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!”
31
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.
“I should borrow your backpack,” I say. “Can’t carry the Adapter around like this.”
I take her dripping backpack and open it up. Ixchel snatches it back.
“Who said you could open my bag?”
We stare at each other.
“I just need to borrow it!”
“Okay,” she says. “But at least ask first!”
I take it back from her reluctant hand, a bit astonished at her outburst.
“You really don’t know much about girls, do you?” she muses. “You don’t open a girl’s bag without asking. Ever!”
“It’s ‘cause I don’t think of you as a girl,” I say, through a mouthful of bread and ham. “You’re more like a friend,” I tell her hurriedly, furious that I can’t do anything to stop a blush. “Like saying wey.”
“You better not call me wey,” she warns. “I hate it! I can’t believe people in Mexico call each other ‘ox.’”
“Okay, wey,” I say, grinning. It’s a word that always makes me laugh. “Promise not to call you wey, wey.”
“Stop it,” she says. “I’m serious.”
“You are very serious,” I say. “Too serious.”
Ixchel’s eyes widen. “Listen to who’s talking!”
“I’m not so serious.”
“Yes, you are.”
“It’s just the situations we’ve been in,” I explain.
“So really you’re, what, a funny guy?”
“Maybe not funny, but fun. Yeah. I think I was pretty fun, once.”