Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [96]
“The strong gods,” said Brutha, thoughtfully. “Gods that know about being strong.”
“That’s right.”
“Not gods that know what it feels like to be weak…”
“What? They wouldn’t last five minutes. It’s a god-eat-god world.”
“Perhaps that explains something about the nature of gods. Strength is hereditary. Like sin.”
His face clouded.
“Except that…it isn’t. Sin, I mean. I think, perhaps, when we get back, I shall talk to some people.”
“Oh, and they’ll listen, will they?”
“Wisdom comes out of the wilderness, they say.”
“Only the wisdom that people want. And mushrooms.”
When the sun was starting to climb Brutha milked a goat. It stood patiently while Om soothed its mind. And Om didn’t suggest killing it, Brutha noticed.
Then they found shade again. There were bushes here, low-growing, spiky, every tiny leaf barricaded behind its crown of thorns.
Om watched for a while, but the small gods on the edge of the wilderness were more cunning and less urgent. They’d be here, probably at noon, when the sun turned the landscape into a hellish glare. He’d hear them. In the meantime, he could eat.
He crawled through the bushes, their thorns scraping harmlessly along his shell. He passed another tortoise, which wasn’t inhabited by a god and gave him that vague stare that tortoises employ when they’re deciding whether something is there to be eaten or made love to, which are the only things on a normal tortoise mind. He avoided it, and found a couple of leaves it had missed.
Periodically he’d stomp back through the gritty soil and watch the sleepers.
And then he saw Vorbis sit up, look around him in a slow methodical way, pick up a stone, study it carefully, and then bring it down sharply on Brutha’s head.
Brutha didn’t even groan.
Vorbis got up and strode directly toward the bushes that hid Om. He tore the branches aside, regardless of the thorns, and pulled out the tortoise Om had just met.
For a moment it was held up, legs moving slowly, before the deacon threw it overarm into the rocks.
Then he picked up Brutha with some effort, slung him across his shoulders, and set off towards Omnia.
It happened in seconds.
Om fought to stop his head and legs retracting automatically into his shell, a tortoise’s instinctive panic reaction.
Vorbis was already disappearing around some rocks.
He disappeared.
Om started to move forward and then ducked into his shell as a shadow skimmed over the ground. It was a familiar shadow, and one filled with tortoise dread.
The eagle swept down and towards the spot where the stricken tortoise was struggling and, with barely a pause in the stoop, snatched the reptile and soared back up into the sky with long, lazy sweeps of its wings.
Om watched it until it became a dot, and then looked away as a smaller dot detached itself and tumbled over and over toward the rocks below.
The eagle descended slowly, preparing to feed.
A breeze rattled the thornbushes and stirred the sand. Om thought he could hear the taunting, mocking voices of all the small gods.
St. Ungulant, on his bony knees, smashed open the hard swollen leaf of a stone plant.
Nice lad, he thought. Talked to himself a lot, but that was only to be expected. The desert took some people like that, didn’t it, Angus?
Yes, said Angus.
Angus didn’t want any of the brackish water. He said it gave him wind.
“Please yourself,” said St. Ungulant. “Well, well! Here’s a little treat.”
You didn’t often get Chilopoda aridius out here in the open desert, and here were three, all under one rock!
Funny how you felt like a little nibble, even after a good meal of Petit porc rôti avec pommes de terre nouvelles et légumes du jour et bière glacée avec figment de l’imagination.
He was picking the legs of the second one out of his tooth when the lion padded to the top of the nearest dune behind him.
The lion was feeling odd sensations of gratitude. It felt it should catch up with the nice food that had tended to it and, well,