Crematorium for Phoenixes Read Free Page B

huts, existing among the lifeless
debris of the crumbled bones of former kingdoms.
    The men assembled in these dank valleys were
almost mythic, and this vast expanse of land, with her incised
gorges between tall peaks, was slowly returning to that timeworn,
uninhabited land that she once was.
    Rarely did salesmen travel through these
regions. When they did, they looked like lonely birds, cawing in
distant echoes the news from the southern islands of Zipangu.
    They spoke of strange things, rumors that
troubled this pristine, calm region with their descriptions of
innovations that were changing the fate of the continent.
    Not that these people believed them. Here
any news sounded like faint twitters. They were listened to with
pleasure in the inns by those people who gathered around
fireplaces. But the real reason for such attention was the simple
fact that listening to the stories was enjoyable. Sitting at
battered oak tables while contemplating the crackling logs in
fireplaces and smoking wooden pipes created an air of mystery (and
of course, red balls of smoke). Such an evening was topped off with
drinking from all sorts of beer mugs, and those who listened were
invited to take strange journeys.
    It is that streak that makes sedentary
people travel abroad and wander, looking for a place to
settle. Because the stories of unexplored wilderness, of
sleeping under the firmament, wrapped in a cloak while watching
flames dancing like a fairy whisper the strange witchcraft that
then fills the human heart.
    Thus mankind is displaced across all corners
of the planet, discovering the truth that everything moves,
everything is looking, and the soul is in actuality a bunch of
separate pieces that have been scattered like the stars. We are
looking for meaning, love, and God to supplement ourselves.
    In this way, today’s homebody can become a
sailor or buccaneer; the peaceful, quiet gentleman can become a
mercenary. People who have disappeared and then reappeared become
inexhaustible sources of wonder, gossip, and rumors.
    And this particular region, always on the
edge of Zipangu’s wilderness did not differ much in its thought,
and the love of living is what drove these people to look back and
forth; they continued to exist like a slowly dying fire that only
needed a small breath of air to crackle again.
    Therefore on this morning, with its bisected
twilight rays and heated micaceous cliffs glowing to portend a
glaring change, you will see the unanticipated outcome.
    It all started with a visit from the traders
of the southern islands. Periodically—every lunar and solar
cycle, when the need increased, this armada headed toward the north
to collect the tanned skins of sheep and even more importantly, the
highly regarded sharkskin, coarse cloth, and wool; salted meat and
dried fish; fat cheese and pressed wild tea and herbs; plane boards
and metals; the feathers and down of poultry and other wild birds;
wax and honey; and all kinds of ceramics and tiles; the traders
sought all the products that could be found or produced on these
lands. In return, they drove up with ropes, all kinds of
agricultural implements and metal containers, fine jewelry, sour
milk, beer, fragrant and healed oil, other formulations, and the
most highly coveted item of all, people. The latter were
self-taught teachers and dentists, veterinarians and healers.
    Even in those archaic times, tribute was
paid to these crafts. The proof of which could be found in the
cloth bags that these people carried around to fill with gold
nuggets, ears, rings, and bracelets.
    But these doctors, whether you want to
describe them as advanced with their knowledge or antediluvian,
were powerless against the progressive deterioration and fragile
mortality that accompany mankind. Our life stories are little
more than bypassed roads; at intervals there appear points where
rising towers can be observed. The people themselves are chained in
such places by suffering and despair, and