Yesteryear Fiction

The Lair of King Crow
(Part seven of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


Darkness turned to light, and cold turned to warmth across my body. I felt a wet rag run across my forehead. I could hear birdsong and insects, and something clicking. Click-click-click. The king crab. A shiver went down my spine, as I slowly opened my eyes. I heard a familiar voice say, “He’s waking up.”

Trees and sky. A dark cloud indicating a storm was coming. Two faces hovered over me. It was Amelia and Cook, both smiling. They helped me sit up. I noticed immediately Amelia’s round, pregnant stomach. Her face was still as I remembered it, youthful and ambitious. I heard the footsteps of a young child, from behind. Ferdinand fell to his knees and hugged me.

“You helped me find my mother,” he said, pointing.

I turned to see a young woman by the trucks with a group of locals. The boy took off back to her.
I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out. I felt old and young, clear and confused. What had happened to me?

Cook spoke first. “That boy of yours is going to be quite a fighter.” He patted Amelia’s stomach. “It took us roughly nine months to take down that crab, but we did it. In the end it was your boy, Dr. W., who jammed those gears. After that, everything broke off into a million pieces of light. The second doorway opened up, and here we are.”

“We, we only lost nine months?” I said, taking water.

“Nine months and not a moment too soon. I think my water just broke.” Amelia clutched my hand, smiling. “By the way, we’re having a baby if you didn’t know already.”

“John,” I said. “His name’s John.”

She shook her head, laughing. “After Rockwell. Too perfect. I guess if it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have ended up here.”

“And where is here exactly.” I stood up, glancing at the lair.

I faintly heard Cook telling me to hurry to the van, as the locals helped Amelia inside. We had a hospital to get to and a baby to deliver. I started to follow, eyes still set on the lair. It was like I had special eyes and could see all the spirits the lair had trapped over the years departing, finally at rest. Before I turned away, I thought I caught a glimpse of Rockwell, now an old man, held up by a cane, waving. In his hand, some papers.

“Thank you,” I whispered, waving goodbye to him, and to the lair of King Crow.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com

The Lair of King Crow
(Part six of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


Bright green and white light swirled with purple and blues towards the bottomless drop. I screamed and flailed as I fell into oblivion. My life flashed before me. I could’ve stayed and lived out a quiet life as a professor emeritus at the university. I could’ve taken simple vacations to treasured places I had always wanted to visit. Instead, I chose the unexplainable, the mystical, and the route leading me to my immediate death. As I prepared to go through the light, a voice called out to me, jarring my thoughts.

“Dad!” the voice yelled. “Grab a hold of the net!”

Before me, with only a second’s notice a giant net flung out at me. I swatted my arms like a bird and caught it. I was pulled and slung into the wall. I hit hard, but managed to hold tight. I kicked with my feet, as the net was dragged upward toward a cave. As I neared the ledge, I saw a blonde-haired, young boy, maybe sixteen at most. He was pulling me up with a type of makeshift crane. The boy called out, “Dad, are you all right?” He secured the pulley, and helped me up. My arm was bleeding, and the boy, upon seeing it, fetched water and rags.

“I told mom I would save you.” The boy was grinning. He wore trousers made from canvas, like a rucksack, complete with buckles and pocket, and was bare-chested. Tall for his age, and muscular, his hair was wild, and his body in need of a bath. “She told me to make sure you didn’t go through the portal.” He nodded sure of himself. “I knew I could do it. Nothing to it.”

“You made this?” I asked, watching him fold the net.

“Yep. I drew the specs, and for awhile mom was here to help me weave the net.”

“And where’s your mother now,” I asked, propping myself to the wall near the opening. I glanced around the oval chamber. A torch lit a small passageway. “Is she nearby?”

“Nope. Haven’t seen her in a long time. She’s probably looking for you. Looks like I found you first.” He laughed, resetting the crane and net.

“And why would she be looking for me?” I was confused. “Do I know her?”

“Of course you do. She’s your wife,” he said adamantly.

“My wife.” I chuckled. “I think you have me confused, son.” I went to say more, but he interrupted.

“You and my mom are famous anthropologists who went excavating the lair of King Crow, and now you’re stuck here. I’ve heard the story a thousand times.” He frowned. “You weren’t there when I was born, but mom says she saw you from time to time when I was growing up.” The boy came over to me and knelt down. From his small pocket he pulled out a worn, copper compass. With both hands he opened it. Much to my surprise it was engraved with the exact inscription as the one my father gave me when I was eighteen. To my son, may you always find your way home. Love, your father.

“My father’s compass,” I whispered, knowing the scratches and small dent on the lid by heart.

“You don’t remember giving me this?” the boy said. Before I could answer he said, “I don’t either. Mom said you may not, but to show it to you, that way you’d know I was really your son, and you’d help us figure a way to get out of here.”

“My son?” My voice went hoarse. “My son?” I said again, shaking my head. “I have a son.” Suddenly, my eyes watered, and the room spun, as I looked into his eyes, seeing the determination of Amelia’s, as well as mine, looking back at me. I was speechless. My thoughts went to her, and how alone she must be feeling, somewhere. “Where is she? Amelia. Where is your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need to find her.”

“No,” he said, glancing up toward the forty-fifth step. “We need to kill that thing.”

When I glanced upward, I wasn’t prepared to see the beast hovering over the edge. Its two stalked eyes glaring down at us. It screeched and wailed in a fit. Its two giant pincer claws click-clicked and echoed throughout the void, and the other four sets of legs carried its massive, shelled body sideways across the walls.

“Oh, my word,” I declared. “It’s a king crab! A giant king crab!” I stood in awe. “That’s what Rockwell was trying to say to me. It wasn’t a king crow, nor a crob, but a crab. That’s the blasted thing that pushed me over the edge.” It all became clear to me. “It’s blocking the other doorway.”

“We should hide,” the boy said, pulling me into the cave.

The king crab charged down the side of the cliff toward us. I went with the boy. We took cover in the passageway, hovering behind a large boulder. The boy put a finger to his mouth, telling me to be silent. We waited, and nothing came. The boy broke cover first, telling me to stay put, but I followed.

“He’s gone,” he said and ran to the crane.

“What do you mean, he’s gone? How do you know?”

