Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [34]
Il-drim was nothing more than a few shacks around a stone jetty, at one of which was a trireme flying the holy oriflamme. When the Church traveled, the travelers were very senior people indeed, so when the Church traveled it generally traveled in style.
The party paused on a hill and looked at it.
“Soft and corrupt,” said Vorbis. “That’s what we’ve become, Brutha.”
“Yes, Lord Vorbis.”
“And open to pernicious influence. The sea, Brutha. It washes unholy shores, and gives rise to dangerous ideas. Men should not travel, Brutha. At the center there is truth. As you travel, so error creeps in.”
“Yes, Lord Vorbis.”
Vorbis sighed.
“In Ossory’s day we sailed alone in boats made of hides, and went where the winds of the God took us. That’s how a holy man should travel.”
A tiny spark of defiance in Brutha declared that it, personally, would risk a little corruption for the sake of traveling with two decks between its feet and the waves.
“I heard that Ossory once sailed to the island of Erebos on a millstone,” he ventured by way of conversation.
“Nothing is impossible for the strong in faith,” said Vorbis.
“Try striking a match on jelly, mister.”
Brutha stiffened. It was impossible that Vorbis could have failed to hear the voice.
The Voice of the Turtle was heard in the land.
“Who’s this bugger?”
“Forward,” said Vorbis. “I can see that our friend Brutha is agog to get on board.”
The horse trotted on.
“Where are we? Who’s that? It’s as hot as hell in here and, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“I can’t talk now!” hissed Brutha.
“This cabbage stinks like a swamp! Let there be lettuce! Let there be slices of melon!”
The horses edged along the jetty and were led one at a time up the gangplank. By this time the box was vibrating. Brutha kept looking around guiltily, but no one else was taking any notice. Despite his size, Brutha was easy not to notice. Practically everyone had better things to do with their time than notice someone like Brutha. Even Vorbis had switched him off, and was talking to the captain.
He found a place up near the pointed end, where one of the sticking-up bits with the sails on gave him a bit of privacy. Then, with some dread, he opened the box.
The tortoise spoke from deep within its shell.
“Any eagles about?”
Brutha scanned the sky.
“No.”
The head shot out.
“You—” it began.
“I couldn’t talk!” said Brutha. “People were with me all the time! Can’t you…read the words in my mind? Can’t you read my thoughts?”
“Mortal thoughts aren’t like that,” snapped Om. “You think it’s like watching words paint themselves across the sky? Hah! It’s like trying to make sense of a bundle of weeds. Intentions, yes. Emotions, yes. But not thoughts. Half the time you don’t know what you’re thinking, so why should I?”
“Because you’re the God,” said Brutha. “Abbys, chapter LVI, verse 17: ‘All of mortal mind he knows, and there are no secrets.’”
“Was he the one with the bad teeth?”
Brutha hung his head.
“Listen,” said the tortoise, “I am what I am. I can’t help it if people think something else.”
“But you knew about my thoughts…in the garden…” muttered Brutha.
The tortoise hesitated. “That was different,” it said. “They weren’t…thoughts. That was guilt.”
“I believe that the Great God is Om, and in His Justice,” said Brutha. “And I shall go on believing, whatever you say, and whatever you are.”
“Good to hear it,” said the tortoise fervently. “Hold that thought. Where are we?”
“On a boat,” said Brutha. “On the sea. Wobbling.”
“Going to Ephebe on a boat? What’s wrong with the desert?”
“No one can cross the desert. No one can live in the heart of the desert.”
“I did.”
“It’s only a couple of days’ sailing.” Brutha’s stomach lurched, even though the boat had hardly cleared the jetty. “And they say that the God—”
“—me—”
“—is sending us a fair wind.”
“I am? Oh. Yes. Trust me for a fair wind. Flat as a mill-race the whole way, don’t you worry.”