Hans departed from the convent at dawn, accompanied by Paquito, the guide. Both rode along a rustic trail, mounted on their horses, the path stretching deep into the thick jungle. They passed through small Maya settlements, where the villagers, absorbed in their labors, cast curious glances at the two travelers—most of all at Hans, clad in the black robes of the Society of Jesus.
When they reached Bulukak, Hans saw that it was little more than a cluster of native huts, round in shape, their adobe walls and thatched roofs standing in uneven rows. Chickens cackled through the dusty lanes, and dogs wagged their tails in search of scraps, while the villagers observed the strangers with a practiced indifference.
A journey of just over a league finally brought them to the town of Cáceres, a Spanish settlement established in a clearing in the jungle, arranged around a rectangular plaza dominated by a church built with thick, heavy limestone walls, with a simple, austere facade. One tower stood complete, crowned with a simple iron cross, while the other remained unfinished. Around the plaza, the main houses displayed carved stone portals, high roofs, and arched colonnades reminiscent of Extremaduran villas, although adapted to the stifling tropical air. One detail caught Hans's attention: some of these buildings had been erected from fragments of ancient Mayan walls.
The travelers halted by a fountain at the edge of the church atrium, beneath the shade of a towering ceiba tree. Hans noticed that the temple itself had been built with blocks taken from an older Maya edifice. He entered the atrium and examined the stones; some still bore the visages of gods and traces of glyphs. To his surprise, he recognized symbols resembling sketches from the old Jesuit report. The young German ran his fingers over the carvings, as though seeking revelation.
"Ave María purísima, may I be of assistance?" came a voice behind him.
Hans straightened and turned to face a friar of ample belly and bald crown. At his side stood an elderly native in white cotton garb and straw hat, a rake in hand.
"Forgive me, Father, I was absorbed in the carvings of your temple," Hans replied.
"I am Friar Joel Montoya, parish priest of this church," said the friar.
"Hans von Lübeck, of the Society of Jesus."
"You are a little far from your mission, Father."
Hans smiled, aware of the rivalry between religious orders in the New World, each vying for dominion over native souls.
"I am bound for Campeche. I merely strayed somewhat from my route."
"A long way off indeed… Are you planning to raise a new outpost here?" The friar's tone carried a shade of suspicion.
"I think not, Father. I was merely auditing the mission and chose to explore the region a little—for academic purposes."
"Ah yes… your order has a footing only in Campeche and Mérida, where the rich are," the friar replied with a touch of sarcasm.
Hans allowed himself a faint smile.
"Yes, we call it strategic evangelization. The rich feed us, and in turn we remind them they cannot carry their silverware into heaven… so we keep it safe for them," he added with a wink.
"Indeed. If there is something the Jesuits excel at, it is administering what others cannot take with them," the friar shot back.
Hans understood that the man was being cordially combative.
"Tell me, Father, where did these blocks come from?" he asked, eager to redirect the conversation.
"You Jesuits—always so studious… even of what does not belong to you." The friar shrugged. "What do I know? When I came from Andalusia, the church was already old. The brethren who arrived at the end of the fifteen hundreds built it, though they never finished the second tower. Personally, I never cared for anything beyond the Gospel. God alone knows what pagan deity those carvings represent. More than once I thought of erasing them, but perhaps it is best to leave them—as a reminder of the Church's triumph over heresy."
Hans wiped the sweat from his brow.
"We are on the road to the port. Might you tell us where we can find some food and water?"
"Across the square, by that building with the arcades—you will find Doña Meche's inn. Travelers and muleteers go there."
The friar departed, followed by the old native.
After watering their horses at a trough, Hans and the guide entered the inn, where muleteers were gathered while their cattle rested near the plaza. They sat at a table and ordered. A Black woman served them steaming bowls of black beans, perfumed with epazote, along with fresh maize tortillas.
"One real," she said.
Hans laid a silver coin upon the table.
"Thank you. Tell me, is it always this hot, or only today?" he asked, hoping to start a conversation.