“I just do. I’ve been watching him for a while. Someone else is going over. Wait and watch.” The boy cranked the wooden arm and readied the net. True to his word, within moments, I heard a man screaming over the side. The boy hit the lever, casting the net outward, like a fishing line, yelling for the man to catch the net. He caught it, and dangling in midair. Together, we pulled him closer, and helped him to the cave. The man held his hand out to me. I was surprised to see Cook.

“Cook, what’re you doing here?” I smiled, happy to see a familiar face.

“Following you, turkey.” We untangled the net from his limbs. “When you didn’t come for dinner, I went after you. I don’t leave a friend three days, no help. I tried to follow you, but you’re a tricky one to find Dr. W. But Cook found you now.”

I turned to the boy and introduced him as my son. “What’s your name?” I asked, feeling a little silly.

“You don’t know your own son’s name?” Cook laughed.

“It’s complicated.” The boy’s name was John, named after John Rockwell, I presumed, chuckling at Amelia’s ingenuity.

Cook pulled out a bottle of Mexican rum and offered it to me. We sat together discussing our options. I knew that at all costs neither of us could go over the edge and into the light. If we did, we would be caught like everyone else. Somehow the key lay in getting to the other door. But we needed to get around the king crab first.

“If only we can lure him into the shaft.” I said, examining the net, the ropes, and other tools John had piled near the crane.

“Rest, my friend,” said Cook, extending the bottle. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I need to think,” I said. “What was it that Ferdinand said to me? Time is like a living, breathing entity.” A million thoughts passed through my mind. My head hurt trying to sift through what I knew, and what I’d learned about the cave. I didn’t have years to spend to getting all the details right. Amelia was out there somewhere, and plenty of other soul’s that wouldn’t find rest until we helped them.

Cook broke my train of thought. “That’s not a real crab up there. If you want to kill it, you’ll have to find something that’ll go through metal.”

“What do you mean?”

Cook threw something at me. I caught it. In my hand was a heavy metal bolt. “Where did you get this?”

“Off Mr. Crab. He’s mechanical. I got a look at the underbelly. Looks like a bunch of turning disks.”

“Toothed wheels, like a watch?” I suggested.

“Don’t know.” He shrugged. “I never owned a watch. Never needed one.”

I took my watch off and quickly opened the back. “Is this what you saw?” John leaned closer, interested, and poked his dirty finger at the tiny bronze gears.

“Maybe,” Cook said, scratching his head.

If Cook was right, and the king crab was made with gears, then maybe in some way it was responsible for the time differential. “It’s a clock,” I said aloud. “It has to be. I can’t explain how, but if my assumption is correct, all we have to do is destroy it, and time will return to normal.”
Cook laughed. “And how do you suppose we’re going to kill a mechanical crab the size of King Kong.”

“What’s King Kong?” John looked confused.

“Never mind, John. One day we’ll watch the movie together. For now,” I said, taking up the ropes, “we’re going to lure it over the side.”

“Which one of us is going to do the luring?” Cook stood up joining me and John in a semi-circle.
“You will,” I said, tying the rope around Cook’s waist as he protested.

The plan was easy. All Cook had to do was lead the crab over the side. John would use his net to tangle up its claws, and I would come from behind and push it over. If John tied up the crab’s legs enough, the crab would lose his balance, allowing me to heave-ho him to the other side.
We spent days preparing the nets, dragging them to the step, setting them up for the trap, securing the rope, sharpening wooden sticks into spears to use to catapult the crab over. We reviewed the plan and tried in the small cave to practice each of our roles. When we finally felt ready, we rested and then never looked back.

We climbed to our positions silently. I made no assurances to John or Cook. Deep inside I hoped my calculations were correct. I hoped that we could win our freedom from the lair. At the edge of the step, we glanced inward. I could see the second door, the true door, as Rockwell called it. I had a clear shot to it, and almost considered abandoning the first plan, and settling for a brazen dash across the sandy chamber.

I stepped forward. Nothing happened. Not a beetle or a crab. Nothing. I made it to the ring of glyphs on he floor. “Should I run for it?” I glanced back at them both. No sooner did I say it, then I heard the clicking of its claws. My steps must’ve sent a vibration out, alerting the crab of my presence. I looked up, and dangling over me was the gigantic crab. In a flash it jumped, descending upon me. I dove for cover. “Now, Cook!”

Cook stood at the entrance cackling and banging two spears together. “Come here, crabby-crabby-crabby. Come and get me.” Around his waist the rope was tied tightly. “Come and get me you delicious little sea rat. Let me make a big soup with you.”

I hid behind a stone stele. The crab turned his focus on Cook. As it clicked and wailed forward, John readied with net at the side of the entrance, clinging to the wall.

We watched and waited only moments, until he was right under the net. “Now, John,” I called. The net fell onto the crab, catching several of its pincers. I charged with a battle cry, as vicious as a Spartan, with raised spear. I dug underneath its belly, into the sand, and tried to catapult him over the edge.

Cook yelled some more to bate him, and jumped over the edge, hoping to lure the crab over. John had joined me with a spear on the other side. The crab was flailing. I gave him one last push with everything I had, knowing that my survival, and that of everyone’s, relied on my actions. I felt the crab’s body give, and pushed more and more, until his body was shifted, and started to slide. Cook call out, “Its going over!” I felt a wash of relief come over my body, but then suddenly, my legs dropped out from underneath me. I looked down and saw the net wrapped around my ankle. I was going over with the crab.

John cried out for me. Our hands touched briefly for a second. I let go, knowing I would take his small body over with me. As the ceiling spun in front of my eyes, and my body felt weightless, I felt one last pull. The crab had stopped its fall. The sight lay before—Cook was dangling from the rope over the cliff, and climbing for safety; the crab hanging over the side, digging its pincers into the stone, its massive claw cutting the net away from its heavy shelled body; and there I was, dangling head first into the abyss once more.

“Dad!” John cried out.

“It’ll be all right,” I called out. “It’s the way it was always meant to happen. Keep fighting. It’s up to you both now.” I saw the crab cut the final cord, the last thread to safety, to the old life, the old path. I didn’t scream as I fell. No. It all came together in my mind as the lights swirled around me, cradling my body and blinding my eyes. I had to go through the light. John had confirmed I’d come to him and Amelia on other occasions, and if my thoughts were correct, I had seen myself an old man at the start of my adventure. If only I had paid attention. I was trying to warn myself of the crab. The terrible king crab that would send me into oblivion. It was over for me. I would live my whole life inside the King Crow lair.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com

The Lair of King Crow
(Part five of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


The fire was growing dim, when I awoke. Amelia had collected dried roots and was placing them one by one on the fire. When she saw me stir, she reached her hand out to me and smiled. She spoke first, “This is one of the birth chambers. It’s meant to be in complete darkness. If you look close enough you’ll see the curvature of the wall, meant to simulate the womb. From here, it’s a short distance to the final step.”

