Small Gods: Discworld Novel, A

by Terry Pratchett

  The black-on-black eyes filled the world, like two pits.

  Brutha’s mind gave up, and Brutha’s body took over. It brought his hand back and raised it, oblivious to the sudden rush forward of the guards.

  He saw Vorbis turn his cheek, and smile.

  Brutha stopped, and lowered his hand.

  He said, “No, I won’t.”

  Then, for the first and only time, he saw Vorbis really enraged. There had been times before when the deacon had been angry, but it had been something driven by the brain, switched on and off as the need arose. This was something else, something out of control. And it flashed across his face only for a moment.

  As the hands of the guards closed on him, Vorbis stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder. He looked Brutha in the eye for a moment and then said softly:

  “Thrash him within an inch of his life and burn him the rest of the way.”

  An Iam began to speak, but stopped when he saw Vorbis’s expression.

  “Do it now.”

  A world of silence. No sound up here, except the rush of wind through the feathers.

  Up here the world is round, bordered by a band of sea. The viewpoint is from horizon to horizon, the sun is closer.

  And yet, looking down, looking for shapes……down in the farmland on the edge of the wilderness…

  …on a small hill……a tiny moving dome, ridiculously exposed…

  No sound but the rush of wind through feathers as the eagle pulls in its wings and drops like an arrow, the world spinning around the little moving shape that is the focus of all the eagle’s attention.

  Closer and…

  …talons down…

  …grip……and rise…

  Brutha opened his eyes.

  His back was merely agonizing. He’d long ago got used to switching off pain.

  But he was spread-eagled on a surface, his arms and legs chained to something he couldn’t see. Sky above. The towering frontage of the temple to one side.

  By turning his head a little he could see the silent crowd. And the brown metal of the iron turtle. He could smell smoke.

  Someone was just tightening the shackles on his hand. Brutha looked over at the inquisitor. Now, what was it he had to say? Oh, yes.

  “The Turtle Moves?” he mumbled.

  The man sighed.

  “Not this one, friend,” he said.

  The world spun under Om as the eagle sought for shell-cracking height, and his mind was besieged by the tortoise’s existential dread of being off the ground. And Brutha’s thoughts, bright and clear this close to death…

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

  Careful, careful. Concentrate, concentrate. It’ll let go any second…

  Om stuck out his long scrawny neck, stared at the body just above him, picked what he hoped was about the right spot, plunged his beak through the brown feathers between the talons, and gripped.

  The eagle blinked. No tortoise had ever done that to an eagle, anywhere else in history.

  Om’s thoughts arrived in the little silvery world of its mind:

  “We don’t want to hurt one another, now do we?”

  The eagle blinked again.

  Eagles have never evolved much imagination or fore-thought, beyond that necessary to know that a turtle smashes when you drop it on the rocks. But it was forming a mental picture of what happened when you let go of a heavy tortoise that was still intimately gripping an essential bit of you.

  Its eyes watered.

  Another thought crept into its mind.

  “Now. You play, uh, ball with me, I’ll play…ball with you. Understand? This is important. This is what I want you to do…”

  The eagle soared on a thermal off the hot rocks, and sped towards the distant gleam of the Citadel.

  No tortoise had ever done this before. No tortoise in the whole universe. But no tortoise had ever been a god, and knew the unwritten motto of the Quisition: Cuius testiculos habes, habeas cardia et cerebellum.

  When you have their full attention in your grip, their hearts and minds will follow.

  Urn pushed his way through the crowds, with Fergmen trailing behind. That was the best and the worst of civil war, at least at the start—everyone wore the same uniform. It was much easier when you picked enemies who were a different color or at least spoke with a funny accent. You could call them “gooks” or something. It made things easier.

  Hey, Urn thought. This is nearly philosophy. Pity I probably won’t live to tell anyone.

  The big doors were ajar. The crowd was silent, and very attentive. He craned forward to see, and then looked up at the soldier beside him.

  It was Simony.

  “I thought—”

  “It didn’t work,” said Simony, bitterly.

  “Did you—?”

  “We did everything! Something broke!”

  “It must be the steel they make here,” said Urn. “The link pins on—”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” said Simony.

  The flat tones of his voice made Urn follow the eyes of the crowd.

  There was another iron turtle there—a proper model of a turtle, mounted on a sort of open gridwork of metal bars in which a couple of inquisitors were even now lighting a fire. And chained to the back of the turtle—

  “Who’s that?”

  “Brutha.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what happened. He hit Vorbis, or didn’t hit him. Or something. Enraged him anyway. Vorbis stopped the ceremony, right there and then.”

  Urn glanced at the deacon. Not Cenobiarch yet, so uncrowned. Among the Iams and bishops standing uncertainly in the open doorway, his bald head gleamed in the morning light.

  “Come on, then,” said Urn.

  “Come on what?”

  “We can rush the steps and save him!”

  “There’s more of them than there are of us,” said Simony.

  “Well, haven’t there always been? There’s not magically more of them than there are of us just because they’ve got Brutha, are there?”