The woman smiled.
"The heat is part of the land. In hurricane season it eases a little. Would you like more beans?"
When the guide said yes, Hans had to produce another real. With tortilla in hand, he drank from his clay cup, cooling his throat. Presently the woman returned with more tortillas. Hans tore one, scooped the beans, wiped his mouth, and asked:
"Do you know if there is any ancient temple nearby?"
"Older than the church of San Francisco? I doubt it, though there is a small hermitage to Saint Christopher," she replied.
"I mean a Maya temple, or ruins," Hans specified.
She shrugged.
"More beer?" she asked, and walked away.
Hans resumed eating.
"They were destroyed—or swallowed by the jungle," said one of the muleteers at a neighboring table.
Hans turned to him with curiosity. The man was a rancher in wide cotton shirt, breeches, and high boots. A leather belt held a pair of pistols, and a kerchief bound his head.
The man extended his hand.
"Don Juan Ahumada Saucedo." Hans shook it in return. "And what is a Jesuit doing in these parts?"
"The very question the friar asked me," Hans answered. "I am on my way to Campeche, from the mission of San Ignacio de Chenutialbak."
"I know it well—quite an estate they have there. Fine production; I often drive cattle to them."
"Well, I strayed a little to attend to some matters at the convent of Santa María de los Ángeles of Xkan-Ha."
"Ah, that is far from here—and from the royal road to Campeche."
They ate in silence a while, while muleteers traded jests. At length Hans cleared his throat.
"You say there are no temples nearby?"
"The missionaries and the Spaniards destroyed them, used the stones to build their churches and houses, and the villagers their huts," the rancher replied. "But they say many remain, forgotten in the jungle. These lands are full of them—some can be seen from the sea. But no one dares to enter."
"Why not?" Hans asked.
"Legends speak of strange lights, will-o'-the-wisps, and ghosts," he said, lowering his voice.
"In my homeland, in the Black Forest, a will-o'-the-wisp means treasure buried by the Nibelungs."
"Well, I don't know what Nibelungs are, but here people fear the aluxes—Maya sprites that haunt forgotten temples. And there are nahuales and other demons, like the Kisin, who stalk you to cause an accident and kill you; once they do, they seize your body and turn you into a living corpse, feeding on the energy of the living."
"Don't forget the Camazotz," said a lad, "a bat demon that drinks blood."
"True," added the innkeeper, who had just returned and overheard. "Once, a man from town was warned, but stubbornly entered the jungle after sundown to search for a missing cow. They found him drained of every drop of blood, like a shriveled bladder. More beer? Or fresh water, perhaps?"
Everyone muttered and crossed themselves, raising their cups for refilling as they laid coins on the table.
"Best not to wander without proper protection—and never spend the night in the jungle," said the rancher, showing an amulet with a grin.
Hans swallowed hard but kept the skeptical composure of a Jesuit.
"Well, I carry the greatest protection in this world against such phantoms," he said, raising his crucifix.
The rancher smirked.
"You'll need another protection—against the living." He tapped one of his pistols. "There's been unrest with the locals. Best stay alert. And, Father, remain on the royal road—you never know what awaits in the jungle."
With that, the rancher and his men rose and departed, leaving Hans at the table. Paquito had already finished and leaned back against the whitewashed wall, fanning himself with his hat in silence.
Hans lifted his cup again, and as he set it down he thought he heard a whisper behind him. He turned swiftly, but no one was there—only the open doorway admitting the warm breath of the afternoon and the creak of the shutters. He smiled faintly, blaming heat and fatigue for the trick of the senses. Yet for a fleeting moment the feeling lingered—that he was not alone, that unseen eyes were upon him.
Closing his eyes, he pressed his elbows hard upon the table and clasped his hands in prayer.
"Handle wie ein Jesuit… du bist ein Jesuit, dir kann nichts geschehen, und nichts davon ist wirklich, (Act like a Jesuit… you are a Jesuit; nothing can harm you, and none of it is real.)" he murmured.