The Postman by David Brin6/29/2023 ![]() ![]() ![]() "Cyclops?" he whispered, stepping closer, clearing his tight throat, "Cyclops, it's me, Gordon." “He approached the great glass barrier dividing the room, and the speaker at the end of the table. They floated away in all directions, and the air was filled with hope.” He stared in wonderment when he saw that they were balloons, airplanes, and rocket ships. The great bird was consumed, leaving only bones.īut the tree blossomed, and from its flowering branches things uncurled and drifted off into the air. It was not the creature on the pyre that was reborn, and even in sleep, that surprised Gordon. Snow shivered and fell, the green patches grew and began to fill the air with the fragrance of renewal Aged, ruined branches curled forward toward the heat, like an old man warming his hands. Blue flames burst forth.Īnd the tree seemed to respond. A glow began to build, surrounding the beast soon in a rich purple lambience. The bloody, dying thing settled in atop the kindling, and crooned soft music unlike anything ever heard before. Stick by stick, it pecked among the ruined wood on the ground, piling the bits higher until it was clear that it was not a nest at all. Pinions drooping, it laboriously began building a nest-a place of dying. ![]() The end was near.Ī shadow loomed, and a creature settled into the drifts, and old, wounded thing of the skies, as near death as the tree. Here and there tiny shoots of green struggled to emerge, but they weren't doing well. “Snow and soot covered the ancient tree's broken branches and seared bark. ![]()
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