Pushing his way through the dense heat of the jungle, the Jesuit advanced. The landscape was monotonous, stretching as far as the eye could see without any rise or elevated ground to get his bearings. Moving between ceiba roots and moss-covered vines, Hans stopped before a clearing bathed in the afternoon light. The air was dense; the howler monkeys' cries mingled with the jungle's whisper. He refreshed himself with water from his canteen and sat down to recover, fanning himself with his hat. Then he wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck as he breathed in the suffocating air.
Hans spread the map out on a flat rock. The paper was yellowed, the edges gnawed by time, and the markings seemed drawn with faded ink and charcoal. It had neither a compass rose nor clear coordinates. It was less a geographical map than a map of signs.
At its center appeared a stylized silhouette of the peninsula, outlined as if taken from an ancient codex. Some names were familiar—Uxmal, Chichén, Bacalar—but they were written in archaic spelling, in a mix of Latin, Old German, and poorly copied Maya glyphs.
There were three circular symbols connected by jagged lines, along with location notes in degrees:
The first was marked in shaky handwriting: "The white one who holds the celestial vault from the north… point of reference."
The second seemed to contain a triangle, next to the inscription: "The Sentinel (Bacab Zac-Cimí)… from the heights you will see Hun-Hunahpú greeting in the distance, who shines at sunset, 45 seconds before sundown."
The third read: "Here sleeps the legacy. Only the bearer of the line will know how to open."
Beneath the symbols, a warning:
"Not all doors lead to the light. Some passages return the gaze."
Hans swallowed hard. In the lower corner of the map, written in a neater script, there was a phrase in German:
Nur wer den Namen kennt, darf den Weg betreten.
(Only he who knows the name may take the path.)
Carefully, he took a small bronze compass from his satchel and watched the needle tremble before settling on north. Then he set his quadrant, extending the crossbar to align the horizon with the sun's burning disc. He consulted an old, battered book—The Perpetual Calendar or tables of the Astronomicum Caesareum—which helped him calculate the position of the sun and stars on certain days of the year. With a quick calculation, he noted the degrees of declination in his notebook and confirmed the direction to the first circle. He packed the map, quadrant, and almanac carefully back into his satchel and began walking, following his calculated course.
By late afternoon, Hans stopped. He checked his compass, then confirmed his position with the quadrant. If his calculations were correct, the reference point should be nearby. He began searching the perimeter like a hound until he reached a small rise. Stepping forward and pushing aside some branches, he saw a moss-covered column. Just as he suspected—it was a Maya stela carved with glyphs. Clearing away the branches, he could see the relief more clearly: a mythical figure linked to the creation and support of the world, showing elements like a water lily and a scar on the chin. Hans verified his notes and compared the image with his sketches. Then he smiled—he was standing before the stela of Bacab Zac-Cimí, the white brother who upheld the celestial sphere from the north.
Consulting the map again, he took the compass and adjusted his course. Soon, he arrived at what looked like a wall of vegetation. But on closer inspection, it was in fact a stone wall—the base of a Maya pyramid buried beneath centuries of relentless jungle. The stones, worn down by time and humidity, were almost entirely hidden under a tangle of roots, moss, vines, and shrubs gripping every crevice as if nature itself were devouring what remained of the temple. Between the blocks, faint reliefs could still be made out—stone faces, carved skulls, symbols worn nearly away by the elements. Trees grew directly from its flanks, and the pyramid rose above their tops.
"The Sentinel," he murmured.
He began climbing over rocks, roots, branches, and trees that had invaded the ancient structure. After an exhausting ascent, he reached the summit, where the sanctuary was also overrun with vegetation. Forcing his way inside with machete strokes, he saw that the walls were adorned with fretwork, masks, cresting, and frescoes of warriors clad in jaguar skins and prisoners being sacrificed to the sun. Some figures were different—their attire was not Maya, and several pointed outward from the sanctuary. One figure caught his attention. Studying it closely, he saw it held what looked like a telescope, aimed in the same direction as the others.
Following that direction, Hans stepped outside and looked over the treetops. The jungle stretched flat and endless, like a vast ocean. At his feet, Hans brushed aside branches, leaves, and roots, revealing a seal carved into the ground—a circle whose center bore a faint, almost vanished glyph of Bacab Zac-Cimí. He took the pendant from around his neck and compared them—the two matched. Trusting a sudden hunch, he stepped onto the symbol and murmured under his breath:
"Here goes nothing…"
The sun began to set. Pulling out his pocket watch, he tracked the seconds. At the precise moment the sun touched the horizon, he began to count, then looked through the spyglass. The heat-hazed image slowly came into focus. As the sun descended behind the green horizon, his heart raced at the possibility of a cosmic alignment…
Then he heard a growl. Every hair on his body stood on end; a primal survival instinct flooded him. Lowering the spyglass, he turned toward the sound. At the entrance to the sanctuary, a jaguar stared at him with fierce eyes, baring its teeth.
Hans reached for the machete at his belt, ready to defend himself. But on the summit, there was little room to maneuver—only a way down. On impulse, he threw the machete; it spun through the air and stuck in the ground a few meters from the animal.
"Oh, heavens… bad decision, Hans," he muttered through clenched teeth.
He hurled himself downward, leaping between branches, trees, and roots covering the pyramid. The predator gave chase. Hans, armed only with a staff and carrying a satchel, had no choice but to flee. Terror propelled him to the base, where he jumped into branches that cushioned his fall before sprinting off. The jaguar bounded after him, relentless. The jungle clawed at him—branches scratched his face, vines snagged his hat, and the beast's panting was never far behind.
Suddenly, the ground vanished beneath him. There was no time to cry out. He fell among dangling roots and splintering branches into the murky water of a hidden cenote. Sunlight barely touched the surface. The impact plunged him into darkness; the water wrapped him like a liquid tomb. His body struck a submerged rock and went limp, floating like an abandoned crucifix.
In that warm abyss, consciousness ebbed… but not entirely.
A whisper—distant, impossible—began to creep into his mind. First came the murmur of waves, then the creak of old wood… until he found himself upon a nighttime sea.
He was standing on the deck of a ghostly galleon, its sails tattered. The sky had no moon, only stars blinking like watchful eyes. In the distance, a misty, unplaceable coastline.
"Hans…" a deep voice called.
He turned, and there it was: the shadow of a man in an old uniform, his back to him, staring at the horizon with a ragged cape billowing in the wind.
"Who are you?" the Jesuit asked.
"A Lübeck… before you. I marked the course and was lost. You carry the trail, but not the compass… yet. Hurry… before others find it."
Hans stepped forward, but translucent spirits surrounded him in a floating circle, clad in strange garments he did not recognize. They spoke all at once in tongues unknown—yet somehow understood.
"Do not lose the course, son of iron and word."
"Others seek it too… but not all seek to guard it."
"The seal weakens. The kraken stirs in its prison."
Then the figure with its back to him turned, brandishing a gleaming sword to drive the spirits away. When they vanished, Hans saw his face—skinless, with two red points glowing in its sockets. The bony hand pointed toward a vortex forming on the horizon.
"Remember this, Hans: the map is reference; the place is not of this world. Seek it before others… or many will regret it."
Everything shook. The sea split in two, and the galleon was torn apart by a supernatural roar. The waters closed in, dragging him into the abyss.