Hidden in the Jungle

Soren Lundgaard stepped off the wooden plank of the Dutch merchant vessel and immediately felt the heavy, wet hand of the tropics press against his chest. The air in the port town was not like the crisp, salt-stung breezes of Copenhagen. It was a thick soup of rotting fruit, stagnant river water, and the sharp tang of sun-baked mud. He pulled his wool coat tighter around himself, a foolish habit from the north, before realizing how ridiculous he must look. He loosened his collar, his fingers brushing the cold brass of the surveying tools strapped to his utility belt. Apart from those instruments, his only possession of value was a crackling parchment map tucked securely into his breast pocket, purchased for three silver coins from a dying sailor in a waterfront tavern back home.

The port was a chaotic muddle of low, white-plastered buildings and palm-thatched shacks that seemed to slide gradually into the brown water of the river. Men of every shade and language hauled crates of sugar and tobacco, their shirts gray with sweat. Soren walked past them, his boots sinking into the dark mire of the street. He did not look at the grand colonial houses or the church spire rising in the distance. He looked only for a place where a man might find a guide who spoke the local tongues, and more importantly, a man who would not ask too many questions.

He found the tavern at the edge of the mud flats, a leaning structure of dark wood that smelled of cheap rum and rancid lard. Inside, the shadows offered little relief from the heat. Flies buzzed in thick clouds over spilled liquor, and the patrons sat in sullen silence, watching the door. Soren scanned the room until he spotted a thin man sitting alone in the corner, a threadbare black cassock hanging loosely from his bony shoulders. A heavy silver crucifix lay against his chest, and his hands, which clutched a cup of watered spirit, shook with a rhythmic, unnatural tremor.

Soren pulled out a chair and sat down without invitation. The priest looked up, his eyes wide and yellowed by years of fever.

“You are Father Alfonzo,” Soren said, his voice quiet but firm. “The men on the docks said you have lived in these parts for twenty years. They say you know the rivers better than any Spaniard.”

The priest took a slow sip from his cup, his gaze drifting to Soren’s yellow hair and the neat braid that fell over his shoulder. “I know the rivers, Señor,” Alfonzo said, his voice a dry whisper. “And I know that those who seek to travel them usually bring trouble. I am a man of God, not a guide for hire.”

Soren reached into his pocket. He did not pull out the map. Instead, he withdrew a single gold coin and placed it gently on the rough wooden table between them. The metal was dark, almost reddish, and its surface was stamped not with the face of a king, but with a strange, stylized sun whose rays looked like jagged teeth.

Alfonzo’s breath caught in his throat. He did not touch the coin, but he leaned forward, his trembling hands clutching his crucifix so tightly his knuckles turned white. His pale face grew even waxier under the dim light of the tavern tallow.

“Where did you get this?” the priest whispered, his eyes darting toward the open door as if he expected the devil himself to walk through it. “This is not Spanish gold. This is not Portuguese. This belongs to a place that has been dead for five hundred years.”

“It belongs to a place that is very much alive, Father,” Soren said, leaning in. “And I have the map that leads to it. I need a translator. I need someone who can speak to the tribes along the river. Name your price.”

“No price is high enough,” Alfonzo said, shaking his head rapidly. “You do not understand. The heathens call that place the temple of the screaming sun. It is not a city. It is a grave. If you go there, you will only find your own death.”

Before Soren could reply, a heavy shadow fell over the table. A sharp-featured man with a thin, oiled mustache and a finely tailored wool coat stepped out of the gloom. Despite the heat, his linen shirt was spotless, and a heavy flintlock pistol hung prominently from his belt. Henrik Vogler smiled, but his small, dark eyes remained cold and calculating.

“A very dramatic speech, Father,” Vogler said, pulling up a third chair and sitting down. He looked at Soren with a sneer. “But our friend Master Lundgaard does not have the luxury of worrying about graves. He has more immediate concerns.”

