PROLOGUE
The moon hung impossibly large in the Arizona sky, casting the ancient sandstone formations in stark relief against the darkness.Professor Mark Harrington paused to catch his breath, the thin air at this elevation making his chest burn.
He checked his watch—11:17 PM.Perfect timing.The moonlight would reach its optimal angle in approximately forty minutes, illuminating the sacred rock formation exactly as he had calculated.
This shot will be the centerpiece of the exhibition,he thought, adjusting the weight of the camera equipment on his shoulders.Stone Memories: Earth’s Hidden Historywould be his first solo photography exhibition at the university gallery, a perfect complement to his recently submitted tenure package.After twelve years as an associate professor of geology at Canyon State University, Mark was finally making his mark in both his scientific field and his artistic passion.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.Mark pulled it out, surprised to have even a single bar of reception this far into the canyon lands.A text from Ellie, his seventeen-year-old daughter: “Did you sign my permission slip yet?Mom says you have it.”
Mark cursed under his breath.The form for Ellie’s geology field trip to the Grand Canyon—ironically, a trip he would normally have chaperoned if not for the divorce—sat unsigned on his kitchen counter back in Flagstaff.He’d meant to scan and email it before leaving, but in his rush to get on the road before sunset, it had slipped his mind.
“I’ll sign it first thing when I get back tomorrow,” he typed, knowing it wasn’t the answer she wanted.“Sorry, kiddo.”
Three dots appeared, then disappeared.No reply.Typical.
Since the divorce, their conversations had become increasingly terse.His ex-wife, Caroline, claimed it was normal teenage behavior, but Mark knew better.Before the separation, Ellie had been his shadow, accompanying him on weekend expeditions to collect rock samples and helping him catalog specimens in his home office.Now she regarded him with the same distant interest she might show a moderately engaging museum exhibit.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket.No point dwelling on it now.
The path narrowed as he climbed higher, loose stones skittering beneath his boots.The isolation should have been unsettling, but Mark had always found peace in desolate landscapes.They spoke to him in ways people rarely did—honestly, without pretense or judgment.Rocks didn’t care that his marriage had dissolved last year, or that his teenage daughter now barely spoke to him during his weekend visits.Stone didn’t mock the obsessive way he threw himself into work to avoid facing the empty Flagstaff house he now returned to each night.
The divorce had been amicable on paper.In reality, it was the culmination of years of Mark’s gradual withdrawal into his work.“You’re more married to those rocks than you are to me,” Caroline had finally said one evening, not with anger but with a resignation that hurt far worse.She wasn’t wrong.The stones had never disappointed him, never changed, never wanted more than he could give.
His department chair, Sylvia Hale, had suggested the photography exhibition as a way to humanize his research for the tenure committee.“They need to see you’re not just another academic robot,” she’d said.“Show them the beauty you see in these formations.”What she hadn’t said, but Mark understood perfectly well, was that his publication record, while solid, wasn’t exceptional.The dramatic photographs might tip the scales in his favor.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The Navajo guide’s words echoed in Mark’s mind as he navigated a tricky section of the trail.Their argument a week ago had grown heated, something Mark wasn’t proud of.
“I understand your concern,” Mark had said, spreading his topographical maps across the hood of his Jeep at the ranger station.“But I’m not disturbing anything.These are just photographs.”
The guide—a weathered man perhaps in his fifties—had shaken his head firmly.“This place is not for outsiders, especially not at night.Not duringNáhásdzáán Yee Adees’eelígíí.”
“The what?”Mark had asked, frustration growing.
“The Walking Earth,” the guide had translated reluctantly.“The time when the boundary thins.”
Mark had forced a patient smile.“Look, I respect your traditions.But I’m a scientist.These formations contain geological data that could advance our understanding of the Mesozoic period.The photographs are just a bonus.”
“Science,” the guide had scoffed.“You think that protects you?”
Their conversation had deteriorated from there.The guide refused to take him, and the ranger station wouldn’t authorize an overnight permit without a certified guide.But Mark had spent six months planning this trip, calculating when the moon’s position would perfectly illuminate the unusual oxidation patterns in the rock.His department chair had already promised the exhibition space for next month.
He couldn’t wait another year.
The guide’s final warning had followed Mark to his car: “The old ones do not sleep duringNáhásdzáán Yee Adees’eelígíí.They walk between worlds.They hunger.”
Mark had dismissed it.It was either superstitious nonsense or a tale designed to keep tourists away from sacred sites.He understood the broader context—centuries of archaeologists and scientists had plundered Native lands under the banner of research.But Mark wasn’t taking anything.Just images.Just light.
So here he was, permit be damned.He’d parked at a public trailhead five miles back and taken this unmarked path using GPS coordinates he’d obtained from satellite imagery.After tonight, he’d apologize to the guide, perhaps donate to a tribal education fund.
But the photographs came first.
The path grew steeper.Mark’s breathing became labored as he pushed himself upward.He had been in excellent shape once—a rock climber in graduate school, an avid hiker and mountain biker through his thirties.But the last few years of office work and microwave dinners had taken their toll.His doctor had warned him about his blood pressure at his last physical, suggesting he “find healthier ways to manage stress than caffeine and overtime.”
A sharp pain lanced through his left knee—an old climbing injury acting up.Mark paused, setting down his equipment to massage the joint.He pulled out a prescription bottle, dry-swallowing an anti-inflammatory.The knee had been giving him trouble for weeks, but he’d been putting off the recommended surgery.No time for recovery, not with the tenure decision looming and the exhibition to prepare.
He looked up at the darkening sky.Thin clouds were beginning to streak across the moon’s face.Not enough to ruin the shoot, but concerning.The weather report had promised clear skies.