I asked Amelia to tell me all about the forty-fifth step. I knew somehow the final step had to be the key to all the otherworldly occurrences. “I can’t believe I’m admitting to the supernatural.” I smiled, assumedly. “It goes against everything I believe. I keep hoping at any minute someone will jump out from behind a rock and tell me it’s all been a big joke.”

“I felt the same way for a good year, and then after awhile survival kicks in, and you realize you’re on your own.” Amelia sighed and then pulled out her notebook to the pages she wrote about the final step. “I don’t have much. It happened so quickly, and it was quite a long time ago for me. It was exactly how Rockwell described it. There are several pathways for the initiate to choose from. I remember following the circular swirls on the sandy floor. Then I saw the big opening marked with hundreds of glyphs. I went to the edge and looked over. I was frightened at the thought of going over, and wondered how an initiate did it. No sooner did I have this thought, when something pushed me over the edge. I tried to look back, but saw nothing. I fell through beams of colored light for what felt like an eternity, and when I came out the other end, I was in a glorious chamber with food and wine. No people.”

“This must’ve been the celebration room,” I offered.

“Yes, I had made it through the initiation and received my reward.” She glanced over to me, her eyes saddened. “Somehow I knew after that there was no way back. As if I had crossed over into a cataclysm of time, or something unexplainable, and I’d never return. I gave up on finding you.”
The walls started to rumble and creak from deep within. “The walls will change soon,” she said. “Don’t leave me.”

I held her close, kissing her forehead. “I won’t.” We sat close, listening to the scraping, whining sound of the heavy blocks moving. “It’s like we’re in a Pandora’s box,” she whispered, shaking.
“Ah, yes,” I said, “but then we still have hope to even things out.”

The fire went out from a gust of wind that came out of nowhere. I blocked the sand and dust from my eyes, not realizing I let go of Amelia. I felt the floor beneath me turn, and wind downward, like I was on the head of a screw being drilled into the earth. I called out for Amelia, and glancing upward, seeing her reaching out for me at the top of the hole. “Theodore,” she yelled. I saw her attempt to jump down to me, but the disk moved rapidly through the earth. Dirt, stone, and red beetles, the size of tennis balls, flew at me, as I whizzed by, and then finally, with a loud crash, it stopped. The force knocked me off and onto a metal disc at the base of an ascending gold stairway.

Before I could get my bearing, I heard the sound of metal clapping together. When I looked at the hole, coming from it was thousands of red beetles. The clapping sound was their bodies hitting upon one another. They swarmed the area, forcing me up the stairs. They covered the walls and ceiling, and everything I could see. I wasn’t ready to face the final step, and tried to pull back against the wall. I even tried firing at them with my remaining ammunition. I had no choice but to give in, and climb, when a voice called out.

“This way!” A man about my age and height was waving to me from a cave opening, one I hadn’t seen to my right. He ran out with a fire torch, touching it to the ground, burning the beetles. They screeched and dispersed in the opposite direction, giving me a clear path to him.
He led me up a ramp to a small room that had the feel of an attic. The beetles followed, but he managed to light a rope across the threshold to keep them at bay.

“The beetles have one purpose,” he said, keeping watch. “To get you up those stairs, and until you do they won’t rest.” He handed me the torch and told me to look after the threshold, as he searched for something flammable to throw at the opening.

“Can’t we just keep running?” I asked, poking the beetles that made it over the fire; the smell of burnt insects filled the air.

“No, they’ll hunt you until you submit. They’ll cover your body and then sting you with a sedative, then drag you up the stairs. It’s not a pretty sight.”

The man built up a good fire, from one end of the attic opening to the other, out of flammable pottery and dried roots and stepped back, allowing me a view of his face. I knew undoubtedly that I was looking at the man responsible for my being there, my mentor from the past—John Rockwell.

We introduced ourselves and I filled him in briefly on the past hundred years, including the finding of his skeleton. Surprisingly, he didn’t take the news badly. In fact, he seemed more interested in my well-being.

“I’ve been waiting for the next person to pass this threshold, hoping, just hoping I could set things right.” Rockwell was a handsome man, a bit younger than me, but not much older than the last picture ever taken of him in 1847.

“The lair is all that you said it was and more.” I offered, still slightly star-struck.
“I had it all wrong. All of it.” He swatted his long bangs out of his eyes. His Scottish accent was thick. “Do you know about the forty-fifth step?”

“Yes, I know what you wrote in the last pages.” I gave him a few of the key details that came quick to my memory.

He made a disgruntled noise of dissatisfaction, throwing his hands in the air. “No, no, not those pages. I rewrote them. I left them near the entrance. Surely someone would’ve found them by now.”

“We found no new pages,” I explained. “The forty-fifth step has been the world’s biggest unexplained anomaly.”

“It’s a curse,” he spat. “I wish I never found it.”

“Surely, it’s the pinnacle of the initiate ceremony, the finale.” I reiterated the details of the rites as I remembered them. “I’m certain I’ll find my way out of the lair after I pass through.”

“No, no,” he said, aggravated with me, as if I was a child making the same mistake over and over. “The final step is all wrong, it’s not the way. It never was.” He took a stone from the floor and hurried to the wall. He scratched out a big circle and some stairs. “When you get to the top of the stairs, you’ll see the drop off, here.” He tapped the wall. “But that’s the deception, the last great deception.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Isn’t the entire point of the ritual to jump into the unknown?”

“No, no, no,” he yelled, scribbling a doorway on the wall. “Here, over here,” he shouted. “This is the real doorway, the true path of the initiate. It’s hard to see. Only a true initiate could.” He talked with his hands. “If you don’t make it through those doors, man, then it’s lost for all of us. Every time someone falls into the portal, it gives the lair strength, causing it to shift and to expand to an even greater degree. The trick,” he repeated, “is to go through these doors.” He pointed, stepping back, “or at least that’s the only way I can see it. There has to be some type of change to occur that’ll reset this puzzle, setting us all free.”

