"Paul felt this figurine was by far the most magnificent he had ever made." page twelve The Magnificent Figurine By Vola Wyatt Paul stood apparently looking at the tiny statue for a long moment, unaware of the shimmering streaks coursing down his rugged features. He had traded figurines for over fifty years. His hands had created each one in the same painstaking and artistic way, yet each one was personal and different. It could have been that he put a little of his own soul into each mute figure, or perhaps as he created them he reproduced in them the personalities of the people he knew and loved. And each one received the same tender vigilance, the same tireless and relentless art that was so typical of Paul. He would spend long laborious hours just on the expression of the faces. Each one must be beautifully perfect. He sat in his booth in the marketplace, his hands working deftly, listening to the nervous, harried voices. It was a boisterous, rough place with shrill-voiced women screeching the virtues of their goods while the cackling of fowl and the call of animals being marketed made hearing almost impossible. Children darted about in filthy, scant clothes, greedily waiting for a chance to steal a mouthful of food from some unwary tradesman. The air was heavy with the odor of too-old wine and greasy, redolent humans. Paul had never had a desire to see these people. He loathed the selfish merchantmen who whipped their slaves and cursed their cattle. They had always had too much bad wine and they spat at the beggars groveling at their feet along the roadside and boasted loudly of their shameful dealings. He was almost satisfied with living in the secluded world that was his the light secluded world of the blind. He pressed the nails of his gifted fingers into the palms of his hands. They were his eyes and they reproduced accurately enough the things he heard. But oh how bitterly he longed to view the world with his unused eyes. Yet he must content himself with using the hands that God had so graciously given him. So he sat in the market place, listening to the voices of the people, trying to create figurines to fit them. It was the softer, mellower voices he listened for. He would single them out of the crowd and try to imagine what their faces were like. Many of these images he gave away, some to sweet-voiced women who breathed, "Oh, they are lovely," and others to children who reached across to them saying, "They are like angels." In a twinkle Paul would be holding one out urging, "Take it; it is yours." There came a day when Paul heard a new voice in the market. It was like none he had ever heard. It seemed to be above worldliness above the squalor and filth surrounding it. It was a powerfully masculine voice endowed with tenderness and affection that held its listeners, full of awe. On and on it went, sinking deeper and deeper into the souls of those seeking the truth. Paul suddenly felt he must see. He must see the owner of this wonderful voice that stirred him so. Here, he knew, was the answer to all that life symbolized, the answer to loneliness and blindness. Paul sat very still, his whole being alive with the thrill the voice brought. He was talking of the brotherhood of man, of little children. Paul was suddenly aware that his hands were working. He could almost believe the clay was alive, that it was a part of this voice that had suddenly hushed the turbulent crowds. He felt this figurine was by far the most magnificent he had ever made. The feel of it in his hands brought to him a thrill like none he had ever known. It was finished now and the voice was fading out of his hearing, but, glorious miracle, it had stopped at the figurine booth. Paul waited not a moment. He thrust the figurine forward crying, "Take it, Master; it is yours." Then, as if from nowhere, someone rudely grabbed the man and Paul heard the precious statuette roll onto the cobblestones. Stunned and confused, he tried desperately to find the lost figurine. The crowd was thinning out as at last his fingers closed around it. There was confusion again in the market when it was found that for the first time in his entire life old Paul could see. They crowded noisily around him asking questions and exclaiming that it was a miracle. "We must celebrate," they cried; but Paul was already on his way to find the man with the wonderful voice. He followed a mob of angry people to a hill perhaps somewhere among them was the man he sought. He searched every face growing more and more anxious; his heart felt heavy and tired. They were punishing three men there on that hill. They had hanged them on crude crosses and left them there to die. The one in the center seemed to be causing the most excitement. It was after the wonderful voice had been silenced and the sweet, humble head hung limp that Paul opened his hand and looked at the figurine. A sob shook his whole body as he saw that the man on the cross had the same hallowed expression, the same beseeching and loving shape as the magnificent figurine. page thirteen