Crematorium for Phoenixes (20 page)

“And a temple, no matter how beautiful, will
give all this?” Akuma broke in.

“Fools, temples are just stones and mud that
come and go.

“We are talking about new divine testimonies
that will be written only by the human hand.

“It will be a world in which there will be
silence from gods and false hopes, a world that once tasted of the
tree of eternal life will become like them.

“It will be a world that in these temples
will be glorified life. It will be about this life because there is
no one else but him, no matter what people like Confucius, Lao Tzu,
Dogen, Buddha or anyone else may say. These are the traces of the
firebird that never existed, and they will follow this fate, too,
if we intervene.”

“That is nonsense . . .” interrupted
Akuma.

“Oh yeah? When you see how we are glimpsed,
when life slips you a cupped blade that slashes from within us,
then you can discern where the meaning of everything is.

“Every word of hope is a dead star that
disappears forever in the universe.

“And the fire that is prepared for most of
us is extinguished only if we destroy the one who created it.

“Namely, to create our own faith, one that
will prophesy for itself, we must do this.

“Now we ask for a little mercy, Takeshi.
That one of which we all need.

“Infuse a little power in some broken
bodies. They will do what they are determined to do. Because the
only thing we like in each other on this Earth are tears. They are
the ultimate goal—not so much the people that we actually want to
destroy.”

Takeshi didn’t give an answer.

The shouts of the workers, several hundred
feet down reached them, blowing a sense of them be cooked at high
temperature. There was informal conversations and laughter.

Takeshi listened to them.

“Can I help you?” he finally said. “To
destroy everything that humanity has trusted?

“Hell, no.

“Each of us is holding not only his destiny
in his hands but also that of countless others.

“And the biggest cause of pain or punishment
is to leave without coming back.

“This I will leave with you.

“And one day, when again somebody is moving
here, he will meet only the jungle.

“Let’s go,” Takeshi turned to the others.
“It’s over.”

Everyone turned and started to go down.

“Takeshi, stop. Think about it. Imagine what
you are missing. Think what can you make. Takeshiii!” shouted the
old men.

But the group continued on.

The old men fell to the ground, breathing
fitfully. They buried the oxygen apparatuses in the gray dust.

The lunch revelry was at its peak.

The norm was done for the day, but
nevertheless there was still much work that would need to continue,
as the masters knew their work and were there despite their
illnesses.

Right?

Epilogue
One

The wooden shack trembled from all of the
blazing fire that had been kindled there.

Samoyeds were undressing their parkas and
they were warming themselves beside the flames.

“How nice,” said one of the men who basked.
“What is wrong with those outside?”

They had recently received some of the
comforts of civilization.

But they still didn’t understand why some
people should be locked away forever.

But those strange people, the Russians, gave
them a lot of food, only to guard the prisoners in the penal colony
at the end of Yakutia.

Only someone from outside could help them
escape.

Nevertheless, a few kilometers in the taiga,
dressed in a silver gown, someone was walking, combining the skins
of many silver foxes.

Epilogue
Two

The parts of the ship swayed from the weak
emotion.

The yellow fever had knocked many of the
crew down so that part of driven slaves from West Africa were also
forced to help with the management.

But these survivors weren’t trusting
themselves to hope.

Every few hours they had to throw somebody
overboard, turning the vessel ultimately into a wandering ghost
ship.

But land was nearby.

At least that’s what the maps were
showing.

Who knows?

Maybe, thought the slaves, there they could
find someone to help them.

Someone . . . .

Epilogue
Three

The wanderers were preparing to go to bed
and still put someone to watch.

The watch service wasn’t something to be
joked about. They were here to return everybody that had diverted
from the common good.

And their anti-psychotronic helmets were the
only thing that saved them from being influenced by hypnotic
suggestion.

And they had led to their consequent
escape.

But you never know, the watch service could
always found you.

On this night, there came a man who looked
like the wonderers or who had prevailed over the suggestion, but
the latter seemed impossible.

Because there is no such thing as an
anti-psychotronic helmet.