“If what you say is correct, that would mean none of the Crow people ever made it through the right door.” His thoughts didn’t jive with research I had done, and I felt kind of odd challenging him, especially since he was so certain.

He stared at the wall. “Perhaps that’s why the Mayans became extinct.”

The fire crackled and the debris fell over, causing a gap that let a plethora of beetles into the room. They fell upon us instantly. I dropped to the ground as they spun around me like a web. I felt their little stingers dig into my skin, and the burning venom seep into my flesh. “Rockwell,” I called. He had used the torch to fight them off, but couldn’t reach me. I found myself being carried out of the chamber, and just as I lost conscious, I yelled, “What was your warning? Beware of what?”

He yelled to me, swinging his torch, moving further away from me. “Beware the King crob! Perhaps it’s the missing link!”

I fought to keep my eyes open, as they carried me up the stairs, spiraling like a single strand of DNA, higher and higher. I may’ve lost consciousness. Then I felt cold stone beneath me, and the beetles retreated. In front of me was an altar to the Crow Goddess. Her image, the body of a woman, the head of a crow, was portrayed on the wall over the altar, where candles were lit.
I stood and took in my surroundings. The stone turned to sand beneath my steps. I saw the swirling patterns going every which way, like Amelia related, and I searched for the second door. I had to find it. I had to get through it. Maybe in some way, Rockwell was right, and it would make everything right again. Maybe we’d all be free.

My instinct still led me to the black opening ahead. I felt a draft of air. Every bit of me needed to satiate my curiosity and look over the edge into the abyss. I had spent my entire life thinking about what lay over the rim. Endless hours of research I spent deciding, based on what little evidence I had, what happened next, and now, now I didn’t know anything. Everything had changed. It was up to me to decide our fate. I could leap off, as I believed, or I could search for the other door, one other possible solution.

I heard something behind me, a squeaking noise, like a door that needed oiling. I stepped back from the edge, when something came at me, something giant and rough. My feet started to slide as I tried to grip it; my hands slipped off the slick surface, and before I could find another recourse, my body was flung over the side into the burning light.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com

The Lair of King Crow
(Part four of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


I woke to a cold rag being wiped across my face. Leaning over me was a young Mexican man of maybe twenty. His hair was dark and smooth, and tied loosely in braids away from his face. His clothes were tattered, but somewhat modern. Around his neck he wore a bone necklace.
“You didn’t heed the old man’s warning,” said the young man. “It’s not too late for you to return. You must go at once and leave this place.”

I sat up and glanced around the room. We were in a different chamber, no longer the room with the wheel. A small fire, with meat roasting on a wood spit, warmed the room. He offered me food, which I took hungrily, though I suspected I was eating rat or some other rodent.

“Amelia.” I shook my head. “Where’s the woman I came here with? Did you see her?”

“She’s too far into the labyrinth. She’s trapped here, like me, until we unlock the secrets to return. But you can save us both, if only you’ll return. Go back the way you came.”

“Who are you?” I finally asked. “And why are you here?”

“Don’t you recognize me, Dr. Wainwright? Have I changed so much?”

I looked the young man over from head to foot, and though his eyes looked familiar to me, I couldn’t say for sure I had ever met him.

“It was our first night of camp when I heard the sweet voice of a woman calling me. I was but a boy then, one without a mother. When I saw her gentle face illuminated in gold, like a goddess at the entrance of the lair, I wept and ran to her, my beautiful mother. She is here somewhere in these walls. I search endlessly to be reunited with her. We only spent a short time together, before we were separated.”

“Ferdinand?” My voice cracked when I said his name.

“Are you surprised?” he smiled, as if he successfully pulled a prank on me. “All is not as it seems in the lair of King Black Crow. All that my grandmother told me was true.”

“But it can’t be. You were a small boy, a child, and now, now you’re a man.”

“I have been here a long time, Dr. Wainwright. But then time isn’t what you think it is. It’s all around us like a living, breathing being.”

The walls around us quaked and rumbled.

“I must go now,” he said. “The walls will change soon, and I can’t be caught on this side.”

Ferdinand stood and extinguished the fire. He helped me to my feet. “You would be wise to go no further, and return the way you came.” He looked me in the eye. “For all our sakes.”

Before I could say another word, still astounded and unsure of what I was seeing, questioning if I was truly awake, Ferdinand had stepped away from me. A doorway opened, one I suspect he knew would appear, and he rushed into it, disappearing for good. I tried to follow. I banged on the wall, every side of it, seeking an exit. Suddenly, a doorway appeared behind me. I had no choice but to take it.

I walked for what felt like hours. My water was low, my torchlight dim. All the walls looked the same to me, an expert in Mayan hieroglyphs. The pictures were mostly of people farming or fishing near the sea for crab. One scene repeated over and over. So much so, that I assumed I was going in circles. It depicted a group of warriors trying to capture a crab from the sea. The scene was rather comical, and reminded me of a Sunday comic strip, the way some people fled toward the ocean, rather than catch the crab. The picture was out of proportion. The sea seemed endless, and bigger than the landmass; the crab was bigger than the warriors, and the weapons were bigger than both man and crab. It was altogether an odd little scene. I started to mark the wall by carving a large X with a stone, though I hesitated, knowing I was defacing an artifact, something I was willing to overlook, considering my circumstances.

As I walked, wearily, the sea hunt picture was not the same one I had last viewed. I counted twenty new pictures and never once saw the marks I’d carved. Despite traversing new ground, I felt increasingly trapped and utterly lost. I was near to losing my wits, no longer thinking clearly and logically, when I heard gunfire and screams.

The screams were that of a woman. I could only hope it was Amelia. More gunfire ignited somewhere around me. I felt certain it came from behind the wall. I combed it with my hands hoping to find a switch, or trigger, but I found none. I waited. It was quiet. I ran down the tunnel, weaving around the jagged rocks, and rounding a corner, running straight into two soldiers dragging a tied up and gagged woman.

The first soldier raised his gun at me and fired. I dove to the left, and rolled into a spacious chamber, the Crow’s Lair. I knew because of the 100-foot tall stone crow at the center of the room. Circling the crow were large stone feathers, smooth enough to be used as a bed, and presumed to be a place of preparation prior to going to the Forty-Fifth Step, a place close by, if my deductions were correct.

