The Fresco by Sheri S. Tepper

obscuring the figures. The entire room was cleaned annually, and the floors were scrubbed and polished daily. The painting, however, could not be touched. One knew which panel one was looking at only by referring to the small numbers, one through seventeen, carved into the stone beneath them.
    In the earliest years the Fresco had been cleaned and even repaired from time to time, but in recent centuries the curators had forbidden any further attempts to do so. After all, they said, the scholar Glumshalak had copied every detail of the Fresco when he wrote his great Compendium. The curators of successive ages had annotated the Compendium. In addition, other scholars and visitors had made sketches of various panels during the early years. The danger of cleaning the panels far outweighed the pleasure of seeing them clearly.
    For pilgrims, the usual observance at the House of the Fresco was to enter from outside by the middle door, to turn left and make the entire circuit of the hall, stopping before each number to chant the appropriate passage from a pilgrimage book, of which there were several: Glumshalak’s Authorized Version, the Revised Pistach Version, the (some said excessively) Modernized Version, in contemporary language. When the people stood before panel seven, The Adoration , or panel fifteen, The Blessing of Canthorel , they knew what was shown. The very obscurity of the Fresco, evidence of its antiquity, could be considered part of its mystique.
    My first experience verified this. The smell of scented smoke, the fugitive lights, the shifting gleams of polished stone, the mysterious paintings from which, in some lights, a face seemed to smile or speak, a hand reached out to summon, indicating here I am, look at me, observe my life. Within moments, however, I noticed something else as well. Curators entered the great room, lit candles, put out others, took them away, and they did not even look at the room. People came in the door, turned to their left and began the circuit of the room, reading the verses from whatever pilgrimage book they had obtained or inherited, and they never looked up. I reacted to this as though a bell had rung somewhere inside me, a warning: see, notice, they too have had their first impression, and the first impression has been their last. They do not see any longer. Will you, too, learn not to see?
    â€œThe first painting,” said the curator, “the one between the middle and right-hand doors, is the meeting of Mengantowhai and the Jaupati. In the background are three wine jars assaulted by amorphous figures. The implied teaching is?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Curator, but I have no idea.”
    â€œThat’s all right. Someone will learn. The teaching of theamorphous forms assaulting the three wine jars is that Pistach may not carry intoxicants on journeys. This insight is gained through the juxtaposition of this section with the one preceding,” ai pointed to the section between the left-hand and middle doors, “The Martyrdom of Kasiwees , and from the section following,” ai pointed to the right, “The Descent of the Steadfast Docents.”
    â€œYes, Curator,” I murmured, marking the words down in my mind without a hint as to their meaning.
    â€œFrom the one we get the idea of journey , for the journey into death’s realm is the greatest one, and from the other we get the idea of guidance , for a docent guides others. This is reinforced by the secondary symbols, in which Kasiwees also guides us and the docents, by descending, also journey. Since it is wine jars being assaulted, the reference is to mastering intoxication. Thus it is clear that the meaning is that we receive guidance not to use wine during journeys. Does someone follow?”
    I followed, though it seemed to me at the time we could have as well received “wisdom” as the meaning of the docents, or even “failing-ones,” for a descent often means a failing. This