The relaxed atmosphere of "El Cafetal," with its murmur of conversation and the aroma of roasted coffee, became the backdrop for an intense hunt for paper treasures. Lysandra, half-simmering her double espresso, leaned over the leather folder Mauricio had unfurled, her violet eyes scanning each photograph, each description with almost palpable concentration. Her professionalism was a well-fitting armor, but her passion for history and the arcane shone through.
"These lots from the Mérida auction are interesting, Mauricio," she commented, her finger with an impeccably manicured nail lingering on the image of a silver desk set with a partially erased coat of arms. "The filigree looks 17th century, possibly from Toledo workshops, but this coat of arms… I need a clearer image. Do you have details on the chain of custody?"
Mauricio, always prepared, extracted a tablet from his bag and with a few deft touches, enlarged the image of the coat of arms. "The provenance is a bit nebulous in the initial records, as is often the case with pieces from this period that have been in private hands for generations. But there are indications, whispers in collecting circles, that this set, along with a couple of nautical maps you'll see later, belonged to a direct descendant of Don Francisco de Montejo, 'El Adelantado'."
Lysandra's eyes sharpened. "El Adelantado... That would add considerable historical value, not just monetary. An object that could have been on the table where parts of the conquest of Yucatán were planned... The benefits to a collector of colonial history would be immense, as long as the authentication is solid. Do the maps have annotations?"
"That's where it gets even better," Mauricio replied, his smile widening, infecting Dulce, who listened with calm attention, her kind eyes moving from one to the other. He flipped to the next images on the tablet: yellowed nautical charts, with the coastlines of the Yucatán Peninsula and the Caribbean drawn in shaky but detailed handwriting. "Some have marginalia, notes on currents, possible anchorages... and this." He pointed to a small cross and an almost illegible Latin phrase on one of the charts. "I haven't fully deciphered it yet, but the marked location is intriguing, near what is now the Sian Ka'an Reserve."
Lysandra nodded slowly, her mind already processing the information, the possible connections, the clients who might be interested. But the real surprise came when Mauricio, with an almost theatrical air, pulled out one of the cardboard tubes.
"And now, something that will fascinate you, knowing your... particular appreciation for echoes of the past," he said, his deep voice lowering its pitch slightly, as if sharing a secret. She unscrewed the lid and carefully extracted a roll of parchment or amate paper, brittle and dark with age. "These, my dear Lysandra, are texts that an old contact of mine, a diver of the old school, recovered years ago from a shipwreck near Tris Island, the former Pirate Island, now Carmen City. They were in a chest sealed with tar."
Lysandra's heart leapt. Texts from Pirate Island? A legendary place, a melting pot for smugglers, privateers, and sunken secrets. The paper, partially unrolled, revealed cramped, faded writing, with some symbols she didn't immediately recognize. The echo emanating from them was potent, a chaotic mix of adventure, danger, greed, and the saltiness of centuries.
"Are they legible? Ship's logs, journals?" she asked, her voice tinged with an excitement she rarely displayed.
"Some fragments, yes, others are badly damaged by the salt water. They appear to be a mixture: parts of an 18th-century French captain's journal, merchandise inventories... and this," she pointed to a section with more schematic drawings, "looks like some kind of rudimentary map or a series of ciphers I still can't understand. The energy they give off is... peculiar. As if they hold more than just words."
Dulce, who had remained silent, leaned slightly, her bespectacled eyes fixed on the ancient documents with a serene curiosity.
But Mauricio wasn't finished yet. He set the texts aside and opened the second tube, from which he extracted, not scrolls, but several small objects wrapped in raw cotton cloth. He unwrapped them one by one on the table, and Lysandra found herself staring at a collection of what at first glance seemed like simple handicrafts: a small doll woven from natural fibers, a rattle made from a dried gourd and seeds, a smooth stone engraved with a barely perceptible symbol. Objects that wouldn't look out of place in any of the tourist stalls at Market 28, just a few meters from where they were sitting.
"And this, Lysandra," Mauricio said, his voice now carrying a hint of mystery, "is two
The line between history and… something else blurs. They are relics, if you will, made by modern-day Mayan hands, descendants of lineages that have preserved very ancient knowledge. At first glance, they look like tourist souvenirs. But each of these pieces, according to my source—an elderly healer from the deep Mayan region—is imbued with a particular spiritual energy. They are not just objects; They're conduits, amulets, keys to... well, to things most people no longer perceive."
Lysandra looked at the objects. Her analytical mind, trained for appraisal and historical authentication, would initially have dismissed them as curiosities of no significant value. But her gift, that sensitivity to the echoes of the world, began to vibrate in a new and strange way. As she focused her attention on the small knitted doll, she didn't feel the usual echoes of a past life, of human emotions. Instead, she sensed a subtle pulsation, an almost imperceptible warmth, like the breathing of something asleep. It was a different energy, more primal, less defined by human drama and more connected to... the earth? To ancestral intentions?
She looked up at Mauricio, her violet eyes glowing with renewed intensity, surprise and intrigue warring within her. "Spiritual energy," she repeated softly. "What kind of energy?"
Mauricio shrugged, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "That, my Dear Lysandra, this is what I hoped you, with your unique sensitivity, could help uncover. To the world, they are trinkets. But I believe, and my instinct rarely fails me, that there is something more here. Something that official history doesn't tell you, but that continues to beat in the heart of this land."
The conversation about prices and historical provenances was momentarily suspended in the warm air of "El Cafetal." Before Lysandra, a new kind of mystery now lay, one that resonated with the depths of her own being and with the secrets she was only beginning to unearth within her own family. The magic, which she had always felt like an undercurrent in her life, seemed to be emerging to the surface from the most unexpected sources.