Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [91]
“What?” he said.
“I said, in a hundred years’ time we’ll all be dead.”
Brutha stared at the figures around the bowl. No one knew who their god was, and they were gone. Lions slept in the holy places and—
—Chilopoda aridius, the common desert centipede, his memory resident library supplied—
—scuttled beneath the altar.
“Yes,” said Brutha. “We will.” He raised the bowl over his head, and turned.
Om ducked into his shell.
“But here—” Brutha gritted his teeth as he staggered under the weight. “And now—”
He threw the bowl. It landed against the altar. Fragments of ancient pottery fountained up, and clattered down again. The echoes boomed around the temple.
“—we are alive!”
He picked up Om, who had withdrawn completely into his shell.
“And we’ll make it home. All of us,” he said. “I know it.”
“It’s written, is it?” said Om, his voice muffled.
“It is said. And if you argue—a tortoise shell is a pretty good water container, I expect.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Who knows? I might. In a hundred years’ time we’ll all be dead, you said.”
“Yes! Yes!” said Om desperately. “But here and now—”
“Right.”
Didactylos smiled. It wasn’t something that came easily to him. It wasn’t that he was a somber man, but he could not see the smiles of others. It took several dozen muscle movements to smile, and there was no return on his investment.
He’d spoken many times to crowds in Ephebe, but they were invariably made up of other philosophers, whose shouts of “Bloody daft!,” “You’re making it up as you go along!” and other contributions to the debate always put him at his ease. That was because no one really paid any attention. They were just working out what they were going to say next.
But this crowd put him in mind of Brutha. Their listening was like a huge pit waiting for his words to fill it. The trouble was that he was talking in philosophy, but they were listening in gibberish.
“You can’t believe in Great A’Tuin,” he said. “Great A’Tuin exists. There’s no point in believing in things that exist.”
“Someone’s put up their hand,” said Urn.
“Yes?”
“Sir, surely only things that exist are worth believing in?” said the enquirer, who was wearing a uniform of a sergeant of the Holy Guard.
“If they exist, you don’t have to believe in them,” said Didactylos. “They just are.” He sighed. “What can I tell you? What do you want to hear? I just wrote down what people know. Mountains rise and fall, and under them the Turtle swims onward. Men live and die, and the Turtle Moves. Empires grow and crumble, and the Turtle Moves. Gods come and go, and still the Turtle Moves. The Turtle Moves.”
From the darkness came a voice, “And that is really true?”
Didactylos shrugged. “The Turtle exists. The world is a flat disc. The sun turns around it once every day, dragging its light behind it. And this will go on happening, whether you believe it is true or not. It is real. I don’t know about truth. Truth is a lot more complicated than that. I don’t think the Turtle gives a bugger whether it’s true or not, to tell you the truth.”
Simony pulled Urn to one side as the philosopher went on talking.
“This isn’t what they came to hear! Can’t you do anything?”
“Sorry?” said Urn.
“They don’t want philosophy. They want a reason to move against the Church! Now! Vorbis is dead, the Cenobiarch is gaga, the hierarchy are busy stabbing one another in the back. The Citadel is like a big rotten plum.”
“Still a few wasps in it, though,” said Urn. “You said you’ve only got a tenth of the army.”
“But they’re free men,” said Simony. “Free in their heads. They’ll be fighting for more than fifty cents a day.”
Urn looked down at his hands. He often did that when he was uncertain about anything, as if they were the only things he was sure of in all the world.
“They’ll get the odds down to three to one before the rest know what’s happening,