I hid behind the foot of the crow, glancing back at the soldiers. They were Spanish, and if I was guessing—that is, dropping all reason from my mind—their uniforms were from the fourteenth century. These were Cortez’s lost soldiers, gone to look for gold in the King Crow’s Lair, and never returned, just as the legend told. But how was this possible?

The soldiers yelled at me in a Spanish dialect, one I couldn’t quite understand. I fired my pistol back, clipping the second soldier in the leg. They returned fire, but couldn’t reload their rifles fast enough. I overtook the injured one, clocking his head with a loose rock. The second soldier charged me. We rolled to the ground, throwing punches. I was weary already, and his strength nearly overtook me. His hands settled on my throat, and cut off my air. My hand slid to my pistol. I fired a shot in the air, not sure I could kill a man, despite his attempt to take my life. The shot scared him, and he backed away. I pointed it at him, yelling, “Get back,” in Spanish, unsure if he’d understand. The soldier fell back, and dragged his friend to cover.

I ran to the woman. I removed the gag and rope, keeping an eye on the soldiers. “Quickly, I said, pulling her to her feet, running, firing several rounds at the ceiling, which caused debris to fall for cover, before the soldiers could load their next round.

We ran blindly through tunnels and chamber. I couldn’t be sure if the soldiers followed, and only hoped we gave them the slip. Finally, the woman cried out for me to stop. We slid to the cold, stone floor to rest.

“They won’t come any further,” she said, out of breath.

“Are you hurt I asked?”

“Tired.” She was hunched over, so I couldn’t see her face. I offered her the last of my water, and when she took it, I noticed the good luck bracelet on her wrist, and the ambitious eyes of Amelia, though her face was different, aged in some way.

“Amelia, is it you?”

She nodded, tears brimming her eyes. Without another word she threw her arms around my neck and embraced me, crying, kissing the side of my face, and caressing my cheeks. “I can’t believe it’s you,” she said over and over. “I can’t believe it’s actually you.”

“Amelia, why do you look different to me, when it has only been hours since I last saw you?”

“Hours?” she laughed, and pulled out a small journal from her pouch. “By my calculations, and there’s no guarantee that I’ve been accurate, I’ve been here six years, three months and eleven days.”

“That is absurd, Amelia.” I stood up, perturbed. “I won’t give into this folly. Do you really expect me to believe you’ve been here, years?” I raised my arms in frustration. “We were but a few hours ago in the wheel room, when you spun it, and everything went haywire. I’ve been walking around here looking for you, and now that I’ve found you, we can go back and get the hell out of here, for good.”

She stood close to me. “Oh, Theodore, I wish it were that easy.” She touched my face again. “How have you managed to remain unchanged?” Her eyebrows bent inward, as if searching her mind for the answer. “Have you made it to the forty-fifth step?”

“No,” I said, bringing dried roots together into a pile to make a fire. The orange light filled the room, making it more inviting, despite the strange shadows it cast on the bare walls. We shared a ration of jerky and dried fruit together. “I assumed I was close when I saw the stone crow where the soldiers attacked.”

“The soldiers been wandering through this labyrinth for hundreds of years.” Amelia held her hands up to the fire, staring into it. “Is there no end?” Her body started to shake, as tears rolled down her eyes. I pulled her close to me and held her. She would not let me go, stricken with fear, and desperate for human touch. By the light of the fire we lay together, and made love, driving out the puzzle, the absurd, the uncanny for a short time.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com

The Lair of King Crow
(Part three of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


I spent the first few days taking notes of the entranceway, filling in bits of detail that I hadn’t gleaned from Rockwell’s notes, or any other scientist since his time. By the fourth and fifth day, I managed to make it to the edge of what is known in Rockwellian terms as the first-step. The room was rectangular and covered with hieroglyphs. The floor, something I had never seen, was painted with a feathered serpent, one that was more crow than snake. The ceiling portrayed an elaborate calendar, one with four separate, but interwoven, wheels that no one has had any luck interpreting. At the far end of the chamber, there was another doorway. Through the stone corridor the walls had magnificent paintings done in turquoise, burnt orange, and black. I started to take photographs that would allow me to translate some of the images at a later time, when a young child’s voice called out for help deep in the second chamber.

Instinct propelled me over the marked threshold of the first-step, into the second chamber, a place no one had ever made it back from. I was filled with anguish that the boy, Ferdinand, might be hurt or unable to move, and it being nearly a week since his disappearance, and me feeling chiefly responsible for his well-being, I tore forward without reserve.

I carried only a light rucksack, a torch, and my camera, wishing I had a gun or other weapon with me for protection. As I turned the corner into the second chamber, I was unprepared for what I would see. Rockwell’s missing pages never related such a sight. Upon the wall facing me was a towering crow’s head. It’s eyes were red rubies, untouched by thieves, and glowed an ominous red, enough to light the entire cave. On an altar, below the painting, was a circle of human skulls, each painted black. The open beak of the crow’s mouth was the thing that scared me. It looked so real, as if it would come to life any moment from the wall, and be fast upon me, seizing my whole form in it’s grand beak. When the child’s voice cried out again, I thought at first it was the bird squawking. I shivered and shook off the bone-chilling feeling, forcing myself to remain calm.
I surveyed the chamber. At first glance, there was not a second doorway. Then I felt a breeze coming from the direction of the crow’s mouth. I stepped forward into the dark beak, realizing the illusion—first a flat wall, then a tunnel—at the end of it, I saw the child. “Dr. Wainwright,” Ferdinand called. “I’m lost.”

I stepped closer, crushing bones to dust under my foot. Cobwebs and vines blocked my vision, as I knelt to see better, calling to him. “Here, boy, come this way.” My other foot had nearly crossed over the entry. I stopped feeling the walls and space closing in on me. Then the ground shook. The stone ceiling began to fall in pieces. I dropped to my knees for cover, glancing back to the boy, but he was gone. The torch dropped out of my hand, as I tried to go back, when something grabbed me by the shoulder.

Through the stone wall to my left, was a small hole where the face of an old, decrepit man stared back at me. His hair and beard were long and white. I tried to pull away, but he clasped my wrist. He was mumbling something, over and over, louder, and louder.

“The ceiling’s falling in, man. Let me go,” I yelled.

