Ice Shock (22 page)

“If you go too far you won't be able to get back.”

“I'll find a way out. And come back for you.”

She hesitates. “I don't want you to go.”

“I have to, Albita. I'm the stronger swimmer. You know it's true.”

Without warning, she begins to cry. I can hardly bear to watch. I hate myself for letting Albita join us on this search. I promise myself then and there that I'll never put her in danger again, never.

I place the torch in her hand and hold it close to the water. “Hold it like this, okay?”

Albita nods, still crying.

“Wait as long as you can. Then get out of the water and dry off.”

“Don't go.”

This last time, she whispers. It almost breaks my heart.

“Here I go.”

I take a few deep breaths, preparing my lungs. Then I plunge into the water, diving low under the rock. I can just about make out the outline of the tunnel. It's about as wide as three people. It veers to the left, where there's a tiny gap.

I squeeze through the gap. Ahead I can see two openings: left and right. The right-hand tunnel narrows quickly,
becoming very dark. The left-hand tunnel seems wider, and lighter. I keep swimming hard. By the time I reach the left-hand tunnel, I need to exhale. I release some air as tiny bubbles. I know I'll only last a few more seconds. If I'm going to turn back, it would have to be now.

I poke my head into the left-hand tunnel. There's definitely some light coming from somewhere.

Then everything goes black. The torch must have died out. The darkness and feeling of being trapped are terrifying.

I make my decision. There's no choice. Without light, I might not make it back through the tiny gap in the first tunnel. I don't know if I have enough air to make it all the way through, but it's my only hope.

I dive into the left-hand tunnel, using my hands to pull myself along. I ignore the burning sensation in my lungs. I can see a light. It seems impossible to reach. I can hardly bear another second of the pain in my chest. The light—it's so close. I can't give up now. I brace my legs against the walls of the tunnel, give a final push through the channel.

I emerge into the light. I'm opening my mouth to gulp in fresh air when I realize, to my horror, that what I assumed is air is actually another layer of water. On the verge of panicking, I float upward. I have the sensation of flying above the water.

Finally, my head breaks the surface.

I gasp deeply, sucking in chunks of air. I'm in an underground cenote, but no longer buried. Natural sunlight streams
like gold dust from an entrance in the cavern. It falls into the water around me, which is a deep turquoise blue.

The feeling of relief is unbelievable. I'm on the verge of tears. I think of Albita on the other side, trapped in the dark, not knowing whether I've made it or not. More than anything I want to go back for her. But alone, in the dark, I wouldn't stand a chance. I need to return with ropes and people to help me.

I drag myself out of the water, out of the cavern, and begin to run. I don't know how far I am from home. Time may be short. I can't afford to rest.

I wake with a jolt, rolling into the puddle. I jump to my feet, confused. Then I remember where I am. Ixchel lies opposite. She wakes too, startled by me.

I switch on the flashlight and check my watch. It feels as though I've slept for days, but it's only been a couple of hours. My watch says it's five in the afternoon. We've been in the Depths for almost seven hours. Ixchel's right—there's something very odd about the sounds down here. Surrounded by all this geology, we should only hear water dripping, the infinitesimal growth of ancient rock. But the air seems to carry the distant whispers of life.

“What a dream … ,” I say.

“Me too,” she says. “Horrible. A nightmare.”

“I dreamed I was swimming through an underground tunnel,” I tell Ixchel. “It was terrible. Thought I'd never get out of there. Thought I was going to drown.”

“Huh,” says Ixchel, only vaguely surprised. “I had the
same dream.” She's suddenly thoughtful. “In fact, I think I did drown.”

I stare at her. “You did?”

“Yes. Good thing you woke me up. They say that if you die in a dream, you die in real life.”

“You were really about to die?”

“Uh-huh. You can't imagine how nasty it was. Stuck in that tunnel, desperate to breathe, unable to see anything.”

I'm confused. Ixchel had the same dream—but in her version she didn't get out? “But you … you made it out?”

