Read Online Ice Shock by M. G. Harris - Free Book Online

something like
ek
(meaning “black” or “dark”) or
naab
(meaning “pool” or “water”). Stuck together, these become the glyph for “Ek Naab.”
    Well, I keep staring at the syllables on the pages I scanned, trying to work out the words they make. But all I get are words that I can’t find anywhere in the Mayan dictionary.
    It’s not that I can’t recognize the syllables. I know plenty, like
kan
,
ta, na
,
el
,
ek,
and
to
.
    But the words—gobbledegook!
    Unless this is some older or different version of Mayan writing that used a different system of arranging the syllables to make words, then these are not Mayan words.
    As in, the codex is not written in Classic Mayan.
    And then I remember what they told me when I was in Ek Naab meeting the other Bakabs, descendents of Itzamna who guard the four Books.
    The Books of Itzamna are written in code
.
    Of course. Mayan glyphs, but not Mayan language. Like writing that uses letters from the English alphabet but is in another language.
    But how to crack the code?
    From what I can tell, the “translation” page is nothing more than an incomplete syllabary—a translation of some of the syllables. As if someone, perhaps Eric Thompson himself, tried to decode the Mayan inscription.
    My guess is that he got no further than I did. And I’m sitting here with a Mayan dictionary—which Thompson couldn’t have had, because in his day, no one alive could read Mayan hieroglyphs…
    And yet. I keep staring at the “translated” words I’ve written. There’s something weirdly familiar about them. I just can’t tell what.
    kan-ta-na. el-ek-to mak-ne-ti-ka pul-sa
.
    Mom knocks softly at my door. “Feeling better?”
    I’m miles away, thinking about glyphs. “Hmm?”
    Mom clears her throat, a little nervously. “Can we talk about Christmas again?”
    I look up in silence.
    â€œI’ve been thinking that I’d like us to go on a retreat.”
    I gulp down a mouthful of my sandwich. “A retreat? Like, in a convent or something?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo way. No way
on earth
.”
    Mom presses her lips together tightly. In a very quiet voice, she says, “Well, let’s talk about it some other time, when you’re feeling better.”
    â€œThere’s no way I’m spending Christmas at a convent!”
    â€œHmm,” she says vaguely. “Oh, I almost forgot, there was a postcard for you today. From Mexico. There must be some kind of funny ad campaign going on, because I’ve had a couple too. You might have seen them lying around.”
    I stare at her, baffled. “Postcard?”
    â€œThey’re in the kitchen. You didn’t see?”
    I follow Mom downstairs as she carries back the tray. In the kitchen, she pulls a postcard from a pile of envelopes. Then she takes two postcards from the fridge door. One I recognize as a photo of Tikal, the famous Mayan city they used as the rebel base in the first
Star Wars
film.
    How long have those postcards been on the fridge door? I’ve managed to miss them entirely.
    She tosses all three onto the table. All are photographs of different Mayan cities. I turn them over, one by one.
    The same capitalized writing. A few words on each card.
    DEATH.UNDID.HARMONY.
    WHAT.KEY.
    Those are the messages on Mom’s two cards.
    My latest message reads, ZOMBIE.DOWNED.
    â€œIt must be some kind of game,” she says. “We must be on some mailing list after your trip this summer.”
    â€œI’ve got one of these postcards,” I tell Mom. “You didn’t say that there were others …”
    I check the location stamps. All mailed from Veracruz. I get my own first postcard and check the dates, then arrange the cards in order of arrival. Put together, the messages read like this:
    WHAT.KEY.HOLDS.BLOOD .
    DEATH.UNDID.HARMONY .
    ZOMBIE.DOWNED .
    â€œIt’s rather