Small Gods (27 page)

“What, lolling around all day while slaves do the real work? Take it from me, whenever you see a bunch of buggers puttering around talking about truth and beauty and the best way of attacking Ethics, you can bet your sandals it’s because dozens of other poor buggers are doing all the real work around the place while those fellows are living like—”

“—gods?” said Brutha.

There was a terrible silence.

“I was going to say kings,” said Om, reproachfully.

“They sound a bit like gods.”

“Kings,” said Om emphatically.

“Why do people need gods?” Brutha persisted.

“Oh, you’ve
got
to have gods,” said Om, in a hearty, no-nonsense voice.

“But it’s
gods
that need
people
,” said Brutha. “To do the believing. You said.”

Om hesitated. “Well, okay,” he said. “But people have got to believe in something. Yes? I mean, why else does it thunder?”

“Thunder,” said Brutha, his eyes glazing slightly, “I don’t—

“—is caused by clouds banging together; after the lightning stroke, there is a hole in the air, and thus the sound is engendered by the clouds rushing to fill the hole and colliding, in accordance with strict cumulodynamic principles.”

“Your voice goes funny when you’re quoting,” said Om. “What does engendered mean?”

“I don’t know. No one showed me a dictionary.”

“Anyway, that’s just an explanation,” said Om. “It’s not a
reason
.”

“My grandmother said thunder was caused by the Great God Om taking his sandals off,” said Brutha. “She was in a funny mood that day. Nearly smiled.”

“
Metaphorically
accurate,” said Om. “But I never did thundering. Demarcation, see. Bloody I’ve got-a-big-hammer Blind Io up on Nob Hill does all the thundering.”

“I thought you said there were hundreds of thunder gods,” said Brutha.

“Yeah. And he’s all of ’em. Rationalization. A couple of tribes join up, they’ve both got thunder gods, right?
And the gods kind of run together—you know how amoebas split?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s like that, only the other way.”

“I still don’t see how one god can be a hundred thunder gods. They all look different…”

“False noses.”

“What?”

“And different voices. I happen to know Io’s got seventy different hammers. Not common knowledge, that. And it’s just the same with mother goddesses. There’s only one of ’em. She just got a lot of wigs and of course it’s amazing what you can do with a padded bra.”

There was absolute silence in the desert. The stars, smeared slightly by high-altitude moisture, were tiny, motionless rosettes.

Away toward what the Church called the Top Pole, and which Brutha was coming to think of as the Hub, the sky flickered.

Brutha put Om down, and laid Vorbis on the sand.

Absolute silence.

Nothing for miles, except what he had brought with him. This must have been how the prophets felt, when they went into the desert to find…whatever it was they found, and talk to…whoever they talked to.

He heard Om, slightly peevish, say: “People’ve got to believe in something. Might as well be gods. What else is there?”

Brutha laughed.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t think I believe in anything any more.”

“Except me!”

“Oh, I
know
you exist,” said Brutha. He felt Om relax a little. “There’s something about tortoises. Tortoises I
can believe in. They seem to have a lot of existence in one place. It’s gods in general I’m having difficulty with.”

“Look, if people stop believing in gods, they’ll believe in anything,” said Om. “They’ll believe in young Urn’s steam ball. Anything at all.”

“Hmm.”

A green glow in the sky indicated that the light of dawn was chasing frantically after its sun.

Vorbis groaned.

“I don’t know why he won’t wake up,” said Brutha. “I can’t find any broken bones.”

“How do you know?”

“One of the Ephebian scrolls was all about bones. Can’t you do anything for him?”

“Why?”

“You’re a god.”

“Well, yes. If I was strong enough, I could probably strike him with lightning.”

“I thought Io did the lightning.”

“No, just the thunder. You’re allowed to do as much lightning as you like but you have to contract for the thundering.”

Now the horizon was a broad golden band.

“How about rain?” said Brutha. “How about something
useful?
”

A line of silver appeared at the bottom of the gold. Sunlight was racing towards Brutha.

