Crematorium for Phoenixes (17 page)

“Wanderer, the desert, unlike humans and
Allah, does not divide people into good and bad ones. For the
desert it is indifferent whether to leave bones here. If there’s
anything I’ve learned, it is that a man should go away from such a
place, from the evil and death as much as possible.

“But let’s put away that thought. You said
that you are searching for specific people. We are guessing who.
Allah with all his might allows some things to happen because it
defines something for everyone and all of this puzzle is finally
fitting together like desert sand.

“We are people, which for morsels in the
mouth every day, more or less, are risking our lives.

“And we will not be involved in the way of
others, even if you ask us about it.

“Anyone who has seen at least as much as us
during the nights in Arabia would understand me.

“We’ll give you a few bellows with milk
because conscience and interest require it.

“I’ll tell you the way to the last area,
amidst the desert town of Hareth, and from there you can take your
camels.

“If you can.

“Because this is the city of the exiled.

“This will happen, of course, after my sons
and the others have their word.”

There was a conversation in which the
following could be heard: “But, my lord,” “Do not know what,” “Evil
or good, the desert will give them enough trails to find what they
deserve,” “Yes, but if they are in partnership with them,” and
“Have faith, it will suffice you to see my wisdom.”

Then there was silence, and the old man
announced, “My servants will send you to show you the way and make
sure that you don’t harm us.

“Let conscience and God watch over you.
This, no matter what, will show that you are on the right
direction.”

The wanderers obeyed and became silent
again.

The fire died down and all returned to their
tents. And the darkness like an army of shadows spread in all
directions.

***

Although the sun had not long risen, it was
quite warm.

Sand as fine as flour was burning, even
within leather-wrapped shoes.

Several people, carrying backpacks of
shouldered bottles with liquid, moved among the dunes, trying to
use their shadows as shade.

“How much is left?” asked one of them.

“If I understood from what they were saying,
not much,” said the one who was in the front. “And yet we have to
save the milk.”

The group fell silent again, and the shadows
in the morning gradually dwindled like retractable raptor limbs in
a nest.

Gray wrapped the baked desert hills; they
were as tremulous as the smoke of a candle.

The adventurers had climbed one, expanding
on it in the form of a spiral.

Reaching its peak a sandy expanse spread out
before them, and tucked between its folds a white city had swooned;
because of its shape, they could not determine whether or not it
was a mirage.

“Is this Hareth?” said one of the men.

“Yes, and there is hardly more than two or
three miles to it. But let’s drink less and within an hour we are
there.”

The group took down the leather begs and the
heavy Arab cloaks were also spread out.

The light shone upon them. The men were
Victor Drake, Amos Oz, and the others.

After drinking, they started down the top;
they did not rush despite the rapidly rising temperatures.

The slope of the hill almost carved a ravine
that flowed into the vast plain.

Time broke down the steps of thousands of
feet, replaying them in the horizon in which there was truly
nothing.

Several corpses of camels drifted away from
the strong heat. Their strapped hearts had met the inevitable
end—that end in which evil throws a loop around the soul
itself.

The first line of Hareth consisted of
half-buried tents in the sand. They were like pleated and stretched
crepes. They’d been stuck empty and had darkened, extinct eyes.

Housed created by layers and layers of mud
also stood empty, waiting just as a part of the desert, another
century to grind into powder what they were made of. There were
also shops in which only wooden workbenches stood, as well as
public buildings and a mosque. It was covered up, but still
maintained its height, home for now only the desert birds and
perhaps some spirit that over time will mix with the wind and
disappear completely.

“My God, what happened here?” whispered one
man after another, while their footsteps echoed in space.

Several wells, the reason for the existence
of this city, were topped over and only their wooden lids remained,
as if a child had tried to shut out something that was crawling out
of there.

Now, only the almighty heat remained
here.

The men did not give any more calls. They
were concerned that someone was there.

Hareth was founded by the outcasts from
every tribe of criminals. They had found in the desert a water
source with which to survive and so over generations they had
changed their livelihood—from dishonest to honest, again to
dishonest, changing as the case dictated by the wilderness.

After going through most of the streets,
they stopped over at one shaded market.

“Maybe, after taking water from the wells,
we should again go back and try again to pass the sands with the
chance that it will cost us our lives.”

But this was not a choice.

“What should we do?” asked Victor Drake.

“You should say it. I think that we have
passed more than reason itself has put as limits.”

“You are right. Sometimes someone wants too
much from somebody else, wanting to be a lover or to go along with
him. But the quest for meaning, even in the dark, is the goal of
every person.

“For the latter, let’s check in the center.
There we may encounter something, a document, perhaps, to clarify
to some extent what has happened.”

And they left.

The dizzying heat warmed everything to such
an extent that it seemed the very building blocks were vibrating
with it.

The streets almost swayed under the narrow
perception. There was a feeling that the Earth would return all the
dead, which would then be taken to the courts held between the dead
and alive.

Fortunately, the local center was not far
away. Actually it was just a few hundred steps in terms of
distance.

Dug like a tunnel, with nearly scalloped
ornaments circling around the town, it seemed to have been used as
an acropolis or last line of defense that sheltered the residents
in impenetrable red.

The entrance—a huge round stone—resembled a
tomb than a place that is used for public purposes.

“How can we get in there?” asked one of
them.

“Well, somehow we will move the stone.”

This “somehow” was really a couple of
minutes of pushing, with all the men straining their muscles enough
to eventually reveal a gap that was sufficient for a man to pass
through.

