“But what about the box symbol?” I asked.
Mr. Gold pulled a heavy set of keys out of his pocket and began searching through them. Finding the one he was looking for, he looked up and met my eyes. “Without a clue as to what the box represents, we’re going to have to take our chances and work without it.”
“But . . . ,” I began, and then stopped as I heard Vincent’s words: Mon ange, we’re running out of time.
As our group scattered, I couldn’t help thinking more about the mystery box. Even if we had all the “ingredients,” I wondered if the ritual would really work. We were flying by the seat of our pants here. Using only guesswork, how could we hope to succeed at something this complicated?
I pushed my doubts aside. This was our only hope. What could it hurt to try?
It was almost two a.m. before we were finally assembled in a circle around the thymiaterion. Although the collection was pretty well isolated from the rest of the museum, Mr. Gold was worried about lighting something as large as the golem on fire. He had been scuttling around, shutting off all the smoke detectors he could find.
Papy and Bran had been busy plundering the museum’s reference books while I helped Jules and Mr. Gold with the clay. My grandfather joined us now with a look of frustration. “I could find no lead on the box symbol,” he said regretfully. Taking his appointed place, he picked up the torch Mr. Gold had assembled out of a broom handle tightly wound with kerosene-soaked cloth at one end. Jules struck a match and carefully lit it, and it ignited so violently that both he and Papy staggered back a step in surprise.
The flaming torch cast long shadows, animating the army of statues stationed around the room. The clay man lay curled up inside the bowl of the incense burner, smooth-skinned and bald-headed.
Mr. Gold had formed the hands and feet in simple paddle shapes, pointing out that the golem carved on the funereal urn had no fingers or toes. But Jules had a fit when he saw it, and insisted it be as realistic as possible. He said it offended his artistic sensibilities to see his friend represented in such an unflattering manner. He went to town on the whole thing and when he was done it resembled Vincent in a slightly generic fashion. Although the figure was strange-looking, it seemed fragilely human, like a sleeping child. And the thought that Vincent’s spirit might enter it and bring it to life moved me in an almost visceral way. I reached out and brushed its cool, smooth surface with my fingers.
Bran had taken off his glasses. He said that the kind of sight he needed didn’t require them. Without them he seemed frailer, more human and less cartoonish. He looked like any middle-aged man, although he had managed to keep his pitch-black hair, and his face looked scarily gaunt now that his eyes weren’t magnified. “Are we ready?” he asked, glancing blindly around the room.
“Vincent, are you ready?” I asked.
I couldn’t be more ready, my love, he said.
I nodded to the others.
“Then, please proceed,” responded Mr. Gold.
Bran raised his hands over the lip of the chalice and positioned them above the golem’s legs, focusing his gaze on the air above it, where I suspected Vincent was. He stood that way for a minute or so, and then glanced over at Jules. “Go ahead,” he urged.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” asked Jules, confused.
“Like what? An incantation? I’m a healer, not a sorcerer,” huffed Bran.
“Okay then,” Jules said, sounding nervous. He draped his arm over the side of the chalice and brushed it with the dangerous-looking sculpting knife. Gritting his teeth, he glanced at me.
I raised my eyebrows.
“What?” he said defensively. “Okay, I don’t mind getting hurt for someone else, but I’m not used to self-mutilation.”
“I could step in as your replacement if you’d prefer,” offered Mr. Gold.
Jules shook his head. “Vince, you owe me big-time for this one,” he said. Then, sucking his breath through his teeth, he cut swiftly and deeply into his forearm. Holding it over the clay figure, he let the blood stream over it while uttering a string of colorful curse words.
I stepped onto the top rung of the stepladder that was pushed up against the cup. Leaning over, I pursed my lips and blew a breath of air like I was throwing a kiss toward the clay man’s mouth.
You’re so sexy when you breathe on me, the words came.
I sputtered. “Stop making me laugh, Vincent, or you’re going to come back to life with no lungs.” If this bizarre ceremony even works, I thought. I tried to force the pessimism out of my head and blew another breath toward Clay Vincent.