Ice Shock (29 page)

The snow falls all the way to the glacier and beyond. It last snowed two days ago, according to Xocotli. So, not as bad as it could be; fresh powder drains your strength faster. The snow is dry and firm, and icy where well-trodden. It takes another three hours of slow climbing to navigate the rock field. Every so often we catch a glimpse of what looks like a direct route straight to the glacier. With hope in our hearts, we point to it. Xocotli always replies with a sad shake of his head. “It looks all right now, but later, you'll see that there's a big drop.”

Without Xocotli we'd have had no chance, gotten hopelessly lost. I reach the point where all I can think about is the agony of my gunshot wound. I don't even want to think about what I'm doing to the healing process, wrenching my muscles again and again. I'm the one slowing us down with frequent stops, turning away from the other two so they won't see me wince in pain. Each time, I eat a square of chocolate and sip from one of my water bottles. I wish I could
be distracted by some music, but Xocotli's made it clear that we all need to focus.

I begin to seriously wonder why I insisted on coming up here. Should I have just caved in and called Montoyo, asked them to come and take me home? That way Montoyo would be happy—as happy as he ever seems to get—and my mom would stop worrying.

But me, I'd be back at square one. Always wondering what was up here.

Or who
.

I can think of only three possibilities. I seem to remember that Montoyo once told me that my grandfather Aureliano's Muwan crashed somewhere in the Orizaba mountain range. Montoyo thought that the wreckage was cleared and taken to the museum of Jalapa. Could some of the wreckage have landed on the slopes of Mount Orizaba itself? That's one theory. But I can't guess at how it would tell me anything about my father's fate.

The second theory is that one of the climbers we'll meet on the way will be a rogue agent from the NRO who wants me to know the truth.

My third idea is the one that really gets my pulse racing. If Arcadio sent the message … what if he's coming to meet me himself? I can think of quite a few questions I'd have for a time traveler from the future. Especially if he really is descended from me.

By now we've been overtaken by four groups of climbers, including the high-school kids from Mexico City. Even they walked in relative silence. It's fun for the first hour or two, but after that it's tough going.

I make a point of looking every climber in the eye. Just in case the one I'm looking for is one of them.

After what seems like a day of total endurance, we reach the edge of the glacier. I check my watch, amazed to see that it's only ten a.m. But then, we have been climbing for five hours. Xocotli tells us that we're now at 16,600 feet.

“You should rest for an hour. We've come up slowly, so you're acclimatizing well. But from now on it'll get harder. The air gets thin, and you'll feel it.”

I sit on a low boulder. We can see for hundreds of miles across the farms and villages of Veracruz. Ixchel removes her hood and gloves and smiles at me. Her eyes are damp from the stinging air. I watch as she runs cherry-flavored lip balm over her lips. She turns and offers it to me. “Don't worry, it won't color your lips. Much.”

“You feeling faint?” I ask, using her lip balm.

“No. I feel amazing, actually. I've never seen snow, never climbed a mountain, never been so cold I could see my own breath …” She breaks into a huge grin. “I've never felt so alive.”

“That's great.”

“How's your leg?”

I reply curtly, “It hurts.” I don't want to say how much, in case I can't stop complaining.

“Take another painkiller. It's about time for another dose.”

I don't argue. My head is starting to pound, probably from the altitude. It's getting harder to breathe. Altogether, I'm feeling pretty awful.

Xocotli instructs us to fasten our crampons and rope up. There are a few crevasses on the glacier, but even a slip can give you a nasty fall—it's so steep and icy. People have already died this season, he tells us.

The sky is clear, the air still when we begin climbing the glacier. In the next thirty minutes, that all changes. Seemingly from nowhere, an icy wind whips up around us, stinging our faces. I feel sorry for those who are going all the way to the top.

The second hut is just a rescue center, no more than half an hour's climb from our position. I can see it in the distance, smoke puffing from its chimney. As we approach, I find it hard to catch my breath. I hate the fact that I'm the one slowing the group down. If it weren't for the bruised ribs and thigh wound, I know I'd be most of the way up this mountain by now.

