I disagree, he said.
I had felt a yearning for Vincent’s body before. But never when he wasn’t there to touch. And now I wanted to touch him more than ever. To be touched by him. Maybe that was because it wasn’t possible, but I had a feeling that it was more than that. We had waited to make love because I hadn’t felt ready yet. But this brush with death—with Vincent’s eternal disappearance—had made me realize that that kind of connection with Vincent was what I wanted. If I was given the chance again, this time I would choose yes.
Trying to clear my head of impossible dreams, I picked up my purse and the room key and began heading out the door when I suddenly remembered my phone. I hadn’t even taken it out of my suitcase when I arrived because I wasn’t sure I had international service. Plus . . . who was I going to call?
“Wait a second, Vincent. I’m just going to check that picture,” I said, sitting back down on the bed. “I don’t even know if it turned out, since the cave was so big and my flash was pretty weak.”
I clicked on the camera icon, and there it was: the last picture I had taken. It had worked. Although dark around the edges where the flash hadn’t reached, the middle of the painted wall was clearly visible . . . I expanded the image with my fingertips . . . and in focus!
“Oh my God, Vincent? Do you see?”
Yes! he said. It’s hard to read at this size, but if we loaded it onto your grandfather’s laptop, I think it would be legible.
“Let’s go, then!” I said.
Papy and Bran were sitting behind empty cups of coffee, studying a piece of paper. Seeing me arrive, Papy poured a cup from the pitcher on the table and set it on the place setting next to him.
“No time for coffee!” I said. “The picture from the cave. It worked! We need your laptop, Papy.”
My grandfather handed me his room key and I was back with the laptop in minutes. Plugging my phone into it, I waited a second until the image popped up, then selected the painting with the re-embodiment and cropped everything else out.
“The image is very similar to what was on Theodore’s urn,” Papy agreed.
“Can we see the words more closely?” Bran asked, leaning in toward the computer.
I zoomed in, and the inscription filled the screen. As Papy began translating it from the Latin, Bran scribbled it down on the piece of paper.
A man of clay is only mud
Until his brother spills his blood.
Mortal breath will animate
The dead’s own ashes re-create.
Once these elements combine
The cooling flames will entwine
Spirit with inanimate form
For wandering soul to be reborn.
“The dead’s own ashes? Does that mean Vincent’s ashes?” I asked, a cold wave of alarm washing through me.
“That’s what it seems to suggest,” Papy said. He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “Is there any way for us to get Vincent’s ashes?”
“I seriously doubt it,” I said. “It’s been days since Vincent was burned.” I felt sick. I couldn’t believe we had come this far only to run into an unsolvable problem.
“Maybe Violette kept some of his ashes. For some sort of use?” Bran suggested doubtfully.
No, I heard Vincent say. To both suggestions. I was there afterward. And I saw one of Violette’s people sweep my ashes into a bag and dump it in the trash. It was one of the more horrifying things I’ve experienced.
I transmitted this to Papy and Bran, and they both fell silent.
“Ashes,” I said, thinking it through. “That must be what the symbol of the box represents.”
Papy nodded. “And do you remember the carved image on the side of Theodore’s funereal urn? The man with the torch held a box in his other hand. It makes sense. Ashes were kept in stone boxes—such as the boxlike urn presenting that very re-embodiment scene.”
I chose a muffin from the bread basket and munched in silence while the men studied the picture. “Bran, what was your poem again?” I asked.
He turned the paper over to show the verse already transcribed onto the page: That’s what he and Papy had been studying when I arrived. I read it out loud:
Man of clay to man of flesh
Immortal blood and human breath
Traces do the spirit bind
Flames give body ghost and mind.
I studied it for a minute and said, “Where Papy’s poem mentions ‘ashes,’ Bran’s mentions ‘traces.’”
“Well, I translated the original Breton word as ‘traces,’ but it also means ‘remains,’” Bran said, interest flickering in his eyes.