Crematorium for Phoenixes (19 page)

“Enough is enough. It is time to put man in
the vault of heaven and each emotion, thereafter, bringing in so
much pain eventually so that it can be deleted forever.

“Choose Tammuz, compared with the wisdom
that you have gained from journeying in time, we are giving the
choice to you.”

“Then I say no. Even if you win here, even
if you unleash hell, somehow, somewhere, someone will stop you.
Because, though full of unworthiness, the world has one big
advantage that you did not mention: it can always be
different.”

“And your friends, those that you bring from
the mud? Surely they are unwilling to die for works that they don’t
understand.”

“While together everyone has a separate
track in destiny. Their decision does not matter to me.”

“If you are deciding so then the rest of you
kill him. You can be spared as long as you aren’t resisting,” said
the horseman and the many warriors directed their tasseled spears
like diving fish.

They ran like a descending avalanche, and
during that time Tammuz rolled up his sleeves.

Height, like the collapsed rock, climbed
from their sets.

At this moment, when the end of this
confused story closes in a feast of colors, stronger than the
rising dawn, a flaming beacon shone.

Thousands of shadows, woven in shades of
gray and black, descended from Tammuz’s sleeves, sounding like
croaking ravens.

People were screaming.

A black wave swept everything.

And there was only silence like a scorched
fireplace.

Chapter
Twenty-seven

The cuts in the cupboard recesses were
highlighted by the candles aligning the corridors.

Here and there in rooms consisting of low
writing tables that they could catch a glimpse of, there increased
the feeling of repetitiveness and perhaps an ominous sense of a
religious school (mistress in Arabic). Perhaps it was the courtroom
in which people were taught or imposed justice with something that
came out of the darkness itself.

Scattered papers, interspersed with Arabic
inscriptions and drawn tughra rained on them, immersed in pools of
spilled ink, while the pens themselves were stuck into the wood by
some malicious, childish strength.

The paintings complemented the ripped mats.
Hooks for hanging clothes protruded from the walls as part of the
figures were repeated and repeated in almost snail-like dimensions.
They were in an underground building.

“Keep the lanterns higher!” could be heard
from several voices that came from behind one of the elliptical
curves.

And after a few moments, preceded by a soft,
navy blue neon light, Victor Drake, Amos Oz, and the others came
into view.

“How much is left?” said one of the men.

“If the builders of this place have followed
a hierarchy, hardly much,” Drake said.

“I just hope you manage to read what we are
looking for.”

“Don’t worry about it, we have only to find
him.”

The premises were magnifying, turning the
rooms into something frightening; they were now deaf and empty,
waiting in every moment for the dust like a squeezing vise to again
absorb everything.

The corridors were shrinking, locked at a
certain distance by heavy lead doors. Fortunately, or perhaps not,
there were still keys tucked into them, so they could be opened.
The feelings intensified after each of their practices with a buzz,
preparing them for a religious trance.

The men made it to the more compressed
snail meanders and prepared their weapons, pointing them into the
cave-like darkness.

“Bang!” despite the spotlight, they clashed
into a curved, arching door.

Noise-encrusted, polyphonic singing arias f
were coming through it despite its obvious thickness.

“Let’s go,” Victor said, clutching his
sword, which looked like it was doused in lightning.

They pressed their shoulders to the
vault-like door and it gave a wheezing scraped.

Stream of light burst through and the
opposite room was revealed to them.

Piles and piles of thrones, trays, bowls,
plates, spoons, forks, and ablution pitchers created by massive
bars of gold were ornamented with curving vines of gems. They
glittered while stacked alongside the simpler jugs of Venetian
glass. Heaps and heaps of coins from almost every continent created
the impression that they were coming from the Earth, but to them,
among other things, everywhere, countless gems sparkled like dew
drops sticking on leaves.

All of this was supported by a range of
statues, each of which had a torch, also cast of solid glass,
representing human figures without human traits. They were on the
chairs upon which sat creatures with reticulated suits. One
creature was watching over the others who were covered in cloaks
and were singing a song from a book.

“Welcome,” answered the creature, speaking
softly, as if from behind the established pattern of the numbers
six or eight, their masks.

Underneath them the others stopped, creating
a silence that could be felt through the flicking, crawling spiders
and mice, which upon closer scrutiny could already be seen between
the wealth.

“What’s this?” Victor asked.

“That’s my friend. Actually maybe the end of
it all when you help us—the Apollyon.”

“What are they saying?” Amos said.

The creatures stood, shielding the torches
that then cast shadows across the room.

“What? Everyone, once and a while, has asked
this question of himself and the generations. Even we cannot tell
you everything that has led us here because the passing was not
only of space and time. We can say that we did not see, but why not
just say it? We did not want to be anywhere near a God.

“The people you see here, and others
elsewhere, are prepared with one purpose—to kill those that history
will eventually recognize as the forerunner of all faiths.

“No flames, no birds, no phoenixes, only the
deep that lead to and created a new, clearly different world.”

The men looked at each other.

“You are crazy.”

“Yes, you can also say that. But a grain of
truth in this world is a few hopes, nothing more. Each pursued his
own way in life.

“We need you, Victor, or your ability to
surrender knowledge. Let’s use it. At least you should know the
meaninglessness of each word when death comes and love goes.

“They are stones, and several have souls
living in them souls. Let’s not confuse them by giving them some
illusory existence because they will not help them when they are
burned.”

“You are wrong. God, hope, or love, if you
will, are particles in our souls, capable of being born again and
again.”

“Really? Not bad words, but aren’t they?
Imagine a world in which there will be only one god: men. This is
possible.

