by A.R. Rivera
Look, Everybody, I’m Indiana Jones
The stone corridor abruptly ends.
I pass a sharp corner and emerge from the cave in time to see the flaming ball of light dissipate. Like a fire, that’s run out of oxygen. A sparkler sputtering out.
And I’m here.
Staring at the sight I’ve been chasing since I first glimpsed it days ago from the edge of the waterfall.
Three large rings in varying shades of purest brown color the dead and dying flora beneath my boots. The land seems naked. Not a tree or shrub has survived the rapture of the stones. In the very center of the rings, sets a finely carved stone table. No, a concave seat, like an altar. And on the altar that’s surrounded by death lie three lovely, lively rocks.
One white, one red, and one black.
They offer no reflection, yet shimmer in the dim light.
Calling to me.
But it can’t be this easy.
I circle the open meadow with my eyes. It, too, is surrounded by high rock walls—an inescapable bowl of dirt on a mountainous place setting. There’s one way in and one way out. I’m standing in front of it.
Thunder crackles, bouncing in echoes across the arena-like meadow. Center stage, my new stones wait. Advancing quickly, I take up the bag at my waist, thanking my three stones for guidance, hoping I’ll get the same help finding my way out and to the nearest bolt of lightning.
I untie the top of the bag, mindful, but trying to hurry. Once my feet cross the innermost ring, the one that’s nothing but sand-like dirt, the ornate altar holding the second set of stones shifts. Rumbles actually, as the three unique rocks it holds rise from the surface in a petal formation.
So does the set from my bag.
The drumming in my chest is all I hear, that and distant rain.
My stones rise up through the mouth of my bag in their own three prong arrangement. The two sets, holding a ten foot gap, float in synchronized moves as if greeting one another.
All at once, a burst of lights shoots from my stones to the set over the altar.
And then, there’s only one. One set of stones hovering in front of me, glowing brightly.
“What the—” They vanished. The second set. Is. Gone. Just like the stones I took from Ice World.
I’m searching the stone altar, checking the ground between us; trying to be sure I really saw what I think I did when the altar—which really looks more like an expensive bird bath—lurches up, as if the ground below it is suddenly angry. The floating stones take a gentle seat on the dirt between my feet as the ornately carved altar falls to one side, cracking right down the middle, and then inexplicably crumbles to nothing. As if it was hit with an invisible laser. A laser that turns everything to dust.
The sky rumbles again. Louder, now, and the clouds hang thick overhead making the wide meadow feel claustrophobic.
No time to waste, I take up the stones, along with bit of dust from the broken altar—Eli will love it—and head back to the cave. There’s another simple looking bare tree carved into the rocks near the cave entrance. It’s either that or an upside down peace symbol, minus the outer circle. But I’ve got no time to examine or trace it because thunder has started rumbling and it’s too close to risk staying any longer.
I fumble my way through the dark corridor. Scramble, actually. Nervously commanding the stones to light my path like they did before but they aren’t listening. The cave stays pitch black. I make double sure the bag of tightly cinched at my waist and use my hands to feel along the wall, hoping there aren’t any passages off the main one I’m travelling along.
There’s this urgency crawling up my spine, a feeling like I’m running out of time. I can’t get lost. I’ll miss the lightning.
Suddenly, as if the stones can hear my thoughts, a light appears and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Until I realize the light’s actually a torch.
Around the bend up the passageway.
In someone else’s hand.
The torch appears, then the hand bearing it. That quickly becomes an arm, which leads to a shoulder, and right over the shoulder is a small withered face with wide eyes. The shriveled mouth below widens. Out comes that same harsh, guttural tongue.
I shove past the old, pale man, noting that even in this dim light his silvery hair is the darkest thing about him, besides his black eyes.
The thin hall behind him has been lit by a series of torches. I follow the line out of the cave and break into the field of wheat.
The clouds have opened up. Rain water pours over the brown field, relaxing the wheat stalks.
Without pause, I search for the opening the boy and woman took. The blur of rain blinds me to the exact spot. I head straight across the wheat field, retracing the path the boy used when he led me here. All the while, the halting shouts of the old man behind me are gaining strength and I’m grateful for the heavy rain that dilutes his call.
The thick forest gives shelter from the deluge. When it thins out, I climb the hillside, passing again the upturned wagon, and head for the top of the same steppe where I find the dancing Chieftain, still hard at work on the ziggurat.
The storm clouds are concentrated there, rumbling their satisfaction down on him. But the cone-shaped cloud is gone. There’s a large bonfire now, burning in a large bowl and that same urgent feeling beckoning me forward, begging me to keep moving.
My stomach aches with the feeling that I’m running out of time.
The oddity of a raging fire in the rain doesn’t stop me. I stray toward the far tree line and run down into the valley between us.
Get there. Don’t stop. Don’t think about what happens next, just go.
I don’t know why all I know is that I have to get to the fire.
Down the sloping hillside, gaining speed, I’m practically floating down the next hillside, running at the rumbling thunder and rain.
Black billows of cloud roll overhead, stirring violence as I get closer.
Thunder claps.
The rain soaks my head.
I throw my hood on and raise the stones up high.
And just like I knew it would, the sky flashes a brilliant white.
The funnel appears. The rainbow is all around me.
I’m out of here.
