There once was a pious woodcarver
who loved the gods. In his modest home he had a small shrine, and every day he
would offer prayers to each god in turn. He had carefully whittled statues of
all the deities he knew, and one by one he would place them on the altar and
address them as he would old and dear friends, with affection and warmth, and
never with fear. And sometimes he would ask for small favours, and sometimes he
would give thanks, and sometimes he would merely tell them stories of his life,
particularly stories in which they played key roles. Certainly he prayed to the
gods of luck and beauty and wisdom, as all do, but he also did not neglect the
gods of jealousy and hatred and anger, hoping that by acknowledging them each
morning, they would be appeased, and not exert their influence so strongly upon
his soul.
The
woodcarver made his living selling what he crafted in the marketplace, and on
occasion from commissions for specific pieces, for his talent was not
insignificant. And it happened one day that a wealthy merchant, passing by his
stall, took note of his wares, and was impressed.
“Good
master carver,” he said, holding a small wooden dog to his eye to inspect the
detail, “I wonder if you might be interested in crafting something particular
for me. You see, I am in the process of installing a small chapel on my
property. I hope to dedicate it to Nalgi, the goddess of kindness, to remind
myself to use what wealth I have obtained wisely. I shall need for this a
representation of the goddess, and believe that your skill could provide me
with a very fine one indeed.”
The
woodcarver’s delight can well be imagined at this offer, and he hastily expressed
his eagerness. The two shook hands and parted ways, and the carver carefully
placed his wooden animals and statues into a tissue-lined box and rushed home
to begin.
The
work took three months. First, he spent six days searching a nearby forest for
the perfect piece of wood, at last finding a large, strong tree which had been
recently toppled by a storm. With help from some neighbours (who refused the
money the woodcutter offered when they heard what the piece would be used for,
but accepted a meal at his home in thanks), he transported a large section of
the trunk to his house, and installed it in his workshop. Each day thereafter,
he would awaken, say his prayers as always (giving special thought to Nalgi,
but being careful not to neglect the others), and then go out into the village with
the aim of performing as many kindnesses as possible. He would help wherever he
saw the need, and would bring small carvings he had made to give to children.
Then, at midday, he would return home and work on the beautiful piece of wood
until he grew too weary to continue.
Finally, just as the trees began
to lose their green and to scatter their fiery embers, it was finished. A
friend of the carver’s spent three days at the workshop, carefully painting the
limbs and face of the statue, while a local seamstress spent her nights making
a simple gown out of spare bits of fabric. Once adorned, the piece was once
again transported across town by helpful neighbours, to where the merchant’s chapel
waited for it. The piece was unveiled to great acclaim from all gathered (and,
thanks to the merchant, the crowd was not inconsiderable). All praised the
skill with which it had been crafted, for while the features could perhaps have
been more deftly defined by a more prestigious carver, none could deny that the
face smiling perfectly down from the wood was Nalgi. To even look upon her
features was to feel the thousand tiny kindnesses that had gone into its
carving, and all left the gathering praising the artist and the merchant who
commissioned the piece. Woodcarver and merchant both went to sleep happy,
knowing that they had brought something splendid into the world.
I wish
I could say that the story ended there. But the merchant lived for many years
more, and the years brought about a change in his character. He visited less
and less the chapel of Nalgi, and more and more the vault where his money was
kept. He became greedy and envious, and one day noticed construction happening
on his neighbour’s property.
“Ho
there, sir!” he called from the gate. “What is it that you build there?”
“A
chapel!” came the reply from his neighbour, who was overseeing the proceedings.
“I mean to honour Plouta, the goddess of wealth, for all that she has brought
me!”
And
though the merchant outwardly expressed his delight, and promised to come to
see the chapel when it was at last completed, he took note of the expensive
materials being used and the skill of the craftsmen employed, and felt a slow
warmth spreading across his cheeks. He hastened back to his own chapel and
stared up at the smiling face of Nalgi which had been carven for him,
forgetting even to kneel and give her greeting, and instead saying to himself,
“How shabby Nalgi is looking these days. See how her paint begins to peel, and
how poorly she is adorned. I have more wealth now than once I did; I should use
it to improve the statue, to make it more beautiful still, that it might
inspire all who see it to even greater acts of kindness.”
