Crematorium for Phoenixes

by Nikola Yanchovichin

  Smashwords Edition, Aprill 2014

  Copyright 2014 by Nikola Yanchovichin

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Everyone has a little treasure that brightens and interprets his days in the galleries of everyday life. To that one which once was mine.

  Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Epilogue Three

  Prologue

  Outbreaks of the fires crackle from the stockpiled coals. Gigantic blowers kindle the flames that curl and hiss like snakes. Combining into a graceful spiral, they give fleeting, deadly kisses to the black, dead ore, stoking her like a river of molten saliva in a demon’s mouth. Dozens of foundries, conductors of these transactions, discharge the resulting products into huge metal molds, creating fireworks of bright sparks.

  Thus reborn, the metal goes to the next birth.

  Skilled blacksmiths remodel the matter with their hammers, breathing into her spirit while bathing in tears and blood from the dragons of the far north. They create weapons according to ancient tradition—weapons capable of killing gods.

  But this story is not about the taking of a life but the birth of one.

  And of course, there aren’t legendary weapons tempered in the blood and the tears of monsters and demons.

  But there are indeed legends.

  And there are monsters and demons.

  Chapter One

  A bony, cadaverous hand stroked the emerald-green hills.

  A hypnotic glow shone over the mounded hills, which were crowned with jagged ruins like cobweb tiaras.

  Here and there, among the debris of time, and made of him, glowed the lights of a village, lit roads intertwined like writhing snakes.

  On one of them—strip tracks and grass, ambled a van.

  Carved and painted with a waved plate and a wrought iron lantern, the van seemed to belong to good or evil, coming up the road and disappearing into the descending dusk.

  Slowly the winds blew through the ravines, but the wagon rattled with that song for travelers that came in mind with such transportation, from time to time waking up some dog.

  The sky meanwhile was illuminated by the glow from far worlds. The clouds imitated good or unclean ghosts with their extended arms coming from the distance, and the van finally arrived.

  Before it stood a castle or what remained of it—cambered portico, collapsed towers and walls, a structure that looked like a eyeless creature.

  Among the cobblestones, seemingly unusual, there was a small two-story building, bathed in light, resonant with voices and laughter.

  From the van descended a man whose appearance was unrecognizable in this game of lights and shadows, which illuminated the sign on his vehicle; Gothic lettering surrounded with a soul-like alphabet read: “Books about everything and everything about books.” The building in turn proclaimed: “Barrels Pub,” which was woven into a gun whose barrel was made from wine barrels. The man smiled and opened the door.

  The room was full of tables and benches carved from oak trees and bent by dozens of men who were laughing, waving bowls and jugs of ale.

  The man who came in seemed to shudder but went to the bar—polished with use, where the innkeeper, a chubby, fat man, was cleaning the mugs.

  Here and there darted curious, bored, and amused eyes, but the stranger did not seem to notice them.

  The landlord also gave him a glance, but the next order distracted him.

  “Excuse me,” the man said in a low, deep voice.

  “Yes, sir,” said the landlord while half-heartedly wiping clean another cup.

  “Can I spend the night here?” asked the man.

  “This is not the inn, sir, and you have to eat a lot in order for me to let you sleep on one of the benches,” the innkeeper replied irritably.

  “Of course, in that case I would ask for something, anything, to eat,” the man said calmly, without any sign that he had been offended.

  The landlord fumbled with the wooden cupboards at the bar, pulled dry bread and cheese out, and started to pour wine, but the man interrupted him. “Only water, please, I must travel. Maybe . . .” the last part was said very quietly, as if he was talking to himself.

  The landlord shrugged contemptuously, gave the man his meager dinner, and turned to other customers.

  “Wow, damn it, you’re really from the circus—couldn’t be otherwise with that van!” shouted one wag, who had previously seen it in the murky, barred windows.

  “Why?” asked the man.

  “Damn hard number not to drink,” said the wisecracker and looked so sadly into his mug that it sparked widespread laughter in the silent room.

  “Actually it’s not,” the man said in a voice whose depth and coldness sounded defiant.

  “And what do you do?” asked the joker with that cheeky anger that the drunk allow themselves with company.

  “Nothing specific, but enough to afford to buy something for fair, thirsty men,” said the man and took out a handful of gold coins. “One for all,” he said and gave the money to the innkeeper.

  His action sparked widespread approval.

  The innkeeper, surprised by the generosity, immediately fumbled to bring some more good food for the strange guest, but he stopped him with that quiet yet pervasive voice.

  “No . . . Maybe . . . Why not . . . ?” the man pulled out a large, worn bag. “Serve tonight everything you have” he said and tossed the gold from the worn bag.

