Small Gods

The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel.

It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn’t find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green.

Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om.

There is also a hell for tortoises.

He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.

You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died.

In the part of his mind not occupied with thoughts of heat, he could feel Brutha’s terror and bewilderment. He shouldn’t have done that to the boy. Of course he hadn’t been watching him. What god did that? Who cared what people did? Belief was the thing. He’d just picked the memory out of the boy’s mind, to impress, like a conjuror removing an egg from someone’s ear.

I’m on my back, and getting hotter, and I’m going to die …

And yet … and yet … that bloody eagle had dropped him on a compost heap. Some kind of clown, that eagle. A whole place built of rocks on a rock in a rocky place, and he landed on the one thing that’d break his fall without breaking him as well. And really close to a believer.

Odd, that. Made you wonder if it wasn’t some kind of divine providence, except that you were divine providence … and on your back, getting hotter, preparing to die …

That man who’d turned him over. That expression on that mild face. He’d remember that. That expression, not of cruelty, but of some different level of being. That expression of terrible peace …

A shadow crossed the sun. Om squinted up into the face of Lu-Tze, who gazed at him with gentle, upside-down compassion. And then turned him the right way up. And then picked up his broom and wandered off, without a second glance.

Om sagged, catching his breath. And then brightened up.

Someone up there likes me, he thought. And it’s Me.

Sergeant Simony waited until he was back in his own quarters before he unfolded his own scrap of paper.

He was not at all surprised to find it marked with a small drawing of a turtle. He was the lucky one.

He’d lived for a moment like this. Someone had to bring back the writer of the Truth, to be a symbol for the movement. It had to be him. The only shame was that he couldn’t kill Vorbis.

But that had to happen where it could be seen.

One day. In front of the Temple. Otherwise no one would believe.

Om stumped along a sandy corridor.

He’d hung around a while after Brutha’s disappearance. Hanging around is another thing tortoises are very good at. They’re practically world champions.

Bloody useless boy, he thought. Served himself right for trying to talk to a barely coherent novice.

Of course, the skinny old one hadn’t been able to hear him. Nor had the chef. Well, the old one was probably deaf. As for the cook … Om made a note that, when he was restored to his full godly powers, a special fate was going to lie in wait for the cook. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was going to be, but it was going to involve boiling water and probably carrots would come into it somewhere.

He enjoyed the thought of that for a moment. But where did it leave him? It left him in this wretched garden, as a tortoise. He knew how he’d got in — he glared in dull terror at the tiny dot in the sky that the eye of memory knew was an eagle — and he’d better find a more terrestrial way out unless he wanted to spend the next month hiding under a melon leaf.

Another thought struck him. Good eating!

When he had his power again, he was going to spend quite some time devising a few new hells. And a couple of fresh Precepts, too. Thou shalt not eat of the Meat of the Turtle. That was a good one. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before. Perspective, that’s what it was.

And if he’d thought of one like Thou Shalt Bloody Well Pick up Any Distressed Tortoises and Carry Them Anywhere They Want Unless, And This is Important, You’re an Eagle a few years ago, he wouldn’t be in this trouble now.

Nothing else for it. He’d have to find the Cenobiarch himself. Someone like a High Priest would be bound to be able to hear him.

And he’d be in this place somewhere. High Priests tended to stay put. He should be easy enough to find. And while he might currently be a tortoise, Om was still a god. How hard could it be?

He’d have to go upwards. That’s what a hierarchy meant. You found the top man by going upwards.

Wobbling slightly, his shell jerking from side to side, the former Great God Om set off to explore the citadel erected to his greater glory.

He couldn’t help noticing things had changed a lot in three thousand years.

‘Me?’ said Brutha. ‘But, but—’

‘I don’t believe he means to punish you,’ said Nhumrod. ‘Although punishment is what you richly deserve, of course. We all richly deserve,’ he added piously.

‘But why?’