She could wait the day, she thought for a moment. She could hold off the hours of battle, but to what end? Everyone was ready, eager even, to rush into blood fray. Even her own sister had preened in magnificent black armor before they had retired, and Ratri was often the gentlest of souls.
Her role, her duty, lay in the small chariot and the sky, and so she recognized that she could put it off no longer. She leaped into the chariot and took up the reigns, no longer with the Mayura bird but with her own Dawn horses, to travel their daily route.
Below her Keenset lay ready for battle. In the Accelerationist camp, warriors had already begun their day, polishing weapons, steadying mounts and eating a good meal before the fight. In the command Palace she saw sentries scanning the plain before them for any movement. One or two raised a spear to her and smiled grimly with the promise of victory. She only hoped they were true prophets, though she believed that Sam was the truest of the gods.
She moved onward, spreading her blue and rose rays ahead toward the camp of the gods. Below on the road she saw a band of travelers and she dipped lower for a look. Who would be on this road on this morning? Certainly everyone knew that this road would soon be drenched in death and dying.
They traveled as if in procession for a feast day, on horses and in palanquins, all brightly picked out with silk hangings and embroidered with planets, moons and suns, with flowers and fruits and small animals. One or two of the celebrants played the flute. Others sang, or danced, or clapped along to the music on the road of destruction.
Ushas recognized them, or at least thought she did. But she dared not stop. Instead she speeded up, driving her horses faster to encompass the sky so that she could return and discover the identity of the travelers. Because a hope fluttered briefly in her breast, along with a larger fear.
She finished her duties quickly and returned by chariot to the travelers on the road. They had made good time and were just at the gates of the city when she joined them. Yes, there was Shukra, and Candra, and even Bhumi. And at least thirty other demigods, many of whom she had not known all that well, despite their recent status as her houseguests. They moved very quickly although they appeared to be part of a festival procession.
“Ah, Ushas, you have joined us,” Shukra said as she swung her chariot around and landed at their head.
“That depends. What are you doing?”
Shukra laughed, low and deep, and intelligence sparkled in his eyes. He had always been one of the smartest of the demis, Ushas acknowledged, and he could have done a great deal had he not been interminably lazy.
“Why, we are going to join Siddhartha of course.”
Ushas cocked her head. “You mean you are going to actually do something? Or you just wanted someplace to watch?”
“Oh, no, we are ready to fight,” Candra said. “We discussed it last night, and pulled out the weapons. Most of us were trained as warriors when we were human. And a few have other skills.” He looked a Bhumi.
Shukra nodded solemnly. “I was a warrior for six incarnations. I know what I’m doing. Pretty much all of us do. And we can help. So if you’ll speak for us to the command, they can let us know where we can do the most good.”
“But why are you traveling like this, like you don’t take anything seriously?”
“Because Trimurti doesn’t take us seriously,” Shukra replied. “If we left as if we meant to do something, that would give it away. If we acted as if we were just behaving the way they expect us to behave, they will ignore us. And they won’t realize we’ve deserted until too late.”
Ushas nodded and gestured to the guards at the top of the gate. “Let them in. Allies.”
So she rode at the head of the troop of brightly dressed demigods to the chamber where Sam stood over a map and called him down. He inspected the motley collection and turned them over to Kubera to be assigned places in the battle line.
But before Kubera assigned them, Sam asked, “What made you come over? What changed your minds?”
Ushas watched as Shukra stood straighter. “We thought about it. At first the idea seemed ridiculous, to risk ourselves and our position, but gradually we could see the sense behind it. I don’t know why it took us so long to understand that we have far more in common with humans and that Trimurti only uses us and relies on our indifference.”
Sam nodded and the demigods marched off. Then Sam looked at Ushas, standing alone in the courtyard. “A powerful Aspect indeed,” he congratulated her. “You are most worthy, Ushas. And a great help to our cause.”
Dawn blushed. And an ape swung low from a tree as Siddhartha walked off and stroked her hand. “Very well done, Goddess,” he said.
