Etched In Stone

By Mark Lew

Beginning in the Kalahari Desert in Africa, Etched in Stone tells the story of Jodie, a biochemist whose life is fundamentally altered by a powerful, mystical rock unearthed in a scientifically inexplicable biochemical dead zone in the desert. Her possession of the stone sets her scientific training (what's possibl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Speculative Fiction
• Release date: Apr 8, 2025
• ISBN: 9798992731521

Book preview

ETCHED IN STONE

ETCHED IN STONE

MARK LEW

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2025 by Mark Lew

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or any information

storage and retrieval system without permission,

in writing from the publisher.

DEDICATION:

For the benefit of us all.

Acknowledgments

Yes, my name is on the cover, but this novel was not written by me alone. A great many extraordinary people had a hand in its creation. Foremost among them is my wife, Lisa, whose unwavering patience was instrumental in allowing me to vent my frustrations, whose debate about what worked in the story and what didn’t elevate the tale, and whose critical eye pointed out myriad problems the storyline had. She was my rock (the one she occasionally threw at my thick skull). These words would’ve remained locked in my computer if not for her love and support.

Keeping it all in the family for the moment, I’d like to thank my daughter, Charlene, for being honest in her evaluation of the book—honesty is a rare and precious commodity. (She doesn’t give a damn if she hurts my feelings, and that’s WONDERFUL!) Hi, Charlee!

To Justin and Eric, my sons, who languished through the poorly written first drafts of the story but read it cover to cover anyway and kept telling me to stay the course. They were more circumspect in their criticisms.

Next on this list is Hank Eder, a lifelong friend possessed of a hyperphantasic imagination who helped me paint pictures with words, creating images that blended into the storyline seamlessly. The debt of gratitude to him can never be repaid.

Then, of course, my editor extraordinaire, Fiona McLaren, whose insightful comments and keen eye kept the story on course, even if it meant (and it did) days’ worth of non-stop editing I had to go through. Learning about filter phrases and interiority was critical in fashioning this tale into a cohesive storyline. I could go on forever singing her praises. Alas, I have others to thank.

To David Jove, for being the kind of friend who is unwavering in his critique of the novel and whose encouragement helped me through my dark times when hope was fading. He, too, is an author and understands the frustrations associated with this craft.

To Dr. Lawrence A. Berger, my cardiologist, whose extensive knowledge of medicine has kept me hale long enough to see my dream of publication realized.

To all the souls—friends and family—who read the less-than-stellar first drafts of this novel and told me to try harder. This is it, my best effort—I hope you enjoy it.

DISCOVERY

She awoke with the dawn, the still-cool air beckoning her to roll over and continue her slumber. The tears, though, made it impossible, scurrying down her cheeks and onto the mattress of the cot. The empty ache in her chest informed her that Gabriel had been in her dream yet again, but details faded too soon. As she rolled onto her back, a sigh escaped her throat, loud enough to linger like a soft echo in the quiet of her tent, though it did little to ease the longing. Nothing really could. Even the tears felt like props, more a reminder of her misery than a remedy.

There were no words, no assuagement. Not as long as she could picture the moment in her imagination when the light turned from green to red and Michael Morceau, drunk and driving too fast, plowed his pickup truck into the side of Gabriel’s Mustang, nearly folding it in half. Not as long as she squinched her eyes tight in empathetic response as though witnessing the fatality, her body stiffening in sphincter-clenching horror.

For Morceau, that was the third time cited for driving under the influence, the second time driving with no valid driver’s license, and the first time guilty of vehicular homicide. For Jodie, the countdown to his twenty-five-year sentence hadn’t meant spit. Closure was an illusion.

The only consolation to find was Gabriel had died in an instant, died without knowing he was dying, died without pain. The suffering, protracted and incessant, was hers to shoulder. A hole had been torn in her universe on that night, one so inscrutably black and gravitationally compelling, she couldn’t fathom ever being able to go back to a real sense of normalcy. 

The dreams—they were the antidote, no matter how many tears she shed upon awakening. They were the place where she and Gabriel, still vibrant, could once more walk arm-in-arm down the trails of Lexington Park without tragedy abducting any part of the landscape. That feeling of renewal was worth all the twinges of heartache.