“Beware the king crob. Beware!” he said, his eyes bulging.

As I pulled away from him to run, something came loose in my hand. The rubble toppled in around me. I retreated across the chamber, until a stone slab caught my left leg, trapping me.
As the dust cleared, I lay on my back glancing up into the crow’s mouth. The red ruby eyes glowed no longer, and looked merely like faded red paint. Even the tunnel ceased to be real. I cast a stone toward the mouth, only to hear it bounce off a hard surface, and disappear into the stone pile around me. I glanced at my watch, but it had stopped working. The time upon the face was 8:11 a.m.; the precise time I had entered the lair. I tried to move the slab, but couldn’t, especially without risking injury. I yelled for Cook, but I was too far inside. After a while, the quiet and exasperation led me deep into sleep, where I dreamed of black crow’s sewing feathers to my skin.

I awoke to the sounds of hammer and chisel on stone. Behind me, I could see the way I’d come in had collapsed. Someone was digging me out. I sighed relief when I saw the faces of Cook and Amelia, along with two natives, peering in at me. Within the hour, they had managed to pull me free and take me back to camp. After my leg wounds were dressed, my pipe lit, and a bottle of wine opened, we celebrated being the first people ever to return from the second-step alive.
I recounted my adventure to Amelia and Cook over dinner and drink. Amelia, having spent longer than forty-five minutes inside the cave, had been left by her superstitious workers. The two natives had walked off, daring to take their luck on foot in the growing darkness.
When I had reached the part of the story with the old man, besides feeling like I was sharing a story from a book of fables, I remembered the thing I had pulled free from him. In my pocket I found an old threaded band. Upon closer examination, I could make out three faded flowers, perhaps white or cream color. I showed it to Amelia, who pointedly remarked that it was one of the good luck charm bracelets.

“It looks an awful lot like mine,” I said. “I thought you said they were handcrafted, you know, each one of a kind.” I asked to see hers, and made a comparison. Her bracelet had only two white flowers, and both had yellow at the center. Of the two bracelets, it was nearly identical to mine. I tried to make nothing of it, accepting Amelia’s assertions that a homeless chap must’ve stumbled into the place and taken up residence. I didn’t tell her about the ruby eyes or the strange tunnel that disappeared, not needing to sound anymore absurd than I already had.

We both agreed we should make an attempt to find the boy. Especially since she was stranded along with us, having left her cell phone in the jeep. Mine, along with the computer and other electronic devises all acted haywire and were useless. My compass shot to north in every direction indicating a heavy magnetic force, presumably permeating from the interior of the cave.

In the morning, Amelia and I packed up food and other supplies. I loaded my pistol and kept it holstered to my leg. Amelia said I looked a little like an English John Wayne, with my Panama hat, leather vest, and holster. Before we left, I told Amelia upfront that she didn’t need to come with me, and that it would be best for her to go with Cook to find transportation back to her work site. Something in my manner, I believe, challenged her. She wasn’t one to allow superstitions to keep her from a day’s work, she said. I think in the end it was curiosity.

“Besides,” she said, “we made it out alive. The stories have no merit now.”

I nodded, smiling. Though, I wasn’t so sure anymore. I told Cook to go for help if we didn’t return in three days.

He smiled, clutching a rifle. “Don’t worry, Dr. W, if anything happens to you, I’ll bring the cavalry.”

Cook’s words were comforting, though I doubted he’d find anyone to come with him inside the lair, especially if we’d gone missing.

The lair invited us inward. Everything was as it should’ve been, in both the first and second chamber. Not a stone fallen or ceiling collapsed. In fact, the entire crow painting and altar was gone, completely missing. In its place was the Second-Step depicted in Rockwell’s missing pages, complete with the inner fountain at the center, where initiates were thought to fill a cup and drink. It was symbolically meant to cure their thirst forever. The hieroglyphs adorning the turquoise well spelled out a saying. In English the equivalent meant something like, “May you never thirst.”

The well was dry upon entering the room, but after we were there for sometime, analyzing the text on the walls, we both stopped, hearing the trickling of water. Amelia checked it. She stuck her fingers into the cool trough, touching it to her lips. “It’s clean, no odor,” she said, and dipped a bandana into the water to wipe her face, then tied it around her neck.

We continued on with caution into the Third-Step. The excitement of venturing along Rockwell’s legendary path no longer held the sparkle it had when I arrived. Instead, I was filled with a frantic anxiety, confounded with the nagging feeling that all was not as it appeared. Though I didn’t let on to her, I was happy Amelia was accompanying me into the cold chambers, ones filled with miraculous light, so much so, that we didn’t need the aide of our torches. Where the light came from we couldn’t say exactly. Sometimes it appeared to be emanating from the myriad of gems, and sometimes it seemed like the sun’s rays were leaking in behind the cracks of the ceiling. Either way, the light gave me false comfort.

The corridors winded and turned. Some paths went uphill, like a steep ramp; others went down hill, by stairs. Sometimes it felt like were walking diagonal, then would circle back around. When we had been walking for what felt like over an hour, we decided to sit and rest. Up until this point, we found no clues to the boy’s disappearance. Further, the rooms and corridors differed from Rockwell’s pages, so much so, that I began to voice my concern that we weren’t even in the lair, but some other ancient site. Amelia was less of a skeptic, presuming that Rockwell may not have had time to detail the entire labyrinth, but only a sampling. I reluctantly agreed, asserting there was a chance we hadn’t found all of the missing pages.

After we rested our feet, we started off down a golden corridor, one similar to the Valley of the Gold Dolls, that Rockwell told of. He described the hall as a medieval type carnival where the faces of the dolls changed as he viewed them. Years ago, when I had read this, I assumed it was only figurative, but now being in the lair, seeing first hand the otherworldly type episodes, I now believed he wasn’t fabricating, but merely stated the truth as it appeared to him. Up ahead, I could see several carved stele, several doll-like statues, and a giant gold wheel, inlaid with emeralds and diamonds that sparkled.

The wheel was mounted on the wall ahead of us, and at least ten feet high. “It’s the Mayan Wheel of Fortune,” I said, not sure if Amelia was familiar with it. She was, and began to pick out the caricatures at various points on the wheel. “This point would bestow upon the initiate a full year’s crop,” she said pointing to a small glyph. “And this one, many servants to share the harvest’s burden.”

