by Alec Silva
“And the other, which is very beautiful”, went on the rock, with that typical wisdom of rocks, “is much like a heron with crimson feathers and golden plumes. It usually lives in deserts most of their life except in a certain occasion when it heads for specific locations, such as the botanical garden adjacent to the park, where it builds a nest with flowers and herbs, vine branches and oak leaves; there waiting for the warmth of its body to set the plant aflame, which is dried with the steady increase in body temperature; It is a process that usually takes many days to happen, but the bird is patient, unlike its cousin of the forest; when the nest burns, it sings a happy tune and is consumed by the flames, becoming ashes; for three days, nothing seems to live among the dust, but at the end of the third day, emerges a puppy, that in a week or two becomes adult, living two thousand years.”
That was the phoenix that Anamelia knew!
“Of course, they mention a third species, inhabiting the sea slopes, but I know nothing about it to tell you, my dear”, completed the stone, with a voice that sounded like the shame.
“It’s okay", said the girl, smiling sincerely. “However, if I understand well, I must go to the botanical garden, find the ashes of the phoenix, and get some of it. That is it, right?”
“Exactly!”
And so the girl left for the mission.
The transition from mild and cold no longer bothered the young one. In fact, the harsh winter was much nicer than that swamp, although the forest was much better. The cold weather was bad, but nothing compared to some putrid odors before. Besides, the botanical garden was not so far; and all the way took no more than six or seven minutes. The most complicated were undoubtedly climbing the wall and moving to the inside. She hurt her fingers, even though she was wearing woolen gloves and suffered a few falls before getting through.
On the inner side, everything seemed immersed in absolute silence and the few birds that lived there were collected in a deep sleep next to each other, basking in that sinister morning. Few plants seemed adapted to the constant snow cycle, wind, snow, wind and cold, and yet were all marked by burns caused by the unforgiving ice. It was interesting to note, among those used to produce flowers in warmer and more pleasant climates, how they cowered as sleepy children.
The bicolored eyes of Anamelia were lost from one point to another, in search of the scorched nest, wondering about the times she had been there with the other orphans. She loved the colorful and pulsating life that were found there, the birds who lived and cheered the place at certain times of the year. Of the times that she went into the garden, the only exception was in the winter, leaving the curiosity to know how it would be there in cold climates.
There were things and moments of her childhood that were good to remember while another part was better to be forgotten. The escape, however, seemed an acceptable way to that longing. Running away without looking back, without nothing to regret, using a distant and magical land where she could always live happy and bright days without pain or fear. A dream that was getting closer to being realized.
She did not find what she wanted because nothing happens the way we want; life has its quirks for our simplest wills. The nest was before her curious gaze, but the bird still preserved aged, with feathers in tones faded and dull, devoid of shine and life. Dying still, it waited for its intense heat to produce the fire to burn the dried herbs in which it was lying.
Anamelia was disappointed; after all, she would have to wait a long time for the Phoenix to catch fire. In fact, it was unknown how long the wait was. Minutes, hours, days, weeks or months. The combustion process would take too long under winter conditions. The stone would not wait for long. In fact, neither the girl wanted to waste her days with such a stupid task like that. And behold, a seemingly brilliant idea popped into her impatient head! It's curious how ideas sprout so abundantly in times of despair, isn't it? Of course, everything that seems to be genius often turns out to be stupid.
A box of matches was shaking now and then since the beginning of the journey. Funny how that object had passed unnoticed until then, making it to the fourth task, an aid item. Withdrawing it from the pocket of the coat that partially warmed her body, the young woman smiled with the most puerile hope possible. Without difficulties to approach the bird, who just watched curiously, the orphan lit the long safety match, whose flame flickered, but did not douse. To get ashes something must be burned. Simple. The shy fire of the stick to light fireplaces and wood stoves disappeared with the gentle rocking of a draft. Annoyed, she lit a second, now being precautious so that it would not be extinguished; she took a shaky breath, getting close enough so she could do the feat.
Just like the other, a discrete fiery focus initially. It hesitated to proceed, as a frightened salamander but took courage to appreciate what burned. It increased its intensity and changed color from yellow-green to yellow-orange. Then it was ravenous with hunger. It didn't take it more than a minute to consume the nest and the bird. What should be the triumph for the bird became, however, an unimaginable agony. The pain was such that his pious echoed through the reveille streets. In a desperate flight, it spread those damn flames everywhere, a fatal trail, falling in a thick layer of ice and snow.
Anamelia did not understand what was wrong. If the Phoenix needed fire to burn, become ashes and then reborn, why it went with all that anguish? What is the reason to behave that way?
Everything burned in a dreadful fire, which tended green to red, burning and burning, destroying and converting life in death, living matter into ashes in a flash. Ice and snow melting with ease, and the water gurgled and caused more fires where it dripped. Amid the hellish chaos, the sulfurous tongues, the girl moved in a hurry, looking for the bird to collect its ashes, as it was certain that now that was what it had become.
