That night we camped near a high lake, a small, perfect circle of painfully cold snowmelt. The half-moon rose about midnight and cast a pale brilliance on the surrounding peaks. Patches of snow caught the moonlight on the rocky slope near us.
Amrita and I made love that night. It was not the first time since Calcutta, but it was the first time we were able to forget everything except each other. Afterward, Amrita fell asleep with her head on my chest while I lay there and watched the Perseid meteors cut their way across the August night sky. I counted twenty-eight before I fell asleep.
Amrita is thirty-eight, almost thirty-nine. I'm sure that her doctor will recommend amniocentesis. I'm going to urge her not to go through that. Amniocentesis is helpful primarily if the parents are willing to abort the fetus if there are genetic problems. I don't think we are. I also feel — feel very strongly — that there will be no problems.
It might be best if we were to have a boy this time, but it will be fine either way. There will be painful recollections with a baby in the house, but it will be less painful than the hurt we've shared so long now.
I still believe that some places are too wicked to be suffered. Occasionally, I dream of nuclear mushroom clouds rising above a city and human figures dancing against the flaming pyre that once was Calcutta.
Somewhere there are dark choruses ready to proclaim the Age of Kali. I am sure of this. As sure as I am that there will always be servants to do Her bidding.
All violence is power, Mr. Luczak.
Our child will be born in the spring. I want him or her to know all of the pleasures of hillsides under clear skies, of hot chocolate on a winter's morning, and of laughter on a grassy Saturday afternoon in summer. I want our child to hear the friendly voices of good books and the even-friendlier silences in the company of good people.
I have not written any poetry in years, but recently I bought a large, wellbound book of blank pages and I've written in it every day. It is not poetry. It is not for publication. It is a story — a series of stories, actually — about the adventures of a group of unlikely friends. There is a talking cat, a fearless and precocious mouse, a gallant but lonely centaur, and a vainglorious eagle who is afraid to fly. It is a story about courage and friendship and small quests to interesting places. It is a bedtime storybook.
The Song of Kali is with us. It has been with us for a very long time. Its chorus grows and grows and grows.
But there are other voices to be heard. There are other songs to be sung.
About the Author
DAN SIMMONS, a full-time public schoolteacher until 1987, is one of the few writers who consistently work across genres, and perhaps the only one to have won major awards in all ofthem. He has produced science fiction, horror,fantasy, and mainstream fiction,and is now launching stunning works in the thriller category.
His first novel, Song of Kali, won the WorldFantasy Award; his first science fiction novel,Hyperion, won the Hugo Award. His other novels and short fiction have been honored withnumerous awards, including nine Locus Awards,four Bram Stoker Awards, the French PrixCosmos 2000, the British SF Association Award,and the Theodore Sturgeon Award. In 1995,Wabash College presented Simmons with anhonorary doctorate in humane letters for hiswork in fiction and education. He lives inColorado along the Front Range of the Rockies.
Dan Simmons, Song of Kali
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