The Spirit Of K'inich Janaab Pakal

April 4, 1916

I arrived at the coastal shores of Cozumel, in the state of Quintana Roo, Mexico, around one o'clock in the afternoon. The weather was humid, and at times, the sea breeze was the only relief from the oppressive heat that engulfed us.

Our arrival was expected by our Mexican host and fellow archaeologist, Professor Arnoldo Olivares, who was waiting for us at the port. He greeted us enthusiastically, clearly eager to begin the expedition the following morning. I introduced myself as Professor Winston Harlow, an American archaeologist from New York, and presented my colleague, Ralph Peterson, from Philadelphia, who was accompanying me. We had sent Professor Olivares a telegram to inform him of our interest in exploring the Great Temple of the Inscriptions in the city of Palenque, where the sarcophagus of Pakal was said to lie.

The site was located near the Usumacinta River in the state of Chiapas, about 130 kilometers south of Ciudad del Carmen. I had heard much about the astonishing legends surrounding this lost Mayan city and was determined to unravel its mysteries. Although several expeditions had visited the archaeological site before, none had succeeded in fully deciphering the ancient Mayan inscriptions.

This daunting challenge was exactly the type of task I was determined to tackle with precision and care. Professor Olivares was accompanied by three Mayan men: Babajide, Cadmael, and Gabor. They were bilingual, fluent in both Spanish and Mayan.

Most importantly, they were from Palenque and intimately familiar with the pyramids and surrounding area. Since we wouldn’t depart for Palenque until the next morning, we spent our time at a local cantina, discussing the upcoming expedition and the potential discoveries that awaited us. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I had two glasses of tequila to mark the start of our adventure.

April 5, 1916

We left Cozumel early in the morning and began our long journey to Palenque, traveling dirt roads on horseback, with provisions and equipment in tow. Professor Olivares had warned us it would be a tiring and grueling trip to Chiapas, but I hadn’t fully anticipated how rough the terrain would be. The humidity worsened with every mile we covered.

The predictable tropical weather was only a prelude to the relentless mosquitoes that plagued us at every turn, hampering our progress. The Mayan men, however, seemed unfazed by these natural challenges, accustomed as they were to the harsh conditions of their homeland. They were, without question, the right guides for our expedition.

Our route would take us through the states of Campeche and Tabasco before reaching Chiapas. I was told it would take nearly the entire day to arrive at Palenque. The looming threat of rain was another concern, especially as we entered deeper into the dense jungle.

Professor Olivares had been excavating Aztec ruins near Mexico City when he received my urgent telegram. I hadn’t expected such a prompt reply, but his willingness to help earned my respect and admiration. His archaeological accomplishments were well known, and I was grateful for his expertise.

In the early 20th century, archaeology and anthropology were fields brimming with excitement, as new discoveries about ancient civilizations captured the world’s attention. Our expectations were high, fueled by the hope of finally deciphering the vast inscriptions left by the Mayans.

I had read about the temples of Palenque, but there wasn’t much detailed information available in America at the time. The world's fascination with Egypt dominated headlines, and the British were leading many of those expeditions.

I was aware of this and eager to establish my own reputation in the archaeological community. While there was no guarantee that we would find anything groundbreaking in Palenque, I was resolute in my determination to uncover its hidden wonders.

April 6, 1916

We arrived in the town of Palenque late at night, delayed by unexpected setbacks in Tabasco. The glow of the morning sun signaled a warm and promising day to begin our exploration. It took us some time to locate the lost city of Palenque.

But when we did, I was immediately awestruck. Ahead of us, within the thick jungle of cedar, mahogany, and sapodilla trees, stood the ancient ruins, dating from 226 BC to AD 799, which had flourished most notably in the 7th century. The ruins contained some of the finest architecture, sculptures, roof combs, and bas-relief carvings ever created by the Mayans. Much remained to be excavated and restored.

