Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham

on us.
    The angle of descent eased. I could see nothing but the trees and shrubs pressing in on us, yet the narrow trail continued. I bit off the urge to ask if Stephen knew where, exactly, we were going.
    After another twenty minutes, I had my answer.

T he crossroads consisted of two trails intersecting at rough right angles. Otherwise unmarked, the trails themselves had narrowed to dirt lines that looked as if they were now used only by animals, with vegetation encroaching from the sides.
    “The crossroads were once a location where Windward and Leeward Maroons met to share information on their strategies, their numbers, their victories and losses,” Nanny said.
    “You’ve been here?”
    “It’s a sacred spot, Buck. Once prohibited to all but the leaders, scouts, and warriors who had killed the most enemies.”
    I liked the sound of “prohibited.” That could easily mean a place with low traffic, exactly the kind of location you’d want to hide items of value. Could it be the cross of evil that Tarrah had mentioned?
    “Can you tell where the reflection was coming from?” I said.
    Stephen glanced from Nanny to me.
    “I have an idea.” He again turned his eyes toward her and waited until she gave a discreet nod. “Come.”
    He stepped forward into the wedge of land between the two far trails. He pushed through some thick brush until he stopped at a flat rock wall that led straight up.
    Dead end.
    The gray rock surface was coated in moss, lichen, vines, roots. It was impenetrable, an impasse.
    “Now what?” I said.
    Stephen again looked at Nanny, who looked sullen. After a five-count, I stepped forward.
    “Let me see the archive material again.”
    Nanny swung the pack off her shoulder and took her time removing the plastic case that held the old documents—which the shade of the woods would have made it impossible to read without the flashlight. I shuffled through them until I found the one that had led us here, alluding to the flash at dawn . The next page had what appeared to be water or age stains, and under the glare of the LED light I saw the faint, mysterious illustrations—only a few lines: curved, angled and parallel. The next page was much cleaner and had ancient writing on it that Nanny had previously deciphered as someone’s biography.
    I held the drawing up for both of them to see, a sense of frustration blooming inside me.
    “These sketches mean anything to you?”
    Stephen immediately turned to Nanny, whose eyes revealed nothing. Then she looked at my face.
    “My guess is Taino petroglyphs,” she said.
    “Taino Indians were here long before the Spanish—and certainly the British, or Maroons,” I said. “What would they have to do with …”
    I turned to face the rock wall, turned back to look at them. Stephen nodded. I glanced at the wall again, then bent over and started searching the forest floor until I found a flat, sharp rock.
    I began to scrape moss off the face of the wall. Irritated that they just watched me, I continued scraping until the edge of the rock caught in a groove.
    Nanny stepped closer.
    Now, more gently, I peeled away the loose green material until I had uncovered an image. An ancient petroglyph of what looked like a telephone pole with three crossbars on top. What the heck?
    I had researched many a Taino site, but since they hadn’t been much for hoarding precious metals or stones, they’d been of minimal interest. They had inhabited much of the Caribbean at one time but had pretty much died out—slaughtered by more aggressive tribes or done in by the diseases Europeans brought to the islands.
    “This mean anything to you?”
    Nanny leaned closer and after a quick look shook her head.
    “And that flash we saw? The woods would cover this petroglyph, and any others on here. Something higher up must have caused the flash.”
    Stephen pointed up the sheer rock wall. I tilted my head back—there! I could see a narrow natural shelf bathed in morning light but