I'm right behind you

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At the southeastern edge of Deadland there  was  a  blue  mountain.  It stood to slightly over three thousand meters in height. When approached from the  northwest,  it  gave the appearance of being a frozen wave in a sea too vast to imagine. Purple clouds rent themselves  upon  its  peak.  No  living thing  was  to be found on its slopes. It had no name, save that which Jarry Dark gave it.
    He anchored the flier.
    He carried her body to the highest point  to  which  a  body  might  be carried.
    He  placed  her  there,  dressed  in  her finest garments, a wide scarf concealing the angle of her neck, a dark veil covering her emptied features.
    He was about to try a prayer when the hail began to fall.  Like  thrown rocks, the chunks of blue ice came down upon him, upon her.
    “God damn you!” he cried and he raced back to the flier.
    He climbed into the air, circled.
    Her  garments  were  flapping  in the wind. The hail was a blue, beaded curtain that separated them from all but these final  caresses:  fire  aflow from ice to ice, from clay aflow immortally through guns.
    He  squeezed  the trigger and a doorway into the sun opened in the side of the mountain that had been nameless.  She  vanished  within  it,  and  he widened the doorway until he had lowered the mountain.
    Then  he  climbed  upward into the cloud, attacking the storm until his guns were empty.
    He circled then above the molten mesa, there at the  southeastern edge of Deadland.
    He circled above the first pyre this world had seen.
    Then he departed, to sleep for a season in silence the sleep of ice and stone, to inherit the Alyonal. There is no dreaming in that sleep.

Filed under Alyonal Jarry Jarry Dark ROGER ZELAZNY Sanza Y7 catform coldworld death dramatic flier funeral ice love mountains romance sad story the keys to December Deadland sleep of ice and stone storm

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Now every day when the sun goes down out of the purple sky, Jarry  Dark watches  it  in its passing, for he shall sleep no more the sleep of ice and of stone, wherein there is no dreaming. He has elected to live out the  span of  his  days  in  a  tiny  instant  of the Wait, never to look upon the New Alyonal of his people. Every morning, at the new Deadland  Installation,  he is  awakened  by sounds like the cracking of ice, the trembling of tin, the snapping of steel strands, before they come to  him  with  their  offerings, singing  and  making marks upon the snow. They praise him and he smiles upon them.
Sometimes he coughs.
Roger Zelezny, “The Keys to December”

Filed under Alyonal Jarry Jarry Dark Roger Zelezny Y7 Zelezny catform changing coldworld dramatic god keys to December life lonely people redform sad story world creator

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Soon, soon things will be better. Soon the  silence  will  end,  I  hope.  I wonder,  though,  whether  silence  is  not the true state of affairs in the universe, our little noises serving only to accentuate it, like a  speck  of black  on  a  field  of  blue.  Everything  was  once silence and will be so
again - is now, perhaps. Will I ever hear real sounds, or only sounds out  of the silence?
Roger Zelazny, “The Keys to December”

Filed under Jarry Jarry Dark Roger Zelazny Zelazny alyonal cat catform cold coldworld keys to december loneliness lonely silence story thoughts winter y7 beauty lyric thinking