It is my son. Named for an archangel fifteen years ago by my beloved wife, Michael nods at me, momentarily warming his father’s shriveled pit of a heart. Michael is the reason I persevere, the reason I do not end my miserable existence. The madness of my quest has robbed him of his childhood, but far worse was my own heinous deed, committed years earlier. It is to his future that I recommit myself it is his destiny that I wish to change.

God, let this feeble heart last long enough to allow me to succeed.

Michael points ahead, reminding me the next piece of the puzzle beckons us. Stepping carefully so as not to disturb the pampa, we stand at what I believe is the beginning of the 3,000-year-old message. Centered upon the Nazca plateau, laid sacred from the mysterious lines and colossal zoomorphs is this—a perfect circle, carved deeply between the black-patina-coated stones. Extending out from this mysterious centerpiece like sunbeams from a child’s painting are 23 equidistant lines, all but one running some 600 feet. One line is aligned with the solstice, another with the equinox, variables consistent with the other ancient sites I’ve spent a lifetime exploring.

It is the 2nd line that is most intriguing—a bold carving within the pampa, extending over rock and hill for some 23 miles!

Michael shouts, his metal detector erupting as we approach the center of the figure. Something has been buried beneath the topsoil! With renewed vigor, we dig through the gypsum and stone, exposing the yellow dirt below. It is a heinous act, especially for an archaeologist, but I convince myself that the end shall ultimately justify the means.

And there it is, glistening beneath the broiling Sun. Smooth and white, a hollow cylinder of metal, a half meter long, that has no more right being on the Nazca desert than I have. A three-pronged candelabra-like design adorns one end of the object. My feeble heart flutters, for I know the symbol as I know the back of my weathered hand. The Trident of Paracas—the signature icon of our cosmic teacher. A similar glyph, 600 feet long, 200 feet across, adorns an entire mountainside not far from here.

Michael steadies his camera as I open the canister. Trembling, I remove what appears to be a length of parched canvas, my fingers registering its disintegration as it begins to unravel.