“That was a very hurtful remark,” said the tortoise. “A remark calculated to wound.”

In the rapidly growing light Brutha saw one of the rock islands a little way off. Its sand-blasted pillars offered nothing but shade, but shade, always available in
large quantities in the depths of the Citadel, was now in short supply here.

“Caves?” said Brutha.

“Snakes.”

“But still caves?”

“In conjunction with snakes.”

“Poisonous snakes?”

“Guess.”

The
Unnamed Boat
clipped along gently, the wind filling Urn’s robe attached to a mast made out of bits of the sphere’s framework bound together with Simony’s sandal thongs.

“I think I know what went wrong,” said Urn. “A mere overspeed problem.”

“Overspeed? We left the water!” said Simony.

“It needs some sort of governor device,” said Urn, scratching a design on the side of the boat. “Something that’d open the valve if there was too much steam. I think I could do something with a pair of revolving balls.”

“It’s funny you should say that,” said Didactylos. “When I felt us leave the water and the sphere exploded I distinctly felt my—”

“That bloody thing nearly killed us!” said Simony.

“So the next one will be better,” said Urn, cheerfully. He scanned the distant coastline.

“Why don’t we land somewhere along here?” he said.

“The desert coast?” said Simony. “What for? Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, easy to lose your way. Omnia’s the only destination in this wind. We can land this side of the city. I know people. And those people know people. All across Omnia, there’s people who know people. People who believe in the Turtle.”

“You know, I never meant for people to
believe
in the Turtle,” said Didactylos unhappily. “It’s just a big turtle. It just exists. Things just happen that way. I don’t think the Turtle gives a damn. I just thought it might be a good idea to write things down and explain things a bit.”

“People sat up all night, on guard, while other people made copies,” said Simony, ignoring him. “Passing them from hand to hand! Everyone making a copy and passing it on! Like a fire spreading underground!”

“Would this be
lots
of copies?” said Didactylos cautiously.

“Hundreds! Thousands!”

“I suppose it’s too late to ask for, say, a five percent royalty?” said Didactylos, looking hopeful for a moment. “No. Probably out of the question, I expect. No. Forget I even asked.”

A few flying fish zipped out of the waves, pursued by a dolphin.

“Can’t help feeling a bit sorry for that young Brutha,” said Didactylos.

“Priests are expendable,” said Simony. “There’s too many of them.”

“He had all our books,” said Urn.

“He’ll probably float with all that knowledge in him,” said Didactylos.

“He was mad, anyway,” said Simony. “I saw him whispering to that tortoise.”

“I wish we still had it. There’s good eating on one of those things,” said Didactylos.

It wasn’t much of a cave, just a deep hollow carved by the endless desert winds and, a long time ago, even by water. But it was enough.

Brutha knelt on the stony floor and raised the rock over his head.

There was a buzzing in his ears and his eyeballs felt as though they were set in sand. No water since sunset and no food for a hundred years. He had to do it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and brought the rock down.

The snake had been watching him intently but in its early-morning torpor it was too slow to dodge. The cracking noise was a sound that Brutha knew his conscience would replay to him, over and over again.

“Good,” said Om, beside him. “Now skin it, and don’t waste the juice. Save the skin, too.”

“I didn’t want to do it,” said Brutha.

“Look at it this way,” said Om, “if you’d walked in the cave without me to warn you, you’d be lying on the floor now with a foot the size of a wardrobe. Do unto others before they do unto you.”

“It’s not even a very big snake,” said Brutha.

“And then while you’re writhing there in indescribable agony, you imagine all the things you would have done to that damn snake if you’d got to it first,” said Om. “Well, your wish has been granted. Don’t give any to Vorbis,” he added.

“He’s running a bad fever. He keeps muttering.”

“Do you really think you’ll get him back to the Citadel and they’ll believe you?” said Om.