“Only a demigoddess,” she corrected him softly.
“No, Lady. You have demonstrated a full Aspect and are a power on the field. You are, indeed, a Goddess.”
And he bowed. Which was ungainly, in the way of an ape, but it mattered nonetheless.
“Come with me, Tak,” Ushas offered. She leaped into her chariot and Tak followed, and she insisted her horses take them to the skies for a second time that day. Tak, and even Ushas, used spears from above on the battlefield below.
But Ushas’ weapon was not the spear. It was the light that she brought, the early light of dawn that came not just to bring the day, but the light of Knowledge to the mind.
Afterword
Shannon Zelazny
Roger Zelazny. Known around the world as the science fiction and fantasy author of over fifty books and one hundred fifty short stories, a six-time Hugo Award-winner, three-time Nebula Award-winner, and an overall inspiration to readers and authors alike.
Known to me as Dad.
I was fifteen when my father unexpectedly passed away from colon cancer. In the physical sense, it should have come as no surprise, as it was quite evident that his health was slipping away over the course of his final year. However, the shock that reverberated throughout my being at the news of his passing stemmed from a doting daughter’s belief in his consistent affirmation that he was going to beat it. He truly thought he would. After all, he did not view himself as an average human being. The theme of immortality so prevalent throughout his works was truly an extension of his own perception of himself. As such, I too believed him to be immortal; yet, This Immortal succumbed to the sands of time, as do all who walk the Earth.
Last year I was asked to speak at my father’s 20-year anniversary memorial. After having difficulties trying to figure out what to say I decided to back out. However, the day before the event, I was going through an old storage box in the garage and found a notebook I had filled up with memories of my father a few days after he died, so that I wouldn’t forget all the little details that grow fuzzy with time. The following day, I decided to share some of those memories I had unearthed, in order to give insight into the nature of the man who was my father and not the world renowned writer. It is my honor and pleasure to share some of these memories of the man who greatly shaped who I am today for reasons other than his writing.
Once a week my father would drop me off at Grandma’s house, an opportunity she would seize to tell me stories about her beloved son. She lit up telling me a tale of how when he was a boy he wanted a dog so badly that he drew pictures of a little dog and himself smiling next to it, and left them all over the house for her to find. She said she would open cabinets, the refrigerator, drawers and more, only to discover endless pictures. She finally broke down and got him a terrier that he loved with all his heart. In our family home, he had a metal terrier dog statue holding open the door to his office.
Some of the most precious moments of my childhood were spent in our 1970's Chevy van which was beautifully adorned with orange shag carpet and rainbow interior. Often, when driving me to and from school, his latest work was swirling around in his head and he would randomly start reciting lines in his various character’s voices. “Oh he’s at it again,” I would think, paying little heed to a master at work.
Drivi
ng also seemed to be a time when he felt most inspired to bust out his very particular “Aroo” language. He explained this was the language of the animals and would proceed to very casually, yet also very seriously, recite an entire what I can only refer to as a poem, in this Aroo language. “Aroo, aroo. . .aroo. . .aroo. AROO! Aroo, aroo. . .aroo.”
He greatly amused himself a lot of the time. He was indeed a tremendously witty individual who took pride and amusement in the creative workings of his own mind. Off the beaten path on our drive home, there was a tiny bridge that I simply adored as a kid. I think because it was such a novelty to this Santa Fe girl. He would drive out of the way just so we could drive over that bridge. Just to make me happy, because he was a kind person. His kindness extended to kids other than myself. He would give talks at school about the writing process, inspiring the younger generations to do so.
In town, there was a train car that had been converted into a restaurant called The Super Chief Diner that we often frequented. Each day an obscure riddle or question was written up on a chalkboard, and if answered correctly would entitle one to a free milkshake. We always got free milkshakes, and boy a sweet tooth my father did have. A regular staple in our house was a case of Pepsi or RC cola and at least several 100 grand or 5th Avenue candy bars. To the left of his work chair in his office one could always find a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. He had a button he would sometimes wear that read, “Life is short. Eat Dessert First.”Strawberry rhubarb pie or German chocolate cake were his favorites.
