Downfall of the Gods

by K. J. Parker

  I had to spoil it by opening my big mouth. “I’m really glad,” I said, as we sat under the shade of a tree at the edge of the oasis, “that you’ve finally realised that I’ve got your best interests at heart.”

  “Mphm.”

  I offered him a box of dried figs, dusted with icing sugar. He took one. “I have, you know,” I said. “I want you to succeed on this mission, and get your life back, and be happy. And I want you to have gained by the experience, to have learned something from it.”

  “Oh, I’ve done that all right.”

  “Good.”

  He yawned and helped himself to another fig. “Years ago,” he said, “I remember talking to a merchant who’d come to sell my father something or other, and he told me that he’d once been to a faraway land and met someone who told him stories from his religion.”

  “In the faraway land?”

  “That’s right, yes. Apparently they’ve never heard of you over there.”

  I frowned. “Really?”

  “It’s a very, very long way away, this merchant told me. He said that out there, they only really believe in the Skyfather, or the Invincible Sun, I forget which. Anyhow, just the one god. Your father, presumably.”

  “Ignorance is a terrible thing.”

  “It must be, yes. Anyway, there was one story I really liked. In the story, the Skyfather or the Invincible Sun or whatever he’s called holds a party in heaven for all his angels and thrones and cherubim, and one of the guests is the angel in charge of temptation.”

  I yawned. “I don’t think I’ve heard this one. Go on.”

  “Anyway, the tempter gets talking with Skyfather, and he asks him; do the mortals love and respect you, like they should? Of course, Skyfather says. Fine, says the tempter, so long as you pamper them and give them treats. But suppose you stopped doing that. Suppose you started smiting them instead. I bet you they’d stop loving and respecting you like a shot. I don’t think so, Skyfather said. Really, said the tempter, in that sniffy sort of a way. Really, said Skyfather, and I’ll prove it to you. So he chose his most devoted and faithful worshipper, a man he’d showered with presents and made very rich and contented; and all in one day he took away all his wealth, stripped him of his honours and titles and left him penniless. See, Skyfather said to the tempter, he still believes in me, he still loves and respects me. All right, said the tempter, now let’s see how he’ll react if you really make him suffer. So Skyfather robbed him of his wife and his best friend, and had him thrown into a stinking dungeon. And the man—the merchant did tell me his name but I’ve forgotten—the man started moaning and complaining, my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me? What did I ever do wrong? Why are you doing this to me? And when Skyfather couldn’t stand his whining any longer, he appeared to him and said, where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? What do you know about anything? You have no idea why I do what I do, so quit griping and adore me. Which the man did; whereupon Skyfather let him out of jail and gave him his money and his titles back, and the official version is that he lived happily ever after. And he never did find out that Skyfather had done all these horrible, cruel things to him because the tempter had made a complete fool out of Skyfather and twisted him round his little finger.” He paused, then added, “At least, I think that’s how the story went. I may have got some of the details wrong.”

  I frowned. “It couldn’t have been my father,” I said. “He’s way too sharp to be taken in like that.”

  “Ah. That’s all right, then.”

  “It just goes to show,” I said. “If people will insist on worshipping weak, gullible gods, they get what they deserve. You’re far better off with our lot. We haven’t got a tempter.”

  “Really.”

  “Don’t need one,” I said proudly.

  IN THE PRISON cell, before we started the journey, I’d promised to draw Archias a map. I always keep my word. “This,” I said, pointing, “is the Portals of the Sunset, and here’s the River of Lost Souls and the Bridge of Forgetfulness. And my aunt’s place is right here.”

  He looked up at me. “You’re leaving me?”

  “Just for a bit. I have some things I need to see to. But it’s perfectly all right, I’ve left a trail of water-jugs and hampers of food that’ll lead you right there. Just carry straight on, you can’t miss it.”

  “All right.”

  “Now,” I said, “there’s some stuff you’ll need; a lamb, and a sharp knife, and a bowl, and two gold coins. I’ve arranged for someone to meet you at the Bridge and give them to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now then, look after yourself while I’m gone. Be careful.”

  “I don’t need to look after myself,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

  Just occasionally, mortals can be so sweet. “That’s right, you have.”

  “I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to trust my elders and betters,” he said. “It was thinking about that merchant that made my mind up for me—you remember, the one who’d been to the faraway land? He had another story.” He smiled. “Sorry, I don’t want to hold you up. I’ll tell you when you get back.”

  “I’ve got plenty of time,” I said. “Tell me the story.”

  “Oh, all right then.” He folded the map I’d drawn him and tucked it neatly into the lining of his hat, where it’d be safe. “The merchant told me that in another faraway land, a different one, there lived a great and mighty people. As they grew and prospered, they needed more land for houses and farms. Now in the west of their country there was plenty of good land, but a few savages lived there, sleeping in felt tents and hunting for food with stone arrowheads. So the great and mighty people went out to build houses and stake out farms in the west, and the savages tried to stop them, shooting at them with their flint arrows. The great and mighty people could have killed all the savages very easily, but instead they said to them, Give us your land, and in return we’ll let you have a very small part of it to live in, and we’ll give you food to eat and strong liquor to drink, and in time you can learn to be just like us. So that’s what the savages did, and there they still are, what’s left of them, to this day. They trusted the goodness and compassion of the strong, and it all came out right for them in the end.”