A second sigh, this one deliberate and louder, and Jodie pulled back the thin blanket covering her body as she hoisted herself off her cot and, after grabbing a tissue to blow her nose and dry her face, donned her white muumuu. Her first stop was the Porta-Potty with her satchel of toiletries in hand. Once outside, she allowed a goosebump shiver to rattle her frame and would’ve stopped to soak it in if her bladder hadn’t had a different agenda. The coolness was welcomed, a far cry from the onslaught of heat that would soon arrive with the rising sun. Such was life in the Kalahari Desert, where she’d spent the last one hundred and seventeen days trying to make sense of an impossible phenomenon.

Exiting the latrine a short while later, a sudden clamor of frenzied shouting reached Jodie, and she turned from her destination, whipping around in the direction of the turmoil at the other end of the excavation.

Traversing the ten or so meters to the excavated incline in record time, she tossed her toiletries bag towards her tent for later retrieval and began her descent, ditching her usual caution. It was all she could do to keep her balance as she barreled down the ramp. Her chest pounded, as much from her exertion as her scrabbled worries, an injury a fight a death an accident—all commas erased—each clamoring for pole position but producing no clear winner.

The outcry quieted to a more muted hubbub after taking a few more steps, easing her anxiety and allowing the frisson of success to sprout. The idea emerged that maybe, just maybe, the ruckus wasn’t caused by panic, but rather by jubilation, brought on by at last solving the puzzling absence of cyanobacteria in the area that had sent her on a ten-thousand-mile expedition, far from the places she knew, the people she loved. The bubble of excitement triggered a sense of relief, and the relief was reshaped into the kind of joy she hadn’t felt since before Kalahari, since before tragedy… since Gabriel.

A new spring in her step, she hurried along until she could make out Dylan—foreman and official interpreter for the site—running towards her, if a fast waddle could aptly be called running. 

We’ve found something… he began saying with labored breathing, now that they were in earshot of each other, …it’s a rock of some sort.

She stared at him as he approached. "A rock? That’s it?!" His pro- nouncement ground her jaunt to an immediate halt.

Dylan continued closing the distance between them, a supercilious smirk on his face. Jodie had seen it before, knowing a snide attitude lay millimeters below the surface, ready to launch.

And then Dylan, true to form, added, All right, try this one on for size. The two men who found it shot up and ran back away from it in wild panic as if being chased by a leopard! They had to be restrained, wrestled to the ground, and held there.

Restrained? Jodie’s chest tightened, compressed by the weight of responsibility.

Dylan snickered. An honest-to-God shit show! Should’ve seen it!

Had she not known Dylan better, Jodie would’ve been dismayed by his enjoyment, but months’ worth of his company had taught her the best thing she could do was hold her tongue. So, turning away from his misplaced mirth, she hurried down the length of the site with renewed vigor, spurred on by the quixotic mystery. Dylan could not keep up.

The chatter quieted as she neared, one and then another of the laborers turning as she approached. The men were gathered around in a circle, a few of them parting—in Red Sea fashion—to allow Jodie a clear path to the two men lying on the ground. Four others pinned both of them face up, their limbs held fast to prevent their flailing. At their feet stood a solitary man, blood staining a rag he’d placed on his nostrils to staunch the flow.

What happened?! she exclaimed, examining the look-but-don’t-touch portrait of casualty splayed out in front of her. No one understood her question, and she stomped her foot in frustration, a guttural g-r-r-r accompanying the act. It was no one’s fault but hers for not having learned Setswana, the prevalent language of the workforce. To be sure, a few words stuck here and there, but not enough to hold a conversation.

A few seconds passed until Dylan at last arrived, stopping alongside her.

Pointing at the victims, he stated, These two men here, Mompati and Tumelo, started digging as normal, but then they found a stone and started shouting. I was talking to Baboloki, that man there—again he pointed, this time to the man with the bloodied nose—"and told him to find out what was going on. He headed out to where Mompati and Tumelo were crouched, but then, without warning, they shot up like rockets and started running full speed away from the stone. Tumelo crashed headlong into Baboloki and probably broke his nose, looking like a crazy man talking about feeling like his maatla was being drained. The other men, shouting their surprise, took hold of them, and this is the result."

