Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [112]
“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