Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [25]
He was raking the paths when Brutha entered. He was good at raking paths. He left scallop patterns and gentle soothing curves. Brutha always felt apologetic about walking on them.
He hardly ever spoke to Lu-Tze, because it didn’t matter much what anyone ever said to Lu-Tze. The old man just nodded and smiled his single-toothed smile in any case.
“I’m going away for a little while,” said Brutha, loudly and distinctly. “I expect someone else will be sent to look after the gardens, but there are some things that need doing…”
Nod, smile. The old man followed him patiently along the rows, while Brutha spoke beans and herbs.
“Understand?” said Brutha, after ten minutes of this.
Nod, smile. Nod, smile, beckon.
“What?”
Nod, smile, beckon. Nod, smile, beckon, smile.
Lu-Tze walked his little crab-monkey walk to the little area at the far end of the walled garden which contained his heaps, the flowerpot stacks, and all the other cosmetics of the garden beautiful. The old man slept there, Brutha suspected.
Nod, smile, beckon.
There was a small trestle table in the sun by a stack of bean canes. A straw mat had been spread on it, and on the mat were half a dozen pointy-shaped rocks, none of them bigger than a foot high.
A careful arrangement of sticks had been constructed around them. Bits of thin wood shadowed some parts of the rocks. Small metal mirrors directed sunlight towards other areas. Paper cones at odd angles appeared to be funneling the breeze to very precise points.
Brutha had never heard about the art of bonsai, and how it was applied to mountains.
“They’re…very nice,” he said uncertainly.
Nod, smile, pick up a small rock, smile, urge, urge.
“Oh, I really couldn’t take—”
Urge, urge. Grin, nod.
Brutha took the tiny mountain. It had a strange, unreal heaviness—to his hand it felt like a pound or so, but in his head it weighed thousands of very, very small tons.
“Uh. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Nod, smile, push away politely.
“It’s very…mountainous.”
Nod, grin.
“That can’t really be snow on the top, can—”
“Brutha!”
His head jerked up. But the voice had come from inside.
Oh, no, he thought wretchedly.
He pushed the little mountain back into Lu-Tze’s hands.
“But, er, you keep it for me, yes?”
“Brutha!”
All that was a dream, wasn’t it? Before I was important and talked to by deacons.
“No, it wasn’t! Help me!”
The petitioners scattered as the eagle made a pass over the Place of Lamentation.
It wheeled, only a few feet above the ground, and perched on the statue of Great Om trampling the Infidel.
It was a magnificent bird, golden-brown and yellow-eyed, and it surveyed the crowds with blank disdain.
“It’s a sign?” said an old man with a wooden leg.
“Yes! A sign!” said a young woman next to him.
“A sign!”
They gathered around the statue.
“It’s a bugger,” said a small and totally unheard voice from somewhere around their feet.
“But what’s it a sign of?” said an elderly man who had been camping out in the square for three days.
“What do you mean, of? It’s a sign!” said the wooden-legged man. “It don’t have to be a sign of anything. That’s a suspicious kind of question to ask, what’s it a sign of.”
“Got to be a sign of something,” said the elderly man. “That’s a referential wossname. A gerund. Could be a gerund.”
A skinny figure appeared at the edge of the group, moving surreptitiously yet with surprising speed. It was wearing the djeliba of the desert tribes, but around its neck was a tray on a strap. There was an ominous suggestion of sticky sweet things covered in dust.
“It could be a messenger from the Great God himself,” said the woman.
“It’s a bloody eagle is what it is,” said a resigned voice from somewhere among the ornamental bronze homicide at the base of the statue.
“Dates? Figs? Sherbets? Holy relics? Nice fresh indulgences? Lizards? Onna stick?” said the man with the tray hopefully.
“I thought when He appeared in the world it was as a swan or a bull,” said the wooden-legged man.
“Hah!” said the unregarded voice of the tortoise.