“Brother Nhumrod always said I was very truthful,” said Brutha. He smashed the rock on the cave wall to create a crude cutting edge, and gingerly started dismembering the snake. “Anyway, there isn’t anything else I can do. I couldn’t just leave him.”

“Yes you could,” said Om.

“To die in the desert?”

“Yes. It’s easy. Much easier than
not
leaving him to die in the desert.”

“No.”

“This is how they do things in Ethics, is it?” said Om sarcastically.

“I don’t know. It’s how I’m doing it.”

The
Unnamed Boat
bobbed in a gully between the rocks. There was a low cliff beyond the beach. Simony climbed back down it, to where the philosophers were huddling out of the wind.

“I know this area,” he said. “We’re a few miles from the village where a friend lives. All we have to do is wait till nightfall.”

“Why’re you doing all this?” said Urn. “I mean, what’s the point?”

“Have you ever heard of a country called Istanzia?” said Simony. “It wasn’t very big. It had nothing anyone wanted. It was just a place for people to live.”

“Omnia conquered it fifteen years ago,” said Didactylos.

“That’s right. My country,” said Simony. “I was just a kid then. But I won’t forget. Nor will others. There’s lots of people with a reason to hate the Church.”

“I saw you standing close to Vorbis,” said Urn. “
I
thought you were protecting him.”

“Oh, I was, I was,” said Simony. “I don’t want anyone to kill him before I do.”

Didactylos wrapped his toga around himself and shivered.

The sun was riveted to the copper dome of the sky. Brutha dozed in the cave. In his own corner, Vorbis tossed and turned.

Om sat waiting in the cave mouth.

Waited expectantly.

Waited in dread.

And
they
came.

They came out from under scraps of stone, and from cracks in the rock. They fountained up from the sand, they distilled out of the wavering sky. The air was filled with their voices, as faint as the whispering of gnats.

Om tensed.

The language he spoke was not like the language of the high gods. It was hardly language at all. It was a mere modulation of desires and hungers, without nouns and with only a few verbs.

…Want…

Om replied,
mine
.

There were thousands of them. He was stronger, yes, he had a believer, but they filled the sky like locusts. The longing poured down on him with the weight of hot lead. The only advantage, the
only
advantage, was that the small gods had no concept of working together. That was a luxury that came with evolution.

…Want…

Mine!

The chittering became a whine.

But you can have the other one, said Om…. Dull, hard, enclosed, shut-in…

I know, said Om. But this one,
mine!

The psychic shout echoed around the desert. The small gods fled.

Except for one.

Om was aware that it had not been swarming with the others, but had been hovering gently over a piece of sun-bleached bone. It had said nothing.

He turned his attention on it.

You.
Mine!

I know, said the small god. It knew speech, real god speech, although it talked as though every word had been winched from the pit of memory.

Who are you? said Om.

The small god stirred.

There was a city once, said the small god. Not just a city. An empire of cities. I, I, I remember there were canals, and gardens. There was a lake. They had floating gardens on the lake, I recall. I, I. And there were temples. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory.

Om felt sick. This wasn’t just a small god. This was a small god who hadn’t always been small…

Who were you?

And there were temples. I, I, me. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. The glory of. Thousands were sacrificed. Me. To the greater glory.

And there were temples. Me, me, me. Greater glory. Such glory temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid dream temples that reached to the sky. Me, me. Sacrificed. Dream. Thousands were sacrificed. To me the greater sky glory.

You were their God? Om managed.

Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory.

Can you hear me?

Thousands sacrificed greater glory. Me, me, me.

What was your name? shouted Om.

Name?

A hot wind blew over the desert, shifting a few grains of sand. The echo of a lost god blew away, tumbling over and over, until it vanished among the rocks.

Who were you?

There was no answer.

That’s what happens, Om thought. Being a small god was bad, except at the time you hardly knew that it was bad because you only barely knew anything at all, but all the time there was something which was just possibly the germ of hope, the knowledge and belief that one day you might be more than you were now.