“Individuals like you, Victor, who hold the
power in your hands, will eventually be building a perfect world
with dozens of other debris.

“Even if you do not want it, just think,
this region will happen in any era. The project will be carried
out.

“We know that you feel it.

“It only remains for you to join us,” they
said and pointed at the riches. “And all of this, and much, much
more will follow.”

“Will you give us that?

“In everyone’s life, there are moments where
he can get more than he is dreaming, depending on the chances given
to him. But this is not important.

“Memories are like mirror images that can
only remind us that the important thing is happiness. That is not
procured as a few coins. It comes with the people with which we are
connected forever.

“And that’s a ‘No way’ to helping you.”

“Even if you know that, you cannot beat us
era by era.”

“That will be tipped into the flames, the
crematorium for phoenixes. The others, endlessly forever, will
perform it.

“That leaves only one solution.”

The whole room rocked.

Piles of coins minted, slide down like a
whirlpool at the bottom.

Massive statues were thrown down, spinning
like pieces of icebergs in the maelstrom.

And below, showing like lake guardians came,
limb by limb, scorpion-like beings.

Students who, incidentally, also had
disappeared into the elements, also showed themselves mounted
through the bisected bodies of slimy, hairy creatures.

The scorpions had human heads that struggled
with fallen metal, trying to reach the men as they were guided by
the vision of the aliens who stood among the decayed dimension.

“Forward!” cried Victor Drake, descending
toward them.

“Forward!” replied the others.

Sword met flesh, blood spattered and sagged
along with the metal flows.

The roof dissolved as the matrix cracked,
sprinkling over everything.

Only a few bodies shone in the resultant
caved-in space.

Daylight spilled in. Its life-giving powers
and deadly heat were such as any other.

The fire phoenix never shows how strong it
is.

Chapter
Twenty-eight

The huge stones were dragged by ropes onto
the scaffolding.

Hundreds of weary people were pulling,
straining with all their might.

“Faster,” the guards were screaming. “Aren’t
you aware how the masters are watching you from above?”

And right there, on top of the new building,
there was a hooded figure. Beyond that they could not distinguish
anything.

“Work, damn it, earn the bread that we have
given to you,” cried even more supervisors. There were too few of
them to put brute force into action.

The monsoon heat rose in slivers and slivers
of steam wreaths from the pools to the trail, which, though
incomplete, were indescribably beautiful—there was a pagoda with
statues combining the proportions of the human body and geometric
symmetry; everything was white-headed as if cast in silver.

The top functioned as an observatory, as we
have said. There were several tents for rest and somebody occupied
one of them.

“I feel them. They are nearby,” a voice said
from there.

From the hood was revealed a costume-wearing
man who had aged, just as a collection of countless years would
have done.

“Let’s wait a little longer,” he said to the
old men lying in the hammocks.

“The lords are here. Bend you. The lords are
looking. Avert your eyes,” the guards began to call.

“Like hell, you! We beg only to our altars
at home,” muttered the workers, but they still crouched in
tribute.

The man gestured, and the top guard
announced, “Take a rest. Let everyone go home and satisfy his body
before the work starts again.”

The troops were spooking the scaffolding.
Hundreds of men were leaving trays with weighted lime pulleys. They
were going home to the nearby plantations where there were shelters
for them.

The huge building, resembling a marble
mausoleum remained empty, awaiting only the echo that is worthy of
it.

“I hope that they will come,” said the
elders. “Otherwise, everything we have done will be as pointless as
a plant in the jungle.”

“They will do it,” said one who apparently
was their leader. “I told you to have a little patience.”

And astute or not, really just down below,
maneuvering to the left of a pile of blocks and the building
materials, were a few people who had not scattered like the
others.

“How many stones?” said one of them. “I have
not seen such quantities. In Japan, our buildings are made almost
entirely of wood.”

“That’s why we’re here,” answered none other
than Takeshi.

The group started to climb the complicated
structure made of bamboo rods and ramps.

The woody vegetation dwindled, building
itself in the pools and drained by the river. The weeping of the
birds was taken up by the wind like butterflies, giving the feeling
of a disappearing season or lifetime.

The giants, such as the unfinished puzzle of
a man, were looking in their empty eyes with derision. They were
like a frozen colossus, guarding the gate to another world.

In them, in the support systems, were
hanging the pulleys. They fueled this assembly, waiting to be
completed and for someone to liven up the structure.

Finally, squeezing between the thousands of
carved motifs in the tile, the group climbed the roof and the
jungle of Chenla, a copper-colored, red carpet stretched out before
them.

“Is anybody here?” Takeshi shouted,
squinting from the light and looking at the rustling canopy.

“Yes, we are expecting you, Takeshi,”
replied someone.

From the tent came a few old men; they
leaned on each other.

Once the light flooded onto their scabs, it
was easy to see that they were clear as if made of snake skin that
was sliding down.

Sores, which could be seen, almost fidgeted
like maggots and were covering their faces. They were covered with
masks that were trembling with the effort to breathe.

“Yeah, that’s us,” they said, noting the
discus in the fellowship. “That’s why you must help us,
Takeshi.”

“Who, who are you?” he asked.

“We are, perhaps, the last representatives
of the human race, the first and the last.”

“But how?”

“Once we had exhausted all the possible
links of fate, had given all the knowledge possible, visited
century by century, had destroyed everything and created history as
we know it, we learned that everything is really burnable—even that
which looks like a fiery bird.

“And therefore what you see now is only a
small part of what will happen. The building is a new life in which
man will be his only support point. It will be a world that alone
will be hoping instead of look for it elsewhere. It will be a
planet with no prophets to interpret what we have locked within us,
a dimension that is making all desires.”