  “There you are, then,” I said.

  I HADN’T BEEN entirely honest with Lord Archias. I didn’t slip away because I had business of my own to see to. Instead, I turned into a falcon and flew over the desert to my aunt Feralia’s house.

  I suppose Feralia is my favourite aunt, which in real terms means the one who dislikes me least. I think that has a lot to do with the fact that we almost never see each other. But she knows that I’d be prepared to go and see her, if it wasn’t for the fact that she lives in the perpetual darkness and unbearable cold of the Kingdom of the Dead.

  Her house has no windows and no doors. The only way in or out is through the walls, thirteen feet thick, solid rock. If you can’t walk through walls, you have no business arriving or leaving there. Inside (as I perceive it) there’s just the one unthinkably vast big room, where Auntie sits on her black throne, with the souls of the dead cowering at her feet. She just sits there, doesn’t even knit or read a book. Wouldn’t suit me. I get bored very easily.

  She looked up and saw me. “I’m very busy,” she said. “Can’t you come back later?”

  Just kidding, of course. “Hello,” I said. “I’ve got a favour to ask.”

  “What?” She scowled at me. “If he’s thrown you out and you’re looking for somewhere to stay, you can forget it. I haven’t got the space.”

  Down at floor level, the spirits of the dead sniggered and chittered. “No,” I said, “it’s not that. I’d like to borrow something.”

  “What?”

  I looked around until I found the ghost of the musician Lysippus. I pointed. “That.”

  There was a long silence. “What do you mean, borrow?”

  “Well, you know. Take it away with me,
for a bit. I’ll bring it back when I’ve finished with it, I promise.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You know that isn’t possible.”

  “To the gods—”

  “Oh, don’t give me all that rubbish. You know your father would skin me alive.”

  I gave her my winning smile. “Suppose I brought a mortal here,” I said, “and he challenged you to a game of, oh I don’t know, chess or something, and if he wins you let me borrow Lysippus, and if you win, the mortal stays here for ever. That’d be all right, surely.”

  “No.”

  I pouted. “It’s only borrowing,” I said, “I’m not asking you to give me anything. It’d be like parole. You’d have him back again in no time. You wouldn’t even notice he’d been gone.”

  “I’d notice.”

  I came a little closer and lowered my voice. “Dad wouldn’t have to know about it.”

  “Your father has already given permission for this idiotic stunt, as you well know. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. The dead do not return.”

  “How would it be,” I said, “if I borrowed Lysippus and I gave you Lord Archias, to keep, for your very own? A life for a life. That way, the equilibrium of life and death would be preserved.”

  “What equilibrium? You’re talking nonsense. I’m not running a business here, I don’t need to balance the books. Now go away, you’re unsettling the stock.”

  She had a point. The spirits of the dead were getting restless, quivering and shivering and yapping. I knew why, of course. I was still in a physical form, and my body heat had raised the temperature by some infinitesimally tiny fraction of a degree, and now they were all too hot. And she couldn’t open a window, because there weren’t any.

  “Please,” I said.

  But she shook her head. “Doesn’t work on me,” she said. Then she grinned. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you’re even more stupid than you look. You made a ridiculous bargain with your father about getting Lysippus back from the dead, and you’ve come all this way, and you haven’t actually got a plan. Well, have you? You probably thought, it’s all right, I’ll think of something when I get there. And you haven’t. Have you?”

  “There’s no need to be grumpy,” I said.

  “To the gods all things are possible, you told yourself, of course you’d think of something. But not in this case, because there’s nothing to think of. You can’t have him. That’s final.” She sighed, then something like a smile spread over her regrettably featureless face. “You did your best,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to talk your father round. You always were his favourite.”

  News to me. “Really?”

  “Of course, didn’t you know? Daddy’s little girl. So don’t worry, it’ll all sort itself out, you’ll see.” The smile broadened a little. “Now, since you’re here, let me get you something to eat. You must be famished after your long journey.”

  I backed away. “Thanks awfully,” I said. “But—”

  “Oh, go on. I insist. A nice cup of tea and maybe a few pomegranate seeds. Just a little snack to keep you going.”

  I’d been wondering why she’d suddenly started being nice. “No, really,” I said. I backed away until I could feel the wall against my heel. “And besides,” I added, as I slid into the masonry, “you said yourself, you haven’t got the space.”

  SHE WAS WRONG, of course. I had thought of something before I went in. I’d thought of the subtle difference between having and borrowing. Pity it hadn’t worked.

  Ah well. Plan B.

  I SAT ON a mountaintop somewhere and watched Lord Archias walking the last hundred miles. He took his time, which was sensible, drank plenty of water and always wore his hat. I could see his lips moving, which puzzled me, so I listened closely. He was actually praying as he walked—to me, mostly, but also to Dad, Pol, uncle Actis and aunt Cytheria—and when he wasn’t praying he was singing hymns and arias from sacred cantatas. He was completely alone, there wasn’t another human being in a hundred and twenty miles, so obviously he wasn’t doing it for show, since there was no-one to see him.