We're about forty yards from the hut when someone comes out, walks to a nearby stack of firewood. I watch in amazement.

This altitude is doing weird things to my eyes
.

I pick up my pace, hurrying through the wind toward where the man stands selecting pieces of wood. He's wearing jeans and a gray woolen sweater with a hat pulled down over his ears. He's got a thick beard, and maybe that's what makes me think I'm seeing who I think I see.

“Josh, what's the matter?” Ixchel can't help but notice that I'm rushing ahead—we're roped together. I ignore her and keep moving forward, staring in disbelief at the man.

It can't be
…

Ixchel catches up with me. “What's wrong?”

I turn to her, face flushed, gasping in wonder. “Can you see that man there?”

She looks puzzled. “Of course … It's the mountain-rescue guy.”

I look back at the man. He turns to us and we stare at each other, face-to-face. I'm frozen, slack-jawed, my voice blocked somewhere deep inside my lungs.

Ixchel turns to me, then back to him.

“Josh … what's the matter … what's wrong?”

Dad
.

I can barely choke the word out at first. It's no more than a tiny croak. I say it louder, and louder, until I'm yelling. I begin to rush toward him when I realize that something's wrong. Something's horribly, terribly wrong.

The man who looks like my dad just keeps looking at us, but with no sign of any interest. He looks vaguely mystified
when I shout, “Dad,
Dad
,
DAD
.” There's no recognition in his eyes. None at all.

I must be hallucinating
.

Then he speaks. And I know I'm either dreaming or crazy.

It's his voice, my dad's, no doubt whatsoever
.

“Hey there, pal. Do I know you?”

I stop short, staring at him in disbelief. And yet, I believe him. Only too well. This feels like a waking version of my dream of Dad in the kitchen. Calmly pouring milk as he tells me that he and Mom cooked up a story that he was dead.

“Daddy … Dad. I don't understand … how come you're here?”

He stares at me, his eyes serious, filling with comprehension and sorrow.

“I'm your father?”

I'm numb with shock. “You don't know me … ?”

He spreads his hands, palms open, looks helpless. “I've been on this mountain for months. Don't know how I got here. Don't remember anything or anyone. I always figured, you know, that seeing a familiar face might jolt my memory.” He gazes at me. “But … I'm sorry. I don't know you.”

I try to speak, but no words come. All I can do is lick my lips against the blistering cold. Seeing this, the man who is my father takes hold of my arm. “You're gonna freeze. Both of you—get inside.”

Outside the hut, Xocotli exchanges a few words with my father. I don't catch what they say, but Xocotli keeps shaking his head, won't budge. Finally, he comes over to Ixchel and me.

“This man says he'll take care of you now, escort you down the mountain.” Xocotli gives me a questioning look. “That's not what I agreed with Señora Susannah.”

“He's my father,” I say.

“That's something else she didn't mention.”

“All right, then; wait with us until we leave.”

“We should leave now,” Xocotli says. “Bad weather is coming in. Wind rising. Things change fast up here.”

“They should stay until the wind goes down,” my father says. “I'll take them.”

Xocotli gives us a hollow stare. “The mountain is unhappy. It's time to leave.”

He watches as Ixchel and I follow my father into the hut. He doesn't come in with us. “I'll wait at the first hut,” we hear him yell.

The hut is the size of a large garage. There's a tiny kitchen area with a gas-canister-powered stove and a bowl that functions as a sink. A log fire blazes under a brick-lined chimney. There's a bed, spread with a sleeping bag, a small table with two chairs. On a single pine shelf is a pile of paperback books and a portable stereo.

My dad sits on the bed and invites us to take the two chairs. I stumble, finally find the chair, and sit.

When I bring myself to look again, I can't take my eyes off him. He gazes back with a look that's like a spear to my heart. It's exactly the expression he had in my dream. Bemused, regretful, icily distant.

“So … you're my son, huh? What's your name?”

“Josh.”

