The sound of the mechanisms ceased. Hans crouched low, fearful in the corridor. Surrounded by total darkness, he could hear only the dripping of water falling from the stalactites and striking the stone floor. He dreaded lifting his light, afraid he might find himself encircled by spectres—those same figures painted on the frescoes of the passage—seeking vengeance for his intrusion.
The silence grew suffocating. Crawling through the gloom, he reached the faint, wavering glow of what remained of his fallen oil lamp, its contents spilled upon the ground. With that meagre light, he retrieved his satchel, drew out a tallow candle, and lit it with the lamp's dying flame. Rising to his feet, he was startled to find that the metal door had opened.
"Here lies the legacy. Only the bearer of the line shall know how to unlock it," he murmured.
Hans advanced cautiously along the corridor until he reached another chamber. He stepped slowly across the stone floor and looked upward: the ceiling was bare, adorned only with hanging stalactites. The tremulous candlelight revealed an impossible chaos. To one side lay metallic frames resembling chests, with dark panes that seemed like petrified screens. Further on, a heap of artifacts of incomprehensible purpose—twisted iron, massive gears, stacked cylinders, and sheets of metal piled one upon another.
He moved carefully among the debris. He recognized elongated structures that resembled weapons, their corroded barrels encrusted with mineral deposits, as though centuries had sought to turn them into fossilized bones. Some were broken, others warped, and their very presence thickened the air with a heavy, uneasy silence. In one corner, leaning to the side, lay machines like those he had seen depicted in the frescoes. Their metallic bodies were dented, torn cables dangling, and inscriptions half-erased beneath layers of rust.
"They are artifacts out of place…" Hans whispered, unable to tell if they were the work of men, demons, or a civilization extinguished beyond time.
He recalled the parish priest's words, spoken years before when the boy Hans had brought him seashells and fish fossils found in the mountains, or when he had shown him strange runes discovered in the forest.
"The devil uses such objects to confuse us," the priest would repeat.
But his grandmother had always countered with a more pragmatic wisdom:
"The world is an enigma, older than we think, and full of mysteries… which we shall hardly comprehend if we close our minds, like that stubborn priest."
The Jesuit breathed deeply, swallowing to steady himself.
"There must be a logical explanation," he muttered. "Act like a Jesuit, Hans—for God's sake."
At last his gaze fixed upon another metal door. He stepped closer and examined it. Beside it, a cartouche marked with a strange symbol drew his attention. Rummaging through his satchel, he pulled out the codex and searched for the glyphs he had seen before. They matched perfectly. Then he drew forth his medallion: the three elements aligned. Removing the chain from his neck, he placed it into the niche.
Immediately, the ancient mechanisms stirred once more. Hans recoiled in fear as the heavy door opened slowly, revealing a narrow, barren chamber devoid of decoration. At its far end rose a pedestal, upon which rested a box.
Hans's heart pounded. He approached, placed his hand upon the box, and felt that it bore two lids. He drew a breath, then opened it with both hands. Inside lay nothing but a painting: the image of a woman dressed in noble robes, holding a sword with both hands, her eyes lifted heavenward.
"What in God's name…?" he exclaimed, stunned, as he lifted the image and studied it closely.
By its style, it was relatively recent, reminiscent of Baroque devotional paintings. His mind simply exploded. It was absurd—an affront to all reason. Who could have left such an image… the Jesuits? It felt like some kind of mockery. And yet, the evidence proved otherwise: they had reached this place, and the iron doors bore no sign of having ever been forced. The candle was dwindling; he knew it would not last. Disappointed, he turned to leave—only to discover that the metal door through which he had entered was now closed.
A nameless terror seized him. All around lay twisted heaps of metallic wreckage, and from them he felt the mocking gaze of phantom eyes. The dread that this place might become his tomb overcame him. Desperate, he sought an escape, invoking every saint and family spirit he could recall. He even remembered his grandmother's counsel—to call upon the woodland sprites for aid. Exhausted, he collapsed, clutching his head in despair.
"Spirit of my beloved grandmother, help me… timid lights of the forest, aid me… Blessed Mother, deliver me!" he cried.
It was then he heard the trickle of water falling from above. Following the sound, he found a narrow square shaft where the water drained away. The air that flowed from it smelled of dampness and decay. If he entered, he might be trapped in eternal darkness—but the thought of dying slowly, sealed alive, was worse.
He forced himself into the tunnel, claustrophobic and slick. The slope grew steep, and soon he lost his grip. He cried out, clawing at the walls, but in vain. After seconds of sheer terror he was hurled into a body of water.
Spluttering, he raised his head—and to his relief, he saw light. He dragged himself out of the water and found himself within a cavern where a subterranean river ran. In the distance, daylight shimmered. He waded toward it and discovered he was in a cenote, its opening far above. By fortune, ropes hung down into the pool, left there for drawing water.
With aching limbs and summoning his skill at climbing, Hans pulled himself upward. By the time he reached the surface, the sun was sinking into its crimson twilight. He collapsed on the ground, staring up at the vast blue sky. In a burst of emotion, he shouted and laughed, giving thanks for his unlikely deliverance. Closing his eyes, he longed for nothing more than to return to civilization.
Then came footsteps. Opening his eyes, he saw with astonishment that he was surrounded by a group of indigenous men, dressed in white mantles and broad hats, staring at him in bewilderment. Hans rose and lifted his hands, while they drew back warily.
"Forgive me… I am a Jesuit missionary," he said, attempting to soften their stern expressions.
They conferred in Maya, until one broke away and ran. Moments later, a rider appeared on horseback—a white man clad in homespun cloth and a broad straw hat, a musket slung over his shoulder, a machete at his belt. He dismounted and stood firmly before Hans.
The Jesuit was astonished; he had not expected to find Europeans in such a place. Perhaps they belonged to some hidden outpost.
"Who are you?" the man demanded, his gaze severe.
"I am a Jesuit missionary… on my way to the Mission of San Ignacio…" Hans began,
But he had no time to finish. The man struck him with the butt of his musket.