The history of Palenque had been pieced together by deciphering its unique hieroglyphic inscriptions scattered across its many monuments. Professor Olivares had a well-supported theory that the inscriptions detailed the long lineage of Palenque’s ruling dynasty and chronicled its interactions with other city-states like Calakmul and Toniná.

The most famous ruler of Palenque was K'inich Janaab' Pakal, or Pakal the Great, whose tomb was said to reside within the Great Temple of the Inscriptions. K'uk' B'ahlam, thought to be the founder of the Palenque dynasty, was also mentioned prominently in the texts. The Mayan men with us assisted Professor Olivares in reading these elaborate inscriptions.

I was deeply impressed by their fluency and skill, and it was clear the professor had a deep trust in them—a bond forged through shared work and respect. To the Mayans, Palenque was known as Lakamha, meaning "Big Water." This was just the beginning of what would become an unforgettable experience.

As I gazed at the timeworn ruins, I felt an eerie, almost spiritual presence in the air, as though the ghosts of the past still lingered. Professor Peterson, too, noted the strange energy that seemed to radiate from the towering temples.

Unfortunately, the weather interrupted our initial survey as heavy rain began to fall. We took shelter in one of the temples until the downpour subsided. Inside, we explored the temple’s inner chambers, guided by the Mayans, who informed us we were in the Temple of the Skull—named for a lone skull embedded in one of the pillars.

Professor Olivares led us through narrow tunnels and passages until we reached the sacrificial chamber. He explained that he had seen similar chambers in the old Aztec city of Tenochtitlán near Mexico City, but the horrors of human and animal sacrifice had been more vividly evident there than in Palenque.

Although it was difficult to grasp the full extent of what had occurred in that chamber, brittle fragments of ancient bones still littered the floor. Professor Olivares had recovered some bones during previous excavations, but political instability and funding cuts had forced him to abandon the site for a time. He now hoped to secure foreign backing to continue his work.

This didn’t trouble me; we had a mutual understanding, and we relied on his expertise just as he relied on his Mayan team. The other chambers bore inscriptions as well, though much of their meaning remained elusive.

Finally, the rain eased, allowing us to resume our exploration of the other remarkable temples. The legendary ruler, K'inich Janaab' Pakal—who ruled from 615 to 683—remained the focal point of our quest. His tomb, located in the Temple of the Inscriptions, was named after the long text inscribed within its upper structure.

According to legend, the sarcophagus of Pakal’s wife—known as the Red Queen—was covered in a vivid red cinnabar powder, an image that sparked my imagination as I considered the ancient world we had stepped into.

Our keenness to locate her tomb was paramount to understanding Pakal, but I was equally eager to study the other temples. The Temple of the Jaguar lay approximately 200 meters south of the principal group of temples. Its name derived from the decorative bas-relief carving of a king seated on a throne, depicted as a jaguar. Professor Olivares believed that the sarcophagus and pyramid were constructed above a spring between 683 and 702 AD.

The tunnels channeled flowing water from beneath the funerary chamber outward into the wide esplanade in front of the temple. This was thought to provide Pakal's spirit with an endless path to the underworld. Professor Olivares was firmly convinced by these Mayan legends and was determined to investigate their extraordinary origins.

Native folklore had long been interwoven with the Mexican people’s heritage and the Hispanic culture of Spain. It was incumbent upon us to corroborate, through diligent research, the existence of the underground water tunnel said to run beneath the Temple of Inscriptions, which housed Pakal’s tomb.

We were prepared to excavate if necessary to uncover the hidden secrets of the Palenque ruins. Although many considered these legends to be based on dubious evidence, I was inclined to believe in the remarkable intuitiveness of the Mayans, the original inhabitants of this region.

I took note of the two inner columns of the Temple of the Inscriptions and admired the spectacular Palace, visible from the noble courtyard, along with the Corbel arch in the corridor. I marveled at the towering Palace Observation Tower that loomed above us.

The set of glorious temples and step pyramids, each adorned with intricately carved reliefs, featured interior chambers depicting two figures presenting ritual objects and images to a central icon that fascinated us greatly.

