Still night lingered when Hans awoke with a start. He glanced at the time and, relieved, realized dawn had not yet broken. Grabbing his things, he made for the door. The corridor beyond lay in darkness. He closed the door slowly behind him and crept toward the belfry.
The door bore a rusty lock, but with a few tricks he managed to open it. He climbed the staircase carefully, each rotten step groaning beneath his weight. At last—after what seemed an endless ascent—he reached the top, where the bell stood silent.
The horizon stretched before him, black as a wolf's maw. Only the stars glittered in a clear sky, their light warped by the lingering heat of the night. Hans took out his quadrant, measured the height the old temple might once have had, and made his calculations. He waited for the dawn.
When the sun finally rose, he counted the seconds with his watch and raised his telescope. The faint outline of the horizon began to emerge. Hans's pulse quickened. As a Jesuit he should have been skeptical, yet the romantic in him—fed by the adventure tales of Balin Van Buuren and his grandmother's stories of fairies—urged him to believe something extraordinary was about to happen.
Then it came: a sudden gleam broke through the gloom, first timid, then repeated with greater clarity, like an invisible lighthouse signaling from the sea of jungle. Hans held his breath. No doubt remained—it was the greeting of Hun-Hunahpú.
Quickly he noted his calculations, checked his compass, and felt the certainty of a long journey ahead. He turned back, but his foot slipped. The structure gave way beneath him, and only a dangling rope saved him from falling. He swung, clutching with all his strength, scrambling for a foothold. One step broke beneath him; again he hung suspended, swaying desperately until he reached a solid rung.
The motion, however, made the bell toll.
Its clang echoed across the mission. Hans bolted down the stairs, fled through the courtyard, and reached the perimeter wall. A great ramón tree leaned toward the wall—his escape. He climbed quickly, but the branch cracked. He leapt, caught the wall, and hauled himself over. Dropping to the other side, he ran into the jungle.
The humid air smothered him; insects whined, birds screeched. Branches clawed at his face and arms. When he felt safe enough, he stopped to catch his breath, compass in hand, before pressing on.
Meanwhile, the friar was sleeping in his cell, snoring loudly. Until the toll of the bell startled him awake. Still half-asleep, he woke up with a cry:
"Pirates… pirates… pirates!"
He lurched sideways, tumbled to the floor, and blinked himself into clarity. Relieved, he exhaled, thinking it had only been a dream. But then came a knock at the door. It opened, revealing the copper-skinned face of the gardener.
"The bell rang, Father," said Chepe.
The friar froze. So it had not been a dream. With the gardener's help, he got to his feet and hurried to the belfry. They peered inside. Empty. A few steps broken.
"The damned Jesuit…" the friar muttered.
He rushed to Hans's cell. The door stood open. No guest within.
"I knew it," the friar said, seething. "He only came to continue the work of the other."
"To look for the lost temple?" Chepe asked.
"No. To spy on us. To see what advantage there would be in stripping us of our mission."
"At least he didn't steal the Castile flowerpots, Father," Chepe offered.
"Poor fool… that Lutheran will answer to me if he dares return."
Lantern in hand, the two men searched the patio and reached the perimeter wall. There, the ramón tree bore a broken branch.
"Father, he snapped the ramón—and it had fruit!" Chepe exclaimed, stooping to examine the fallen limb.
In a fit of fury, the friar shouted at the wall:
"Melius est ut non redeas… et vae tibi, si narres me tibi hospitium gratis dedisse… Lutherane vilissime!"
(Better not return… and woe to you if you tell that I gave you lodging for free, vile Lutheran!)
******
After leaving the mission, Hans walked without rest until the jungle swallowed him completely. The Jesuit hacked his way through the thicket with his machete; each blow against the branches felt like a great effort under the suffocating heat and humidity, so he advanced slowly, panting, drenched in sweat, as though the forest closed in on him at every step. The air, heavy and thick with insects, forced him to pause now and then to catch his breath. He glanced at his compass with the illusion of having covered a long distance, but when he measured his steps he realized he had gained scarcely a league. Yet, in his explorer's spirit, he felt that every meter conquered brought him closer to the mystery of the lost temple.
Nightfall caught him in the middle of a clearing, where he made camp. He pulled a flint from his satchel, lit a fire, and made sure nothing could attack him. After eating a small ration and drinking a swig of wine from his flask, he unfolded the map. His goal was to reach the third circle: the temple. According to the calculations he had made with his quadrant and the stars, and guided by his astronomical notebook, he was headed in the right direction.
It frustrated him that he could find no elevated point from which to look above the treetops for landmarks, so he had to rely solely on the stars and the rising sun. Once satisfied with his calculations, he stored everything back in his satchel and lay down beside the fire, the only thing that kept him safe in the absolute darkness.
He could hear the crack of branches, the hum of insects, the howls of monkeys, and the harsh cries of nocturnal birds. Around him, the darkness was complete, broken only by the shifting shadows cast by the fire. Thousands of stories crowded his mind, born of the folklore he knew from the Black Forest, now blending with the local legends: Mayan sprites, nahuales, werewolves, Kisins…
He drew a deep breath and made the sign of the cross.
"You are a Jesuit, Hans. Act like one," he told himself.
Then he settled to rest, while his ears absorbed the nocturnal sounds of the jungle and his solitude.