"Matla? Jodie asked. What’s matla?"

"It’s not matla, it’s maatla, a three-syllable word," Dylan corrected.

Dylan, dammit, is pronunciation really the most relevant thing we’re talking about right now?! Look around you!

Dylan retorted, If you’re gonna use—

"What does it fucking mean?!!" His propensity for harping upon the irrelevant knew no limit and once again yanked her patience into the land of im.

It uh… it means life energy. There’s no direct translation, but—

So, wait, Jodie interrupted, shaking her head in disbelief, you’re telling me they thought their life energies were being drained? By a rock?

That’s what they said, Dylan answered, shrugging.

Are…are you sure you’ve got the translation right—no offense.

His face at once marbleized to a look of outraged indignation, amplified by his scalding rebuke. "Yes, I’m sure! Watch this!"

He turned his attention to Baboloki across the way and asked, "Maatla fatshe?"

Before Baboloki could answer, Dylan, his cold, hard stare unchanged, informed Jodie, "Fatshe means ‘down.’"

Baboloki, still holding the bloodied rag above his mouth, looked straight at Jodie, nodding like a bobble-head as he repeated, "Maatla fatshe, maatla fatshe." Then, moving the rag away from his face, smiled a jagged-toothed smile at having spoken to bosso, something outside the custom of the workmen. The bleeding had stopped, two dried streams of crimson pooled above his top lip. Now visible, the swelling on the bridge of his nose was pronounced.

She shook her head in a few slow, sweeping movements of disbelief as she tried to make sense of the nonsensical, battling against the abracadabra mentality of what she was being told. And yet, the evidence something had happened was plain to see. Still, maatla or no, Jodie’s determined nature would not be stymied. If the stone’s at the source of the problem, then the answer’s there too.

She addressed Baboloki with a quiet, Thank you.

Dylan translated, "Ke a leboga."

Ke itumetse, Baboloki replied, averting his eyes.

Jodie turned away to continue on to the stone’s location when Dylan grabbed her arm at the elbow. She met this gesture with an accu-satory glower.

Your hand? she intoned as a question when it was anything but.

What? Dylan asked.

Let me ask you, if I were a man, would you have your hand on my elbow?

Dylan released his grip, his arm falling to his side just as Mompati and Tumelo took in a sharp breath of air, sounding like an eerie, inverted moan as though each had swallowed a ghost. Wide-eyed expressions of confusion swept across the faces of the onlookers as all attention turned to the source of the sound. Jodie, turning to face the sound, also reacted, hers arriving with heart-pounding fear.

And then, as one, both men’s eyes opened wide, irises fixed straight ahead in a blank stare, unblinking into the blue sky above them, their bodies stiffening as though beset with sudden rigor mortis.

Jodie’s breath hitched, nearly choked, afraid they’d died in unison. At once, she went to them, bent down, and put two fingers of each hand on the sides of their respective necks, pressing to find a pulse. CPR training playing out fast-forward in her mind’s eye, she prayed she remembered every step, ready to resuscitate them. It proved unnecessary as, after a few seconds of exploration, she found a strong cardiac rhythm in each of them.

That most perilous issue resolved, she turned her attention to their unblinking stares, sure if they didn’t blink soon, they’d suffer permanent retinal damage.

Tell the men to let go, she said, addressing Dylan. They’ve stopped struggling.

You really think that’s a good idea? he questioned, the sarcasm in his phrasing obvious.

Tell. The. Men. To. Let. Go., she repeated, emphasizing each word in the sentence like an angry mash on typewriter keys. That she had to resort to being so authoritative at times like this tore at her conscience, but Dylan’s behavior left her no choice. She felt like such a bitch when she acted this way, but if she were the bitch she was portraying, she would’ve sent Dylan packing a long time ago. No… he’s redeemable, she’d convinced herself time and again. It was her quiet hope that they would reach a level of friendship where she could peel away the corpulent layers of his false bravado and be there when he emerged as a changed man.

