BY DR. AGONSON
The weeping idol, made of once polished bronze, stood glimmering through the grime and algae as a lone ray of daylight shot in through the cracked, stone roof and struck the forgotten fetish. Green stains of sick growth marked the twin paths of tears which flowed from its eyes. The explorer halted. His splashing feet stopped. He held his breath. All one could hear were the tears of the temple, like trees after the rain, a continual drip-drop echoing throughout the forsaken structure.
“And why does the god weep?” the man wondered.
Hidden in a cliff behind a waterfall, the god had wept alone for countless centuries, forgotten save that a few native legends were told by peoples who did not understand their meaning. But John had understood, even while his professor made vapid notes about the worship of a rain deity. He had taken their words at face value when they spoke of a people who had lost their temple in a storm and were then conquered by their neighbors, enslaved and killed, their names forgotten.
Looking into the idol’s face, he somehow knew, though he could not put it into words, the deep sorrow there. This primitive art, not yet overcome by the grotesque style which mainly ruled the religious totems of the surrounding region, was very human. Though the face was enlarged so that the little arms and legs looked almost vestigial, it was not, John thought, the face of a demon.
Still the mystery remained as to why and how a cult would form around sorrow. The people had been dispersed, yes, but the temple had been built before then, their weeping god erected ere their great calamity called for such an image.
What, he wondered, had set this people mourning?
He would never know, the answer had been lost, but he knew that there had to be something.
The moment ends, and he lets out his breath. Into the forgotten sanctum, he stomps. The floor, slick with slime, a dark, green carpet radiating from the idolāhis foot slips, but he does not fall as he approaches the weeping figure.
The idol’s hands hold a small bowl brimming with its tears. He stares into the plate and wonders at the darkness there. There, in the glassy water, his face reflected, he pounders the bearded man below. He has not seen his face, seen a mirror, for more than a year. In the bowl, the hard lines of his sins are like black stains.
It was brought to his mind, suddenly, all the lies he had told, the money he had stolen, the man he had killed. It was all written there on his face. Fear! how could the world not know what he was? But the first shock of it faded, the fear dissolved, and he smiled, a wicked smile. He thought of the clean shaven boy who had first believed this legend. He preferred the bearded man.
And the idol wept.
Tale Told 