Amelia gripped the wheel to see if it would move. With little effort, she gave the wheel a spin. As it slowly turned, a bright light exploded into the room. A stone door opened behind her, and the room started to spin with the motion of the wheel. The room tilted. I grabbed hold of a stele. Amelia grabbed my ankle. The left side of the room, became the ceiling, as the walls in the room shrunk; the force weighing us both down, as if we were on a carnival ride, trying to move against the force of motion. We dangled in mid-air, as the room metamorphosed. “Hold on,” I called to her, trying to reach her hand, but the room rumbled, and rocks started to rain down on us. Amelia’s grip slipped. She screamed as her body disappeared into the dark hole beneath her. The room continued to turn and spin. I closed my eyes, hoping it would stop. But it spun and spun, wildly. Dizzy, my consciousness slipped into darkness.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com

The Lair of King Crow
(Part two of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


The weather was mild and damp for a January morning in the Atlantic, the year 2011. The freighter, Phoenix, was on a steady course southwest. I sat starboard on a wet, wooden bench, noting how the thrill of adventure has kept my seasickness at bay. I was just shy of my fifty-fifth birthday, and feel as if I haven’t truly lived my hearts desire since I was a young minded teenager set on seeing the world. I forsook adventure, a family, travel, all for engaging the minds of the young in a classroom, to publishing papers and books on the ancient world, and while I occasioned a trip here and there, for research, I always had a rescue rope attached to my waist allowing me to return to safety. But this time was different. I have no net, no back door with which to return to my former life. I will essentially be on my own.

Some will say I have made the trip harder for myself. I could’ve easily taken a commercial plane to the Yucatan, or even a family cruise ship, popular upon the waters these days, and then simply taken a tourist bus, or hired a guide to take me to the lair. I decided, when upon the idea came to me to finally explore the lair, that I would only undergo it in the same manner as Rockwell. These times provide the highest in technology and could make all of my transportation quicker and easier, but I declined this as an option, and chose the harder, more burdensome route. The freighter’s path was the closest I could find to Rockwell’s water excursion, and when I arrive in the Yucatan, I have waiting for me a dozen locals, to escort and transport supplies to the lair, partially on foot, and in the more treacherous areas, by truck. I have plans, weather permitting, to visit some of the remaining sites Rockwell made during his last trek. Some ruins have been turned into shopping centers, while others are completely spoiled and covered in vegetation, long forgotten, and could take weeks or months to sufficiently find. Being that my directive is Black Crow’s lair, a sampling of sites will lend to the flavor of the expedition, giving me insight into Rockwell’s thought processes prior to his last stop at the lair.

The second week into my journey, I found myself in an unfortunate position. Just outside of the Sayil ruins, nine of the ten locals abandoned me completely, taking the truck with them as well. Camped in the underbrush and jungle 100 kilometers from the lair, far away from tourist roads and attractions, I was surrounded by equipment and supplies. One loyal fellow, who I’ve since taken to calling Cook, for his skill with a pot and pan, has stood by me. I awoke to an empty camp, a small fire with a pot of coffee brewing, and no way to bring my supplies to Crow’s lair.

Cook went to the nearest center to see if he could hirer any hands willing to go to the lair. Having only read about the lair’s superstitions from books, and in making my own learned assumptions, I have been very surprised to witness first hand the fear and terror evoked by the very name of King Crow, whenever we spoke with locals.

After several hours, Cook returned with a young boy, no more than ten, too young, I thought to be knowledgeable about the superstitions associated with the lair. But Cook tells me that the boy believes his grandmother’s stories that his mother went missing near the lair. Cook believed she ran off with another man, but the boy persisted it wasn’t true. The boy’s name was Ferdinand, and strong for his age. He could manage two good-sized packs on his shoulders. It was then that I decide to economize in order to continue.

It was mid afternoon, when we began south toward the direction of the lair. No sooner did traverse the tough vines and prickly grasses on foot, when two jeeps cut off our path. A woman with red hair, wearing khaki attire, shouted to her workers in their native language to see to our belongings. She approached me in a confident, friendly manner. “Dr. Theodore Wainwright?” Her accent was distinctly American. She must’ve been in her early thirties, and very bright eyed and ambitious. We shook hands and she introduced herself as Dr. Amelia Donovan, an anthropologist working for the Archaeologist Association for Mayan Studies in Cambridge Massachusetts, a place I’ve lectured, and was quite fond of.

My luggage was packed up into her jeeps. Amelia explained to me that she’d been excavating an Mayan well at Chichén Itzá, when rumors circulated of an Englishman venturing to the ruins of King Crow’s lair. With further prodding from the locals, she ascertained the prominent Mayan scholar was the culprit, and learned my whereabouts, presuming that I would have trouble making it the entire way. She was only surprised that I didn’t get dumped sooner.

I kindly accepted her offer to escort me the final leg of the journey. She talked with enthusiasm for my work, having heard me lecture in Cambridge. Her excitement softened my sour mood, and soon, she had me talking about my expedition. I nearly lost track of my surroundings when the soccer stadium, the one I’ve seen hundreds of times in photos, came into view through the green landscape. I instructed the driver to pull to the opposite side, away from the road, near, what I believe to be, the entrance.

I was eager to get out of the jeep, and onto the soft grasses, knowing Rockwell had been here some 170 years ago. The air was clean and filled with the scent of dirt and rain. The workers were quick to unpack my belongings. However, I witnessed a glint of fear in each of their eyes, though Amelia was diligent to remind them that superstitions cannot hurt them. They laughed, and made light of what they’ve been taught since childhood, asserting their manhood, not wanting to feel like little boys. But I watched and notice that none would turn their backs on the cave opening a short distance away.

A fire was started, and Cook worked on making soup. I invited Amelia to stay, but she admitted to promising her crew that she wouldn’t stay longer than forty-five minutes. “They believe,” she spoke, quietly, “that the King’s curse will stay with them, if we stay longer, and since I need them in their best form to continue my work, I shall respect their wishes.” Before she departed, she gave me a token of good luck, a hand-woven bracelet stitched with three white flowers, thought to ward off evil near the lair. I accepted with a smile, allowing her to tie it on my wrist. We bid each other luck and goodbye. Amelia said she’d check back on me in a few days.

