The Emperor's Pearl

I

A tall man was lighting a stick of incense on the altar of the River Goddess.

After he had stuck it in the bronze burner, he looked up at the serene face of the life-size statue, lit by the uncertain light of the only oil-lamp that hung from the smoke-blackened rafters of the small shrine. The goddess seemed to smile, faintly.

'Yes, you may well be happy!' the man said bitterly. 'Over in your sacred grove, you took her away from me just when I was about to sprinkle you with her blood. But tonight I have chosen a new victim for you, duly prepared for sacrifice. This time I shall . . .'

He checked himself and cast an anxious glance at the old priest in a tattered brown robe, sitting on the bench at the entrance of the shrine. The priest looked out over the river-bank, gaily decorated with coloured lampions, then bent again over his prayer-book. He paid not the slightest atten­tion to the lonely visitor.

The man looked up once more at the goddess.

The wood of the statue was left plain; the sculptor had cleverly used the grain for accentuating the folds of the robe that descended from her rounded shoulders. She was sitting cross-legged on a many-petalled lotus flower, her left hand resting in her lap, the other raised in a gesture of benediction.

'You are beautiful!' the man whispered hoarsely. Staring intently at the still face above him, he went on: 'Tell me, why must all beauty be evil? Tempting man, enticing him with coy smiles and sidelong glances, then to repel him? Repel him with a contemptuous sneer, break him, then haunt him for ever afterwards . . .?' He clutched at the edge of the altar, a maniacal glint in his distended eyes. 'It is right they are punished,' he muttered angrily. 'It is right that the knife is plunged in their treacherous hearts when they lie, stretched out, naked on the altar before you, right that their . . .'

Suddenly he broke off, startled. He thought he had seen a frown crease the smooth forehead of the goddess, round the pearl gleaming in its centre. Then, with a sigh of relief, he wiped the perspiration from his face. It had been the shadow of a moth, flying past the oil-lamp.

He compressed his lips tightly, cast a dubious glance at the statue, and turned away. He stepped up to the old priest, engrossed in his mumbled prayers. He tapped his thin, bony shoulder.

'Can't you leave your goddess alone tonight, for once?' he asked with forced joviality. 'The dragonboat races will be starting soon. Look, they are lining up the boats already under the marble bridge!' Taking a handful of coppers from his sleeve, he resumed: 'Here, take these and have a good meal in the restaurant over there!'

The old man looked up at him with his tired, red-rimmed eyes. He did not take the coins.

'I can't leave her, sir. She is a vengeful one, she is.'

He bent his grey head again over his prayer-book.

Despite himself the man shivered. Uttering an obscene curse he brushed past the old priest and went down the flight of stone steps leading to the road along the river-bank. He would have to ride back to the city in a hurry, to be there in time for the finish of the boat race.