The Temple of Inscriptions built perhaps as early as 675 AD, served as the funerary monument of Hanab-Pakal. The temple's superstructure housed the second-longest glyphic text in the Maya world. According to Mayan shamans and elders, the Temple of Inscriptions chronicled approximately 180 years of the city's history, from the 4th through 12th K’atun.

The pyramid measured 60 meters wide, 42.5 meters deep, and 27.2 meters high. The summit temple was 25.5 meters wide, 10.5 meters deep, and 11.4 meters high. The largest stones, weighing between 12 and 15 tons, were positioned atop the ancient pyramid. The total volume of the pyramid and temple was an astonishing 32,500 cubic meters.

The Mayans accompanying us told Professor Olivares that a stone slab in the floor of the temple’s back room, if removed, would reveal a passageway leading down a long staircase to Pakal’s sarcophagus.

There, we would find the massive carved sarcophagus, the wealth of ornaments that had accompanied Pakal, and the stucco sculptures adorning the tomb’s solid walls. They spoke of a psychoduct that led from the tomb up the staircase and through a hole in the stone covering the entrance to the burial ground. The very thought of these fantastic wonders was enough to entice us to explore and excavate until we located Pakal’s tomb.

April 7, 1916

We awoke to another rainy day and found refuge inside the Palace. The Palace was well-equipped with several large baths and saunas, supplied with fresh water by an elaborate system. An aqueduct, built of massive stone blocks with a three-meter-high vault, diverted the Otulum River to flow beneath the central plaza.

The Palace was the largest building complex in Palenque, measuring 97 meters by 73 meters at its core foundation. Eager to learn more, I became curious about the language the Mayans spoke among themselves and began to study it.

As an archaeologist, I was particularly interested in Pakal’s sarcophagus and asked Professor Olivares to question the Mayans further on this matter. What they disclosed was astonishing. They described the iconography on the lid of the sarcophagus, which depicted Pakal as one of the manifestations of the Mayan gods, emerging from the underworld’s chasm.

Their account, however, was too ambiguous, and I needed more substantial evidence. They then told the story of a young woman named Itzel who, in 1606, was questioned by Spanish authorities in Palenque about the legend of Pakal’s sarcophagus. She recounted tales of treasures within the burial chamber. Though her story was ultimately dismissed as false, the legend persisted through the centuries.

We were fortunate that two Mayans accompanying us were skilled in reading the logograms and syllabic glyphs of their ancestors. They taught Professor Olivares to decipher the inscriptions, and he began teaching Professor Peterson and me. All credit was due to the Mayans for their linguistic talent and willingness to share their knowledge. Their voluntary cooperation was the cornerstone of our expedition, though Professor Olivares compensated them well.

April 8, 1916

I was aware of the previous expeditions by Galindo, Waldeck, Charnay, and Maudslay, who had attempted to uncover Palenque’s secrets but had failed to locate Pakal’s tomb. If the legend of this priceless tomb proved true, its discovery would rival that of the Egyptian pharaohs.

We discussed this potential breakthrough and its significance the night before. Though we were eager to face the challenge, we also knew we had to be cautious of any hidden dangers. I had never been a superstitious man, but there was an inexplicable force of nature that seemed to be watching us at the ruins.

Professor Olivares felt the same premonition, and the Mayans were noticeably uneasy, as if sensing an unseen presence nearby. I cannot fully describe this strange sensation, but it intensified day by day. Whether it had a name or was simply our growing anxiety, it felt as real as the temples we explored.

I had read the accounts of earlier explorers, who mentioned experiencing a similar oppressive feeling that burdened their minds and thoughts. Was this mere coincidence, or did their reports hold some truth? If so, why spread such rumors? Were they trying to deter archaeologists or thieves from ransacking the ruins? And if they truly believed in these warnings, why hadn’t they returned to complete their discoveries?

April 9, 1916

Our exploration had reached the point of no return. Despite the time that had elapsed, we remained optimistic that our dedication would lead us to Pakal’s tomb. The potential reward justified the arduous search.

