Talking Statues

Daphias strode into the open, bustling piazza at the centre of town. The buildings that overlooked the piazza were almost exclusively government buildings, temples, homes of the affluent and influential. Arranged around the piazza, amongst the market stalls and men on soapboxes and dancing girls and browsing townsfolk were many statues. The workmanship of each statue was exquisite and they were very important to Daphias, they were his life work. Daphias was the most famous, most talented sculptor the world had ever seen. His work already adorned not only this piazza but the interiors, balconies and gardens of the piazza’s many significant buildings. It pleased Daphias to know that his work fell daily under the gaze of the most important people of his time. Not so much for the fame and wealth it could bring him, but because it made him feel like a part of history. His work was becoming the background to which significant events unfolded. In spite of his seeming indifference towards power and influence Daphias was exceedingly rich and quite famous. But, despite the vast fortune he had amassed, he still lived in the small and untidy room above his studio in the shabby quarter of town reserved for artists, philosophers and other ne’er-do-wells. Today Daphias had come to the piazza to meet a travelling salesman named Oryl who specialised in artist's tools. As soon as Oryl spotted the sculptor he hurried through the crowds to embrace him. Daphias was his best customer because Daphias was a rich sucker or so Oryl thought. Daphias did freely buy anything from the salesman, hoping that it might bring a new dimension to his sculptures. The sculptor spent money on little else so he saw these spending sprees as a luxury he could well afford and which, after all, may help his work. The salesman in his turn saw the golden opportunity to turn a coin or two. Daphias was led to Oryl’s horse-drawn cart.
“I’ve been saving something special for you, Daphias.” He announced, hopping up onto the cart.
“Oh yes?” Daphias replied. Oryl always said he’d been saving something special. It might have been true of course but Daphias doubted it and didn’t much care. The goods he was shown were always relevant to his work. Oryl clambered down from the cart carrying a wooden box. With a dramatic flourish and a sweep of his cape the salesman opened the box and briskly removed a flat chisel which he waved triumphantly under Daphias’ nose.

When Daphias returned to his studio, his head popping and fizzing with new ideas, his neighbour was waiting for him. Ezra was a philosopher. He’d been blind from birth and, as Ezra put it, had little else to do but think about the way the world was. Ezra called out Daphias’ name as he turned the corner. It had long ceased to amaze the sculptor that the blind man could differentiate the approach of his friends simply by the sounds of their sandals on the cobbled streets. Everyone walked different ways, Ezra was fond of saying, usually adding some kind of philosophical statement about the nature of life.
“How are you, Ezra?” Daphias asked.
“I’m well. How much did you spend?” Ezra asked. Daphias laughed.
“You heard Oryl was in town, then.” Daphias said, “Well, not too much this time. I did get a very exciting flat chisel.”
"What's exciting about it?" Ezra asked. Daphias pulled it out of his bag and caressed it with his fingers. The grip was exceptionally easy to hold and the blade came to so fine a point that it seemed to go on into infinity.
"It's so..." Daphias trailed off and shrugged his shoulders then remembered the blind man couldn't see his gesture, "It will allow me to do detail finer than ever before." Daphias dropped back into silence staring at the flat chisel, his imagination running away from him.
"And I expect you'd like to get started." Ezra said, when the sculptor's silence stretched.