  I was so engrossed in eavesdropping that I didn’t notice Pol swooping down beside me; first I knew of it was when I heard his voice, saying, “What on earth does the clown think he’s doing?”

  “That’s genuine faith,” I said. “I converted him.” “He’s up to something.”

  “I’m glad you’ve turned up,” I said. “I’m going to need you after all.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t sound happy. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Pol. Don’t you dare back out now.”

  “It’s just—” There was genuine anguish in his voice.

  “Have I got to? There must be another way.”

  “I tried it. Didn’t work.”

  “Dad is going to be so angry.”

  “He’s given his permission, remember?”

  “I don’t think you were entirely straight with him.

  Maybe he doesn’t quite realise what you’ve got in mind.” I didn’t comment on that. “It’ll be fine,” I told him.

  “I promise.”

  “Only—” He paused, took a deep breath. “You do realise they’re all laughing at you.”

  Well, I can’t say I was surprised. Thrown down from the ramparts of heaven; the ultimate degradation.

  The odd thing was, I didn’t really feel it. True, I hadn’t yet confronted a gathering of my family en masse. Still; I’d expected to be engulfed in a deluge of shame and self-depreciation, and I hadn’t been. Somehow, without consciously debating the issue with myself, I’d arrived at the conclusion that if the episode reflected badly on anyone, it was on Dad, for over-reacting. And not even that. Just a bloody stupid system, that was all. Any cosmos that falls to bits if a goddess doesn’t show up on time at a particular place is clearly shoddily engineered and unfit for purpose. Not my fault; so why should I feel bad about it?

  “Let them,” I heard myself say.

  I think Pol was slightly stunned by that. “No big deal?” “No big deal. It’d be different if I valued their opinion of me, but since I don’t, who gives a shit?”

  Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. “You’re going to get all sorts of stick,” Pol said with a shudder.

  “They’re already making up nicknames for you.” “Good for them. I’m not bothered.”

  “You can’t really mean that.”

  “No, I’m serious,” I said, suddenly realising that I was.

  “I got thrown off the ramparts, so what? It’s the worst punishment; it’s also the only punishment. So, sooner or later, it’s going to happen to all of us. And when we’ve all taken the long drop, it’s not going to matter any more. We won’t snigger at each other, because we’ll have been there too.” I paused. “You know what that means?” Pol thought for a moment. “Anarchy? Chaos?” “Freedom,” I said. “We’ll be free.”

  Pol sniffed. “Same thing.”

  “Maybe. But just think. Dad won’t be able to boss us around any more. We can do exactly as we like. To the gods, all things really will be possible. Well? Doesn’t that thought excite you?”

  “With my god of wisdom hat on? No, not really.” “Don’t be so miserable. Free, Pol. No constraints whatsoever. That’s—”

  “Inaccurate,” he said. “Actually, if you’re right, and I sincerely hope you aren’t, I anticipate seeing a lot more restraints around the place in future. Adamantine ones, probably. Not to mention a lot of mountains getting moved around, and a whole lot less freedom. Be careful what you wish for, Sis.”

  “Killjoy.”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head, as though he was something annoying caught in my hair. “Be that as it may,” I said. “You’ve got a job to do and I expect you to do it. All right?” He sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Promise?”

  “Word of honour.”

  HOW TIME FLIES. I’d forgotten about t
hat. I raced back to the White Desert, to find Lord Archias at the foot of the bridge. He’d built himself a little hut out of thorn bushes, with a corral out back for a small herd of goats.

  He’d also grown a beard. There were grey streaks in it. “You’re back, then,” he said.

  “Sorry, I got held up.”

  “No, that’s fine.” He was resting on the handle of a crude, wooden-bladed shovel. “I’ve just been planting the spring beans. Should be a much better crop this year, I’ve been digging in plenty of manure.”

  There was something different about him. “You seem quite happy here,” I said.

  He nodded. “I am,” he said. “I’ve got everything I want. Fresh water, food, shelter, a shrine to the gods.

  What more could any man ask?”

  “A bit lonely, though.”

  “And solitude, of course. The five pillars of happiness.” I clicked my tongue. “Well, I’m here now. We’d better get on with it.”

  He gave me a wistful look. “Do we have to go right now?”

  “Yes. No time like the present.”

  “Mphm. Sorry, it’s just that it’s been so long, it’s hard to recapture the sense of urgency, if you see what I mean.” He laid his shovel down on the ground, looked over his shoulder at the goat-pen. “All right, which way?”

  “Straight on over the bridge. I’ll be right behind you.

  Don’t look at me like that,” I added. “I do mean right behind you. I’ve just got to get some things. I’ll catch you up.”

  He sighed.

  THUS IT WAS that, not very long afterwards, we walked up the long drive of my aunt Feralia’s house. I carried a silver chalice. Lord Archias led two lambs on string halters.