Ixchel shook her head. “I don't think so. I was about to pass out from lack of oxygen. And I was still stuck down there. Lost. Just
horrible
.”

I don't understand why, but I'm almost overcome with grief. Ixchel looks shocked.

“Hey, what's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost.”

It's ridiculous, but I want to grab Ixchel and hold her close, just to check she's still here.

But it's not really Ixchel I want to hold. It's Albita
.

Ixchel muses, “You know, I think it was Chan and Albita.”

“In the dream … I was named Chan.”

“Lucky you! I was Albita. Not so fun, when you think about how she ended up.”

I'm shocked. “Chan and Albita were
real
?”

“They were part of the search party that went looking for this boy—a Bakab heir named Kan'ek—years ago.”

“I know the story,” I say. “It ends with them finding Kan'ek, and he smells of gardenias.”

“Well, that's the nice side of the story. What's not so nice is that Albita didn't return. She must have given up waiting for Chan to come back and tried to swim for it by herself.”

“She drowned … ?”

Ixchel looks grim. “Pretty nasty, right? Poor Albita; her spirit must still be down here.”

I say nothing, staring into the water.

“Not the nicest experience to share with me; thanks, Albita,” says Ixchel to no one in particular. “You couldn't have chosen something better?”

“That Chan guy,” I say. “He really liked her, right?”

“They were crazy in love. I felt that, you know—I actually felt what she felt. He risked his life to save her, but she died anyway. No wonder he never recovered.”

I don't really want to know, but I can't help myself. “What happened to him?”

“Some say Chan left his soul down here, with Albita. He got out okay, but couldn't forgive himself for her death.”

“Why not?” I say, my voice rising. “It was her decision to swim. He told her to stay! He told her to wait for him! Why didn't she just do what we agreed?”

I realize suddenly that I'm pounding the ground, splashing both of us with water. A feeling of almost overwhelming desperation grips me.

Ixchel seems deep in thought. “How amazing … You and me, visited by Chan and Albita.”

“You've got to be kidding,” I say, but it's a halfhearted objection.

I know what I felt
.

Ixchel doesn't seem remotely thrown by the experience. She actually seems pleased. I'm still reeling from feelings of grief that aren't even really mine.

Or maybe they are. Because I keep thinking back to Camila, and how I couldn't save her.

“You know, Josh … this could mean …” Ixchel grips my arm urgently. “You know the way out of here! Chan found another way, through the underground river. Can you remember how?”

Ixchel is right. I can see it all clearly in my memory. The cave with the lake. The tunnel. The narrow gap, the left fork in the underground river, the journey to the cenote.

I turn to Ixchel. “We have to go back to the cave with the helictites. There's a tricky climb—you'll have to climb up over me. And—it's not an easy swim. Long. Dark. Scary.”

“But you know the way?” Ixchel says, hopeful.

I nod. “Yeah. I think I do.”

We make our way back to the helictite cave. Beyond that, we find the second tunnel. We don't even need to discuss it—we both recognize the route.

“This is going to work,” Ixchel says, almost to herself.

I'm silent, thinking about the underground swim. Without light, I can't see how I would find that narrow opening in the rock. But I won't do what Chan, my dream-self, did: I won't leave Ixchel behind.

And then the solution comes to me. My pace quickens.

“You're right, you know,” I tell Ixchel. “It really is.”

We reach the wall with the ledge. Just as in the dream, I use Ixchel's shoulders to give me a lift, then hang from my fingers as she climbs up my legs and over my back. It's not so easy for me as it is in the dream—the first couple of times I can't take her weight and we both fall to the ground. The mistake we're making is that I lose it the second that Ixchel grabs my ankles and puts all of her weight on me. The third time, I don't just hold on by my hands but brace my shoulders and arms on the ledge too. Ixchel takes a running jump to reach my ankles. Once she's grabbed hold, I groan loudly, straining with the sensation of my knee joints stretching. I breathe in staccato, shallow gasps, holding my shoulders firmly in position as Ixchel climbs along my back.