Dylan, following her instruction, conveyed her wish. The men released their hold on Mompati and Tumelo. Neither stirred; indeed, neither of them seemed even to notice. Their attendants stood and began wiping sand off their legs, arms, and hands.

Whatever mystery lay a few meters ahead of her would have to wait; Jodie was going to minister to the two men. She took Mompati and rolled him over on his side to turn his face away from staring up at the rising and merciless desert sun. Watching her, the two laborers closest to Tumelo followed suit. One of the other workmen had the presence of mind to fetch a couple of water flasks from nearby and hand them to Jodie.

Her throat parched, Jodie had to stop herself from opening a flask and gulping down the water it contained. These are for the men, not me. Her mind raced. What else can I do… what else?

As seconds bled one into the next, helplessness grew into dismay as the urge to do something—anything—took root. To make matters worse, the heat being reflected by the sand began abrading the pores of her legs. Discomfort grew to agony. When she could tolerate no more of it, she sprang up just as Mompati began blinking feverishly, no doubt lubricating what were now his very dry eyes. A moment later, Tumelo mimicked his companion. They stirred, sloughing off their rigidity in quick succession. A wave of murmured relief ran through the crowd of observers. Jodie’s eyes watered as the fears she’d been harboring dissolved.

As the men roused, their associates helped them up. Jodie sprang up, offering them the water flasks she was holding, handing them over with a reassuring smile, the sizzling of her skin abating. That done, she honed in on the cooler where the flasks were kept and popped one open for herself, careful to drink it slowly, lest dizziness overtake her—as had happened on numerous occasions when she’d first arrived.

As she sipped, Dylan approached and said to her, They want to know what happened.

You mean to tell me they don’t remember?

Nope.

Go ahead, tell them. Ask them how they feel.

As Dylan conversed, she slurped her water bottle until, at last, the raspy feeling in her throat abated. Taking the now half-empty canteen, she placed it in the pocket of her coverall as the gathered crowd began to disperse, leaving her free to carry on with her quest.

So, placing her hands on her bent knees until the flutters of ad-renaline-spiked activity quieted, she then turned to face the end of the excavation, the place where this bewitching stone sat waiting. But, having taken only one step in that direction, Mompati took hold of her arm, much as Dylan had earlier, and shook his head.

Reaching with her left hand, she pried Mompati’s fingers away with firm determination. Wanting him to stop, she said, "Emisa," one of the few words she’d learned in Setswana.

It’s okay, she added, followed by a wan smile. It’s okay.

Mompati released his hold but continued his vigorous head shake. Then, stopping, he leaned in a little, his expression one of paralyzing fear. Please... no, he managed, his accent thick with unfamiliar phonetics.

You don’t seem to understand, Dylan interjected as he looked on. Do you have any idea what it took for Mompati to put his hand on you, how many years of habit he just bulldozed through to keep you from the stone? You need to listen to him! You’re acting like a bull galloping to the waving red flag.

Jodie, her goal within reach, wasn’t about to be stymied again. "I’m sorry, Dylan, but I have a responsibility here, so it might be you who doesn’t understand. I need to do this. Thank him for his concern." And with that, she took a few more steps forward.

Jodie, please! Dylan implored, calling out to her as she walked away.

She continued on regardless, the spark of mettle igniting her steely resolve.

Okay, he commented, speaking louder now, his expression one of hesitation and reluctance, then wait for me.

She stopped, caught off-guard by his offer but quietly relieved to have some company now that the question of the stone’s maatla-drain-ing power had cropped up. I’ll wait… Come on, she replied.

What do you think? she asked as they began their short trek to-gether.

That you’re making a mistake, he answered. "That this thing needs to be buried again before it can cause more trouble."

Really, Dylan? she asked, surprised he shared the view Baboloki had confirmed. I mean, it’s only a rock. You can’t possibly—

Pointing at her with what seemed an accusation, he cut her off. "Listen, I know these men! They’re humble, quiet, and sincere, and if they say it’s dangerous, I’m not going to dismiss it. I’m not like you."

Up ahead, the stone now clearly visible, Jodie’s focus turned to it, only half-listening to what Dylan was saying, his implicit insult fizzling out. A few more steps, and she, at last, arrived, having entertained the idea the rock was going to be emitting some sort of visible energy like a squiggly-lined cartoon depiction. And yet, it was only a rock, incon-testably out of place this far below the surface, but beyond that, quite ordinary. Disappointment set in.