Trees were lost in coal and ember minutes before crashing down into ashes that piled up in all directions. Everything that was alive, was consumed by that supernatural fire, fading and dying. It seemed that the vegetation was screaming, crying out to their gods to be spared from that endless torture. In addition, Anamelia realized she had committed a very serious mistake.
The charred remains of the Phoenix were among a pool of warm water, being slowly dragged. If they continued following the course of flow, they would be mixed with other incinerated materials. Then goodbye dream getaway!
Hurried steps, feeling very hot and her feet heating and warming. Hunkering, she stuck her left hand on the ash heap, noting that the glove was partially consumed by the high temperature. Standing up, she sought a way out of this hell that she created, repenting the foolish idea to advance something that should occur in its due time. Ran by crooked ways, dodging bubbling puddles and burning regions, aiming at the wall, the only chance to survive. And closed her hand to avoid losing what would offer part of her longed-for freedom. She ran with will. Fear sprouting from her skin. She climbed a stone agglomerate, taking care not to spill too much, while the fire destroyed a good memory. On the fence, she jumped to the other side, falling on a white, icy mass, away from the fire.
Turning her bicolored eyes back, she saw high flames and black smoke rise to the gray clouds. It was the end of the botanical garden.
VII
A golden touch
Depositing the handful of ashes of the phoenix on a wide sheet, next to the tears of the virgin, the poisonous mushrooms and the saliva of the ogress queen, Anamelia waited for some scolding coming from the stone. She longed for that, after all, it was well deserved; she had done something very wrong, therefore, a complaint would be advisable. However, the stone was too insensitive to this, to spend its precious time with such nonsense. No, it would never have to apply moral lessons.
“Let’s see”, said the petrified wise, indifferent to everything and everyone in its megalomaniacal delirium, “four successfully completed tasks. There are only three to be all over. We need a philosopher’s stone. Yes, I do.”
“The philosopher’s stone?”
&n
bsp; “Never heard of it?”
“I have heard.”
“So why the surprise?”
“I thought that...”
She stopped speaking in time. “I thought it was a legend” would sound like a ridiculous sentence after finding a talking stone, two ghouls a cemetery, a gnome in a lemon tree, ogres in a swamp and a phoenix in a garden. Fables have become real since this whole series of adventures began.
“Continuing, the philosopher’s stone is essential for the transmutation of things, changing the ways for the passage. It is a powerful object, and it does more than turn base metals into gold. In fact, transmuting something in gold is just a stupid use of the enormous power of the stone. Only wise and high level scholars understand the great possibilities.”
“And where do I find it?”, asked the girl, showing impatience.
“Near here, next to the park and the woods, in a quiet place for the weary souls of the world. On Sundays, morning and evening, a cleric celebrates solemn ceremonies, promising what even he doubts he can. In these years that I am here, my dreamy dear, I watched the people who enter there weekly. Half do not even have faith in that which they search.”
“The Philosopher’s stone is in the church? Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
She sighed. She would have to take possession of an object that was in a holy temple. A theft. Previously, in the first task, all that had been obtained had seemed fair catch. Needed to please the grave profaning couple of creatures to get the tears of the dead for love; the gnome was kind enough to bring her some Death's garden mushrooms; the saliva of the supposed queen of the ogres was collected in a spat disgusting puddle on the floor; and the ashes ...
“Are you sure that there is only in there?”, she asked, very hesitating for the first time before a task in that long night. “There’s nowhere else?”
“No."
Anamelia looked away, biting her lower lip.
“Do you want to give up your dream?”, questioned the stone, in a melancholy tone.
“Well I do not know...”
“If you do, I understand perfectly. We came close. However, I never want you to do something that goes against what you believe. Let us go back to normal. You go home. And I'll remain a stone. Forget the wonderful world we could go to."
“No!”, shouted the girl, seeing all be lost with the refusal of the fifth mission. “I will!”
Of course, the stone smiled. Or it would have done so if it had a mouth. And teeth.
The church had always been a strange place. Perhaps because it has a dark aspect, with that architecture full of triangles, columns, and stained glass rectangles, but that had nothing beautiful. Or maybe it was beautiful if looked at from a different perspective, more aesthetic. For the young girl, however, the emotion caused was fear and submission before those austere saints, those representations of the lives of apostles and prophets. When the priest gave his long, complicated sermons, all were silent and pretended to understand those difficult words to pronounce. He was a wise man; or seemed to be; especially after so much talk of apparent depth. However, what made the girl restless was his way to express himself and the way he looks at people as if digging through their souls.
The oak gates were locked at night; after all, nobody wanted criminals stealing anything there. Once, when they were still always open, druggies took possession of some candelabra of gold and silver objects. After that, everyone decided it was best to avoid leaving them open after a certain evening hour. But for some inexplicable and disguised reason, they were unlocked at that dawn, as found Anamelia upon pushing one of them, already expecting the opposite result to that.
In fact, the will of the girl was of not needing the philosopher’s stone, avoiding entering that sacred place. So she was surprised when the wood creaked loudly, revealing some of the interior, the dozens of wooden benches lined up one after another, for a hundred meters, to the pulpit. Two aisles separating three groups of consecutive banks. On the walls, between the stained glass windows, chandeliers of gold and silver, with those thick candles burning weak flames, they caused a ghastly play of light and shadows that took life under the roof's odd angles.
