Small Gods

Brutha walked along in silence. There was a glimmer of frost on the dunes.

‘Have you ever heard’, he said, ‘of Ethics?’

‘Somewhere in Howondaland, isn’t it?’

‘The Ephebians were very interested in it.’

‘Probably thinking about invading.’

‘They seemed to think about it a lot.’

‘Long-term strategy, maybe.’

‘I don’t think it’s a place, though. It’s more to do with how people live.’

‘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 towards 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.’