Doyle After Death
“I saw, now, that it was a cloud, piled up in the shape of a lumpy volcanic cone. The sun was by slow degrees lowering to the cloud’s upper tip as if to charge it with volcanic heat; red light flowed over the sides of the mountain. As we approached, the sun slipped down into the cloud, and it glowed as if to explode. Lightning quivered in it, followed by thunder grumbling long slow words in a language I couldn’t quite understand. Perfectly Wagnerian, isn’t it?” Doyle said.
We were walking into a canyon, in a sort of geological notch. What’s the afterworld equivalent of geological? Postgeological? Parageological?
It was an opening into a mist-choked canyon.
The path became a series of slippery slate steps, winding ever so slightly as they descended into the canyon capped by the cloud.
“I’ve been out here four times over the last forty years,” Doyle said. “That cloud has never gone away.
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