The 13 th tribe

[16]

“You see on this page,” Gheronda said with more excitement than should be legal in a man his age, “the artist put a representation of each of the four evangelists in the corners.” Under his cotton-gloved finger was a colorful and intricate illustration of an angel. “This one is Matthew.” He pointed to a lion: “Mark.” An ox: “Luke. And the eagle is John.”

Tyler stood beside him, in front of the table on which the thirteenth-century book lay. He held his hands up like a surgeon stepping into an operating theater and continuously flapped them, making his oversized gloves wobble like ghosts.

Beth stood on the other side of Tyler, rubbing his back. She could tell Gheronda was losing her son’s interest under a barrage of technical terms. Tyler had temporarily perked up when Gheronda described the process of making vellum from animal skins, but then it was back to rubrics and drolleries and insular majuscules, which elicited from Tyler yawns, roving eyes, and fidgetiness. It hadn’t helped his enthusiasm when Gheronda asked him, despite the gloves, not to touch the delicate manuscripts. Don’t touch was as grating to a nine-year-old as the word bedtime.

Trying to help, she said, “The illustrations are so detailed. It’s incredible.”

“Yes, yes,” Gheronda said. “The transcribers fancied themselves artists-and certainly they were-but many of them abbreviated words to accommodate more illustrations, making translating the text a chore, to say the least. Look here…” He began methodically turning pages.

Tyler backed away, and when he was clear, turned to check out other parts of the library. He glanced back, seeking tacit approval, which Beth gave him through a smile. He stripped off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket.

Beth scanned the long, two-story hall of the library-clean and white and modern looking, utterly at odds with the ancient dusty jumble of buildings beyond its doors. Nor did it resemble the Vatican’s archival libraries she’d read about, with their hermetically sealed, temperature- and humidity-controlled rooms. Here invaluable books, manuscripts, paintings, and icons were stored on shelves and in cabinets and hung on walls. Apparently the dry desert air was the perfect preservative.

“Oh,” Gheronda said, drawing her attention. “I believe we have a truant.” He watched Tyler stroll past shelves of books to a window, onto which he pressed his palms and then his face. Instead of the admonition Beth expected, Gheronda laughed. “If I had his energy, I wouldn’t spend an ounce of it on an old man’s ramblings either.”

She put her hand on his arm. “It’s very interesting,” she said. “Please go on.”

The long hairs of his mustache and beard rustled into a grin, and they turned back to the book.

A few minutes later Tyler said, “Hey, what’s this?” He was standing at the far end of the hall, where a door led to the icon archives. Beside the door was an antique sideboard, and on that stood a large painting with an arched top and heavy frame.

“Ah, that,” Gheronda said, heading down the hall. “It’s a diptych. Do you know what that is?”

“It looks like a dartboard,” Tyler said.

As Beth approached, she saw what he meant. The painting was split down the middle: It had been painted on two panels that apparently opened to reveal something behind. That and the curved top resembled the dartboard cabinet they’d had in their den in Virginia-except instead of an old-fashioned Coca-Cola logo, this one displayed a baroque painting of what appeared at that distance to be an angel rising from a crypt. It was also at least three times larger.

Gheronda laughed. “Not a dartboard, no. A lot of polyptychs were created for the altars of- Wait! ”

His bark made both Beth and Tyler jump. Tyler had been reaching to open the front panels. He froze with his hand hovering an inch from them. His saucer eyes stared back at them over his shoulder. His expression mirrored Beth’s panic.

“Tyler, get away from that!” she said.

He snapped his hand away and jumped back.

Gheronda reached him and laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I scared you. It’s just that… well, a portion of the painting inside isn’t suitable for all eyes.”

“We can’t see it?” Tyler said, disappointed.

“Not all of it,” Gheronda said, reaching behind the sideboard. “Occasionally we host young people like yourself and others with sensitive spirits, so I made this.” He withdrew a length of cardboard about four feet long by a foot tall. One of the long sides was irregularly shaped, reminding Beth of the surface of stormy seas. “Now, turn around, go on.” He made a circle over Tyler’s head with his finger.

Tyler made a face at his mother- Oh brother! — and reluctantly turned away.

Before Gheronda opened the panels, Beth realized that what she’d thought was an angel was a man, tearing himself out of a earthen grave as though from the flames of hell. Soil fell from his hair, cheeks, and open mouth. If Michelangelo had painted zombie scenes, they would look like this. No wonder it had intrigued Tyler.

The man split in two, and half of him swung toward her as Gheronda opened the panels. Her eyes landed on the lower half of the painting within, and shock unhinged her jaw. Animal parts lay at the base of a stone altar-heads, legs, cleaved bodies. Blood everywhere, and somehow she felt not all of it came from animals. People writhed in the gore, some on their knees, arms raised in worship, some fighting, others.. She swallowed and tried to divert her eyes, but they would not obey. The others were naked, and not alone in their nakedness and debauchery. Then it was gone, covered by the cardboard.

Her mind could not process all that she had seen in that momentary glance, but her body was ahead of the game: nausea stirred her stomach, and she pressed a hand over it. As bad as the activities of the people were, their faces were worse. Fear, torment, delight-the artist had managed to capture them all on each face. The mixture produced expressions that were, if not demonic, then at minimum, evil. She felt light-headed and unsteady, and grabbed the corner of the sideboard, wondering how a painting could have hit her so hard. It was as though the very act of painting such vileness had imbued the artwork with a repulsion that assaulted viewers like a noxious gas.

She stepped to Tyler and took his hand. “Come on, we’re going.”

“But, Mom-!”

“Beth,” Gheronda said, touching her arm. “It’s worth seeing.”

“I saw.”

“The rest of the piece. I promise there’s nothing like the lower portion.”

Tyler started to turn, and she grabbed the top of his head, holding it straight. Gheronda nodded encouragement and swiveled his eyes toward the diptych. She followed his gaze, ready to slam the shutters over her eyes at the first hint of depravity. The hint was there-in the faces, sly ecstasy-but they were only dancers, clothed dancers. It was a fascinating painting, and she understood why it held special meaning for Gheronda.

“What is it?” Tyler said.

She let go of his head and guided his shoulders around.

“Wow,” he said.