Soren felt his jaw tighten. He had hoped to avoid Vogler until the preparations were complete, but the financier’s representative was like a bloodhound.

“The supply list is nearly complete, Vogler,” Soren said coldly. “I do not need you tracking my movements.”

“I track you because my employer’s gold tracks you,” Vogler replied, leaning forward and tapping his fingers on the table. “Let us be perfectly clear, Soren. You spun a very pretty yarn in Copenhagen about lost cities and mountains of gold. My master bought that yarn, but his patience is not infinite. If you do not find this temple, or if you attempt to slip away into the bush with his investment, you will not return to Denmark. I will personally see to it that you are sold to the silver mines in the south. You will spend the rest of your short, miserable life digging in the dark to pay off what you owe.”

The threat was spoken with an icy calm that left no room for doubt. Soren knew the truth of his own ledger; he was completely broke. The silver coins he had used to buy the map were the very last of his family’s savings. If this expedition failed, his name would be dragged through the mud, and his life would be forfeit.

“The temple is there,” Soren said, keeping his voice steady. “The map is precise. We leave at dusk.” He turned back to Alfonzo. “Are you coming, Father? Or do you wish to spend the rest of your days rotting in this tavern?”

Alfonzo looked at the gold coin, then at Vogler’s cruel face, and finally at Soren. He let out a long, ragged sigh and crossed himself. “May God have mercy on us,” he muttered.

An hour later, they stood on the wooden docks, where the river lapped greedily against the pilings. Soren had used the last of his credit to secure two heavy wooden longboats and a small crew of oarsmen. Among them stood Gunnar Holm, a mountain of a man whom the sailors called the Ox. Gunnar carried a heavy felling axe at his belt and looked at the green wall of the jungle across the river with a soldier’s dull indifference. Beside him stood Lars Pihl, a pale young scribe who could not have been more than twenty-two. Lars wore oversized spectacles and clutched a leather-bound diary to his chest as if it were a shield against the heat.

“Are you sure about this, Captain?” Gunnar grunted, tossing a heavy sack of salt pork into the lead boat. “The locals in the market were spitting on the ground when I told them we were heading inland. They say the river is cursed.”

“The locals are superstitious, Gunnar,” Soren said, adjusting the brass compass on his belt. To him, the jungle was not a living monster; it was merely a grid of latitude and longitude, a green space on a map waiting to be measured, conquered, and plundered. “A river is just water, and a forest is just wood. We map the territory, we find the temple, and we return rich men.”

Young Lars nodded eagerly, though his hands trembled as he adjusted his spectacles. “It is an extraordinary opportunity, Mr. Lundgaard. To document a lost civilization! The university in Copenhagen will speak of us for a century.”

“Just make sure you keep your ink dry, boy,” Vogler barked from the stern of the second boat. “We are not here for history lessons. We are here for the yellow metal.”

Soren stepped onto the lead boat, his eyes scanning the shoreline as the oarsmen took their places. The sun was beginning to touch the tops of the trees, turning the sky a bruised, angry purple. The shadows of the jungle seemed to stretch out across the water, reaching for them.

As he looked toward the dark treeline at the edge of the port, Soren froze. For a brief second, the leaves seemed to part. A tall figure stood on a fallen log, completely motionless. The man wore a headdress of jaguar skin, and his face was painted with dark, terrible patterns. Even from this distance, Soren could feel the cold weight of the stranger’s gaze staring directly at him.

Soren blinked, and the figure was gone, replaced by the gentle swaying of the green ferns in the breeze. He dismissed it as a trick of the fading light, a curious local watching the white men depart.

“Push off,” Soren ordered, his voice echoing over the quiet water.

The oars dipped into the river with a dull, rhythmic splash. The boats slid away from the wooden docks and into the mouth of the narrow, dark channel. Behind them, the lights of the port town began to flicker and fade, until there was nothing left but the deep, silent jungle and the long journey into the dark.