Terry Pratchett - Small Gods

"I know you're not the Great God Om"-holy horns-"because if I was to touch the Great God Om"-holy horns-"my hands would burn away. The Great God would never become a tortoise, like Brother Nhumrod said. But it says in the Book of the Prophet Cena that when he was wandering in the desert the spirits of the ground and the air spoke unto him, so I wondered if you were one of those."

The tortoise gave him a one-eyed stare for a while. Then it said: "Tall fellow? Full beard? Eyes wobbling all over the place?"

"What?" said Brutha.

"I think I recall him," said the tortoise. "Eyes wobbled when he talked. And he talked all the time. To himself. Walked into rocks a lot."

"He wandered in the wilderness for three months," said Brutha.

"That explains it, then," said the tortoise. "There's not a lot to eat there that isn't mushrooms."

"Perhaps you are a demon," said Brutha. "The Septateuch forbids us to have discourse with demons. Yet in resisting demons, says the Prophet Fruni, we may grow strong in faith-”

"Your teeth to abscess with red-hot heat!"

"Pardon?"

"I swear to me that I am the Great God Om, greatest of gods!"

Brutha tapped the tortoise on the shell.

"Let me show you something, demon."

He could feel his faith growing, if he listened hard.

This wasn't the greatest statue of Om, but it was the closest. It was down in the pit level reserved for prisoners and heretics. And it was made of iron plates riveted together.

The pits were deserted except for a couple of novices pushing a rough cart in the distance.

"It's a big bull," said the tortoise.

"The very likeness of the Great God Om in one of his worldly incarnations!" said Brutha proudly. "And you say you're him?"

"I haven't been well lately," said the tortoise.

Its scrawny neck stretched out further.

"There's a door on its back," it said. "Why's there a door on its back?"

"So that the sinful can be put in," said Brutha.

"Why's there another one in its belly?"

"So the purified ashes can be let out," said Brutha. "And the smoke issues forth from the nostrils, as a sign to the ungodly."

The tortoise craned its neck round at the rows of barred doors. It looked up at the soot-encrusted walls. It looked down at the now empty fire trench under the iron bull. It reached a conclusion. It blinked its one eye.

"People?" it said eventually. "You roast people in it?"

"There!" said Brutha triumphantly. "And thus you prove you are not the Great God! He would know that of course we do not burn people in there. Burn people in there? That would be unheard of!"

"Ah," said the tortoise. "Then what-?"

"It is for the destruction of heretical materials and other such rubbish," said Brutha.

"Very sensible," said the tortoise.

"Sinners and criminals are purified by fire in the Quisition's pits or sometimes in front of the Great Temple," said Brutha. "The Great God would know that."

"I think I must have forgotten," said the tortoise quietly.

"The Great God Om"-holy horns-"would know that He Himself said unto the Prophet Wallspur-” Brutha coughed and assumed the creased-eyebrow squint that meant serious thought was being undertaken. " `Let the holy fire destroy utterly the unbeliever.' That's verse sixty-five."

"Did I say that?"

"In the Year of the Lenient Vegetable the Bishop Kreeblephor converted a demon by the power of reason alone," said Brutha. "It actually joined the Church and became a subdeacon. Or so it is said."

"Fighting I don't mind," the tortoise began.

"Your lying tongue cannot tempt me, reptile," said Brutha. "For I am strong in my faith!"

The tortoise grunted with effort.

"Smite you with thunderbolts!"

A small, a very small black cloud appeared over Brutha's head and a small, a very small bolt of lightning lightly singed an eyebrow.

It was about the same strength as the spark off a cat's fur in hot dry weather.

"Ouch!"

"Now do you believe me?" said the tortoise.

There was a bit of breeze on the roof of the Citadel. It also offered a good view of the high desert.

Fri'it and Drunah waited for a while to get their breath back.

Then Fri'it said, "Are we safe up here?"

Drunah looked up. An eagle circled over the dry hills. He found himself wondering how good an eagle's hearing was. It certainly was good at something. Was it hearing? It could hear a creature half a mile below in the silence of the desert. What the hells-it couldn't talk as well, could it?

"Probably," he said.

"Can I trust you?" said Fri'it.

"Can I trust you?"

Fri'it drummed his fingers on the parapet.

"Uh," he said.

And that was the problem. It was the problem of all really secret societies. They were secret. How many members did the Turtle Movement have? No one knew, exactly. What was the name of the man beside you? Two other members knew, because they would have introduced him, but who were they behind these masks? Because knowledge was dangerous. If you knew, the inquisitions could wind it slowly out of you. So you made sure you didn't know. This made conversation much easier during cell meetings, and impossible outside of them.

It was the problem of all tentative conspirators throughout history: how to conspire without actually uttering words to an untrusted possible fellow-conspirator which, if reported, would point the accusing red-hot poker of guilt.

The little beads of sweat on Drunah's forehead, despite the warm breeze, suggested that the secretary was agonizing along the same lines. But it didn't prove it. And for Fri'it, not dying had become a habit.

He clicked his knuckles nervously.

"A holy war," he said. That was safe enough. The sentence included no verbal clue to what Fri'it thought about the prospect. He hadn't said, "Ye god, not a damn holy war, is the man insane? Some idiot missionary gets himself killed, some man writes some gibberish about the shape of the world, and we have to go to war?" If pressed, and indeed stretched and broken, he could always claim that his meaning had been "At last! A not-to-be-missed opportunity to die gloriously for Om, the one true God, who shall Trample the Unrighteous with Hooves of Iron!" It wouldn't make a lot of difference, evidence never did once you were in the deep levels where accusation had the status of proof, but at least it might leave one or two inquisitors feeling that they might just have been wrong.

"Of course, the Church has been far less militant in the last century or so," said Drunah, looking out over the desert. "Much taken up with the mundane problems of the empire."

A statement. Not a crack in it where you could insert a bone­-disjointer.

"There was the crusade against the Hodgsonites," said Fri'it distantly. "And the Subjugation of the Melchiorites. And the Resolving of the false prophet Zeb. And the Correction of the Ashelians, and the Shriving of the-”

"But all that was just politics," said Drunah.

"Hmm. Yes. Of course, you are right."

"And, of course, no one could possibly doubt the wisdom of a war to further the worship and glory of the Great God."

"No. None could doubt it," said Fri'it, who had walked across many a battlefield the day after a glorious victory, when you had ample opportunity to see what winning meant. The Omnians forbade the use of all drugs. At times like that the prohibition bit hard, when you dared not go to sleep for fear of your dreams.

"Did not the Great God declare, through the Prophet Abbys, that there is no greater and more honorable sacrifice than one's own life for the God?"

"Indeed he did," said Fri'it. He couldn't help recalling that Abbys had been a bishop in the Citadel for fifty years before the Great God had Chosen him. Screaming enemies had never come at him with a sword. He'd never looked into the eyes of someone who wished him dead-no, of course he had, all the time, because of course the Church had its politics-but at least they hadn't been holding the means to that end in their hands at the time.