Professor Olivares suggested focusing our efforts on the sarcophagus, and Professor Peterson and I agreed—it was the most logical course. We spent the day inside the Temple of Inscriptions as the rain poured down once again. The humidity was stifling, and mosquitoes plagued us incessantly, but we could not allow these distractions to hinder our work.

Excavating a direct tunnel to the tomb would require many days and additional manpower. We decided to hire more locals from Palenque—trusted Mayans who would ensure discretion and commitment to our cause. We were determined to avoid unnecessary attention or conflict, so we relied solely on the Mayans.

Professor Olivares knew the Mayans well—as indigenous people deeply devoted to preserving their ancestral culture. He had no trust in the outsiders, particularly the mestizos, whom he regarded as likely to plunder the ruins for profit, much like the foreign explorers.

Despite the fact that Professor Peterson and I were, in truth, foreigners ourselves, Olivares needed our financial support just as much as we needed his expertise and involvement. Our mutual interest and determination to uncover the hidden tomb of the mighty Mayan king Pakal bound us together. The implications of such a discovery promised instant fame and worldwide recognition.

April 10, 1916

The excavation into the tunnels leading to the tomb had begun in earnest. The hired men worked tirelessly day and night, but progress was painfully slow due to the confined space and the stifling lack of oxygen. Professor Olivares had anticipated delays and difficulties in reaching the tomb, but even he was uncertain how long the excavation would take.

The dirt and rock were hard-packed, and the tunnel was oppressively dark. The walls, solid and at times seemingly impenetrable, were significant obstacles impeding our advance. Overcoming them would not be as simple as we had hoped. The perseverance of the men, however, was admirable.

The appalling conditions within the cramped excavation site were far from ideal for digging. We brought in new equipment, but heavy tools were unusable for fear of causing a collapse. Pulleys, pickaxes, and shovels were all we could rely on for this grueling task. Professor Olivares urged patience, certain that in the end, we would locate the lost tomb of Pakal.

I hadn’t lost faith in him or in the Mayans, but Professor Peterson had begun to express doubt about the viability of our continued efforts. I could not blame him—after all, the funds for this expedition and excavation had been secured through loans he had negotiated with banks in New York.

His stakes were higher than just prestige; his entire reputation was on the line, and failure was not an option. I saw it in his gestures, in the tension of his facial expressions. I did my best to ease his concerns, appealing to his instincts as an archaeologist. For now, I had convinced him to press on for the advancement of archaeology and anthropology. But I wondered—how much longer could I keep him reassured?

April 15, 1916

The men continued excavating around the clock, but a grave illness soon struck Professor Peterson and some of the workers. Professor Olivares referred to it as jungle fever. The relentless rain and the swarms of mosquitoes certainly played their part, as did the suffocating confines of the tunnel and the close quarters we shared.

Perhaps we had been naïve to ignore the potential for such misfortunes, but we could not afford to halt our progress. Those afflicted were treated in the tents we had set up for just such emergencies, while the remaining men pressed on with the work.

Before long, more workers fell ill, and the Mayans—deeply superstitious—regarded any illness as an ominous sign of death or a curse. Within the hour, all but our original Mayan team either succumbed to the fever or chose to abandon the excavation and leave the ruins entirely. This turn of events was unexpected. Professor Olivares tried to persuade them to stay, but they refused.

We had to react swiftly; otherwise, the excavation would grind to a halt. Reluctantly, we hired non-Mayans—mostly mestizos—who did not share the same reverence for Mayan history. At this point, we needed manpower, regardless of background or creed. There was no time for philosophical or cultural distinctions.

These mestizos were indeed hard workers, and as long as we paid them fairly, they remained motivated. What they lacked in devotion to the Mayan culture, they compensated for with sheer industriousness. With more men available, we advanced more rapidly—but inevitably, they too began to fall victim to the jungle fever.

