For several days he pressed on through the thicket, machete always in hand, cutting his way through vines and roots that seemed to multiply without end. Each day left him more exhausted, covered in sweat, mud, and insect bites, yet also closer to his goal. At last, as evening fell after one final, grueling day hacking through the undergrowth, Hans emerged from the trees, drenched in sweat and caked with mud. When he lifted his gaze, his heart skipped a beat: before him, on the far side of a clearing bathed in the glow of the setting sun, rose a hill thickly covered in jungle vegetation. And at its summit, peeking out from the tangle of branches and trees, stood a carved crest, whose reliefs, though worn by time, were still visible. He had reached the temple of Hun-Hunahpú.
Hans drew closer and, among the branches encroaching upon the stones blackened by humidity and perpetual shadow, he could make out reliefs worn nearly away: faces of jaguar warriors, elongated skulls, and symbols of the underworld, mingled with strange figures that did not appear to be Mayan. The base of the temple was surrounded by what must once have been ceremonial stairways, now fractured and cloaked in moss. A solemn silence enveloped the place, broken only by the drone of insects and the croak of a hidden toucan among the branches.
Hans moved cautiously, feeling that each step carried him deeper into more than just a sanctuary: he was crossing a threshold between the world of the living and that of the gods. His hand brushed a stone covered in lichen, tracing the grooves of a glyph he recognized: the symbol of sacrifice. There, in the twilight of the jungle, the temple seemed to watch him, as though Hun-Hunahpú himself awaited his arrival from above.
He walked along the base, and when he rounded the pyramid, he was startled to find the remnants of a camp. At its foot stood a crude wooden framework, blackened by moisture, built with crossed beams and ropes that hung from rusted pulleys.
Scattered around in the grass were fragments of broken ceramic jars, as well as several jade masks. There were also bottles which, curious, he picked up and examined. One he sniffed: it still carried the pungent odor of rancid wine, though empty. He let it fall back into the grass. Then he took one of the masks, studied it with fascination, and set it back down. That was when a marbled object half-buried among the branches caught his eye. He picked it up and gazed at it with surprise: it was an ivory pipe, with a short mouthpiece and a crudely carved bowl adorned with maritime motifs.
"And you—how did you end up here?" Hans murmured.
On closer inspection, he saw that the pipe bore the image of a galleon on one side and a skull on the other. An idea flickered in his mind, recalling passages from the novels of Balin Van Buuren, but logic quickly shut that door.
"Impossible, Hans… impossible… damn it, act like a Jesuit!" he said, shaking his head.
He let the pipe fall to the ground and walked toward the wooden structure, studying it closely. It rose at the edge of a shaft, blackened by moisture and gnawed by time. The framework, built of rough beams lashed together with frayed rope, seemed to have endured decades under the weight of the jungle. Its upper arm, leaning and splintered, still held a rusted pulley that squealed in the wind, a relic of its ancient use to hoist heavy loads. Between the beams hung strands of rope hardened with mold, and on the ground lay scattered fragments of fallen wood. Clearly, it had been built to raise blocks—or bodies—from the depths of the temple.
"So this is where the money from the San Ignacio expedition went… Father Horst will find it interesting to know," Hans said, patting one of the thick beams of the frame.
He peered down into the shaft, crouching to look inside. It gaped dark as the very mouth of the abyss. The Jesuit lifted his eyes to the sky: the sun was setting, while the howls of monkeys, the cries of birds, and the whine of insects seemed to bid farewell to the day and welcome the night. He decided he would camp and begin his exploration at dawn.
After finding a safe spot, he built a fire to face the night and sat to rest. By its light he reviewed his documents and his journal of notes. He had reached his goal. A sense of triumph stirred in him, but it was tinged with unease: he had strayed from his road to Campeche, though his excuse would be that he had discovered the purpose of that mysterious expedition known as OA. He felt excitement at the thought of entering the temple, though it was obvious that if there had ever been anything of value, it had long since been systematically plundered… but by whom?
He reviewed the notes from the map and the report he had found at the mission, and wrote a few personal annotations where he had copied the texts from the parchment:
"Here lies the legacy. Only the bearer of the line shall open it"… Who is that bearer?
"Not all doors lead to the light. Some passages return the gaze."
Nur wer den Namen kennt, darf den Weg betreten.
(Only he who knows the name may take the path).
Then he turned back to the codex, his eyes following its glyphs and illustrations. He identified the section the Mother Superior had been able to read, but then noticed a fragment he might always have overlooked: an image he had once assumed to be Hun-Hunahpú holding his severed head, rays shining from it, while at his feet Mayan priests and kings, along with strange creatures, bowed in reverence or fear. Yet as he studied it more closely, he saw the head was joined to the figure's body. Then he recognized a symbol that was anything but Mayan: characters he recalled from ancient stone stelae lost in the shadowed forests of the Schwarzwald, or from circular rings of monoliths where, according to local legend, fairies and Nibelungs once gathered.
The Jesuit paused, lost in thought, recalling his grandmother's tales: legends of mythical heroes, of magical objects such as swords and helms forged by a mysterious people, and of forgotten epics. He placed the codex back into his pack.
"Deine Geschichten haben mich inspiriert… und siehe da, hier bin ich, ein Verrückter! (Your stories inspired me… and here I am, a madman!)" he said.
Once he had gone over his notes, he packed everything away. Then he lifted his gaze toward the temple, standing before him silent and enigmatic, its sanctuary and crest outlined against the starlit sky and the light of the moon. In his imagination, Hans could see the mythical Hun-Hunahpú with his headdress watching him. He smiled and raised his hand, as though saluting an ancient guardian.
"Gute Nacht, mein Freund," he whispered, with a touch of reverence.