Small Gods

In his box, Om looked at the shape of Brutha’s mind. Then he tried to think quickly.

‘No,’ he said, and that at least was the truth. Had this ever happened before?

Had it been like this back in the first days? It must have been. It was all so hazy now. He couldn’t remember the thoughts he’d had then, just the shape of the thoughts. Everything had been highly coloured, everything had been growing every day — he had been growing every day; thoughts and the mind that was thinking them were developing at the same speed. Easy to forget things from those times. It was like a fire trying to remember the shape of its flames. But the feeling — he could remember that.

He wasn’t doing anything to Brutha. Brutha was doing it to himself. Brutha was beginning to think in godly ways. Brutha was starting to become a prophet.

Om wished he had someone to talk to. Someone who understood.

This was Ephebe, wasn’t it? Where people made a living trying to understand?

The Omnians were to be housed in little rooms around a central courtyard. There was a fountain in the middle, in a very small grove of sweet-smelling pine trees. The soldiers nudged one another. People think that professional soldiers think a lot about fighting, but serious professional soldiers think a lot more about food and a warm place to sleep, because these are two things that are generally hard to get, whereas fighting tends to turn up all the time.

There was a bowl of fruit in Brutha’s cell, and a plate of cold meat. But first things first. He fished the God out of the box.

‘There’s fruit,’ he said. ‘What’re these berries?’

‘Grapes,’ said Om. ‘Raw material for wine.’

‘You mentioned that word before. What does it mean?’

There was a cry from outside.

‘Brutha!’

‘That’s Vorbis. I’ll have to go.’

Vorbis was standing in the middle of his cell.

‘Have you eaten anything?’ he demanded.

‘No, lord.’

‘Fruit and meat, Brutha. And this is a fast day. They seek to insult us!’

‘Um. Perhaps they don’t know that it is a fast day?’ Brutha hazarded.

‘Ignorance is itself a sin,’ said Vorbis.

‘Ossory VII, verse 4,’ said Brutha automatically.

Vorbis smiled and patted Brutha’s shoulder.

‘You are a walking book, Brutha. The Septateuch perambulatus.’

Brutha looked down at his sandals.

He’s right, he thought. And I had forgotten. Or at least, not wanted to remember.

And then he heard his own thoughts echoed back to him: it’s fruit and meat and bread, that’s all. That’s all it is. Fast days and feast days and Prophets’ Days and bread days … who cares? A God whose only concern about food now is that it’s low enough to reach?

I wish he wouldn’t keep patting my shoulder.

Vorbis turned away.

‘Shall I remind the others?’ Brutha said.

‘No. Our ordained brothers will not, of course, require reminding. As for soldiers … a little licence, perhaps, is allowable this far from home …’

Brutha wandered back to his cell.

Om was still on the table, staring fixedly at the melon.

‘I nearly committed a terrible sin,’ said Brutha. ‘I nearly ate fruit on a fruitless day.’

‘That’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing,’ said Om. ‘Now cut the melon.’

‘But it is forbidden!’ said Brutha.

‘No it’s not,’ said Om. ‘Cut the melon.’

‘But it was the eating of fruit that caused passion to invade the world,’ said Brutha.

‘All it caused was flatulence,’ said Om. ‘Cut the melon!’

‘You’re tempting me!’

‘No I’m not. I’m giving you permission. Special dispensation! Cut the damn melon!’

‘Only a bishop or higher is allowed to giv—’ Brutha began. And then he stopped.

Om glared at him.

‘Yes. Exactly,’ he said. ‘And now cut the melon.’ His tone softened a bit. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I shall declare that it is bread. I happen to be the God in this immediate vicinity. I can call it what I damn well like. It’s bread. Right? Now cut the damn melon.’

‘Loaf,’ corrected Brutha.

‘Right. And give me a slice without any seeds in it.’

Brutha did so, a bit carefully.

‘And eat up quick,’ said Om.

‘In case Vorbis finds us?’

‘Because you’ve got to go and find a philosopher,’ said Om. The fact that his mouth was full didn’t make any difference to his voice in Brutha’s mind. ‘You know, melons grow wild in the wilderness. Not big ones like this. Little green jobs. Skin like leather. Can’t bite through ’em. The years I’ve spent eating dead leaves a goat’d spit out, right next to a crop of melons. Melons should have thinner skins. Remember that.’

‘Find a philosopher?’

‘Right. Someone who knows how to think. Someone who can help me stop being a tortoise.’

‘But … Vorbis might want me.’

‘You’re just going for a stroll. No problem. And hurry up. There’s other gods in Ephebe. I don’t want to meet them right now. Not looking like this.’

Brutha looked panicky.

‘How do I find a philosopher?’ he said.

‘Around here? Throw a brick, I should think.’