Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

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.

The left panel showed Moses kneeling on a stone mountain, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. A few twigs and leaves of a fiery bush encroached from one side, casting golden light on his face. Much as the bottom portion of the main painting had disgusted her, this one brought peace: humble man in communion with his loving Creator. In the right panel, Moses’s demeanor had swung in the other direction. Face contorted in fury, he stood on a boulder, two stone tablets raised above his head. The same golden glow seen emanating from the bush radiated from the tablets. Instead of feeling his fury, Beth felt only sadness.

Both panels were masterfully crafted, but it was the center panel that commanded attention. It depicted the Israelites worshipping the golden calf. Men, women, and children danced around a large, gleaming-gold bull perched high on a chiseled stone pedestal. Several had joined hands, but most were engaged in their own private spinning and hopping, laughing and singing. Coming around the far side of the pedestal was a line of skipping musicians, playing their instruments with all the gusto and passion of a modern-day rock band. Behind them, the mountain-the one Beth marveled at every day-rose out of sight. Bodies packed the sides of the painting, giving the impression they went on forever, thousands, tens of thousands partying, reveling, worshipping the wrong god. Hair flew, clothing whipped around, a small child had tripped and was being dragged by an oblivious adult. Beth could almost hear the dissonance of music, singing, and shouting-blurring into a sustained, undulating scream. That she had to remind herself it was a painting and not a window onto a scene happening at the moment was a testament to the artist’s talent.

“Who…?” Beth said. She lost the thought among all the activity on the panel.

“No one knows,” Gheronda said. “Experts have compared it to Rubens, and it’s been dated to around his time, the early 1600s. Marvelous, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the word I would use,” she said.

“Are they happy?” Tyler said. His eyes roamed over the painting as though following a particular string among a tangled mass.

“I think they’re trying to be happy,” Gheronda said. “In their hearts they know what they’re doing is wrong, but they let their impatience and need to worship something get the better of them. That contradiction drove them a little crazy, I think.”

“A little?” Beth said.

Tyler pointed at the cardboard covering the lower foot of the six-foot-tall painting. Its contours perfectly covered the most offensive images. “What’s under that?” he said.

“You don’t need to know,” Beth said. “Just people doing bad things.”

“I don’t usually censor art,” Gheronda said. “But in this case.. ”

“I’m a writer,” Beth said. “I’m opposed to almost all censorship, except the kind each of us does in deciding what we will and won’t let in. What you’ve done in covering up that part isn’t censorship, it’s decency.” She shook her head. “Why would someone with the talent to paint like that, paint that?” She waved her hand at the covered portion, as though swishing it away.

A voice spoke behind them: “Because it’s the truth.”

The three of them spun toward it.

Father Leo was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest. Leo was the collection’s curator. He had a scraggly beard clinging to his jawline, chin, and upper lip-considering his baby face, Beth suspected it was the best he could do to match the long, bushy beards the other monks sported.

He came off the pillar and stepped forward. “The artist did his homework.” He mussed Tyler’s hair. “Hey, Ty.”

Tyler grinned.

“Think about it,” Leo said, addressing Beth. “False gods corrupt the spirit. How can they not? They draw you away from the real God, from his love and protection and moral laws. Then we start looking for things to make us feel better, and we turn to”-he pointed at the lower portion of the painting-“that.”

“That may be,” Beth said. “But we don’t need to see it.”

Leo tilted his head, raised his eyebrows. “I disagree. Sin is a car wreck of the spirit. They show high school kids pictures of accidents, bodies and all. ‘This is what happens when you drink and drive-or text and drive.’ Why not show the result of sin: depravity, death.”