occurances, as Wesh well knew, are not wholly sane; but when he considered the only alternative to his own madness, he fervently hoped he was going mad. Bricks should not smell of leather and mould, bricks should never arrange themselves with such damnable suggestiveness, until they cannot be discerned from rows and rows of dusty books whose bestial characters Wesh now was very glad he could not read. An ivory daemon on the counter leered at him…
That same morning, four sealed jars from the shop of Getech came into the possession of a prominent merchant of Celephais who fancied himself a connoisseur of old wines and hoped by this purchase to add something diverting to his cellars. There was some unpleasantness when his servants effected an opening of one of the jars.
CHAPTER X
The Maker of Gods
It should also be said of the shop of Getech, that in the left-hand window long sat, and perhaps is sitting still, a last uncollected masterpiece by none other than Yah-Vho. It is a little idol in jade, with two eyes; the crowning achievement of his early anthropomorphic period. In his modest studio in a by-way of Nithy-Vash, Yah-Vho lived and worked for years and years; and the lava-carvers of Ngranek knew of him, and wept.
Yah-Vho, who made many gods, worshipped only Yop, a little idol he had carved in his own image out of diorite. But Sthood was an idol altogether too horrible to be worshipped by men. His priesthood had been initiated solely to prevent men from offering prayers to Sthood, lest Sthood be wakened by their prayers, and perform a miracle. Sthood had performed only three miracles since he was carved out of sandstone, concerning which no records survive; but the last was to create men. But Zith was not adverse to extortion, and knew that it would be worth much to the priests of Sthood to keep silent the prayers of Zith.
So he put on soft slippers and pittered out under the stars, from shadow to shadow up the cobbled lane, till he came to the temple of Sthood; and entered to see that god dreaming like an onion, on the high sheer pedestal where no prayers reach, where Sthood had dreamed five million years before men came and built his temple around him, and where, if the prayers of men are heeded, he would dream five million more. And Zith quietly strangled the priest whose duty it was to see that none offered prayers to Sthood. Then uncoiling that slender rope with the hook on the end, he cast the hook neatly about the lumpy throat of Sthood, nimbly he leapt up the rope. And that bulbous idol reeled forward beneath the weight of the thief…
And things might have gone less badly for Zith had he been slower to spring away when that toppled idol crashed to the brazen flags, for then he would never have had to meet those whom the sartled echoes had summoned. They did with that unhappy thief that which is better not to tell; and afterwards shut themselves away all night with the strangled priest and some pieces of Sthood, to cast certain dreadful runes and recall their god’s soul from the abyss whither it had flown; and in the morning went to see Yah-Vho.
They found him sweeping clouds of powdered marbles and flecks of gems out of his modest studio. And what gods had sprung from the marbles and gems whose sparkling dust it was, who knoweth? He laid aside his broom, and they spread before him a roll of new parchment disturbingly shaped like Zith, whereon were traced the outrageous lineaments of the god which Yah-Vho was to carve.
And Yah-Vho explained to them how it was not fashionable in that part of the Dreamlands for an idol to look so like an onion as theirs; and the priests pointed again to their plan. Again Yah-Vho looked at the plan, and frowned; but said that eyes were just the thing, pointing out that he had instock just then a few suitable emeralds.* And they said that for Sthood to have eyes was unheard of, and muttered terrible things against emeralds. Then he asked what sort of stone, and they said sandstone. And Yah-Vho resumed his sweeping to show that the audience was over, because he could not adequately express his contempt for worshippers of an idol of that sort. And they named a certain figure, in opals.
*His imitations in paste defy detection; they are classic, the model offered to students of the art.
So Yah-Vho procured what was necessary. And on the following morning those three high priests returned, all in their figured robes, with tripods and charcoal braziers and wonderful resins. But the strangled priest who came in behind the subservient high priest wore no robe, and the body was ill-suited to its hideous soul. Yah-Vho was not happy about the knavish eyes he perceived were watching him through holes the ill-fitting soul had rubbed in the body; but the body’s eyes regarded him not at all, having already been hooked out to accomedate that terrible soul. But this was none of Yah-Vho’s affair. He mounted the step-ladder and began vigorously to chip away the stone that imprisoned Sthood; and the high priests chanted, “O Sthood, Sthood,” and burned their wonderful resins.
And every evening just as the stars came out they left that modest studio, and every morning just as the stars began to pale they came quietly back to resume their chanting, and always that strangled priest followed them. And whether Yah-Vho worked that day or whether he worked not, the high priests came and chanted all the same.
Now the clientele of any reputable idol-carver are by nature given to such practices, and to discourage them is not good business. But after the first week Yah-Vho came to suspect an ulterior motive for burning the wonderful resins; for the strangled priest had a bad way with the air which it must have seemed expedient to conceal, lest someone ask pointed questions.
But it would not be fair to Yah-Vho to write that ever he came to regret a bargain from mere squeamishness. The limitations of sandstone were starting to chafe him. Yah-Vho had his little ways with gold, could hollow it and weight it with just the exact amount of lead; but with sandstone you could overcharge and no more, and Yah-Vho considered that the high priests were cheating him of his rightful profits. And their demands upon his time could only be hurtful to business. Who now would finish the little jasper image of Mup? The acolytes of Tamash would come for the six golden attendant daemons of Tamash, and how would it be if they found their daemons without eyes? The iconoclasts continued to blackmail him, and what tasks could he set them now? And the dull orange dust of Sthood choked him and turned the beaded sweat of his brow to blood, and clouded forever after the flecks of gem that had sparkled in Yah-Vho’s black beard.
Thrice in the midst of his labours he turned and threw his chisel at their heads, crying out that their parsimonious opals were not adequate to the magnitude of his effort; and thrice the high priests only smiled, cheerfully agreeing to raise their figure. They only smiled, but almost Yah-Vho detected something unpleasant about their smiles. And when he saw that they intended to answer his every demand with those same smiles, he wept and prophesied ruin.
Upon a day the last deft touches were put to that hateful idol. Yah-Vho, soothed somewhat by the completion of his task and the promise of opals, covered his handiwork with a sheet, and went down to the wine shops of the city to wash the dust from his throat. The high priests watched him go, and smiled.
And a little while past midnight, three high priests and a strangled priest slipped out of the darkened temple of Sthood, observed only by the Moon; and stepping very carefully around the rectangles of yellow lamplight that fell from the shaded windows, made their stealthy way to Yah-Vho’s modest studio. After several hours only the high priests went away, holding folded handkerchiefs over their noses.
When the maker of gods left the wine shops in the small dark hours of morning, and returned to his modest studio, he found first the broken lock on his doorstep, and then the door creaking subtly open. Three pairs of sandalled feet had tracked a foulness across the floor of that evil-smelling studio, and out into the night; someone had taken the sheet off that hateful idol, and tried to hide that noxious spreading puddle on the floor. Three trails led away, but that sinister bulge under the sheet might almost have suggested human bones. Very carefully, with thumb and forefinger, Yah-Vho drew back one corner of the sheet… Then he turned, and almost dropped his lamp.
For Yah-Vho knew that there is something very wrong with any image whose bulbous stone is noisomely soft and plump, wholly unlike what one comes to expect of sandstone; the ring of fleshy pink horns about the mouth glistened moistly, and something wet dribbled down the neck. And Yah-Vho turned to run.
But Yah-Vho did not turn quickly enough, and his tiny incessant screams continued for many minutes after the idol proceeded to devour him.
