Small Gods

“No help,” said Brutha, firmly.

“What?” said Simony. “We'll need a mighty army against that lot!”

“Yes. And we haven't got one. So we'll do it another way.”

“You're crazy!”

Brutha's calmness was like a desert.

“This may be the case.”

“We have to fight!”

“Not yet.”

Simony clenched his fists in anger.

“Look . . . listen . . . We died for lies, for centuries we died for lies.” He waved a hand towards the god. “Now we've got a truth to die for!”

“No. Men should die for lies. But the truth is too precious to die for.”

Simony's mouth opened and shut soundlessly as he sought for words. Finally, he found some from the dawn of his education.

“I was told it was the finest thing to die for a god,” he mumbled.

"Vorbis said that. And he was . . . stupid. You can die for your country or your people or your family,

but for a god you should live fully and busily, every day of along life."

“And how long is that going to be?”

“We shall see.”

Brutha looked up at Om.

“You will not show yourself like this again?”

Chap. III v. I. No. Once Is Enough.

“Remember the desert.”

II. I Will Remember.

“Walk with me.”

Brutha went over to the body of Vorbis and picked it up.

“I think,” he said, “that they will land on the beach on the Ephebian side of the forts. They won't use the rock shore and they can't use the cliffs. I'll meet them there.” He glanced down at Vorbis. “Someone should.”

“You can't mean you want to go by yourself?”

“Ten thousand won't be sufficient. One might be enough.”

He walked down the steps.

Urn and Simony watched him go.

“He's going to die,” said Simony. “He won't even be a patch of grease on the sand.” He turned to Om. “Can you stop him?”

III. It May Be That I Cannot.

Brutha was already halfway across the Place.

“Well, we're not deserting him,” said Simony.

IV. Good.

Om watched them go, too. And then he was alone, except for the thousands watching him, crammed around the edges of the great square. He wished he knew what to say to them. That's why he needed people like Brutha. That's why all gods needed people like Brutha.

“Excuse me?”

The god looked down.

V. Yes?

“Um. I can't sell you anything, can I?”

VI. What Is Your Name?

“Dhblah, god.”

VII. Ah, Yes. And What Is It You Wish?

The merchant hopped anxiously from one foot to the other.

“You couldn't manage just a small commandment? Something about eating yoghurt on Wednesdays, say? It's always very difficult to shift, midweek.”

VIII. You Stand Before Your God And Look For Business Opportunities?

“We-ell,” said Dhblah, "we could come to an arrangement. Strike while the iron is hot, as the inquisitors say. Haha. Twenty percent? How about it? After expenses, of course-

The Great God Om smiled.

IX. I Think You Will Make A Little Prophet, Dhblah, he said.

“Right. Right. That's all I'm looking for. Just trying to make both ends hummus.”

X. Tortoises Are To Be Left Alone.

Dhblah put his head on one side.

“Doesn't sing, does it?” he said. "But . . . tortoise necklaces . . . hmm . . . brooches, of course. Tortoiseshel-

XI. NO!

“Sorry, sorry. See what you mean. All right. Tortoise statues. Ye-ess. I thought about them. Nice shape. Incidentally, you couldn't make a statue wobble every now and again, could you? Very good for business wobbling statues. The statue of Ossory wobbles eve; Fast of Ossory, reg'lar. By means of a small piston device operated in the basement, it is said. But very good for the prophets, all the same.”

XII. You Make me Laugh, Little Prophet. Sell Your Tortoises, By All Means.

“Tell you the truth,” said Dhblah, “I've already drawn a few designs just now . . .”

Om vanished. There was a brief thunderclap. Dhblah looked reflectively at his sketches.

“. . . but I suppose I'll have to take the little figure off them,” he said, more or less to himself.

The shade of Vorbis looked around.

“Ah. The desert,” he said. The black sand was absolutely still under the starlit sky. It looked cold.

He hadn't planned on dying yet. In fact . . . he couldn't quite remember how he'd died . . .

“The desert,” he repeated, and this time there was a hint of uncertainty. He'd never been uncertain about anything in his . . . life. The feeling was unfamiliar and terrifying. Did ordinary people feel like this?

He got a grip on himself.

Death was impressed. Very few people managed this, managed to hold on to the shape of their old thinking after death.

Death took no pleasure in his job. It was an emotion he found hard to grasp. But there was such a thing as satisfaction.

“So,” said Vorbis. “The desert. And at the end of the desert??”

JUDGEMENT.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Vorbis tried to concentrate. He couldn't. He could feel certainty draining away. And he'd always been certain.

He hesitated, like a man opening a door to a familiar room and finding nothing there but a bottomless pit. The memories were still there. He could feel them. They had the right shape. It was just that he couldn't remember what they were. There had been a voice . . . . Surely, there had been a voice? But all he could remember was the sound of his own thoughts, bouncing off the inside of his own head.

Now he had to cross the desert. What could there be to fear? The desert was what you believed.

Vorbis looked inside himself.

And went on looking.

He sagged to his knees.

I CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE BUSY, said Death.

“Don't leave me! It's so empty!”

Death looked around at the endless desert. He snapped his fingers and a large white horse trotted up.

I SEE A HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE, he said, swinging himself into the saddle.

“Where? Where?”

HERE. WITH YOU.

“I can't see them!”

Death gathered up the reins.

NEVERTHELESS, he said. His horse trotted forward a few steps.

“I don't understand!” screamed Vorbis.

Death paused. YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE, he said, THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE?

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Death nodded. IN TIME, he said, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG.

The first boats grounded in the shallows, and the troops leapt into shoulder-high surf.

No one was quite sure who was leading the fleet. Most of the countries along the coast hated one another, not in any personal sense, but simply on a kind of historical basis. On the other hand, how much leadership was necessary? Everyone knew where Omnia was. None of the countries in the fleet hated the others worse than they did Omnia. Now it was necessary for it . . . not to exist.

General Argavisti of Ephebe considered that he was in charge, because although he didn't have the most ships he was avenging the attack on Ephebe. But Imperiator Borvorius of Tsort knew that he was in charge, because there were more Tsortean ships than any others. And Admiral Rham-ap-Efan of Djelibeybi knew that he was in charge, because he was the kind of person who always thought he was in charge of anything. The only captain who did not, in fact, think that he was commanding the fleet was Fasta Benj, a fisherman from a very small nation of marsh-dwelling nomads of whose existence all the other countries were in complete ignorance, and whose small reed boat had been in the path of the fleet and had got swept along. Since his tribe believed that there were only fifty-one people in the world, worshiped a giant newt, spoke a very personal language which no one else understood, and had never seen metal or fire before, he was spending a lot of time wearing a puzzled grin.

Clearly they had reached a shore, not of proper mud and reeds, but of very small gritty bits. He lugged his little reed boat up the sand, and sat down with interest to see what the men in the feathery hats and shiny fish-scale vests were going to do next.

General Argavisti scanned the beach.

“They must have seen us coming,” he said. “So why would they let us establish a beachhead?”

Heat haze wavered over the dunes. A dot appeared, growing and contracting in the shimmering air.

More troops poured ashore.

General Argavisti shaded his eyes against the sun.

“Fella's just standing there,” he said.

“Could be a spy,” said Borvorius.

“Don't see how he could be a spy in his own country,” said Argavisti. “Anyway, if he was a spy he'd be creepin' around. That's how you can tell.”

The figure had stopped at the foot of the dunes. There was something about it that drew the eye. Argavisti had faced many an opposing army, and this was normal. One patiently waiting figure was not. He found he kept turning to look at it.

“S'carrying something,” he said eventually. “Sergeant? Go and bring that man here.”

A few minutes later the sergeant returned.

“Says he'll meet you in the middle of the beach, sir,” he reported.

“Didn't I tell you to bring him here?”

“He didn't want to come, sir.”

“You've got a sword, haven't you?”

“Yessir. Prodded him a bit, but he dint want to move, sir. And he's carrying a dead body, sir.”

“On a battlefield? It's not bring-your-own, you know.”

“And . . . sir?”

“What?”

“Says he's probably the Cenobiarch, sir. Wants to talk about a peace treaty.”

“Oh, he does? Peace treaty? We know about peace treaties with Omnia. Go and tell . . . no. Take a couple of men and bring him here.”

Brutha walked back between the soldiers, through the organized pandemonium of the camp. I ought to feel afraid, he thought. I was always afraid in the Citadel. But not now. This is through fear and out the other side.

Occasionally one of the soldiers would give him a push. It's not allowed for an enemy to walk freely into a camp, even if he wants to.

He was brought before a trestle table, behind which sat half a dozen large men in various military styles,

and one small olive-skinned man who was gutting a fish and grinning hopefully at everyone.

“Well, now,” said Argavisti, “Cenobiarch of Omnia, eh?”

Brutha dropped Vorbis's body on to the sand. Their gaze followed it.

“I know him- said Borvorius. ”Vorbis! Someone killed him at last, eh? And will you stop trying to sell me fish? Does anyone know who this man is?" he added, indicating Fasta Benj.

“It was a tortoise,” said Brutha.

“Was it? Not surprised. Never did trust them, always creeping around. Look, I said no fish! He's not one of mine, I know that. Is he one of yours?”

Argavisti waved a hand irritably. “Who sent you, boy?”

“No one. I came by myself. But you could say I come from the future.”

“Are you a philosopher? Where's your sponge?”

“You've come to wage war on Omnia. This would not be a good idea.”

“From Omnia's point of view, yes.”

“From everyone's. You will probably defeat us. But not all of us. And then what will you do? Leave a garrison? For ever? And eventually a new generation will retaliate. Why you did this won't mean anything to them. You'll be the oppressors. They'll fight. They might even win. And there'll be another war. And one day people will say: why didn't they sort it all out, back then? On the beach. Before it all started. Before all those people died. Now we have that chance. Aren't we lucky?”