  “Are you sure, sir? It’s still a lot of money,” the landlord said, surprising even himself with his caution.

  “Yes, really, a lot of money, but it is no longer mine,” said the man, smiling shrewdly. The lighting and the shadows in the room gave him sometimes a predatory and other times a calm appearance. His eyes flashed like a far-off but already dead star.

  The hall quietly anticipated the upcoming royal spree.

  One of the visitors, one of those people who are found in every inn and tavern, a preserved old man whose reputation as a marine or terrestrial wolf instantly gained respect around such places shouted, “Mister, you’re more generous than the devil when he is buying from the people their souls!”

  “Well, I can always offer more than him,” said the man. His voice sounded as if it came from fathomless depths.

  The crowd was shocked. People with sullen faces and fierce life all went silence. They do not worship anything except the threatening afterlife. The old man with his thr
eadbare linen shirt, oiled cotton jacket, and scuffed boots said, “That’s not a good story, as you know. I knew a man who once said that he would play cards with the Wicked just to feel equal, and now he is an island. You have probably heard of it: the Islas de Sakrifisios in the newly discovered lands.

  “And his big mouth serves as a cup. He was offered as a sacrifice, and his skull is highly respected among the natives who talk about what kind of man would dare to curse even his own gods. Somebody who listened to this would be completely off his drink. What you’ve said is not greatness. Let few hearts rejoice with the money, as requested.”

  “Sure. Sometimes we speak before we ourselves have said something. Cheers,” the man quietly said.

  The pub was speechless. Everyone was trying to understand the strange toast, but after one or two more toasts, everything went on as usual.

  Apparently the stranger was one of those weirdos—beaten or overtaken by time, draped in the cloak of loneliness, who loved to speak strangely in an unearthly whisper. He was unlikely to be heard but wanted to talk about thousands of things. He was not unhappy but was also not necessarily happy. From the reflection of light or other things his eyes sometimes glowed in the soft warmth, sometimes sparkled like a predator, sometimes watered as a blind man or ancient ruler.

  In him it seemed as if there were intertwined all those doubts that damned spirits experience—always a step away from what will give them rest.

  Indeed, in all the commotion, as dozens of barrels were rolled out for the upcoming feast, this man was trapped by something. He was in some sort of film that relentlessly captivates one’s consciousness and slowly swallows it whole.

  The old man approached him, bent down, and said, “You’ve got something on your mind, huh? Whatever it is, don’t disturb the Holy Inquisition.”

  The man smiled a little and said, “Torture does not consist in being tortured by somebody. This is more likely the desire to live, and death is always with you.”

  “Look, you like to talk as if you get revelations. Be careful. They are only made by those possessed by good and bad forces, and God knows that people do not like either of them. You’re here to do a job, so do it.”

  “Actually, yes. I need people who will follow me in something. And if they are caught, they will be burned as servants of the Devil.”

  The old man shuddered like he had swallowed an astringent cup of poison and said, “I know that you aren’t joking. I will tell you, friend, death is a prison in which we are all chained. I can find a few who are smart enough not to ask questions and foolish enough to be mistrustful of organizations such as the Inquisition. But what are you talking about?”

  “You would not believe me.”

  “My friend, believe me, I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. My name is Amos Oz. I have watched tropical yellow fever knock down a whole crew and how the wretched are dumped overboard to save the rest. I have observed ships stuffed with pepper bags and with all these riches people swelled up with disease while water flowed from them—I won’t tell you from where it was coming. If you tell me what you’re doing, I’ll help.”

  “You must see it to see. If you want to change your life, you should follow me,” said the man and started to leave.

  “Well, what the hell?” Amos Oz said and winked at a few people who instantly followed him.

  The company followed the man.

  The night covered the turquoise ground with his mantle, torn clouds were like pieces of broken obsidian that hid the silver moon.

  After walking a bit, climbing some sandy hills, the group came to the beach that churned as densely as boiled tar.

  The man pulled away from the line and swayed in the wind. He revealed a parchment scroll and a pocket knife from his coat and said, “Here comes my request, which is beyond what man can ask. To move forward, you must sign this paper with your blood. This is more than enough to be killed as wizards. If anybody wants to leave, this is the time to go back . . . .

  “This irritates me. We are not a of bunch kids who have been left overnight in a cemetery, so stop this nonsense and cut to the chase,” said one of the men.

  “Okay, let each one of you make a wound,” the stranger answered and gave them the knife.

  They did.

  “And now everyone can drip blood on the parchment.”

  As the last drops of blood fell on the scroll, he seemed to come alive. Dozens of ruby-red lines carved across the surface of the scroll, and the men fell to their knees. Their eyes became a watery white and their lips began to speak thousands of words. Meanwhile the stranger’s head seemed to be full of blood. His entire circulatory system swelled, swelled to his brain at every ripple.

