Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [94]
It had been quite hard to ignore St. Ungulant, who had been capering up and down at the top of his pole shouting “Coo-ee!” and “Over here!” There was a slightly smaller pole a few feet away, with an old-fashioned half-moon-cut-out-on-the-door privy on it. Just because you were an anchorite, St. Ungulant said, didn’t mean you had to give up everything.
Brutha had heard of anchorites, who were a kind of one-way prophet. They went out into the desert but did not come back, preferring a hermit’s life of dirt and hardship and dirt and holy contemplation and dirt. Many of them liked to make life even more uncomfortable for themselves by being walled up in cells or living, quite appropriately, at the top of a pole. The Omnian Church encouraged them, on the basis that it was best to get madmen as far away as possible where they couldn’t cause any trouble and could be cared for by the community, insofar as the community consisted of lions and buzzards and dirt.
“I was thinking of adding another wheel,” said St. Ungulant, “just over there. To catch the morning sun, you know.”
Brutha looked around him. Nothing but flat rock and sand stretched away on every side.
“Don’t you get the sun everywhere all the time?” he said.
“But it’s much more important in the morning,” said St. Ungulant. “Besides, Angus says we ought to have a patio.”
“He could barbecue on it,” said Om, inside Brutha’s head.
“Um,” said Brutha. “What…religion…are you a saint of, exactly?”
An expression of embarrassment crossed the very small amount of face between St. Ungulant’s eyebrows and his mustache.
“Uh. None, really. That was all rather a mistake,” he said. “My parents named me Sevrian Thaddeus Ungulant, and then one day, of course, most amusing, someone drew attention to the initials. After that, it all seemed rather inevitable.”
The wheel rocked slightly. St. Ungulant’s skin was almost blackened by the desert sun.
“I’ve had to pick up herming as I went along, of course,” he said. “I taught myself. I’m entirely self-taught. You can’t find a hermit to teach you herming, because of course that rather spoils the whole thing.”
“Er…but there’s…Angus?” said Brutha, staring at the spot where he believed Angus to be, or at least where he believed St. Ungulant believed Angus to be.
“He’s over here now,” said the saint sharply, pointing to a different part of the wheel. “But he doesn’t do any of the herming. He’s not, you know, trained. He’s just company. My word, I’d have gone quite mad if it wasn’t for Angus cheering me up all the time!”
“Yes…I expect you would,” said Brutha. He smiled at the empty air, in order to show willing.
“Actually, it’s a pretty good life. The hours are rather long but the food and drink are extremely worthwhile.”
Brutha had a distinct feeling that he knew what was going to come next.
“Beer cold enough?” he said.
“Extremely frosty,” said St. Ungulant, beaming.
“And the roast pig?”
St. Ungulant’s smile was manic.
“All brown and crunchy round the edges, yes,” he said.
“But I expect, er…you eat the occasional lizard or snake, too?”
“Funny you should say that. Yes. Every once in a while. Just for a bit of variety.”
“And mushrooms, too?” said Om.
“Any mushrooms in these parts?” said Brutha innocently.
St. Ungulant nodded happily.
“After the annual rains, yes. Red ones with yellow spots. The desert becomes really interesting after the mushroom season.”
“Full of giant purple singing slugs? Talking pillars of flame? Exploding giraffes? That sort of thing?” said Brutha carefully.
“Good heavens, yes,” said the saint. “I don’t know why. I think they’re attracted by the mushrooms.”
Brutha nodded.
“You’re catching on, kid,” said Om.
“And I expect sometimes you drink…water?” said Brutha.
“You know, it’s odd, isn’t it,” said St. Ungulant. “There’s all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving, for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?”