Nevertheless, Jodie squatted down to examine the stone in de-liberate defiance of the fatuous irrationality surrounding her. Judging by the size of it, she guesstimated it weighed between three and four pounds and was about six inches in diameter, an indeterminate few inches thick, as its base was still partially buried in sand. A quick glance up found Dylan standing about a meter and a half back from the artifact, his eyes wide and his lips puckered tight. So much for safety in numbers, she thought.

And yet, as her gaze dropped again and her eyes refocused on the rock, butterflies assailed her stomach, as a fear-inspired shiver ran up her spine and spread to her hands in the familiar sensation of a slight tremor. What am I doing?! She suddenly didn’t want to touch the stone; didn’t want to risk being pulled towards death’s door by some as-yet unknown force all because her beliefs didn’t align with the natives’ own. She could hear Dylan’s words of warning taking root in her head, …if they say it’s dangerous, I’m not going to dismiss it.

One finger… just one, she told herself. Maalta. She would’ve been perfectly happy never having learned that word, never having it incite her reluctance. Just do it, she prompted herself, feeling exasperated for having to commit to this one simple act of touching a rock. Her index finger extended, she brought her right hand ever closer to the stone and quickly tapped it, withdrawing it at once. Nothing happened—the world did not come crashing down around her.

Shaking her head at allowing all this talk, like a campfire ghost story, to influence her actions so strongly, she brought her hand to it again, this time running her finger along its surface. It was impossibly smooth to the touch, its silkiness the undoubted product of its bed of abrading sand. Now certain it wasn’t about to do anything quite so dramatic as take her life, she laid her entire hand upon the stone. A feeling of well-being sprang up from some indefinable place deep inside her and, surprised, she jerked her hand away as though she’d touched something hot.

What the hell was that?! A smile appeared on her face after categorizing its pleasing sensation in her head: nothing about it sug-gested maatla-drain; if anything, it was maatla-enriching. Curious.

All of a sudden, Dylan let out a loud groan, interrupting Jodie’s revelation, and she turned her attention to him. He appeared ill, almost chalky, quite out of place in the brightness of the morning, his eyes star-ing straight ahead. Curiosity tilted her head as she looked on, trying to discern the cause.

Behind him and crowding in the background, the laborers had regathered to witness Jodie’s apparent immunity from a sapping maatla stone, the men in the rear pushing the front line into the stationary Dylan, straining to get a closer look. 

Are you okay? she asked him.

He didn’t answer, so Jodie repeated the question. Before he could respond, someone in the crowd yelled out a phrase unfamiliar to Jodie, "baloi, and Dylan turned his head toward the sound. Someone just called you a witch," he told her through his grimace.

She chuckled at their superstition as she stood up and turned to face them. Tell them to come; there’s nothing to be afraid of here, she said.

The murmur in the crowd after Dylan’s pronouncement grew louder, but no one dared take even one step closer.

Jodie urged them on, trying to ease their fears by waggling her fingers in a come here gesture.

You’re only making it worse, Dylan managed.

Sighing, Jodie then said, Okay then, tell ’em to go home. No more work today.

Dylan turned to the laborers and dismissed them. His utterance spread like an analgesic, bringing with it a wave of relief, and the men dispersed immediately.

You too, Dylan. Go, Jodie commanded.

You can’t stay here alone, Dylan uttered through gritted teeth.

Jodie repeated her mandate, I said, go! You’re not doing well, and I don’t need looking after. There’s no danger here.

Shaking his head, Dylan began walking away. The crunch of sand violated underfoot marked his departure, leaving new-formed craters in his wake.

JOURNEYS

One helluva journal entry tonight, Jodie thought as she watched the locals scatter, Dylan straggling behind the others. Her journaling was her tether, the only connection to the life she’d been living before this assignment, and a reminder that this work would eventually come to an end and she could return home to Seattle.

Not that her life back home had been any great shakes for the last couple of years, but she wasn’t an archaeologist and had no business being in the middle of the desert doing what amounted to a