Reassured, I said, “From what I can remember, there was a flame-fingered guérisseur in it, as well as several revenants, and it looked like they were carrying out a magical procedure. There was definitely fire—someone holding a torch. And a revenant had cut his arm and was bleeding into the bowl.”
“I think I have a couple of funereal urns with the same type of image,” said Mr. Gold, rubbing his chin. “There are so many mystical ceremonies whose meanings were lost with time. The urn in question displays one of several that I’ve always wondered about.” Buzzing with excitement, he led us away from the thymiaterion toward a table holding several dozen stone containers, each the size of a mailbox.
“These are the ancient Roman version of funeral urns, used to store the deceased’s ashes after a cremation,” he explained. “Here’s one showing what I suspected was a golem, which would fit your description of a curled up figure,” he said, pointing to a container carved with a creepy-looking scene.
“Golems!” Papy exclaimed. “Kate and I were just talking about golems the other day. That makes complete sense!” he said.
We gathered closer to inspect the carving. Almost identical to the wall painting in the guérisseur cave, it showed a doll-like figure with no hair or features curled up in a circular bowl, the same size as the bowl of Mr. Gold’s thymiaterion. Next to it, a figure with a fiery halo cut her arm with a knife and let the blood drip upon the doll, where it spread in a puddle around the hunched-up golem. Another woman—this one with no halo—leaned over with her mouth next to the figure’s head. Her lips were puckered in an “O” shape and seemed to be blowing on the golem’s face.
Beside her, a man held his hands above the creature’s legs. Five flames flickered above his head as well as the end of each fingertip, and above his hands hovered a cloud of fire. A fourth figure with no visible halo stood behind them holding a box in one hand and a flaming torch in the other.
“It looks like a step-by-step guide on how to give a wandering soul”—I pointed to the fiery cloud—“a body.” My heart was racing so fast I felt like I was going to have a heart attack if I didn’t calm down. We might have actually found our answer!
I think you might be right, came Vincent’s words. From his breathlessness, he sounded just as excited.
Bran started bouncing around nervously. “Just looking at that image is awakening something in me. Something primal. I believe we’re on the right track.”
I glanced at Jules, and saw that his sullen look had been replaced by one of hope. Meeting my gaze, he shuffled over next to me and squeezed my hand. “I thought we were on a wild-goose chase,” he whispered. “Not that I minded, free trip to New York and all. But now I think . . .”—and the way his eyes were lit up with excitement I could finish his sentence for him—this could actually work.
“‘Man of clay,’” quoted Bran, who was closely inspecting the urn with Papy and Mr. Gold. “I’m thinking this means we must shape a golem like this one out of clay and lay it in the thymiaterion.” He pointed to the bathtub-shaped thing on the relief, and I noticed for the first time that it was lifted up off the ground, perhaps at waist height to the standing figures. The woman breathing on the figure was standing on a box in order to reach.
“‘Immortal blood’ means a revenant must pour his blood onto the clay man,” Mr. Gold added, pointing to the bleeding bardia.
“That would be me,” volunteered Jules, squinting doubtfully at the image. “Looks like a hell of a lot of blood there.” He looked around at us. “No problem, of course. Just a comment,” he said defensively.
“I can do the breathing part,” I said. I had felt pretty useless up to this point, so I jumped at the chance to be involved.
“And it seems that I will be transferring the aura of Vincent into the clay body,” Bran concluded, looking up from the box to a spot in the air right next to my head. So that’s where he is, I thought with a thrill. He’s been next to me this whole time.
“I’m guessing the golem must be lit by fire,” commented Mr. Gold. “It comes last in the list of symbols on the thymiaterion, and would explain the torch he’s holding,” he said, indicating the man in the background.
“We still have the mystery box,” stated Papy, pointing to the other hand of the torch-bearing revenant.
“What could it be?” I mused.
“Boxes can represent all sorts of things from temptation to empty space to imprisonment,” Papy said, glancing at Mr. Gold, who nodded his agreement.
“I hate to interrupt all of the deep thinking going on here,” Jules commented, renewed purpose animating his voice, “but Vincent has just reminded me that we’re working within a pretty tight time frame here—which ends whenever our illustrious enemy decides to click her fingers and call his spirit back. Let’s start on the mud sculpture and get this show on the road.”
“Right,” said Mr. Gold. “It’s lucky the thymiaterion is here in the museum. The restoration studio on the next floor has a supply of clay. Jules can help me bring down some boxes on a hand truck.”