He nods, and I catch a glimpse of a tear in his eye as he grins. “Josh; good, I like it.”

There's a painful silence. “You're Andres,” I say. “Professor Andres Garcia. You're an archaeologist. You live in Oxford, England.”

“Andres. Wouldn't have been my first guess. And England! That explains why I speak such good English,” he says.

“Your wife is Eleanor,” I continue. “And she … and I also … thought you were dead.”

Andres nods again, eyes down. When he looks back up, I see that his eyes are brimming with tears. He wipes them away with the back of one hand. I rush to his side and hug him. After a few seconds he hugs me back. It feels halfhearted.

“What are you doing here, Dad? How did you get here? And why didn't you come back to us?”

He pulls away and puts his head in his hands for a long moment. Then he stands and walks to the kitchen, where he lights the stove to boil some water.

“I can remember how to speak and walk and … all the basic stuff. Which includes speaking English as well as Spanish, apparently. And I seem to know my way around a mountain. I remember everything that happened since I arrived on Orizaba. Most of all I remember the thing that's kept me here—the fear. Someone is watching me. Someone is looking for me, and when they catch up with me, I don't think I'll be coming back.

“One day … months ago now … I found myself in the rocks on the slope of this mountain. I had a head injury, but nothing more. I was found by a climbing guide, who took me down to the first hut. They wanted to take me to the hospital but I wouldn't let them. I was terrified—of people. I didn't want to go where there were many people. This fear was like
nothing you can imagine. Completely irrational! And yet it consumed me. I couldn't even stand to see the people arriving in the hut. I looked into each face and I wondered—are you the one who's come for me? So they let me stay in this hut. It's usually an emergency hut, but with me here it's always warm and safe, for anyone who gets caught in bad weather.”

Ixchel says, “So … you don't remember anything?”

Andres shrugs. “Not so far.”

“You don't remember me, or Mom, or Oxford, our house … anything?” I say.

“No, son. I'm truly sorry. I don't.”

“What do you remember about the people who are after you?”

“Almost nothing. There are some very, very vague memories, like fragments from a dream. And they don't make sense.”

“Try us,” I say.

“I'm flying … and being chased by another aircraft. That's one. I'm in a cage, like a prison. That's another. I'm being shot at, but I don't die, and I'm not afraid.”

“What were you wearing when you woke up on the mountain?”

“Just an orange jumpsuit. I nearly froze to death. And a piece of really tasteless jewelry.” He reaches under the mattress and pulls out a chunky bracelet. Even though I've never seen it before, I know immediately that we're looking
at the Bracelet of Itzamna. Dad doesn't miss our unspoken recognition.

“But it's not just jewelry, is it? Even I guessed that much. This has something to do with why I'm here. I think it may even be why those people are looking for me.”

Dad doesn't let us touch the Bracelet, but instead fits it onto his left wrist, like a watch. It's about twice the width of a fat digital watch, made of a copper-colored material that shines, but without the sheen of metal. It's engraved with wedgelike symbols, similar to the inscriptions on the Adapter. Some symbols look like buttons. Placed just to the left of center is a small dent, a hollow to hold something about the size of a small pea.

“It's got some kind of power source,” Dad says, staring at the Bracelet with what I could swear looks like affection. “It hums. Like static electricity. It's not from this world. I'm sure of that. And it's broken.”

“Broken?”

“When I look at it, I have one thought, one memory.
Burned out
.”

I give the Bracelet a careful look. “It doesn't look burned.”

“No,” he agrees. “It doesn't.”

“You don't know how to use it, or what it does?”

He shakes his head. “But I think that once, I did.”

“I think you did too,” I say. It's all beginning to make sense. Montoyo told me that Dad either took the Bracelet
from Blanco Vigores, or Vigores gave it to him. If the Bracelet is a time-travel device, then that explains how Dad escaped from the NRO.

He jumped in time.

Which means that somehow, Dad must have figured out how to use the Bracelet. Or fixed it. Montoyo said they hadn't been able to make it work. But Dad did!