The moon cast a brilliant rectangle on to the floor of Daphias' studio, bathing the thoughtful sculptor in its chilly glow. It was very late. But the sculptor was not thinking about the time. He was pondering the sculpture he had just finished. It was the figure of the charmer goddess, Brizo, and it had been commissioned to stand on one of the corners overlooking the harbour. Daphias had used his new flat chisel to carve Brizo's eyes. It was common practice that statue's eyes weren't carved, sometimes they were painted in afterwards. The tools and skill required to carve a convincing eye were not available. Not until now. Daphias was uneasy. The eyes gave the statue an extra dimension of life. He was sitting on a stool in his workshop at the foot of the statue, a fine brush in his hand. He'd been sweeping the dust away from the figure and had caught the statue's eyes. It had given him quite a shock and he didn't really know why. It was just stone, after all. Just a statue. Plumbing the depths of his courage, Daphias slowly raised his head, letting his gaze slowly travel up the statue. Brizo was barefoot, her weight on one foot, the other foot poking at the folds of her long, heavy cloak. Daphias' gaze drifted upwards. One of her shoulders was cocked up and her cheek rested lightly against it, her hair, adorned with daisies, flowed down her back and over her other shoulder. Daphias was particularly proud of the flowers in her hair and he allowed his gaze to linger over them for a moment before he forced himself to look at the statue's face. A gentle, playful smile was frozen on the statue's lips and her gaze, peeking out from under a fold of hair met Daphias'. She was just a statue. Made of stone. He had to keep reminding himself because the eyes were so real. They hypnotised him. As he had carved them he'd felt somehow as if he were doing something wrong. But it was just stone. Just a statue.

Ezra was waiting inside the studio when Daphias ran inside, slammed the door and leaned back against it as if he was being chased. There was no sound from outside, however, nobody was following the sculptor. Ezra didn't move, his face was wooden as he spoke;
"The light can visionary thoughts impart,
and lead the muse to soothe the suffering heart."
Daphias' expression froze into one of horror and he had to remind himself to start breathing again.
"How did you know?" He gasped.
"Many have heard it, Daphias." Ezra replied, "Do you know what it means?" Daphias' knees gave out and he slid slowly to the ground.
"I heard it." He said, which was no reply but Ezra said nothing. Daphias remembered the ethereal voice floating towards him. Little more than an echo, as if it were a whisper from a long forgotten dream. He'd turned around to see where it was coming from. And there, peeking coyly out from under her hair, was the statue of Brizo.
"Many have heard it." Ezra said again, "What does it mean?"
"How should I know?" Daphias said, clutching at his hair with both hands.
"It's your statue." Ezra pointed out. Daphias stayed silent. It was his statue and it was causing riots in the street. Those who heard the simple rhyme went on to hear other messages. Messages that were meant to guide and comfort, Daphias was certain. The messages told men to follow their hearts; make the world the way they thought it should be; and that they were right do so. But each man's path lead in a different direction and many crossed along the way. One man's path to destiny was another's road to Hell.

Daphias' anger had hit a brick wall and shattered. The sculptor's shoulders sagged as he stood amongst the rubble of his statues, still holding the mallet.
"Eyes are the window to the soul," Ezra said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the heavy silence, "Or so they say."
"Brizo is just a statue." Daphias said, flatly, though he wasn't at all sure he still believed that.
"That's right." Ezra agreed, "So, what do we suppose happens when something with no soul," here he gestured to the lumps of rock strewn around him which he couldn't see but knew were there, "rock, for example, is given eyes so lifelike they could easily be real." Daphias stared at the blind philosopher. The old man had sat quite serenely while Daphias had destroyed his workshop. Now Ezra was speaking as he did when he and his philosopher cronies were discussing the nature of life, the universe and everything. Daphias wanted to scream and shake him, make him understand that the world was making less sense with every moment that rushed past him.
"I don't know, Ezra." Daphias said, instead, "What happens?"
"Well, now," Ezra said, as if Daphias was a keen student who had, against all precedent, asked an intelligent question, "Have the eyes created a soul where there was none before? Have they provided an outlet for souls that roam free? Or has the window become a mirror to our own urges and desires?" Daphias stared blankly at the philosopher. His world was tearing at the seams and Ezra was pondering a pointless question. It didn't matter to Daphias how or why, it just mattered that it had happened.
"I don't know." He said, "Which is it?" Ezra shrugged both shoulders and smiled mischievously.
"Surely, you don't expect a philosopher to give you a straight answer, Daphias."