“Come on, get it over with,” said Victor
Drake. He was the first to slip in.

The others followed his example.

A few moments after the last man had slipped
in, the vibrating of solid stone was heard.

Only the narthex shuddered and the hole
became a small slit.

Chapter
Twenty-five

The sound of the surf disclosed the location
of the tiny island of Emzo, quiet as a crab and crouched amidst the
waves of the South China Sea. With his primitive headlight system
he was flashing like a darkening star among the waves.

Several boats complete with their catches
were harvesting in the south, directed by their primitive but
highly effective fans.

Among them, or rather bypassing them, was a
small sampan, a sight that wasn’t seen very often—not so far from
the coast of Southeast Asia.

Many of the local fishermen thought that it
was a vessel far from home, but no one was curious enough to give
time to consider it. Their work, the threat of sudden storms, and
Javanese pirates who attacked everyone regardless of their size and
importance distracted them for further curiosity.

Therefore, this vessel was moving in its own
direction, which according to elementary navigation would not have
passed today’s Cambodia.

Of course, in this area they were already
far, far away, which would not seem feasible for this type of
vessel, so thoughts about its misguided route seemed legit.

They were such ships, though rarely ever
seen, from the large states in Mesopotamia as well, which usually
served for trade further north. These exchanges were staged in the
water and even sought to follow the coastline.

There were some attempts, it goes without
being said, but they were rare and usually created more headaches
than good, excepting what a few chroniclers managed.

Maybe the load of the boat, consisting
mainly of salted bacon and water, would say something else since it
clarified who was willing to eat it.

Those people were Takeshi, Akuma, and the
others.

They were there after the events on the
island of Okinawa, changing from one vessel to another. They went
from island to island, covered lines and lines from winds, and only
one who has been around the China seas would understand them.

Typhoons, days of wind, painful hunger, and
full sail allowed them to travel among the hundred thousand fleets
sprinkled like flames in the mists. All of that they were
experiencing as everything become simple life—day after day.

Everything ended with an obstacle that
started with another stop at the crowded islands of the Asian
mainland. Stopped on a deserted, almost atoll island of Indonesia,
they had passed their days as a broken wind blew from the bosom of
the wizard.

Now, heading northwest, it cannot seem
strange to the reader how without any thought-out plan, just like
that, the men were taken at random on the horizon.

That is fact; it is not subject to dispute,
but not all of the tale, dear friends, fits in the tiny frames of
days. Because, above all, fate doesn’t spear the mud from which we
actually built it or what we’re looking for, looking for truthfully
in the day, in God, and in ourselves.

Since the scattered islands curled like hair
and the jade-green sea tables flared from heavenly sky, as if
coming to give a part of it, maybe someone saw through all of them
and could answer that everything is a commandment written by the
hand of God.

And to the east, real life was following
around as a veil of dreams without any past, present, and
future.

The sampan swelled feathered wings like a
bat sails, while small islands or rather bitumen-black rocks bided
their time as creatures’ heads appeared above the water line.
Flocks of shearwaters merged with other birds and were flying like
autumn leaves; a fish passed as melted silver had risen from the
depths. Raindrops, remembrances of a loved one separated from us
sprinkled themselves from the water, pointing out that perhaps in
some other dimension we can be and still are not together.

The heavens were stained like metal alloys:
lead-gray, brownish mercury, copper-green, the horizon was opening
and shutting its eyes. It missed only the whitish snowy mountain
ranges, the cities that had been built on them, and of course, a
story that infuses a little warmth in our hearts that are always
cool.

The water surfaces also changed their faces,
thickened as an amalgam of bodily fluids—from pink to ruby red.

They might even have added that in this
world there are some things for which a man will be tossed into the
depths not only of riches, but perhaps ultimately a part of their
souls.

The Indochinese peninsula was influenced by
the Mekong and Irrawaddy, both of which was getting closer. They
had been torn from the flesh of Asia as a chariot of the gods.

Floating patches of seaweed, reminiscent of
tracks from thistles and moss, seemed to channel the very direction
and the fishing baskets. Therefore, they helped their walls like
lower grown trees whispering forests secrets between them as
magical creatures are waiting for fortune and adventure.

The signs of civilization—antediluvian
message columns (or simply put stone or wooden pillars, which are
recorded with visited dates) and small fires—preached of new
lands.

So, rather than the moments of time
suggested, the coastline of Asia was nearby.

***

The woods echoed with intensive human
activity.

Men planed wood with nails, removing its
bark, while others were carrying such material and made ready to
build new huts.

A little further on the riverbank other
workers were prepared. They had accustomed their feet with leaves
and fastened around them crossed hoops with raffia to climb up to
harvest palm gardens.

And beyond them in the paddy fields,
buffaloes trudged through their wooden yokes plows, while the
shouts of plowmen could be heard. Behind them, their wives and
children were fragmenting lumps in the muddy water with hoes.

This picture was supplemented by the fishing
shelters located along the river, which mended nets and dredged and
supported indigenous canoes that were dragged to the river to
become part of its traffic.

Rice wine, husked rice, meat products (even
dog meat), vegetables, and legumes and nuts were transported along
the river—not counting the passengers, which included themselves in
the construction of new farms.

This could be seen by all sorts of
outworlders: Chinese, Indians, and Burmese, who came along with the
local people to get involved in building a territory that much
later would be called Chenla, and much, much later, Kampuchea, and
subsequently, Cambodia.

As in a makeshift barge or rather a raft
built into a hut, successive settlers paid to find their happiness,
and why not say it, and often their doom in the jungle.