Her footsteps echoed in a smooth, synchronized rhythm, the only sound present there. According to her mentor, the artifact would be clearly visible, as ordinary eyes could never see perfection before them. She would recognize what she was looking for easily, after all, she was already used to the magical nature of things; there would be difficulties in identifying such an essential item.
The image carved in marble, had the size of a real man, and seemed to look at her, demanding atonement for her sins, as preached the priest. Although it was only a representative figure and was attached to a lacquered, wooden cross, it was like someone alive and all knowing, with blood dripping in injuries. And that diminished the existence of Anamelia to a mere grain of sand on a beach, possibly with bare feet over her insignificance.
The orphanage where she grew up was maintained by donations; much of the donations came from the church, which offered spiritual and financial comfort. Everyone questioned how the priest, a good speaker and Samaritan got those pieces of solid gold that were delivered monthly to the care of the supervisor. Now, knowing the presence of the philosopher’s stone, the source of the miracle made sense. Anything nonliving could get the golden touch of the object. And so followed the life.
Stealing. That was what she was committing there.
Her heterochromatic eyes scoured every corner, in a hasty attempt to find the reason for the trespassing. Nothing denounced the existence of the item. Everything was so normal, so ordinary, so monotonously simple that came to be discouraging. And behold Anamelia sat on one of the rungs of the short ladder leading a faithful to the stage, covering his face. A silent cry.
She really wanted to get away. There were monsters in that cold and lifeless world. And many of these abused her purity, her body, her mind, her soul. They tore each layer that formed who she was. They stripped the clothes and skin, exposing hers fragility and destroying all that was good, contaminating it with pain and agony. Monsters with human appearance, disguised as so many people with different methods. Or could they all be demons, after all? Perhaps the priest was right that creatures from hell walked among humanity, sowing misery, assuming human form. First devoured the bodies, rotting them, thus they came to souls.
She cried. She was too tired to live. There was no joy there. And just a stone separated her from the next task, from what she wanted most in life: to escape.
Miracles happen on several occasions. They do not depend on faith, as you think so, although belief is very useful. Beyond. It is not known where they come from or where they go. They just appear. They are often ignored. It is the nature of miraculous things. And it was a miracle that attracted the attention of the poor girl. A wistful whisper called her name, taking her teary gaze to the crucified statue behind her. Blood still trickled wrists, abdomen, and feet, dripping on the white floor of the church; the trickle that flowed over her head, however, had a color that differed from the live red. Liquid gold. Yes, the crown of thorns transformed the crimson fluid in the so precious golden substance.
Anamelia rose, her heart pounding with joy. She still had that fear burdened in the spirit, but the man's brown eyes of represented no longer made her embarrassed. She gave quiet steps, touching the shoes in the blood that covered the floor, while everything was illuminated by a sacred and solemn brightness. The statue got rid of the nails, bending its body so the girl's hand could touch the desired object. When Anamelia caught it, marble lips kissed her forehead; and it was concluded.
The fifth task was performed.
VIII
The nearly full cup
When looking for the umpteenth time to the crown of thorns, it was kind of inevitable not to think about that one the grotesque swamp creature wore. It should be truly bad to bear something that hurt its head constantly, and using something like that ma
de someone important, better not be more than a servant or slave relay. The Eternal pain was something that was not worth the price of being sovereign.
“Ready for the sixth task?” Asked the stone, feeling close to what it craved.
“Yes." Said the young woman, still looking at the crown.
“I believe that this mission will require you greater dedication, as will unfold in two parts. I really wanted to not have to involve you into that, but here we are close to the outcome. The first part will depend a lot on your ability to please a creature inhabiting this forest. It is the master of plant life and some animals. The leshii is a powerful and wise old man, who is said sovereign over everything that lives in his kingdom; it can both help as deceive, depending on the mood he is in. Here's what I want you to do: collect some birch-white branches and draw a circle, taking extreme care to leave the tips of the rods directed into the symbol; when finished, enter it and look to the east. Remember, therefore, to make the circle around a tree, with which your foot should touch the stem immediately after drawing the magical way. Then, say these words: ‘Uncle leshii, arise! Do not come as a wolf or fire but in human form.’ Do this, my dear, and he will come!”
“And then?”
“Ask him for a magic wand made from a tree that rises adjacent to the river whose waters irrigate the garden of Death. Make sure that he will fulfill your request because you summoned him to serve you for a few hours only.”
“For the wand?”
“For the second part of the task, of course. After dismissing the leshii, go to that swamp that you went earlier! Do not forget that the wand will only grant three wishes, so you should use it wisely or you won't get what we lack. If observant, you will notice a castle built with bones and diamonds. Your first wish is that it disappears. Hide and wait for the lady of the place to show up. Your second wish is that she dies. When this occurs, scour her clothes and grab a cup made of a white metal. And your third wish is to return to me as soon as possible. Do you understand?”