He embraced the casual style of New Mexican attire. He wore a sheepskin vest over his shirts most days, moccasins, and when it was time to dress up, would add a bolo tie to the ensemble. On occasion, he would wear the only hat he owned, a Cleveland Indians hat, having grown up in the suburb of Euclid, Ohio. He always carried a piece of string in his pocket tied at the ends, which he used to make hand figures out of. Also in his pocket was a handkerchief, a comb, and cash folded up sans wallet, until his dear friend Gerry Hausman gifted him a money clip. In his breast pocket he always had a pen and small notebook, just in case an idea popped up. He would carry a book with him everywhere he went in case he would have wait, even if only for a minute. Never was a minute wasted.
I remember sitting in his lap as he read The Secret Garden and Peter Pan to me. I would drift off and he would carry my dozing self to my room to put me to bed. Oftentimes, I would accompany him to a bookstore. After locating the latest Nancy Drew or Sweet Valley Twins book, I would timidly ask if I could get it, apologizing beforehand if it would be a waste of his money. I knew how hard he worked, day and night in his office creating his books that translated into our livelihood. I didn’t want to willy-nilly waste his compensation on something trivial. His response was sternly always the same: “It’s never a waste of money if it’s spent on a book.” And books did he have. There were rows and rows in his office, akin to a mini-bookstore. Among it all was a comic book stash of particular fancy, Donald Duck.
My father was certainly interested in eastern philosophies, alternative modalities of health, and martial arts. I would accompany him to the dojo where he had his aikido classes, and watch on as he and a partner threw each other around using various circular movements. Acquiring his black belt, he eventually began teaching the art. Daily, he would practice his tai chi routine. Together we took a tai chi class. Afterwards we would go get ice cream and talk about the class, Feng Shui and any other concepts relating to energy, the body and movement. He regularly received rolfing, acupuncture and took Chinese herbs for various ailments.
Growing up, living with a writer, was a unique experience. I didn’t exactly know what he was doing, but I knew it was important. I knew he was important. Aside from doing a book report on A Dark Traveling and reading his children’s books Way Up High and Here There Be Dragons, as they were dedicated to myself and my best friend in a beautiful limited edition, I paid little attention to his professional life while he was alive. However, I do remember at a science fiction convention my dad was signing autographs for some set period of time, one or two hours. I arrived at the table just before he was supposed to finish. Alas, the line of people waiting for an autograph was as far as the eye could see. He wasn’t going to leave until he signed every last one. Though I sat with him, bored, I am grateful that I got to witness the looks on people’s faces as they approached the table. People in awe, utterly ecstatic to meet this person who had created something so meaningful to them. I was proud of my dad.
It was a beautiful thing to watch the excitement that took him over as he was writing A Night in the Lonesome October, which he wrote in a month’s time. I had never seen him so happy while writing a book before. He would unwind after a writing session by soaking in his hot tub, his prized possession. He got in it every day, even if only for five minutes.
After his passing, there were many times in my late teens and 20's that I questioned, “Why do I think the things I do? Why do I feel so different from my cohorts?”
At some point in my late 20's I started reading his books and a lightbulb went on. “Ahhh. . .I get it. I am literally my father’s daughter!” I was so grateful to learn that various thoughts, ideas, and concepts that I was reading about in his books were of a similar nature to what I had privately entertained throughout the years. Well, I guess it makes sense. His blood does flow through my veins. I do carry Roger Zelazny’s genetic code inside of me. My grieving spirit found comfort in his work, discovering that I no longer felt alone. The deepest pain of my adult life is that he is not around to engage with in conversation as I traverse this dimension of Earth. I suspect we would have had colorful, dynamic discussions about a variety of topics, and I know I would have greatly appreciated his unique perspectives. Alas, he moved on, and I have to find his voice in both my heart and in his written words.
