“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.”
“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.
Crematorium for Phoenixes Page 15