  Simony grabbed his arm.

  “Think logically, will you?” he said. “You’re a philosopher, aren’t you? Look at the crowd!”

  Urn looked at the crowd.

  “Well?”

  “They don’t like it.” Simon turned. “Look, Brutha’s going to die anyway. But this way it’ll mean something. People don’t understand, really understand, about the shape of the universe and all that stuff, but they’ll remember what Vorbis did to a man. Right? We can make Brutha’s death a symbol for people, don’t you see?”

  Urn stared at the distant figure of Brutha. It was naked, except for a loin-cloth.

  “A symbol?” he said. His throat was dry.

  “It has to be.”

  He remembered Didactylos saying the world was a funny place. And, he thought distantly, it really was. Here people were about to roast someone to death, but they’d left his loin-cloth on, out of respectability. You had to laugh. Otherwise you’d go mad.

  “You know,” he said, turning to Simony. “Now I know Vorbis is evil. He burned my city. Well, the Tsorteans do it sometimes, and we burn theirs. It’s just war. It’s all part of history. And he lies and cheats and claws power for himself, and lots of people do that, too. But do you know what’s special? Do you know what it is?”

  “Of course,” said Simony. “It’s what he’s doing to—”

  “It’s what he’s done to you.”

  “What?”

  “He turns other people into copies of himself.”

  Simony’s grip was like a vice. “You’re saying I’m like him?”

  “Once you said you’d cut him down,” said Urn. “Now you’re thinking like him…”

  “So we rush them, then?” said Simony. “I’m sure of—maybe four hundred on our side. So I give the signal and a few hundred of us attack thousands of them? And he dies anyway and we die too? What difference does that make?”


  Urn’s face was gray with horror now.

  “You mean you don’t know?” he said.

  Some of the crowd looked around curiously at him.

  “You don’t know?” he said.

  The sky was blue. The sun wasn’t high enough yet to turn it into Omnia’s normal copper bowl.

  Brutha turned his head again, towards the sun. It was about a width above the horizon, although if Didactylos’s theories about the speed of light were correct, it was really setting, thousands of years in the future.

  It was eclipsed by the head of Vorbis.

  “Hot yet, Brutha?” said the deacon.

  “Warm.”

  “It will get warmer.”

  There was a disturbance in the crowd. Someone was shouting. Vorbis ignored it.

  “Nothing you want to say?” he said. “Can’t you manage even a curse? Not even a curse?”

  “You never heard Om,” said Brutha. “You never believed. You never, ever heard his voice. All you heard were the echoes inside your own mind.”

  “Really? But I am the Cenobiarch and you are going to burn for treachery and heresy,” said Vorbis. “So much for Om, perhaps?”

  “There will be justice,” said Brutha. “If there is no justice, there is nothing.”

  He was aware of a small voice in his head, too faint yet to distinguish words.

  “Justice?” said Vorbis. The idea seemed to enrage him. He spun around to the crowd of bishops. “Did you hear him? There will be justice? Om has judged! Through me! This is justice!”

  There was a speck in the sun now, speeding toward the Citadel. And the little voice was saying left left left up up left right a bit up left—The mass of metal under him was getting uncomfortably hot.

  “He comes now,” said Brutha.

  Vorbis waved his hand to the great facade of the temple. “Men built this. We built this,” he said. “And what did Om do? Om comes? Let him come! Let him judge between us!”

  “He comes now,” Brutha repeated. “The God.”

  People looked apprehensively upward. There was that moment, just one moment, when the world holds its breath and against all experience waits for a miracle.

  —up left now, when I say three, one, two, THREE—

  “Vorbis?” croaked Brutha.

  “What?” snapped the deacon.

  “You’re going to die.”

  It was hardly a whisper, but it bounced off the bronze doors and carried across the Place…

  It made people uneasy, although they couldn’t quite say why.

  The eagle sped across the square, so low that people ducked. Then it cleared the roof of the temple and curved away towards the mountains. The watchers relaxed. It was only an eagle. For a moment there, just for a moment…

  No one saw the tiny speck, tumbling down from the sky.

  Don’t put your faith in gods. But you can believe in turtles.

  A feeling of rushing wind in Brutha’s mind, and a voice…

  —obuggerbuggerbuggerhelpaarghnoNoNoAargh-BuggerNONOAARGH—

  Even Vorbis got a grip of himself. There had been just a moment, when he’d seen the eagle—but, no…

  He extended his arms and smiled beatifically at the sky.

  “I’m sorry,” said Brutha.

  One or two people, who had been watching Vorbis closely, said later that there was just time for his expression to change before two pounds of tortoise, traveling at three meters a second, hit him between the eyes.

  It was a revelation.

  And that does something to people watching. For a start, they believe with all their heart.

  Brutha was aware of feet running up the steps, and hands pulling at the chains.

  And then a voice:

  I. He is Mine.

  The Great God rose over the Temple, billowing and changing as the belief of thousands of people flowed into him. There were shapes there, of eagle-headed men, and bulls, and golden horns, but they tangled and flamed and fused into one another.