I left Cook and Ferdinand with the chore of setting up camp, and conducted a survey of the outside perimeter. Drawn into the coliseum, I noticed the worn, weathered look of the place, the overgrown green grass in the center, and a flock of birds making homes in the bleachers. How long had the stadium gone unused? Later over dinner, Cook would tell me a frightening tale of the only game ever played at the stadium, one that ended in havoc, leaving several players from both teams injured, and many of the spectators dead. From that point on, no team was willing to play here, but rather accepted a forfeit instead.

At night, through the canvas tent I saw purple and green-whitish light radiate from the lair’s entrance. Soon strange voices and screams pervaded the area, and caused Ferdinand to shake and cry.

By morning he will have disappeared, and I’ll not know if he left of his own accord, or taken by some wild denizen, or worse—stolen by the demons lurking around the lair. Being rationale and not prone to fanciful thoughts, I’ll not give in to the continuation of new rumors and superstitions, and demand the record show, the boy left merely in fear, as the others have. Though some sickened feeling at the core of me will believe otherwise, but I’ll not put words to paper, to given my irrational thoughts any merit or credence.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com

The Lair of King Crow
(Part one of a seven part series)
By Hunter Liguore


The lair of King Crow is thought to be haunted. To a sensible twenty-first century scholar, like me, superstitions of endless tunnels, time portals, strange voice, ghosts of and Spanish soldiers are easily explained away. Especially when the myths of the Mayan people are ripe with explanations in the forms of magical spirits, ones guilty of an array of disturbances, like floods, and other natural disasters, that killed off groves of fruit trees, or flocks of livestock, or if the spirits were unmerciful, whole villages. If the devilled spirits weren’t to blame for superstitions or calamity, then the plentiful array of Mayan gods and goddesses were always on hand. But throughout history, the lair has been detached from any myth or legend, instead, clinging to the shroud of superstition, remaining an enigma, and a haunted one at that.

Despite having a rational mind, one spent in studies of the ancient Mayan culture for the past thirty years, the pleasures of allowing myself to sink into a good, old fashioned, haunted tale is still enjoyable. Be it my interest in the macabre, or my love of ancient magic practices, the lair of King Black Crow has always captivated me. As a small boy, I was first introduced to the Mayan when I read the adventures of John Rockwell, the Scottish explorer, when he first set foot in the Yucatan. His journals, Travels of Danger in the Yucatan, gave me my first glimpse of the little known culture of this ancient people. Of course, it wasn’t until much later, when the lost pages of his journal were discovered and revealed the existence of the lair.

I’ve often tried to picture Black Crow’s lair from Rockwell’s careful depiction, the sculpted walls that glistened with sparkling dust, gems, and fossilized crustaceans; the cryptic hieroglyphs etched across the stone like a legion of beetles, the message still unknown; the bronze passages of pictographs depicting the secret customs of the Crow people; even the ceiling is carved with a steady hand, and said to contain the missing links to the Mayan calendar that abruptly ends on the winter solstice in 2012. If only someone were brave enough to venture into the deep recesses of the cave to unlock the code.

The lair of King Black Crow was the twentieth site on Rockwell’s long journey, conducted with other scientists and explorers during the 1840s. Rockwell called the lair the Forty-Fifth Step. There are varying opinions as to his precise meaning. Some experts, including myself, attribute the forty-fifth step to be some type of finale or final point in the esoteric initiate ceremony to the Crow Goddess. The ceremony, held on the winter solstice, allowed initiates to dance through the labyrinth’s forty-four different trials, or steps. If they reached the forty-fifth, successfully, they would need to pass one final test by jumping off into a type of vision quest. Glyphs surrounding the entrances of the lair suggest that the ritual was designed for those dedicated to the Crow Goddess, for which King Black Crow was said to be a direct descendant. Hallucinogens were most likely in use and would’ve allowed the initiate to experience a sacred vision during the “jumping off” finale, whereby the initiate would feel as though they were flying. Once in flight, the initiate would become one with the crow, and hope to commune directly with the Crow Goddess, to bring back to the tribe valuable information pertaining to daily or personal life. The king’s shaman, who would dress in a full bridal of black crow feathers, would provide further interpretation of the visions.

Of course, the fact that Rockwell never returned home from the lair on his second expedition started the superstitions of the haunted lair. Later, when the lost pages turned up along side a human skeleton, during the construction of a soccer field built upon the sacred site, the rumors began to resurface. The human skeleton undoubtedly is thought to be Rockwell, though the carbon dating would suggest the bones were much older than Rockwell would’ve been at the time of his disappearance. Further, the last line of the missing pages warns travelers to “beware the path of C—.” Most scholars assume the last word to be crow, and that in some way, Rockwell was warning others of his day to keep out of the lair. Locals who live near the cave take it as an omen, bearing witness to strange lights and sounds that come out of the cave at night, and keep away. If truth be told, no one has ever made it to the fabled forty-fifth step and lived to tell about it.

A skeleton, a missing explorer, an ancient calendar, a portend of danger, and strange occurrences. It’s one of the world’s greatest unexplained mysteries. Beware what, Rockwell? What were you trying to tell us?

Sitting from my home in Manchester, England, I have on my desk a map of the Yucatan, sketches from Rockwell’s journal of the area, undecipherable hieroglyphs from the entranceway and two inner chambers, the farthest anyone from this century has managed to venture without some unpredictable accident befalling them. I have the missing pages, underlined, and nearly memorized. A compass given to me by my father when I was eighteen and boarding a plane that would take me to Africa, and then to a ship that would then take me to Antarctica, my first adventure, before spending the duration of my days in academia. Off to the right, beside a dry glass of sherry are my retirement papers and a passenger ticket to Mexico dated for tomorrow. It’s been my life long dream to enter the cave, to walk where Rockwell stepped, to uncover his lost secrets. I know there is a possibility I may never return, and for the reasons mentioned above, I have put my affairs in order, and finalized my last will and testament.


- - -
Hunter Liguore holds a BA in History and is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys writing in different genres, and even more so mixing genres, rather than limiting herself to one. Her work has appeared in diverse publications, including, "Katie Ireland," in Miranda Literary Magazine, "Piece," in Terra Incognito, and "The Wizard of Peillon," forthcoming in Mirror Dance. If you would like to follow Hunter Liguore on her journey around the world in thirty stories and thirty genres, visit: http://www.theworldinthirtystories.com