marriage matches aren’t made with potions and incantations and things like that, not anymore. She uses state-of-the-art genetic matching.”
“But you’re missing the Bakab Ix?”
“Exactly. That’s where Carlos Montoyo comes in. When your grandfather left, we chose a proxy—someone to stand in for the Bakab Ix. Montoyo is the third one we’ve had. Then your dad came back and … well, we had our hopes, but, you know …”
He flashes a rueful grin; I return one.
“So anyway, we’re back with Carlos as the proxy. He works undercover in a university. He files patents in the world outside, based on technologies from the Books of Itzamna. That’s why the city is so rich. Worth billions of dollars a year. All secret—bank accounts in Switzerland, Monaco, the Caymans. And with all the money, Chief Sky Mountain runs building, engineering, and genetics projects. Makes Ek Naab what you see today.”
I can see out the window and it’s hard to believe I’m not in a swanky neighborhood of Mexico City. Albeit a very cramped one. Most buildings are separated only by
narrow alleyways and the occasional small patio. It’s like a modern version of a medieval town. With a Mayan twist.
“So all this, right under the nose of the Mexican government?”
“Pretty much. Cool, huh?”
“It’s am-a-zing. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen or heard of. And then some. You Ek Naab Mayans, you really stuck it to the Mexican authorities!”
Benicio’s reply is unexpected, and a bit odd. “Of course you’d think like that; it’s to be expected. For you, all success means progress. And progress is success.”
I’m not sure what he means. Sure, progress is good. So what?
“Fiddling while Rome burns.”
That’s his answer. I’m still baffled.
“That’s how we were in Ek Naab,” Benicio explains. “Learning from the Books of Itzamna. Progress for the sake of it. We didn’t have the Ix Codex, so we didn’t worry about what we didn’t know. We avoided it. Because we had some idea that it answered a pretty tough question. The toughest of all—the one that could really kill us.”
And finally I get what he means. The Book of Ix is about the “end of days.”
“What is going to happen on December twenty-second, 2012?” I breathe.
“You got it, buddy. And it’s getting awfully close. Whatever the Ix Codex is going to teach us, we don’t have too much time to learn. So you need to begin your mission, and fast.”
“Mission?”
“Yeah.” Benicio gets to his feet and snatches away the package of cookies I’ve been picking at. “So, time to go. Just a little while before the ceremony. Lots to see.”
With that, he leads me out of the apartment and into the alleys and plazas of Ek Naab, now bustling with people, a hive of activity.
Everything seems clean, everybody looks busy. Benicio takes me walking. He explains a bit about how Ek Naab works. Food, clothes, bread, and tortillas are all sold at the daily market. Clothes are pretty simple for most people. Few dress in “Western” clothes; instead they wear white- or cream-colored loose trousers and brightly colored striped or plain woven tunic shirts drawn in with a simple belt. Women wear the same, or white cotton dresses embroidered with large flowers and bird designs.
“What we don’t grow or make ourselves, we buy from the cities,” Benicio says.
We stroll around the plaza as the market is winding down. I watch a guy scoop out the last of his ice cream into little cups and hand it out for free before the ice block it rests on melts away. I take a cup—creamed-corn flavor (not bad!).
“This could be anywhere in Mexico,” I tell Benicio, with heavy irony.
“Except everything’s clean, there are no kids working here, no one’s hustling you for money, everyone has a nice apartment to go home to, the water’s not contaminated …,” he replies with a laugh.
“Montoyo said part of the city was aboveground.”
Benicio nods. “The land aboveground, it’s all ours. For many miles around. Bought hundreds of years ago by a Spanish lord who joined us. He gave the land to the Executive. They ordered it to be farmed, so we grow bananas, mangoes, vanilla, coffee, cacao beans. Plus, naturally, all the food we need for ourselves.”
“It’s incredible, amazing. Like paradise.”
Benicio licks his ice cream spoon, pondering. “Pretty much,” he decides.
I ask, “And you have phones in this paradise? Do you have the Internet?”
He looks astonished. “Of course.”
BLOG ENTRY: OUR LADY OF THE HIBISCUS
Whoa … sorry about that. This computer was set up to type in the Ek Naab version of Mayan hieroglyphs. It’s a sort of stripped-down, high-tech version of Classic Mayan. They use it to encode all their technical stuff … in case something falls into the Wrong Hands.
That should read:
Here’s a story I heard today from my cousin Benicio. I looked out the window of an apartment in the city of Ek Naab. And what did I see but a bizarre, Spanish-style church?
I guess in Mexico, they really are everywhere.
“It’s for the first miracle of Ek Naab,” Benicio told me. “The miracle of the hibiscus.”
Seems that Pedro Vallejo, the Jesuit priest who converted the Mayas of this city, chose to name his church Our Lady of the Hibiscus.
