The Last Continent - Terry Pratchett [52]
“Oh, my goodness,” he said. “What do I look like?”
He held up a hand in front of his face and flexed his fingers experimentally.
“Ah.”
The hand patted his face, his bald head, and lingered for a moment on the long white beard. He seemed puzzled.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Er…a beard?” said Ponder.
The god looked down at his long white robe. “Oh. Patriarchality? Oh, well…let me see, now…”
He seemed to pull himself together, focused his gaze on Ridcully, and his huge white eyebrows met like angry caterpillars.
“Begone from This Place Or I Will Smite Thee!” he commanded.
“Why?”
The god looked taken aback. “Why? You can’t ask why in this situation!”
“Why not?”
The god looked slightly panicky. “Because…Thou Must Go from This Place Lest I Visit Thee with Boils!”
“Really? Most people would bring a bottle of wine,” said Ridcully.
The god hesitated. “What?” he said.
“Or cake,” said the Dean. “Cake is a good present if you’re visiting someone.”
“It depends on what kind of cake,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Sponge cake, I’ve always thought, is a bit of an insult. Something with a bit of marzipan is to be preferred.”
“Begone from this place lest I visit you with cake?” said the god.
“It’s better than boils,” said Ridcully.
“Provided it’s not sponge,” said the Senior Wrangler.
The problem faced by the god was that, while he had never encountered wizards before, the wizards had in their student days met, more or less on a weekly basis, things that threatened them horribly as a matter of course. Boils didn’t hold much of a menace when rogue demons had wanted to rip your head off and do terrible things down the hole.
“Listen,” said the god, “I happen to be the god in these parts, do you understand? I am, in fact, omnipotent!”
“I’d prefer that, what is it, you know, the cake with the pink and yellow squares—” muttered the Senior Wrangler, because wizards tend to follow a thought all the way through.
“You’re a bit small, then,” said the Dean.
“And the sugary marzipan on the outside, marvelous stuff…”
The god finally realized what else had been bothering him. Scale was always tricky in these matters. Being three feet high was not adding anything to his authority.
“Damn!” he said again. “Why am I so small?”
“Size isn’t everything,” said Ridcully. “People always smirk when they say that. I can’t think why.”
“You’re absolutely right!” snapped the god, as if Ridcully had triggered an entirely new train of thought. “Look at amoebas, except that of course you can’t because they’re so small. Adaptable, efficient and practically immortal. Wonderful things, amoebas.” His little eyes misted over. “Best day’s work I ever did.”
“Excuse me, sir, but exactly what kind of god are you?” said Ponder.
“And is there cake or not?” said the Senior Wrangler.
The god glared up at him. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I meant, what is it that you’re the god of?” said Ponder.
“I said, what about this cake you’re supposed to have?” said the Senior Wrangler.
“Senior Wrangler?”
“Yes, Archchancellor?”
“Cake is not the issue here.”
“But he said—”
“Your comments have been taken on board, Senior Wrangler. And they will be thrown over the side as soon as we leave harbor. Do continue, god, please.”
For a moment the god looked in a thunderbolt mood, and then sagged. He sat down on a rock.
“All that smiting talk doesn’t really work, does it?” he said gloomily. “You don’t have to be nice about it. I could tell. I could give you boils, you understand, it’s just that I can’t really see the point. They clear up after a while, anyway. And it is rather bullying people, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, I’m something of an atheist.”
“Sorry?” said Ridcully. “You are an atheist god?”
The god looked at their expressions. “Yes, I know,” he said. “It’s a bit of a bottomer, isn’t it?” He stroked his long white beard. “Why exactly have I got this?”
“You didn’t shave this morning?” said Ridcully.
“I mean, I simply tried to appear in front of you in a form that you recognize as godly,” said the god. “A long beard and