  They had not yet revived when from the sea there could be heard a great roar. The black waters were cut by a submarine, which appeared like a giant whale.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to the Leviathan,” said the stranger as he rubbed his swollen head.

  Chapter Two

  Curly foam from the waves sparkled like a thousand gems; the transparent silver salt water carried the smell of the Great Sea.

  Swarms of birds floated in the blue sky and danced with the wind like open flowers, while below, spreading their sails, dozens and dozens of ships were venturing into the mirrorlike sea.

  The city of Gebal, or Bible, the most beautiful city in the country Haru, or Phoenicia, had started a new day.

  In the fortress, which was like a stout skeleton of granite, scurried caravans to and from far off nations in Africa, Asia, and Europe.

  The city’s workers had gone out to nearby fields or more accurately, to the carved terraced hills that were covered in green hanging gardens of vines and fruit trees. Shepherds drove immense herds of grazing cattle.

  Inside the city, hundreds of meters of dyed purple fabric had been hung to dry. They waved with the breeze and looked like terrestrial creatures sent by a perfect being.

  Elsewhere the glass factories were already crowded with traders come to buy the artfully designed crystal, glass, and amber, which glistened like angel tears and had been polished under the utmost craftsmanship.

  Other shops had also started their daily trade, carrying in front of the eyes hundreds of products.

  All this activity “crowned” the port and shipyard, which were a necklace of light that echoed from the crowd.

  Here in the dry docks, like the bones of mastodons, rose galley that poured boiled tar and were insulated with hemp.

  And in all the piers, down to the very last one, ships from the old world cast anchor.

  Numerous crew members and passengers—a kaleidoscope of languages, dialects, and costumes—were constantly ascending and descending.

  So it was that by a ship a figure descended quite unnoticed despite the warm day and the person’s conspicuous long, hooded robe.

  The figure’s silhouette whispered a mystery that was hidden in an otherwise inexplicable mysticism, the kind that begins any adventure—spotless or unclean.

  It belonged to a man whose physique was incongruous. He was not that strong, slightly hunched, and tall; stared often at the ground; and had a slightly staggered gait, but within him seemed to be hidden strong physical attributes.

  The stranger walked through the maze of streets as if he held prior knowledge that would keep him from being confused by the alleys, which resembled tunnels; the huge squares of carved stone temples; and the markets with thousands of people spread before him.

  He walked on, pausing from time to time, and headed toward the poorest slums of the city.

  Here in this hideous, demonic realm called “Pandemonium,” partially as a joke, and partially not, lived a plethora of people. Its residents often mutilated themselves and lived as beggars, drunks, prostitutes, swindlers, thieves, murderers, sodomites, hunters, cannibals, and traders of human flesh. It was an abode of disillusion and chaos, which prepared its future citizens while they were still embryos living on the blood and milk of their mothers.

/>   In this bunch, called by some, “pieces of human garbage,” there was no spirit and no gods. Only despair and pain reigned as deities in myriad hues.

  Here is where the man was walking in the heat of the day – the copper-red rays had created ashen-gray shadows that blended with muted sounds into a crescendo of screams in this dream of delirious nightmares.

  Soon, he seemed to find what he wanted: an adobe building that had been stooped low, just layers of clay and beams with the wall thickness of a tank. It was smoked and narrow, with bloodstained walls and plenty of bed bugs.

  Here, things of questionable value and origin were traded, eaten, and drunk. Ungodly deeds transpired, and the location was known as the headquarters of demons and monsters.

  In this place, as in any other, there was a man who was the leader of all of them; in Pandemonium, he was called “Sharukin.”

  It was not known what he had done before he took up leadership, but rumors of all sort were told about him, as occurs with people who are mysterious.

  Sharukin was the dog that had turned into a wolf, an individual who had spent too much time in solitude.

  For this, he had won one great prize: the right not to be asked questions.

  Maybe an irreparable act, the kind that raises disgust in the normal world, had earned him the privilege of not having to worry about being disturbed by anyone.

  So while debating heinous deeds, in a tone like the peep of bloodthirsty bats, the stranger walked into the adobe building and instantly the gloom and smoke of the room made him nigh unrecognizable.

  “My friend, how can we help you?” asked a man, who for convenience we will call “the innkeeper.”

  “Yes, I believe you can help me. I must spend all of this before the evening is over,” the man said and tossed a bag that rang hollowly as dozens of golden coins scattered from it.

  Silence ensued and innkeeper said, “You’re either the most courageous or the craziest person I’ve ever seen . . . .”

  “Perhaps I’m maybe both,” replied the man.

  Snickers and barely audible growls from predators spread through the room.