When all the equipment was packed up, everyone got back into his or her robes. The actors assembled their devices and the Pistach were nudged into wakefulness among smells of incense and sounds of drums and chimes. The room was dimly candlelit.
“Oh, Canthorel, come to us,” intoned the Big SA, in passable Pistach. “Show us the truth!”
T’Fees pushed himself higher on his legs. The Pistach elders shifted, staring at one another. One of them asked Chad, through his translator, “Is this evocation of the sacred persons of other races customary?”
“Only after hours of meditation,” Chad responded. “Oh. Look there!” He pointed into the gloom.
In the dim glow of the candle flames the figure of Canthorel emerged from the darkness, garbed in a radiant blue aura, taller than a normal Pistach, an absolute replica of the Canthorel figures in the Fresco. The figure bowed, only slightly, gestured widely, then opened its mouth and cried, in Pistach:
“I have returned to restore my work and to reestablish the teachings of Mengantowhai.”
The Pistach opened their eyes wide. T’Fees muttered in an ugly voice, and three of the more robust elders silenced him.
The image of Canthorel went on. “Into this place came an evildoer to change my works and cast doubt upon our purpose. The infamy of this evil-doer was foreseen. Glumshalak came to cover the false works so they might not hinder the spiritual progress of my people. Into this place, another evil-doer has come, and there the miscreant stands, the one who wished to negate Glumshalak’s virtuous deeds. Now, I have returned to reassert the value of Pistach life, the work they do, the order they bring. Go forth and assist the worlds of the galaxy, remembering always the commandments given me by Mengantowhai:
“Where you see an unfruitful tree, make it bear.
“Do as little as possible.
“Do it as painlessly as possible.
“Be responsible for having done it.”
The voice dwindled away, the aura faded, the figure moved toward the altar. A smoke lit from within, as by blue fire, exploded in the House, and Chad and Benita ran to thrust open the doors to let in the first pale rays of dawn. When the smoke cleared, Canthorel was gone.
Half a dozen Earthians went about the room, extinguishing the few candles, leaving it virtually dark. Tambourines and drums continued their tinka-tinka-tinka, bom bom bom.
The Pistach were soundless, speechless. T’Fees struggled with the three elders who were holding him down. The humans chanted, swaying in time to the drums, giving the Pistach time to recover.
Eventually, the leader of the Pistach elders asked the president, “Did you see Canthorel? Was he indeed present among us?”
The president nodded, saying truthfully, “I saw a marvelous figure emerge from the Ground of Canthorel. One moment he was not there, the next moment, he was.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
The president said yes, he had heard the figure speak, but he was not sure he understood all that Canthorel had said. Would the elders explain it to him?
“Later,” murmured the elder. “Oh, yes, but later.” The sounds of drums and tambourines faded. The Pistach rose from their reclining boards, all of them still staring at the place Canthorel had been, before he disappeared. Since their sleeping position was no different from their resting or sitting position, there was no indication they had drifted off. Even T’Fees seemed unaware of having done so.
Through her own translator, Benita heard one say to another, “I’m afraid I dozed off there for a moment. Did I miss anything?”
The other answered, “Just sitting and meditating until Canthorel came. You saw that!”
“Oh, yes. I saw that.”
The room was dim, the darkness broken only near the top of the dome where the clerestories admitted a pale glow. All the Pistach, including T’Fees, were so occupied with the vision of Canthorel that none of them glanced at the walls, and had they done so, it was still too dim to see anything. Benita remembered Chiddy’s description of the first time he had seen it. People came in and went out, they didn’t really look.
As the Pistach moved toward the door, she wandered toward the wall, peering at the Fresco, reaching with tentative fingers to stroke the dim figures that bright morning would disclose. The True Fresco of Canthorel.