I share one final memory of my father to illustrate a place I think most of us strive for in our professional careers. One day, when I was about eight, I was in the kitchen and he came out of his office to get a cup of coffee. He had clearly just had a really good writing session that he was quite pleased with. He simply proclaimed out loud, “God damn I’m good at what I do.” To which I replied in my childlike simplicity, “Dad! You’re conceited!”
He matter-of-factly responded, “It’s not conceited if it’s true.”
I was speechless.
Now that I am older, have read his works, and have seen the impact that he has had on the lives of so many through his timeless characters and the worlds he created, I realize that he was not being conceited. It was true. He was simply stating a fact. Why downplay it? So yes, God damn he was good at what he did, both as a father and as a writer.
About the Authors
George R. R. Martin is the international best selling author of the Game of Thrones. His first short story appeared in print in 1970; in 1973 his story “With Morning Comes Mistfall”was nominated for the both the Hugo and Nebula awards. In 1977 his first novel, Dying of the Light, was published by Simon & Schuster and was nominated for the both the Hugo Award and the British Fantasy Award. His 1983 novel Fevre Dream has been called one of the greatest vampire novels of all time and was nominated for a Stoker award. A Game of Thrones (first in his A Song of Ice and Fire series) was published in 1997 and reached #1 on the New York Times best seller list. The Daenerys Targaryen chapters won the Hugo Award for Best Novella. In 2011 A Game of Thrones was adapted into an HBO series, to worldwide acclaim. He currently lives in Sante Fe, New Mexico.
Steven Brust was born late in the Cenozoic Era at a place a mere 238,900 miles from the lonely, harsh desolation of the moon. From the moment of his birth, he launched a study of language, facial recognition, and tool using, while simultaneously beginning an intense regime of physical fitness. He fell into a life of crime under the influence of Tuli, the Evil Dog of Evilness, a life which continued for many years. At one point, aided by Captain Blondbeard the Space Pirate Kitty, he nearly succeeded in either taking over the world or des
troying the universe, the record is unclear. The plot, which featured a machine (built by a mysterious parrot known only as “Doc”) that could predict the future, failed when the machine turned out to be only able to predict the plot of action movies. This led Brust to abandon his criminal activities and begin writing science fiction and fantasy novels. Only time will tell how much lower he’ll sink.
Kelly McCullough writes fantasy, science fiction, and books for younger readers. He lives in Wisconsin with his physics professor wife and a small herd of cats. He has more than a dozen novels in print or forthcoming either from PRH/ACE or Macmillan’s Feiwel and Friends. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. His microfiction series DragonDiaries and Badnoir can be found on his webpage or by following him on Twitter or Facebook. He also dabbles in science fiction as science education, having written short fiction for the National Science Foundation and co-created a science comic for NASA and the Hubble Space Telescope.
Mark Rich writes, “When young as a writer I had a place in my heart for Zelazny stories — a place his writing has never surrendered. And now when my much-older hands reopen a book of his, that younger self appears as from nowhere, to re-enjoy it along with me.” Rich’s fiction has appeared in magazines and anthologies including Analog, Amazing Stories, Science Fiction Age, Universe 3, and Full Spectrum 4; his poetry, in many magazines. His most recent book is C.M. Kornbluth: The Life and Works of a Science Fiction Visionary. With partner-in-life Martha Borchardt and two Scotties-in-life, he lives in western Wisconsin.
Jane Lindskold: Before he died, Roger Zelazny chose Jane Lindskold to complete his unfinished novels–Donnerjack and Lord Demon. “The Headless Flute Player” is a prequel to Lord Demon. It is based, in part, on conversations they had when they were living together and talking about stories they planned to write. Jane is a New York Times best selling author of some twenty-five novels, seventy short stories, and various works of non-fiction. She lives in New Mexico with her husband, Jim Moore, assorted small animals, and the sculpture of the Eight Immortals, including the headless flute player, that inspired this story.
Shadows & Reflections: A Roger Zelazny Tribute Anthology Page 23
