The Perfect Statue

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.”