“In those days the Mayas of Ek Naab guarded the shrine really fiercely. By then it was widely known that the Spanish—they couldn’t be trusted. Bishop Diego de Landa had tortured Maya scribes in order to gain the secrets of Mayan books, which he collected and then burned. At Ek Naab they guarded the three most valuable and ancient books—the Books of Itzamna. The fourth, of course, was missing. Lost in 653 AD.”
Well, I already know that—I’ve read the Calakmul letter. Funny to think that for the Mayas of Ek Naab, their missing codex is a fourth codex. But in the outside world, where they only know of four surviving Mayan codices, the one all the archaeologists whisper about is the “fifth.”
“Even the fact that the books existed had to be guarded on pain of death. Any stranger who discovered us was forced to remain in Ek Naab. Any European stranger unlucky enough to stumble across Ek Naab was put to death. And not in a good way.
“Vallejo, wandering eagerly throughout Mexico in 1595, all holy and everything—he was one of those. The night before his execution (a sacrifice of course; no way they’d waste a ready victim!), Vallejo prayed to the Virgin Mary. In the morning, everyone was astonished to discover that the entire city was filled with a rare and fragrant flower—the hibiscus. It bloomed in every nook and hollow.”
Now, there’s little enough light in the cavern of Ek Naab; I’ve seen that for myself. And that’s with the high-tech mesh-thing they use for the ceiling. Centuries ago, it was all gloom and rock. There was the light from flaming torches, but you can’t grow most plants in that. Let alone the hibiscus …
“But since that day, the hibiscus has grown here, even in the dark. Quite simply, a miracle. The Ancient Maya were a people who lived mainly by what they could grow. They really appreciated the power of Vallejo’s god. For them this was an incomparable command of nature. Way beyond any demonstration of Itzamna’s. And so, his life was spared. Vallejo preached and they followed, built a church and everything.”
I looked at the hibiscus flowers of Ek Naab a bit differently after I heard that.
But, I mean, it’s just a story. Right?
Chapter 25
After I’ve updated my blog on a laptop in a little Internet café, Benicio and I make our way around the market stalls as they’re being cleared. The market is set up in the central plaza of Ek Naab, but it’s still tiny compared to most Mexican zocalos. It’s no bigger than a tennis court. The cramped feeling gets to me after a while. Ek Naab may be glitzy, clean, and modern, but it still feels like a rabbit warren. It’s claustrophobic. When I mention this to Benicio, he just gives a knowing grin.
“Hey, why do you think I became a pilot?” is all he says. “The Muwan are a great way to get out of the city.”
I blanch. “You’re a what?”
“I’m a pilot. And I’m studying aeronautical engineering.”
“You must be older than you look.”
Benicio shrugs. “I’m seventeen. We start our careers early here. I began flying a Muwan when I was fifteen.”
“You’re not really a pilot … Flying one of those Muwan? You’re joking.”
His manner changes a little, becomes mischievous. “You think so?”
I can’t help but notice people staring at me curiously. I mention this to Benicio.
“Visitors are rare,” he comments. “Very rare.”
“Why don’t they ask?”
“It’s not our way. But they have an idea. Everybody knows that we have no Bakab Ix. They can only hope that you are this Bakab.”
“I’ve been wondering about that … Why don’t you just send one of the other Bakabs after the Ix Codex?”
“They would die. They can only handle their own codex.�
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“Oh, come on.”
He seems bemused. “You think I’m kidding?”
“No, but … it’s superstition, right?”
Benicio is wide-eyed. “No, it’s real, absolutely!”
“And everyone here believes that the world’s going to end on December twenty-second, 2012?”
“Everyone here,” he agrees.
“How come no one else in the world knows?”
Benicio erupts with indignant laughter. “‘No one else in the world knows?’! Josh, really, did you ever talk to anyone in Mexico? You ever talk to what’s left of the Maya people? No; I bet you walk right past them. They clean your pool, they sell you Chiclets, they mop the floor of your hotel. But you don’t talk to them, right? You don’t ask them about their world, their culture?”
“They don’t always speak Spanish,” I say, defensive. I don’t like his implication—that I’m just another rich son-of-a-conquistador who doesn’t understand about Mexico’s ancient customs and knowledge. In the rest of Mexico, people judge you by how European or Mexican-Indian you look. With a mostly Spanish father and an English mother, obviously I look fairly European. Benicio’s attitude suggests that those prejudices exist here too.
From everything Benicio’s told me, I have plenty of Mayan heritage—enough to be one of their Bakabs. So why is he giving me a hard time?
His smile has gone now, replaced by a mixture of sadness and defiance. “If you had ever asked, if anyone ever asked them—not everything about our Mayan culture is forgotten. But it is ignored.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I say. “Look at you guys. You’re not fully Maya. You’ve got a church, right? Those Spanish priests who came here—they converted you to Christianity. You don’t worship Itzamna.”
“We never worshipped Itzamna. He was our first leader.”
“Carlos Montoyo told me that they used to sacrifice people in the cenote.”
“Yes, that was the old use of Ek Naab. By other Mayas. We didn’t always live here.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”