Maroon Rising by John H. Cunningham Page B

and Nanny carefully spread each paper out. Damned lucky they hadn’t been lost to the river when that crazed boat driver ran us down. Had it been intentional? My natural paranoia had escalated since yesterday.
    “You’re right to be afraid.”
    I looked up. Tarrah was staring straight at me.
    “Excuse me?”
    “People will kill for these papers. Many have died through the years to protect them.” She paused, then turned to Nanny. “Need to be careful.”
    “We will,” Nanny said. “Buck’s idea was that we should follow the path the men may have taken after leaving Morgan’s ship. Seems far-fetched, but that’s why we’re here—”
    “No. You here to see me, because I’ve known you’d be coming.”
    I pressed my teeth together. Nanny glanced over her shoulder and mouthed “Obeah.”
    I’d already figured that out. Along with the ancient Ashanti and African languages the last vestiges of Maroons sought to keep alive, some continued to practice the beliefs their forefathers brought with them from Mother Africa. A tingle tickled my arms.
    The old woman smiled, her teeth brown but still in place. She turned to the papers spread out on the truck bed.
    “My eyes aren’t so good—”
    I pulled the magnifying glass from my pocket. She laughed and nodded, then bent over the papers, most of which were incomprehensible to me. Her quick review of Morgan’s journal made me think she’d studied it before. She stopped near the sudden conclusion of loose notes and glanced up, then shoved everything back in its plastic case. She had paused over the page that referred to the flash at dawn on Blue Mountain’s peak.
    She confirmed that there was an old legend—from the days the Taino Indians had Jamaica to themselves—about magic in the mountain, and specifically a cross that marked what she referred to as the site of a deep evil. She looked from Nanny to me.
    “We been using fear to our advantage ever since we was dragged out of Africa.”
    The tingle in my arms shot across my shoulders. Watching me, the old woman cackled—I felt like she could see it.
    “We need to go up there tonight, to the mountain, and wait for sunrise,” I said.
    Nanny looked at her watch, then at me. “I’ve been there at dawn and there was no flash on the mountain.”
    “Doesn’t matter, it’s all we have to work with,” I said. “And think about this. What if the flash is visible from the peak, not on the peak?”
    Nanny squinted her eyes for a second then popped them wide. “We never—” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost three o’clock now…” Her eyes narrowed. “We’ll need a guide. And a vehicle.”
    “Use my truck,” Tarrah said. “I get out in Moore Town and Stephen can take you there tonight.”
    Adrenaline was pumping so much energy through my body I didn’t care how much it hurt from the trip upriver. A nighttime hike to the 7,400-foot high Blue Mountain peak would knock my already kicked ass out, but if it led to a clue about Morgan’s stash, my legs and back would just have to suck it up.

M oore Town was far enough from the water that the river wasn’t visible, so I had no idea if the speedboat that nearly swamped us was here or not. Nanny had gone to check on the Colonel and get his thoughts on the materials. She returned with a jug of water and a backpack.
    “Chicken sandwiches and flashlights,” she said. Stephen, waiting by the truck, was Tarrah’s great grandson and looked to be around my age. He had a serious-looking face with a turned-down mouth, short hair, and short stature—maybe five foot six.
    “Stephen, thanks for guiding us tonight.” Nanny gave him a brief hug, but even that didn’t soften his expression.
    “Going to be cold tonight, maybe wet, too,” he said.
    “How long does it take to hike to the peak?” I said.
    “Normally about seven hours.”
    “ Seven? ”
    “We got Granny’s truck.”
    I glanced at Nanny, unsure how far we could drive and what impact that