And so,
as his neighbour’s chapel began to take shape, he too began to renovate. He had
beautiful bracelets and rings imported from far-off lands, and had a new robe
fashioned from expensive silk. He brought in diamonds and precious stones and vivid
paints, and once everything was gathered, he began to improve his statue.
First,
he scrubbed away the fading colour on her limbs and face, and paid a customer’s
son who was skilled with a brush to put on a fresh coat in a dazzling colour
made rare by the fact that its preparation involved the use of dangerous poisons,
and inevitably harmed those forced to brew it. He removed the various simple homemade
bracelets which adorned her arms, and which had been given to the woodcarver by
friends in thanks for past kindnesses. These he threw away, and replaced with
elegant circles of ivory and gold, which glittered cold and untouchable against
her glistening arms. The rough gown he tore from her shoulders, and replaced
with a new, more fashionable garment. Lastly, he gazed with a frown upon her
face, still smiling down at him, and thought to himself until he had an idea. Smiling
with delight, he rushed off to contact a jeweler he knew.
Two
weeks later, his neighbour unveiled his beautiful temple to Plouta. There was
much admiration and many compliments, for the statue was very beautiful, and
richly adorned, and all agreed that there was no better representation of
wealth to be seen for hundreds of miles. And then, as the crowd began to
depart, some recalled the beautiful statue of Nalgi housed in the chapel next
door which they had seen many years before, and wondered whether it was as
lovely and perfect as they remembered. And a handful of them went next door and
knocked, and the merchant answered readily, dressed in his finery, as if he had
expected them. And he led them, beaming, to the chapel, and threw open the door
with a flourish, and revealed to them the goddess of kindness, and mistook
their gasps for delight.
Shortly
afterwards, once his guests had stammered their excuses and departed, he gazed
up at what he had made, and thought upon how much improved Nalgi had become
from the simple carving she had been in earlier days, and how the course of his
own successful life was to be traced in her progression to the radiant being
smiling down at him with her diamond teeth. He smiled back, and went to bed,
getting up twice in the night to visit the chapel and stroke the fine silk gown
of the sparkling wonder which dwelt there.
And
over the coming months he visited the chapel more and more, more than ever he
had visited even when the statue was new. And he sometimes fancied that he
heard movement from the chapel when no one was in it, and sometimes imagined
that he saw diamond teeth gleaming in the darkness of his bedroom, but set
these fanciful notions aside with a laugh and a shudder.
Then,
one night, an alarum was made throughout the town, and the villagers rushed
outside to find the merchant’s home consumed in a fiery blaze, and the chapel
with it. And, armed with buckets and axes, they first attempted to gain access
to the mansion to save the merchant, but finding it impossible, they turned
instead to the chapel, to see if they couldn’t at least salvage the costly
statue; but this, too they found impossible, so fierce were the flames. And by
dawn all that was left was a blackened patch of earth, smoking in a morning
rain.
And the
old woodcarver shook his head when he heard that his work had been destroyed,
but not too sadly, as he knew that such a tragedy would move the villagers to further
acts of kindness, and Nalgi’s presence in the world would be, if anything,
increased by the statue’s loss. Still, he decided to walk to the spot where his
carving had been housed, to remember. And on his way he passed three
sinister-looking men carrying behind them a cart covered in a tarpaulin. And
for one moment only the tarpaulin was shifted by the breeze, and the woodcarver
caught sight of a hideous face leering out at him with jewelled eyes and sharp
diamond teeth, and he recoiled in horror at what he saw, but mercifully
recognized nothing of his own craftsmanship in the thing. And then the face was
hastily covered again by one of the three villains, who glared malevolently at
the woodcarver before moving on again. And the woodcarver walked on as well,
thinking to himself, “I shall have to mention to the gods of greed and jealousy
that I believe I saw them today. They love hearing such things.”