April 20, 1916

I awoke to devastating news—Professor Peterson had died overnight in his tent. The realization struck me with a profound sense of loss and disquiet. He had been my archaeological confidant and a close friend of twenty years.

We had explored Machu Picchu in Peru and the pyramids of Egypt together. Never did I imagine that this would be our final expedition, nor that his life would end here, in the shadow of the Mayan ruins at Palenque.

I was at a loss, unsure how to proceed. Yet Professor Olivares, steadfast in his commitment to discovering the tomb, urged me to continue—in memory of Professor Peterson and the others we had lost. His words stirred something in me, and I agreed to carry on, driven by the hope that the concealed tomb of Pakal would at last be uncovered. But there were no guarantees, only the daunting prospect of what lay hidden behind those intimidating stone walls.

Time was now a critical factor. The longer we spent in the tunnels, the greater the risk of exposure to jungle fever. The faces of the sick were ghostly pale, marred by ghastly rashes—a harrowing sight.

They resembled fallen soldiers on the battlefields of Europe. I had seen something similar once before, during my time in Africa, when typhoid fever swept through villages, killing dozens of men, women, and helpless children. The devastation of that memory haunted me still, and now it returned in this distant jungle.

New workers were recruited from Palenque, but, tragically, they too fell victim to the mysterious jungle fever.

Subsequently, we had to hire more men from neighboring towns and villages. It was a horrific anguish to bear, but Professor Olivares remained resolute in his determination to succeed at whatever cost. We had come too far to simply give up and return with no discovery to show for it.

April 25, 1916

On this day, more terrible news arrived. Professor Olivares was showing clear symptoms of jungle fever, and we had scarcely any medicine left to combat this severe form of malaria. We had been using oil of cassia and oil of bergamot to ward off mosquito bites, as was common among soldiers on the battlefields of Europe, with notable effectiveness.

We administered a preliminary dose of calomel followed by saline, but nothing in the town of Palenque could halt the progression of the pernicious infection once the patient became feeble and comatose.

Although we pressed on with the excavation, it seemed we were no closer to reaching the tomb of Pakal. Our hope was fading, as was the will of the men to continue digging. They expressed clear reservations about proceeding further. Each day brought more uncertainty regarding whether the workers would stay on.

Every time a worker fell ill, we replaced him with another. The hospital in Palenque was overwhelmed, unable to treat all the infected. Many patients were transported to other hospitals across the state, while the dead were buried in mounds deep in the jungle, far from town.

There were times when I could hardly tolerate the stench of death or the ghastly sight of the deceased. Each day left me in shock and disgust, to the point of loathing my surroundings. At our current pace, I estimated that the excavation would take at least another year or two if we were fortunate—but we did not have that kind of time to achieve our goal of uncovering Pakal’s hidden tomb.

May 5, 1916

I no longer knew how much longer the excavation would last, nor how much deeper we needed to dig to reach the tomb. I was beginning to feel the effects of jungle fever myself. Professor Olivares was too ill to assist, and I was forced to direct the workers alone. By then, I had learned enough Spanish and Mayan to communicate effectively.

When doom seemed inevitable, the most incredible phenomenon occurred. As the workers dug, one of them uncovered a hollow wall concealing a hidden passage. Immediately, I ordered the men to break down the wall with their pickaxes and shovels. Within ten minutes, the wall crumbled open, revealing a narrow passageway. We entered and proceeded down the corridor, which led us to the astonishing burial chamber of the great Mayan king Pakal. The walls were covered in countless inscriptions.

The large carved stone sarcophagus lid in the Temple of Inscriptions was exactly as legend described. Along its edges was a band of cosmological symbols, including the sun, the moon, the stars, and the heads of six named noblemen of various ranks. The central image depicted a cruciform world tree, and beneath Pakal was the head of a celestial two-headed serpent, viewed from the front.

Both the king and the serpent head on which he rested were framed by the open jaws of a funerary serpent, a common iconographic motif signaling entry into the realm of the dead. The king himself was adorned with the colorful attributes of the Tonsured Maize God.

