Black Sun Descending by Stephen Legault

across the land, they cut thousands of feet into the desert’s stone, bringing life to an otherwise desperate land, and form intricately beautiful grottos.
    HE WOKE TO birdsong. Silas had slept next to his Outback on the ground, swaddled in his goose-down sleeping bag, in the Kaibab National Forest. It was not yet light. The air was cool, but not cold; the bite had been taken out of winter. The dawn chorus of the upland forest birds filtered through the pungent odor of the pine woodland. Thirty minutes later he was seated on a peninsula of stone near the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. He’d driven into the park and found coffee and a muffin at the North Rim Lodge before making his way along the paved path to where a few dozen silent onlookers watched the day begin. Watching the sunrise over the Grand Canyon was like watching the lights come up at an intricately designed theatrical production. The night’s blue veil was slowly pulled back, and minute by minute the striations of stone were cast into brilliance. As the day began the canyon seemed to exhale a deep breath, and on the back of that breeze dark ravens rode the thermals into the sky. Silas closed his eyes and felt the canyon’s breath on his face. When he opened his eyes again a raven was hovering just a few feet away, over the drop-off, balancing on the movement of air. It croaked once and glided off into the distance. His coffee grew cold. He felt something wet on his bristly cheek and was surprised to find a tear there. He hurriedly wiped it away. For the first time in four and a half years Silas felt he truly grasped what it was his wife had been trying to do.
    It was time to get to work.
    SILAS DROVE FROM the North Rim back along the route to where Grand Canyon National Park ended, and the Kaibab National Forest began. The earth was flat; it was hard to imagine that just a few miles away the defile of the Grand Canyon carved a path 277 miles long through the upland plateau.
    Through a series of turns and diversions along old forestry roads, Silas found his way to his destination. The aspen forest was just starting to leaf out; the trees’ acid green leaves shimmered in the morning air. He parked in a small gravel lot and walked along the path to the fire lookout. A cabin sat squat against the earth, surrounded by dark woods. The fire tower rose four stories above, its spindly legs appearing much too fragile to support the lookout structure that topped them. He reached the base of the tower and, ignoring the warnings, stepped over the barrier and climbed the tower. He could hear the wood structure, built in the 1930s, creaking as he paced upwards. As the wind picked up the tower seemed to sway.
    He reached the lookout box and tried to push open the trapdoor in the floor. It was stuck. He looked at the handle and noticed that there was a heavy lock. Silas climbed back down the four flights of stairs and turned his attention to the cabin. He tried the door but it was locked too. He went to one of the building’s small windows and wiped the winter’s grime away. He looked inside, but the room was empty. He turned around in frustration. He had wasted his time. There was nothing here that would lead him to his wife.
    A heavy padlock jangled against the old door when Silas fiddled with the handle. Next to the door he noticed a box like the ones found at trailheads on National Forest lands. He stopped playing with the door and opened the lid. Inside was a register. He felt his pulse quicken.
    He opened it and quickly thumbed through the entries to see how far back the journal went. It had been in its box for nearly a decade! With his palms sweating in the cool morning air he placed the book on the lid of the box and started to scan the entries.
    Penelope’s wasn’t hard to find. About halfway through the register he found a place where someone had left a much longer than usual greeting, and immediately recognized her handwriting. He