Small Gods

‘Landed on a pile of dirt in your garden. That’s eagles for you. Whole place built of rock and paved with rock on a big rock and they miss.’

‘That was lucky. Million-to-one chance,’ said Brutha.

‘I never had this trouble when I was a bull. The number of eagles who can pick up a bull, you can count them on the fingers of one head. Anyway,’ said the tortoise, ‘there’s worse here than eagles. There’s a—’

‘There’s good eating on one of them, you know,’ said a voice behind Brutha.

He stood up guiltily, the tortoise in his hand.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Dhblah,’ he said.

Everyone in the city knew Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah, purveyor of suspiciously new holy relics, suspiciously old rancid sweetmeats on a stick, gritty figs and long-past-the-sell-by dates. He was a sort of natural force, like the wind. No one knew where he came from or where he went at night. But he was there every dawn, selling sticky things to the pilgrims. And in this the priests reckoned he was on to a good thing, because most of the pilgrims were coming for the first time and therefore lacked the essential thing you needed in dealing with Dhblah, which was the experience of having dealt with him before. The sight of someone in the Place trying to unstick their jaws with dignity was a familiar one. Many a devout pilgrim, after a thousand miles of perilous journey, was forced to make his petition in sign language.

‘Fancy some sherbet for afters?’ said Dhblah hopefully. ‘Only one cent a glass, and that’s cutting me own hand off.’

‘Who is this fool?’ said Om.

‘I’m not going to eat it,’ said Brutha hurriedly.

‘Going to teach it to do tricks, then?’ said Dhblah cheerfully. ‘Look through hoops, that kind of thing?’

‘Get rid of him,’ said Om. ‘Smite him on the head, why don’t you, and push the body behind the statue.’

‘Shut up,’ said Brutha, beginning to experience once again the problems that occur when you’re talking to someone no one else can hear.

‘No need to be like that about it,’ said Dhblah.

‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Brutha.

‘Talking to the tortoise, were you?’ said Dhblah. Brutha looked guilty.

‘My old mum used to talk to a gerbil,’ Dhblah went on. ‘Pets are always a great help in times of stress. And in times of starvation too, o’course.’

‘This man is not honest,’ said Om. ‘I can read his mind.’

‘Can you?’

‘Can I what?’ said Dhblah. He gave Brutha a lopsided look. ‘Anyway, it’ll be company on your journey.’

‘What journey?’

‘To Ephebe. The secret mission to talk to the infidel.’

Brutha knew he shouldn’t be surprised. News went around the enclosed world of the Citadel like bushfire after a drought.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That journey.’

‘They say Fri’it’s going,’ said Dhblah. ‘And — that other one. The éminence grease.’^{17}

‘Deacon Vorbis is a very nice person,’ said Brutha. ‘He has been very kind to me. He gave me a drink.’

‘What of? Never mind,’ said Dhblah. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t say a word against him, myself,’ he added quickly.

‘Why are you talking to this stupid person?’ Om demanded.

‘He’s a … friend of mine,’ said Brutha.

‘I wish he was a friend of mine,’ said Dhblah. ‘Friends like that, you never have enemies. Can I press you to a candied sultana? Onna stick?’

There were twenty-three other novices in Brutha’s dormitory, on the principle that sleeping alone promoted sin. This always puzzled the novices themselves, since a moment’s reflection would suggest that there were whole ranges of sins only available in company. But that was because a moment’s reflection was the biggest sin of all. People allowed to be by themselves overmuch might indulge in solitary cogitation. It was well known that this stunted your growth. For one thing, it could lead to your feet being chopped off.

So Brutha had to retire to the garden, with his God screaming at him from the pocket of his robe, where it was being jostled by a ball of garden twine, a pair of shears and some loose seeds.

Finally he was fished out.

‘Look, I didn’t have a chance to tell you,’ said Brutha. ‘I’ve been chosen to go on a very important mission. I’m going to Ephebe, on a mission to the infidels. Deacon Vorbis picked me. He’s my friend.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s the chief exquisitor. He … makes sure you’re worshipped properly.’

Om picked up the hesitation in Brutha’s voice, and remembered the grating. And the sheer busyness below …

‘He tortures people,’ he said coldly.

‘Oh, no! The inquisitors do that. They work very long hours for not much money, too, Brother Nhumrod says. No, the exquisitors just … arrange matters. Every inquisitor wants to become an exquisitor one day, Brother Nhumrod says. That’s why they put up with being on duty at all hours. They go for days without sleep, sometimes.’

‘Torturing people,’ mused the God. No, a mind like that one in the garden wouldn’t pick up a knife. Other people would do that. Vorbis would enjoy other methods.

‘Letting out the badness and the heresy in people,’ said Brutha.

‘But people … perhaps … don’t survive the process?’