Seeing it from up there, a certain nostalgia came over me, a wistful rag-tail of a dream accompanied by a faint longing for the place that was this place’s namesake to me in a vanished shadowland of long ago, where life had been just as simple and I happier than I was at that moment.
But one does not live as long as I have lived without achieving that quality of consciousness which strips naive feelings as they occur and is generally loathe to participate in the creation of sentimentality.
Those days were passed, that thing done with, and it was Amber now that held me completely. I turned and continued southward, confirmed in my desire to succeed. Amber, I do not forget . . .
The sun became a dazzling, bright blister above my head and the winds began to scream about me. The sky grew more and more yellow and glaring as I rode, until it was as if a desert stretched from horizon to horizon overhead. The hills grew rockier as I descended toward the lowlands, exhibiting wind-sculpted forms of grotesque shape and somber coloration. A dust storm struck me as I emerged from the foothills, so that I had to muffle my face with my cloak and narrow my eyes to slits. Star whinnied, snuffled repeatedly, plodded on. Sand, stone, winds, and the sky more orange then, a slate-like crop of clouds toward which the sun was heading…
Then long shadows, the dying of the wind, stillness
. . . Only the click of hoof on rock and the sounds of breathing . . . Dimness, as they rushed together and the sun is foiled by clouds . . . The walls of the day shaken by thunder . . . An unnatural clarity of distant objects
. . . A cool, blue, and electric feeling in the air . . . Thunder again . . .
Now, a rippling, glassy curtain to my right as the rain advances . . . Blue fracture lines within the clouds . . . The temperature plummeting, our pace steady, the world a monochromatic backdrop now. . .
Gouging thunder, flashing white, the curtain flaring toward us now . . . Two hundred meters . . . One-fifty… Enough!
Its bottommost edge plowing, furrowing, frothing. . . The moist smell of the earth . . . Star’s whinny . . . A burst of speed . . .
Small rivulets of water creeping outward, sinking, staining the ground . . . Now bubbling muddily, now trickling. . . Now a steady flow . . . Streamlets all about us, splashing . . .
High ground ahead, and Star’s muscles bunching and relaxing, bunching and relaxing beneath me, as he leaps the rills and freshets, plunges through a racing, roiling sheet, and strikes the slope, hoofs sparkling against stones as we mount higher, the voice of the gurgling, eddying flow beneath us deepening to a steady roar . . .
Higher, then, and dry, pausing to wring out the corners of my cloak. . . . Below, behind, and to the right a gray, storm-tossed sea laps at the foot of the cliff we hold…
Inland now, toward clover fields and evening, the boom of the surf at my back . . .
Pursuing falling stars into the darkening east and eventual silence and night . . .
Clear the sky and bright the stars, but a few small wisps of cloud . . .
A howling pack of red-eyed things, twisting along our trail . . . Shadow . . . Green-eyed . . . Shadow . . . Yellow . . . Shadow . . . Gone . . .
But dark peaks with skirts of snow, jostling one another about me . . . Frozen snow, as dry as dust, lifted in waves by the icy blasts of the heights . . . Powdery snow, flour-like . . . Memory here, of the Italian Alps, of skiing . . . Waves of snow drifting across stone faces . . . A white fire within the night air. . . My feet rapidly numbing within my wet boots . . . Star bewildered and snorting, testing each step and shaking his head as if in disbelief . . .