At first, I stood in awe, speechless at the momentous discovery. Then, as the workers carefully opened the sarcophagus, we beheld the remains of K'inich Janaab Pakal, his face covered by a jade mask.

I removed the mask and gazed upon the skull and bones of Pakal. As I stood there, transfixed, a surreal figure—a black mist—rose from within the tomb and began to take shape. It was the spirit of Pakal, rising from the dead.

The workers, terrified, fled the burial chamber, leaving me alone to face the disturbed spirit. The form had no human constitution, a mass of pure spirit that rose ominously. Just then, a loud commotion erupted outside. The local Mayans had come to voice their fierce objection to the excavation and the desecration of their king’s resting place. Their aim was to expel us by any means necessary, determined to preserve their sacred heritage.

Suddenly, the impregnable walls of the Temple of Inscriptions began to crumble from within. Perceiving the imminent collapse, I attempted to flee. I barely escaped with my life, but the burial chamber of Pakal was sealed off once more by the massive collapse of the walls—likely for decades, if not centuries.

The Mayans ceased their aggression and watched in silence as the temple buried itself. It seemed, in that moment, that they were satisfied. We would no longer disturb Pakal’s tomb. For a fleeting instant, I felt I understood their plight, and they, in turn, seemed to understand my passion to preserve their ancient culture and language.

Deep down, I was tormented by the thought that I had failed—in the name of archaeology, and in loyalty to both Professor Peterson and Professor Olivares. Had their deaths been in vain, or had they perished in pursuit of their greatest passion: exploring the world for its insoluble mysteries?

I suffered only minor contusions and scratches, nothing serious. My health, however, was steadily eroding under the effects of jungle fever. I was treated in Palenque and, in time, overcame the illness—thanks, I believe, not only to medicine but also to sheer will and determination to survive.

Professor Olivares was not so fortunate. He died outside the ruins of Palenque, along with twenty-five workers who gave their lives for the excavation of the temple.

The jungle had begun to swallow us whole. The once glorious canopy now seemed an oppressive shroud above, blocking out the sun and casting an eerie shadow over the expedition. It felt like the earth itself was conspiring against us. I had never realized just how vast the jungle was, how it could stretch endlessly, folding and unfolding, like some great beast of nature that never slept. There were times I could hardly breathe for the weight of its silence, punctuated only by the occasional call of an unseen bird or the rustle of unseen creatures that moved in the shadows.

The expedition had dwindled to a mere handful of men. The rest, taken by fever, had been sent away to nearby towns, some to recover, others, tragically, to die. And still, we dug.

But I couldn’t help but feel a sense of profound failure, the thought that we had been driven to such lengths and yet could not see the forest for the trees. How had we, so intent on finding the tomb, ignored the signs—the warnings of the local people, the curses they whispered on our way into the jungle, the way they turned away from us as we persisted?

It had been weeks since Olivares succumbed to fever. His death was the breaking point for the men, each one leaving in haste after he passed. I was left alone with nothing but my journals, a few lingering workers, and the insatiable need to continue. If for no other reason, I thought, than to honor Olivares’s memory and bring to light the work he had started. The search for Pakal's tomb had become something more than academic; it had become a haunting, a feverish obsession, a test of endurance against forces beyond our understanding.

As I sat on the edge of the temple grounds, the remnants of the excavation visible in the dirt and rubble beneath me, I reflected on the strangeness of it all. Had I been too blinded by ambition? Or was there something more lurking beneath the surface of our minds—the echoes of those who had come before us, whispering from the depths of the earth?

And then it happened.

The sound that had once been just a whisper in my dreams now reached my ears, a low hum that vibrated in the bones of the earth. The air seemed to shift around me. I stood, the hairs on my arms prickling, my heart pounding. My eyes darted around, and then—there it was—a faint crack, a subtle shift in the stone beneath the overgrown vines. For the first time in weeks, I felt the stirrings of true excitement, of something close to dread, as though the earth itself had spoken.