Just like Chan and Albita, we turn and sit on the ledge for a few minutes, to recover. I recognize suddenly that this is real. I'm visiting a place I only know from a dream—and it's
real
.

Ixchel and I steal a glance at each other. I can't help wondering—is she thinking what I'm thinking? Is she remembering
the dream? It's confusing. In that moment, dream and reality collide.

And Ixchel
doesn't
kiss my cheek.

The flashlight is down to a feeble point, no better than a match.

“Why didn't I pack batteries?” mutters Ixchel.

I've figured this one out. From my jeans pocket, I bring out my dad's iPod. Ixchel watches, at first bemused and then impressed as I switch it on, choose a playlist, and change the setting so that the backlight on the LCD screen stays on.

“What d'you know?” I say. “Now it's a flashlight.”

I take the Ziploc bag with the Adapter from my other pocket. I make Ixchel use her gas mask while I open the Ziploc bag for just a second and place the iPod and my cell phone inside the clear plastic.

“And now,” I say, smiling, “it's a
waterproof
flashlight.”

Ixchel gazes at me. Behind her eyes, something is different. “Well. That's actually pretty good.”

I want to reply with a flip comment, but my mouth is suddenly dry. I can't say a word. Instead, I turn away, feeling my cheeks flush. I place Ixchel's Ek Naab phone in the Ziploc bag too, after which nothing else fits.

The cave with the underground lake is close by. We arrive within a minute, guided by the steady beam of milky light from my dad's iPod. The plastic bag crackles in my hand as we
approach the water. We jump in, gasp at the shocking cold, and swim fast to the other end of the lake.

We reach the end, where the channel through the rocks begins.

“This is it,” I tell Ixchel. “It's a long swim. But don't be afraid—I know the spirits wouldn't deceive us.”

I'm risking my life for a belief in spirits
… ?

The dream of the leaf storm that led me to the lost Ix Codex was one thing—but at least that was some kind of a connection with a living Mexican shaman—a
brujo
. It's a whole other level to imagine that I've been communicating with someone long dead.

“Take deep breaths,” I say. “Stretch your lungs.”

We breathe deeply. If I think about it even for a second, my mind screams with fear. Fear of the dark, of being trapped, or drowning. So I don't let myself. Just going by instinct—that seems to work best for me.

And then we're in. With the iPod light to guide us, I spot the mail-slot gap almost immediately. I have a very clear memory of the way that in the dream, I'd sent myself through it, like a letter. I swim through without hesitating, and then slow my pace until Ixchel catches up. Then I head for the left-hand tunnel, swimming as fast as I can. I sense Ixchel is close behind.

I keep having flashbacks to the dream. The moment where the light went out is a terrifying memory. I don't let myself think what I'd do if that happened right now.

But it doesn't. My chest hammers with the ache of holding my breath. The iPod lights up the narrow channel to the cenote. Up ahead I see the most incredible blue colors in the water. The water is frothing, disturbed. When we emerge into the cenote, I understand why.

It's crowded. Filled with swimmers jumping, diving, playing around.

As I surface, one swimmer, a blond guy in his twenties, looks at me with a puzzled smile.

“Hey, man,” he says with a laugh. “You didn't even bother to get out of your clothes?”

Ixchel breaks the surface behind me.

“That's so cool,” says another, who looks almost identical—tanned and blond. “They just got off the bus and hurled themselves in. Awesome!”

Outside, an old Mexican woman in a multicolored shawl and her son sell
tortas
and cold drinks from a cooler. My eyes go straight to the
tortas de jamon—
ham, tomato, and avocado in rolls of chewy white bread. I buy four, and four cans of lemon soda. The old woman looks at the sopping wet fifty-peso note with which I pay her, then back at me. She blinks at my soaking clothes, saying nothing.

“I'm not a gringo, you know,” I tell her in Spanish.

“Whatever you say,” she replies in a thin, high voice, shrugging. “But you look just as silly.”

Ixchel and I sit on stony ground behind the bus, in the hottest part of the sun, and we gobble the
tortas
, biting off huge chunks. We're famished—it seems like more than a day since we ate.