Daphias stumbled over nothing and landed on his hands and knees under the statue of Brizo. All around him the streets were exploding with self-important rage. Daphias crawled over to the statue's base and pushed himself into the corner where the plinth met the wall. The whispers started to drift around him like tendrils of fog. Daphias clamped both hands over his ears but could still hear the words, muffled and indistinct but still urging him on. All he'd ever wanted was to make the best statues and be remembered. Now he would be remembered. Because he'd created a statue that encouraged all men to pursue their own interests. Which had, inevitably, caused conflict. And nobody would back down. Because Daphias' statue was extremely persuasive and each man was fighting for his passion that the voice in the night had told him was the only Right and True Way. The whispers told Daphias to build more statues that would talk. The whispers assured Daphias it would be alright, he would be remembered. The statues would assure his place in history. But Daphias didn't want to be the Artist Who'd Started A War. He wanted nothing more than to be the man who made history beautiful. He'd imagined that in centuries to come historians would admire his statues. He had never once imagined being the cause of political upheaval. A kind hand rested on his shoulder and Daphias looked up, through the darkening clouds in his consciousness, to see Ezra standing over him.
"The revolution has begun, my old friend." Ezra said. He didn't raise his voice above the sounds of the fighting in distant streets, "Your statue whispered into the ears of men and look what has happened."
"It might have happened anyway." Daphias said, sounding helpless and wretched, "I mean, it... she..." Frowning, the sculptor looked up at his work.
"The chicken or the egg." Ezra agreed, "But the only way to ensure no more eggs is to wring the chicken's neck. Is that not true?" Daphias was still looking up at Brizo, lost in a world of his own. It was a sad, troubled little world. He knew Ezra was right, there was only one way to prevent the statue making things worse. But he didn't want to do it. Daphias remembered smashing all the statues in his workshop in a red fog of rage. But that had been different. Those statues had been unfinished. Daphias knew every fold and wrinkle of each of his statues. He knew them like they were extra limbs. Deciding whether or not to destroy the statue was like contemplating cutting off his own ear. But what choice did he have? It was the statue or the town.
"I haven't brought a mallet." He said, it was just an excuse but Daphias wanted to delay the moment for as long as he could.
"Don't destroy her completely." Ezra said, "It's not her fault." Ezra reached into the leather bag he carried, produced Daphias' flat chisel and held it out. Daphias stared at it. He didn't think that taking Brizo's eyes would be any easier than taking a mallet to her. The statue wouldn't be destroyed but he'd be killing something. He didn't know what that something was, it was the job of Ezra and his friends to figure that out. But it would be gone, whatever it was.
"Daphias." Ezra urged, still holding out the chisel.

The sunset stained the sky purple and poured red light over the rooftop where the blind philosopher and the famous sculptor sat together drinking wine. It was a quiet evening. It wasn't always. Still the revolution raged. It was some time since Daphias had rendered Brizo blind. Tears had streamed down his cheeks as the whispering voice had begged him to reconsider, pleaded for whatever passed as its life. He was its creator, its father, how could he do this... Then the chisel had done its work and the voice had stopped abruptly, so suddenly that it had seemed wrong that the noises of the revolution had continued on in the background. But continue they had. The statue had been silenced but it had been far too late. Ezra often considered Daphias' words under the statue that night. Maybe the revolution had been inevitable and the statue had merely been a catalyst. Or perhaps it never would have happened without Brizo putting ideas into people's heads. Daphias didn't like to talk about it but he continued to produce fine and expressive statues. They remained blind. The strangest incident in their lives was not discussed by anybody. Ezra had tried to speak about it a number of times with his fellow philosophers and in each case was treated like a rather eccentric old man. People blamed many things for the revolution. They said the causes were complex and various. In spite of the number of people who'd heard the whispered guidance of the statue nobody mentioned it. Nobody blamed the statue that still stood overlooking the docks. So, perhaps it wasn't her fault. Perhaps it wasn't Daphias' fault. Perhaps revolutions happened by themselves. Ezra thought it probably didn't matter. It had happened. And now the revolution rolled on without Brizo's intervention and she stood, blind and silent. But, every once in a while, Ezra awoke in the middle of the night and thought he heard a voice speaking two lines of poetry.
"The light can visionary thoughts impart,
and lead the muse to soothe the suffering heart."