I approached the crack cautiously, fingers trembling as I brushed away the moss and vines. Beneath my fingertips, I could feel the pulse of history, a connection that seemed almost unnatural. As I dug away the stone, a hollow thud reverberated beneath me, and the earth groaned. My heart raced as I continued to clear the stone. The remnants of Pakal’s resting place were near—so near!

I had hoped, of course, that the tomb was still intact, but as the stones fell away, what I uncovered was far beyond my expectations. A vast chamber lay hidden beneath the ruins, the remains of the Temple of Inscriptions itself seemed to part for me. My breath caught in my throat as the walls revealed themselves—elaborate, carved panels adorned with the glyphs of the ancient kings and gods of the Mayan world, their intricate details still sharply etched after centuries of neglect.

But it was the sarcophagus that truly took my breath away. A massive stone lid lay askew, its surface thick with the patina of time, yet still bearing the traces of an intricate design—the unmistakable likeness of Pakal, his face carved with unnerving precision.

I stepped back, my chest tightening. Was it really him? Was this truly the tomb I had sought for so long?

And then, through the gloom, I saw it. A shimmer. The jade mask of Pakal, perfectly preserved, resting beside the sarcophagus as if waiting for me to claim it. My hands shook as I reached for it. The weight of it in my hands felt like the weight of centuries, like the weight of the Mayan civilization itself.

For the briefest moment, I felt as though the very earth was alive, as if I were connected to something older than time. I felt the pulse of the land under my feet and heard the whispers of ancient priests and kings who had once roamed these halls.

But the peace was fleeting.

The moment I touched the mask, the ground began to tremble beneath me. The earth itself seemed to shake with a ferocity that I had not imagined. The ruins groaned as though alive, and I could hear the distant thunder of a storm gathering above. It was then that I realized—this was no simple excavation. This was the reckoning of something far more ancient than I had ever imagined.

The mask slipped from my hands and clattered to the ground, and the chamber seemed to close in on me. The shadows grew deeper, darker, and I heard something—someone—whisper my name.

May 25, 1916

I had only a fleeting memory of the events that followed. The storm had descended with the wrath of a thousand gods, its fury tearing through the jungle with such intensity that the air became thick with humidity and terror. The ground shook, and a strange force seemed to pull at the very fabric of the earth. I remembered stumbling from the temple, nearly blinded by the torrential rain, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, my thoughts muddled by the effects of fever.

But I escaped. I made it to the nearby village of Palenque, where the locals took me in and tended to my wounds. The fever had taken its toll, and for days I was delirious, caught in a fever dream that seemed to last forever. But as I recovered, I could not shake the feeling that I had left something behind—something unfinished. The discovery of Pakal’s tomb had not brought the peace I had hoped for, but instead, an overwhelming sense of dread.

I returned to the temple two weeks later, my body still weak from the fever but driven by an insatiable curiosity to understand what I had uncovered. But when I arrived, there was nothing—nothing but ruins. The site had been abandoned, as though it had never been disturbed.

I searched frantically for any trace of the sarcophagus, the mask, the temple, but it was as if they had vanished. The earth had swallowed it all.

I was left with nothing but the haunting memory of the jade mask and the sense that I had somehow desecrated something sacred. The locals spoke of the curse of Pakal in hushed tones, of how the spirit of the king would never rest as long as his tomb was disturbed.

And though the ruins remained, though I searched the jungle for years to find the tomb once more, it was as if the earth itself had conspired to keep its secrets hidden.

I still feel the pull of the jungle, the unanswered questions gnawing at me, but I know now that some things are not meant to be uncovered. Some things, I have come to understand, must remain buried, lost to time.

Perhaps it is better that way.

Perhaps the curse of Pakal was never meant for discovery.

Eventually, I left Palenque thereafter with nothing but my memories—and my life. I carried one precious token of the expedition: the jade mask of K'inich Janaab Pakal, the longest-reigning ruler of the ancient Mayans of Mesoamerica.

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