“Good-bye, Gwenha?l,” I whispered, and, standing, walked toward the lone table. I spotted the books that Bran had mentioned on the left edge of the tabletop: a stack of red leather-bound tomes. But before I reached them, I paused, my eyes drawn toward the paintings covering the entire surface of the end wall. They reminded me of a place I had visited in Florence with my mom—the Basilica of Santa Croce. Just like the walls of that church’s multiple small chapels, this wall had been divided into strips of separate scenes and placed row on row, like a comic book.
In the basilica the panels had been filled with pictures showing stories from the Bible or of Italian saints, each chapel decorated by a single artist. Here, the panels were all painted by different artists—in different styles, and seemingly from different periods. The peeled and fading paint of the upper levels suggested that they were the oldest, so I began there, reading the images as stories like my mother had taught me.
The first panel reminded me of the amphora I had seen in Papy’s gallery, showing two armies of naked men fighting one another, the soldiers wearing what looked like ancient Greek helmets. One side was led by a man with a golden red halo that flared out from his head like flames. The enemy army’s leader had a halo that looked like a cloudy haze of bright red blood. A couple of figures in the corner of the frame were hovering over dead and mutilated bodies and holding their hands over them, as if they were healing them. Their halos looked like little sparks of fire—five sparks above each head, like the flames above the hands painted on the tomb doors. This must be the symbol for the guérisseurs, I thought.
The next image reminded me of the medieval paintings of saints being martyred. Men dressed like priests, with big popelike hats, stood aside watching as soldiers killed a group of people with swords. Their victims were bound hand and foot to wooden stakes, and had the same gold and red haloes as in the previous image, while others had round yellow haloes—the typical ones you see in religious paintings. Under the gold guy was written “bardia,” the red had “numa,” and the round halo “bayata.”
Behind them, in the distance, a flame-haloed guérisseur stood outside a cave in which huddled a group of the three types of haloed beings. The story was pretty clear: the revenants and the “bayata,” whatever they were, were being persecuted by the Church, and the healers were helping to hide them.
The revenants must have experienced a whole history alongside humankind that we were completely unaware of. I stood there in awe, transfixed by what this meant. Supernatural beings had been living among us since the beginning of time . . . or at least for a long, long time. And scenes from this secret parallel history were depicted clearly before me. The magnitude of this discovery made me feel very small and insignificant . . . but also very lucky.
I eagerly moved to the next panel, which depicted the cave I was standing in. Workers, all with the five flames over their heads, were digging the tombs and painting the walls, while a woman in long white robes held her hands out, shooting beams of silver in all directions. Within the beams were painted stars, moons, suns, flamed hands, and the signum bardia. I guessed this was some type of magical guérisseur casting a spell on the cave that would allow some to enter, but keep the revenants out, as had been demonstrated so dramatically (and hilariously) outside. I wondered what other magic protected this cave, as there were symbols I didn’t recognize floating in the woman’s silver starburst.
I suddenly thought of Vincent, Ambrose, and Arthur waiting outside the cave for me. The longer I stayed the more worried they would get. I checked my cell phone. I had left them forty-five minutes ago. And of course there was no signal, so I couldn’t call to let them know I was fine. I knew it was time to go, but couldn’t resist looking at a couple more pictures before leaving.
My eyes skipped back up to one of the ancient scenes; this one from the Roman period, judging on the characters’ togalike robes. In the center there was a figure curled up in a fetal position inside a big round tub. It was life-size, but had no hair or facial features and looked more like a rough sculpture of a woman before the details were carved in.
Around the figure stood several people, both bardia and guérisseur judging by their auras, each taking part in a different activity. One had cut his arm and was bleeding into the tub, another was bending over the curled-up figure’s head, a third seemed to be casting a spell over it, and a fourth stood to the side holding a torch and a vase. They were obviously performing some sort of magical ritual, but I couldn’t imagine its purpose.