  Four bolts of fire whirred out of the cloud and burst the chains holding Brutha.

  II. He Is Cenobiarch And Prophet of Prophets.

  The voice of theophany rumbled off the distant mountains.

  III. Do I Hear Any Objections? No? Good.

  The cloud had by now condensed into a shimmering golden figure, as tall as the Temple. It leaned down until its face was a few feet away from Brutha, and in a whisper that boomed across the Place said:

  IV. Don’t Worry. This Is Just The Start. You and Me, Kid! People Are Going To Find Out What Wailing and Gnashing Of Teeth Really Is.

  Another shaft of flame shot out and struck the Temple doors. They slammed shut, and then the white-hot bronze melted, erasing the commandments of the centuries.

  V. What Shall It Be, Prophet?

  Brutha stood up, unsteadily. Urn supported him by one arm, and Simony by the other.

  “Mm?” he said, muzzily. VI. Your Commandments?

  “I thought they were supposed to come from you,” said Brutha. “I don’t know if I can think of any…”

  The world waited.

  “How about ‘Think for Yourself’?” said Urn, staring in horrified fascination at the manifestation.

  “No,” said Simony. “Try something like ‘Social Cohesiveness is the Key to Progress.’”

  “Can’t say it rolls off the tongue,” said Urn.

  “If I can be of any help,” said Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah, from the crowd, “something of benefit to the convenience food industry would be very welcome.”

  “Not killing people. We could do with one like that,” said someone else.

  “It’d be a good start,” said Urn.

  They looked at the Chosen One. He shook himself free of their grip and stood alone, swaying a little.

  “No-oo,” said Brutha. “No. I thought like that once, but it wouldn’t. Not really.”

  Now, he said. Only now. Just one point in history. Not tomorrow, not next month, it’ll always be too late unless it’s now.

  They stared at him.

  “Come on,” said Simony. “What’s wrong with it? You can’t argue with it.”

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Brutha. “But I think it’s got something to do with how people should behave. I think…you should do things because they’re right. Not because gods say so. They might say something different another time.”

  VII. I Like One About Not Killing, said Om, from far above.

  VIII. It’s Got A Good Ring To It. Hurry Up, I’ve Got Some Smiting To Do.

  “You see?” said Brutha. “No. No smiting. No commandments unless you obey them too.”

  Om thumped on the roof of the Temple. IX. You Order Me? Here? NOW? ME?

  “No. I ask.”

  X. That’s Worse Than Ordering!

  “Everything works both ways.”

  Om thumped his Temple again. A wall caved in. That part of the crowd that hadn’t managed to stampede from the Place redoubled its efforts.

  XI. There Must Be Punishment! Otherwise There Will Be No Order!

  “No.”

  XII. I Do Not Need You! I Have Believers Enough Now!

  “But only through me. And, perhaps, not for long. It will all happen again. It’s happened before. It happens all the time. That’s why gods die. They never believe in people. But you have a chance. All you need to do is…believe.”

  XIII. What? Listen To Stupid Prayers? Watch Over Small Children? Make It Rain?

  “Sometimes. Not always. It could be a bargain.”

  XIV. BARGAIN! I don’t Bargain! Not With Humans!

  “Bargain now,” said Brutha. “While you have the chance. Or one day you’ll have to bargain with Simony, or someone like him. Or Urn, or someone like him.”

  XV. I Could Destroy You Utterly.

  “Yes. I am entirely in your power.”

  XVI. I Could Crush You Like An Egg!

  “Yes.”

  Om paused.

  Then he said: XVII. You
Can’t Use Weakness As A Weapon.

  “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

  XVIII. Why Should I Yield, Then?

  “Not yield. Bargain. Deal with me in weakness. Or one day you’ll have to bargain with someone in a position of strength. The world changes.”

  XIX. Hah! You Want A Constitutional Religion?

  “Why not? The other sort didn’t work.”

  Om leaned on the Temple, his temper subsiding.

  Chap. II v.I. Very Well, Then. But Only For A Time. A grin spread across the enormous, smoking face. For One Hundred Years, Yes?

  “And after a hundred years?”

  II. We Shall See.

  “Agreed.”

  A finger the length of a tree unfolded, descended, touched Brutha.

  III. You Have A Persuasive Way. You Will Need It. A Fleet Approaches.

  “Ephebians?” said Simony. IV. And Tsorteans. And Djelibeybians. And Klatchians. Every Free Country Along The Coast. To Stamp Out Omnia For Good. Or Bad.

  “You don’t have many friends, do you?” said Urn.

  “Even I don’t like us much, and I am us,” said Simony. He looked up at the god.

  “Will you help?”

  V. You Don’t Even Believe In Me!

  “Yes, but I’m a practical man.”

  VI. And Brave, Too, To Declare Atheism Before Your God.

  “This doesn’t change anything, you know!” said Simony. “Don’t think you can get around me by existing!”

  “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.