Because there’s lots of water. Someone once told me that Ek Naab is the “city of a thousand wells.” There’s a great big cenote—like a wide, deep well—in the center. The famous “dark water” for which Ek Naab is named.
Think Seville mixed with Venice mixed with—what’s a really snazzy modern city? Like the part of London that everyone talks about with all the new skyscrapers and sleek buildings—if half the buildings were inspired by Mayan temples. Like that.
And it’s underground—did I mention that? Apart from the surface part of the city, which isn’t—the “public” face of Ek Naab. That part looks like a fancy jungle eco-resort. Swimming pools, cafés with thatched-roof palapas, all the fruit trees you can imagine.
The way it looks isn’t the strangest part, though. It’s what goes on. There’s a busy, purposeful look on everyone’s face. It’s a town where everyone’s on a mission. And then … and then.
Then, without blinking, someone will tell you the strangest story. Hibiscus flowers that bloom overnight, in the dark. Mysterious underground tunnels with pools of glowing pink water. A boy who goes missing and reappears weeks later, smelling so amazing that all the girls fall for him.
I don’t know what to make of it. Part of me wants to stay and find out everything about this place. And part of me is just a bit freaked out.
Because it’s a world of bizarre dreams and spirits and miracles, things I don’t understand. They aren’t outside of me, I sense it; they’re in me. I don’t know if Ek Naab put them there, or where they came from.
And, Mom … truth is … I’m not sure I want this in my life. It’s kind of scary.
19
I hear Benicio opening the front door, so quickly I finish typing, click “Send,” and then close the Web browser. By the time he knocks on my door, I’m stretched out on the bed.
“How’s the invalid?” he asks.
Every muscle aches, every rib is throbbing, but …
“I’m fine.”
“Let’s take a tour of the city,” he says. “We can go to the market, or for a swim.”
I make a face.
“You don’t want to swim?”
“Not really … still pretty sore.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry. That’s okay. Would you like to see the Tech?”
“The ‘Tech’?”
“The College of Technology. It has libraries, labs, and a museum.”
I try to sound enthusiastic. It’s hard to get interested in sightseeing when I suspect Montoyo is telling the Executive that mainly thanks to me, the scary guys out there now have a chance of ruining all the work they’re doing to stop the galactic superwave of 2012. Worse still, it looks as though the Mayans of Ek Naab are about to face the rebirth of an ancient enemy—the Sect of Huracan.
“Sounds okay.”
Benicio opens his phone. “I just have to get permission from Montoyo.”
Montoyo won’t give his permission. Benicio looks disappointed. There’s no explanation, and he doesn’t ask for one.
“I guess he wants to be real careful who you meet” is Benicio’s cautious answer.
He doesn’t say why, but it’s obvious to me. Montoyo is making it clear that I’m back out of the loop. I might have the right to join the Executive when I’m sixteen, but until then, he’s planning to make me toe the line, like a good little boy.
I settle for the offer of a walk around the city. The air is warm, the light muted as it filters through the lattice of the surface. Everything in Ek Naab is just as I remember. Just as calm, orderly—the trees clipped, the flowers groomed. People go about their business dressed in their linen pants and overshirts. I notice the way people look at me, just like last time. A few of the kids even whisper and stare. Benicio smiles at everyone, says a polite hello.
And never introduces me to anyone. Montoyo’s instructions?
We stop at a café and take a table on the mezzanine, overlooking the fenced underground cenote. Benicio buys drinks—ice-cold agua frescas made from dried hibiscus flowers. I sip mine and stare into the shiny black of the cenote. Like a perfect mirror, it reflects the overcast white of the sky, overlaid with a black crisscross pattern: the silhouette of the artificial ceiling.
And then I chuckle. It’s the first time I’ve felt my spirits lift for hours. “Hey, know what Ek Naab means in English?”
“‘Dark Water’?”
“Yeah,” I say, “… or ‘Black Pool.’”
For some reason, this really makes me laugh.
“So?” Benicio shrugs. Guess he’s never heard of sunny Blackpool or the Pleasure Beach Amusement Park.